The Trouble with Virtue. Stephanie Laurens
knot on the top of her head.
Nell threw her a swift glance. “Seems you’ve been seeing a lot of his lordship lately.”
Antonia’s hand stilled, then she shrugged. “I wouldn’t say a lot. We ride in the mornings, of course. Geoffrey, too.” She did not think it necessary to mention that for at least half the time she spent on horseback, she and Philip were alone; Geoffrey, encouraged to try the paces of his mount, was rarely within hailing distance. “Other than that, and the three occasions he’s let me drive his curricle, Ruthven only seeks me out if he has some matter to discuss.”
“That so?” Nell remarked.
“Indeed.” Antonia tried to keep the irritation from her voice. Although Philip often sought her company during the day, spending half an hour or more by her side, he invariably had some reason for doing so. She sank the brush into one curl. “He’s a busy man, after all—a serious landowner. He spends hours with his agent and bailiff. Like any sensible gentleman, he puts effort into ensuring his estate runs smoothly.”
“Strange—it’s not what I’d have thought.” Nell shook out a chemise. “He seems so...well, lazy.”
Antonia shook her head. “He’s not lazy at all—that’s just an image, a fashionable affectation. Ruthven’s never been truly lazy in his life—not over anything that matters.”
Nell shrugged. “Ah, well—you know him better than most.”
Antonia swallowed a “humph” and continued to tend her curls.
Five minutes later, she was descending the steps from the terrace when she heard her name called. Looking about, she saw Geoffrey striding up from the stables. One glance at his face was enough to tell her her brother was in alt.
“A great day, Sis! I had them trotting sweetly from the first. Who knows—next time our teacher might let me take out his greys.”
Antonia grinned, sharing his delight. “Bravo—but I wouldn’t get your hopes too high.” While Ruthven had entrusted his greys to her, he had started Geoffrey with a pair of match chestnuts, by any standards a well-bred pair but not in the same league with his peerless Irish greys. “In fact,” Antonia said, linking her arm in Geoffrey’s, “I’d rather you didn’t suggest it—he’s really been very generous in helping you take the reins.”
“I wasn’t about to,” Geoffrey replied, fondly condescending. “That was just talk.” Obediently, he fell in beside her as she strolled the gravel path. “Ruthven’s been far more encouraging than I’d ever looked to see. He’s a great gun—one of the best!”
Antonia heard the fervour in his tone; glancing up, she saw it reflected in his face.
Unconscious of her scrutiny, Geoffrey went on, “I assume you know he’s suggested I should accompany you to London? I wasn’t too sure at first—but he explained how it would set yours and Henrietta’s minds at ease—if you could see me in society a bit, build your confidence in me, that sort of thing.”
“Oh?” When Geoffrey glanced her way, Antonia hurriedly changed her tone. “I mean—yes, that’s right.” After a moment, she added, “Ruthven’s very good at thinking of such things.”
“He said that’s one of the traits that distinguishes a man from a boy—that a man thinks of his actions in the wider context, not just in terms of himself.”
Despite her inclination, Antonia felt a surge of gratitude towards Philip; his subtle mentoring would help to fill the large gap their father’s death had left in Geoffrey’s life. Any lingering reservations she had regarding Geoffrey’s visit to London evaporated. “I think you would be very wise to take Ruthven’s hints to heart. I’m certain you can have every confidence in his experience.”
“Oh, I have!” Geoffrey strode along beside her, then recalled he should match his steps to hers. “You know—when you decided to come here, I thought I’d be—well, the odd man out. I didn’t think Philip would still be friendly, like he was to you all those years ago. But it’s just the same, isn’t it? He might be a swell and a gentleman about town and all that, but he still treats us as friends.”
“Indeed.” Antonia hid a glum grimace. “We’re very fortunate to have his regard.”
Grinning, Geoffrey disengaged. “Think I’ll take a fowling piece out for the rest of the afternoon.”
Antonia nodded absentmindedly. Alone, she let her feet follow the gravel walks, her mind treading other paths. Geoffrey, unfortunately, was right. While Philip could be counted on to tease and twit her, in all their hours together, whether strolling the gardens or driving his greys, she had never detected anything in his manner to suggest he saw her other than as a friend. An old friend, admittedly—one on whom he need not stand on terms—but nothing more than an agreeable companion.
It was not what she wanted.
Looking back, analysing all their interactions, the only change the years had wrought was what she termed her “ridiculous sensitivity”—the leaping, fluttering feeling that afflicted her whenever he was close, the tension that immobilized her limbs, the distraction that did the same to her wits, the vice that made breathing so difficult every time he touched her, every time he lifted her down and held her between his strong hands, every time he took her hand in his to help her up a step or over some obstacle.
As for the times his fingers had inadvertently brushed the back of her hand—they were undoubtedly the worst. But all that came from her, not him. It was simply her reaction to his presence, a reaction that was becoming harder and harder to hide.
Halting, she looked around and discovered she’d reached the Italian garden. Neat hedges of lavender bordered a long, raised rectangular pool on which white water lillies floated. Gravelled walks surrounded the pool, themselves flanked by cypress and box, neatly clipped. It was a formal, quite austere setting—one which matched her mood. Frowning, Antonia strolled beside the pool, trailing her fingers in the dark water.
Her “ridiculous sensitivity” was the least of her problems. Philip still saw her as a young girl and the fête was looming; soon after, they would leave for London. If she wanted to succeed in her aim, she would have to do something. Something to readjust his vision of her—to make him see her as a woman, a lady—as a potential wife. And whatever she was going to do, she would have to do it soon!
“Well, my lady of the lake—are my goldfish nibbling your fingers?”
Antonia whirled and saw the object of her thoughts strolling towards her. He was wearing a flowing ivory shirt, topped with a shooting jacket, a scarf loosely knotted about his tanned throat. His long thighs were clad in buckskin breeches, his feet in highly polished top-boots. One brow rising in gentle raillery, his hair tousled by the breeze, he looked every inch the well-heeled landowner—and a great deal more dangerous than the average country gentleman.
Calmly, Antonia lifted her wet fingers and studied them. “Not noticeably, my lord. I suspect your fish are too well fed to be tempted.”
Philip halted directly before her; Antonia nearly jumped when his fingers slid about her wrist. Lifting her hand, he examined her damp fingers. “Fish, I understand, are not particularly intelligent.”
His heavy lids lifted; his gaze, sky grey with clouds gathering, met hers.
Antonia’s heart lurched, her stomach knotted; familiarity didn’t make the sensations any easier to bear. His fingers felt strong and steely, his grip on her wrist warm and firm. Her diaphragm seized; she waited, breathless, trapped by his gaze.
Philip hesitated, then the ends of his lips lifted lightly. Glancing down, he reached into a pocket and drew out a white handkerchief. And proceeded to wipe each finger dry.
Her heart pounding, Antonia tried to speak. She had to clear her throat before she could. “Ah—did you wish to speak to me about something?”
Philip’s smile deepened. She always asked. On principle, he