A Comfortable Wife. Stephanie Laurens
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Laughter lighting her eyes, Antonia swivelled on the stool to find Philip beside her. Deliberately, she looked up and met his eyes. Despite his easy expression, the grey orbs were veiled. Calmly, she raised a brow, then watched as the chiselled line of his lips lengthened into a definite smile.
He held out his hand. “Tea, my dear?”
“Indeed, my lord.” Tilting her chin, Antonia laid her fingers in his palm and felt his hand close about them. A peculiar shiver shot up her arm, then slithered slowly down her spine. Ignoring it, she rose; side by side, they crossed the room to where Henrietta was dispensing the tea.
With studied calm, Antonia accepted her cup but made no move to quit her aunt’s side. A host of unfamiliar sensations flickered along her nerves; her heart was thudding distractingly. Such unexpected susceptibility was not, to her mind, a helpful development. She had never before been so afflicted—she hoped the effect would fade quickly.
To her relief, Henrietta kept up a steady spate of inconsequentialities, abetted by Hugo Satterly. Geoffrey, having gulped his tea, wandered back to the piano. Sipping slowly, Antonia concentrated on settling her nerves.
From behind his languid mask, Philip watched her.
“Actually, Ruthven—” Henrietta turned from Hugo “—I had meant to consult you as soon as you appeared about holding some entertainment for the neighbours. We haven’t done anything in years. Now Antonia’s here to help me, I really feel I should grasp the nettle with both hands.”
Philip raised a brow. “Indeed?” None who heard those two syllables could doubt his reluctance.
Henrietta nodded imperiously. “It’s one’s duty, after all. I had been thinking of a grand ball—musicians, dancing, all the trimmings.”
“Oh?” Philip’s tone grew steadily more distant. He exchanged a glance with Hugo.
“Yes.” Henrietta frowned, then grimaced. “But Antonia pointed out that, after all this time, we should really do something for our tenants as well.”
Philip glanced at Antonia; she was sipping her tea, her eyes demurely cast down. He swallowed a disbelieving “humph”.
“All things considered—and I really do not feel I can let this opportunity slide, Ruthven—I do believe dear Antonia’s suggestion is the best.” Folding her hands in her lap, Henrietta nodded decisively.
“And what,” Philip asked, his tone deliberately even “is dear Antonia’s suggestion?”
“Why, a fête-champêtre—didn’t I say?” Henrietta regarded him wide-eyed. “A positively inspired idea, as I’m sure even you will allow. We can set everything up on the lawns. Battledore and shuttlecock, races, bobbing for apples, archery, a play for the children—you know how these things go. We can have the food and ale set up on trestles for the tenants and entertain our neighbours on the terrace, overlooking all the fun.”
Henrietta gestured grandly. “A whole afternoon in which everyone can enjoy themselves. I rather think we should hold it in the next week or so, before the weather turns, but naturally you’d have to be present. Shall we say next Saturday—a week from now?”
Philip held her enquiring gaze, his expression as informative as a blank wall. A garden party was infinitely preferable to a local ball—but at what price? A vision of hordes of farmers and their wives tramping across his lawns swam through his mind; in his imagination he could hear the high-pitched shrieks of multitudes of children and the screams as some, inevitably, fell in the lake. But worse than all that, he could clearly see the bevy of simpering, silly, local young misses to whom he would, perforce, have to be civil.
“Naturally, I’ll assist in any way I can.”
Antonia’s soft words cut across Philip’s thoughts. He glanced her way, then, one brow slowly rising, turned back to Henrietta. “I admit to reservations that acting as hostess at such a large and varied gathering will overly tire you.”
Henrietta’s grin was triumphant. “No need to worry over me. Antonia can stand in my stead for the most part—I’m looking forward to sitting on the terrace with the other dowagers, keeping an eye on it all from a suitable elevation.”
“I can imagine,” Philip returned drily. He shifted his gaze to Antonia. “Yet your ‘most part’ is not precisely a light load.”
Antonia’s chin came up; she shot him a distinctly haughty glance. “I think you’ll discover, my lord, that I’m more than up to snuff. I’ve managed such gatherings at Mannering for years—I anticipate no great difficulty in overseeing my aunt’s entertainment.”
Philip ensured his expression held just enough scepticism to make her eyes flash. “I see.”
“Good.” Henrietta thumped the floor with her cane. “So it’s Saturday. We’ll send out the invitations tomorrow.”
Philip blinked. Hugo, he noticed, looked vaguely stunned. Henrietta, of course, was beaming happily up at him. Drawing in a deep breath, he hesitated, then inclined his head. “Very well.”
As he straightened, he deliberately caught Antonia’s eye. Her expression was innocent but her eyes, tapestries of green and gold, were infinitely harder to read. She raised her brows slightly, then reached for his empty cup.
Eyes narrowing, Philip surrendered it. “I intend to hold you to your offer.”
She treated him to a sunny, utterly confident smile, then moved away to straighten the tea trolley.
Suppressing a snort, Philip turned to find Hugo beside him.
“Think I’ll go join Geoffrey.” Hugo wriggled his shoulders. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s an aura about here that’s addling wits.”
The dew was still on the grass when Antonia headed for the stables the next morning. Early morning rides had been a long-ago treat; Philip’s return had resurrected pleasant memories.
Entering the long stable, she paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Rising on her toes, she looked along the glossy backs, trying to ascertain whether the chestnut gelding the headgroom, Martin, had told her was Philip’s favourite, was still in his box.
“Still an intrepid horsewoman, I see.”
Antonia smothered her gasp and swung about. The velvet skirts of her habit swirled, brushing Philip’s boots. He was so close, she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes, one hand on her riding hat to keep it in place.
“I didn’t hear you.” The words were breathless; inwardly, Antonia cursed.
“I noticed. You seemed absorbed in some search.” Philip’s eyes held hers. “What were you looking for?”
For an instant, Antonia’s mind went blank; prodded by sheer irritation, she replied, “I was looking for Martin.” She turned to survey the empty stable, then slanted a glance at Philip. “I wanted him to saddle a horse for me.”
Philip’s jaw firmed. He hesitated, then asked, “Which of my nags have you been using?”
“I haven’t been out yet.” Picking up her skirts, Antonia strolled down the aisle, knowledgeably gauging the tall hunters and hacks.
Philip followed. “Take your pick,” he said, knowing very well she would.
“Thank you.” Antonia stopped before a stall housing a long-tailed roan, a raking, raw-boned stallion Philip privately considered had a chip on his shoulder—he was perennially in a bad mood. “This one, I think.”
With any other woman, Philip’s veto would have been automatic. Instead, he simply snorted and strode on to the tack room. Returning with a side-saddle, bridle and reins, he found Antonia crooning sweet nothings to the giant horse. The stallion appeared as docile as the most matronly mare.
Swallowing another “humph”, Philip swung the