“Maestro Vincente is leaving.”
“Indeed, m’lord.”
“But...really! I must insist...!” Hands outspread, Maestro Vincente appealed to Philip.
Philip ignored him; gripping Antonia’s elbow, he guided her down the room.
“If you’ll just come this way, sir?” Carring’s heavy tones left no room for argument. As always, he had the final word, efficiently ushering the deflated maestro out of the room.
The door shut; Antonia stared at Philip. “Why did you do that?”
Halting by the piano, Philip raised a supercilious brow. “He was hardly a proper person to instruct you in anything.”
“Precisely what I said,” Geoffrey interjected.
Antonia ignored her brother. She fixed Philip with an exasperated look. “Be that as it may, how, pray tell, am I now supposed to learn to waltz? In case it’s escaped your notice, these days, every young lady must be able to waltz. The ton will expect it of—” Abruptly, she broke off. She glanced at Geoffrey, then continued, “Of me.”
Philip nodded. “Indeed. So, having dismissed your appointed instructor, it would seem only fair that I take his place.”
Antonia’s eyes widened. “But—”
Exuberant chords drowned out her protest. Before she could marshal her wits, they were effectively scattered as Philip drew her into his arms.
“I assure you I’m every bit as competent as Maestro Vincente.”
Antonia threw him a speaking look.
Philip met it with an improbably humble expression. “I’ve been waltzing around the ton’s ballrooms for...let me see.” He frowned, then raised his brows. “More years than I can recall.”
Antonia humphed and straightened her spine. As usual, she felt breathless; as he effortlessly steered her into the first gliding steps, a definite giddiness took hold. She wasn’t at all sure this was a good idea but the challenge in his grey eyes made demurring unthinkable. Tilting her chin, she tried to concentrate on where he was headed.
“Relax.” Philip looked down at her. “Stop thinking and you’ll follow my lead easily enough.” When she looked her uncertainty, he raised one brow. “I’ll even forgive you should you scuff my Hessians.”
Antonia widened her eyes at him. “Given you’ve just high-handedly dismissed my dancing master, who came with quite remarkable recommendations I’ll have you know, then I should think you must accept whatever consequences follow.” As she capped the haughty comment with a toss of her curls, Antonia was struck by the oddity of the situation. Philip’s intervention had been an impulsive, spur-of-the-moment reaction, unquestionably out of character. She cast a glance up at him—he was frowning.
He caught her eye. “Who recommended Maestro Vincente?”
Antonia grimaced. “Lady Castleton and Miss Castleton. They were full of his praises, so Henrietta said.”
Philip’s expression turned cynical. “The Castleton ladies appear to have a definite predilection for toads. Sir Miles has my sympathy.”
Antonia wrinkled her nose. “I did wonder how they had stood him.” She shuddered expressively. “He was decidedly slimy.”
Philip’s smile was fleeting, quickly superseded by a frown. He glanced at Geoffrey, busy with the keys, then captured Antonia’s eye. “Kindly understand you have no cause whatever, henceforth, to have any dealings with toads, fish or any other amphibian or reptilian species.” He held her gaze steadily. “Do I make myself clear?”
Antonia stared at him. “But what if—?”
“There are no circumstances I can imagine that would make acquaintance nor even contact with such persons necessary.” His gaze fixed on her face, Philip steered them through a turn. “Henceforth, should you be approached by any such persons, I would take it kindly if you referred them to me.” He paused, his imagination playing with the possibilities. “No—let me rephrase that.” His jaw hardened; again he trapped Antonia’s gaze. “Should any such approach you, I will expect you to refer them to me.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. In fact,” Philip continued, spurred on by memories of her wilful confidence, “if you do not call any such incidents to my notice, I will not be held accountable for my reactions.”
“Philip—he was only a dancing master.”
He frowned at her, noting the affectionate laughter lurking in her eyes. The sight soothed the aggressive compulsion gripping him. “It’s not the dancing master I’m worried about,” he acidly informed her. “Incidentally, you’re waltzing quite creditably.”
