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Halting, she looked around and discovered she’d reached the Italian garden. Neat hedges of lavender bordered a long, raised rectangular pool on which white water lillies floated. Gravelled walks surrounded the pool, themselves flanked by cypress and box, neatly clipped. It was a formal, quite austere setting—one which matched her mood. Frowning, Antonia strolled beside the pool, trailing her fingers in the dark water.
Her “ridiculous sensitivity” was the least of her problems. Philip still saw her as a young girl and the fête was looming; soon after, they would leave for London. If she wanted to succeed in her aim, she would have to do something. Something to readjust his vision of her—to make him see her as a woman, a lady—as a potential wife. And whatever she was going to do, she would have to do it soon!
“Well, my lady of the lake—are my goldfish nibbling your fingers?”
Antonia whirled and saw the object of her thoughts strolling towards her. He was wearing a flowing ivory shirt, topped with a shooting jacket, a scarf loosely knotted about his tanned throat. His long thighs were clad in buckskin breeches, his feet in highly polished top-boots. One brow rising in gentle raillery, his hair tousled by the breeze, he looked every inch the well-heeled landowner—and a great deal more dangerous than the average country gentleman.
Calmly, Antonia lifted her wet fingers and studied them. “Not noticeably, my lord. I suspect your fish are too well fed to be tempted.”
Philip halted directly before her; Antonia nearly jumped when his fingers slid about her wrist. Lifting her hand, he examined her damp fingers. “Fish, I understand, are not particularly intelligent.”
His heavy lids lifted; his gaze, sky grey with clouds gathering, met hers.
Antonia’s heart lurched, her stomach knotted; familiarity didn’t make the sensations any easier to bear. His fingers felt strong and steely, his grip on her wrist warm and firm. Her diaphragm seized; she waited, breathless, trapped by his gaze.
Philip hesitated, then the ends of his lips lifted lightly. Glancing down, he reached into a pocket and drew out a white handkerchief. And proceeded to wipe each finger dry.
Her heart pounding, Antonia tried to speak. She had to clear her throat before she could. “Ah—did you wish to speak to me about something?”
Philip’s smile deepened. She always asked. On principle, he never prepared an answer; inventing one on the spot kept him on his toes. “I wanted to ask if there was anything you needed for the fête. Do you have all you require?”
Antonia managed to nod. His stroking of her fingers, even with his touch muted by the fine lawn handkerchief, was sending skittering sensations up her arm. “Everything’s under control,” she eventually managed.
“Really?”
There was just enough amused scepticism in Philip’s tone to make her stiffen. She lifted her fingers from his slackened grasp and met his gaze. “Indeed. Your staff have thrown themselves into the spirit of the thing—and I must thank you for the services of your steward and bailiff. They’ve been most helpful.”
“I hope they have.” With a gesture, Philip invited her to walk beside him. “I’m sure the entertainments will be a credit to you all.”
Haughtily, Antonia inclined her head and fell into step beside him. Slowly, they paced beside the narrow pool.
Philip glanced at her face. “What brings you here? You seem...pensive.”
Antonia drew in a deep breath and held it. “I was thinking,” she said, tossing back her curls, “of what it would be like when we’re in London.”
“London?”
“Hmm.” Looking ahead, she airily explained, “As you know, I’ve not much experience of society. I understand poetry is much in vogue. I’ve heard it’s common practice for tonnish gentlemen to use poetry, or at least, poetic phrases, to compliment ladies.” She slanted an innocent look upwards. “Is that so?”
Philip’s mind raced. “In some circles.” He glanced down; Antonia’s expression was open, enquiring. “In fact, in certain company it’s de rigueur for the ladies to answer in similar vein.”
“It is?” Antonia’s surprise was unfeigned.
“Indeed.” Smoothly, Philip captured her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “Perhaps, as you’ll shortly be joining the throng, we ought to sharpen your rhymes?”
“Ah—” Her hand trapped beneath his warm palm, Antonia struggled to think. His suggestion was a considerable extrapolation of her plan.
“Here.” Philip stopped by a wrought-iron seat placed to look over the pool. “Let’s sit and try our wits.”
Not at all certain just what she had started, Antonia subsided. Philip sat beside her, half turning, resting one arm along the back of the seat. “Now—where to start?” His gaze roamed her face. “Perhaps we should stick to mere phrases—considering your inexperience?”
Antonia shifted to face him. “That would undoubtedly be wise.”
Only years of experience allowed Philip to keep the smile from his lips. “And perhaps I’d better start the ball rolling. How about—‘Your hair shines like Caesar’s gold, for which battalions gave their lives’?”
Wide-eyed, Antonia stared at him.
“Your turn,” Philip prompted.
“Ah...” Antonia bludgeoned her wits then lifted her gaze to his hair. She dragged in a breath. “‘Your hair glows like chestnuts, burnished by the sun’?”
“Bravo!” Philip smiled. “But that was purely a visual description—I think I win that round.”
“It’s a competition?”
Philip’s eyes gleamed. “Let’s consider it one. My turn. “‘Your brow is white as a snow martin’s breast, smooth as his flight through the sky.’”
On her mettle, Antonia narrowed her eyes, studying the wide sweep of his brow. Then she smiled. “‘Your brow is as noble a Leo’s ever was, your might not less than his.’”
Philip’s smile deepened. “‘Emerald your eyes, set in gold, precious jewels their value untold.’”
“‘Grey clouds and steel, mists and fog, stormy seas and lightning, mix in the depths of your gaze.’”
Brows rising, Philip inclined his head. “I’d forgotten what a quick learner you are. But onward! Let’s see...” Slowly, he raised his hand and gently, very gently, brushed her cheek with the back of one finger. “‘Your cheeks glow soft, ivory silk over rose.’” His voice had deepened.
For a long instant, Antonia sat as one stunned, wide-eyed, barely breathing. The only thought in her head was that her stratagem was working. The effects of his touch slowly dissipated; her wits filtered back. She swallowed, then frowned and met his gaze. “It should have been my turn to lead. So—‘Firm of chin and fair of face, your movements marked by languid grace.’”
Philip laughed. “Mercy! How can I hope to counter that?”
Antonia’s smug glance turned superior.
Philip studied her face. “All right. But—” Glancing down, he saw her hands, lightly clasped in her lap. “Ah, yes.” Shifting, he reached out and circled her wrist once more, gently tugging one hand free. Under his fingers, he felt her pulse leap.
She didn’t resist as he lifted her hand, turning it as though examining her slim fingers. Fleetingly, he let his gaze meet hers. Then, still holding her captive, he trailed the fingers of his other hand against her sensitive palm.
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.
* * *
“GOOD NIGHT, 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 stepmama’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.
