“I’m not about to ravish you.

“Oh, I’m thinking about it. But I’m not about to do it—all right?”

Philip’s jaw ached, as did the rest of him; experience was not enough to hide his frustration. He concentrated on keeping still—he had no intention of moving until the dangerous moment had passed, until the compulsion driving them both had faded.

Antonia had no breath with which to answer. Her heart was still thudding in her ears. Had he noticed how unrestrained her ardor had been—how wantonly she had kissed him? Was the aching need still there in her eyes?

“We’ve got to go back.” Philip forced himself to let her go.

“Back?” Antonia’s mind was awhirl. “But—”

“Antonia—do you want to be ravished here and now?”

Dear Reader,

In writing An Unwilling Conquest, the third book in the Lester trilogy, one character, Philip, Lord Ruthven, positively begged to be made a victim of love. His attitude as displayed in An Unwilling Conquest could not go unanswered—and that’s how A Comfortable Wife came about. Miss Antonia Mannering was the young lady who had Philip most determinedly in her sights. As a husband. The possibility of love never entered her head—she was far too levelheaded, and she knew Philip too well. She was looking for a husband, and by now he should be looking for a wife—to her, their aims were compatible. All should have been terribly comfortable, except…

What happens when love gets stirred into their equation is told in A Comfortable Wife. I hope you enjoy seeing Philip succumb to a passion that becomes more precious than anything else in his life.

A Comfortable Wife
Stephanie Laurens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The first romances Stephanie Laurens ever read were those of Georgette Heyer, and romances set in Regency England continue to be her favorites. After escaping from the dry world of professional science, Stephanie took up writing such romances for her own pleasure. A Comfortable Wife was her eighth historical romance set in the British Regency era. Now residing in a leafy suburb of Melbourne, Australia, Stephanie divides her free time between her husband, two teenage daughters and two cats—Shakespeare and Marlowe. The cats, needless to say, are the most demanding. Stephanie’s Web site can be found at www.stephanielaurens.com, or you can e-mail Stephanie directly at slaurens@vicnet.net.au.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

“Thirty-Four, my dear Hugo, is a decidedly sobering age.”

“Heh?” Startled from somnolence, Hugo Satterly opened one cautious eye and studied the long-limbed figure gracefully lounging on the opposite carriage seat. “Why’s that?”

Philip Augustus Marlowe, seventh Baron Ruthven, did not deign to answer—not directly. Instead, his gaze on the summer scenery slipping past the carriage window, he remarked, “I would never have thought to see Jack and Harry Lester competing over who would provide the first of the next generation of Lesters.”

Hugo straightened. “Tricky prediction, that. Jack suggested laying odds but Lucinda heard of it.” Hugo grimaced. “That was the end of it, of course. Said she wasn’t about to have us all watching her and Sophie, counting the days. Pity.”

A fleeting smile touched Philip’s lips. “An uncommonly sensible woman, Lucinda.” After a moment he added, more to himself than to his friend, “And Jack was lucky with his Sophie, too.”

They were returning from a week’s house party at Lester Hall; the festivities had been presided over by Sophie, Mrs Jack Lester, ably seconded by Lucinda, now Harry Lester’s bride. Both recent additions to the Lester family tree were discreetly but definitely enceinte, and radiant with it. The unabashed happiness that had filled the rambling old house had infected everyone.

But the week had drawn to its inevitable close; Philip was conscious that, despite the calm and orderly ambiance of his ancestral home, there would be no such warmth, no promise for the future, awaiting him there. The idea that he had invited Hugo, a friend of many years, confirmed bachelor and infrequent rake, to join him solely as a distraction, to turn his thoughts from the depressing path he saw opening before him, floated through his mind. He tried to ignore it.

He shifted in his seat, listening to the regular pounding of his carriage horses’ hooves, firmly fixing his attention on the ripening fields—only to have Hugo ruthlessly haul his problem into the light.

“Well—I suppose you’ll be next.” Hugo settled his shoulders against the squabs and gazed at the fields with unruffled calm. “Dare say that’s what’s making you glum.”

Narrowing his eyes, Philip fixed them on Hugo’s innocent visage. “Surrendering to the bonds of matrimony, walking knowingly into parson’s mousetrap, is hardly a pleasant thought.”

“Don’t think of it at all myself.”

Philip’s expression turned decidedly sour. A gentleman of independent means and nought but distant family, Hugo had no need to wed. Philip’s case was very different.

“Don’t see why you need make such a mountain of it, though.” Hugo glanced across the carriage. “Imagine your stepmother’ll be only too happy to line up the young ladies—all you need do is look ’em over and make your selection.”

“Being no less female than the rest of them, I’m certain Henrietta would be only too glad to assist. However,” Philip continued, his tone tending steely, “should she be mistaken in one of her candidates, ’tis I, not she, who will pay the price. For life. No, I thank you. If mistakes capable of wrecking my life are to be made, I’d rather make them myself.”

Hugo shrugged. “If that’s the case, you’ll have to make your own list. Go through the debs, check their backgrounds, make sure they can actually speak and not just giggle and that they won’t simper over the breakfast cups.” He wrinkled his nose. “Dull work.”

“Depressing work.” Philip shifted his gaze once more to the scenery.

“Pity there aren’t more like Sophie or Lucinda about.”

“Indeed.” Philip delivered the word tersely; to his relief, Hugo took the hint and shut up, settling back to doze.

The carriage rattled on.

Reluctantly, Philip allowed his likely future to take shape in his mind, envisioning his life with one of society’s belles by his side. His visions were unappealing. Disgusted, he banished them and determinedly set his mind to formulating a list of all the qualities he would insist on in his wife.

Loyalty, reasonable wit, beauty to an acceptable degree—all these were easy to define. But there was a nebulous something he knew Jack and Harry Lester had found which he could find no words to describe.

That vital ingredient was yet proving elusive when the carriage turned through tall gateposts and rumbled down the drive to Ruthven Manor. Tucked neatly into a dip of the Sussex Downs, the manor was an elegant Georgian residence built on the remains of earlier halls. The sun, still high, sent gilded fingers to caress the pale stone; stray sunbeams, striking through the surrounding trees, glinted on long, plain windows and highlighted the creepers softening the austere lines.

His home. The thought resonated in Philip’s head as he descended from the carriage, the gravel of the forecourt crunching beneath his boots. With a glance behind to confirm that Hugo had awoken and was, in fact, alighting, he led the way up the steps.

As he approached, the front doors were set wide; Fenton, butler at the Manor since Philip had been in short-coats, waited, straight as a poker but smiling, beside them.

“Welcome home, my lord.” Deftly, Fenton relieved his master of his hat and gloves.

“Thank you, Fenton.” Philip gestured as Hugo strolled in. “Mr Satterly will be staying for a few days.” Unencumbered by ancestral acres, Hugo was a frequent visitor to the Manor.

Fenton bowed, then reached for Hugo’s hat. “I’ll have your usual room made ready, sir.”

Hugo smiled in easy acquiescence.

Completing a brief scan of his hall, Philip turned back to Fenton. “And how is her ladyship?”

On the floor above, poised at the top of the grand staircase, her head cocked to listen, Antonia Mannering decided that his voice was deeper than she remembered it. His question, however, was quite obviously her cue.

Drawing in a deep breath, she closed her eyes in fleeting supplication, then opened them and started down. In a hurry. Not so precipitously as to be labelled hoydenish but rapidly enough to appear unconscious of the arrivals presently in the hall. She cleared the landing and started down the last flight, her eyes on the treads, one hand lightly skimming the balustrade. “Fenton, her ladyship wishes Trant to be sent up as soon as may be.” Only then did she allow herself to glance up.

“Oh!” Her exclamation was perfectly gauged, containing just the right combination of surprise and fluster; she had practised for hours. Antonia slowed, then halted, her gaze transfixed. As it transpired, she needed no guile to make her eyes widen, her lips part in surprise.

The scene before her was not as she had pictured it—not exactly. Philip was there, of course, turning from Fenton to view her, his strongly arched brows lifting, his eyes, grey, as she knew, reflecting nothing more than polite surprise.

Swiftly, she scanned his features: the wide brow, heavy-lidded eyes and strongly patrician nose, the finely drawn lips above a firm and resolute chin. There was nothing in his expression, mildly distant, to cause her heart to beat wildly. Nevertheless, her pulse started to gallop; her breathing slowly seized. Panic of a wholly unprecedented nature fluttered to life within her.

His gaze dropped from her face; snatching in a breath, Antonia grabbed a dizzying moment to take in his broad-shouldered frame. Freed by a smooth shrug, a many-caped greatcoat slid into Fenton’s waiting arms; the coat thus revealed was an unremarkable grey but so distinguished by line and form that not even she could doubt its origins. Brown hair waved in elegant disorder; his cravat was a collage of precise folds secured by a winking gold pin. Buckskin breeches clung to his long legs, outlining the powerful muscles of his thighs before disappearing into highly polished Hessians.

Dragging in a second breath, Antonia hauled her gaze back to his face. In the same instant, his eyes lifted and met hers.

He held her gaze, a frown in his eyes. His gaze shifted, focused on her hair, then dropped to her face. His frown dissolved into undisguised amazement.

“Antonia?”