Antonia’s eyes flew wide; she nearly missed her step but Philip’s arm tightened, holding her steady. “So I am,” she said, distinctly breathless. She lowered her gaze to his shoulder. Distracted by his conversation, she had not been directing her limbs at all. Of their own volition, they had followed his assured lead; as the music flowed, they continued to do so. Freed, her mind opened to the sensations of the dance, to the subtle play of her skirts about her legs, to the hardness of his thighs as they brushed hers through the turns.
The seductive swirl of the music was mirrored in their movements; the smooth swoop and sway was a sensual delight. Philip’s hand at her waist was firm, his touch confident as he guided her where he willed. Tentatively, she shifted the fingers of her right hand and felt his clasp tighten possessively.
Quelling a shiver of pure awareness, Antonia had a fleeting, distinctly scarifying vision of waltzing like this, held captive in Philip’s arms, under the long noses of the ton. How on earth would she manage with every nerve-ending afire? Appalled, she banished the vision—she did not need to deal with that potential calamity today. Today, she was here, waltzing with Philip, with none—not even Geoffrey, too busy at the piano—to watch. Today, she could enjoy herself.
Unexpectedly, she felt a sense of warmth and triumph steal through her. A soft smile curved her lips. Raising her head, she let her gaze touch Philip’s. “I have to admit that your...technique is a great improvement over Maestro Vincente’s.”
Philip humphed.
“That aside,” she smoothly continued, “I had meant to thank you for your gift—the reticule.” Today’s gift—the latest in a long line. Ever since he had given her the parasol, no day had passed without some small token appearing in her room—a pair of gloves to match the parasol, a big bunch of satin ribbon in the same shade, a fashionable new bonnet, a pair of exquisite half-boots. This morning, a small beaded reticule she had admired in a Bond Street window had found its way to her dresser. “It goes perfectly with my new gold silk—I’ll carry it tonight to the Quartermains.”
Philip studied her smile, pleased yet exasperated, too. “Mere trumpery, as I said, but if it finds favour in your eyes, then I’ll rest content.” For now. He was irritatingly aware that, could he behave as he wished, he would shower her with jewels, furs and all manner of expensive tokens of an affection he was prepared to admit was very real. But while she wished their liaison to remain unacknowledged, trumpery was all he could afford. He was finding the restriction unexpectedly irksome.
The piece they had been waltzing to drew to its conclusion. “That’s it!” Geoffrey declared. “All very well for you,” he said, as both Antonia and Philip glanced his way. “But my fingers are cramping.”
Philip grinned. Reluctantly releasing Antonia, he caught her hand, drawing her with him as he strolled towards the pianoforte. “What time did you start? Half past eleven?”
Flexing his fingers, Geoffrey nodded.
“Very well—we’ll meet again tomorrow at the same time.”
Geoffrey nodded again; it was Antonia who protested. “Tomorrow?”
Turning, Philip raised her hand and placed a quick, proprietorial kiss on her knuckles. “Indeed.” He raised a brow at her. “You can hardly imagine you’re an expert already?”
“No-oo.” Looking up in
to his eyes, Antonia hesitated. Here in his ballroom, they’d be essentially alone; she was increasingly confident of behaving appropriately while they were private. And practice was surely needed to strengthen her defences against the evening when she would waltz with him in public, in a crowded ballroom under the glare of the chandeliers. Drawing in a deep breath, she nodded. “No doubt you’re right.”
The look Philip sent her made her arch her brows haughtily.
Antonia lifted her chin. “Until tomorrow at eleven-thirty, my lord.”
* * *
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Antonia with Geoffrey in tow again crossed the path of Catriona Dalling and the Marquess of Hammersley.
Together with Henrietta, they had taken advantage of the bright autumnal sunshine and driven forth in the Ruthven barouche to see and be seen in the Park. Tempted by the clemency of the weather, they had left Henrietta in the barouche, chatting to Lady Osbaldestone, and descended to join the numerous couples fashionably strolling the lawns. They were halfway down the Serpentine Walk when they came upon Miss Dalling and the Marquess.
