The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable WifeA Lady by Day

by Stephanie Laurens

  Philip swore beneath his breath. Hands rising to his hips, he swung away, facing the lawns again. Henrietta! His fond stepmama would never be able to keep the news to herself. And a legal betrothal was impossible without her knowledge.

  It was an effort not to grind his teeth. He drew in a very deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Antonia, I am not about to let you waltz through the ballrooms of London without some agreement.” He turned on the words, shifting to stand directly before her, trapping her with his gaze. “I will agree—grudgingly, make no mistake—not to press you for a formal betrothal, secret or otherwise, until we return to the Manor—which we will do immediately once you’ve gained sufficient experience of the ton.”

  Holding hard to his reins, acutely conscious of the debilitating effects of frustration, Philip reached for her hands. Lifting them, he held them, palm to palm, between his and looked down into her eyes. “Antonia, I want you as my wife. If we cannot be betrothed formally, then I ask that we be betrothed privately—an agreement between the two of us.”

  Briefly, Philip glanced up at the sickle moon, riding high in the softly tinted sky, then looked down to recapture Antonia’s green-gold gaze. “I ask that we plight our troth witnessed only by the moon—to consider ourselves promised, you to me and me to you, from now until we return to the Manor, after which we will wed as soon as custom permits.”

  He felt her fingers flutter between his, sensed the catch in her breath. For a long moment, he held her gaze, then, slowly, he separated her hands and carried one to his lips. “Do you agree, Antonia?” He brushed a kiss across her knuckles, then lifted her other hand, his eyes all the while on hers. “To be mine?”

  His words were so deep, so velvety dark, Antonia barely heard them. She sensed them deep inside her, and felt a compulsion she couldn’t deny. His lips grazed her fingers, and she shivered. “Yes.” She had always been his.

  His eyes still held her trapped; slowly, he drew her hands up and out. When he let them go, they fell to his shoulders; his shifted to her waist, spanning it, then firming as he drew her close.

  Antonia felt a quake ripple through her. “Philip?”

  The question was the merest whisper. Philip heard and understood. “All troths must be sealed with a kiss, sweetheart.”

  Her heart blocking her throat, Antonia felt her bodice brush his coat. She watched his head lower; her lids fell.

  His lips found hers; warm and persuasive, their pressure soothed and reassured. Antonia relaxed, then stiffened as he gathered her into his arms, locking her in his embrace. Yet his hold remained gentle; his hands stroked her back.

  Again she relaxed, again the kiss took hold, sweeping her into some magical realm of mystery, of sensation. His lips firmed; hesitantly, she parted hers, a flicker of nervousness distracting her momentarily, called forth by recollections of their encounter in the woods. But this time there was only warmth and pleasure, enticing, beckoning caresses that made her hungry—for what she didn’t know. No unbridled passions arose to confront her, to elicit the wanton craving she was convinced she had to hide.

  Reassured, she drifted deeper, giving herself up to gentle pleasure.

  It took all of Philip’s skill to keep the kiss, if not light, then at least non-conflagrationary. He was acutely aware of her untutored responses, of the way her body slowly softened in his arms, accepting his embrace in the same way her lips accepted his kiss. As in all things, she was deliciously direct, unambiguously open, totally innocent of intrigue. For one of his ilk, the novelty was as heady as summer wine.

  He forced himself to draw back, to gradually bring the kiss to an end, despite the ravenous hunger eating him. He was familiar with that demon; while it might make his life hell, he was its master.

  When he eventually lifted his head, it was to the pleasure of watching Antonia’s eyes, heavy-lidded, slowly open. She blinked at him, then made an obvious effort to compose herself.

  “Ah...” Gently, Antonia tried to draw back, only to feel his arms firm.

  “Not yet.” Prodded by his demon, Philip lowered his head and stole another kiss, then another, before she could catch her breath.

  “Philip!” Antonia barely got the word out; this time she insisted on pulling back.

