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The swift intake of her breath sounded sharp to Antonia’s ears. Philip’s eyes flicked up to hers; a smile unlike any she’d yet seen slowly curved his lips. His fingers shifted, so that his fingertips supported hers.
“‘Delicate bones, sensitive skin, awaiting a lover’s caress.”’
His voice was deep and low, the cadence striking chords deep within her. Antonia watched, trapped by his gaze, by his touch, as he slowly lifted her hand and, one by one, touched his lips to her fingertips.
The quivers that ran through her shook her to her core.
“Ah…” Desperation flayed her wits to action. “I’ve just remembered.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She coughed and cleared her throat. “A message I promised to deliver for my aunt—I shouldn’t have forgotten—I should go straight away.” Retreat, disorderly or otherwise, seemed imperative yet, despite all, she couldn’t bring herself to tug her hand free.
Philip’s eyes held hers, steady, unyielding, an expression in the grey that she did not recognize. “A message?”
For one long moment, he studied her eyes, then the planes of his face relaxed. “About the fête?”
Numb, Antonia nodded.
Philip’s lips quirked; ruthlessly, he stilled them. “One you have to deliver immediately?”
“Yes.” Abruptly, Antonia stood; she felt immeasurably grateful when Philip, more languidly, rose too. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. In an agony of near panic, she waited.
“Come—I’ll escort you back.”
With that, Philip tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and turned her to the house. All but quivering, Antonia had perforce to acquiesce; to her relief, he strolled in companionable silence, making no reference by word or deed to their game by the pool.
He halted by the steps to the terrace and lifted her hand from his sleeve, holding it and her gaze for an instant before releasing her. “I’ll see you at dinner.” With a gentle smile and a nod, he strode away.
Antonia watched him go. Slowly, a warm flush of triumph permeated her being, driving out the skittering panic of moments before.
She had achieved her object. However Philip now viewed her, it was not as a young friend of the family.
“Goodnight, then.” With a nod and a smile, Geoffrey left the billiard room to his host and Hugo, having unexpectedly taken revenge on Hugo for an earlier defeat.
“Quick learner,” Hugo muttered in defense of his skills.
“Mannerings are,” Philip replied, chalking a cue. The rest of the household had retired, Antonia somewhat breathlessly assuring him that she intended getting an early start on the preparations for the fête. A smile in his eyes, Philip waited while Hugo racked the balls, then he broke.
“Actually,” Hugo said, as he watched Philip move about the table, “I’ve been trying to catch you for a quiet word all day.”
“Oh?” Philip glanced up from his shot. “What about?”
Hugo waited until he had pocketed the ball before answering. “I’ve decided to return to town tomorrow.”
Philip straightened, his question in his eyes.
Hugo grimaced and pulled at his ear. “This fête, y’know. All very well for you in the circumstances—you’ll have Miss Mannering to hide behind. But who’s to shield me?” Palms raised in appeal, Hugo shuddered. “All these earnest young misses—your step mama’s been listing their best features. Having succeeded with you, I rather think she’s considering fixing her sights on me. Which definitely won’t do.”
Philip stilled. “Succeeded?”
“Well,” Hugo said, “it was pretty obvious from the start. Particularly the way her ladyship always clung to yours truly. I was almost in danger of thinking myself a wit until the penny dropped. Perfectly understandable, of course—what with Miss Mannering being an old family friend and you being thirty-four and the last in line and so on.”
Slowly, Philip leaned over the table and lined up his next shot. “Indeed.”
“Mind,” Hugo added. “If I couldn’t see your reasoning—Miss Mannering being well in the way of being a peach—I wouldn’t have thought you’d stand it—being hunted in your own house.”
Sighting along his cue, Philip smelt again the teasing scent of lavender, heard the scrunch of gravel beneath slippered feet, saw again Antonia’s airily innocent expression as she ingenuously led him along the garden path.
His shot went awry. Expression impassive, he straightened and stepped back.
Hugo studied the table. “Odd of you to miss that.”
“Indeed.” Philip’s gaze was unfocused. “I was distracted.”
Chapter Four
The next morning, Antonia awoke with the larks. By nine o’clock, she had already spoken with the cook and Mrs Hobbs, the housekeeper, and seen the head-gardener, old Mr Potts, about flowers for the morrow. She was turning away from a conference with Fenton on which of the indoor tables should be used on the terrace when Philip strode into the hall.
He saw Antonia and immediately changed course, his heels ringing on the black and white tiles. He halted directly before her.
“You didn’t come riding.”
Staring up into storm-clouded eyes, Antonia felt her own widen. “I did mention that there was a great deal to do.”
His jaw firming, Philip cast a jaundiced eye over the figures scurrying about his hall. “Ah yes.” His quirt struck the white top of one boot. “The fête.”
