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Antonia’s soft words cut across Philip’s thoughts. He glanced her way, then, one brow slowly rising, turned back to Henrietta. “I admit to reservations that acting as hostess at such a large and varied gathering will overly tire you.”
Henrietta’s grin was triumphant. “No need to worry over me. Antonia can stand in my stead for the most part—I’m looking forward to sitting on the terrace with the other dowagers, keeping an eye on it all from a suitable elevation.”
“I can imagine,” Philip returned drily. He shifted his gaze to Antonia. “Yet your ‘most part’ is not precisely a light load.”
Antonia’s chin came up; she shot him a distinctly haughty glance. “I think you’ll discover, my lord, that I’m more than up to snuff. I’ve managed such gatherings at Mannering for years—I anticipate no great difficulty in overseeing my aunt’s entertainment.”
Philip ensured his expression held just enough scepticism to make her eyes flash. “I see.”
“Good.” Henrietta thumped the floor with her cane. “So it’s Saturday. We’ll send out the invitations tomorrow.”
Philip blinked. Hugo, he noticed, looked vaguely stunned. Henrietta, of course, was beaming happily up at him. Drawing in a deep breath, he hesitated, then inclined his head. “Very well.”
As he straightened, he deliberately caught Antonia’s eye. Her expression was innocent but her eyes, tapestries of green and gold, were infinitely harder to read. She raised her brows slightly, then reached for his empty cup.
Eyes narrowing, Philip surrendered it. “I intend to hold you to your offer.”
She treated him to a sunny, utterly confident smile, then moved away to straighten the tea trolley.
Suppressing a snort, Philip turned to find Hugo beside him.
“Think I’ll go join Geoffrey.” Hugo wriggled his shoulders. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s an aura about here that’s addling wits.”
* * *
THE DEW WAS still on the grass when Antonia headed for the stables the next morning. Early-morning rides had been a long-ago treat; Philip’s return had resurrected pleasant memories.
Entering the long stable, she paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Rising on her toes, she looked along the glossy backs, trying to ascertain whether the chestnut gelding the headgroom, Martin, had told her was Philip’s favourite, was still in his box.
“Still an intrepid horsewoman, I see.”
Antonia smothered her gasp and swung about. The velvet skirts of her habit swirled, brushing Philip’s boots. He was so close, she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes, one hand on her riding hat to keep it in place.
“I didn’t hear you.” The words were breathless; inwardly, Antonia cursed.
“I noticed. You seemed absorbed in some search.” Philip’s eyes held hers. “What were you looking for?”
For an instant, Antonia’s mind went blank; prodded by sheer irritation, she replied, “I was looking for Martin.” She turned to survey the empty stable, then slanted a glance at Philip. “I wanted him to saddle a horse for me.”
Philip’s jaw firmed. He hesitated, then asked, “Which of my nags have you been using?”
“I haven’t been out yet.” Picking up her skirts, Antonia strolled down the aisle, knowledgeably gauging the tall hunters and hacks.
Philip followed. “Take your pick,” he said, knowing very well she would.
“Thank you.” Antonia stopped before a stall housing a long-tailed roan, a raking, raw-boned stallion Philip privately considered had a chip on his shoulder—he was perennially in a bad mood. “This one, I think.”
With any other woman, Philip’s veto would have been automatic. Instead, he simply snorted and strode on to the tack-room. Returning with a sidesaddle, bridle and reins, he found Antonia crooning sweet nothings to the giant horse. The stallion appeared as docile as the most matronly mare.
Swallowing another “humph,” Philip swung the stall door wide. Quickly and efficiently, he saddled the stallion, glancing now and then at Antonia, standing at the horse’s head communing with the beast. He knew perfectly well she could have saddled the horse herself; she was the one woman in all the millions he would trust to do so.
But it would have been churlish to suggest she wrestle with the saddle, not when she made such a delightful picture, her habit of topaz-coloured velvet a deeper gold than her hair, the tightly fitting bodice outlining the womanly curves of her breasts, nipping in to emphasize her small waist before flaring over her hips. As if sensing his regard, she looked up; Philip jabbed an elbow into the roan’s side and cinched the girth. “Wait while I saddle Pegasus.”
