A Comfortable Wife (31 page)

Drawing in a steadying breath, he studied her half-averted face. “You were going to marry me regardless. What changed your mind?”

She hesitated so long he thought she would not answer. Then she turned her head and met his gaze openly—directly. “You.”

Philip felt his lips twist, and recalled his earlier resolution never to ask such questions of her again; she would always floor him with her honesty. He drew in another deep breath—and recalled his purpose—his one and only purpose in engineering this meeting, in coming to Ticehurst Place. “Before I deal with your criteria—your demands of a prospective husband—there’s one pertinent point I wish to make crystal clear.”

His features hardening, he caught Antonia’s gaze. “Lady Ardale’s performance was no fault of mine. I did not encourage her in any way, by any look, word or gesture.”

A frown slowly formed in her eyes. “She was in your arms.”

“No.” Philip held her gaze steadily. “She pressed herself against me—I had to take hold of her to set her away.”

A slow blush stained Antonia’s cheeks. She looked away. “Your hand was on her breast.”

Fleetingly, Philip grimaced. “Not by inclination, I assure you.”

His tone held sufficient disgust to have her glancing his way again. Her shocked expression tried his control.

“She…?” Confounded, Antonia gestured.

“Indeed.” Philip’s lips thinned. “Strange to tell, some ladies are exceedingly forward—and not a little predatory. If you’d remained a moment longer, you would have witnessed her come-uppance.”

Antonia’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

“She landed on the
chaise.
”

Philip saw her lips twitch, saw the beguiling glint of laughter in her eyes. The stiffness that had, until then, afflicted him, eased; he held out his hand. “And now, if you’ll come here, I’ll endeavour to address the criteria you enumerated so clearly.”

Antonia studied his face, uncertain of the undertone in his voice. Slowly, she shook her head—and stepped closer to the fountain. “I would much prefer that we discussed this matter in a business-like way.”

Philip opened his eyes at her—and took a strolling step forward. “I intend to be exceedingly business-like. In this case, by my reckoning, that requires having you in my arms.”

“There’s no sense in that—I can’t think while in your arms—as you very well know!” Frowning as disapprovingly as she could, Antonia circled to put the fountain between them; his intent apparent in every graceful stride, Philip followed. Antonia could not miss the devilish gleam in his eyes. Despite her irritation, she still felt a thrill all
the way to her toes. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, feeling her heartbeat accelerate, feeling breathlessness slowly claim her. “Philip—stop!” Imperiously, she halted and held up a hand.

Philip took no notice. In two strides he had rounded the fountain.

Antonia’s eyes widened. With a smothered squeal, she grabbed up her skirts and ran.

Unfortunately, she was on the wrong side of the fountain to escape the maze.

And Philip was far too fast. He caught her halfway to the hedge, easily lifting her from her feet. He juggled her in his arms, then carried her, struggling furiously in a froth of muslin, to a weathered stone seat with an ample thyme cushion.

He was grateful for that last when he half-sat, half-fell onto it, Antonia squirming on his lap. He could hear her muttering a string of curses; he was so gripped by the urge to laugh triumphantly that he didn’t dare try to speak. Instead, he caught her chin in one hand and turned her face to his.

Her eyes met his, green spitting golden chips. In that instant, awareness struck—he saw it catch, felt the sudden hitch in her breathing, saw her eyes widen, her lips soften and part. She stilled, her breasts rising and falling, her gaze trapped in his. The same awareness reached for him, effortlessly drawing him under its spell, even while some remnant of sanity frantically fought to remind him where they were, who they were, and how inappropriate was the spectacle they were about to create. As his head slowly lowered, Philip groaned. “God—I must be as besotted as Amberly.”

The realization did not stop him from kissing her, from parting her lips and drinking in her sweetness. Like a man parched, he filled his senses with the taste of her, the feel of her, the heady, dizzying scent of her. Experience stopped
him from releasing her curls, from running his hands through her hair. But nothing could stop him from laying her breasts bare, from experiencing again the thrill of her reaction as he caressed her.

