The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable WifeA Lady by Day

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Good afternoon, Amberly.”

  At the sound of Philip’s voice, Frederick Amberly started. “What? Oh—it’s you, Ruthven.” Consternation showed fleetingly in his eyes. “Didn’t expect to meet you here.”

  “So I perceive.” Philip smiled charmingly at the young lady, now clinging wide-eyed to Mr Amberly’s arm.

  “Beg to make you known to my friends, m’dear.” Mr Amberly patted her hand reassuringly. “Miss Mannering and Lord Ruthven—Miss Hitchin.”

  Miss Hitchin smiled sweetly and gave Antonia her hand; Antonia returned her smile encouragingly and pressed her fingers. Philip bowed, then looked at Frederick Amberly. “Just strolling?”

  “I thought the flowers looked so very pretty,” Miss Hitchin volunteered somewhat breathlessly. “Mr Amberly very kindly offered to escort me to see them at closer range.”

  “They really are very lovely,” Antonia agreed.

  “I had heard there was a rhododendron walk farther on.” Miss Hitchin looked appealingly at Mr Amberly.

  “Ah, yes.” Mr Amberly smiled down at her. “We’d best get on if we’re to see the bushes then get back to your mama’s carriage in good time.” He nodded to Antonia. “Your servant, Miss Mannering. Ruthven.”

  Philip watched them hurry away. “Who would have thought it—a miss just out of the schoolroom, barely old enough to put up her hair?” He shook his head. “Poor Amberly.”

  “Why ‘poor’?” Antonia asked as they started to stroll again.

  “Because,” Philip explained, “being caught strolling in the Park with a young lady on your arm ostensibly viewing the flowers is tantamount to declaring oneself irretrievably smitten.”

  They strolled on a few steps before Antonia said, her tone carefully neutral, “You’re strolling by the flower-beds with me.”

  “True—but there’s nothing surprising in a man’s being smitten with you. But a chit just out of the schoolroom?” Again, Philip shook his head. “Poor Amberly.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “WELL, MY DEAR? Were you impressed with Hugo’s flourishes?” Philip extended his arm as Antonia, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, joined him by the side of Lady Darcy-d’Lisle’s ballroom.

  “Indeed!” Placing her fingertips on his sleeve, Antonia slanted a playful glance at Hugo. “I cannot recall a more enthusiastic gavotte in all the past weeks.”

  Hugo’s grin turned to a grimace. “Sssh!” Theatrically, he looked about him. “I declare—you’ll give me a bad name. Not a rake in London wants to be known as enthusiastic.”

  His expression had Antonia laughing aloud.

  Philip savoured the silvery sound. In the past week, Antonia’s confidence had steadily grown; his pride and satisfaction had kept pace, swelling at moments like this, feeding his impatience. Suavely, his expression discreetly restrained, he covered her hand with his. “Come. The ball is ended.” Her eyes met his. “It’s time to go home.”

  To his house, his library—and their regular nightcap.

  To his delight, she blushed delicately, then lifted her head to look across the room. “It appears we’ll have to pry Aunt Henrietta from Lady Ticehurst’s side.”

  “Indeed.” Philip followed her gaze to where his stepmother was talking animatedly to the Countess. “I’m not at all certain I approve of the connection.”

  As they started across the floor, Antonia threw him a puzzled look. Philip saw it. He waited until Hugo had taken leave of them before saying, “To my experienced eye, Henrietta is showing alarming signs of involving herself in your youthful friend’s affair.”

  His supposition proved correct; as they strolled up, the Countess was in full flight, declaiming on the wisdom of young ladies allowing their elders to be their matrimonial guides. “For mark my words, it’s substance that counts, as my dear niece will be forced to admit.” She capped this grim pronouncement with a severe nod, directing a basilisk stare around the ballroom as if searching for dissenters.

  Henrietta dutifully nodded, although her expression suggested her opinion was somewhat less trenchantly set.

