A Comfortable Wife

by Stephanie Laurens

  The front door bell pealed; Carring came hurrying from the nether regions. He looked out, then set the front door wide. "Your phaeton and the carriage, my lord."

  Between them, Philip and Geoffrey helped Henrietta down the front steps. Marshalling his footmen, Carring saw to the stowing of the luggage, assisted by acid comments from both Trant and Nell. Resembling a pair of black crows, the maids between them got Henrietta settled against the padded cushions, protected by a veritable mountain of shawls. Left on the pavement, Antonia glanced about. Geof­frey was already on the box-seat of the phaeton, the reins in his hands as he helped restrain the restive horses.

  The sight stiffened her spine. Unbidden, her memory re­played the three, separate excuses she had spent the small hours devising, one for every possible tack Philip might have taken to inveigle her into sharing the phaeton's box-seat on the long drive to Ticehurst Place.

  Excuses she had not needed.

  Suppressing a disaffected sniff, Antonia turned, one hand raising her skirts to climb the carriage steps. Philip's hand appeared before her. For an instant, she regarded it, the long strong fingers and narrow palm. Reminding herself of her role, she lifted her chin and placed her hand in his.

  Philip smoothly raised her fingers to his lips, artfully, lingeringly, caressing her fingertips.

  Antonia froze, her breathing suspended. She glanced up through her lashes; Philip trapped her gaze in his.

  "Enjoy the drive. I'll be waiting at the other end—to greet you."

  Eyes widening, Antonia took in the hard planes of his face, the subtle aggression in the line of his jaw—and the clear intent that stared at her from the depths of his grey eyes. A skittering sensation shivered over her skin. Ignoring it, she set one foot on the carriage step. "I dare say there'll be many distractions at Ticehurst Place."

  She'd intended the comment as a dismissal of his avowed intention; she expected it to be the conclusion of their exchange. Instead, as he handed her up, Philip's voice reached her, wickedly low. "You may count on that, my dear."

  The promise in his words distracted her all the way to Ticehurst Place.

  Although her gaze remained fixed on the scenery, she did not notice the sunshine beaming down from between fluffy clouds, did not feel the soft touch of the unexpectedly mild breeze. Summer's last stand had enveloped the country, a final burst of golden weather that had set the doves to coo­ing again in the trees along the way.

  Lulled by the sound, Antonia found her mind treading a circuitous path, forever leaving her facing one, unanswer­able question: Just what was her prospective husband about?

  She had reached no conclusion when the carriage rocked to a stop on the gravel sweep before Ticehurst Place. As soon as the door was opened and the steps let down, Trant and Nell descended. Two footmen came hurrying down the long flight of steps leading up to the front door; together with the maids, they endeavoured to ease Henrietta from the carriage.

  Antonia glanced out of the window—and saw Philip de­scending the steps, his pace relaxed and leisurely, his ex­pression mild and urbane. Longing to escape the close con­fines of the carriage, aware of the dull headache its stuffiness had evoked, she gave vent to a disgusted sniff— and struggled to keep her mind from dwelling on how pleasant the drive in his phaeton must have been.

  "Heh-me!" Henrietta exclaimed as her feet touched the ground. "My old bones are cramping my style." Gri­macing, she leant heavily on the footmen's arms and slowly started up the steps.

  Her head haughtily high, Antonia shifted along the seat, then moved to the carriage door.

  As he had promised, Philip was there to assist her to the gravel. Alighting, her hand in his, Antonia glanced up— only to see him grimace.

  "Much as it goes against the grain, I fear I must plead Miss Dalling's cause. Her situation is more serious than I'd imagined."

  Antonia looked her question.

  Drawing her hand through his arm, Philip turned her to­wards the steps. "To use Geoffrey's description, it appears the gorgon has entirely fallen off her perch. On arrival, we were treated to what I can only describe as a supremely distasteful scene in which her ladyship endeavoured to im­press upon me that her niece has all but accepted the Mar­quess."

  Outwardly nonchalant, they climbed the broad steps. Philip lifted his gaze to the small knot of people waiting on the porch. "It appears that dramatic flights are a Dalling family trait. The upshot was that Miss Dalling, for whom I must reluctantly concede a certain sympathy, has implored our help in avoiding a marriage by force majeure.''