Antonia nodded. “I’ll walk him in the yard.”
Philip watched as she led the stallion out, then returned to the tack-room. He was on his way back, his arms full of his own tack, when ringing footsteps sounded on the cobbles of the yard. Frowning, Philip set his saddle on the stall door. Hugo, he knew, would still be sound asleep. So who...?
“Hello! Sorry I’m a bit late.” Geoffrey waved and headed for the tack-room. As he passed, he flung Philip a grin. “I guessed you’d ride early. I won’t keep you.” With that, he disappeared into the tack-room.
Philip smothered a groan and dropped his head against his horse’s glossy flank. When he straightened and turned, he found himself eye to eye with Pegasus. “At least you can’t laugh,” he muttered savagely.
By the time he emerged from the stable, Antonia had discovered the mounting block and was perched atop the roan, a slim slender figure incomprehensibly controlling the great beast as she walked him around the yard.
Gritting his teeth, Philip swung up to the saddle; in less than a minute, Geoffrey joined them, leading a grey hunter.
“All right?” he asked, looking first to Philip and then to Antonia.
Philip nodded. “Fine. Let’s get going.”
They did—the brisk ride, flying as fast as the breeze, did much to restore his temper. He led the way but was unsurprised to see the roan’s head keeping station on his right. Geoffrey followed on his heels. It had been years—at least eight—since Philip had enjoyed that sort of ride: fast, unrestrained, with company that could handle the going as well as he. One glance as they cleared a fence was enough to reassure him that Antonia had not lost her skill; Geoffrey was almost as good as she.
In perfect amity with their mounts, they fled before the wind, finally drawing rein on an open hillock miles from the Manor. Philip wheeled, dragging in a deep breath. His eyes met Antonia’s; their smiles were mirror images. Exhilaration coursed through his veins; he watched as she tipped her head up and laughed at the sky.
“That was so good!” she said, smiling still as her eyes lowered and again met his.
They milled, catching their breaths, letting their mounts settle. Philip scanned the surrounding fields, using the moment to refresh his memory. Antonia, he noticed, was doing the same.
“That copse,” she said, pointing to a small wood to their left, “had only just been planted last time I rode this way.”
The trees, birches for the most part, were at least twenty feet tall, reaching their fingers to the sky. The undergrowth at their bases, home to badgers or fox, was densely intertwined.
“This brute’s still fresh.” Geoffrey wheeled the grey tightly. “There looks to be some ruins over that way.” He nodded to the east. “Think I’ll just shake the fidgets with a quick gallop.” He glanced at Philip and lifted a brow.
Philip nodded. “We’ll go back by way of the ford. You can join us on the other side.”
Geoffrey located the stream and the ford, nodded agreement and left.
Antonia watched him cross the fields, an affectionate smile on her lips. Then she sighed and turned to Philip, her eyes holding an expression he could not immediately place. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see he hasn’t lost the knack.”
Leading the way off the knoll, Philip raised his brows. “Of riding neck or nothing? Why should he?”
Keeping pace beside him, Antonia’s lips twisted; she gave a light shrug. “Eight years is a long time.”
Philip blinked. A long moment passed before he asked, “Haven’t you—and Geoffrey—been riding regularly?”
Antonia looked up, surprised. “I thought you knew.” When Philip threw her a blank look, she explained, “Papa died in a hunting accident. Virtually immediately Mama sold his stable. She only kept two carriage horses—she said that’s all we’d need.”
Philip kept his eyes fixed ahead; his face felt like stone. His tone was carefully even when he asked, “So, essentially since you were last here, you’ve been unable to ride?”
Simply voicing the idea made him blackly furious. She had always found immense joy in riding, delighting in her special affinity with the equine species. What sort of parent would deny her that? His opinion of the late Lady Mannering, never high, spiralled downwards.
Her attention on the roan, Antonia shook her head. “For me, it didn’t really matter, but for Geoffrey—well, you know how important such skills are to young gentlemen.”
