The Trouble with Virtue: A Comfortable Wife / A Lady By Day

Antonia opened her eyes wide. “Miss Castleton didn’t seem all that taken with your suggestion, my lord.”

“I dare say. Miss Castleton, as you will have noticed, is somewhat enamoured of her own path.”

Antonia’s eyes lit; her lips quirked.

Philip noticed. “Now what is there in that to make you laugh?” Mentally replaying the conversation, he could see nothing to account for the laughter he sensed welling within her. He lifted one brow interrogatively. “Well?”

Antonia’s smile broke. “I was considering, my lord,” she said, shifting her gaze to the crowds before them, “whether your last comment might not be an example of the pot calling the kettle black?”

She glanced up at him; he trapped her gaze, both brows rising. For a long moment, he held her mesmerised; Antonia felt a shiver start deep inside, spreading through her until it quivered just beneath her skin.

Only when awareness blossomed in her eyes did Philip glance away. “You, my dear, are hardly one to talk.” After a moment, he added, his tone less dark, “I suspect that we should mingle. When are the archery contests scheduled to start?”

The hours passed swiftly, filled with conversations. They strolled the lawns, stopping every few feet to chat with their guests. Antonia was of the firm opinion that Philip should spend at least five minutes with each of his tenants; it transpired he was of similar mind; she was not called on to steer him their way. A fact for which she gave due thanks.

Her control of the fête and its associated events might be absolute; it did not extend to him.

To her surprise, he held by her side, even waiting patiently while she exchanged recipes with one of his farmers’ wives. Despite the years, the majority of his tenants were still known to her; they were keen to renew their acquaintance as well as catch up with their landlord. After every encounter, Philip drew her close before moving on.

Exactly as if she did indeed provide the protection he claimed.

While most of the mamas had read the signs aright and consequently made no effort to put their darlings in his way, their darlings proved less perceptive. Miss Abercrombie and Miss Harris, greatly daring, accosted them as they strolled.

“Such a frightfully warm day, don’t you think, my lord?” Miss Abercrombie’s gaze was certainly sultry. She fanned herself with her hand, the action drawing attention to the ample charms revealed by her deeply scooped neckline.

“Quite positively enervating, I think.” Miss Harris, not to be outdone, fluttered her lashes and cast Philip a languishing look.

Antonia felt him stiffen; his expression was shuttered, remote.

“Before you find yourselves prostrated, ladies, might I suggest you repair to the drawing-room?” Philip’s tone alone lowered the temperature ten degrees. “I believe there are cold drinks laid out there.” With a distant nod, he changed tack, steering Antonia away from the budding courtesans.

After one glance at the rigid set of his lips, Antonia amused herself looking over the stalls. She could have told all the young misses that gushing declarations and fluttering lashes were definitely the wrong way to approach their host. He disliked all show of emotion, preferring the correct, properly restrained modes of interaction. He was a conventional man—she strongly suspected most gentlemen were.

They paused to allow Philip to discuss crop rotation with one of his tenant farmers. Covertly studying him, Antonia smiled wryly. His languid indolence was very much to the fore, at least in his projected image.

The girls watching could not hear his brisk words on ploughing and the optimum depth of furrows. As handsome as any, with that subtle aura of restrained power which derived, she suspected, from that affected indolence, while strolling the lawns with smoothly elegant stride, every movement polished and assured, he was a natural target for the sighing, die-away looks of the massed host of young girls.

Quelling an unhelpful shiver, Antonia looked around. Horatia Mimms and two of the girls from the vicarage stood in a knot nearby, giggling and whispering. Feeling immeasurably older, she let her gaze pass over them.

Concluding his discussion, Philip placed his hand over hers and turned towards the archery butts. “Looks like the contests are well underway.” He glanced down at her. “I’m not at all sure you shouldn’t be the one to present the ribbon to the winner.”

Antonia shook her head. “You are their master—to the youngsters you’re an idol. Of course they want you to award the prize.”

She shifted as she spoke, swinging slightly forward to glance into his eyes. Unfortunately, that placed her in Horatia Mimms’s path. In a balletic manoeuvre, Horatia flew forward, her trajectory calculated to land her, gracefully tripping, in Philip’s arms. Instead, she cannoned into Antonia’s back.