  Antonia watched as Philip applied his not-inconsiderable charm to disengaging Henrietta from her ladyship’s side. That accomplished, they found Geoffrey waiting by the door. With smiles and nods, they took leave of their hosts, then descended to their carriage.

  As he handed Antonia in, Philip heard his name called.

  Turning, he saw Sally Jersey tripping down to her carriage, a distinctly arch look on her face. He replied with a repressive nod. Her ladyship had not been alone in shooting speculative glances his way. Climbing into the carriage, Philip inwardly shrugged. In a few weeks, possibly less, they’d be back at the Manor; thereafter, the rabid interest of the ton would be a matter of no importance, certainly not something he need consider every time he smiled at Antonia. The prospect grew daily more alluring.

  Screened by the dark, he settled back against the carriage seat.

  Facing him, Antonia sat similarly shrouded by shadows, her thoughts, like Philip’s, very much on themselves. Like him, she felt smugly satisfied. She now knew how to act, how to behave as his wife, whilst under the ton’s chandeliers. She had paraded before the hostesses’ censorious eyes and had not stumbled. No more need she fear to put a foot wrong, to bring opprobrium down on her head through some gauche and unforgivable act—to shame Philip by her lack of sophisticated knowledge.

  Under his tutelage, her knowledge, her understanding, had grown in leaps and bounds.

  Her eyes sought his face, then scanned his frame, large and impressively elegant in the shadows opposite. Her attention was caught by the diamond pin in his cravat, shimmering in the weak light.

  She was now confident she could be his wife—the wife he wanted, the wife he needed, the wife he deserved. His support had been steadfast, underlaid by past affection. In every word and deed, his attitude was evident, a subtle fondness that never overstepped the bounds of propriety.

  At least not in public.

  Her gaze fixed on his diamond pin, Antonia shifted. His private behaviour had not fitted within her mental framework of a conventional relationship—not until she had admitted the existence of desire. It was not an emotion she had had previous experience of, yet it was there, staring back at her every time they were alone and she looked into his eyes. She had finally accepted that it was an integral part of how he viewed her—she was no longer a girl, after all, but a woman grown.

  The thought sent a long shiver slithering down her spine. Abruptly, she straightened and switched her gaze to the passing streetscape.

  Despite her sudden breathlessness, despite her leaping heart, she was not foolish enough to confuse desire with love. Philip’s comment in the Park three days before, so easy, so open, so very off-hand, had placed the matter firmly in perspective. Not the most ardent of young ladies—not even Catriona—could have mistaken those few words, his roundabout admission he was smitten with her, as a declaration. It had been no more than a simple restating of his fondness for her, an acknowledgement of his clear preference for her company.

  That, admittedly, had surprised her. From beneath her lashes, Antonia viewed the still figure opposite. She had imagined, in light of his freely acknowledged reputation, that other women, perhaps even ladies, would feature rather more significantly in his life.

  Perhaps he was reforming?

  How would it feel to know that she had been responsible for such a transformation?

  A yearning rose within her, deep and strong. Swallowing a contemptuous “humph,” she straightened her shoulders and ruthlessly quashed it. That was no part of the bargain between them; that was no part of a conventional marriage. That was none of her business.

  A part of her mind jeered—Antonia ignored it. She was, she sternly reminded herself, aiming to be a very comfortable wife, one who di
d not create ructions over matters beyond her jurisdiction.

  With that objective firmly in view, she swept into the hall of Ruthven House. Henrietta and Geoffrey were already on the stairs, deep in conversation. With a smile for Carring, Antonia glided into the library.

  As she settled in her usual chair, her gaze fell on the chaise, set directly opposite the hearth. It had appeared nearly a week before; every night since, Philip had inveigled her onto it—and thence, into his arms. Sternly repressing her memories, she reminded herself there was nothing remarkable in a betrothed couple sharing kisses.

  Grey eyes dark with desire swam through her mind. A shiver threatened.

  Philip had paused at the door; she heard him speak to Carring, then shut the door. He strolled forward, his gaze meeting hers.