Philip forced himself to let her answer pass unchallenged; he had no wish to reopen old wounds. As they gained the flat, he tried for a lighter note. “Geoffrey has, after all, had excellent teachers. Your father and yourself.”
He was rewarded with a swift smile.
“Many would say that I’m hardly a good example, riding as I do.”
“Only because they’re jealous.”
She laughed at that, a warm, husky, rippling sound Philip was certain he’d never heard before. His eyes locked on her lips, on the column of her white throat; his gelding pranced.
Instinctively, he tightened his reins. “Come, let’s ride. Or Geoffrey will tire of waiting.”
They rode side by side, fast but not furiously, chestnut and roan flowing effortlessly over the turf. Geoffrey joined them at the ford; they wheeled and rode on, ultimately clattering into the stableyard a short hour after they had left it.
The two men swung down from their saddles; Philip tossed his reins to Geoffrey, who led both grey and chestnut away.
Before Antonia had well caught her breath, she lost it again. Philip’s hands closed, strong and sure, about her waist. He lifted her, as if she weighed no more than a child, lowering her slowly until her feet touched the ground.
Antonia felt a blush tinge her cheeks; it was all she could do to meet his gaze fleetingly. “Thank you, my lord.” Her heart was galloping faster than any horse.
Philip looked down at her. “The pleasure, my dear, is entirely mine.” He hesitated, then released her. “But do you think you could possibly stop ‘my lording’ me?” His tone, slightly acid, softened. “You used to call me Philip.”
Still breathless, but at least now free of his paralysing touch, Antonia wrestled her wits into order. Frowning, she looked up and met his grey gaze. “That was before you came into the title.” Considering, she tilted her head. “Now that you have, I’ll have to call you Ruthven—like everyone else.”
His eyes, cloudy grey, held hers; for an instant, she thought he would argue. Then the ends of his long lips twisted, in grimace or self-deprecation she couldn’t say. His lids fell; he inclined his head in apparent acquiescence.
“Breakfast awaits.” With a graceful flourish, Philip offered her his arm. “Shall we? Before Geoffrey devours all the herrings.”
CHAPTER THREE
“AH—I WONDERED WHO was attacking my rose bushes.”
Startled in the act of lopping off a developing rose-hip with a buccaneer-like swipe, Antonia jumped. Half turning, she glanced reprovingly at Philip as he descended the steps to the walk. “Your rose bushes, my lord, are running to seed. Not at all the thing.” With a decisive click, she removed another deadhead.
She had spent the morning inscribing invitations for the fête-champêtre. In the silence of the afternoon, with Henrietta napping, she had taken to the gardens. After their ride that morning, she hadn’t expected to see Philip before dinner.
Smiling lazily, Philip strolled towards her. “Henrietta mentioned you were easing her burden by taking things in hand around the house. Am I to take it you intend to personally deal with anything you discover running to seed around here?”
Poised to pluck a half-opened rose, the delicate bloom cradled in her hand, Antonia froze. Philip had halted a bare foot away; she could feel his gently teasing gaze on her half-averted face. Catching her breath, surreptitiously, she hoped, she looked up and met his eyes. “As to my personal interest, I rather suspect it depends on the subject. However,” she said, turning back and carefully snipping the rose, “as far as the garden is concerned, I intend speaking with your head gardener immediately.” She laid the bloom in the basket on her arm, then looked up. “I take it you don’t disapprove of my...” she gestured gracefully “...impertinence?”
Philip’s smile deepened. “My dear Antonia, if acting as chatelaine can be termed impertinent, you may be as impertinent as you please. Indeed,” he continued, one brow rising, his gaze sweeping her face, “I find it distinctly reassuring to see you thus employed.”
For an instant, Antonia met his gaze, then, with the slightest inclination of her head, turned and glided along the path. Reassuring? Because, as she hoped, he saw such actions as evidence of her wifely skills? Or because she might, conceivably, make his unfettered existence more comfortable?
“The design of your gardens is unusual,” she said, glancing back to find him strolling in her wake like a predator on her trail. “I’ve studied both contemporary and classical landscapes—yours seems a combination of both.”