With a stifled cry, Antonia catapulted forward, coming up hard against Philip’s chest. His arms closed around her, steel bands crushing her to him as he lifted her free of the wild tangle that was Horatia, now sprawled on the grass.

“Are you all right?” Easing his hold, Philip looked down at her.

Antonia nodded, struggling to find her voice. “Just a bump—” She couldn’t help a wince as she tried to pull back.

Philip steadied her, his hands firming on her back, gently kneading. His gaze shifted to the scene before them, where a winded Horatia was being helped to her feet by her two supporters from the vicarage.

Philip’s eyes blazed. “That was the most inconsiderate piece of witless behaviour it has ever been my misfortune to witness!”

Helpless in his arms, unable to stop her senses luxuriating in the feel of his warm hands massaging her back, her forehead resting, for one weak moment, against his chest, Antonia stifled a hysterical giggle. From his tone, from the tension holding him, she knew his temper was on a very short leash. Luckily, they were halfway between the stalls and the crowds watching the archery; there were few witnesses to the scene.

“I cannot believe your parents—” Philip’s gaze coldly swept all three girls “—will find your antics at all acceptable.” His icy words cut like a lash. “I intend to make plain to them—”

Antonia pushed hard against his chest, forcing him to loosen his hold. As she struggled free of his arms, she wasn’t at all surprised to glimpse three white faces, stricken with alarm. “I’m perfectly all right.” One glance at Philip was enough to confirm he wasn’t mollified by her assurance. His face remained stony, his expression chilling. Antonia felt like grimacing at him; she contented herself with narrowing her eyes warningly before facing the girls. “Miss Mimms—I hope you sustained no injury?”

White as a sheet, Horatia Mimms blinked, then dazedly looked down. A long grass stain marred the pink of her muslin skirts. “My best dress!” she moaned. “It’s ruined!”

Philip snorted. “You may consider yourself—”

Antonia stepped back—onto his foot. Philip broke off and frowned down at her.

“Perhaps, Miss Carmichael, Miss Jayne, you could accompany Miss Mimms into the house and see if the stain will shift?”

The vicar’s daughters nodded, quickly taking Horatia’s arms. But Horatia unexpectedly stood her ground, her cheeks slowly turning an unfortunate shade of red. She looked helplessly at Antonia. “I’m most extremely sorry, Miss Mannering. I didn’t mean to—” She broke off and bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the ground.

Antonia took pity on her. “An unfortunate occurrence—we’ll say no more about it.”

The relief that flooded all three faces was almost comical. With quick bobs, the three took themselves off, moving out of Philip’s orbit as fast as they could.

“An unfortunate occurrence, my foot!” Philip glowered after them. “The little wretches—”

“Were only behaving as young girls often do.” Antonia slanted him a glance. “Particularly when presented with such provocation as is present here today.”

Philip’s eyes narrowed. “I do not appreciate being the butt of their silly fancies.”

Antonia smiled. “Never mind.” She patted his arm soothingly. “Come and present the archery prizes—from the whoops, I think the contests must be over.”

Philip sent her a darkling glance but allowed her to steer him to the area by the lake where the archery contest had been held.

He might not appreciate the adoration of young girls, but he clearly had no difficulty coping with the same emotion in youthful cubs. Antonia watched as they danced about him while he gave an impromptu speech congratulating the winners of the three competitions. With the prizes awarded, he returned to her side.

They adjourned to the terrace for tea. Despite numerous invitations to do otherwise, Philip held trenchantly to her side. Then it was time to cross to where the junior equestrians had been kept busy for most of the afternoon.

They regained the lawns, only to discover Lady Castleton in their path. Her daughter walked beside her on the arm of Mr Gerald Moresby, a younger son of Moresby Hall.

“There you are, Ruthven.” Lady Castleton placed one manicured hand firmly on Philip’s sleeve. “You’ve been positively hiding yourself away amongst the farmers, sir—quite ignoring those who would, one might imagine, have far greater claim to your attention.”

One glance convinced Antonia that her ladyship saw nothing outrageous in her statement. Philip, she noticed, looked bored.

Oblivious, Lady Castleton rolled on. “So you’ve driven us to make our wishes plain, my lord. Calliope has conceived a great wish to view your rose garden but unfortunately Gerald cannot abide the flowers—they make him sneeze.”