  "Great heavens!" Antonia followed Philip's lead in schooling her features to the semblance of polite conver­sation. “Is Catriona in a fury?''

  "Worse. She's in a blue funk."

  "Catriona?" Antonia looked up at him, her gaze direct. "You're bamming me."

  Philip's brows rose. "Not at all—but see for yourself." With a nod, he indicated the reception party now a short way before them.

  Antonia followed his gaze. A moment later, they reached the porch—and she discovered he'd spoken no less than the truth. The Catriona who stood mute by her aunt's side was a far cry from the defiantly confident young girl who had first come on the town. Eyes still huge but now filled with die-away despair fastened upon her. As she turned from acknowledging the Countess's somewhat strident greeting, Catriona stepped forward to clasp her hand.

  "I'm so glad you've come." Her accents were hushed, fervent. "Come—I'll show you to your room." A quick glance revealed that Henrietta was the focus of the Count­ess's attention. "I have to unburden myself to someone who understands—I do not know what I would have done if you hadn't taken pity and travelled thus, into the lion's den."

  Stifling an impulse to suggest that that last should be the "gorgon's den", Antonia allowed herself to be drawn in­side. Only to have her nonsensical vision take on real shape. The hall was dark and gloomy; its ceiling was so high it could only be described as cavernous. Panelled in dark wood, the walls were hung with old wooden shields and dark-hued tapestries. A fire smoked and smouldered in a huge stone fireplace; a heavy wooden table stood on the dark flags. The chamber exuded a pervading sense of being the anteroom of some dangerous animal's lair.

  Pulling back against Catriona's tug, Antonia halted in the centre of the room to stare at the huge, ornately carved staircase filling the end of the hall. Its wide treads led up­ward into the shadows of what she assumed was a gallery.

  "Welcome to the delights of Ticehurst Place."

  The deep, softly menacing words, uttered from just be­hind her ear, made her jump. Antonia threw a frowning glance over her shoulder; Philip had followed them in; he stood close behind her, his gaze roving the shadowed walls.

  "It possesses a certain cachet, don't you think?" His eyes lowered to meet hers.

  Catriona, apparently inured to the decor, gently tugged Antonia forward. Antonia did not move, anchored by Philip's hand at her waist.

  "Don't leave her," he murmured, his eyes holding hers. "Not even when you're dressing."

  Fleetingly, Antonia searched his eyes, then nodded and yielded to Catriona's insistent urging. Drawing closer, she tucked her arm in Catriona's. Together, they climbed the stairs, ascending into the shadows.

  Philip watched them go, a frown gathering in his eyes.

  With no attempt at her usual chatter, Catriona led Antonia to a large chamber, roomy but somehow oppressive. Nell was there, unpacking Antonia's bags. Eyeing the maid war­ily, Catriona towed Antonia to the window seat, pressing her to sit. "My room's just along the corridor," she said, her voice close to a whisper. Sinking onto the brocaded cushion beside Antonia, she grimaced. "So is Ambrose's."

  Antonia blinked. "Ah." That was not, to her understand­ing, the habit when accommodating young people. "I see."

  "I haven't told you the half of it yet." In suitably dra­matic style, Catriona proceeded to do so, inevitably embel­lishing her account.

  But no amount of dramatic description could det
ract from the impact of the basic facts; appraised of the full story of how Ambrose, on arriving late the previous evening, had been shown to Catriona's room, ostensibly by mistake, An­tonia had no doubt of the appropriateness of her sympathies.

  "If it hadn't been for the fact that I'd asked for more coal and the girl was late bringing it up, Ambrose and I could have been. . ." Catriona's eyes glazed. "Why—we could have ended sharing a bed." Her voice faded; Antonia did not think her undisguised horror owed much to her his­trionic tendencies.

  "Luckily," she said, leaning forward to pat Catriona's hand bracingly, “that eventuality was averted. I take it you had not yet gone to sleep and as the girl was there, Ambrose got no further than the threshold?"

  Catriona nodded. "But you can see, can't you, how hope­less it all is? Unless Henry can find some way to rescue me from my aunt's talons, I'll be forced to the altar."

  "Along with Ambrose." Antonia frowned. "What does he say to this?"

  Catriona sighed. "He was horrified, of course. But his mother is truly overpowering—she has him well under her thumb. He simply cannot stand up to her, no matter how hard he tries."