Heads together, voices lowered, the pair broke off what appeared to be frantic plotting to greet Antonia and Geoffrey. Shaking hands, Miss Dalling declared, “Fate has clearly sent you to us, for we stand greatly in need of support.”
“Oh?” Geoffrey’s eyes lit.
“Why do you need support, Miss Dalling?” Antonia felt rather more reticent over leaping to Miss Dalling’s conclusions.
“Please call me Catriona,” Miss Dalling said, smiling radiantly. “I truly believe we were meant to be friends.”
Antonia could not help responding with a smile. “Very well—and you must call me Antonia. But why do you need aid?”
“My mama.” Ambrose, who had already exchanged names with Geoffrey, looked dejected. “She’s arrived in town, deadly keen to see the knot tied.”
“More than keen,” Catriona decried. “Positively insistent! What with Aunt Ticehurst on one side and the Marchioness on the other, we’re being hounded into marriage! We were just deciding what to do when you came up.”
“Nothing too drastic, I hope. You would not wish to bring any scandal down upon your head.”
“Indeed not.” Catriona shook her head so vigorously her dark ringlets danced. “Any breath of scandal would avail us nought, for they would simply use that to force our hands. No—whatever we do must be done in such a way that there’s no possibility Aunt Ticehurst and Ambrose’s mama can use it against us.”
“So what do you plan to do?” Geoffrey asked.
Catriona’s brow clouded. “I don’t know.” For an instant, her lips quivered, then she blinked and lifted her chin. “That’s why I’ve decided to send for Henry.”
“Henry?”
“Henry Fortescue, my intended.” Catriona’s lips firmed. “He’ll know what to do.”
“A capital idea, I think.” Ambrose looked hopefully at Geoffrey.
“But there’s one problem.” Catriona frowned. “I cannot write a letter to Henry for Aunt Ticehurst keeps a very close watch on me. We’re not even out of her sight here—she’s in her brougham, watching from the carriageway. I was just telling Ambrose he’ll have to write for me.”
“Ah...” Ambrose shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “No one more eager than I to be free of this coil.” He looked pleadingly at Catriona. “But you can see, can’t you, that it’s not really the thing? Me writing to your intended telling him to come and see you?”
Catriona’s expression turned mulish. “I don’t see—”
“By Jove, yes!” Geoffrey looked horror-struck. “Dashed awkward.”
“Precisely.” Ambrose nodded rapidly. “Won’t do—the poor fellow won’t know what’s afoot.”
Antonia managed to keep her lips straight. “Indeed, Catriona, I do feel that any note would be better coming from you.”
Catriona sighed. “But that’s the problem—how can we manage it?”
No one had an answer. At Antonia’s suggestion, they strolled the path, all racking their brains for a solution.
“The museum!” Geoffrey halted; the others swung to face him. Eyes alight, he grinned at them. “I read somewhere that they have desks at the museum for scholars—you bring paper and pen and they provide the desk and inkwell for a small fee.”
Catriona beamed. “We can go there tomorrow—” She broke off; her smile faded. “No, we can’t. Aunt Ticehurst would insist on coming too.”
Geoffrey glanced at Antonia. “Perhaps...?”
Antonia read his look and inwardly sighed. Shifting her gaze to the scenery, she considered. “Not tomorrow—that would appear too precipitous. But perhaps we could arrange to make a party to visit the museum the day after tomorrow? I understand Lord Elgin’s marbles are a sight not to be missed.”
She looked at Catriona in time to be dazzled by the transformation her words had wrought. Smiling, Catriona was the most radiantly beautiful girl.
“Oh, Miss Mannering—I mean, Antonia!” Catriona caught Antonia’s hand and clasped it warmly. “I will be your dearest friend for life! That’s a brilliant suggestion.”
Geoffrey humphed.
“If we present the thing right,” Ambrose mused. “They’ll be sure to approve.” He turned to Catriona. “If we make it sound like I invited you and then asked Miss Mannering and Geoffrey to make up the party, it will allay their suspicions.”