“Quite right.” Gerald Moresby grinned. “Can’t abide the smell, y’know.”

“So,” Lady Castleton concluded, “as Miss Mannering is apparently acting as hostess in her aunt’s stead, I suggest she takes Mr Moresby on an amble about the lake while you, my lord, can lend me your arm and escort myself and Calliope through your rose garden.”

Gerald rubbed his hands together, his gaze on Antonia. “Capital idea, what?”

Antonia did not think so. Eight years ago, Gerald had been a most untrustworthy character. Judging by the expression in his pale blue eyes and the way his weak mouth shifted, he had not improved with the years.

Sensing sudden tension beside her, she glanced up to find Philip’s gaze fixed on Gerald’s face, his lips curved in a smile that was not entirely pleasant.

“I’m afraid, dear lady,” Philip smoothly said, shifting his gaze from Gerald Moresby’s lecherous countenance, thereby denying a sudden urge to rearrange it, “that as Miss Mannering and I are sharing the honours in entertaining my tenants, our time is not our own. I’m sure you understand the situation,” he sauvely continued, “being yourself the chatelaine of an estate.”

He was well aware of Lady Castleton’s background; it did not encompass any great experience of “lady of the manor” duties.

Which was why, stumped by his comment, unable to contradict it, her ladyship resorted to a cold-eyed stare.

“I knew you’d understand.” Philip inclined his head, his hand trapping Antonia’s where it rested on his sleeve. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us—the junior equestrians await.” He included Lady Castleton and her daughter in his benedictory smile; it didn’t stretch as far as Gerald Moresby.

As they passed out of earshot, Antonia drew a deep breath. “How positively...” She paused, hunting for words.

“Brilliant?” Philip suggested. “Glib? Artful?”

“I was thinking of ruthless.” She cast him a reproving glance.

The look he bent upon her was less readable. “You wanted to wander by the lake with Gerald Moresby?”

“Of course not.” Antonia quelled a shudder. “He’s a positive toad.”

Philip humphed. “Well, Miss Castleton’s a piranha, so they’re well matched—and we’re well rid of them.”

Antonia had no wish to argue.

They arrived at the edge of the roped-off area in time to watch the final rounds of the low jumps. Johnny Smidgins, the headgroom’s son, won by a whisker. His sister, little Emily, a tiny tot barely big enough to hold the reins, guided a fat pony through the course to take the girls’ prize.

Everybody made much of them both. Ruthven gravely shook Johnny’s hand and presented him with a blue ribbon. Antonia couldn’t resist picking up little Emily and giving her a quick kiss before pinning her blue rosette to her dress. Sheer pride struck the little girl dumb; Philip patted her curls and left well alone.

After that, only the last event remained—the Punch and Judy show. Virtually everyone, even some of the dowagers, crowded before the stage erected in front of the green wall of the shrubbery.

The children sat on the grass, their elders standing behind them. Among the last to join the throng, just as the makeshift curtain arose to whoops, claps and expectant shrieks, Antonia and Philip found themselves at the very back of the crowd. Philip could see; despite ducking and peering, Antonia could not.

“Here.” Philip drew her aside to where a low retaining wall held back a section of lawn. “Stand on this.” Gathering her skirts, Antonia took his proffered hand and let him help her up. The stone was not high but narrow on top.

“Put your hand on my shoulder.”

She had to to keep her balance. He stood beside her, and they both turned to watch the stage.

Geoffrey’s script was hilarious, the puppets inspired. Some of the props, including such diverse items as the cook’s favourite ladle and a moth-eaten tiger’s head from the billiard-room, were both novel and inventively used. By the time the curtain finally dropped—literally—Antonia was leaning heavily on Philip’s shoulder, her other hand pressed to the stitch in her side.

“Oh, my!” she said, blinking away tears of laughter. “I never knew my brother had such a solid grasp of double entendres.”

Philip threw her a cynical look. “I suspect there’s a few things you don’t know about your brother.”

Antonia raised a brow. She straightened, about to lift her hand from his shoulder. And sucked in a breath as her bruised back protested.

Instantly, Philip’s arm came around her.

“You are hurt.”