  “You seem quite at home in the ton these days. I always did think you learned quickly.” Gracefully crouching, he built up the fire. The flames transformed his chestnut hair to bronze, each lock burnished bright.

  Smiling serenely, Antonia leaned back. “Ah, but I’ve had an excellent teacher, have I not? I doubt I would have found it half so easy had I had to brave the dragons alone.”

  Philip straightened, one brow rising. “Flattery, my dear?”

  A knock on the door heralded Carring, bearing her glass of milk. Antonia took it with a smile. Carring fetched Philip his brandy then withdrew, leaving them both sipping.

  With his usual grace, Philip sank into the chair across the hearth. Silence settled; Antonia relaxed, feeling the warmth of the milk drive the chill from her shoulders. Her lips curved; as peace slowly enfolded her, she lowered her lids.

  Cradling his glass in his hands, Philip studied her, his gaze skimming her shoulders, bare above the abbreviated bodice of her evening dress, a confection in pale green silk that had caused any number of ladies to turn greener still. She had not worn her pearls, leaving her throat and the expanse of creamy skin exposed above the low neckline tantalizingly bare. Unadorned, it had drawn more eyes than Lady Darcy-d’Lisle’s diamonds. There was an untouched innocence in the gentle swell of her breasts that had halted any number of male conversations.

  His eyes on the delicate curves, Philip shifted restlessly.

  Antonia blinked. “What’s the matter?”

  Philip slowly raised a brow. “I was at the point, as it happens, of concluding that women endowed as you are should be forbidden to appear in public without the distraction of jewellery.”

  As his gaze dropped from hers on the words, Antonia had no difficulty divining his meaning. The warmth that touched her skin owed nothing to the fire. “Indeed?” Determined not to fluster, she sipped her milk.

  “Definitely.” Abruptly, Philip set aside his glass. Standing, he crossed to his desk; a moment later, he returned, a flat velvet box in his hand.

  Placing her glass on a sidetable, Antonia raised wide eyes from the box to his face. “What—?”

  “Come—stand before the mirror.” Philip caught her hand and drew her to her feet.

  Excitement gripping her, Antonia did as he asked.

  “No peeking,” he said when she tried to glance over her shoulder.

  The next instant, he dropped the box on the chaise and held his hands high over her head, a strand of sparkling stones strung between them.

  Antonia looked up and caught her breath. “The emeralds from Aspreys!” Her words came in a whisper. “I wondered who had bought them.”

  “’Twas I.” Philip lowered the necklace, setting it about her throat. He bent his head to fasten the catch at her nape. “They were obviously made for you—it was only right that you have them.”

  Her eyes on their reflection, Antonia raised fluttering fingers to the gems. “I...I don’t know what to say.” She sought Philip’s gaze in the mirror; her dazed smile faded. “Philip—I can’t wear them. Not yet.”

  “I know.” Grimacing, he placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. “Keep them until we get back to the Manor. You can wear them at our betrothal ball—my gift to you on the occasion.”

  For a moment longer, Antonia held his gaze, then she turned. “Thank you.” Reaching up, she twined her arms about his neck and, stretching up on tiptoe, set her lips to his.

  For a fractional instant, Philip hesitated, then his hands slid around her silk encased form, smoothly gathering her into his arms. For a single minute, he savoured the freshness of her untutored caress, then desire welled; he parted her lips, confident of his welcome, eager for the taste of her sweetness. She responded as she always did, with simple, unrestrained passion, warm and enticing.

  Antonia gave herself up to his kiss, swept up, as she always was, by the warm tide he so effortlessly called forth. When Philip gathered her closer, his head slanting over hers, she tightened her arms about his neck. Her senses drifted; beyond coherent thought, she yielded to the compulsion to press against him.

  His hands shifted to her back, tracing the long lines, then dropped to her hips, firming gently, encouragingly. Unable to deny the urging of her senses, she responded, letting her softness sink against his hardness, thrilled, seduced by the unfamiliar excitement that welled within her. The kiss went on; the novel sensation swelled and grew until it filled her entirely.

