The Trouble with Virtue. Stephanie Laurens
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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 sidesaddle, 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 stall door wide. Quickly and efficiently, he saddled the stallion, glancing now and then at Antonia, standing at the horse’s head communing with the beast. He knew perfectly well she could have saddled the horse herself; she was the one woman in all the millions he would trust to do so.
But it would have been churlish to suggest she wrestle with the saddle, not when she made such a delightful picture, her habit of topaz-coloured velvet a deeper gold than her hair, the tightly fitting bodice outlining the womanly curves of her breasts, nipping in to emphasize her small waist before flaring over her hips. As if sensing his regard, she looked up; Philip jabbed an elbow into the roan’s side and cinched the girth. “Wait while I saddle Pegasus.”
Antonia nodded. “I’ll walk him in the yard.”
Philip watched as she led the stallion out, then returned to the tack-room. He was on his way back, his arms full of his own tack, when ringing footsteps sounded on the cobbles of the yard. Frowning, Philip set his saddle on the stall door. Hugo, he knew, would still be sound asleep. So who...?
“Hello! Sorry I’m a bit late.” Geoffrey waved and headed for the tack-room. As he passed, he flung Philip a grin. “I guessed you’d ride early. I won’t keep you.” With that, he disappeared into the tack-room.
Philip smothered a groan and dropped his head against his horse’s glossy flank. When he straightened and turned, he found himself eye to eye with Pegasus. “At least you can’t laugh,” he muttered savagely.
By the time he emerged from the stable, Antonia had discovered the mounting block and was perched atop the roan, a slim slender figure incomprehensibly controlling the great beast as she walked him around the yard.
Gritting his teeth, Philip swung up to the saddle; in less than a minute, Geoffrey joined them, leading a grey hunter.
“All right?” he asked, looking first to Philip and then to Antonia.
Philip nodded. “Fine. Let’s get going.”
They did—the brisk ride, flying as fast as the breeze, did much to restore his temper. He led the way but was unsurprised to see the roan’s head keeping station on his right. Geoffrey followed on his heels. It had been years—at least eight—since Philip had enjoyed that sort of ride: fast, unrestrained, with company that could handle the going as well as he. One glance as they cleared a fence was enough to reassure him that Antonia had not lost her skill; Geoffrey was almost as good as she.
In perfect amity with their mounts, they fled before the wind, finally drawing rein on an open hillock miles from the Manor. Philip wheeled, dragging in a deep breath. His eyes met Antonia’s; their smiles were mirror images. Exhilaration coursed through his veins; he watched as she tipped her head up and laughed at the sky.
“That was so good!” she said, smiling still as her eyes lowered and again met his.
They milled, catching their breaths, letting their mounts settle. Philip scanned the surrounding fields, using the moment to refresh his memory. Antonia, he noticed, was doing the same.
“That copse,” she said, pointing to a small wood to their left, “had only just been planted last time I rode this way.”
The trees, birches for the most part, were at least twenty feet tall, reaching their fingers to the sky. The undergrowth at their bases, home to badgers or fox, was densely intertwined.
“This brute’s still fresh.” Geoffrey wheeled the grey tightly. “There looks to be some ruins over that way.” He nodded to the east. “Think I’ll just