The Trouble with Virtue: A Comfortable Wife / A Lady By Day. Stephanie Laurens

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СКАЧАТЬ gaze dropped from her face; snatching in a breath, Antonia grabbed a dizzying moment to take in his broad-shouldered frame. Freed by a smooth shrug, a many-caped greatcoat slid into Fenton’s waiting arms; the coat thus revealed was an unremarkable grey but so distinguished by line and form that not even she could doubt its origins. Brown hair waved in elegant disorder; his cravat was a collage of precise folds secured by a winking gold pin. Buckskin breeches clung to his long legs, outlining the powerful muscles of his thighs before disappearing into highly polished Hessians.

      Dragging in a second breath, Antonia hauled her gaze back to his face. In the same instant, his eyes lifted and met hers.

      He held her gaze, a frown in his eyes. His gaze shifted, focused on her hair, then dropped to her face. His frown dissolved into undisguised amazement.

      “Antonia?”

      Philip heard astonishment echo in his voice. Mentally cursing, he struggled to recapture his habitually indolent air, a task not aided by the fleeting smile Antonia Mannering cast him before gathering her skirts and descending the last stairs.

      He stood anchored to the tiles as she glided towards him. His mind reeled, juggling memories, trying to reconcile them with the slender goddess crossing his hall, calm serenity in her heart-shaped face, a gown of sprig muslin cloaking a figure he unhesitatingly classed as exemplary.

      The last time he had seen her she’d been only sixteen, thin and coltish but even then graceful. Now she moved like a sylph, as if her feet barely touched solid earth. He remembered her as a breath of fresh air, bringing ready laughter, open smiles and an unquenchable if imperious friendliness every summer she had visited. Her lips now bore an easy smile, yet the expression in her eyes as she neared was guarded.

      As he watched, the curve of her lips deepened and she held out her hand.

      “Indeed, my lord. It is some years since last we met. Pray excuse me.” With an airy wave, Antonia indicated her descent from above. “I hadn’t realized you’d arrived.” Smiling serenely, she met his eyes. “Welcome home.”

      Feeling as if Harry Lester had scored a direct hit to his jaw, Philip reached out and took her fingers in his. They quivered; instinctively, he tightened his grip. His gaze dropped to her lips, drawn irresistibly to the delectable curves; he forced his eyes upwards, only to become lost in a haze of gold and green. Dragging himself free, he lifted his gaze to her lustrous golden curls.

      “You’ve cut your hair.” His tone reflected his dazed state as clearly as it did his disappointment.

      Antonia blinked. One hand still trapped in his, she hesitantly put the other to the curls bouncing above one ear. “No. It’s all still there...just...twisted up.”

      Philip’s lips formed a silent “Oh”.

      The odd look Antonia threw him, and Hugo’s urgent cough, hauled him back to earth with a thump. Thrusting aside the impulse to pull a few pins and reassure himself that her golden mane was indeed as he recalled, he drew in a definite breath and released her. “Allow me to present Mr Satterly, a close friend. Hugo—Miss Mannering. My stepmother’s niece.”

      Hugo’s suave greeting and Antonia’s unaffected reply gave Philip time to repair his defences. When Antonia turned back, he smiled urbanely. “I take it you finally succumbed to Henrietta’s pleas?”

      Her expression open, Antonia met his gaze. “Our year of mourning was behind us. The time seemed ripe to visit.”

      Resisting an unexpected urge to grin delightedly, Philip contented himself with, “My humble house is honoured—it’s a pleasure to see you within its walls again. I hope you’ve planned an extended stay—having you by will greatly ease Henrietta’s mind.”

      A subtle smile curved Antonia’s lips. “Indeed? But there are many factors which might influence how long we remain.” She held Philip’s gaze for an instant longer, then turned to smile at Hugo. “But I’m keeping you standing. My aunt is presently resting.” Antonia glanced at Philip. “Do you wish to take tea in the drawing-room?”

      Beyond her, Philip glimpsed Hugo’s appalled expression. “Ah...perhaps not.” He smiled lazily down at Antonia. “I fear Hugo is in need of more robust refreshment.”

      Brows rising, Antonia met his gaze. Then her lips curved; an irrepressible dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Ale in the library?”

      Philip’s lips twitched. His eyes on hers, he inclined his head. “Your wits, dear Antonia, have obviously not dulled with age.”

      One delicate brow arched but her eyes continued to smile. “I fear not, my lord.” She nodded to Fenton. “Ale in the library for his lordship and Mr Satterly, Fenton.”

      “Yes, miss.” Fenton bowed and moved away.

      Returning her gaze to Philip’s face, Antonia smiled calmly. “I’ll let Aunt Henrietta know you’ve arrived. She’s just woken from her nap—I’m sure she’ll be delighted to receive you in half an hour or so. And now, if you’ll excuse me...?”

      Philip inclined his head.

      Hugo bowed elegantly. “Look forward to seeing you at dinner, Miss Mannering.”

      Philip shot him a sharp glance; Hugo was too busy returning Antonia’s smile to notice.

      Forsaking Hugo, Philip fleetingly met Antonia’s eyes before she turned away. He watched her cross the hall, then climb the stairs, her hips gently swaying.

      Hugo cleared his throat. “What happened to that ale?”

      Philip started. With a quick frown, he gestured towards the library.

      * * *

      BY THE TIME she reached her bedchamber door, Antonia had succeeded in regaining her breath. She had not imagined her little charade would require such an effort. Her stomach was still tied in knots; her heart had yet to find its customary rhythm. Nervousness was not a reaction to which she was normally susceptible.

      A frown knitting her brows, she opened the door. The windows were set wide; the curtains billowed in a gentle breeze. The scents of summer filled the airy chamber—green grass and roses with a hint of lavender from the borders in the Italian garden. Shutting the door, Antonia crossed the room. Placing both palms on the window sill, she leaned forward, breathing deeply.

      “Well, I declare! That’s your best new muslin.”

      Whirling, Antonia discovered her maid, Nell, standing before the open wardrobe. Thin and angular, her grey hair pulled tight in an unbecoming bun, Nell was busy replacing chemises and petticoats in their appointed places. Task complete, she turned, hands going to her hips as she surveyed Antonia. “I thought you was keeping that for a special occasion?”

      A secretive smile tugged at Antonia’s lips; shrugging, she turned back to the view. “I decided to wear it today.”

      “Indeed?” Nell’s eyes narrowed. She picked up a pile of kerchiefs and started to sort them. “Was that the master who arrived just now?”

      “Yes. Ruthven.” Antonia leaned against the window frame. “He’s brought a friend—a Mr Satterly.”

      “Just the one?”

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