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

* * *

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 hall. She had put it down to simple nervousness—if not that, then merely a dim shadow of the infatuation she had felt for years.

An infatuation she had convinced herself would fade when confronted with reality.

Instead, reality had taken her infatuation and turned it into—what?

A shiver threatened—Antonia struggled to suppress it.

She didn’t, in fact, succeed.

Through the arm about her, Philip felt the telltale reaction. Lazily, he studied her, his gaze shrewd and penetrating. Her attention was locked on his leader’s ears. “I’ve been thinking—about Geoffrey.”

“Oh?”

“I was wondering if, considering his age, it might not be advisable to temporarily delay his departure for Oxford. He hasn’t seen much of the world—a few weeks in London might be for the best. It would certainly put him on a more even footing with his peers.”

Her gaze on the road, Antonia frowned. After neatly if absentmindedly taking the next corner, she replied, “For myself, I agree.” She grimaced and glanced fleetingly at Philip. “But I’m not sure he will—he’s very attached to his books. And how can we argue, if the time wasted will put him behind?”

Philip’s lips curved. “Don’t worry your head about convincing him—you may leave that to me.”

Antonia shot him a glance, clearly not sure whether to encourage him or not.

Philip pretended not to notice. “As for his studies, his academic performance is, I’m sure, sufficiently strong for him to catch up a few weeks without difficulty. Where’s he going?”

“Trinity.”

“I know the Master.” Philip smiled to himself. “If you like, I’ll write and ask permission to keep him down until the end of the Little Season.”

Antonia slowed the greys in order to turn and study him. “You know the Master?”

Philip lifted a haughty brow. “Your family is not the only one with a connection to the college.”

Antonia’s eyes narrowed. “You went there?”

Philip nodded, his expression impassive as he watched her struggle with her uncertainty.

In the end, convinced there was no subtle way in which to frame her question, Antonia drew in a deep breath and asked, “And what, do you think, will be the Master’s response to such a request—from you?”

Philip met her gaze with bland incomprehension. “My dear Antonia, whatever do you mean?”

She shot him a fulminating glance, then turned back to the horses. “I mean—as you very well know—that such a request from one whose reputation is such as yours can be construed in a number of ways, not all of which the Master is likely to approve.”

Philip’s deep rumbling laughter had her setting her teeth.

“Oh, well done!” he eventually said. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

Antonia glared at him, then clicked the reins, setting the horses to a definite trot.

Philip straightened his lips. “Rest assured that my standing with the Master is sufficient that such a request will be interpreted in the most favourable light.”

The glance Antonia threw him held enough lingering suspicion to make him narrow his eyes. “I do not, dear Antonia, have any reputation for corrupting the innocent.”

She had, he noted, sufficient grace to blush.

“Very well.” Antonia nodded but kept her gaze locked on the leader. “I’ll mention the matter to Geoffrey.”

“No—leave that to me. He’ll be more receptive to the idea if I suggest it.”

Antonia knew her brother well enough not to argue. Head high, she turned the horses for home, determinedly disregarding the inward flutter Philip had managed to evoke.

After studying her profile, Philip said no more until she pulled the horses up before the front steps. Descending, he strolled leisurely around to come up beside her, meeting her watchful, slightly wary gaze with open appreciation. “A commendable first outing. To my mind, you’re still holding them a little tight in the curves but that judgement will come with practice.”

Before she could reply, he twitched the reins from her hands and tossed them to the groom who had come running from the stables. While the movement had her distracted, he closed his hands about her waist, well aware of the tension that gripped her as he lifted her down.

“You’ll be pleased to know,” he glibly stated, holding her before him and gazing down into suddenly wide eyes, “that I’m completely satisfied that your peculiar ability to communicate with the equine species operates even when you’re not perched upon their backs.”

Antonia continued to stare at him blankly. Reluctantly, Philip released her.

“You—” Antonia blinked wildly. It was an effort to summon not only her voice but the indignation she felt sure she should feel. Breathless, she continued, “Do you mean to say that today was a...a test?”

Philip smiled condescendingly. “My dear Antonia, I know of your talents—it seemed rational to test them. Now I know they’re sound, there seems little doubt you’ll prove a star pupil.”

Antonia blinked again—and wished there was some phrase in his speech to which she could take exception. In the end, she drew herself up and fixed him with a direct and openly challenging stare. “I assume, my lord, that when we go out tomorrow, you’ll permit me to get above a trot?”

The subtle smile that played about his lips did quite peculiar things to her nerves. “I wouldn’t suggest you reach for the whip just yet, my dear.”