Trapped in his arms, caught up in the tide, it took all Antonia’s remaining strength to complain, “You haven’t told me your response to my criteria.”

“Do you still need telling?”

His fingers shifted; her mind melted. It was some moments before she could muster enough breath to explain, “I did intend to be a comfortable wife for you but I don’t think—” Her breathing suspended wholly; weakly, she rushed on, “That I can manage it.”

She arched gently in his arms; Philip groaned again. His lips sought hers, then he drew back enough to murmur against their soft fullness, “I never wanted you as a ‘comfortable’ wife—that was your idea.” The words focused his attention on what he was trying very hard to overlook. “As God is my witness, the word ‘comfortable’ is the very last word I would associate with you. I’ve been wretchedly
uncomfortable
ever since I walked into the hall at the Manor and saw you come floating down the stairs, the embodiment of my need, the answer to my prayers.”

She was, Antonia decided, adapting to his lovemaking; she could actually think enough to take in his words. “Why uncomfortable?”

Philip gave up groaning; he took her hand and showed her.

“Oh.” Antonia considered, then glanced at his face. “Is that really uncomfortable?”

“Yes!” Gritting his teeth, Philip caught her hand. “Now shut up and let me kiss you.” He did, delighting in her response, setting aside his rehearsed periods until he had recouped all he had missed through the past week of enforced abstinence.

“I saw them go in—they must be at the centre.”

Geoffrey’s voice came clearly over the hedges.

Philip raised his head, blinking dazedly. Antonia’s eyes opened, then flew wide as she took in her state.

Her
“Great heavens!”
was weak with shock.

Philip wasted no time in curses; with practised speed, he stood, setting Antonia on her feet, steadying her when she swayed. When her hands fluttered over the halves of her open bodice, he swatted them away. “No time—let me. They’re only three turns away.”

Her head still spinning, Antonia watched in bemused fascination as he did up her buttons with a speed that would have left Nell stunned, then straightened her skirts and settled the lace about her neckline.

Philip barely had time to settle his coat before Catriona rushed into the square, Geoffrey and Ambrose on her heels.

“He was there! Henry told me of your suggestion—Aunt Copely will help, I
know
she will.” Eyes gleaming, smile beaming, Catriona was again the stunning beauty of the early weeks of their acquaintance. “It’s so wonderful, I could cry!” With that unnerving declaration, she flung her arms about Antonia and hugged her wildly.

“At the risk of appearing a wet blanket, I suggest you restrain your transports, my child.” Suavely, Philip settled his cuffs. “If you float into the house at your present elevation, the Countess is likely to puncture your hopes.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Exuberant, Catriona let go of Antonia to clutch Philip’s hand and press it between her own. “I can take care of her—when we go back to the house, I’ll be so down in the mouth she’ll never suspect we’re hatching a plot.”

Smiling, pleased to see Catriona so restored, Antonia glanced at Geoffrey, only to discover a quizzical, somewhat speculative look in his eye. As she watched, a slow, oddly knowing smile curved his lips.

To her intense mortification, Antonia felt a blush steal
into her cheeks. She shifted her gaze to Catriona. “So, is Mr Fortescue off to plead your case to Lady Copely?”

“Yes!” Catriona beamed delightedly. “And—”

“All’s right and tight,” Geoffrey remarked. “But we shouldn’t discuss anything here—one of the gardeners might overhear. And it’s getting on for tea-time. If we don’t want to be caught conspiring by one of those odious footmen, we’d better get back to the house.”

“Indeed.” There was enough frustrated resignation in Philip’s tone to draw a glance from both Mannerings. Philip offered Antonia his arm. “I greatly fear your brother is right.” As they all turned towards the exit from the maze, Catriona going ahead with Ambrose, practising her die-away airs, Philip murmured for Antonia’s ears alone, “We’ll continue our interrupted discussion later.”

Exchanging glances, neither he nor Antonia noticed Geoffrey hanging back in their shadow, his gaze, shrewdly pensive, on them.