  Reluctantly, Philip dropped his arms but kept hold of one of her hands. “You’re mine, Antonia.” Possessiveness surged; he shackled it, unaware of the deep resonance of his voice, of the dark glitter in his gaze, of the way his fingers tightened about hers. Raising her hand, he pressed a kiss to her fingertips, then turned her hand and pressed a warm kiss to her palm. “Never forget it.”

  Antonia shivered as he released her hand.

  Holding her with no more than his gaze, Philip lowered his head one last time, barely touching his lips to hers. “Sleep well, my dear. I’ll see you next in London.”

  She drew back, wide-eyed and, he thought, wondering. Then she inclined her head and slowly turned away. He let her go, watching as she retreated into his house, to spend the night under his roof, as she would from now on.

  The smile on his lips slowly fading, Philip turned back to the lawns. After a moment, he grimaced feelingly, then descended the steps; hands in his pockets, he strode into the cool night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “THERE’S A MESSAGE arrived for you, m’lord. Up from the Manor.”

  Seated in a wing-chair in his library, Philip waved Carring, his major-domo, forward. After spending an afternoon about town, calling in at his club and spending an hour at Manton’s, he had retreated to his library secure in the knowledge that few of his peers had yet quit their summer hunting grounds. The continuing fine weather gave little incentive for returning to town before the round of balls and parties that made up the Little Season. Which meant Antonia would have a relatively quiet few weeks in which to gain her balance.

  The silver salver Carring presented held a note addressed in Banks’s finicky script. Frowning, Philip picked it up and unfolded it. He read Banks’s few lines, then swore. “The damned woman’s finally made up her mind!”

  “Is that good news or bad news, m’lord?” Carring held himself correctly by his master’s side, his lugubrious tone absolving his query of any hint of impertinence.

  Philip considered the point, eyeing Banks’s missive with distaste. “Both,” he eventually replied. “It means that at long last we’ll be able to close the sale of Lower Farm. Unfortunately, Mrs Mortingdale wants to see me in person over the matter of certain unspecified assurances.” Exasperated, he sighed. “I’ll have to go back.” He glanced at the clock. “Not tonight. Tell Hamwell to have the greys ready at first light—wake me before then.”

  If he took the Brighton road, he could reach the Manor by midday; if luck was with him, he might be free of the vacillating widow in time to make the trip back that evening.

  “Very good, m’lord.” Carring, ponderously round and suited all in black, unhurriedly headed for the door. There, he turned, his hand on the knob. “Am I to take it, my lord, that her ladyship and her visitors will still be arriving tomorrow?”

  “They will.” Philip’s tones were clipped. “Make sure all is ready.”

  Carring’s brows rose fractionally as he turned away. “Naturally, m’lord.”

  * * *

  CONTRARY TO HIS plans, it was early afternoon two days hence before Philip returned to Grosvenor Square.

  Carring helped him out of his greatcoat. “I take it the business of Lower Farm was successfully completed, m’lord?”

  “Finally.” Resettling his coat, Philip turned to the hall mirror to check his cravat. “Her ladyship and the Mannerings arrived yesterday?”

  “Indeed, m’lord. I comprehend their journey passed without incident.”

  “No highwaymen—not even a scheming landlord to chouse us over the reckoning.”

 
Turning, Philip beheld Antonia, a vision in soft turquoise muslin floating down the stairs. A stray sunbeam lancing through the fanlight struck golden gleams from her hair. “I should hope not,” he said, moving forward to meet her. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her fingers. “I presume my coachman and grooms took good care of you?”

  Antonia raised a brow. “Of all of us. But what of you? Did the widow eventually weaken?”

  “She finally came to her senses.” Tucking her hand in his arm, Philip turned her down the corridor. “However, nothing would do for it but that she had to see me in person so that I could give her an assurance—word of a gentleman—that I would keep her farm labourers on.”

  As he opened the door to the back parlour and handed her through, Antonia mused, “Actually, that seems rather wise—and kind of her, too.”

  Philip hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “But I would have kept them on anyway. As it was, her summons meant I wasn’t here to greet you. It appears I’m fated to return to my house to find you gracing my hall.”