Philip nodded. “The fact that the lake and stream are so distant from the house rendered the usual water features ineligible. Capability Brown saw it as a challenge.” His eyes met Antonia’s. “One he couldn’t resist.”
“Indeed?” Inwardly cursing the breathlessness that seemed to afflict her whenever he was near, Antonia halted beside a clump of cleomes. “To my mind, he’s succeeded in moulding the raw ingredients into a veritable triumph. The vistas are quite enchanting.” Setting aside her basket, she bent over the clump of soft white flowers, selecting and snipping two stems for her collection.
Beside her, Philip stood transfixed, his gaze on an unexpected but thoroughly enchanting vista. Antonia shifted, then straightened; Philip quickly lifted his gaze to the neat row of conifers bordering the sunken garden. “Yes,” was all he could think of to say.
Antonia threw him a swift, slightly suspicious look; he promptly smiled charmingly down at her. “Have you been through the peony walk?”
“Not for a few days.”
“Come, walk with me there—it’s always a pleasant route.”
Antonia hesitated, then acquiesced. Together, they climbed the steps from the sunken garden, then turned into the narrow hedged walk where peonies of every description filled beds on either side of the flags. Although past their best, the plants were still blooming, displaying splashes of white and all shades of maroon against glossy green leaves. The path had been laid like a stream, gently twisting; here and there, small specimen trees grew, no longer in blossom but adding interest with their foliage.
They strolled in companionable silence, stopping intermittently to admire the extravagant displays. Antonia paused to examine the blooms carried on one long stem; Philip watched the subtle play of her thoughts rippling through her expression.
She was, on the one hand, so very familiar—on the other, so startlingly different.
He had almost grown accustomed to the change in her voice, to the husky undertone he found so alluring. Her eyes, a complex medley of greens and golds, had not altered but her gaze, although still direct, seemed more deeply assured. As for the rest of her, that had certainly changed. There was poise, now, where before had been youthful hedonism; elegant grace had replaced a young girl’s haste.
His gaze caressed her hair, glinting golden in the sunlight; he was prepared to accept that it was still as long and thick as he recalled. The curves that filled her muslin gown were, however, an entirely new development—a thoroughly distracting development.
Her head used to barely reach his shoulder, yet when she turned, Philip found his lips level with her forehead.
Bare inches away.
His gaze dropped and met hers, wide and, he realised, somewhat startled. Her scent wafted about him, rose, honeysuckle and some essence he could not name.
Her gaze trapped in his, Antonia caught her breath, only to find she could not release it. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to tear her eyes from the darkening grey of his, she stood before him, feeling like a canary staring at a cat.
Smoothly, Philip stepped back. “It’s nearly time for luncheon. Perhaps we should return?” His lids veiled his eyes; languidly, he waved to a cross-path that would lead them back to the house.
Slowly exhaling, Antonia glanced up at the sky. Her heart was racing. “Indeed.” In search of a topic—any topic—she asked, “What was it that brought you to the garden?”
Philip’s gaze ranged ahead, his expression bland as he considered and rejected the truth. In the distance, he saw Geoffrey returning from the stables. “I wanted to ask if Geoffrey had had any experience of driving. After what you told me of your last years, I imagine he’s lacked male guidance. Would you like me to teach him?”
Looking down, he caught the peculiar expression that flitted, very briefly, across Antonia’s features.
“Oh, yes,” she said, throwing him a grateful glance. “If you would, you would earn his undying gratitude. And mine.”
“I’ll take him out then.”
Antonia nodded, her eyes downcast. Side by side, they walked towards the house. Puzzling over her strange look, Philip shot her a shrewd glance, then slowly smiled. Schooling his features to an expression of deep consideration, he said, “Actually, I have to confess I’ve no experience of teaching striplings. Perhaps, as you are, unquestionably, a superior horsewoman and in loco parentis, as it were, I should practise my tutoring skills on you?”
Antonia’s head came up; she fixed him with a clear, very direct glance. “You’ll teach me to drive?”
Philip managed to keep the smile from his face. “If you would care for it.”
“I didn’t think—” Antonia frowned. “That is, I’d understood that it was no longer particularly fashionable for ladies of the ton to drive themselves.”