Philip heard astonishment echo in his voice. Mentally cursing, he struggled to recapture his habitually indolent air, a task not aided by the fleeting smile Antonia Mannering cast him before gathering her skirts and descending the last stairs.

He stood anchored to the tiles as she glided towards him. His mind reeled, juggling memories, trying to reconcile them with the slender goddess crossing his hall, calm serenity in her heart-shaped face, a gown of sprig muslin cloaking a figure he unhesitatingly classed as exemplary.

The last time he had seen her she’d been only sixteen, thin and coltish but even then graceful. Now she moved like a sylph, as if her feet barely touched solid earth. He remembered her as a breath of fresh air, bringing ready laughter, open smiles and an unquenchable if imperious friendliness every summer she had visited. Her lips now bore an easy smile, yet the expression in her eyes, as she neared, was guarded.

As he watched, the curve of her lips deepened and she held out her hand.

“Indeed, my lord. It is some years since last we met. Pray excuse me.” With an airy wave, Antonia indicated her descent from above. “I hadn’t realized you’d arrived.” Smiling serenely, she met his eyes. “Welcome home.”

Feeling as if Harry Lester had scored a direct hit to his jaw, Philip reached out and took her fingers in his. They quivered; instinctively, he tightened his grip. His gaze dropped to her lips, drawn irresistibly to the delectable curves; he forced his eyes upward, only to become lost in a haze of gold and green. Dragging himself free, he lifted his gaze to her lustrous golden curls.

“You’ve cut your hair.” His tone reflected his dazed state as clearly as it did his disappointment.

Antonia blinked. One hand still trapped in his, she hesitantly put the other to the curls bouncing above one ear. “No. It’s all still there…just…twisted up.”

Philip’s lips formed a silent “Oh”.

The odd look Antonia threw him, and Hugo’s urgent cough, hauled him back to earth with a thump. Thrusting aside the impulse to pull a few pins and reassure himself that her golden mane was indeed as he recalled, he drew in a definite breath and released her. “Allow me to present Mr Satterly, a close friend. Hugo—Miss Mannering. My stepmother’s niece.”

Hugo’s suave greeting and Antonia’s unaffected reply gave Philip time to repair his defences. When Antonia turned back, he smiled urbanely. “I take it you finally succumbed to Henrietta’s pleas?”

Her expression open, Antonia met his gaze. “Our year of mourning was behind us. The time seemed ripe to visit.”

Resisting an unexpected urge to grin delightedly, Philip contented himself with, “My humble house is honoured—it’s a pleasure to see you within its walls again. I hope you’ve planned an extended stay—having you by will greatly ease Henrietta’s mind.”

A subtle smile curved Antonia’s lips. “Indeed? But there are many factors which might influence how long we remain.” She held Philip’s gaze for an instant longer, then turned to smile at Hugo. “But I’m keeping you standing. My aunt is presently resting.” Antonia glanced at Philip. “Do you wish to take tea in the drawing-room?”

Beyond her, Philip glimpsed Hugo’s appalled expression. “Ah…perhaps not.” He smiled lazily down at Antonia. “I fear Hugo is in need of more robust refreshment.”

Brows rising, Antonia met his gaze. Then her lips curved; an irrepressible dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Ale in the library?”

Philip’s lips twitched. His eyes on hers, he inclined his head. “Your wits, dear Antonia, have obviously not dulled with age.”

One delicate brow arched but her eyes continued to smile. “I fear not, my lord.” She nodded to Fenton. “Ale in the library for his lordship and Mr Satterly, Fenton.”

“Yes, miss.” Fenton bowed and moved away.

Returning her gaze to Philip’s face, Antonia smiled calmly. “I’ll let Aunt Henrietta know you’ve arrived. She’s just woken from her nap—I’m sure she’ll be delighted to receive you in half an hour or so. And now, if you’ll excuse me…?”

Philip inclined his head.

Hugo bowed elegantly. “Look forward to seeing you at dinner, Miss Mannering.”

Philip shot him a sharp glance; Hugo was too busy returning Antonia’s smile to notice.

Forsaking Hugo, Philip fleetingly met Antonia’s eyes before she turned away. He watched her cross the hall, then climb the stairs, her hips gently swaying.

Hugo cleared his throat. “What happened to that ale?”

Philip started. With a quick frown, he gestured towards the library.

By the time she reached her bedchamber door, Antonia had succeeded in regaining her breath. She had not imagined her little charade would require such an effort. Her stomach was still tied in knots; her heart had yet to find its customary rhythm. Nervousness was not a reaction to which she was normally susceptible.

A frown knitting her brows, she opened the door. The windows were set wide; the curtains billowed in a gentle breeze. The scents of summer filled the airy chamber—green grass and roses with a hint of lavender from the borders in the Italian garden. Shutting the door, Antonia crossed the room. Placing both palms on the window sill, she leaned forward, breathing deeply.

“Well, I declare! That’s your best new muslin.”

Whirling, Antonia discovered her maid, Nell, standing before the open wardrobe. Thin and angular, her grey hair pulled tight in an unbecoming bun, Nell was busy replacing chemises and petticoats in their appointed places. Task complete, she turned, hands going to her hips as she surveyed Antonia. “I thought you was keeping that for a special occasion?”

A secretive smile tugged at Antonia’s lips; shrugging, she turned back to the view. “I decided to wear it today.”

“Indeed?” Nell’s eyes narrowed. She picked up a pile of kerchiefs and started to sort them. “Was that the master who arrived just now?”

“Yes. Ruthven.” Antonia leaned against the window frame. “He’s brought a friend—a Mr Satterly.”

“Just the one?”

Nell’s tone had turned suspicious. Antonia smiled. “Yes. They’ll be at dinner. I’ll have to decide what to wear.”

Nell snorted. “Shouldn’t take you long. If you’re to sit down with gentlemen from London, it’s either the pink taffeta or the jonquil silk.”

“The jonquil silk, then. And I’ll want you to do my hair.”

“Naturally.” Nell closed the wardrobe doors. “I’d best give a hand downstairs but I’ll be back to pretty you up.”

“Hmm.” Antonia leaned her head against the window-frame.

Nell swallowed her snort and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, she paused, eyeing the slim figure by the window with open affection. Antonia did not move; Nell’s eyes narrowed, then her features relaxed. “Should I warn Master Geoffrey to come to the table prepared to be civil?”

The question jerked Antonia from her reverie. “Heavens, yes! I forgot about Geoffrey.”

“That’s a first,” Nell muttered.

Frowning at the bedpost, Antonia didn’t hear. “Be sure to warn him not to come to table with his nose in a book.”

“Aye. I’ll make the matter plain.” With a grim nod, Nell departed.

As the door clicked shut, Antonia turned back to the garden, letting her senses slide into the sylvan beauty. She loved Ruthven Manor. Coming back had felt like coming home; at some instinctive level she had always belonged, not at Mannering Park, but here—amid the gentle rolls of the Downs, surrounded by trees so old they stood like massive sentinels all around the house. Those feelings and her affection for Henrietta had both influenced her decision.

Given Geoffrey was soon to enter the world, it was time for her to do the same. At twenty-four, her prospects were few; prosaic consideration had brought her here.

Philip, Lord Ruthven, had yet to take a wife.

Antonia grimaced, her unprecedented nervousness very fresh in her mind. But there was no place in her scheme for faintheartedness; this afternoon, she’d taken the first step. Playing out her part was now inevitable—aside from anything else, she would never forgive herself if she didn’t at least try. If Philip didn’t see her in that light, so be it.

Recalling her promise to warn her aunt of his arrival, she shook herself. Glancing in the mirror, she fluffed her curls, her fingers stilling as she recalled Philip’s fixation. Her lips quirked. Almost as if he’d been bowled over—in the circumstances, a definitely heartening thought.

Holding tight to that prop to her confidence, she headed for her aunt’s rooms.

Downstairs in the library, duly fortified by a tankard of superlative ale, Hugo turned his thoughts to satisfying his curiosity. “Mannering, Mannering,” he mused, then cocked a brow at Philip. “Can’t quite place the family.”

Jerked from contemplation of the most beguiling lips he’d ever seen, Philip set aside his empty tankard. “Yorkshire.”

“Ah—that explains it.” Hugo nodded sagely. “The wilds to the north.”

“It’s not as bad as that.” Philip settled back. “Mannering Park, so I understand, is an estate of some significance.”

“So what’s the darling of it doing here?”

“She’s Henrietta’s niece—her father was Henrietta’s only brother. He and Lady Mannering used to visit every summer.” Philip felt the years roll back, saw again a young girl with long thick plaits astride his father’s favourite hunter. “They’d leave Antonia here while they went the rounds through summer. She was always about.” Laughing, chattering but, somehow, never irritating. He was ten years her senior, but that had never stopped her—he’d never been able to retreat behind any superior social façade, not with Antonia. He’d watched her change from a delightfully precocious brat to an engagingly quick-witted young girl; he had yet to come to terms with her most recent transformation.

“Their visits stopped when her father died.” Philip paused, calculating. “Eight years ago now. I understand Lady Mannering declared she was too weary to face the social round thereafter. Henrietta was—is—very fond of Antonia. She issued a standing invitation but apparently Lady Mannering could never spare her daughter.”

Hugo raised his brows. “So at long last Miss Mannering’s escaped the maternal clutches?”

