A Comfortable Wife. Stephanie Laurens
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companion.
It was not what she wanted.
Looking back, analysing all their interactions, the only change the years had wrought was what she termed her “ridiculous sensitivity”—the leaping, fluttering feeling that afflicted her whenever he was close, the tension that immobilized her limbs, the distraction that did the same to her wits, the vice that made breathing so difficult every time he touched her, every time he lifted her down and held her between his strong hands, every time he took her hand in his to help her up a step or over some obstacle.
As for the times his fingers had inadvertently brushed the back of her hand—they were undoubtedly the worst. But all that came from her, not him. It was simply her reaction to his presence, a reaction that was becoming harder and harder to hide.
Halting, she looked around and discovered she’d reached the Italian garden. Neat hedges of lavender bordered a long, raised rectangular pool on which white water lillies floated. Gravelled walks surrounded the pool, themselves flanked by cypress and box, neatly clipped. It was a formal, quite austere setting—one which matched her mood. Frowning, Antonia strolled beside the pool, trailing her fingers in the dark water.
Her “ridiculous sensitivity” was the least of her problems. Philip still saw her as a young girl and the fête was looming; soon after, they would leave for London. If she wanted to succeed in her aim, she would have to do something. Something to readjust his vision of her—to make him see her as a woman, a lady—as a potential wife. And whatever she was going to do, she would have to do it soon!
“Well, my lady of the lake—are my goldfish nibbling your fingers?”
Antonia whirled and saw the object of her thoughts strolling towards her. He was wearing a flowing ivory shirt, topped with a shooting jacket, a scarf loosely knotted about his tanned throat. His long thighs were clad in buckskin breeches, his feet in highly polished top-boots. One brow rising in gentle raillery, his hair tousled by the breeze, he looked every inch the well-heeled landowner—and a great deal more dangerous than the average country gentleman.
Calmly, Antonia lifted her wet fingers and studied them. “Not noticeably, my lord. I suspect your fish are too well fed to be tempted.”
Philip halted directly before her; Antonia nearly jumped when his fingers slid about her wrist. Lifting her hand, he examined her damp fingers. “Fish, I understand, are not particularly intelligent.”
His heavy lids lifted; his gaze, sky grey with clouds gathering, met hers.
Antonia’s heart lurched, her stomach knotted; familiarity didn’t make the sensations any easier to bear. His fingers felt strong and steely, his grip on her wrist warm and firm. Her diaphragm seized; she waited, breathless, trapped by his gaze.
Philip hesitated, then the ends of his lips lifted lightly. Glancing down, he reached into a pocket and drew out a white handkerchief. And proceeded to wipe each finger dry.
Her heart pounding, Antonia tried to speak. She had to clear her throat before she could. “Ah—did you wish to speak to me about something?”
Philip’s smile deepened. She always asked. On principle, he never prepared an answer; inventing one on the spot kept him on his toes. “I wanted to ask if there was anything you needed for the fête. Do you have all you require?”
Antonia managed to nod. His stroking of her fingers, even with his touch muted by the fine lawn handkerchief, was sending skittering sensations up her arm. “Everything’s under control,” she eventually managed.
“Really?”
There was just enough amused scepticism in Philip’s tone to make her stiffen. She lifted her fingers from his slackened grasp and met his gaze. “Indeed. Your staff have thrown themselves into the spirit of the thing—and I must thank you for the services of your steward and baliff. They’ve been most helpful.”
“I hope they have.” With a gesture, Philip invited her to walk beside him. “I’m sure the entertainments will be a credit to you all.”
Haughtily, Antonia inclined her head and fell into step beside him. Slowly, they paced beside the narrow pool.
Philip glanced at her face. “What brings you here? You seem…pensive.”
Antonia drew in a deep breath and held it. “I was thinking,” she said, tossing back her curls, “of what it would be like when we’re in London.”
“London?”
“Hmm.” Looking ahead, she airily explained, “As you know, I’ve not much experience of society. I understand poetry is much in vogue. I’ve heard it’s common practice for tonnish gentlemen to use poetry, or at least, poetic phrases, to compliment ladies.” She slanted an innocent look upwards. “Is that so?”
Philip’s mind raced. “In some circles.” He glanced down; Antonia’s expression was open, enquiring. “In fact, in certain company it’s de rigueur for the ladies to answer in similar vein.”
“It is?” Antonia’s surprise was unfeigned.
“Indeed.” Smoothly, Philip captured her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “Perhaps, as you’ll shortly be joining the throng, we ought to sharpen your rhymes?”
“Ah—” Her hand trapped beneath his warm palm, Antonia struggled to think. His suggestion was a considerable extrapolation of her plan.
“Here.” Philip stopped by a wrought-iron seat placed to look over the pool. “Let’s sit and try our wits.”
Not at all certain just what she had started, Antonia subsided. Philip sat beside her, half-turning, resting one arm along the back of the seat. “Now—where to start?” His gaze roamed her face. “Perhaps we should stick to mere phrases—considering your inexperience?”
Antonia shifted to face him. “That would undoubtedly be wise.”
Only years of experience allowed Philip to keep the smile from his lips. “And perhaps I’d better start the ball rolling. How about—‘Your hair shines like Caesear’s gold, for which battalions gave their lives’?”
Wide-eyed, Antonia stared at him.
“Your turn,” Philip prompted.
“Ah…” Antonia bludgeoned her wits then lifted her gaze to his hair. She dragged in a breath. “‘Your hair glows like chestnuts, burnished by the sun’?”
“Bravo!” Philip smiled. “But that was purely a visual description—I think I win that round.”
“It’s a competition?”
Philip’s eyes gleamed. “Let’s consider it one. My turn. “‘Your brow is white as a snow martin’s breast, smooth as his flight through the sky.”’
On her mettle, Antonia narrowed her eyes, studying the wide sweep of his brow. Then she smiled. “‘Your brow is as noble a Leo’s ever was, your might not less than his.”’
Philip’s smile deepened. “‘Emerald your eyes, set in gold, precious jewels their value untold.”’
“‘Grey clouds and steel, mists and fog, stormy seas and lightning, mix in the depths of your gaze.”’
Brows rising, Philip inclined his head. “I’d forgotten what a quick learner you are. But onward! Let’s see…” Slowly, he raised his hand and gently, very gently, brushed her cheek with the back of one finger. “‘Your cheeks glow soft, ivory silk over rose.”’ His voice had deepened.
For a long instant, Antonia sat as one stunned, wide-eyed, barely breathing. The only thought in her head was that her stratagem was working. The effects of his touch slowly dissipated; her wits filtered back. She swallowed, then frowned and met his gaze. “It should have been my turn to lead. So—“‘Firm of chin and fair of face, your movements marked by languid grace.”’
Philip laughed. “Mercy!—how can I hope