  "Hmm." Recalling Philip's words, Antonia stood and shook out her skirts. "Come—help me choose what to wear. Once I've changed, we must see what we can do to brighten you up a trifle." When this projected endeavour raised no gleam of response, Antonia added, "I should warn you that Ruthven is something of an authority on the subject of feminine attire. If I were you and wished to retain my standing in his eyes, I would not appear at dinner less than well presented."

  Catriona frowned. "He does seem well disposed."

  "Indeed. And if anyone can assist you and Henry, it is he." As she sailed across the chamber, Antonia added, somewhat acidly, "I can attest that his experience in ar­ranging clandestine meetings is beyond compare."

  As it transpired, that was to be her one and only allusion to what lay between herself and Philip. Absorbed in rein-flating Catriona's confidence while simultaneously consid­ering all possible avenues the Countess might attempt to gain her ends, she had no time to dwell on her husband-to-be's unfortunate tendencies.

  When she met him in the drawing-room two hours later, she made not the slightest demur when he possessed himself of her hand, kissed it, then settled it on his sleeve. The drawing-room was a cold and sombre chamber, designed on the same grandiose scale as the hall, its walls hung with a dark, heavily embossed paper, the ornately carved furni­ture upholstered in thick black-brown velvet. A small fire in an enormous grate struggled unsuccessfully to dispel the gloom.

  Quelling a shiver, Antonia drew closer to Philip, con­scious of the aura of safety emanating from his large, fa­miliar frame. Catriona, who had entered with her, reluc­tantly responded to an imperious summons; haltingly, she made her way to the Countess's side, to where Ambrose, looking pale and uncomfortable, stood beside his mama.

  Leaning towards Philip, Antonia murmured, "Catriona told me what occurred last night."

  Glancing down, Philip frowned. "Last night?"

  Antonia blinked, then briefly outlined Catriona's tale. "It's no wonder, after that, that she appears so moped. I believe she feels helpless." Looking up, she saw Philip's jaw firm, his gaze fixed on the unconvincing tableau the Countess had assembled by the chaise.

  "If I wasn't convinced Miss Dalling deserved our sup­port, I would have you—and Henrietta—out of here within the hour."

  His clipped accents left little doubt as to his temper. An­tonia studied his stern profile. "What should we do?"

  Philip met her gaze, then grimaced. "Stall. Place hurdles in the gorgon's path." He looked again at the group about the chaise. "At the moment, that's the only thing we can do. Until we see our way clear, I would suggest the less time Miss Dalling spends in the Marquess's orbit, the bet­ter."

  Antonia nodded. “Apparently Mr Fortescue remained in town with the intention of making a last push at securing the Earl's support. I understand he believes that it must be the Earl, not the Countess, who is her legal guardian."

  "That's very likely." Glancing down, Philip met her gaze. “But from what I know of the Earl, that legal nicety will have precious little practical significance."

  "You don't believe he'll consent to come to Catriona's aid?"

  "I don't believe he'll stir one step from the safety of his club." Looking again at the Countess, resplendent in bronzed bombazine, a turban of gold cloth perched atop her frizzed curls, her eagle eye cold and openly calculating, Philip grimaced. "Entirely understandable, unfortunately."

  The butler, Scalewether, entered on the words. Tall and ungainly, possessed of a distressingly sallow complexion, in his regulation black he resembled an undertaker without the hat. "Dinner is served, m'lady."

  At the Countess's urging, Ambrose, all but squirming, led the way, Catriona a martyr on his arm. With suave grace, Philip followed, leading Antonia. He guided her into the echoing dining room, a chamber so immense the walls remained in shadow.

  To Antonia's relief, the table had had most of its leaves removed, leaving space for only twelve. The Countess, sweeping all before her, took her seat at its head; the Mar­chioness haughtily claimed the foot. Henrietta was gra­ciously waved to a seat beside the Countess. Having claimed Geoffrey's arm from the drawing-room, the Mar­chioness kept hold of him, placing him to her right. Which left Ambrose and Catriona on one side of the table; Antonia felt an undeniable surge of relief when Philip took his seat beside her.