Philip shook his head. “Lady Mannering died about a year ago. Henrietta renewed her entreaties with a vengeance but, if I recall Henrietta’s ramblings aright, Antonia was adamant on remaining at Mannering Park to care for her brother—he’s much younger than she.” Philip frowned. “I can’t remember how old he’d be now—I can’t even remember his name.”

“Whatever, it looks like she’s changed her mind.”

“Knowing Antonia, that’s unlikely. Not unless she’s altered dramatically.” After a moment, Philip added, “Perhaps her brother’s gone up to Oxford?”

Studying his friend’s distant expression, Hugo sighed. “I hate to be obvious but there’s a mystery here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Philip glanced at him. “Mystery?”

“You’ve seen the lady!” Hugo sat up, gesticulating freely. “There she is—beautiful as be damned. Not a giddy girl, nor yet too long in the tooth but the sort to stop a charge of chasseurs in their tracks. And, to all appearances, she’s unwed.” Sinking back in his chair, Hugo shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense. If she’s as well-born and well-connected as you say, she’d have been snapped up years ago.” As an afterthought, he asked, “They do have gentlemen up north, don’t they?”

Philip’s brows slowly rose. “I’m sure they do—and they can’t all be blind.” A long moment passed while they both considered a situation that, in their experience, constituted a conundrum. “A mystery indeed,” Philip eventually mused. “Given the facts you’ve so eloquently expounded, I can only conclude that you and I, dear Hugo, might be the first to catch sight of Miss Mannering in many a long year.”

Hugo’s eyes slowly widened. “You’re not suggesting her mama kept her locked up?”

“Not locked up, but possibly very close. Mannering Park is isolated and, I gather, Lady Mannering became something of a recluse.” Uncrossing his legs, Philip stood, his expression unreadable. Settling his sleeves, he glanced at Hugo. “I rather think I should pay my anticipated visit to Henrietta. As to Miss Mannering’s state, I strongly suspect we’ll discover that to be a direct consequence of her mother’s malaise.”

Henrietta, Lady Ruthven, put it rather more forcefully.

“A damned shame, if you ask me. No!” She held up one hand, pink chins quivering with indignation. “I know one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead but Araminta Mannering’s neglect of poor Antonia was nothing short of wicked!”

They were in Henrietta’s sitting-room, a cosy apartment made bright with flowers and floral embroideries. Henrietta occupied her favourite armchair beside the hearth; Philip stood before her, one arm negligently extended along the mantelpiece. At the back of the room, Henrietta’s dresser, Trant, sat stitching industriously, head bent, ears flapping.

Lifting eyes of faded blue presently lit by her ire to Philip’s face, Henrietta went on, “Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the good offices of the other local ladies, that poor child would have grown to womanhood with not the first inkling of the social graces.” Her expression mulish, she fluffed up her shawls. “And as for contracting a suitable alliance—it pains me to say it but I’m quite sure that that was the furthest thought from Araminta’s mind!”

With her frown as near as it ever came to forbidding, she looked like an irate owl; Philip set himself to soothe her. “I met Antonia as we came in. She seemed wholly confident, quite in her customary mould.”

“Of course!” Henrietta threw him a scornful glance. “The girl’s no namby-pamby chit full of die-away airs! Araminta left the running of that huge old house entirely on Antonia’s shoulders. Naturally she knows how to greet visitors and act the hostess—she’s been doing it for years. Not only that, she had to manage the estate and take complete care of Geoffrey, too. It’s a wonder she hasn’t become bowed down beneath the weight of all the accumulated responsibilities.”

Philip raised one brow. “Her shoulders—indeed, her carriage—seem to have held up admirably under the strain.”

“Humph!” Henrietta shot him a glance, then settled deeper into her armchair. “Be that as it may, it’s not right! The poor child should have been brought out years ago.” She fell silent, idly toying with a fringe, then she looked up at Philip. “I don’t know if you were aware of it but we offered to sponsor her—take her to London and introduce her to the ton. Puff her off with all the trimmings. Your father insisted—you know Horace always had a soft spot for Antonia.”

Philip nodded, aware that was the truth. Even when, as a scrawny twelve-year-old, Antonia had blithely put a saddle on his father’s favourite hunter and taken the ferocious beast on a long amble about the lanes, his sire, stunned as they all had been, had praised her bottom rather than spanked it. His sire had never disguised the admiration he felt for Antonia’s particular brand of straightforward confidence, an admiration Philip was well aware he shared.

“We argued and even pleaded but Araminta wouldn’t hear of it.” Henrietta’s gaze grew cold. “It was perfectly plain she considered Antonia’s place was to act as her nursemaid and chatelaine; she was determined the girl would have no chance at any other role.”

Philip said nothing, his expression remote.

“Anyway,” Henrietta said, her tone that of one who would brook no denial, “I’m determined, now that she has come to me, to see Antonia right.” Lifting her head, she fixed Philip with a challenging stare. “I intend taking her to London for the Little Season.”

For one instant Philip felt shaken, but by what force he couldn’t comprehend. Holding fast to his customary imperturbability, he raised his brows. “Indeed?”

Henrietta nodded, the action an eloquent testimony to the strength of her resolution.

A pause ensued, which Philip, somewhat diffidently, broke. “Might I enquire as to whether you have any…” he gestured languidly “…further scheme in mind?”

A beatific smile lit Henrietta’s lined face. “I intend finding her a husband, of course.”

For an instant, Philip remained perfectly still, his expression utterly impassive. Then his lids fell, veiling his eyes. “Of course.” Gracefully, he bowed; when he straightened, his expression was as bland as his tone. “Hugo Satterly’s downstairs—I should return to him. If you’ll excuse me?”

Only when the door had closed behind him and she had listened to his footsteps retreat along the corridor did Henrietta allow herself a gleeful cackle. “Not a bad start, if I do say so myself.”

Trant came forward to plump the cushions at her back and straighten her myriad shawls. “Seems like they’ve already met.”

“Indeed—nothing could be more fortunate!” Henrietta beamed. “So like dear Antonia to remember to summon you to make sure I didn’t oversleep. I detect fate’s blessing in Philip arriving at just that moment.”

“Maybe so, but he didn’t seem all that taken. You don’t want to get your hopes too high.” Trant had been with her mistress ever since her marriage to the late Lord Ruthven. She had seen young ladies aspiring to the role of her mistress’s successor come and go with sufficient frequency to entertain serious reservations as to the present Lord Ruthven’s susceptibility. “I don’t want you getting moped if it don’t come off.”

“Nonsense, Trant!” Henrietta turned to view her henchwoman. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned after sixteen years of observing Philip, it’s that one should never place any reliance on how he reacts. His nerves, I’m persuaded, have become so deadened by fashionable disinterest that even should he suffer a…a coup de coeur, he would merely raise a brow and make some mildly polite comment. No impassioned speeches or wild declarations from Philip, of that you may be sure. Nevertheless, I’m determined, Trant.”

“So I see.”

“Determined to see that languidly uninterested stepson of mine legshackled to Antonia Mannering.” Henrietta thumped her chair arm for emphasis, then swivelled to look at Trant who had retreated to the windowseat. “You have to admit she’s everything he needs.”

Without raising her eyes from her stitchery, Trant nodded. “She’s that and more—you’ll get no argument from me on that score. We’ve watched her grow and know her background—good bones, good breeding and all the graces you could want.”

“Precisely.” Henrietta’s eyes gleamed. “She’s just what Philip needs. All we have to do is ensure he realizes it. Shouldn’t be too difficult—he’s not at all dull-witted.”

“That’s what worries me, if you want to know.” Trant snipped a thread and reached into her basket. “Despite that sleepy air of his, he’s wide awake enough on most suits. If he gets wind of your plans, he might just slip his leash. Not so much a case of not liking the girl as of not liking the persuading, if you take my meaning.”

Henrietta grimaced. “I do indeed. I haven’t forgotten what happened when I invited Miss Locksby and her family for a week and promised them Philip would be here—remember?” She shuddered. “He took one look, not at Miss Locksby but at her mother, then recalled a prior engagement at Belvoir. Such a coil—I spent the entire week trying to make amends.” Henrietta sighed. “The worst of it was that after that week I couldn’t help but feel grateful he wouldn’t marry Miss Locksby—I could never have borne Mrs Locksby as a relative.”

A sound suspiciously like a smothered snort came from Trant.

“Yes, well.” Henrietta fluffed her shawls. “You may be sure that I understand that we must go carefully in this—and not just because of Ruthven. I warn you, Trant, if Antonia gets any inkling of my active interest, she’s likely to…to…well, at the very least, she’s likely to become uncooperative.”

Trant nodded. “Aye. She likes running in harness no more’n he.”

“Exactly. But whether they like it or not, I see this as my duty, Trant. As I’ve said before, I don’t believe it’s my place to criticize Ruthven, but in this particular area I feel he’s allowing his natural indolence to lead him to neglect his obligations to his name and to the family. He must marry and set up his nursery—he’s thirty-four years gone and has shown no signs whatever of succumbing to Cupid’s darts.”

