A Comfortable Wife. Stephanie Laurens
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“I’m not about to ravish you.
“Oh, I’m thinking about it. But I’m not about to do it—all right?”
Philip’s jaw ached, as did the rest of him; experience was not enough to hide his frustration. He concentrated on keeping still—he had no intention of moving until the dangerous moment had passed, until the compulsion driving them both had faded.
Antonia had no breath with which to answer. Her heart was still thudding in her ears. Had he noticed how unrestrained her ardor had been—how wantonly she had kissed him? Was the aching need still there in her eyes?
“We’ve got to go back.” Philip forced himself to let her go.
“Back?” Antonia’s mind was awhirl. “But—”
“Antonia—do you want to be ravished here and now?”
Dear Reader,
In writing An Unwilling Conquest, the third book in the Lester trilogy, one character, Philip, Lord Ruthven, positively begged to be made a victim of love. His attitude as displayed in An Unwilling Conquest could not go unanswered—and that’s how A Comfortable Wife came about. Miss Antonia Mannering was the young lady who had Philip most determinedly in her sights. As a husband. The possibility of love never entered her head—she was far too levelheaded, and she knew Philip too well. She was looking for a husband, and by now he should be looking for a wife—to her, their aims were compatible. All should have been terribly comfortable, except…
What happens when love gets stirred into their equation is told in A Comfortable Wife. I hope you enjoy seeing Philip succumb to a passion that becomes more precious than anything else in his life.
A Comfortable Wife
Stephanie Laurens
The first romances Stephanie Laurens ever read were those of Georgette Heyer, and romances set in Regency England continue to be her favorites. After escaping from the dry world of professional science, Stephanie took up writing such romances for her own pleasure. A Comfortable Wife was her eighth historical romance set in the British Regency era. Now residing in a leafy suburb of Melbourne, Australia, Stephanie divides her free time between her husband, two teenage daughters and two cats—Shakespeare and Marlowe. The cats, needless to say, are the most demanding. Stephanie’s Web site can be found at www.stephanielaurens.com, or you can e-mail Stephanie directly at [email protected].
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
“Thirty-Four, my dear Hugo, is a decidedly sobering age.”
“Heh?” Startled from somnolence, Hugo Satterly opened one cautious eye and studied the long-limbed figure gracefully lounging on the opposite carriage seat. “Why’s that?”
Philip Augustus Marlowe, seventh Baron Ruthven, did not deign to answer—not directly. Instead, his gaze on the summer scenery slipping past the carriage window, he remarked, “I would never have thought to see Jack and Harry Lester competing over who would provide the first of the next generation of Lesters.”
Hugo straightened. “Tricky prediction, that. Jack suggested laying odds but Lucinda heard of it.” Hugo grimaced. “That was the end of it, of course. Said she wasn’t about to have us all watching her and Sophie, counting the days. Pity.”
A fleeting smile touched Philip’s lips. “An uncommonly sensible woman, Lucinda.” After a moment he added, more to himself than to his friend, “And Jack was lucky with his Sophie, too.”
They were returning from a week’s house party at Lester Hall; the festivities had been presided over by Sophie, Mrs Jack Lester, ably seconded by Lucinda, now Harry Lester’s bride. Both recent additions to the Lester family tree were discreetly but definitely enceinte, and radiant with it. The unabashed happiness that had filled the rambling old house had infected everyone.
But the week had drawn to its inevitable close; Philip was conscious that, despite the calm and orderly ambiance of his ancestral home, there would be no such warmth, no promise for the future, awaiting him there. The idea that he had invited Hugo, a friend of many years, confirmed bachelor and infrequent rake, to join him solely as a distraction, to turn his thoughts from the depressing path he saw opening before him, floated through his mind. He tried to ignore it.
He shifted in his seat, listening to the regular pounding of his carriage horses’ hooves, firmly fixing his attention on the ripening fields—only to have Hugo ruthlessly haul his problem into the light.
“Well—I suppose you’ll be next.” Hugo settled his shoulders against the squabs and gazed at the fields with unruffled calm. “Dare say that’s what’s making you glum.”
Narrowing his eyes, Philip fixed them on Hugo’s innocent visage. “Surrendering to the bonds of matrimony, walking knowingly into parson’s mousetrap, is hardly a pleasant thought.”
“Don’t think of it at all myself.”
Philip’s expression turned decidedly sour. A gentleman of independent means and nought but distant family, Hugo had no need to wed. Philip’s case was very different.
“Don’t see why you need make such a mountain of it, though.” Hugo glanced across the carriage. “Imagine your stepmother’ll be only too happy to line up the young ladies—all you need do is look ’em over and make your selection.”
“Being no less female than the rest of them, I’m certain Henrietta would be only too glad to assist. However,” Philip continued, his tone tending steely, “should she be mistaken in one of her candidates, ’tis I, not she, who will pay the price. For life. No, I thank you. If mistakes capable of wrecking my life are to be made, I’d rather make them myself.”
Hugo shrugged. “If that’s the case, you’ll have to make your own list. Go through the debs, check their backgrounds, make sure they can actually speak and not just giggle and that they won’t simper over the breakfast cups.” He wrinkled his nose. “Dull work.”
“Depressing work.” Philip shifted his gaze once more to the scenery.
“Pity there aren’t more like Sophie or Lucinda about.”
“Indeed.” Philip delivered the word tersely; to his relief, Hugo took the hint and shut up, settling back to doze.
The carriage rattled on.
Reluctantly, Philip allowed his likely future to take shape in his mind, envisioning his life with one of society’s belles by his side. His visions were unappealing. Disgusted, he banished them and determinedly set his mind to formulating a list of all the qualities he would insist on in his wife.
Loyalty, reasonable wit, beauty to an acceptable degree—all these were easy to define. But there was a nebulous something he knew Jack and Harry Lester had found which he could find no words to describe.
That