By the time they regained the front hall, Philip had reevaluated the amenities of Ticehurst Place. While the others continued into the drawing-room where the Countess was regally dispensing tea and cakes, he held Antonia back long enough to whisper, “The library—after they’ve all settled for the night.”

Antonia glanced up at him, meeting his gaze squarely. She read the promise in his eyes. Her heart swelled; letting her lids veil her eyes, she inclined her head. “In the library tonight.”

N
ight fell. In her chamber, Antonia paced impatiently, waiting for the great house to fall silent, waiting for the last of the servitors to retreat to their quarters and leave the mansion to its ghosts. She felt certain there’d be some lost souls haunting the gorgon’s lair; the thought did not trouble her. Philip had yet to reply to her criteria; nothing—not even a ghost—was going to prevent her from hearing his response, from hearing the words she longed to hear.

After their interlude in the shrubbery, she was perfectly confident of the substance of his reply. Confidence, however, was no substitute for direct experience.

Kicking her skirts about, she turned, then paused. A door along the corridor creaked open, then shut. Ears straining, she made out the heavy, measured tread of Trant’s footsteps retreating to the servants’ stair; Henrietta had, at last, settled for the night. Soon, she could risk going down.

Deciding another ten minutes’ wait would be wise, she crossed to the window seat. Catriona’s histrionic talents had risen to the challenge of gulling both the Marchioness and the Countess. Neither eagle-eyed lady had batted an eyelid; neither had seen anything in Catriona’s drooping stance, in her lacklustre gaze, to alert them.

Crossing her arms on the sill and resting her chin upon
them, Antonia gazed out at the moon-silvered gardens. If Catriona could keep up her charade, then Henry would have time to mobilise Lady Copely. Doubtless, if all was as Catriona had said, Lady Copeley would visit and rescue her from the Countess’s talons.

Finding a certain delight in that prospect, Antonia smiled. Catriona’s problems would soon be at an end; for herself, resolution was at hand. Love, despite her doubts, would reign triumphant. Her gaze on the shifting shadows, her lips curving gently, she let her mind slide into pleasurable anticipation.

The clip-clop of horses’ hooves jerked her back to reality. Straightening, she leaned forward and peered out, just in time to glimpse a gig being driven down the drive at a brisk trot. There were two figures on the seat; as she watched, the smaller, the passenger, a large package clasped in her arms, turned and gazed back at the house. Catriona’s heart-shaped face was instantly recognisable.

Stunned, Antonia looked again; the second figure was wearing a white drab driving coat. “
Merciful heavens!
What
are
they up to?”

For five full seconds, she sat transfixed, listening to the hoofbeats grow fainter. Then, with a muttered curse, she grabbed a cloak from the wardrobe, pausing only to swing it about her shoulders before quietly opening her door.

She paid not the slightest attention to the deep shadows, to the gloom that pervaded the darkened house. Not even the suit of armour, shrouded in Stygian shadow on the landing, had the power to make her pause. Hurrying as fast as she dared, she reached the bottom of the stairs; her evening slippers skidded on the polished hall tiles. With a valiantly smothered shriek, Antonia grabbed the newel post just long enough to right herself, then, in a flurry of silk skirts, she dashed down the corridor.

Pacing before the fire in the library dutifully rehearsing his lines, Philip heard the scratch and slide of Antonia’s
feet on the tiles. The odd sound she made had him heading for the door. He opened it in time to see her pale skirts, visible beneath the hem of her cloak, disappear around a distant corner.

Mystified, he followed.

The turning she had taken led to the garden hall; when he reached it, the door to the gardens stood wide. Frowning, wondering if, by some mischance, she had thought to meet him in the maze, Philip stepped into the night. The gardens were a mass of moonlight and shadow, the gentle breeze creating a fantastical landscape of shifting shapes. Antonia was nowhere to be seen. His frown deepening, Philip strode towards the shrubbery.

He’d reached the centre of the maze when the sound of hoofbeats and the rattle of carriage wheels reached him. For one incredulous instant, he stood stock-still, then he swore.

And ran for the stables.