“Mind you,” Henrietta declared, warming to her theme, “I freely admit that susceptibility on his part would be the most desirable avenue to pursue, but we cannot base our plans on improbabilities. No! We must do what we can to, very tactfully, promote a match between them. Antonia is now my responsibility, whatever she may think. And as for Ruthven—” Henrietta paused to lay a hand on her ample bosom “—I consider it my sacred duty to his sainted father to see him comfortably established.”

Chapter Two

At precisely six o’clock, Philip stood before the mirror above the mantelpiece in the drawing-room, idly checking his cravat. It was the household’s habit to gather there during the half-hour preceding dinner; Henrietta, however, rarely made it down much in advance of Fenton’s appearance.

Focusing on his reflection, Philip grimaced. Dropping his hands, he surveyed the room. When no distraction offered, he fell to pacing.

The latch clicked. Philip halted, straightening, conscious of a surge of expectation—which remained unfulfilled. A boy—or was it a young man?—came diffidently into the room. He stopped when he saw him.

“Er…who are you?”

“I believe that’s my line.” Philip took in the wide hazel eyes and the thick thatch of wavy blonde hair. “Antonia’s brother?”

The youth blushed. “You must be Ruthven.” He blushed even more when Philip inclined his head. “I’m sorry—that is, yes, I’m Geoffrey Mannering. I’m staying here, you know.” The boy stuck out his hand, then, in a paroxysm of uncertainty, very nearly pulled it back.

Philip solved the problem by grasping it firmly. “I didn’t know,” he said, releasing Geoffrey’s hand. “But had I considered the matter, I should, undoubtedly, have guessed.” Studying the boy’s open face, he raised a brow. “I presume your sister felt she needed to keep you under her wing?”

Geoffrey grimaced. “Exactly.” His eyes met Philip’s and he promptly blushed again. “Not that she’s not probably right, of course. I dare say it would have been dev—” he caught himself up “—deuced slow staying at Mannering by myself.”

Rapidly revising his estimates of Geoffrey’s age downwards and his intelligence upwards, Philip inclined his head. The boy had the same ivory skin Antonia possessed, likewise untouched by the sun—strange in one of his years. “Are you down for the summer?”

Geoffrey flushed yet again, but this time with gratification. “I haven’t actually gone up yet. Next term.”

“You’ve gained entrance?”

Geoffrey nodded proudly. “Yes. Quite a stir it was, actually. I’m only just sixteen, you see.”

Philip’s lips curved. “No more than I would expect of a Mannering.” He had years of experience of Antonia’s swift wits on which to base that judgement.

Engaged in an entirely unaffected scrutiny of Philip’s coat, Geoffrey nodded absentmindedly. “Dare say you don’t remember me, but I was here, years ago, when the parents used to leave Antonia and me with Henrietta. But I was mostly in the nursery—and when I wasn’t I was with Henrietta. She used to be very…well, motherly, you know.”

Draping an arm along the mantelpiece, Philip’s smile wry. “I do, as it happens. You’ve no idea how grateful I was, first to Antonia, then to you, for giving Henrietta an outlet for her maternal enthusiasms. I’m extremely fond of her, but I seriously doubt our relationship would be quite so cordial had she been forced to exercise her talents on me in lieu of other, more suitable targets.”

Geoffrey regarded Philip measuringly. “But you must have been quite…that is, almost an adult when Henrietta married your father.”

“Not quite a greybeard—only eighteen. And if you think you’ve outgrown Henrietta’s mothering just because you’ve reached sixteen, I suggest you think again.”

“I already know that!” With a disgusted grimace, Geoffrey turned aside, picking up a figurine and turning it in his hands. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice low, “I think I’ll always be a child in their eyes.”

Philip flicked a fleck of lint from his sleeve. “I shouldn’t let it bother you.” His tone was even, man to man. “You’ve only so many weeks to go before they’ll be forced to cut the apron strings.”

Geoffrey’s expressive features contorted. “That’s just it—I can’t believe they actually will. They’ve never let me go before.” His brow clouded. “Mama wouldn’t hear of me going to school—I’ve had all my learning from tutors.”

The door opened, cutting short their tête à tête. Philip straightened as Antonia came into the room. Geoffrey noted the movement. Replacing the figurine, he unobtrusively followed suit.

“Good evening, Antonia.” Philip watched as she approached, a picture in soft yellow silk, the sheening fabric draping her curves, clinging, then hanging free, concealing then revealing in tantalizing glimpses. Her guinea-gold curls rioted in prolific confusion about her neat head; her expression was open, her hazel gaze, as always, direct.

“My lord.” Graciously, Antonia inclined her head, her eyes going to her brother. “Geoffrey.” Her serene smile faded slightly. “I see you two have met.” Inwardly, Antonia prayed Geoffrey hadn’t developed one of his instant dislikes—something he was distressingly prone to do when confronted with gentlemen.

Philip returned her smile. “We’ve been discussing Geoffrey’s impending adventure in joining the academic establishment.”

“Adventure?” Antonia blinked, her gaze shifting to Geoffrey, then back to Philip.

“Adventure indeed,” Philip assured her. “Or so it was when I went up. I doubt it’s changed. High drama, high jinks, life in all its varied forms. All the experience necessary to set a young gentleman’s feet on the road to worldly confidence.”

Antonia’s eyes widened. “Worldly confidence?”

“Savoir faire, the ability to be at home in any company, the knowledge with which to face the world.” Philip gestured broadly; his grey eyes quizzed her. “How else do you imagine gentlemen such as I learned to be as we are, my dear?”

The words were on the tip of Antonia’s tongue—she only just managed to swallow them. “I dare say,” she replied, in as repressive a tone as she could. The teasing light in Philip’s eyes was doing the most uncomfortable things to her stomach. A swift glance at Geoffrey confirmed that her precocious brother was not ignorant of the purport of their host’s sallies. Tilting her chin, she caught Philip’s eye. “I’m sure Geoffrey will find the academic pursuits all absorbing.”

Whether Philip would have capped her comment she was destined never to know; the door opened again, this time admitting Henrietta, closely followed by Hugo.

As she turned to her aunt, Antonia surprised a fleeting look of chagrin on Philip’s face. It was there and then gone so rapidly she was not, in truth, entirely certain she had interpreted his expression correctly. Before she could ponder the point, Fenton entered to make his announcement.

“My honour, I believe?”

Antonia turned to find Philip’s arm before her. Glancing across, she saw Henrietta being supported by Mr Satterly, the pair already deep in conversation. With a regally acquiescent glance, Antonia placed her hand on Philip’s sleeve. “If you will, my lord.”

Philip sighed. “Ah, what it is to be master in one’s own house.”

Antonia’s lips twitched but she made no reply. Together, they led the way to the dining-room. They were five, leaving Philip at the head of the table and Henrietta at the foot with Hugo Satterly on one side and Geoffrey on the other. With a subtle smile, Philip delivered Antonia to the chair next to Geoffrey, the one closest to his own.

The conversation was at first general, with Hugo relating a succession of on dits. Having heard them all before, Philip bided his time until Henrietta, eager for gossip, predictably buttonholed Hugo, demanding further details. Equally eager to learn of the world he had yet to join, Geoffrey drank in Hugo’s entertaining replies.

With a faint smile, Philip shifted in his chair, bringing Antonia directly under his gaze. “I understand, from what Henrietta let fall, that you’ve lived the last eight years very quietly.”

Antonia met his gaze directly, her expression serious and, he thought, a touch sombre. She shrugged lightly. “Mama was unwell. There was little time for frivolities. Naturally, once I was of an age, the ladies about invited me to join their parties.” She looked away as Fenton removed her soup plate. “To the Assemblies at Harrogate.”

“Harrogate.” Philip kept his expression impassive. She might as well have been buried alive. He waited until Fenton laid the next course before venturing, “But your mother must have entertained to some degree?”

Sampling a morsel of turbot cloaked in rich sweetbread sauce, Antonia shook her head. “Not after Papa’s death. We received, of course, but more often than not, when the ladies arrived, Mama was too ill to come down.”

“I see.”

The quiet comment drew a quick glance from Antonia. “You must not imagine I’ve been pining away, dreaming of a gay life.” Reaching for a dish of morels, she offered them to Philip. “I had more than enough to occupy myself, what with running the household and the estate. Mama was never well enough to tend to such matters. And there was Geoffrey, of course. Mama was always in a fret that he was sickly, which, of course, he never was. But she was sure he had inherited her constitution. Nothing would convince her otherwise.”

Philip looked past Antonia; Geoffrey was wholly immersed in the conversation at the other end of the table. “Speaking of Geoffrey, how did you manage to find tutors to keep up with him? He must have been quite a handful.”

Instantly, he realised he’d discovered the key to Antonia’s confidence. Her eyes fairly glowed. “He certainly was. Why, by the time he was nine, he had outstripped the curate.”

There followed an animated catalogue of Geoffrey’s successes, liberally sprinkled with tales of misdeeds, catastrophes and simple country pleasures. In between the highlights of Geoffrey’s life, Philip heard enough to gauge what manner of existence had been Antonia’s lot. What encouragement was needed to keep her revelations flowing, he artfully supplied. As her history unfolded, he realised the unnamed curate was featuring remarkably often.

Laying aside his fork, he reached for his wineglass. “This curate of yours seems to have taken his duties very seriously.”