  He shut the door behind them. Antonia slanted him a questioning glance as he came to stand beside her. “Do you find that so disturbing?”

  Philip looked down into her green-gold eyes. “Disturbing?” For all his experience, he felt his senses slide. Taking firm hold of his wits, he clasped his hands behind his back. “On the contrary.” His lips curved in a deliberately provocative smile. “That’s precisely the result I’m aiming for. In this particular case, however, I had looked forward to welcoming you on your first evening in London.”

  Antonia smiled back. “We would hardly have been scintillating company.” Calmly, she strolled to the chaise before the windows. “Henrietta retired immediately. Geoffrey and I had an early dinner and followed her upstairs.” With a swish of her skirts, she settled on the flowered chintz.

  “And this morning?” Gracefully, Philip sat beside her, neither overly close nor yet greatly distant. “I have difficulty believing you slept until noon.”

  “No, indeed.” Antonia’s smile grew gently teasing. “Geoffrey and I did discuss riding in the Park—he was sure you wouldn’t mind if we raided your stable. But I convinced him to wait for your return.”

  Philip’s expression blanked as he imagined what might have been.

  Antonia shifted to face him. “What is it?”

  Philip grimaced. “There’s something I should explain—to you both.” He focused on Antonia’s face. “About riding in town.”

  Antonia frowned. “I had thought it was acceptable to ride in the Park.”

  “It is. It’s the definition of the term ‘riding’ wherein the ton and the Mannerings differ.”

  “Oh?” Antonia looked her question.

  Philip pulled a face. “For ladies, the prescribed activity known as ‘riding in the Park’ involves a slow walk for much of the time, with at the most a short canter. Galloping, at least as you know it, is not just frowned upon—for you, it’s utterly out of the question.”

  Antonia sat back, her expression a study of disgust and dismay. “Good heavens!”

  One of her curls fell in a golden coil over one ear; Philip put out a hand and wound the curl about one finger, then, letting it slowly slip free, he gently brushed his finger against her cheek.

  Her eyes flicked to his; Philip felt the familiar tension tighten. He let it hold for one discreet moment, then smoothly retrieved his hand.

  “Ah...I don’t think I’d actually want to ride if I had to restrain myself to a walk or a canter.” Forcing in a breath, Antonia shook her head. “I don’t think I could.”

  “An unquestionably wise decision.” Philip shifted slightly. “But we’ll only be in town for four weeks or so—you’ll be able to ride to your heart’s content once we return to the Manor.”

  “Well, then.” Antonia gestured resignedly. “I’ll just have to consider it a sacrifice made in pursuit of a greater goal.”

  Lips lifting, Philip inclined his head. When he looked up, his smile had faded. “Unfortunately, that’s not all.”

  Antonia transfixed him with one of her direct looks. “What?”

  “Driving in the Park.” His eyes on hers, Philip grimaced. “I know I mentioned I might consent to let you drive yourself but I had, at that time, imagined myself on the box beside you.”

  Antonia frowned. “So?”

  “So, my dear, given we are not about to announce our betrothal, the sight of you driving me behind my greys in the Park would lead to instant and quite rabid speculation—something I take it you are keen to avoid.”

  “Oh.” The single syllable accurately conveyed Antonia’s feelings.

  “Despite such restrictions,” Philip continued, his tone deliberately light, “London is generally considered a haven of entertainment.” Catching Antonia’s eye, he lifted a brow. “What have you planned for this afternoon?”

  Shaking aside her disappointment, a childish response, she told herself, Antonia straightened. “Henrietta thought a visit to the modistes in Bruton Street to decide which to choose.” Colouring slightly, she met Philip’s gaze. “I’m afraid my wardrobe is hardly up to town standards.”

  “Having only just escaped from Yorkshire?” Reaching out, Philip took her hand. “I fear I’m not surprised.”

  Reassured by his touch rather than his cynical tone, Antonia continued, “Then we thought to stroll Bond Street to look in on the milliners, followed perhaps by a quick turn through the Park.”