* * *

“WELL! THAT SEEMED a most successful outing.” Henrietta turned from the window high above the drive, having watched her stepson and niece until they’d disappeared into the hall below.

“That’s as may be.” Trant continued to fold linens, laying them neatly on the bed. “But I’d reserve judgement if I was you. Early days yet to read anything into things like simple drives in the countryside.”

“Phooh!” Henrietta waved the objection aside. “Ruthven rarely drives ladies—let alone lets them drive him. Of course it means something.”

Trant merely sniffed.

“It means,” Henrietta went on, “that our plan has real promise. We must ensure they spend as much time in each other’s company as possible—with as little distraction as we can manage.”

“You’re planning on encouraging them to be alone?” Trant voiced her query with a suitably hesitant air.

Henrietta snorted. “Antonia is twenty-four, after all—hardly a green girl. And whatever Ruthven’s reputation, he has never, to my certain knowledge, been accused of seducing innocents.”

Trant shrugged, unwilling to risk further comment.

Henrietta frowned, then shifted her shawls. “I’m convinced, in this case, that strict adherence to society’s dictates is not necessary. Aside from anything else, Ruthven will not—would not—seduce any lady residing under his own roof under my protection. We must put our minds to making sure they spend at least some part of every day together. I’m a great believer in propinquity, Trant—if Ruthven is to see what a gem Antonia is, we’ll need to keep her before him long enough for him to do so.”

* * *

THREE DAYS LATER, Antonia climbed the stairs and entered her bedchamber. She had spent all morning going over the plans for the fête, to be held, as Henrietta had decreed, two days hence; it was now midafternoon, and Henrietta was napping. As usual, the garden was her destination but she had fallen into the habit of checking her appearance whenever she ventured forth. Crossing to the dressing-table, she smiled absentmindedly at Nell, seated by the window, a pile of darning beside her. “Don’t strain your eyes. I’m sure some of the younger maids could lend a hand with that.”

“Aye—no doubt. But I’ve little confidence in their stitches—I’d rather see to it myself.”

Picking up her brush, Antonia carefully burnished the curls falling in artful disorder from the knot on the top of her head.

Nell threw her a swift glance. “Seems you’ve been seeing a lot of his lordship lately.”

Antonia’s hand stilled, then she shrugged. “I wouldn’t say a lot. We ride in the mornings, of course. Geoffrey, too.” She did not think it necessary to mention that for at least half the time she spent on horseback, she and Philip were alone; Geoffrey, encouraged to try the paces of his mount, was rarely within hailing distance. “Other than that, and the three occasions he’s let me drive his curricle, Ruthven only seeks me out if he has some matter to discuss.”

“That so?” Nell remarked.

“Indeed.” Antonia tried to keep the irritation from her voice. Although Philip often sought her company during the day, spending half an hour or more by her side, he invariably had some reason for doing so. She sank the brush into one curl. “He’s a busy man, after all—a serious landowner. He spends hours with his agent and bailiff. Like any sensible gentleman, he puts effort into ensuring his estate runs smoothly.”

“Strange—it’s not what I’d have thought.” Nell shook out a chemise. “He seems so...well, lazy.”

Antonia shook her head. “He’s not lazy at all—that’s just an image, a fashionable affectation. Ruthven’s never been truly lazy in his life—not over anything that matters.”

Nell shrugged. “Ah, well—you know him better than most.”

Antonia swallowed a “humph” and continued to tend her curls.

Five minutes later, she was descending the steps from the terrace when she heard her name called. Looking about, she saw Geoffrey striding up from the stables. One glance at his face was enough to tell her her brother was in alt.

“A great day, Sis! I had them trotting sweetly from the first. Who knows—next time our teacher might let me take out his greys.”

Antonia grinned, sharing his delight. “Bravo—but I wouldn’t get your hopes too high.” While Ruthven had entrusted his greys to her, he had started Geoffrey with a pair of match chestnuts, by any standards a well-bred pair but not in the same league with his peerless Irish greys. “In fact,” Antonia said, linking her arm in Geoffrey’s, “I’d rather you didn’t suggest it—he’s really been very generous in helping you take the reins.”

“I wasn’t about to,” Geoffrey replied, fondly condescending. “That was just talk.” Obediently, he fell in beside her as she strolled the gravel path. “Ruthven’s been far more encouraging than I’d ever looked to see. He’s a great gun—one of the best!”

Antonia heard the fervour in his tone; glancing up, she saw it reflected in his face.

Unconscious of her scrutiny, Geoffrey went on, “I assume you know he’s suggested I should accompany you to London? I wasn’t too sure at first—but he explained how it would set yours and Henrietta’s minds at ease—if you could see me in society a bit, build your confidence in me, that sort of thing.”

