A Comfortable Wife

by Stephanie Laurens

  She glanced up, cool distance in her gaze. "It's dread­fully crowded. I hope Henrietta will manage."

  Philip's gaze flicked forward to where Henrietta dog­gedly stumped upwards, leaning heavily on Geoffrey's arm. "I think you'll discover she's made of stern stuff. She won't wilt in this climate."

  Antonia hoped he was right. The crowd was dense, the press of bodies up the stairs disconcerting. It was her first experience of this degree of enthusiasm. "Is this what they term a 'crush'?" Glancing up, she surprised an arrogant, almost aggressive look on Philip's face. It disappeared as he looked down at her.

  "Indeed." Philip shackled the urge to draw her closer. "The epitome of every hostess's ambitions. That said, I suspect Lady Caldecott has overstepped her mark. Her ball­room, I hesitate to inform you, is not this," he gestured at the crowd surging about them, "large."

  The accuracy of his prediction was confirmed when, fif­teen cramped minutes later, they passed down the receiving line and gained the ballroom.

  Henrietta, too short to see beyond the shoulders surround­ing them, jabbed Geoffrey in the arm. "There should be a group of three or four chaises somewhere about. Where?"

  Geoffrey lifted his head.

  "To the left," Philip said.

  "Good! That's where my set will gather. You," Hen­rietta poked Geoffrey again, “can escort me there and then you may take yourself off. As for you two—" she cast a glance at Philip and Antonia "—you'll have to take care cf yourselves." Henrietta smiled, decidedly smug. "In this crush, we'll never find each other—you can fetch me when it's time to leave."

  Philip's brows rose but he made no demur. He bowed gracefully. "As you wish, ma'am."

  Antonia bobbed a curtsy. Henrietta shuffled into the crowd and was immediately lost to sight. As Philip resettled her hand on his sleeve, Antonia looked about, taking stock of her first Grand Ball. Silks and satins, ribbons and lace, paraded before her. A hundred voices were raised in avid chatter; perfumes drifted and mingled into a heady haze, wafting as bejeweled ladies nodded and curtsied. Elegant gentlemen in superbly cut evening coats inclined their heads; comforted by the hardness of Philip's arm beneath her hand, Antonia smiled coolly back.

  "Before we go any further," Philip said, interrupting her reconnaissance, "I would be greatly obliged if you would write my name in your card against the first waltz." A number of gentlemen were headed their way.

  Antonia looked up at him. "The first waltz?"

  Philip nodded. "Your first waltz." There had been only cotillions, quadrilles and country dances over the past two nights; he was determined her first waltz in the capital would be his.

  Reading as much in his eyes, Antonia resigned herself to the inevitable. Lips compressed, she opened the small card Lady Caldecott had handed her. The first waltz was the third dance; under Philip's watchful eye, she duly inscribed his name in the space beside it—then showed him the card.

  He actually read it before nodding. Antonia set her teeth. She would have caught his eye and glared—she was dis­tracted by Hugo Satterly who appeared through the ranks before them.

  "A great pleasure to welcome you to town, Miss Man­nering." Hugo bowed with ready grace, his pleasant smile creasing his face.

  He was but the first to express that sentiment. To An­tonia's surprise, they were rapidly surrounded by a select group of elegant gentlemen, none of whom bore any rela­tion to her relatively innocuous, easy-to-manage cavaliers of the past weeks. These gentlemen were all contemporaries of Philip's, many his friends, smoothly claiming his offices in making the introductions. At first, she wondered if it was he rather than she with whom they had stopped to chat. They were, however, assiduous in claiming the blank spaces in her dance card; long before the first cotillion, her card was gratifyingly full.

  Surrounded by broad shoulders, she waited for the mu­sicians to start up, not entirely sure if she was relieved or otherwise when her circle of gentlemen plainly set them­selves to entertain her. Philip, however, large and relatively silent by her side, gave her no hint he saw anything re­markable in their attentions; lifting her chin, Antonia smiled graciously on her would-be cavaliers.

  A lull in the conversation brought Hugo Satterley's voice to her ears; he was standing beyond Philip—a quick glance confirmed it was to Philip he spoke.

  “Meant to thank you for coming out that night—dashed awkward, but it saved my hide."

