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 crepe. 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 a such 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 discussions, 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?"
Philip raised a brow back. "Because she's the best—at least for style and, in my humble opinion, for that indefinable something that gives rise to true elegance."
Glancing again at the blue gown in the window, Antonia nodded. "But it was you who had the entree—not Henrietta."
When, turning, she fixed an openly enquiring gaze upon him, Philip wished her understanding was not quite so acute. He considered a white lie, but she had already noted his hesitation.
Again her brow rose, her expression half playful, half distant. “Or is that one of those matters into which young ladies should not enquire too closely?''
It was; for the first time in his lengthy career, the fact made Philip uncomfortable. Inwardly frowning, he kept his expression impassive. "Suffice to say that I have had call to make use of Madame's expertise in the past."
"For which," Henrietta said, puffing slightly as she came up with them, "we are both duly grateful." She fixed Philip with an approving stare. "Wondered why you had John Coachman stop here." Turning to Antonia, she explained, "Horrendously difficult to interest personally, Madame. But if you can catch her eye, then your wardrobe, you may be assured, will be enough to set the tabbies on their tails." Straightening, Henrietta waved to her coachman, "You may wait for us at the end of Bond Street, John." Then she gestured her footman forward. “Come, Jem, give me your arm. We can stroll from here."
Philip offered Antonia his arm. She hesitated only fractionally before placing her hand on his sleeve. Head high, a distant smile on her lips, she strolled by his side as they followed Henrietta into Bond Street.
Her joy in his company, in his introducing her to Madame Lafarge, had been quite effectively depressed.
Their foray up and down the fashionable thoroughfare was punctuated by frequent halts before the windows of milliners and glovers, haberdasherers and bootmakers.
"No sense in deciding on anything until we've consulted with Lafarge tomorrow," Henrietta opined. "Elsewise, we'll end with the wrong colour or style."
Dragging her gaze from a quite hideous chip bonnet sprouting a border of fake daisies, Antonia nodded absent-mindedly. One of their last halts was before the windows of Aspreys, the jewellers. Necklaces and rings, baubles of every conceivable hue, glittered and winked behind the glass.
Her gaze locked on the display, Henrietta pursed her lips. "If memory serves, your mama was never one for jewellery."
Antonia, still wrestling with unwelcome realization, shook her head. "She always said she didn't need much. But I have her pearls."
"Hmm." Henrietta squinted at a necklace and drop-earrings set on a velvet bed towards the back of the display. "Those topazes would suit you."
“Where?'' Blinking, Antonia summoned enough interest to follow her aunt's gaze.
"Not topazes."
Philip spoke from behind them; it was the first utterance he had made since they'd gained Bond Street. Both Antonia and Henrietta turned in surprise.
Endeavouring to retain his habitually impassive mien, Philip reached past them to point to the items arrayed on a bed of black silk in pride of place in the centre of the window. "Those."
"Those" were emeralds. Eyeing the exquisite green gems, set, not in the usual heavily ornate settings, but with an almost Grecian restraint in simple gold, Antonia felt her eyes grow round. Just like the gown in Lafarge's window, the delicate necklace with pendant attached, matching earrings and matching bracelets exerted a charm all their own. She would love to have them—but that was impossible. Even she could tell they were worth the proverbial king's ransom. They were, she suspected, the sorts of gifts a gentleman might give to his mistress, especially were she one of those beings referred to in hushed whispers as "highflyers”—the sort who might qualify for peignoirs from Madame Lafarge. She stifled a sigh. “They're certainly beautiful." Determinedly, she turned away. "There's John."
The carriage was waiting just up from the corner. His face expressionless, Philip stepped back. Without comment, he gave Antonia his arm across the street then handed his stepmother, then her niece into the carriage.
Henrietta leaned forward. "I'd thought to go for a quick turn about the Park—just to let Antonia get a feel for the place. Will you join us?''
Philip hesitated. He shot a glance at Antonia; the shadows of the carriage hid her eyes. She made no move to encourage him. Gracefully, he stepped back. "I think not." Feeling his jaw tighten, he forced his face to impassivity. "I believe I'll look in on my clubs." He executed a neat bow, then shut the door and gave John Coachman the office.
Philip rose late the next day, having spent the evening idly gaming with Hugo Satterly, whom he had opportunely sighted late in the afternoon napping behind a newsheet in White's. After a leisurely dinner, they had moved on to
Brooks and settled in for the evening, a sequence of events so common they had not even bothered to discuss their intent.
