The Trouble with Virtue. Stephanie Laurens
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through her expression.
She was, on the one hand, so very familiar—on the other, so startlingly different.
He had almost grown accustomed to the change in her voice, to the husky undertone he found so alluring. Her eyes, a complex medley of greens and golds, had not altered but her gaze, although still direct, seemed more deeply assured. As for the rest of her, that had certainly changed. There was poise, now, where before had been youthful hedonism; elegant grace had replaced a young girl’s haste.
His gaze caressed her hair, glinting golden in the sunlight; he was prepared to accept that it was still as long and thick as he recalled. The curves that filled her muslin gown were, however, an entirely new development—a thoroughly distracting development.
Her head used to barely reach his shoulder, yet when she turned, Philip found his lips level with her forehead.
Bare inches away.
His gaze dropped and met hers, wide and, he realised, somewhat startled. Her scent wafted about him, rose, honeysuckle and some essence he could not name.
Her gaze trapped in his, Antonia caught her breath, only to find she could not release it. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to tear her eyes from the darkening grey of his, she stood before him, feeling like a canary staring at a cat.
Smoothly, Philip stepped back. “It’s nearly time for luncheon. Perhaps we should return?” His lids veiled his eyes; languidly, he waved to a cross-path that would lead them back to the house.
Slowly exhaling, Antonia glanced up at the sky. Her heart was racing. “Indeed.” In search of a topic—any topic—she asked, “What was it that brought you to the garden?”
Philip’s gaze ranged ahead, his expression bland as he considered and rejected the truth. In the distance, he saw Geoffrey returning from the stables. “I wanted to ask if Geoffrey had had any experience of driving. After what you told me of your last years, I imagine he’s lacked male guidance. Would you like me to teach him?”
Looking down, he caught the peculiar expression that flitted, very briefly, across Antonia’s features.
“Oh, yes,” she said, throwing him a grateful glance. “If you would, you would earn his undying gratitude. And mine.”
“I’ll take him out then.”
Antonia nodded, her eyes downcast. Side by side, they walked towards the house. Puzzling over her strange look, Philip shot her a shrewd glance, then slowly smiled. Schooling his features to an expression of deep consideration, he said, “Actually, I have to confess I’ve no experience of teaching striplings. Perhaps, as you are, unquestionably, a superior horsewoman and in loco parentis, as it were, I should practise my tutoring skills on you?”
Antonia’s head came up; she fixed him with a clear, very direct glance. “You’ll teach me to drive?”
Philip managed to keep the smile from his face. “If you would care for it.”
“I didn’t think—” Antonia frowned. “That is, I’d understood that it was no longer particularly fashionable for ladies of the ton to drive themselves.”
“Only in certain circumstances and only—pray God—when they can actually manage the reins.” Halting at the bottom of the terrace steps, Philip turned to face her. “It’s entirely acceptable for a lady to drive a gig or a phaeton in the country.”
Antonia raised a brow. “And in town?”
Both Philip’s brows rose. “My dear Antonia, if you imagine I’ll let you tool my horses in the Park, you’re misguided, my child.”
Antonia’s eyes flashed; she lifted her chin. “What carriage do you drive in London?”
“A high-perch phaeton. Forget it,” Philip tersely advised. “I’ll permit you to drive my curricle, but only here.”
Brows rising haughtily, Antonia started up the steps. “But when we get to London—”
“Who knows?” Philip mused. “You might turn out to be ham-fisted.”
“Ham—!” Antonia rounded on him—or tried to, only to feel his fingers close about her elbow. Effortlessly, he propelled her over the threshold into the morning-room where Henrietta sat tatting.
“One step at a time, my dear.” His words were a murmur in her ear. “Let’s see how well you can handle the reins before you reach for the whip.”
* * *
THAT COMMENT, OF COURSE, ensured she was on her mettle when, the following afternoon, Philip lifted her to the box-seat of his curricle. Determined that nothing—not even he—would distract her from her lesson, Antonia thrust her ridiculous sensitivity to the back of her mind and carefully gathered the reins.
“Not like that.” Philip climbed up beside her, settling on the seat alongside. Deftly plucking the reins from her fingers, he demonstrated the correct hold, then laid the leather ribbons in her palms, tracing their prescribed path through her fingers with his. Despite her gloves, Antonia had to lock her jaw against the sensation of his touch. She frowned.
Philip noticed. He sat back, resting one arm along the back of the seat. “Today, we’ll go no faster than a sedate trot. Not having second thoughts, are you?”
Antonia shot him a haughty look. “Of course not. What now?”
“Give ’em the office.”
Antonia clicked the reins; the horses, a pair of perfectly matched greys, lunged.
Her shriek lodged in her throat. Philip’s arm locked about her; his other hand descended over hers as she grappled with the reins. The curricle rattled down the drive, not yet fast but with the greys lengthening their stride. The next seconds passed in total confusion—by the time she had the horses under control and pacing, restless but aware of her authority at the other end of the ribbons, Antonia was more rattled than she had ever been in her life before.
She shot Philip a fiery glance but could not—dared not—take exception to the steely arm anchoring her safely to his side. And despite the urge to tell him just what she thought of his tactics, she felt ridiculously grateful that he had not, in fact, taken control, but had let her wrestle with his thoroughbreds, entrusting their soft mouths to her skill, untutored though he knew that to be.
It took several, pulse-pounding minutes before she had herself sufficiently in hand to turn her head and meet his improbably bland gaze with one of equal impassivity. “And now?”
She saw his lips twitch.
“Just follow the drive. We’ll stay in the lanes until you feel more confident.”
Antonia put her nose in the air and gave her attention to his horses. She had, as she had earlier informed him, some experience of driving a gig. Managing a dull-witted carriage horse was not in the same league as guiding a pair of high-couraged thoroughbreds. At first, the task took all her concentration; Philip spoke only when necessary, giving instructions in clear and precise terms. Only when she was convinced she had mastered the “feel,” the response of the horses to her commands, did she permit herself to relax enough to take stock.
Only then did the full import of her situation strike her.
Philip’s arm had loosened yet still lay protectively about her. Although still watchful, he sat back beside her, his gaze idly scanning the fields. They were in a lane, bordered by hedges, meandering along a rolling ridge. Glimpses of distant woods beyond emerald fields, of orchards and of willows lining streams, beckoned; Antonia saw none of them, too distracted by the sensation of the solid masculine thigh pressed alongside hers.
She drew in a deep breath and felt her breasts swell, impossibly sensitive against her fine chemise. If she’d been wearing stays, she would have been sure they were laced too tight. That left only one reason for her giddiness—the same ridiculous sensitivity that had assailed her from the first, from the moment she had met Philip in the