The Trouble with Virtue: A Comfortable Wife / A Lady By Day. Stephanie Laurens
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serenely, she met his eyes. “Welcome home.”
Feeling as if Harry Lester had scored a direct hit to his jaw, Philip reached out and took her fingers in his. They quivered; instinctively, he tightened his grip. His gaze dropped to her lips, drawn irresistibly to the delectable curves; he forced his eyes upwards, only to become lost in a haze of gold and green. Dragging himself free, he lifted his gaze to her lustrous golden curls.
“You’ve cut your hair.” His tone reflected his dazed state as clearly as it did his disappointment.
Antonia blinked. One hand still trapped in his, she hesitantly put the other to the curls bouncing above one ear. “No. It’s all still there...just...twisted up.”
Philip’s lips formed a silent “Oh”.
The odd look Antonia threw him, and Hugo’s urgent cough, hauled him back to earth with a thump. Thrusting aside the impulse to pull a few pins and reassure himself that her golden mane was indeed as he recalled, he drew in a definite breath and released her. “Allow me to present Mr Satterly, a close friend. Hugo—Miss Mannering. My stepmother’s niece.”
Hugo’s suave greeting and Antonia’s unaffected reply gave Philip time to repair his defences. When Antonia turned back, he smiled urbanely. “I take it you finally succumbed to Henrietta’s pleas?”
Her expression open, Antonia met his gaze. “Our year of mourning was behind us. The time seemed ripe to visit.”
Resisting an unexpected urge to grin delightedly, Philip contented himself with, “My humble house is honoured—it’s a pleasure to see you within its walls again. I hope you’ve planned an extended stay—having you by will greatly ease Henrietta’s mind.”
A subtle smile curved Antonia’s lips. “Indeed? But there are many factors which might influence how long we remain.” She held Philip’s gaze for an instant longer, then turned to smile at Hugo. “But I’m keeping you standing. My aunt is presently resting.” Antonia glanced at Philip. “Do you wish to take tea in the drawing-room?”
Beyond her, Philip glimpsed Hugo’s appalled expression. “Ah...perhaps not.” He smiled lazily down at Antonia. “I fear Hugo is in need of more robust refreshment.”
Brows rising, Antonia met his gaze. Then her lips curved; an irrepressible dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Ale in the library?”
Philip’s lips twitched. His eyes on hers, he inclined his head. “Your wits, dear Antonia, have obviously not dulled with age.”
One delicate brow arched but her eyes continued to smile. “I fear not, my lord.” She nodded to Fenton. “Ale in the library for his lordship and Mr Satterly, Fenton.”
“Yes, miss.” Fenton bowed and moved away.
Returning her gaze to Philip’s face, Antonia smiled calmly. “I’ll let Aunt Henrietta know you’ve arrived. She’s just woken from her nap—I’m sure she’ll be delighted to receive you in half an hour or so. And now, if you’ll excuse me...?”
Philip inclined his head.
Hugo bowed elegantly. “Look forward to seeing you at dinner, Miss Mannering.”
Philip shot him a sharp glance; Hugo was too busy returning Antonia’s smile to notice.
Forsaking Hugo, Philip fleetingly met Antonia’s eyes before she turned away. He watched her cross the hall, then climb the stairs, her hips gently swaying.
Hugo cleared his throat. “What happened to that ale?”
Philip started. With a quick frown, he gestured towards the library.
* * *
BY THE TIME she reached her bedchamber door, Antonia had succeeded in regaining her breath. She had not imagined her little charade would require such an effort. Her stomach was still tied in knots; her heart had yet to find its customary rhythm. Nervousness was not a reaction to which she was normally susceptible.
A frown knitting her brows, she opened the door. The windows were set wide; the curtains billowed in a gentle breeze. The scents of summer filled the airy chamber—green grass and roses with a hint of lavender from the borders in the Italian garden. Shutting the door, Antonia crossed the room. Placing both palms on the window sill, she leaned forward, breathing deeply.
“Well, I declare! That’s your best new muslin.”
Whirling, Antonia discovered her maid, Nell, standing before the open wardrobe. Thin and angular, her grey hair pulled tight in an unbecoming bun, Nell was busy replacing chemises and petticoats in their appointed places. Task complete, she turned, hands going to her hips as she surveyed Antonia. “I thought you was keeping that for a special occasion?”
A secretive smile tugged at Antonia’s lips; shrugging, she turned back to the view. “I decided to wear it today.”
“Indeed?” Nell’s eyes narrowed. She picked up a pile of kerchiefs and started to sort them. “Was that the master who arrived just now?”
“Yes. Ruthven.” Antonia leaned against the window frame. “He’s brought a friend—a Mr Satterly.”
“Just the one?”
Nell’s tone had turned suspicious. Antonia smiled. “Yes. They’ll be at dinner. I’ll have to decide what to wear.”
Nell snorted. “Shouldn’t take you long. If you’re to sit down with gentlemen from London, it’s either the pink taffeta or the jonquil silk.”
“The jonquil silk, then. And I’ll want you to do my hair.”
“Naturally.” Nell closed the wardrobe doors. “I’d best give a hand downstairs but I’ll be back to pretty you up.”
“Hmm.” Antonia leaned her head against the window frame.
Nell swallowed her snort and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, she paused, eyeing the slim figure by the window with open affection. Antonia did not move; Nell’s eyes narrowed, then her features relaxed. “Should I warn Master Geoffrey to come to the table prepared to be civil?”
The question jerked Antonia from her reverie. “Heavens, yes! I forgot about Geoffrey.”
“That’s a first,” Nell muttered.
Frowning at the bedpost, Antonia didn’t hear. “Be sure to warn him not to come to table with his nose in a book.”
“Aye. I’ll make the matter plain.” With a grim nod, Nell departed.
As the door clicked shut, Antonia turned back to the garden, letting her senses slide into the sylvan beauty. She loved Ruthven Manor. Coming back had felt like coming home; at some instinctive level she had always belonged, not at Mannering Park, but here—amid the gentle rolls of the Downs, surrounded by trees so old they stood like massive sentinels all around the house. Those feelings and her affection for Henrietta had both influenced her decision.
Given Geoffrey was soon to enter the world, it was time for her to do the same. At twenty-four, her prospects were few; prosaic consideration had brought her here.
Philip, Lord Ruthven, had yet to take a wife.
Antonia grimaced, her unprecedented nervousness very fresh in her mind. But there was no place in her scheme for faintheartedness; this afternoon, she’d taken the first step. Playing out her part was now inevitable—aside from anything else, she would never forgive herself if she didn’t at least try. If Philip didn’t see her in that light, so be it.
Recalling her promise to warn her aunt of his arrival, she shook herself. Glancing in the mirror, she fluffed her curls, her fingers stilling as she recalled Philip’s fixation. Her lips quirked. Almost as if he’d been bowled over—in the circumstances, a definitely heartening thought.
Holding tight to that prop to her confidence, she headed for her aunt’s rooms.
*