“Oh?” When Geoffrey glanced her way, Antonia hurriedly changed her tone. “I mean—yes, that’s right.” After a moment, she added, “Ruthven’s very good at thinking of such things.”

“He said that’s one of the traits that distinguishes a man from a boy—that a man thinks of his actions in the wider context, not just in terms of himself.”

Despite her inclination, Antonia felt a surge of gratitude towards Philip; his subtle mentoring would help to fill the large gap their father’s death had left in Geoffrey’s life. Any lingering reservations she had regarding Geoffrey’s visit to London evaporated. “I think you would be very wise to take Ruthven’s hints to heart. I’m certain you can have every confidence in his experience.”

“Oh, I have!” Geoffrey strode along beside her, then recalled he should match his steps to hers. “You know—when you decided to come here, I thought I’d be—well, the odd man out. I didn’t think Philip would still be friendly, like he was to you all those years ago. But it’s just the same, isn’t it? He might be a swell and a gentleman about town and all that, but he still treats us as friends.”

“Indeed.” Antonia hid a glum grimace. “We’re very fortunate to have his regard.”

Grinning, Geoffrey disengaged. “Think I’ll take a fowling piece out for the rest of the afternoon.”

Antonia nodded absentmindedly. Alone, she let her feet follow the gravel walks, her mind treading other paths. Geoffrey, unfortunately, was right. While Philip could be counted on to tease and twit her, in all their hours together, whether strolling the gardens or driving his greys, she had never detected anything in his manner to suggest he saw her other than as a friend. An old friend, admittedly—one on whom he need not stand on terms—but nothing more than an agreeable companion.

It was not what she wanted.

Looking back, analysing all their interactions, the only change the years had wrought was what she termed her “ridiculous sensitivity”—the leaping, fluttering feeling that afflicted her whenever he was close, the tension that immobilized her limbs, the distraction that did the same to her wits, the vice that made breathing so difficult every time he touched her, every time he lifted her down and held her between his strong hands, every time he took her hand in his to help her up a step or over some obstacle.

As for the times his fingers had inadvertently brushed the back of her hand—they were undoubtedly the worst. But all that came from her, not him. It was simply her reaction to his presence, a reaction that was becoming harder and harder to hide.

Halting, she looked around and discovered she’d reached the Italian garden. Neat hedges of lavender bordered a long, raised rectangular pool on which white water lillies floated. Gravelled walks surrounded the pool, themselves flanked by cypress and box, neatly clipped. It was a formal, quite austere setting—one which matched her mood. Frowning, Antonia strolled beside the pool, trailing her fingers in the dark water.

Her “ridiculous sensitivity” was the least of her problems. Philip still saw her as a young girl and the fête was looming; soon after, they would leave for London. If she wanted to succeed in her aim, she would have to do something. Something to readjust his vision of her—to make him see her as a woman, a lady—as a potential wife. And whatever she was going to do, she would have to do it soon!

“Well, my lady of the lake—are my goldfish nibbling your fingers?”

Antonia whirled and saw the object of her thoughts strolling towards her. He was wearing a flowing ivory shirt, topped with a shooting jacket, a scarf loosely knotted about his tanned throat. His long thighs were clad in buckskin breeches, his feet in highly polished top-boots. One brow rising in gentle raillery, his hair tousled by the breeze, he looked every inch the well-heeled landowner—and a great deal more dangerous than the average country gentleman.

Calmly, Antonia lifted her wet fingers and studied them. “Not noticeably, my lord. I suspect your fish are too well fed to be tempted.”

Philip halted directly before her; Antonia nearly jumped when his fingers slid about her wrist. Lifting her hand, he examined her damp fingers. “Fish, I understand, are not particularly intelligent.”

His heavy lids lifted; his gaze, sky grey with clouds gathering, met hers.

Antonia’s heart lurched, her stomach knotted; familiarity didn’t make the sensations any easier to bear. His fingers felt strong and steely, his grip on her wrist warm and firm. Her diaphragm seized; she waited, breathless, trapped by his gaze.

Philip hesitated, then the ends of his lips lifted lightly. Glancing down, he reached into a pocket and drew out a white handkerchief. And proceeded to wipe each finger dry.

Her heart pounding, Antonia tried to speak. She had to clear her throat before she could. “Ah—did you wish to speak to me about something?”

Philip’s smile deepened. She always asked. On principle, he never prepared an answer; inventing one on the spot kept him on his toes. “I wanted to ask if there was anything you needed for the fête. Do you have all you require?”