  An indescribable longing swept her.

  Philip’s hand at her breast felt just right; his gentle fondling eased the odd throbbing ache that had developed there. Then his fingers stroked and her knees went weak; Antonia clung to his shoulders, relieved when his arm tightened about her waist.

  Then he was lowering her to the chaise, easing her down to the brocaded cushions without breaking their kiss. Unwilling to leave her realm of delight, Antonia clung to the caress, one arm about his neck. Her other hand fluttered along his jaw in pleading supplication.

  Philip felt her tentative touch; accurately interpreting it, he devoted one part of his mind to appeasing her innocent hunger with gentle, lingering kisses while his fingers dealt with the tiny buttons of her bodice. As the closures yielded one by one, he tightened his hold on his passions, ruthlessly harnessing them. Step by step, point by slow point, he had been leading her down the road to seduction by the longest route he could devise. He knew precisely how far he would lead her tonight; that far and no further.

  It was a point he made very clear to his surging, restless passions before the last button gave and he slid one hand beneath the fine seagreen silk.

  Her breast swelled to his touch; her skin, soft as satin, smoother than the silk he brushed aside, burned him. As he gently closed his fingers about one firm mound, he felt her breath catch, felt tension grow then dissolve into desire. Her lips clung to his, urgent, entreating. She shifted beneath him, flagrantly wanton, deliciously divine.

  Philip drank from her lips, fulfilling her needs even as his own raged. It was he who eventually drew back, raising his head to catch his breath.

  Her skin flushed and aglow, Antonia lay relaxed against the cushions, her lids too heavy to lift, her lips throbbing and tender yet still hungry for his. She floated on a sea of dreams, cocooned by passion, her desire-drenched mind suborned by sensation.

  Blissfully content, she sighed.

  Philip’s hand shifted; long fingers stroked her breast.

  Antonia’s eyes flew wide. “Oh!” Jerked back to reality, her stunned mind registered her position, reclining on the chaise with Philip beside her, one hand cupping her breast. “I...” She faltered to a stop, her dazed wits struggling to recall just what had transpired. What had she said? Done? “Oh, heavens!” Sunk in embarrassment, Antonia closed her eyes. Mortification swept her. “I’m so sorry, Philip.”

  Bemused, Philip nuzzled her ear. “Why sorry?” Bending his head, he touched his lips to the pulse beating wildly in her throat. “If anyone should be making apologies, it is I.” He looked down to where her breast filled
his hand. “But I’ve no intention of doing so. I wouldn’t hold your breath in expectation of the event.”

  Antonia promptly drew in a deep breath; lips lifting, Philip bent his head.

  “Philip!” Antonia’s eyes flew open again; this time she was even more shocked. Her indrawn breath was trapped in her chest; her fingers tangled in Philip’s hair as he continued his shocking caress. She was suddenly very glad of the chaise; if they’d been standing, she was quite sure she would have swooned. As his lips, his tongue, continued their play, her wits whirled. “Good God.”

  Hearing the weakness in her voice, Philip drew back, softly chuckling. “There’s no need to be so shocked.” He considered the evidence of her agitation, the rapid rise and fall of her bare breasts, with a certain masculine satisfaction. Looking up, he met her befuddled gaze. “We are, after all, going to be married shortly. Thereafter, we’ll be doing precisely this rather often.”

  Antonia’s lips formed a silent “Oh.”

  Philip felt the tremor that rippled through her. Puzzled, he looked into her eyes, only to discover the most peculiar expression—surely it couldn’t be anguish?—darkening the hazel depths. He frowned. “What is it?”

  She didn’t reply. Instead, her eyes glazed as, of their own volition, his fingers caressed the rosy nipple that had been the focus of his attentions thus far. He forced his fingers to stillness but could not bring himself to withdraw his hand from the soft fullness of her breast. Bending his head, he touched his lips to her temple. “You trust me, remember? So tell me.”