The words, forced out, sounded almost like an accusation. Leaning into the support of his arm, Antonia looked at him in surprise. Courtesy of the stone wall, their eyes were level; when his lids lifted and his gaze met hers, she had a clear view of the stormy depths, the emotions clouding his grey eyes.

Their gazes locked; for an instant, his sharpened, became clearer, then he blinked and the expression was gone. Her heart thudding, Antonia dropped her gaze and let him lift her gently down. She stretched and shifted, trying to ease the spot between her shoulder blades where Horatia Mimms’s elbow had connected. She wished he would massage it again.

He remained rigid beside her, his hands fisted by his sides. Antonia glanced up through her lashes; his face was unreadable. “It’s only a bit stiff,” she said, in response to the tension in the air.

“That witless female—!”

“Philip—I’m perfectly all right.” Antonia nodded at the people streaming across the lawns. “Come—we must bid your guests farewell.”

They did, standing by the drive and waving each carriage, each family of tenants, goodbye. Needless to say, Horatia Mimms was treated to an unnerving stare; Antonia held herself ready throughout the Mimms’s effusive leave-taking to quell, by force if necessary, any outburst on Philip’s part.

But all passed smoothly; even the Castletons eventually left.

When all had departed, Antonia returned to the lawns to supervise the clearing. Philip strolled beside her, watching the late-afternoon sun strike gold gleams from her hair.

“I’m really very impressed with Geoffrey,” he eventually said. “He took on the responsibility of staging the Punch and Judy and saw it through.”

Antonia smiled. “And very well, too. The children were enthralled.”

“Mmm. As far as I know, none fell in the lake, either—for which he has my heartfelt thanks.” Philip glanced down at her. “But I think some part of his glory is owed to you.” They had almost reached the nearest shore of the lake. Brows rising in question, Antonia stopped on a small rise; meeting her gaze, Philip halted beside her. “You must have had a hard time bringing him up, essentially alone.”

Antonia shrugged and looked away across the lake. “I never regretted having the care of him. In its way, it’s been very rewarding.”

“Perhaps—but there are many who would say it was not your responsibility—not while your mother still lived.”

Antonia’s lips twisted. “True, but after my father died, I’m not entirely certain my mother did live, you see.”

There was a pause, then Philip answered, “No. I don’t.”

Antonia glanced at him, then turned and headed back towards the house. Philip kept pace beside her. They were halfway to the terrace before she spoke again. “My mother was devoted to my father. Totally caught up with him and his life. When that ended unexpectedly, she was lost. Her interest in me and Geoffrey sprang from the fact we were his children—when he died, she lost interest in us.”

Philip’s jaw set. “Hardly a motherly sort.”

“You mustn’t misjudge her—she was never intentionally negligent. But she didn’t see things in the light you might expect—nothing was important after my father had gone.”

Together, they climbed the rising lawns towards the terrace. As they neared the house, Antonia paused and looked up, putting up a hand to shade her eyes so she could admire the elegant facade. “It took a long time for me to understand—to realise what it was to love so completely—to love like that. So that nothing else mattered anymore.”

For long moments, they stood silently side by side, then Antonia lowered her hand. She glanced briefly at Philip then accepted his proffered arm.

On the terrace, they turned, surveying the lawns, neat again but marked by the tramp of many feet.

Philip’s lips twisted. “Remind me not to repeat this exercise any time soon.”

He turned—and read the expression in Antonia’s eyes. “Not that it wasn’t a roaring success,” he hastened to reassure her. “However, I doubt my temper will bear the strain of a repeat performance too soon.”

The obvious riposte flashed through Antonia’s mind so forcefully it was all she could do to keep the words from her lips.

Philip read them in her eyes, in the shifting shades of green and gold. The planes of his face hardened. “Indeed,” he said, his tone dry. “When I marry, the problem will disappear.”

Antonia stiffened but did not look away. Their gazes locked; for a moment, all was still.

Then Philip reached for her hand. He raised it; with cool deliberation, he brushed a lingering kiss across her fingertips, savouring the response that rippled through her, the response she could not hide.

Defiantly, her eyes still on his, Antonia lifted her chin.

Philip held her challenging gaze, one brow slowly rising. “A successful day—in all respects.”

With languid grace, he gestured towards the morning-room windows. Together, they went inside.

“AH, ME!” GEOFFREY yawned hugely. “I’m done in. Wrung out like a rag. I think I’ll go up.”