Antonia’s smile was fond. “Indeed. Mr Smothingham was always a great support. He really is a true knight—a most chivalrous soul.” With a small sigh, she gave her attention to the gooseberry fool Fenton had placed before her.

Leaving Philip to wonder how he could possibly feel so aggressive towards a probably perfectly innocent curate whom he had never met. He cleared his throat. “Henrietta mentioned she was thinking of going up to town for the Little Season.”

“Indeed.” Savouring the tartness of the gooseberry treat, Antonia slanted him a glance. “She’s invited me to accompany her. I hope you don’t disapprove?”

“Disapprove?” Philip forced his eyes wide. “Not at all.” Picking up his spoon, he attacked the frothy concoction before him. “In fact, I’ll be relieved to know she’ll have your company.”

Antonia smiled and gave her attention to her dessert.

Philip rejected his, reaching instead for his wineglass. He took a long sip, his gaze on Antonia. “Am I to understand you’re looking forward to taking the ton by storm?”

She met his gaze with another of her disconcertingly direct looks. “I don’t know.” Her brows rose; her lips curved lightly. “Do you think I would find it diverting?”

Beyond his will, Philip’s gaze was drawn to her lips, to the rich fullness of the ripe curves. He watched as the tip of her tongue traced their contours, leaving them sheening. His expression rigidly impassive, Philip drew in a deep breath. Slowly, he lifted his eyes and met Antonia’s steady gaze. “As to that, my dear, I would not dare hazard a guess.”

He had only questioned her intentions in London to assure himself she was a willing partner in Henrietta’s schemes. His motives, Philip assured himself, were entirely altruistic. Henrietta could be a battleship when she was so moved. Unless he had misread the signs, when it came to Antonia’s future, Henrietta was definitely moved.

“I’m not in the mood for billiards.” Tossing back the last of his port, he stood and settled his coat. “Let’s join the ladies, shall we?”

Geoffrey, for the first time elevated to the rank of gentleman to the extent of remaining to pass the port, saw nothing odd in the suggestion.

Hugo was not so innocent. He turned a face of amazed incomprehension on Philip.

Philip ignored it, leading the way to the drawing-room without further comment.

If Henrietta was surprised by his unheralded break with long established habit, she gave no sign. Seated on the chaise, she looked up from her needlework to smile benignly. “Wonderful—just what we need. Geoffrey, do go and sing a duet with Antonia.”

Henrietta waved towards the pianoforte, which stood before the long windows, presently open to the terrace. Antonia sat at the instrument, her fingers on the keys. A gentle, elusive air hung faint in the evening breeze.

With an obedient nod, Geoffrey headed for his sister. Antonia smiled a welcome, breaking off her playing to reach for the pile of music sheets resting on the piano’s edge. With his customary lazy grace, Philip strolled in Geoffrey’s wake. Left standing by the chaise, Hugo studied the small procession, then shrugged and brought up the rear.

“Let’s try this, shall we?” Antonia placed a sheet on the stand.

Geoffrey scanned the lines, then nodded.

Philip took up a position by the side of the grand piano from where he could watch Antonia’s face. As her fingers ranged the keys and the first chords of an old ballad filled the room, she looked up and met his gaze. A slight smile touched her lips; for an instant, their gazes held. Then she looked down and the music swept on.

She and Geoffrey sang in unison, Geoffrey’s pure tenor weaving in and about her fuller tones. For one stanza, she sang alone; Philip briefly closed his eyes, listening, not to the song, but to the music of her voice. It was not the light voice of the girl he remembered but richer, a warm contralto with an undercurrent of huskiness.

As Geoffrey’s voice blended once more with hers, Philip opened his eyes. He saw Antonia glance encouragingly up at Geoffrey, then they launched into the last verse. As the final chords died, he, Henrietta and Hugo burst into spontaneous applause.

Almost squirming, Geoffrey blushed and disclaimed. Her expression one of affectionate exasperation, Antonia turned and deliberately met Philip’s gaze. Lips curving, she arched a delicate brow. “Are you game, my lord?”

Philip detected at least two meanings in her challenge; he was uncertain if there was a third. Languidly, he inclined his head and straightened, responding to the more obvious of her prompts. Coming around the piano, he dropped a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. “After that masterful effort, I fear my poor talents will be a disappointment to you all, but if you can find a simple ballad, I’ll endeavour to do my poor best.” He took up his stance behind Antonia’s shoulder; Hugo took his place by the side of the piano.

With an approving smile, Antonia obliged with a rolling country ballad; Philip’s strong baritone managed the changing cadences with ease. Unexpectedly caught up in the simple entertainment, Hugo consented to favour them with a rollicking shanty with a repeating refrain; Antonia made the performance even more humourous by consistently lengthening the long note at the end of the second last line of the reprieve. The shanty had a full twenty verses. First Geoffrey, then Philip, joined in, assisting Hugo through the increasingly jocular song. By the end of it, they were all laughing, very much out of breath.

A smile wreathing her face, Henrietta applauded vigorously, then summoned them to take tea.

Laughter lighting her eyes, Antonia swivelled on the stool to find Philip beside her. Deliberately, she looked up and met his eyes. Despite his easy expression, the grey orbs were veiled. Calmly, she raised a brow, then watched as the chiselled line of his lips lengthened into a definite smile.

He held out his hand. “Tea, my dear?”

“Indeed, my lord.” Tilting her chin, Antonia laid her fingers in his palm and felt his hand close about them. A peculiar shiver shot up her arm, then slithered slowly down her spine. Ignoring it, she rose; side by side, they crossed the room to where Henrietta was dispensing the tea.

With studied calm, Antonia accepted her cup but made no move to quit her aunt’s side. A host of unfamiliar sensations flickered along her nerves; her heart was thudding distractingly. Such unexpected susceptibility was not, to her mind, a helpful development. She had never before been so afflicted—she hoped the effect would fade quickly.

To her relief, Henrietta kept up a steady spate of inconsequentialities, abetted by Hugo Satterly. Geoffrey, having gulped his tea, wandered back to the piano. Sipping slowly, Antonia concentrated on settling her nerves.

From behind his languid mask, Philip watched her.

“Actually, Ruthven—” Henrietta turned from Hugo “—I had meant to consult you as soon as you appeared about holding some entertainment for the neighbours. We haven’t done anything in years. Now Antonia’s here to help me, I really feel I should grasp the nettle with both hands.”

Philip raised a brow. “Indeed?” None who heard those two syllables could doubt his reluctance.

Henrietta nodded imperiously. “It’s one’s duty, after all. I had been thinking of a grand ball—musicians, dancing, all the trimmings.”

“Oh?” Philip’s tone grew steadily more distant. He exchanged a glance with Hugo.

“Yes.” Henrietta frowned, then grimaced. “But Antonia pointed out that, after all this time, we should really do something for our tenants as well.”

Philip glanced at Antonia; she was sipping her tea, her eyes demurely cast down. He swallowed a disbelieving “humph”.

“All things considered—and I really do not feel I can let this opportunity slide, Ruthven—I do believe dear Antonia’s suggestion is the best.” Folding her hands in her lap, Henrietta nodded decisively.

“And what,” Philip asked, his tone deliberately even “is dear Antonia’s suggestion?”

“Why, a fête-champêtre—didn’t I say?” Henrietta regarded him wide-eyed. “A positively inspired idea, as I’m sure even you will allow. We can set everything up on the lawns. Battledore and shuttlecock, races, bobbing for apples, archery, a play for the children—you know how these things go. We can have the food and ale set up on trestles for the tenants and entertain our neighbours on the terrace, overlooking all the fun.”

Henrietta gestured grandly. “A whole afternoon in which everyone can enjoy themselves. I rather think we should hold it in the next week or so, before the weather turns, but naturally you’d have to be present. Shall we say next Saturday—a week from now?”

Philip held her enquiring gaze, his expression as informative as a blank wall. A garden party was infinitely preferable to a local ball—but at what price? A vision of hordes of farmers and their wives tramping across his lawns swam through his mind; in his imagination he could hear the high-pitched shrieks of multitudes of children and the screams as some, inevitably, fell in the 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 side-saddle, 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 shake the fidgets with a quick gallop.” He glanced at Philip and lifted a brow.

Philip nodded. “We’ll go back by way of the ford. You can join us on the other side.”

Geoffrey located the stream and the ford, nodded agreement, and left.

Antonia watched him cross the fields, an affectionate smile on her lips. Then she sighed and turned to Philip, her eyes holding an expression he could not immediately place. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see he hasn’t lost the knack.”

Leading the way off the knoll, Philip raised his brows. “Of riding neck or nothing? Why should he?”

Keeping pace beside him, Antonia’s lips twisted; she gave a light shrug. “Eight years is a long time.”

Philip blinked. A long moment passed before he asked, “Haven’t you—and Geoffrey—been riding regularly?”

Antonia looked up, surprised. “I thought you knew.” When Philip threw her a blank look, she explained, “Papa died in a hunting accident. Virtually immediately Mama sold his stable. She only kept two carriage horses—she said that’s all we’d need.”

Philip kept his eyes fixed ahead; his face felt like stone. His tone was careful even when he asked, “So, essentially since you were last here, you’ve been unable to ride?”

Simply voicing the idea made him blackly furious. She had always found immense joy in riding, delighting in her special affinity with the equine species. What sort of parent would deny her that? His opinion of the late Lady Mannering, never high, spiralled downwards.