“Indeed. We’re going to be terribly busy all day.”
He swung back to Antonia, his gaze intent. “All day?”
Antonia lifted her chin. “All day,” she reiterated. “And all tomorrow, too, until the festivities begin. And then we’ll be even more busy.”
Beneath his breath, Philip swore.
Antonia stiffened. Her expression aloof, she waved to the dining-room. “I believe you’ll find breakfast still available—if you hurry.”
The look Philip cast her could only be called black. Without a word, he swung on his heel and headed for the dining-room.
A frown in her eyes, Antonia watched him go—then realized what seemed so strange. He was striding. Briskly.
“Excuse me, miss, but should I put this chair with those for the terrace?”
“Ah…” Antonia swung around to see a footman struggling with a wing-chair. “Oh, yes. The dowagers will need all of those that we can find. They’ll want to doze in the sun.”
As she laboured through the morning, Antonia kept her mind firmly fixed on her aim. The fête had to be a success—a complete, unqualified tour de force. It was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate to Philip that she was, at least at a county level, fully qualified to be his bride.
Summoning two maids, she led them to the Italian garden and pointed out the lavender. “You need to cut not just the flower but the stem as well—as long as you can. We’ll need them to freshen the withdrawing-rooms.”
Watching the maids as they set to work, Antonia found her gaze drawn to the seat at the end of the pool. The look in Philip’s eyes as he’d kissed her fingers returned, crystal clear, to her mind. A smile tugged at her lips. Despite her panic, she had made definite progress there. Unbidden, the memory of his odd behaviour in the hall rose to taunt her. A frown chased the smile from her eyes.
“This right, miss?”
Jerked back to reality, Antonia examined the spike held up for her approval. “Perfect.” The little maid glowed. “Be sure to collect two handfuls each—take them up to Mrs Hobbs as soon as you’re done.” Ruthlessly banishing Philip from her mind, Antonia stalked back to the house, determined more than ever to focus on the job at hand.
He would have taken refuge in the library or the billiard room but she had commandeered those as well. In a mood close to perilous, Philip abandoned his search for peace and quiet to wander through the throngs of his servitors, all furiously engaged in executing Antonia’s commands.
He wondered if he should tell her her assertiveness was showing. He knew it of old—her tendency to take charge, to organise, to get things done. His lawns looked like chaos run mad, but even he could see, beneath the hectic bustle, that it was effective, organised activity. Pausing to watch two of his farm labourers struggle to erect a stall, he mused on Antonia’s very real talent for getting people to work for her, often for no more direct reward than her smile and a brief word of approbation. Even now, he could see her at the far end of the lawn, where a narrow arm of the distant lake lipped a reed-fringed shore, exhorting the undergardeners to get all the punts cleaned and launched.
“Watch it there, Joe! Easy now, lad—just let me see if we’ve got this thing straight.”
Refocusing on the action more immediately before him, Philip saw the younger of the two labourers trying to balance the front beam of the stall while simultaneously holding one of the side walls erect. The older man, a hammer and wooden strut in his hands, had backed, trying to gauge if the beam and wall were at the right angle. Joe, however, had no hope of keeping both pieces still.
Philip hesitated, then stepped forward and clapped the older man on the shoulder. “Give Joe a hand, McGill—I’ll direct you.”
McGill touched his cap. “If you would, m’lord, we’ll get on a dashed sight faster.”
Joe simply looked grateful.
Before they were done, Philip had his coat off and was helping to hammer in nails. That was how Antonia found him when she did her rounds, checking on progress.
She couldn’t keep the surprise from her face.
Philip looked up—and read her expression. It didn’t improve his mood. Nor did the instant urge he felt to call her to him—or go to her. Instead, he held her gaze, his own, he knew, dark and moody. Half of him wanted to speak to her, the other half wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea—not yet. He hadn’t yet decided how he felt about anything—about her, about what he inwardly labelled her machinations. Looking away, he grimly hammered in another nail. He hadn’t felt this uncertain in years; pounding metal into wood was a comforting occupation.
Released from his mesmerising stare, Antonia couldn’t resist a swift survey of his shoulders and back, muscles flexing beneath his fine shirt as he worked, his hands, long-fingered but strong, gripped about nail and handle. When she moved on, her mouth was dry, her heartbeat not entirely even. Oblivious of the activity about her, she reviewed their recent meetings. He was usually so even-tempered, too indolent to be moved to any excess of emotion—his aggravated mood was a mystery.
She glanced back—he had paused, shoulders propped against the side of the stall. He was watching her, his gaze brooding and intent.
“Miss—do you want the doilies put out now or tomorrow?”
“Ah…” Whirling, Antonia blinked at the young maid. “Tomorrow. Leave them in the morning-room until then.”