Setting the billiard cues back in their rack, Philip nodded. “I’d rather you did—before you pass out and I have to haul you up.”

Geoffrey grinned. “I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble. G’night, then.” With a nod, he went out, closing the door behind him.

Philip shut the cue case; turning, his wandering gaze fell on the tantalus set against the opposite wall. Strolling across, he poured himself a large brandy. Cradling the glass, he opened the long windows and went out, thrusting his free hand into his pocket as he slowly paced the terrace.

All was still and silent—his home, his estate, rested under the blanket of night. Stars glimmered through a light cloud; stillness stretched, comforting and familiar, about him. Everyone had retired to recoup after the hectic day. He felt as wrung out as Geoffrey but too restless to seek his bed.

The emotions the day had stirred still whirled and clashed within him, too novel to be easily dismissed, too strong to simply ignore. Protectiveness, jealousy, concern—he was hardly a stranger to such feelings but never before had he felt them so acutely nor in so focused a fashion.

Superimposed over all was a frustrated irritation, a dislike of being compelled even though the compulsion sprang from within him.

In its way, it was all new to him.

He took a long sip of his brandy and stared into the night.

It was impossible to pretend that he didn’t understand. He knew, unequivocally, that if it had been any other woman, he would have found some excuse, some fashionable reason, for being elsewhere, far distant, entirely out of reach.

Instead, he was still here.

Philip drained his glass and felt the fumes wreathe through his head. Presumably this was part of being thirty-four.

CHAPTER SIX

TWO DAYS LATER, Philip stood at the library windows, looking out over the sun-washed gardens. The business that had kept him inside on such a glorious day was concluded; behind him, Banks, his steward, shuffled his papers.

“I’ll take the offer in to Mrs Mortingdale’s man then, m’lord, though heaven knows if she’ll accept it.” Banks’s tone turned peevish. “Smidgins has been doing his best to persuade her to it but she just can’t seem to come at putting her signature to the deed.”

Philip’s gaze roamed the gardens; he wondered where Antonia was hiding today. “She’ll sign in the end—she just needs time to decide.” At Banks’s snort, he swung about. “Patience, Banks. Lower Farm isn’t going anywhere—and all but surrounded by my land as it is, there’ll be precious few others willing to make an offer, let alone one to match mine.”

“Aye—I know,” Banks grumbled. “If you want the truth it’s that that sticks. It’s nothing but senseless female shilly-shallying that’s holding us up.”

Philip’s brows rose. “Shilly-shallying, unfortunately, is what one must endure when dealing with females.”

With a disapproving grunt, Banks took himself off.

After a long, assessing glance at his gardens, Philip followed him out.

She wasn’t in the rose garden, and the formal garden was empty. Deserted, the peony walk slumbered beneath the afternoon sun. The shrubbery was cool and inviting but disappointingly uninhabited. Eyes narrowed, Philip paused in the shadow of a hedge and considered the known characteristics of his quarry. Then, with a grunt to rival Banks’s, he strode towards the house.

He ran her to earth in the still-room.

Antonia looked up, blinking in surprise as he strolled into the dimly lit room. “Hello.” Hands stilling, she hesitated, her gaze shifting to the shelves of bottles and jars ranged along the walls. “Were you after something?”

“As it happens, I was.” Philip leaned against the bench at which she was working. “You.”

Antonia’s eyes widened. She looked down at the herbs she was snipping. “I—”

“I missed you this morning.” Philip lifted a brow as her head came up; he trapped her gaze with his. “Can it be you’ve grown tired of riding?”

“No—of course not.” Antonia blinked, then looked down. “I was merely worn out by the fête.”

“Not still stiff after your collision with Miss Mimms?”

“Indeed not. That was barely a bruise.” Gathering up her chopped herbs, she dumped them into a bowl. “It’s entirely gone now.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I finished with Banks earlier than I’d expected—I wondered if you were wishful of chancing your skill with my greys?”

Brushing her hands on her apron, Antonia considered the prospect. It was definitely enticing. And she’d have to take the first step some time—chancing her skill in an entirely new arena.

“If you can hold them in style,” Philip mused, “perhaps I could demonstrate the basics of handling a whip?” Brows lifting, he met her gaze.