A Comfortable Wife. Stephanie Laurens
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he reached out and circled her wrist once more, gently tugging one hand free. Under his fingers, he felt her pulse leap.
She didn’t resist as he lifted her hand, turning it as though examining her slim fingers. Fleetingly, he let his gaze meet hers. Then, still holding her captive, he trailed the fingers of his other hand against her sensitive palm.
The swift intake of her breath sounded sharp to Antonia’s ears. Philip’s eyes flicked up to hers; a smile unlike any she’d yet seen slowly curved his lips. His fingers shifted, so that his fingertips supported hers.
“‘Delicate bones, sensitive skin, awaiting a lover’s caress.”’
His voice was deep and low, the cadence striking chords deep within her. Antonia watched, trapped by his gaze, by his touch, as he slowly lifted her hand and, one by one, touched his lips to her fingertips.
The quivers that ran through her shook her to her core.
“Ah…” Desperation flayed her wits to action. “I’ve just remembered.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She coughed and cleared her throat. “A message I promised to deliver for my aunt—I shouldn’t have forgotten—I should go straight away.” Retreat, disorderly or otherwise, seemed imperative yet, despite all, she couldn’t bring herself to tug her hand free.
Philip’s eyes held hers, steady, unyielding, an expression in the grey that she did not recognize. “A message?”
For one long moment, he studied her eyes, then the planes of his face relaxed. “About the fête?”
Numb, Antonia nodded.
Philip’s lips quirked; ruthlessly, he stilled them. “One you have to deliver immediately?”
“Yes.” Abruptly, Antonia stood; she felt immeasurably grateful when Philip, more languidly, rose too. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. In an agony of near panic, she waited.
“Come—I’ll escort you back.”
With that, Philip tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and turned her to the house. All but quivering, Antonia had perforce to acquiesce; to her relief, he strolled in companionable silence, making no reference by word or deed to their game by the pool.
He halted by the steps to the terrace and lifted her hand from his sleeve, holding it and her gaze for an instant before releasing her. “I’ll see you at dinner.” With a gentle smile and a nod, he strode away.
Antonia watched him go. Slowly, a warm flush of triumph permeated her being, driving out the skittering panic of moments before.
She had achieved her object. However Philip now viewed her, it was not as a young friend of the family.
“Goodnight, then.” With a nod and a smile, Geoffrey left the billiard room to his host and Hugo, having unexpectedly taken revenge on Hugo for an earlier defeat.
“Quick learner,” Hugo muttered in defense of his skills.
“Mannerings are,” Philip replied, chalking a cue. The rest of the household had retired, Antonia somewhat breathlessly assuring him that she intended getting an early start on the preparations for the fête. A smile in his eyes, Philip waited while Hugo racked the balls, then he broke.
“Actually,” Hugo said, as he watched Philip move about the table, “I’ve been trying to catch you for a quiet word all day.”
“Oh?” Philip glanced up from his shot. “What about?”
Hugo waited until he had pocketed the ball before answering. “I’ve decided to return to town tomorrow.”
Philip straightened, his question in his eyes.
Hugo grimaced and pulled at his ear. “This fête, y’know. All very well for you in the circumstances—you’ll have Miss Mannering to hide behind. But who’s to shield me?” Palms raised in appeal, Hugo shuddered. “All these earnest young misses—your step mama’s been listing their best features. Having succeeded with you, I rather think she’s considering fixing her sights on me. Which definitely won’t do.”
Philip stilled. “Succeeded?”
“Well,” Hugo said, “it was pretty obvious from the start. Particularly the way her ladyship always clung to yours truly. I was almost in danger of thinking myself a wit until the penny dropped. Perfectly understandable, of course—what with Miss Mannering being an old family friend and you being thirty-four and the last in line and so on.”
Slowly, Philip leaned over the table and lined up his next shot. “Indeed.”
“Mind,” Hugo added. “If I couldn’t see your reasoning—Miss Mannering being well in the way of being a peach—I wouldn’t have thought you’d stand it—being hunted in your own house.”
Sighting along his cue, Philip smelt again the teasing scent of lavender, heard the scrunch of gravel beneath slippered feet, saw again Antonia’s airily innocent expression as she ingenuously led him along the garden path.
His shot went awry. Expression impassive, he straightened and stepped back.
Hugo studied the table. “Odd of you to miss that.”
“Indeed.” Philip’s gaze was unfocused. “I was distracted.”
Chapter Four
The next morning, Antonia awoke with the larks. By nine o’clock, she had already spoken with the cook and Mrs Hobbs, the housekeeper, and seen the head-gardener, old Mr Potts, about flowers for the morrow. She was turning away from a conference with Fenton on which of the indoor tables should be used on the terrace when Philip strode into the hall.
He saw Antonia and immediately changed course, his heels ringing on the black and white tiles. He halted directly before her.
“You didn’t come riding.”
Staring up into storm-clouded eyes, Antonia felt her own widen. “I did mention that there was a great deal to do.”
His jaw firming, Philip cast a jaundiced eye over the figures scurrying about his hall. “Ah yes.” His quirt struck the white top of one boot. “The fête.”
“Indeed. We’re going to be terribly busy all day.”
He swung back to Antonia, his gaze intent. “All day?”
Antonia lifted her chin. “All day,” she reiterated. “And all tomorrow, too, until the festivities begin. And then we’ll be even more busy.”
Beneath his breath, Philip swore.
Antonia stiffened. Her expression aloof, she waved to the dining-room. “I believe you’ll find breakfast still available—if you hurry.”
The look Philip cast her could only be called black. Without a word, he swung on his heel and headed for the dining-room.
A frown in her eyes, Antonia watched him go—then realized what seemed so strange. He was striding. Briskly.
“Excuse me, miss, but should I put this chair with those for the terrace?”
“Ah…” Antonia swung around to see a footman struggling with a wing-chair. “Oh, yes. The dowagers will need all of those that we can find. They’ll want to doze in the sun.”
As she laboured through the morning, Antonia kept her mind firmly fixed on her aim. The fête had to be a success—a complete, unqualified tour de force. It was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate to Philip that she was, at least at a county level, fully qualified to be his bride.
Summoning two maids, she led them to the Italian garden and pointed out the lavender. “You need to cut not just the flower but the stem as well—as long as you can. We’ll need them to freshen the withdrawing-rooms.”
Watching the maids as they set to work, Antonia found her gaze drawn to the seat at the end of the pool.