  Idly playing with her fingers, noting the contrast between her slim digits and his much larger hands, Philip considered, then nodded. He glanced up at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Henrietta should be stirring from her nap. Why don’t you go and tell her I’ve arrived?” Turning his head, he met Antonia’s slightly surprised gaze. And smiled. “Give me ten minutes to change and I’ll accompany you.” Rising, he drew her to her feet, then lifted her hand to his lips. “On your first outing in town.”

  Twenty minutes later, as she settled into a corner of the Ruthven town carriage, Henrietta and her shawls beside her, Philip directly opposite, Antonia was still in the grip of what she told herself was quite uncalled-for gratification. Despite her trenchant lecturing, her happiness swelled. She had never imagined Philip would join them.

  The carriage rattled over the cobbles and rounded a corner. Swaying with the movement, Antonia met Philip’s eye; she smiled, then let her gaze drift to the window. She had started allowing herself to think of him as her husband; she was, after all, going to be his wife.

  That thought, unfortunately, focused her mind on the anxiety nagging quietly in the back of her mind. Philip’s proposal had made success in London even more imperative; the ton was her last hurdle—she could not, must not, falter here.

  Luckily, the drive to Bruton Street was too short for her to dwell too deeply on her prospects; the carriage pulled up outside a plain wooden door. Philip jumped down, then turned to assist her to the pavement.

  As she straightened the skirts of her simple gown, Antonia’s gaze fell on the creation displayed in the window beside the door, a breathtakingly simple robe of blue silk crêpe. It was, to her eyes, the epitome of stylish elegance, combining simplicity of line with the richness of expensive fabric. An all-but-overwhelming desire to have such a gown rose within her.

  “Not in blue,” came Philip’s voice in her ear.

  Antonia jumped, then shot him a frown, which he met with a raised brow and an all-too-knowing smile. Offering her his arm, he gestured to the door through which the footman was assisting Henrietta. “Come and meet Madame Lafarge.”

  Guided up a narrow stair and into a salon draped in silk, Antonia felt her eyes widen. Small knots of ladies, young and old, were scattered about the apartment, grouped on chairs, each with an attendant hovering, offering samples of cloths. Murmured d
iscussions, intent and purposeful, hummed in the air.

  Philip was not the only gentleman present; others were freely giving their opinions on colours and styles. Quite a few turned to look at her; one groped for his quizzing glass, half raising it to his eye before apparently thinking better of it. An assistant hurried up; Philip spoke quietly and she scurried away, disappearing through a curtained doorway.

  Five seconds later, the curtain was thrown back; a small, black-clad figure glided into the room, pausing for a dramatic instant before heading towards them.

  “My lord. My lady.” The woman, black-eyed and black-haired, spoke with a pronounced accent. She bowed, then, straightening, lifted her hands palms up as she said, “My poor talents are entirely at your disposal.”

  “Madame.” Philip inclined his head. He introduced Henrietta, then stood back and let her take charge. Turning his head, he caught Antonia’s eye.

  Confused, she lifted a brow at him but was distracted by Henrietta’s introduction.

  Nodding in acknowledgement of Antonia’s greeting, Madame Lafarge walked slowly around her, then gestured down the room. “Walk for me, mademoiselle—to the windows and back, if you please.”

  Antonia glanced at Philip; he smiled reassuringly. She strolled down the long room, drawing covert glances from the modiste’s other patrons with miffed looks from some of the younger ladies. By the time she returned to Philip’s side, Henrietta and Madame had their heads together, whispering avidly.

  “Excellent.” Nodding, Henrietta straightened. “We’ll return for a private session tomorrow at ten.”

  “Bien. I will have all ready. Until tomorrow, my lady. My lord. Mademoiselle.” Madame Lafarge bowed deeply, then gestured to an underling to see them to the door.

  Gaining the pavement in advance of Henrietta, slowly descending the steep flight on the arm of her footman, Antonia let her gaze travel the short street, taking in the numerous signs indicating the establishments of modistes and the odd tailor. Turning to Philip, standing patiently by her side, she raised a determined brow. “Why here?”