Her attention on the roan, Antonia shook her head. “For me, it didn’t really matter, but for Geoffrey—well, you know how important such skills are to young gentlemen.”

Philip forced himself to let her answer pass unchallenged; he had no wish to reopen old wounds. As they gained the flat, he tried for a lighter note. “Geoffrey has, after all, had excellent teachers. Your father and yourself.”

He was rewarded with a swift smile.

“Many would say that I’m hardly a good example, riding as I do.”

“Only because they’re jealous.”

She laughed at that, a warm, husky, rippling sound Philip was certain he’d never heard before. His eyes locked on her lips, on the column of her white throat; his gelding pranced.

Instinctively, he tightened his reins. “Come, let’s ride. Or Geoffrey will tire of waiting.”

They rode side by side, fast but not furiously, chestnut and roan flowing effortlessly over the turf. Geoffrey joined them at the ford; they wheeled and rode on, ultimately clattering into the stableyard a short hour after they had left it.

The two men swung down from their saddles; Philip tossed his reins to Geoffrey, who led both grey and chestnut away.

Before Antonia had well caught her breath, she lost it again. Philip’s hands closed, strong and sure, about her waist. He lifted her, as if she weighed no more than a child, lowering her slowly until her feet touched the ground.

Antonia felt a blush tinge her cheeks; it was all she could do to meet his gaze fleetingly. “Thank you, my lord.” Her heart was galloping faster than any horse.

Philip looked down at her. “The pleasure, my dear, is entirely mine.” He hesitated, then released her. “But do you think you could possibly stop ‘my lording’ me?” His tone, slightly acid, softened. “You used to call me Philip.”

Still breathless, but at least now free of his paralysing touch, Antonia wrestled her wits into order. Frowning, she looked up and met his grey gaze. “That was before you came into the title.” Considering, she tilted her head. “Now that you have, I’ll have to call you Ruthven—like everyone else.”

His eyes, cloudy grey, held hers; for an instant, she thought he would argue. Then the ends of his long lips twisted, in grimace or self-deprecation she couldn’t say. His lids fell; he inclined his head in apparent acquiescence.

“Breakfast awaits.” With a graceful flourish, Philip offered her his arm. “Shall we? Before Geoffrey devours all the herrings.”

Chapter Three

“Ah—I wondered who was attacking my rose bushes.”

Startled in the act of lopping off a developing rose-hip with a buccaneer-like swipe, Antonia jumped. Half-turning, she glanced reprovingly at Philip as he descended the steps to the walk. “Your rose bushes, my lord, are running to seed. Not at all the thing.” With a decisive click, she removed another deadhead.

She had spent the morning inscribing invitations for the fête-champêtre. In the silence of the afternoon, with Henrietta napping, she had taken to the gardens. After their ride that morning, she hadn’t expected to see Philip before dinner.

Smiling lazily, Philip strolled towards her. “Henrietta mentioned you were easing her burden by taking things in hand around the house. Am I to take it you intend to personally deal with anything you discover running to seed around here?”

Poised to pluck a half-opened rose, the delicate bloom cradled in her hand, Antonia froze. Philip had halted a bare foot away; she could feel his gently teasing gaze on her half-averted face. Catching her breath, surreptitiously, she hoped, she looked up and met his eyes. “As to my personal interest, I rather suspect it depends on the subject. However,” she said, turning back and carefully snipping the rose, “as far as the garden is concerned, I intend speaking with your head gardener immediately.” She laid the bloom in the basket on her arm, then looked up. “I take it you don’t disapprove of my…” she gestured gracefully “…impertinence?”

Philip’s smile deepened. “My dear Antonia, if acting as chatelaine can be termed impertinent, you may be as impertinent as you please. Indeed,” he continued, one brow rising, his gaze sweeping her face, “I find it distinctly reassuring to see you thus employed.”

For an instant, Antonia met his gaze, then, with the slightest inclination of her head, turned and glided along the path. Reassuring? Because, as she hoped, he saw such actions as evidence of her wifely skills? Or because she might, conceivably, make his unfettered existence more comfortable?

“The design of your gardens is unusual,” she said, glancing back to find him strolling in her wake like a predator on her trail. “I’ve studied both contemporary and classical landscapes—yours seems a combination of both.”

Philip nodded. “The fact that the lake and stream are so distant from the house rendered the usual water features ineligible. Capability Brown saw it as a challenge.” His eyes met Antonia’s. “One he couldn’t resist.”

“Indeed?” Inwardly cursing the breathlessness that seemed to afflict her whenever he was near, Antonia halted beside a clump of cleomes. “To my mind, he’s succeeded in moulding the raw ingredients into a veritable triumph. The vistas are quite enchanting.” Setting aside her basket, she bent over the clump of soft white flowers, selecting and snipping two stems for her collection.

Beside her, Philip stood transfixed, his gaze on an unexpected but thoroughly enchanting vista. Antonia shifted, then straightened; Philip quickly lifted his gaze to the neat row of conifers bordering the sunken garden. “Yes,” was all he could think of to say.

Antonia threw him a swift, slightly suspicious look; he promptly smiled charmingly down at her. “Have you been through the peony walk?”

“Not for a few days.”

“Come, walk with me there—it’s always a pleasant route.”

Antonia hesitated, then acquiesced. Together, they climbed the steps from the sunken garden, then turned into the narrow hedged walk where peonies of every description filled beds on either side of the flags. Although past their best, the plants were still blooming, displaying splashes of white and all shades of maroon against glossy green leaves. The path had been laid like a stream, gently twisting; here and there, small specimen trees grew, no longer in blossom but adding interest with their foliage.

They strolled in companionable silence, stopping intermittently to admire the extravagant displays. Antonia paused to examine the blooms carried on one long stem; Philip watched the subtle play of her thoughts rippling 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 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 mid-afternoon 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 baliff. 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 baliff. 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 Caesear’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.

“‘Delicate bones, sensitive skin, awaiting a lover’s caress.”’

His voice was deep and low, the cadence striking chords deep within her. Antonia watched, trapped by his gaze, by his touch, as he slowly lifted her hand and, one by one, touched his lips to her fingertips.

The quivers that ran through her shook her to her core.

“Ah…” Desperation flayed her wits to action. “I’ve just remembered.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She coughed and cleared her throat. “A message I promised to deliver for my aunt—I shouldn’t have forgotten—I should go straight away.” Retreat, disorderly or otherwise, seemed imperative yet, despite all, she couldn’t bring herself to tug her hand free.

Philip’s eyes held hers, steady, unyielding, an expression in the grey that she did not recognize. “A message?”

For one long moment, he studied her eyes, then the planes of his face relaxed. “About the fête?”

Numb, Antonia nodded.

Philip’s lips quirked; ruthlessly, he stilled them. “One you have to deliver immediately?”

“Yes.” Abruptly, Antonia stood; she felt immeasurably grateful when Philip, more languidly, rose too. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. In an agony of near panic, she waited.

“Come—I’ll escort you back.”

With that, Philip tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and turned her to the house. All but quivering, Antonia had perforce to acquiesce; to her relief, he strolled in companionable silence, making no reference by word or deed to their game by the pool.

He halted by the steps to the terrace and lifted her hand from his sleeve, holding it and her gaze for an instant before releasing her. “I’ll see you at dinner.” With a gentle smile and a nod, he strode away.

Antonia watched him go. Slowly, a warm flush of triumph permeated her being, driving out the skittering panic of moments before.

She had achieved her object. However Philip now viewed her, it was not as a young friend of the family.

“Goodnight, then.” With a nod and a smile, Geoffrey left the billiard room to his host and Hugo, having unexpectedly taken revenge on Hugo for an earlier defeat.

“Quick learner,” Hugo muttered in defense of his skills.

“Mannerings are,” Philip replied, chalking a cue. The rest of the household had retired, Antonia somewhat breathlessly assuring him that she intended getting an early start on the preparations for the fête. A smile in his eyes, Philip waited while Hugo racked the balls, then he broke.

“Actually,” Hugo said, as he watched Philip move about the table, “I’ve been trying to catch you for a quiet word all day.”

“Oh?” Philip glanced up from his shot. “What about?”

Hugo waited until he had pocketed the ball before answering. “I’ve decided to return to town tomorrow.”

Philip straightened, his question in his eyes.

Hugo grimaced and pulled at his ear. “This fête, y’know. All very well for you in the circumstances—you’ll have Miss Mannering to hide behind. But who’s to shield me?” Palms raised in appeal, Hugo shuddered. “All these earnest young misses—your step mama’s been listing their best features. Having succeeded with you, I rather think she’s considering fixing her sights on me. Which definitely won’t do.”

Philip stilled. “Succeeded?”

“Well,” Hugo said, “it was pretty obvious from the start. Particularly the way her ladyship always clung to yours truly. I was almost in danger of thinking myself a wit until the penny dropped. Perfectly understandable, of course—what with Miss Mannering being an old family friend and you being thirty-four and the last in line and so on.”

Slowly, Philip leaned over the table and lined up his next shot. “Indeed.”

“Mind,” Hugo added. “If I couldn’t see your reasoning—Miss Mannering being well in the way of being a peach—I wouldn’t have thought you’d stand it—being hunted in your own house.”