Skidding to a halt in the stableyard, he caught a glimpse of his greys drawing his phaeton—his
high-perch
phaeton—disappearing at a rattling clip down the drive. Of the identity of the figure holding the reins he had not the slightest doubt.

Cursing fluently, Philip plunged into the dark stables.

By the time he’d saddled the chestnut he’d ridden the previous day, Antonia had a good start on him. Halting at the end of the drive, he scanned the fields—and caught sight of her, tooling his horses at a spanking pace along a straight stretch of lane hugging an already distant ridge. Jaw clenched, his face like stone, Philip set off in pursuit.

Feathering the next corner, Antonia checked the skittish greys. The road ahead was deeply shadowed; she couldn’t see if there were potholes. Grimacing, she kept the reins tight as she guided the greys on, inwardly praying the horses, occasionally as devilish as their master, would behave.

Always eager, they had let her pole them up without fuss;
luckily, the phaeton was so light she’d been able to manoeuvre it easily. Harnessing had taken longer but she’d forced herself to do it carefully, comforting herself with the reflection that Philip’s horses would easily overtake the single beast Geoffrey had put to the gig.

It was only then, as she tightened the final buckles, that she remembered Philip, waiting for her in the library. Focused on protecting Catriona and Geoffrey, used to acting on her own, she had not, until then, considered the possibility of throwing herself on her husband-to-be’s chest and demanding he fix things. Grimacing, she hesitated, only to decide she couldn’t afford the time to retrace her steps and tell Philip what she’d seen. She couldn’t risk Geoffrey getting too far ahead; she was certain Philip had no more idea of what was afoot than she.

Her memory replayed Geoffrey’s words in the maze, the odd glance he, Catriona and Ambrose had shared as they’d prepared to retire. She had a strong suspicion her brother had guessed what was in the wind between herself and Philip—and had decided to leave them undisturbed while he and Catriona brought off whatever mad scheme they’d hatched.

Emerging from the shadowed stretch, Antonia set the greys up a long hill. Looking up, she glimpsed the gig, Geoffrey and Catriona in silhouette as they topped the rise ahead. They sank from view; with a muttered curse, Antonia clicked the reins. The gig was more stable than the phaeton; Geoffrey was not having to be as cautious as she. Despite the greys’ superiority, the distance between them and the gig had not decreased.

Driving as fast as she dared, she sent the phaeton rushing up the hill. There were lanes aplenty—she had no idea which way they were headed. The thought of the likely outcome if their plans, whatever they might be, went awry, and Geoffrey and Catriona ended spending the night essen
tially alone, spurred her on, the spectre of the Countess as a relative-by-marriage at her back.

Pushing the greys to the limit of safety, she topped the rise, then rattled on down the slope.

Labouring in her wake, Philip had run through his repertoire of curses. While he presumed his intended had a reason for rushing off into the night, he did not, he had decided, actually care what it was. What he did care about was her safety and the sublime disregard for his tender sensibilities she was presently displaying. Gritting his teeth, he urged the chestnut on. Catching up with his greys was out of the question; all he could hope for was to keep Antonia in sight until she reached her destination.

Once he caught up with her, the rest, he felt sure, would follow naturally.

He quite clearly recalled telling her he would never consent to her risking her neck; he quite clearly recalled warning her not to even
think
of so doing. She had evidently not believed him.

He would make the matter plain—along with a few other points.

“All I want is to tell the damn woman that I love her!”

The wind whipped away the growled words. Gripped by frustration, Philip set the chestnut up the hill.

He pulled up at the top, briefly scanning the valley below. He saw Antonia in his phaeton—and for the first time glimpsed the carriage she was following.

“What the devil…?” Philip frowned. He was too far away to make out the figures in the gig but he could guess who they were. Shaking the reins, he took to the fields, shaving a little off Antonia’s lead in the descent from the ridge. But once they gained the flat, not knowing which way they would turn, he was forced to keep to the roads.