Antonia managed to nod. His stroking of her fingers, even with his touch muted by the fine lawn handkerchief, was sending skittering sensations up her arm. “Everything’s under control,” she eventually managed.

“Really?”

There was just enough amused scepticism in Philip’s tone to make her stiffen. She lifted her fingers from his slackened grasp and met his gaze. “Indeed. Your staff have thrown themselves into the spirit of the thing—and I must thank you for the services of your steward and bailiff. They’ve been most helpful.”

“I hope they have.” With a gesture, Philip invited her to walk beside him. “I’m sure the entertainments will be a credit to you all.”

Haughtily, Antonia inclined her head and fell into step beside him. Slowly, they paced beside the narrow pool.

Philip glanced at her face. “What brings you here? You seem...pensive.”

Antonia drew in a deep breath and held it. “I was thinking,” she said, tossing back her curls, “of what it would be like when we’re in London.”

“London?”

“Hmm.” Looking ahead, she airily explained, “As you know, I’ve not much experience of society. I understand poetry is much in vogue. I’ve heard it’s common practice for tonnish gentlemen to use poetry, or at least, poetic phrases, to compliment ladies.” She slanted an innocent look upwards. “Is that so?”

Philip’s mind raced. “In some circles.” He glanced down; Antonia’s expression was open, enquiring. “In fact, in certain company it’s de rigueur for the ladies to answer in similar vein.”

“It is?” Antonia’s surprise was unfeigned.

“Indeed.” Smoothly, Philip captured her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “Perhaps, as you’ll shortly be joining the throng, we ought to sharpen your rhymes?”

“Ah—” Her hand trapped beneath his warm palm, Antonia struggled to think. His suggestion was a considerable extrapolation of her plan.

“Here.” Philip stopped by a wrought-iron seat placed to look over the pool. “Let’s sit and try our wits.”

Not at all certain just what she had started, Antonia subsided. Philip sat beside her, half turning, resting one arm along the back of the seat. “Now—where to start?” His gaze roamed her face. “Perhaps we should stick to mere phrases—considering your inexperience?”

Antonia shifted to face him. “That would undoubtedly be wise.”

Only years of experience allowed Philip to keep the smile from his lips. “And perhaps I’d better start the ball rolling. How about—‘Your hair shines like Caesar’s gold, for which battalions gave their lives’?”

Wide-eyed, Antonia stared at him.

“Your turn,” Philip prompted.

“Ah...” Antonia bludgeoned her wits then lifted her gaze to his hair. She dragged in a breath. “‘Your hair glows like chestnuts, burnished by the sun’?”

“Bravo!” Philip smiled. “But that was purely a visual description—I think I win that round.”

“It’s a competition?”

Philip’s eyes gleamed. “Let’s consider it one. My turn. “‘Your brow is white as a snow martin’s breast, smooth as his flight through the sky.’”

On her mettle, Antonia narrowed her eyes, studying the wide sweep of his brow. Then she smiled. “‘Your brow is as noble a Leo’s ever was, your might not less than his.’”

Philip’s smile deepened. “‘Emerald your eyes, set in gold, precious jewels their value untold.’”

“‘Grey clouds and steel, mists and fog, stormy seas and lightning, mix in the depths of your gaze.’”

Brows rising, Philip inclined his head. “I’d forgotten what a quick learner you are. But onward! Let’s see...” Slowly, he raised his hand and gently, very gently, brushed her cheek with the back of one finger. “‘Your cheeks glow soft, ivory silk over rose.’” His voice had deepened.

For a long instant, Antonia sat as one stunned, wide-eyed, barely breathing. The only thought in her head was that her stratagem was working. The effects of his touch slowly dissipated; her wits filtered back. She swallowed, then frowned and met his gaze. “It should have been my turn to lead. So—‘Firm of chin and fair of face, your movements marked by languid grace.’”

Philip laughed. “Mercy! How can I hope to counter that?”

Antonia’s smug glance turned superior.

Philip studied her face. “All right. But—” Glancing down, he saw her hands, lightly clasped in her lap. “Ah, yes.” Shifting, he reached out and circled her wrist once more, gently tugging one hand free. Under his fingers, he felt her pulse leap.

She didn’t resist as he lifted her hand, turning it as though examining her slim fingers. Fleetingly, he let his gaze meet hers. Then, still holding her captive, he trailed the fingers of his other hand against her sensitive palm.

The swift intake of her breath sounded sharp to Antonia’s ears. Philip’s eyes flicked up to hers; a smile unlike any she’d yet seen slowly curved his lips. His fingers shifted, so that his fingertips supported hers.