Sighting along his cue, Philip smelt again the teasing scent of lavender, heard the scrunch of gravel beneath slippered feet, saw again Antonia’s airily innocent expression as she ingenuously led him along the garden path.

His shot went awry. Expression impassive, he straightened and stepped back.

Hugo studied the table. “Odd of you to miss that.”

“Indeed.” Philip’s gaze was unfocused. “I was distracted.”

Chapter Four

The next morning, Antonia awoke with the larks. By nine o’clock, she had already spoken with the cook and Mrs Hobbs, the housekeeper, and seen the head-gardener, old Mr Potts, about flowers for the morrow. She was turning away from a conference with Fenton on which of the indoor tables should be used on the terrace when Philip strode into the hall.

He saw Antonia and immediately changed course, his heels ringing on the black and white tiles. He halted directly before her.

“You didn’t come riding.”

Staring up into storm-clouded eyes, Antonia felt her own widen. “I did mention that there was a great deal to do.”

His jaw firming, Philip cast a jaundiced eye over the figures scurrying about his hall. “Ah yes.” His quirt struck the white top of one boot. “The fête.”

“Indeed. We’re going to be terribly busy all day.”

He swung back to Antonia, his gaze intent. “All day?”

Antonia lifted her chin. “All day,” she reiterated. “And all tomorrow, too, until the festivities begin. And then we’ll be even more busy.”

Beneath his breath, Philip swore.

Antonia stiffened. Her expression aloof, she waved to the dining-room. “I believe you’ll find breakfast still available—if you hurry.”

The look Philip cast her could only be called black. Without a word, he swung on his heel and headed for the dining-room.

A frown in her eyes, Antonia watched him go—then realized what seemed so strange. He was striding. Briskly.

“Excuse me, miss, but should I put this chair with those for the terrace?”

“Ah…” Antonia swung around to see a footman struggling with a wing-chair. “Oh, yes. The dowagers will need all of those that we can find. They’ll want to doze in the sun.”

As she laboured through the morning, Antonia kept her mind firmly fixed on her aim. The fête had to be a success—a complete, unqualified tour de force. It was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate to Philip that she was, at least at a county level, fully qualified to be his bride.

Summoning two maids, she led them to the Italian garden and pointed out the lavender. “You need to cut not just the flower but the stem as well—as long as you can. We’ll need them to freshen the withdrawing-rooms.”

Watching the maids as they set to work, Antonia found her gaze drawn to the seat at the end of the pool. The look in Philip’s eyes as he’d kissed her fingers returned, crystal clear, to her mind. A smile tugged at her lips. Despite her panic, she had made definite progress there. Unbidden, the memory of his odd behaviour in the hall rose to taunt her. A frown chased the smile from her eyes.

“This right, miss?”

Jerked back to reality, Antonia examined the spike held up for her approval. “Perfect.” The little maid glowed. “Be sure to collect two handfuls each—take them up to Mrs Hobbs as soon as you’re done.” Ruthlessly banishing Philip from her mind, Antonia stalked back to the house, determined more than ever to focus on the job at hand.

He would have taken refuge in the library or the billiard room but she had commandeered those as well. In a mood close to perilous, Philip abandoned his search for peace and quiet to wander through the throngs of his servitors, all furiously engaged in executing Antonia’s commands.

He wondered if he should tell her her assertiveness was showing. He knew it of old—her tendency to take charge, to organise, to get things done. His lawns looked like chaos run mad, but even he could see, beneath the hectic bustle, that it was effective, organised activity. Pausing to watch two of his farm labourers struggle to erect a stall, he mused on Antonia’s very real talent for getting people to work for her, often for no more direct reward than her smile and a brief word of approbation. Even now, he could see her at the far end of the lawn, where a narrow arm of the distant lake lipped a reed-fringed shore, exhorting the undergardeners to get all the punts cleaned and launched.

“Watch it there, Joe! Easy now, lad—just let me see if we’ve got this thing straight.”

Refocusing on the action more immediately before him, Philip saw the younger of the two labourers trying to balance the front beam of the stall while simultaneously holding one of the side walls erect. The older man, a hammer and wooden strut in his hands, had backed, trying to gauge if the beam and wall were at the right angle. Joe, however, had no hope of keeping both pieces still.

Philip hesitated, then stepped forward and clapped the older man on the shoulder. “Give Joe a hand, McGill—I’ll direct you.”

McGill touched his cap. “If you would, m’lord, we’ll get on a dashed sight faster.”

Joe simply looked grateful.

Before they were done, Philip had his coat off and was helping to hammer in nails. That was how Antonia found him when she did her rounds, checking on progress.

She couldn’t keep the surprise from her face.

Philip looked up—and read her expression. It didn’t improve his mood. Nor did the instant urge he felt to call her to him—or go to her. Instead, he held her gaze, his own, he knew, dark and moody. Half of him wanted to speak to her, the other half wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea—not yet. He hadn’t yet decided how he felt about anything—about her, about what he inwardly labelled her machinations. Looking away, he grimly hammered in another nail. He hadn’t felt this uncertain in years; pounding metal into wood was a comforting occupation.

Released from his mesmerising stare, Antonia couldn’t resist a swift survey of his shoulders and back, muscles flexing beneath his fine shirt as he worked, his hands, long-fingered but strong, gripped about nail and handle. When she moved on, her mouth was dry, her heartbeat not entirely even. Oblivious of the activity about her, she reviewed their recent meetings. He was usually so even-tempered, too indolent to be moved to any excess of emotion—his aggravated mood was a mystery.

She glanced back—he had paused, shoulders propped against the side of the stall. He was watching her, his gaze brooding and intent.

“Miss—do you want the doilies put out now or tomorrow?”

“Ah…” Whirling, Antonia blinked at the young maid. “Tomorrow. Leave them in the morning-room until then.”

The maid bobbed and scurried away. Drawing in a deep breath, Antonia followed more gracefully in her wake.

Philip watched her go, hips gently swaying as she climbed the slope, then pushed away from the wall and reached for another handful of nails.

An hour later, lunch was served—huge plates of sandwiches and mugs of ale laid out on the trestles already up and waiting. Exhorted by Antonia, no one stood on ceremony; as he helped himself to a sandwich stuffed full of ham, Philip noticed Geoffrey’s fair head among the crowd. The boy waved and pushed through to him.

“Antonia’s put me in charge of the Punch and Judy. Fenton’s helping me—one of the footmen is going to do Punch but I think I’ll have to do Judy. None of the maids will stop giggling long enough to say the lines.”

Philip uttered a short laugh. Geoffrey’s eyes were alight.

“We’ve got the booth up, but the stage is going to take some work.”

Philip clapped him on the shoulder. “If you can keep the children out of the lake, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

Geoffrey grinned. “I might take you up on that once we get to London.”

“Just as long as it’s not my greys you’re after.”

Geoffrey laughed and shook his head. Still grinning, he moved away.

Sipping his ale, Philip saw his steward and baliff, both ostensibly lending a hand. Normally, both men considered themselves above such activities; Philip wondered whether it was his presence that had changed their minds—or Antonia’s confident imperiousness.

His eye ranging the throng, he saw one of the maids—Emma was the name that came to mind—artfully jog Joe’s elbow. Joe was a likely lad, well grown and easy-mannered, barely twenty. As he watched Emma apologise profusely, smiling ingenuously up at Joe, Philip felt cynicism raise its mocking head. Joe smiled down at her, truly ingenuous. The little scene was played out in predictable vein; Philip moodily wondered if it might not be his duty to warn Joe that, despite the common assumption that man was the hunter, there were times when he might prove to be the prey.

As he himself had found.

He could see it now—now that Hugo had ripped the scales from his eyes. Henrietta’s behaviour should have triggered his innate alarms—instead, as he’d admitted, he’d been distracted. Not by the usual flirtatious encouragements—they wouldn’t have worked. But Antonia had not sought to attract him in the usual way—she’d used other wiles—more sophisticated wiles—wiles more likely to succeed with an experienced and recalcitrant gentleman rake who had seen it all before.

She’d used their old friendship.

With a grimace, Philip set aside his empty tankard and hefted the hammer he’d been using. He was still not sure how he felt—how he should feel. He had thought Antonia was different from the rest. Instead, she’d simply been using different tactics.

His expression still grim, he headed back to help McGill and Joe put up the rest of the refreshment stalls. They were banging the supports into place on the last of the stalls when a sound to his left had him turning his head. Antonia stood three feet away.

She met his gaze, then, with a slight smile, gestured to the tray she had placed on the counter of the next stall. “Ale—I thought it might be more acceptable than tea.”

Philip glanced about and saw the womenfolk bearing trays and mugs to the men. Most of the small workforce had completed their tasks; the refreshment was welcomed by one and all.

Looking back, Philip met Antonia’s calmly questioning gaze, then turned and, with one heavy blow, drove his last nail home. Laying the hammer aside, he called Joe’s and McGill’s attention to the ale. Antonia stepped back, hands clasped before her. Turning, Philip picked up a mug—and took the two strides necessary to trap her between the stall and himself.

Scanning his lawns, he took a long draught of ale. “Is there much more to do?”