  Philip's eyes narrowed. "If I'd known it was simply a matter of making a fourth at whist I wouldn't have set foot beyond my door. From your note, I'd imagined some life-threatening situation."

  Hugo opened his eyes wide. "If you think engaging one­self to entertain the Bishop of Worcester and then finding oneself one short for the table isn't life-threatening, you know nothing of the Bishop. Can't tell you how grateful I was to be saved from excommunication."

  Philip's snort was drowned by the summoning of the vi­olins.

  "Ah!" Eyes brightening, Hugo turned to Antonia. "My dance, I believe, Miss Mannering?"

  Antonia smiled and gave him her hand. Hugo deftly cleared a path onto the dance floor; while they waited for the rest of the company to find places in the sets, Antonia turned to him. "I overheard your comment on the Bishop of Worcester. Was it recently you entertained His Grace?''

  "Just the other night." Hugo grimaced. "Deuced awk­ward, but I had to do it—he's m'godfather, you know. He'd received a summons from his sister, Lady Griswald, to some musical affair. Old man's tone deaf—virtually ordered me to rescue him."

  Antonia's eyes widened. "I see." She managed a weak smile. She'd returned from Lady Griswald's to find Philip absent; that night had been the first on which she'd declined her nightcap.

  "At last!" Hugo held out his hand as the music for the cotillion began.

  Antonia had danced countless cotillions in recent weeks; habit, she was certain, was all that kept her twirling in the right direction. A horrible suspicion had taken root in her mind; as it grew, a sinking sensation swelled inside her. She was relieved when, at the cotillion's end, Hugo returned her to Philip's side. Unfortunately, a gavotte with Lord Dewhurst followed virtually immediately. Raising her from her final curtsy, his lordship guided her around the room. After passing some time in idle, on her part disjointed, con­versation, they finally came up with Philip; her heart sank when she saw the steely look in his eyes.

  Reclaiming Antonia's hand, Philip settled it on his sleeve then caught Lord Dewhurst's eye. "I believe, Dewhurst, that our hostess is searching for you."

  "Heh?" Jerked from contemplation of Antonia's smile, Lord Dewhurst focused on Philip's face. His expression turned to one of dismay. "Don't say that. Dash it all—this is what comes of letting on I'm on the look-out for a wife." Openly chagrined, he confided to Antonia, "If her lady­ship's after me, it'll mean she's got some protégée that she wants me to look over. I'll have to take refuge in the card-room."

  His features impassive, Philip scanned the crowds. "If her ladyship's on the prowl, I wouldn't waste any time."

  Lord Dewhurst sighed and bowed over Antonia's hand. "Dashed shame. But no doubt we'll meet at the next ball, Miss Mannering." With a hopeful smile, he straightened. "I'll look forward to furthering our acquaintance."

  Antonia smiled with what grace she could muster; his lordship turned away, his eyes on her to the last. Lord Marbury stepped in, keen to engage her attention.

  Philip gritted his teeth.

  Tonight, strolling the rooms, his favoured method for dis­posing of unwanted encumbrances, was out of the question; Lady Caldecott had outdone herself with a vengeance. There was barely room to stand; the dance floor would be impossibly crowded.

  Not that the idea of waltzing with Antonia at excusably close quarters was bothering him. Quite the opposite. But the crowding left him with few options to thin out her court.

  He was contemplating a few novel possibilities when the musicians returned and set bow to string. Sternly suppress­ing a surge of anticipation, he turned to An
tonia. “The first waltz. My dance, I believe, my dear."

  "Indeed, my lord." Straightening her spine, Antonia in­wardly cursed the fluster that threatened. Her smile over-bright, she gave Philip her hand. "I rely on you to lead me through this maze."

  With the merest inclination of his head, he led her to where couples were jostling for space on the floor. Tense as she was, the overcrowding claimed all of Antonia's at­tention; it was only when they were processing freely, albeit in distinctly circumscribed circles, that she relaxed enough to think. Only to have her senses rush in; a most peculiar panic gripped her.

