A Comfortable Wife. Stephanie Laurens
Читать онлайн книгу.
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.
Downstairs in the library, duly fortified by a tankard of superlative ale, Hugo turned his thoughts to satisfying his curiosity. “Mannering, Mannering,” he mused, then cocked a brow at Philip. “Can’t quite place the family.”
Jerked from contemplation of the most beguiling lips he’d ever seen, Philip set aside his empty tankard. “Yorkshire.”
“Ah—that explains it.” Hugo nodded sagely. “The wilds to the north.”
“It’s not as bad as that.” Philip settled back. “Mannering Park, so I understand, is an estate of some significance.”
“So what’s the darling of it doing here?”
“She’s Henrietta’s niece—her father was Henrietta’s only brother. He and Lady Mannering used to visit every summer.” Philip felt the years roll back, saw again a young girl with long thick plaits astride his father’s favourite hunter. “They’d leave Antonia here while they went the rounds through summer. She was always about.” Laughing, chattering but, somehow, never irritating. He was ten years her senior, but that had never stopped her—he’d never been able to retreat behind any superior social façade, not with Antonia. He’d watched her change from a delightfully precocious brat to an engagingly quick-witted young girl; he had yet to come to terms with her most recent transformation.
“Their visits stopped when her father died.” Philip paused, calculating. “Eight years ago now. I understand Lady Mannering declared she was too weary to face the social round thereafter. Henrietta was—is—very fond of Antonia. She issued a standing invitation but apparently Lady Mannering could never spare her daughter.”
Hugo raised his brows. “So at long last Miss Mannering’s escaped the maternal clutches?”
Philip shook his head. “Lady Mannering died about a year ago. Henrietta renewed her entreaties with a vengeance but, if I recall Henrietta’s ramblings aright, Antonia was adamant on remaining at Mannering Park to care for her brother—he’s much younger than she.” Philip frowned. “I can’t remember how old he’d be now—I can’t even remember his name.”
“Whatever, it looks like she’s changed her mind.”
“Knowing Antonia, that’s unlikely. Not unless she’s altered dramatically.” After a moment, Philip added, “Perhaps her brother’s gone up to Oxford?”
Studying his friend’s distant expression, Hugo sighed. “I hate to be obvious but there’s a mystery here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Philip glanced at him. “Mystery?”
“You’ve seen the lady!” Hugo sat up, gesticulating freely. “There she is—beautiful as be damned. Not a giddy girl, nor yet too long in the tooth but the sort to stop a charge of chasseurs in their tracks. And, to all appearances, she’s unwed.” Sinking back in his chair, Hugo shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense. If she’s as well-born and well-connected as you say, she’d have been snapped up years ago.” As an afterthought, he asked, “They do have gentlemen up north, don’t they?”
Philip’s brows slowly rose. “I’m sure they do—and they can’t all be blind.” A long moment passed while they both considered a situation that, in their experience, constituted a conundrum. “A mystery indeed,” Philip eventually mused. “Given the facts you’ve so eloquently expounded, I can only conclude that you and I, dear Hugo, might be the first to catch sight of Miss Mannering in many a long year.”
Hugo’s eyes slowly widened. “You’re not suggesting