The Trouble with Virtue: A Comfortable Wife / A Lady By Day. Stephanie Laurens
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mood for billiards.” Tossing back the last of his port, he stood and settled his coat. “Let’s join the ladies, shall we?”
Geoffrey, for the first time elevated to the rank of gentleman to the extent of remaining to pass the port, saw nothing odd in the suggestion.
Hugo was not so innocent. He turned a face of amazed incomprehension on Philip.
Philip ignored it, leading the way to the drawing-room without further comment.
If Henrietta was surprised by his unheralded break with long-established habit, she gave no sign. Seated on the chaise, she looked up from her needlework to smile benignly. “Wonderful—just what we need. Geoffrey, do go and sing a duet with Antonia.”
Henrietta waved towards the pianoforte, which stood before the long windows, presently open to the terrace. Antonia sat at the instrument, her fingers on the keys. A gentle, elusive air hung faint in the evening breeze.
With an obedient nod, Geoffrey headed for his sister. Antonia smiled a welcome, breaking off her playing to reach for the pile of music sheets resting on the piano’s edge. With his customary lazy grace, Philip strolled in Geoffrey’s wake. Left standing by the chaise, Hugo studied the small procession, then shrugged and brought up the rear.
“Let’s try this, shall we?” Antonia placed a sheet on the stand.
Geoffrey scanned the lines, then nodded.
Philip took up a position by the side of the grand piano from where he could watch Antonia’s face. As her fingers ranged the keys and the first chords of an old ballad filled the room, she looked up and met his gaze. A slight smile touched her lips; for an instant, their gazes held. Then she looked down and the music swept on.
She and Geoffrey sang in unison, Geoffrey’s pure tenor weaving in and about her fuller tones. For one stanza, she sang alone; Philip briefly closed his eyes, listening not to the song, but to the music of her voice. It was not the light voice of the girl he remembered but richer, a warm contralto with an undercurrent of huskiness.
As Geoffrey’s voice blended once more with hers, Philip opened his eyes. He saw Antonia glance encouragingly up at Geoffrey, then they launched into the last verse. As the final chords died, he, Henrietta and Hugo burst into spontaneous applause.
Almost squirming, Geoffrey blushed and disclaimed. Her expression one of affectionate exasperation, Antonia turned and deliberately met Philip’s gaze. Lips curving, she arched a delicate brow. “Are you game, my lord?”
Philip detected at least two meanings in her challenge; he was uncertain if there was a third. Languidly, he inclined his head and straightened, responding to the more obvious of her prompts. Coming around the piano, he dropped a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. “After that masterful effort, I fear my poor talents will be a disappointment to you all, but if you can find a simple ballad, I’ll endeavour to do my poor best.” He took up his stance behind Antonia’s shoulder; Hugo took his place by the side of the piano.
With an approving smile, Antonia obliged with a rolling country ballad; Philip’s strong baritone managed the changing cadences with ease. Unexpectedly caught up in the simple entertainment, Hugo consented to favour them with a rollicking shanty with a repeating refrain; Antonia made the performance even more humourous by consistently lengthening the long note at the end of the second last line of the reprieve. The shanty had a full twenty verses. First Geoffrey, then Philip, joined in, assisting Hugo through the increasingly jocular song. By the end of it, they were all laughing, very much out of breath.
A smile wreathing her face, Henrietta applauded vigorously, then summoned them to take tea.
Laughter lighting her eyes, Antonia swivelled on the stool to find Philip beside her. Deliberately, she looked up and met his eyes. Despite his easy expression, the grey orbs were veiled. Calmly, she raised a brow, then watched as the chiselled line of his lips lengthened into a definite smile.
He held out his hand. “Tea, my dear?”
“Indeed, my lord.” Tilting her chin, Antonia laid her fingers in his palm and felt his hand close about them. A peculiar shiver shot up her arm, then slithered slowly down her spine. Ignoring it, she rose. Side by side, they crossed the room to where Henrietta was dispensing the tea.
With studied calm, Antonia accepted her cup but made no move to quit her aunt’s side. A host of unfamiliar sensations flickered along her nerves; her heart was thudding distractingly. Such unexpected susceptibility was not, to her mind, a helpful development. She had never before been so afflicted—she hoped the effect would fade quickly.
To her relief, Henrietta kept up a steady spate of inconsequentialities, abetted by Hugo Satterly. Geoffrey, having gulped his tea, wandered back to the piano. Sipping slowly, Antonia concentrated on settling her nerves.
From behind his languid mask, Philip watched her.
“Actually, Ruthven—” Henrietta turned from Hugo “—I had meant to consult you as soon as you appeared about holding some entertainment for the neighbours. We haven’t done anything in years. Now Antonia’s here to help me, I really feel I should grasp the nettle with both hands.”
Philip raised a brow. “Indeed?” None who heard those two syllables could doubt his reluctance.
Henrietta nodded imperiously. “It’s one’s duty, after all. I had been thinking of a grand ball—musicians, dancing, all the trimmings.”
“Oh?” Philip’s tone grew steadily more distant. He exchanged a glance with Hugo.
“Yes.” Henrietta frowned, then grimaced. “But Antonia pointed out that, after all this time, we should really do something for our tenants as well.”
Philip glanced at Antonia; she was sipping her tea, her eyes demurely cast down. He swallowed a disbelieving “humph.”
“All things considered—and I really do not feel I can let this opportunity slide, Ruthven—I do believe dear Antonia’s suggestion is the best.” Folding her hands in her lap, Henrietta nodded decisively.
“And what,” Philip asked, his tone deliberately even, “is dear Antonia’s suggestion?”
“Why, a fête-champêtre—didn’t I say?” Henrietta regarded him wide-eyed. “A positively inspired idea, as I’m sure even you will allow. We can set everything up on the lawns. Battledore and shuttlecock, races, bobbing for apples, archery, a play for the children—you know how these things go. We can have the food and ale set up on trestles for the tenants and entertain our neighbours on the terrace, overlooking all the fun.”
Henrietta gestured grandly. “A whole afternoon in which everyone can enjoy themselves. I rather think we should hold it in the next week or so, before the weather turns, but naturally you’d have to be present. Shall we say next Saturday—a week from now?”
Philip held her enquiring gaze, his expression as informative as a blank wall. A garden party was infinitely preferable to a local ball—but at what price? A vision of hordes of farmers and their wives tramping across his lawns swam through his mind; in his imagination he could hear the high-pitched shrieks of multitudes of children and the screams as some, inevitably, fell in the lake. But worse than all that, he could clearly see the bevy of simpering, silly, local young misses to whom he would, perforce, have to be civil.
“Naturally, I’ll assist in any way I can.”
Antonia’s soft words cut across Philip’s thoughts. He glanced her way, then, one brow slowly rising, turned back to Henrietta. “I admit to reservations that acting as hostess at such a large and varied gathering will overly tire you.”
Henrietta’s grin was triumphant. “No need to worry over me. Antonia can stand in my stead for the most part—I’m looking forward to sitting on the terrace with the other dowagers, keeping an eye on it all from a suitable elevation.”
“I can imagine,” Philip returned drily. He shifted his gaze to Antonia. “Yet your ‘most part’ is not precisely a light load.”