A Comfortable Wife. Stephanie Laurens

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      Henrietta, Lady Ruthven, put it rather more forcefully.

      “A damned shame, if you ask me. No!” She held up one hand, pink chins quivering with indignation. “I know one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead but Araminta Mannering’s neglect of poor Antonia was nothing short of wicked!”

      They were in Henrietta’s sitting-room, a cosy apartment made bright with flowers and floral embroideries. Henrietta occupied her favourite armchair beside the hearth; Philip stood before her, one arm negligently extended along the mantelpiece. At the back of the room, Henrietta’s dresser, Trant, sat stitching industriously, head bent, ears flapping.

      Lifting eyes of faded blue presently lit by her ire to Philip’s face, Henrietta went on, “Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the good offices of the other local ladies, that poor child would have grown to womanhood with not the first inkling of the social graces.” Her expression mulish, she fluffed up her shawls. “And as for contracting a suitable alliance—it pains me to say it but I’m quite sure that that was the furthest thought from Araminta’s mind!”

      With her frown as near as it ever came to forbidding, she looked like an irate owl; Philip set himself to soothe her. “I met Antonia as we came in. She seemed wholly confident, quite in her customary mould.”

      “Of course!” Henrietta threw him a scornful glance. “The girl’s no namby-pamby chit full of die-away airs! Araminta left the running of that huge old house entirely on Antonia’s shoulders. Naturally she knows how to greet visitors and act the hostess—she’s been doing it for years. Not only that, she had to manage the estate and take complete care of Geoffrey, too. It’s a wonder she hasn’t become bowed down beneath the weight of all the accumulated responsibilities.”

      Philip raised one brow. “Her shoulders—indeed, her carriage—seem to have held up admirably under the strain.”

      “Humph!” Henrietta shot him a glance, then settled deeper into her armchair. “Be that as it may, it’s not right! The poor child should have been brought out years ago.” She fell silent, idly toying with a fringe, then she looked up at Philip. “I don’t know if you were aware of it but we offered to sponsor her—take her to London and introduce her to the ton. Puff her off with all the trimmings. Your father insisted—you know Horace always had a soft spot for Antonia.”

      Philip nodded, aware that was the truth. Even when, as a scrawny twelve-year-old, Antonia had blithely put a saddle on his father’s favourite hunter and taken the ferocious beast on a long amble about the lanes, his sire, stunned as they all had been, had praised her bottom rather than spanked it. His sire had never disguised the admiration he felt for Antonia’s particular brand of straightforward confidence, an admiration Philip was well aware he shared.

      “We argued and even pleaded but Araminta wouldn’t hear of it.” Henrietta’s gaze grew cold. “It was perfectly plain she considered Antonia’s place was to act as her nursemaid and chatelaine; she was determined the girl would have no chance at any other role.”

      Philip said nothing, his expression remote.

      “Anyway,” Henrietta said, her tone that of one who would brook no denial, “I’m determined, now that she has come to me, to see Antonia right.” Lifting her head, she fixed Philip with a challenging stare. “I intend taking her to London for the Little Season.”

      For one instant Philip felt shaken, but by what force he couldn’t comprehend. Holding fast to his customary imperturbability, he raised his brows. “Indeed?”

      Henrietta nodded, the action an eloquent testimony to the strength of her resolution.

      A pause ensued, which Philip, somewhat diffidently, broke. “Might I enquire as to whether you have any…” he gestured languidly “…further scheme in mind?”

      A beatific smile lit Henrietta’s lined face. “I intend finding her a husband, of course.”

      For an instant, Philip remained perfectly still, his expression utterly impassive. Then his lids fell, veiling his eyes. “Of course.” Gracefully, he bowed; when he straightened, his expression was as bland as his tone. “Hugo Satterly’s downstairs—I should return to him. If you’ll excuse me?”

      Only when the door had closed behind him and she had listened to his footsteps retreat along the corridor did Henrietta allow herself a gleeful cackle. “Not a bad start, if I do say so myself.”

      Trant came forward to plump the cushions at her back and straighten her myriad shawls. “Seems like they’ve already met.”

      “Indeed—nothing could be more fortunate!” Henrietta beamed. “So like dear Antonia to remember to summon you to СКАЧАТЬ