“Indeed, yes! Nothing could be better.” Buoyed with purpose, Catriona flashed both Antonia and Geoffrey another stunning smile. “As I said, fate clearly intended us to meet. Nothing could have been more fortuitous!”
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, Philip strolled across Grosvenor Square, basking in the afternoon sunshine. Swinging his cane as he walked, he noted that the leaves still clinging to the trees were golden and brown. They had completely changed colour since his return to London, their altered hue a record of the passage of time. To his mind, somewhat unexpectedly, that time had been well spent.
Their first days, admittedly, had been a trifle strained, but once Antonia had found her feet, their interactions had run smoothly. The Little Season would commence tomorrow evening; the round of balls and parties would fill the coming weeks. Given Antonia would be introduced as Henrietta’s niece, no one would remark on his presence by her side. No eyebrows would be raised when he waltzed with her. A subtle smile curved his lips. Even more to his liking was what would happen every night when they returned to Ruthven House. He had been at pains to establish their nightly routine. At the end of every day, they would repair to his library, comfortable and at ease, she to drink her milk and favour him with her observations, he to sip his brandy and watch the firelight gild her face.
As he climbed the steep steps to his door, Philip realised he was smiling unrestrainedly. Abruptly sobering, he schooled his features to their usual impassive mien. Carring opened the door, bowing deeply before relieving him of his gloves and cane.
Philip glanced at the hall mirror, then frowned and straightened one fold of his cravat. Satisfied, he opened his lips.
“I believe Miss Mannering and Master Geoffrey have gone to the museum, m’lord.”
Philip shut his lips. Turning, he shot Carring a narrow-eyed glance, then headed for the library.
The museum? Philip wandered about the library, ultimately halting before his desk to idly flip through his mail. He glanced at the stack of invitations piled on the desk but felt no burning desire to examine them. What to do with the afternoon? He could go to Manton’s and hunt up some congenial company. Grimacing, he remained where he was. Long minutes passed as he stared unseeing out of the window, fingers tapping on the polished mahogany. Then his jaw firmed. Turning on his heel, he headed back into the hall.
Carring was waiting by the front door, Philip’s gloves and cane
held ready in his hands.
Philip cast him a withering look, accepted both gloves and cane, then strode out.
He reached the museum to find it unexpectedly crowded; it took him some time to locate his stepmother’s niece. It was Geoffrey he found first, deep in examination of a group of artifacts purported to be Stone Age relics. Geoffrey’s absorption was so intense Philip had to clap him on the shoulder to get his attention.
Blinking, Geoffrey focused on Philip’s face, then smiled absentmindedly. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Antonia’s over there.” He pointed to the next room, a large alcove beyond one of the display cases, then promptly returned to the relics.
Exasperation growing, Philip left him to them and pushed through into the next room.
Only to discover his stepmother’s niece surrounded by no fewer than five gentlemen.
Antonia looked up to see Philip bearing down upon her. She smiled warmly. “Good day, my lord.”
“Good afternoon, my dear.”
As his fingers closed tightly about hers, Antonia registered the change from languid indolence to clipped abruptness. Rapidly whipping her wits to order, she turned a suddenly wary gaze on her companions. “Ah—I believe I have mentioned Sir Frederick Smallwood, my lord.”
Philip nodded stiffly in reply to Sir Frederick’s bow. “Smallwood.”
Disregarding the menace underlying his tone, Antonia doggedly introduced every last one of her court. “Mr Carruthers was about to favour us with the tale of the discovery of the stone implements displayed over there.” Antonia smiled encouragingly at Mr Carruthers.
A student of antiquities, Mr Carruthers promptly launched into his dissertation. As his tale unfolded, encompassing numerous tangents, all described in glowing detail, Antonia felt Philip shift impatiently. When Mr Dashwood asked a question, which led to a lively discussion involving all the other gentlemen, Philip leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “You can’t be so bored you consider this amusement?”
Antonia threw him a warning glance. “It’s an improvement over staring at the relics.”
The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable WifeA Lady by Day Page 16