  Philip was holding her very close, a fact necessitated by the proximity of the surrounding couples. As realization sank in, Antonia felt her breath catch, felt the familiar vice close about her chest. Held against him, the shift and sway of their bodies as they revolved through the dance was a dizzying distraction, a potent inducement to set her wits free and let her senses slide into a world of sensation. Her gaze wide, unseeing, she stiffened, struggling to shackle her wits, to keep her face, her posture, free of any hint of the drug­ging effect of the dance, of her awareness of Philip.

  She felt him glance down at her. She looked up, only to discover his lips mere inches away; her gaze, beyond her control, focused on them. They twisted wryly. "Relax. You're stiff as a poker."

  The comment, spoken in a tone that was clearly private, only made her stiffen further. Forcing her gaze upwards, she met his gaze. She watched a frown gather in his eyes.

  She had no idea how to explain, how to describe the panic mushrooming within her. This was the first waltz of the Little Season, her first public waltz with him—and any second she was going to stumble.

  Instinctively, Philip gathered her closer, his hand at her waist reassuringly caressing her spine as he guided her into a turn.

  Like a brand, the heat of his hand seared Antonia, excit­ing skin not accustomed to his touch. At the same moment, his thigh parted hers in the turn, hard muscle impressing itself against her softer flesh.

  Her breath caught on a stifled gasp; her feet missed a step.

  Philip caught her to him, preventing her stumble. Frown­ing, very aware of her distress, he deftly stepped clear of the circle of dancers rounding the end of the room. Smoothly releasing Antonia, he took her hand and ushered her before him towards the doors standing open to the ter­race, his shoulders effectively screening her from any in­terested stares. Pale, she cast a wide-eyed glance up at him; he met it with a superficial smile. "This crowd is impossible—a little fresh air will clear your head."

  Antonia hoped it would. She felt dreadful; her head had started to throb. She felt immeasurably grateful when Philip propelled her irresistibly out of the door.

  The cool night air hit her like a slap; she stopped dead. "Wait! We can't—"

  "There's nothing the least improper in our being out here." Philip's accents, warningly clipped, came from di­rectly behind her. "We are, after all, hardly private."

  Glancing about, Antonia discovered he was right. The terrace was a wide, stone-flagged extension of the ballroom floor; other couples, like them, had sought refuge on its uncluttered expanse. There were sufficient others present, strolling and chatting in groups, to nullify any question of impropriety. None, however, were close enough to overhear their conversation.

  "Now." Capturing Antonia's attention by the simple ex­pedient of putting one finger under her chin and turning her face to him, Philip raised a commanding brow. "What's wrong?''

  Antonia met his gaze, then lifted her chin free of his finger. Her stomach had knotted tight. "I. . . simply had trou­ble with the waltz."

  Philip couldn't help himself. "Strange. I was under the impression you considered yourself something of an expert—certainly in no need of further lessons." The morn­ing after Lady Griswald's musical soiree, she had failed to appear in the ballroom. Geoffrey, too, had not shown; when questioned in suitably nonchalant vein, Geoffrey had let fall that his sister had somewhat waspishly informed him that she had learned quite enough.

  Antonia risked a glance from beneath her lashes, then, tilting her chin, fixed her gaze on the gardens. "I did not feel it right to take so much of your time. You've been very generous—I did not wish you to feel duty-bound."

  Philip managed not to growl. “I never saw teaching you to waltz as a duty." A pleasant distraction, yes—one he had missed. "And it's quite obvious you need further les­sons." The startled glance she threw him was some small consolation. "We'll start again tomorrow. But aside from all that, I'm a great deal more than seven, you know."

  Startled by the change in his tone, Antonia glanced up; Philip trapped her gaze. "I've taught you well enough and you learn like a sponge—it wasn't the steps of the waltz that brought you undone." His gaze sharpened. "What was it? Has anyone done anything to upset you?"

  His second question and the tension behind it convinced Antonia prevarication would not be wise. She hesitated, then drew in a strengthening breath and, her gaze unfo­cused, admitted, "I find I have great difficulty keeping a proper distance."

  Philip frowned. “The distance between us was perfectly proper. I'm far too old a hand to step over the line during the first waltz of the season."

  Antonia threw him an exasperated look. “That's not what I meant."

  Philip looked down at her. “Then what did you mean?''

