A Comfortable Wife

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 fete-champetre. 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 to
wards 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.