The maid bobbed and scurried away. Drawing in a deep breath, Antonia followed more gracefully in her wake.
Philip watched her go, hips gently swaying as she climbed the slope, then pushed away from the wall and reached for another handful of nails.
An hour later, lunch was served—huge plates of sandwiches and mugs of ale laid out on the trestles already up and waiting. Exhorted by Antonia, no one stood on ceremony; as he helped himself to a sandwich stuffed full of ham, Philip noticed Geoffrey’s fair head among the crowd. The boy waved and pushed through to him.
“Antonia’s put me in charge of the Punch and Judy. Fenton’s helping me—one of the footmen is going to do Punch but I think I’ll have to do Judy. None of the maids will stop giggling long enough to say the lines.”
Philip uttered a short laugh. Geoffrey’s eyes were alight.
“We’ve got the booth up, but the stage is going to take some work.”
Philip clapped him on the shoulder. “If you can keep the children out of the lake, I’ll be forever in your debt.”
Geoffrey grinned. “I might take you up on that once we get to London.”
“Just as long as it’s not my greys you’re after.”
Geoffrey laughed and shook his head. Still grinning, he moved away.
Sipping his ale, Philip saw his steward and baliff, both ostensibly lending a hand. Normally, both men considered themselves above such activities; Philip wondered whether it was his presence that had changed their minds—or Antonia’s confident imperiousness.
His eye ranging the throng, he saw one of the maids—Emma was the name that came to mind—artfully jog Joe’s elbow. Joe was a likely lad, well grown and easy-mannered, barely twenty. As he watched Emma apologise profusely, smiling ingenuously up at Joe, Philip felt cynicism raise its mocking head. Joe smiled down at her, truly ingenuous. The little scene was played out in predictable vein; Philip moodily wondered if it might not be his duty to warn Joe that, despite the common assumption that man was the hunter, there were times when he might prove to be the prey.
As he himself had found.
He could see it now—now that Hugo had ripped the scales from his eyes. Henrietta’s behaviour should have triggered his innate alarms—instead, as he’d admitted, he’d been distracted. Not by the usual flirtatious encouragements—they wouldn’t have worked. But Antonia had not sought to attract him in the usual way—she’d used other wiles—more sophisticated wiles—wiles more likely to succeed with an experienced and recalcitrant gentleman rake who had seen it all before.
She’d used their old friendship.
With a grimace, Philip set aside his empty tankard and hefted the hammer he’d been using. He was still not sure how he felt—how he should feel. He had thought Antonia was different from the rest. Instead, she’d simply been using different tactics.
His expression still grim, he headed back to help McGill and Joe put up the rest of the refreshment stalls. They were banging the supports into place on the last of the stalls when a sound to his left had him turning his head. Antonia stood three feet away.
She met his gaze, then, with a slight smile, gestured to the tray she had placed on the counter of the next stall. “Ale—I thought it might be more acceptable than tea.”
Philip glanced about and saw the womenfolk bearing trays and mugs to the men. Most of the small workforce had completed their tasks; the refreshment was welcomed by one and all.
Looking back, Philip met Antonia’s calmly questioning gaze, then turned and, with one heavy blow, drove his last nail home. Laying the hammer aside, he called Joe’s and McGill’s attention to the ale. Antonia stepped back, hands clasped before her. Turning, Philip picked up a mug—and took the two strides necessary to trap her between the stall and himself.
Scanning his lawns, he took a long draught of ale. “Is there much more to do?”
Distracted from watching his lean throat work as he downed the ale, Antonia blinked and quickly looked about. “No—I think most of what we can do we’ve done.” She reviewed her mental lists. “The only thing remaining is for the barrels to be brought out. We decided to leave them under tarpaulins for the night.”
Still not looking at her, Philip nodded. “Good. That leaves us time to talk before dinner.”
“Talk?” Antonia stared at him. “What about?”
Philip turned his head and met her gaze. “I’ll tell you when we meet.”
Antonia studied his eyes, what she could see of them before he looked away. “If it’s about the fête—?”
“It’s not.”
The finality in his tone declared he was not about to explain. Inwardly, Antonia frowned; outwardly, she inclined her head gracefully. “In that case, I’ll just—”
Her words were cut off by shouts and yells and a muffled rumbling. Antonia turned—as did everyone else—to see an ale barrel come rolling down the lawn.
“Stop it!” someone yelled.
“Heavens!” Antonia picked up her skirts and hurried forward.
For one stunned instant, Philip watched her rush towards the barrel. Then, with a comprehensive oath, he flung aside his tankard and went after her.
She slowed as she drew in line with the oncoming barrel, deaf to the cries of warning. Close on her heels, Philip wrapped one arm about her waist and swung her out of harm’s way, pulling her hard against him.
“Wha—!”
Her strangled exclamation was music to his ears.