Determined to cling to such comfortable routines, he descended his stairs at noon, carefully pulling on his gloves. As he set foot in his hall, the library door opened and Geoffrey looked out.
"Ah—there you are." Grinning engagingly, Geoffrey came forward.
Instantly suspicious, Philip raised one brow. "Yes?"
Geoffrey's grin turned ingenuous. "I wondered if you recalled your promise that you'd help me in town if I kept all of the children out of the lake during the fete?"
"Ah, yes," Philip mused. "As I recall, no one got wet."
"Exactly." All but bouncing on his toes, Geoffrey nodded. "I wondered if you'd consider sponsoring me at Manton's—in return for my sterling efforts?"
His smile was infectious; briefly, Philip returned it. Manton's was, in fact, one of the safer venues for one of Geoffrey's years. "I'll have to speak with Manton himself—he doesn't normally encourage youngsters."
Geoffrey's face fell. "Oh."
"Don't get your hopes too high," Philip advised, turning to accept his cane from Carring who had silently approached. "But he may make an exception." Turning to Geoffrey, he raised his brows. "Provided, that is, that you can handle a pistol?"
"Of course I can! What sort of countryman can't?"
"As to that, I can't say." Extracting a card from his case, Philip handed it to Geoffrey. "If you get caught anywhere, use that. If not, meet me outside Manton's at two."
"Capital!" Eyes glowing, Geoffrey scanned the card, then put it in his pocket. "I'll be there." With a nod, he turned to go, then turned back. "Oh, I say—Antonia mentioned about the riding."
"Ah, yes." Philip waved away the hat Carring offered.
"Would it be a problem if I took one of your horses out in the mornings? I was speaking with your grooms—they seemed to think it was all right—that is, permissible—for me to ride early, say about nine."
"Indeed." Philip nodded. "And yes, before you ask, you can gallop down the tan—as long as you remain on the track. The keepers don't appreciate having their lawns cut to pieces."
"Oh, good!" Geoffrey's face glowed. "Antonia explained how she can't gallop but I thought that might just be one of those feminine things."
"Precisely," Philip replied. With a wave, he headed for the door.
One of those feminine things.
The words returned to haunt Philip as he idly strolled the clipped lawns bordering the carriageway in the Park, his gaze scanning the landaus and barouches wending their way along the fashionable avenue. He had dined well with friends at a select eatery in Jermyn Street, then met Geoffrey at Manton's.
After prevailing on the proprietor to overlook Geoffrey's age, an argument greatly assisted by his protégé’s undeniable skill with a pistol, he had left Geoffrey happily culping wafers and repaired to Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Salon. Declining an invitation to don a pair of gloves and spar with the great man h
imself, an acquaintance of many years, he had strolled the rooms, catching up with cronies and identifying the notables already in town. What gossip there was he had gleaned, then, with no pressing engagement, he had let his feet wander where they would.
They had brought him here. He wasn't sure whether he approved or not.
On the thought, he spied the Ruthven barouche, rolling slowly around the circuit. He raised his arm; his coachman saw him and drew the carriage into the verge. He strolled up as John was explaining his actions.
"Oh, it's you." Turning, Henrietta fixed him with one of her more intimidatory stares "Perfect. You can take Antonia for a stroll on the lawns."
Philip's answering glance held a definite hint of steel. "Precisely my intention, ma'am."
Henrietta fluffed her shawls and sank back against the cushions. "I'll wait here."
His lips compressed, Philip opened the door and held out his hand commandingly—before pulling himself up. His gaze flew to Antonia's face; the blank look in her eyes struck him like a blow. He drew in a quick breath. "That is, if you would like to take the air, my dear?" Where on earth had his years of experience gone? He had never acted so insensitively in his life.
Bundling an uncharacteristic spurt of temper, and a less well-defined hurt, aside, Antonia forced herself to nod. Outwardly serene, she placed her fingers in his. She did not meet his gaze as he assisted her out of the carriage, even though she could feel it on her face.
Settling her hand on his sleeve, Philip drew in a deep breath. And set himself to regain the ground he'd lost.
About them, the lawns were merely dotted with other couples, not crowded as they would be in a few weeks' time. "The company, I'm afraid, is somewhat thin at the moment." Glancing down at Antonia's face, he smiled. "As soon as the weather turns, the ton will flood back and then the entertainments will start with a vengeance."
Determined to hold her own, Antonia lifted her chin. "I've heard that there's no place on earth to rival London for all manner of diversions."
A Comfortable Wife Page 12