Ahead of him, Antonia had managed to draw closer to the gig, but it was still too far distant for her to hail it. Given the state of the country lanes, she’d given up hope
of catching Geoffrey this side of a main road. Having assumed his intention was to deliver Catriona to Lady Copely, she was surprised to see him check, then turn the gig under the gateway of what appeared to be an inn.

The small town the inn served lay beyond it, nestled in a hollow, its residents no doubt slumbering soundly. Perched halfway down the slope overlooking the town, the inn looked to be substantial, a solid structure in stone with a good slate roof.

Filled with relief, Antonia whipped up the greys and forged on, drawing rein only to enter the innyard.

A sleepy, middle-aged ostler was leading away the gig. His eyes widened, whether in alarm or understandable surprise Antonia had no time to wonder as she wrestled the greys to a snorting halt.

“Here—take them.” She flung the reins at the ostler, grateful when he caught them. Scrambling down from the box-seat with what decorum she could, she added, “And…er…do whatever needs to be done. They’re quite valuable.”

“Aye, mum.” Stupefied, the ostler nodded.

Waiting for no more, Antonia hurried into the inn. The door was unlatched; there was no sign of the host but a lighted candle stood on a wooden table at the back of the hall. Her attention caught by wavering light from above, Antonia glanced up the dark stairwell in time to see shadows, thrown by candlelight, flung up against a wall. The shadows disappeared as their owners continued down one of the upstairs corridors.

Antonia grabbed the candle from the table and followed.

When she gained the head of the stairs, there was no one in sight. Following the corridor she was sure Geoffrey and Catriona had taken, she paused outside each door to place her ear against the panel. She heard nothing more than snores and snorts until she came to the last door, right at the end of the corridor.

Gruff voices rose and fell; others spoke but she could not make out their words. Antonia frowned—then glanced at the door to her right. Ear against the panel, she listened carefully but no sound came from within. Holding her breath, she gently eased the latch free. Pushing the door open, she warily raised her candle.

The room was empty. With a sigh of relief, she whisked herself in and shut the door firmly. Glancing about, she saw another door, set into the wall shared with the last room—the one on which she wished to eavesdrop. Thanking her stars, she set the candle down on a tallboy and gently eased the door open.

Beyond lay a small space, the space between the thick walls, bound by another door. As the voices beyond reached her easily, Antonia surmised this last door opened directly into the room at the end of the corridor.

“I knows as how that was what you asked for, but, like Josh here said, it ain’t what you’re getting.”

The owner of the gruff voice sounded the opposite of refined. He also sounded smugly threatening. Antonia heard Geoffrey answer but her brother’s accents were too measured, too controlled, for her to catch what he said. Grimacing, she carefully gripped the knob of the door; breath bated, she turned it until she felt the latch give, then eased the door open the merest fraction.

“Ain’t no point arguing no more,” came a second, very deep, distinctly menacing voice. “The whelp over there got us here—you’ve heard our price. T’my way of thinkin’, it’s take it or leave it.”

A whispered conference was the result. Carefully releasing the knob, Antonia leaned as close as she dared to the open door, her senses straining to pick up her brother’s and Catriona’s words.

A hand came over her shoulder, fastening over her mouth; an arm slid about her waist, hauling her back, lock
ing her against a very large, very hard, definitely masculine body.

Eyes starting from her head, Antonia went rigid.

Then relaxed—and tugged at the hand over her lips.

Philip eased his hold, bending his head to growl directly into her ear,
“What the devil are you doing here?”

Antonia ignored his tone—and all it promised. Pressing her head back into his shoulder, she managed to catch his eye—she decided to ignore the fury she saw there, too. With her own eyes, she indicated the room beyond the door. “Listen,” she mouthed.

“My friend here hired you—you agreed on a sum to take us to London.”

Antonia’s eyes widened. She tugged again at Philip’s hand. “That was Mr Fortescue.”

Philip flicked her a warning glance. “Shh.”

“Aye, that we did,” came in gloating tones. “But that was afore we realized there’d be a young miss making one of your party. The way we figures it, now we knows the score, is that it’s got to be worth a great deal more to you to make the trip to Lunnon. What with the pretty young miss an’ all.”