A Comfortable Wife. Stephanie Laurens
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eager for gossip, predictably buttonholed Hugo, demanding further details. Equally eager to learn of the world he had yet to join, Geoffrey drank in Hugo’s entertaining replies.
With a faint smile, Philip shifted in his chair, bringing Antonia directly under his gaze. “I understand, from what Henrietta let fall, that you’ve lived the last eight years very quietly.”
Antonia met his gaze directly, her expression serious and, he thought, a touch sombre. She shrugged lightly. “Mama was unwell. There was little time for frivolities. Naturally, once I was of an age, the ladies about invited me to join their parties.” She looked away as Fenton removed her soup plate. “To the Assemblies at Harrogate.”
“Harrogate.” Philip kept his expression impassive. She might as well have been buried alive. He waited until Fenton laid the next course before venturing, “But your mother must have entertained to some degree?”
Sampling a morsel of turbot cloaked in rich sweetbread sauce, Antonia shook her head. “Not after Papa’s death. We received, of course, but more often than not, when the ladies arrived, Mama was too ill to come down.”
“I see.”
The quiet comment drew a quick glance from Antonia. “You must not imagine I’ve been pining away, dreaming of a gay life.” Reaching for a dish of morels, she offered them to Philip. “I had more than enough to occupy myself, what with running the household and the estate. Mama was never well enough to tend to such matters. And there was Geoffrey, of course. Mama was always in a fret that he was sickly, which, of course, he never was. But she was sure he had inherited her constitution. Nothing would convince her otherwise.”
Philip looked past Antonia; Geoffrey was wholly immersed in the conversation at the other end of the table. “Speaking of Geoffrey, how did you manage to find tutors to keep up with him? He must have been quite a handful.”
Instantly, he realised he’d discovered the key to Antonia’s confidence. Her eyes fairly glowed. “He certainly was. Why, by the time he was nine, he had outstripped the curate.”
There followed an animated catalogue of Geoffrey’s successes, liberally sprinkled with tales of misdeeds, catastrophes and simple country pleasures. In between the highlights of Geoffrey’s life, Philip heard enough to gauge what manner of existence had been Antonia’s lot. What encouragement was needed to keep her revelations flowing, he artfully supplied. As her history unfolded, he realised the unnamed curate was featuring remarkably often.
Laying aside his fork, he reached for his wineglass. “This curate of yours seems to have taken his duties very seriously.”
Antonia’s smile was fond. “Indeed. Mr Smothingham was always a great support. He really is a true knight—a most chivalrous soul.” With a small sigh, she gave her attention to the gooseberry fool Fenton had placed before her.
Leaving Philip to wonder how he could possibly feel so aggressive towards a probably perfectly innocent curate whom he had never met. He cleared his throat. “Henrietta mentioned she was thinking of going up to town for the Little Season.”
“Indeed.” Savouring the tartness of the gooseberry treat, Antonia slanted him a glance. “She’s invited me to accompany her. I hope you don’t disapprove?”
“Disapprove?” Philip forced his eyes wide. “Not at all.” Picking up his spoon, he attacked the frothy concoction before him. “In fact, I’ll be relieved to know she’ll have your company.”
Antonia smiled and gave her attention to her dessert.
Philip rejected his, reaching instead for his wineglass. He took a long sip, his gaze on Antonia. “Am I to understand you’re looking forward to taking the ton by storm?”
She met his gaze with another of her disconcertingly direct looks. “I don’t know.” Her brows rose; her lips curved lightly. “Do you think I would find it diverting?”
Beyond his will, Philip’s gaze was drawn to her lips, to the rich fullness of the ripe curves. He watched as the tip of her tongue traced their contours, leaving them sheening. His expression rigidly impassive, Philip drew in a deep breath. Slowly, he lifted his eyes and met Antonia’s steady gaze. “As to that, my dear, I would not dare hazard a guess.”
He had only questioned her intentions in London to assure himself she was a willing partner in Henrietta’s schemes. His motives, Philip assured himself, were entirely altruistic. Henrietta could be a battleship when she was so moved. Unless he had misread the signs, when it came to Antonia’s future, Henrietta was definitely moved.
“I’m not in the 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