  The meal had little to recommend it, the conversation even less. Dominated by the Countess, aided and abetted by the Marchioness, it remained in stultifyingly boring vein. As her hostess droned on, Antonia studied the servitors who, under the direction of the cadaverous Scalewether, silently set the dishes before them.

  She had rarely seen such a crew of shifty-eyed, soft-footed men. Crafty, watchful eyes followed every move made by their mistress's guests. As she attacked a custard, unpalatably tough, Antonia told herself she was being fan­ciful—that their constant surveillance was simply the out­ward sign of conscientious staff trying to anticipate their masters' needs.

  From under her lashes, she watched Scalewether watch­ing Catriona and Ambrose. There was patience and persis­tence in his unemotional gaze. Antonia felt her skin crawl.

  "I must say, Ruthven, that I had thought you would hold a much stricter line in shouldering your new responsibili­ties." The Countess fixed Philip with a steely eye. "I be­lieve, my lord, that the university term is well advanced."

  Languid urbanity to the fore, Philip briefly touched his napkin to his lips, then, sitting back in his chair, regarded the Countess blandly. "Indeed, ma'am. But as the Master of Trinity acknowledged in his most recent communication, we must make allowance for the natural talents of a Man­nering." Philip bestowed a swift glance on Geoffrey before turning back to the Countess. "It's my belief the Master thinks to restore the status quo by having Geoffrey start later than most." Geoffrey grinned.

  The Countess humphed discouragingly. "That's all very well, but I cannot say I am at all in favour of letting young people go idle. It's tempting providence and all manner of mischief. While I say nothing to your belief that the boy should gain experience of the ton, I profess myself aston­ished to find him here, amongst us still." Her bosom swell­ing as she drew in a portentous breath. "Not, of course, that we are not perfectly happy to have him here. But I am nevertheless at a loss to account for your laxity, Ruthven."

  Antonia glanced at Philip. He was reclining gracefully in his chair, long fingers stroking the stem of his wine glass. His expression was a mask of polite affability. His gaze was as hard as stone.

  "Indeed, ma'am?"

  For a defined instant, the soft question hung in the air. The Countess shifted, suddenly wary yet unquenchably bel­ligerent.

  Philip smiled. "In that case, it's perhaps as well you won't be called upon to do so."

  Antonia held her breath; across the table, she caught Geoffrey's decidedly mil
itant eye. Almost impercep-tibly, she shook her head at him.

  Stricken silence had engulfed the table; the Countess broke it, setting down her spoon with a decided click. "It's time we ladies retired to the drawing-room." Majestically, her expression haughtily severe, she rose, fixing Philip with a baleful eye. "We will leave you gentlemen to your port." With a regal swish of her skirts, she led the way.

  As she rose to follow, Antonia caught Philip's eye. He raised a brow at her. Quelling a smile, Antonia followed in their hostess's wake.

  In the drawing-room, Catriona was banished to the pi­anoforte with instructions to demonstrate her skill. Visibly tired, Henrietta reluctantly summoned Trant; with polite smiles and nods—and one very direct glance for Antonia— she retired. Reduced to the role of unnecessary cypher, An­tonia duly sat mum and counted the minutes.

  She had lost count and Catriona was flagging before the gentlemen reappeared. They were led by Philip, who strolled into the room as if it was his own. With a glib smile, he appropriated her as if she, too, was his.

  Antonia told herself she bore it only because she was all but bored witless. "What now?" she asked sotto voce, watching as, beneath the cool glare of his mother's eye, Ambrose dragged his feet to the piano.

  Philip took the scene in one comprehensive glance. "Speculation."

  Stunned, Antonia stared. "You can't be serious?"

  He was—before her astonished eyes, he overrode all re­sistance, somehow inducing Scalewether to produce a pack of cards and counters to serve as betting chips. Ambrose, grasping at straws, hurried to set up a small table and chairs. Within ten minutes, the five of them were seated around the table, leaving the two older ladies isolated by the fire­place.

  One glance at the Countess was enough for Antonia; thereafter, she studiously avoided their hostess's basilisk stare.

  "Five to me."

  Philip's demand focused her attention on the game. "Five?" Antonia studied the cards laid on the table, then sniffed. She doled out the required counters, then reached for the pack. She won three back, but her stack of counters was steadily eroded, falling prey to Philip's ruthless mach­inations. He was, apparently, a past master at this pastime, too.