  Antonia glared. "You know perfectly well what I mean. And it's not at all helpful to tease me about it." Her voice caught; swinging around, she quickly crossed to the bal­ustrade.

  Eyes narrowing, Philip watched her, then followed at a more leisurely pace. When he stopped beside her, she was staring into the darkness, her hands clasped tightly before her. "I vaguely recall having this conversation before. While I'm naturally flattered that you persist in thinking me omniscient, I must confess that what you apparently find obvious is very frequently far from obvious to me."

  She hesitated, then slowly turned to face him.

  Antonia met his gaze with one of her very direct looks. What she saw in his eyes reassured her. "I—" She broke off, frowning, then, lifting her head, swung to face the gar­dens. "I find the. . .sensations of waltzing with you so dis­tracting that I.. . In short, I cannot be sure I will not commit some indiscretion."

  Tilting his head, Philip studied her face. "While waltz­ing?"

  Her gaze on the shadows, Antonia nodded.

  A slow smile broke across Philip's face. Then he recalled that he did not always read her aright. "I take it," he said, carefully composing his features, "that you would not feel. . .compelled to indiscretion while waltzing with anyone else?"

  Antonia frowned at him. "Of course not." She studied his face. "I had thought I could cope but. . ." She gestured vaguely.

  Philip caught her hand; he waited until she met his eyes before raising it to his lips. He paused, studying her wide eyes, aware of the slim fingers resting in his, aware of the demon too close to his surface. “Geoffrey said you had told him he could trust my advice unreservedly." He raised a brow. "Will you, too, place your trust in me?"

  Uncertainty darkened her eyes; Philip allowed his impa­tience to show. “I have, as I believe you know, been waltz­ing through the ton's ballrooms for rather many years."

  "I know." Antonia felt breathless. They were, she was perfectly certain, no longer talking about mere waltzing. "But. . ."

  Philip held her gaze; again he lifted her hand, gently brushing his lips across her fingertips, well aware of the reaction she struggled to hide. "Believe me." His voice deepened. "I won't let you falter." He waited, watching her, willing her, then lifted one brow. "Trust me?"

  The moment that followed stretched, fragile as spun glass, timeless as eternity. Antonia felt each beat of her heart, felt the shallowness of each breath. "You know I do."

  "Then close your eyes. It's time for your next lesson." Antonia hesitated, then complied. "Imagine we're in the ballroom at Ruthven House."

  She felt Philip's arm sl
ide about her, felt his hold on her fingers shift.

  "Geoffrey is supplying the music."

  She frowned. "I can hear violins."

  "He's brought some friends to help him."

  The clipped accents made her lips twitch. Philip raised her hand; his arm tightened about her. Antonia baulked. "Philip—!"

  "Trust me."

  A second later she was waltzing.

  "Keep your eyes closed. Remember, we're in Ruthven House—there's no one else about."

  Antonia knew very well where they were; the cool night air shifted over her bare shoulders, a light breeze played with her skirts. But Philip's arm held her steady; with her eyes closed, she had no alternative but to relax and follow his strong lead. She heard muted chatter and laughter, the musicians were still scraping away. He held her close; as they whirled and twirled, the sensations that had earlier as­sailed her rose up, heightened by her earlier sensitivity. De­tached, distanced from worry, she could not find it in her to fight them; instead, her senses stretched, luxuriating in the moment.

  Watching her face, Philip saw her lips lift; his own curved knowingly. He drank in the sight of her face, then said, "Open your eyes."

  Antonia did, blinking as her eyes adjusted. She took in Philip's arrogantly satisfied expression, then glanced past his shoulder—and gasped.

  They were no longer the only ones waltzing on the ter­race. As they revolved, she turned her head this way and that, amazed at the collection of fashionable couples now whirling in the starlight.

  "It appears we've started a new trend."

  "Indeed."

  Seconds later, the music slowed. Philip whirled them to a flourishing halt, touching Antonia's hand to his lips. "Be­lieve me—there's nothing in your behaviour to give you cause to blush."

  Antonia met his gaze; a frown slowly gathered in her eyes. "While I concede that your experience might be ex­tensive, I'm not at all certain you're an appropriate judge of such matters."

  Philip narrowed his eyes. "Antonia, which of us has been buried in the wilds to the north for the last eight years?''