A Comfortable Wife

listened as she painted a picture he had seen many times-through her eyes, it held an innocence, a sparkling freshness he had long grown too jaded to see.

She concluded with a thumbnail sketch of the major protagonists in what promised to be one of the season's more entertaining imbroglios.

'Indeed,' Antonia said, setting aside her empty glass. “The situation of Miss Dalling and the Marquess does seem to be of some urgency-but how much of that derives from Miss Dalling's undeniable sense of the dramatic I could not say. Whatever, I'm certain Miss Dalling will prevail, gorgon aunt or no.' She looked across at Philip, smiling, inviting him to share her amusement.

To her surprise, his face remained expressionless. Abruptly, he stood, setting his glass on the table beside him. 'Come. It's time you went upstairs.'

There was a note in his voice she could not place. Bemused, Antonia gave him her hands and let him draw her to her feet. Only then, as she stood directly before him, feeling the warmth of the fire strike through her thin gown did he meet her gaze. In the flickering firelight, his eyes were dark, slate-grey and stormy. Antonia felt her breath catch; she hesitated, then, calmly, her lips gently curving, she inclined her head. 'Good night, Philip.'

She was not going to retreat in disorder this time, nor take refuge in distance.

Stiffly, Philip returned her nod. He tensed to step back, to let her go-his fingers twined with hers and held tight. He hesitated, his gaze on her face, then slowly, gently, he drew her towards him until her bodice brushed his coat. His fingers slid from hers; he lifted both hands to frame her face.

Antonia held his gaze, her breath tangled in her chest, her heart pulsing in her throat. She saw his lids lower, his head angle over hers, then slowly descend. Her hand rose to his shoulder as she stretched upward, her lips slightly parted.

He kissed her, not forcefully but confidently, as one sure of his welcome. His lips firmed, his tongue teased and tantalised, tracing the ripe curves of her lips. She parted them fully, inviting him to taste; he did, sampling her softness, laying claim to all she offered with a possessive, consummate skill.

The fire burned; the flames leapt. For long minutes, a gentle magic held sway.

Then, very slowly, very deliberately, Philip drew back. His lips bare inches from Antonia's, he waited until her lids fluttered opened. He studied her eyes, burnished gold in emerald green. When they focused, he straightened. Holding tight to his reins, he released her.

'Good night, Antonia.' His smile held a wry quality he doubted she'd understand. 'Sweet dreams.'

She blinked; her eyes searched his, neither frightened nor puzzled, but with an intensity he could not place. Then her lips curved. 'Good night.'

The soft whisper reached him as she turned away. He watched her go, saw her glance back, once, at the door, then slip through it, shutting it softly behind her.

Drawing in a deep breath, Philip turned towards the fire. Bracing one arm against the mantelpiece, he gazed into the flames. Wonderingly, he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips-and fought to quell a shudder.

He had never imagined milk could taste erotic.

Chapter Nine

At noon the next day, Philip returned to his home after breakfasting with friends at a coffee house in Jermyn Street. His expression unruffled, his disposition one of calm expectation, he entered the cool dimness of his hall.

Carring rolled forward to relieve him of his greatcoat and cane.

Philip resettled his sleeves. “Is Miss Mannering about?''

'Indeed, m'lord.' Caning fixed his gaze on the wall beyond Philip's right shoulder. 'Miss Mannering is presently in the ballroom receiving instruction from the dancing master. Maestro Vincente.'

Philip studied his major-domo's eloquently blank expression. 'The ballroom?'

Carring inclined his head.

The ballroom lay beyond the drawing-room. The familiar chords of a waltz reached Philip's ears as he neared the door. Like all his doors, it opened noiselessly; crossing the threshold, he swiftly scanned the room.

The curtains had been drawn back along one side; sunlight spilled in wide beams across the floor. Geoffrey sat at the piano at the far end, industriously providing the music, frowning as he squinted at the music sheets. In the centre of the polished parquetry, Antonia, distinctly stiff, revolved awkwardly in the arms of a middle-aged man Philip unhesitatingly classed as an ageing roue.

Maestro Vincente showed little evidence of Italian blood. Short and rotund, he sported a florid, suspiciously English complexion. He was wearing a brown tie-wig and a bottle-green coat of similarly ancient vintage; his spindle shanks were clad in knitted hose. Most damning of all, Maestro Vincente possessed a distinctly lecherous eye.

Philip strode forward, letting his boot-heels ring on the boards. The music abruptly halted. Antonia looked up; Philip saw the relief in her eyes. His jaw hardened. 'I fear there has been a misunderstanding.'

Maestro Vincente's eyes started. He hurriedly released Antonia. 'A misunderstanding?' His high-pitched voice rendered the exclamation a squeak. 'No, no. I was hired, dear sir, I assure you.'

Halting by Antonia's side, Philip looked down on the hapless maestro. 'In that case, I regret to inform you that your services are no longer required.' Without looking at the door, he raised his voice. 'Carring?'

'M'lord?'

'Maestro Vincente is leaving.' 'Indeed, m'lord.'

'But…really! I must insist…!' Hands outspread, Maestro Vincente appealed to Philip.

Philip ignored him; gripping Antonia's elbow, he guided her down the room.

'If you'll just come this way, sir?' Carring's heavy tones left no room for argument. As always, he had the final word, efficiently ushering the deflated maestro out of the room.

The door shut; Antonia stared at Philip. 'Why did you do that?'

Halting by the piano, Philip raised a supercilious brow. 'He was hardly a proper person to instruct you in anything.'

“Precisely what I said,'' Geoffrey interjected.

Antonia ignored her brother. She fixed Philip with an exasperated look. “Be that as it may, how, pray tell, am I now supposed to learn to waltz? In case it's escaped your notice, these days, every young lady must be able to waltz. The ton will expect it of-' Abruptly, she broke off. She glanced at Geoffrey, then continued, 'Of me.'

Philip nodded. 'Indeed. So, having dismissed your appointed instructor, it would seem only fair that I take his place.'

Antonia's eyes widened. 'But-'

Exuberant chords drowned out her protest. Before she could marshal her wits, they were effectively scattered as Philip drew her into his arms.

'I assure you I'm every bit as competent as Maestro Vincente.'

Antonia threw him a speaking look.

Philip met it with an improbably humble expression. 'I've been waltzing around the ton's ballrooms for…let me see.' He frowned, then raised his brows. 'More years than I can recall.'

Antonia humphed and straightened her spine. As usual, she felt breathless; as he effortlessly steered her into the first gliding steps, a definite giddiness took hold. She wasn't at all sure this was a good idea but the challenge in his grey eyes made demurring unthinkable. Tilting her chin, she tried to concentrate on where he was headed.

'Relax.' Philip looked down at her. 'Stop thinking and you'll follow my lead easily enough.' When she looked her uncertainty, he raised one brow. 'I'll even forgive you should you scuff my Hessians.'

Antonia widened her eyes at him. 'Given you've just high-handedly dismissed my dancing master, who came with quite remarkable recommendations I'll have you know, then I should think you must accept whatever consequences follow.' As she capped the haughty comment with a toss of her curls, Antonia was struck by the oddity of the situation. Philip's intervention had been an impulsive, spur-of-the-moment reaction, unquestionably out of character. She cast a glance up at him-he was frowning.

He caught her eye. 'Who recommended Maestro Vincente?'