Distracted from watching his lean throat work as he downed the ale, Antonia blinked and quickly looked about. “No—I think most of what we can do we’ve done.” She reviewed her mental lists. “The only thing remaining is for the barrels to be brought out. We decided to leave them under tarpaulins for the night.”

Still not looking at her, Philip nodded. “Good. That leaves us time to talk before dinner.”

“Talk?” Antonia stared at him. “What about?”

Philip turned his head and met her gaze. “I’ll tell you when we meet.”

Antonia studied his eyes, what she could see of them before he looked away. “If it’s about the fête—?”

“It’s not.”

The finality in his tone declared he was not about to explain. Inwardly, Antonia frowned; outwardly, she inclined her head gracefully. “In that case, I’ll just—”

Her words were cut off by shouts and yells and a muffled rumbling. Antonia turned—as did everyone else—to see an ale barrel come rolling down the lawn.

“Stop it!” someone yelled.

“Heavens!” Antonia picked up her skirts and hurried forward.

For one stunned instant, Philip watched her rush towards the barrel. Then, with a comprehensive oath, he flung aside his tankard and went after her.

She slowed as she drew in line with the oncoming barrel, deaf to the cries of warning. Close on her heels, Philip wrapped one arm about her waist and swung her out of harm’s way, pulling her hard against him.

“Wha—!”

Her strangled exclamation was music to his ears.

“Philip!” Antonia eventually got out, all in a breathless rush. “Put me down! The barrel—!”

“Weighs at least three times as much as you and would have flattened you into the ground.” Philip heard it rumble past them.

His terse words came from directly behind Antonia’s right ear. Horrified, she waggled her toes but couldn’t touch the grass. He had scooped her up, holding her with her back against his chest, one large hand splayed across her middle, easily supporting her weight. He made no move to obey her injunction. She considered struggling—and blushed. The realisation of her predicament sent shock waves to merge with the odd heat spiralling through her.

Men had rushed from all around to slow the rolling barrel. Antonia watched as they brought it under control, then turned it and rolled it towards the stall which would serve the ale.

Only then did Philip consent to set her feet back on solid earth.

Antonia immediately drew in a deep breath. She drew in another before she turned around.

Philip got in first. “You would never have stopped it.”

Antonia put her nose in the air. “I hadn’t intended to try—I would merely have slowed it until the men reached it—then they could have managed it as they did.”

Philip narrowed his eyes. “After it had rolled right over you.”

Antonia eyed his set chin, then lifted her eyes to his. Her jaw slowly set. “In that case,” she said, determinedly gracious although she spoke through clenched teeth. “I suspect I must thank you, my lord.”

“Indeed. You can thank me by coming for a ride.”

“A ride?”

Philip caught her hand. Lifting his head, he scanned the scene. “Everything’s finished here, isn’t it?”

Casting about for relief, Antonia found none. “Perhaps the Punch and Judy—”

“Geoffrey’s got that in hand. I don’t think it would be wise for you to undermine his authority.”

Antonia’s jaw dropped. “I wouldn’t—” she began hotly.

“Good. Let’s go.” Philip started for the booth where he’d left his coat, towing her along, not caring who saw. His jaw set, he swiped up his coat but didn’t stop, tugging Antonia up so he could trap her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Stunned, Antonia blinked free of the masculine web that held her. Her eyes narrowed. “I believe you’ve forgotten one point, my lord.”

Philip glanced frowningly down at her. “What?”

Antonia smiled sweetly. “I can’t ride in this dress.”

She shut her ears against his muttered curse. He abruptly changed direction; in seconds, they were through the side door and into the hall.

Philip halted at the foot of the stairs. “You’ve got five minutes,” he said, releasing her. “I’ll wait here.”

Antonia sent him a furiously disbelieving look. And watched his eyes slowly narrow.

With an exaggerated sniff, she tossed her head and headed up the stairs.

It took longer than five minutes to scramble into her habit but Philip was still waiting, pacing at the foot of the stairs, when she came down. He looked up, nodded, then waved her on.

Her chin defiantly high, Antonia sailed ahead.

The grooms had their horses ready; Philip must have sent word. He gripped her waist and tossed her up, then swung up to his chestnut’s back. He wheeled; Antonia fell in beside him. As usual, they rode before the wind, streaking across his fields.

Philip had decided where to stage their talk. Somewhere they would be assured of being pavate. Hardly in line with accepted precepts, but he was beyond such considerations. He led her deep into the Manor woods, to a cool glade where a stream widened into a pool.

He swung down and tethered Pegasus to a low-hanging branch. A jay shrilled. Sunshine dappled the grass, growing thick and lush by the water’s edge. Enclosed by old oaks, the glade was still and silent—entirely theirs.

Antonia frowned as Philip lifted her down; the catch in her breath, the need to still her heart, no longer even registered. Her hand in his, he strode away from the horses, towards the pool. He was moving far too fast for her liking.

“What is it?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. She glanced up at his face. “Is something amiss?”

Abruptly, Philip halted. Jaw clenched, he swung to face her. “As to that, I’m not sure.”

His eyes, Antonia saw, were patterns of roiling grey. Throughout the day, his abrupt movements, his clipped accents, had undermined her confidence—now he was talking in riddles. Taking advantage of his slackened grasp, she pulled her hand from his. Standing her ground, she lifted her chin. “There’s something bothering you—that much is plain.”

“There is indeed,” he replied, his hands rising to his hips, his eyes boring into hers.

When she simply continued to stare at him, waiting, open challenge in her gaze, Philip muttered a curse. Tense as a bowstring, he glanced away, then abruptly turned back. Capturing her gaze, he caught her hand; he lifted it, deftly turned it and placed a kiss on her wrist, on the pulse point exposed by her glove.

And felt her reaction, the quick shiver she tried to suppress, stiffening against it. Her eyes widened but not with amazement. The rise and fall of the lace ruffle at her breast increased.

Philip’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Antonia. Am I seducing you—or are you seducing me?”

For an instant, Antonia was sure the world had spun. She blinked. “Seducing…?” Stunned, she stared at him.

“Seducing.” Ruthlessly, Philip held her gaze. “As in capitalising on the age-old attraction that sometimes flares between a man and a woman.”

Antonia strangled the impulse to repeat the word attraction—she could hardly deny its existence. She could feel it shimmering between them. Dazed, she blinked again. What was he suggesting? “I…?”

“Don’t know what I’m talking about?” Philip supplied, catching her chin in one hand.

The cynicism in his tone stung. Antonia’s eyes flashed. “I wouldn’t know how to begin seducing you!”

“Know?” Philip pretended to consider the point while the tension that had held him all day wound tight. “I don’t suppose you would actually need to know how—you could do it by instinct alone.” Looking down at her, at her wide green-gold eyes, her softly curved lips, he felt the tumult inside him swell. The urge to surrender to it waxed strong—he who never permitted himself to be driven, compelled, coerced, frustrated, aggravated or obsessed.

“Whatever,” he said, his voice deepening, darkening. “You’ve succeeded.” If he took what was offered, would he know peace again? On the thought, he bent his head and set his lips to hers.

And felt, as he had known he would, her instantaneous response. It rose to his touch, to his caress, easily overriding her equally instinctive stiffening. Her unfettered reaction was balm to his bruised ego—at least she was, at this level, as helpless as he. Her lips softened; at his subtle urging, hesitant, beguiling, they parted under his.

Antonia felt the whirlpool rise and snatch her up, so strong she could only ride its tide. Her wits scattered, her senses stretched, heightened by excitement, eager, clamouring for experience. She felt his arms slide around her; as her limbs softened, they tightened and locked, crushing her to him.

Wanting more of his caress, she tilted her head and felt his lips firm. Driven, she pressed closer. The magic of his kiss had her firmly in thrall; tentatively, she returned it, revelling in the shocking intimacy, marvelling at the sensations crowding her mind. The seductive hardness of the muscles surrounding her, the tempting heat of his large body—all were new discoveries; the slow crescendo building within her, the swelling tempo of her heart, were fascinating, novel perceptions.

His strength surrounded her, his kiss intoxicated her. The feel of him, the taste of him, overwhelmed and excited her. Dragging her hands from where they had been trapped against his chest, she wound them about his neck, returning his kiss with an ardent fervour she hadn’t known she possessed.

Philip groaned and crushed her even more tightly to him, her breasts firm and swollen against his chest. He let one hand roam over her hips, urging her against him, moulding her to him.

The whirlpool had caught him, too.

He was too experienced to let it pull them down. Nevertheless, dragging them both free of its turbulent power took all the strength he possessed. When he finally managed to raise his head, soothing her hungry lips with a gentle brush of his, they were both breathing raggedly.

Tense, his muscles locked tight, he waited for common sense to return and save them. Very slowly, Antonia’s lids rose. Mesmerised, he watched as her eyes were revealed, the gold flecks blazing, the green more deeply jewel-like than he had ever seen. Then darkness swam in, dulling the brilliance. Her breath caught; she caught her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes widening with what could only be alarm.

She stiffened in his arms.

Philip felt the panic grip her. “Don’t,” he said, in the instant before she started struggling.

To his relief, she stilled, a frightened bird locked in the cage of his arms, tense and quivering.

Holding her gaze, Philip dragged in a deep breath, his chest swelling, making him unwillingly aware of the softness pressed against it—and took a firm grip on the reins. “I’m not about to ravish you.”

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