A Comfortable Wife

curves against him. 'I expect,' she said, her words breathy but definite, 'that your plans to marry the chit are well advanced. Might I suggest that, rather than waste the next three weeks at your estate, you join me and my guests at Ardale Place? A convivial little gathering.' Lady Ardale's rouged lips curved. Her dark eyes on Philip's face, she caught his free hand and, unblushingly, guided it to her breast, trapping his fingers against the ripe swell. 'I can assure you you'll get plenty of opportunity to partake of your just desserts. After all your careful planning, you won't want to deny yourself.'

The intensity of the revulsion that swept him, the appallingly strong impulse to fling Lady Ardale from him, forced Philip to pause, to draw a slow, steady breath before declining, with what civility he could muster, her ladyship's salacious invitation. The idea that he would prefer her overripe, tawdry charms to those of Antonia struck him as an insult to his intelligence; her pronouncements on Antonia only raised his hackles further.

Lady Ardale misread his stillness; with a siren-like smile, she reached up, intending to draw his head to hers.

Philip's expression hardened. The hand at her hip firmed; his other hand, freed, moved to grip her shoulder.

What made him look up he did not know, but he did- and saw Antonia, a wraith in the shadows, standing just inside the door. Philip froze. -%

Lady Ardale plastered herself to him.

The sob that escaped Antonia broke the web of horror, of utter disbelief, that held her. Philip heard it, a small, broken plaint. She pressed her hand to her lips, suppressing the sound, then whirled and fled the room.

The next thing Lady Ardale knew she lay sprawled upon the chaise-in precisely the position she had intended to assume, with one notable correction. Philip was supposed to have been with her, not striding to the door.

'Ruthven!'

Her ladyship's strident outrage brought Philip up short. Swinging about, he transfixed her with his gaze, cold contempt in his eyes. 'Madam,' he said, biting off the words, 'I suggest that in future you exercise greater discretion in selecting your paramours. You are greatly mistaken if you believe that / would wish to join their ranks.'

With that, he swung on his heel and strode after Antonia.

Entering the ballroom, he paused by the wall and scanned the company. He eventually located his bride-to-be, dancing the cotillion with some youthful sprig. To any casual observer, her carefree expression would have passed unremarked. Philip saw through it, saw the effort she put into every smile, every lighthearted gesture, saw the pain behind her disguise. He fought the overwhelming urge to go to her, to gather her into his arms and tell her the truth of what she had seen, what she had overheard-only his sure knowledge of the ton's reaction to such an act prevented him from committing it.

Tense, impatient, he waited until the cotillion ended, then strolled purposefully across the ballroom to claim his usual place by her side. She did not look up as he did so, but merely inclined her head.

Philip drew in a calming breath-and waited. When a heated discussion of the rival sporting merits of pheasant over grouse claimed the attention of her attendant swains, he leaned closer. “Antonia, we must talk. Come, stroll with me.'

She gave a brittle laugh, drawing attention back to them.

'I greatly fear, my lord, that my dance card is full.' On pretext of displaying her card, she slipped her right wrist from his hold. 'See?' Without looking at him, she held the card up for his perusal, then she beamed upon her court. 'Indeed, I couldn't disappoint so many earnest cavaliers.'

Her court immediately came to her rescue, decrying his right to take her from them. Gritting his teeth, Philip was forced to acquiesce with a semblance of grace. He had waltzed with her earlier; as usual, she had no further dances free.

With that avenue blocked, he remained by her side, increasingly aware of how tenuous, how flimsy, her blithely gay facade truly was. The knowledge stayed his hand from any further attempt to gain time alone with her; after all her hard work, after all her trepidations, to push her to the brink of some hysterical outburst here, in a ton ballroom, would be the act of a cad. The same consideration kept him where he was; if she did stumble and fall, he was one of the few he would trust to catch her.

And, after all, they would shortly be home; the library fire would already be lit.

With that objective in mind, he escorted her smoothly from the ballroom at the close of the evening, shielding her as best he could from any too-observant eyes. Helpfully, Henrietta proved greatly distracted by Miss Dalling's prospects; Geoffrey, drawn into the discussion, filled the gap Antonia left.

She followed Henrietta from the carriage, leaving him to descend in her wake. But Henrietta's slow progress up the steps held her back; coming up beside Antonia, Philip caught her hand and trapped it on his sleeve. She started at his touch, then acquiesced, allowing him to lead her to the door.

Henrietta, still demanding to know more of Miss Dalling, stumped up the stairs on Geoffrey's arm. From the hall, Antonia fast by his side, Philip watched until the pair gained the landing.

'My lord?'

Carring stood waiting to take his evening cloak. Releasing Antonia, Philip untied the loose ribands and shrugged the cloak from his shoulders. Turning back, he discovered Antonia halfway to the stairs.

'I greatly fear, my lord,' she said, one hand rising to her brow, 'that I have quite the most hideous headache. If you'll excuse me?'

With a swirling bob by way of farewell, she turned and sailed on up the stairs, not once meeting his gaze.

Philip's eyes narrowed as he watched her ascend; his expression hardened with every step she took.

When Antonia had passed from sight, Carring coughed, then murmured, 'No nightcaps tonight, my lord?'

His expression like flint, Philip growled, 'As you know damned well, I can pour my own brandy. You may lock up.'

With that, he strode into the library, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Upstairs, Antonia reached her chamber only to discover she had to ring for Nell, who had grown used to her interludes in the library. Tense as a bowstring, she waited until Nell appeared, then, resigned, submitted to the maid's ministrations, excusing her departure from the norm with, 'I'm merely feeling a bit peaked. A good night's sleep will no doubt see me right.'

Busy with her buttons, Nell shot her a searching glance. 'Sure you don't want me to mix up a Blue Powder? Or I could fetch you up the jar of Dr Radcliffe's Restorative Pork Jelly. A spoonful of that does strengthen one.'

She could certainly use some strength. 'No, thank you.' Antonia held herself stiffly, restraining her thoughts, her emotions, by main force. 'Just help me into my nightgown-I'll do my hair.'

Mumbling, grumbling, citing the benefits of Dr Radcliffe's Jelly to the last, Nell eventually took herself off.

Alone, Antonia drew in a deep, difficult breath, then, her brush in her hand, sank onto the stool before her dressing-table. Like one in a dream, she fell to brushing out her thick curls, her gaze fixed on her image in the mirror. The candelabra to her right threw steady light over her face; briefly, she focused on her image, then reached for the snuffer. Only when the candles were doused, leaving the room wreathed in shadows with the only light coming from the single candle by her bed, did she look back at the mirror.

She had no need to see the misery in her eyes to know of the misery in her heart.

For which she had only herself to blame.

She had let her heart rule her head, let love lead her to believe in miracles. Her mother had warned her-she had warned herself-but she hadn't listened. Seduced by love, she'd thought herself safe from its pain. Tonight, she had discovered she was not.

The hold she had maintained over her emotions abruptly shredded; love hit her like a blow, as it had in Lady Car-stairs's library, when concealed by shadows, she had watched Philip respond to some sophisticated harlot. As before, the impact left her reeling; pain speared through her, a vice squeezed her heart. A dull ache filled her, a miasma spreading insidiously through her, swallowing all hope.

Dully, Antonia blinked at the mirror, then laid aside her brush. She had always been strong, always able to cope. She would cope with this, too, and she would not cry-not even when her mother had sold her mare, the last gift her father had given her, had she given way to tears. Slowly, she straightened her shoulders and determinedly stared at her reflection, all but hidden by the flickering shadows.

Her hurt, her anguish, was entirely her own fault. Philip had never said he loved her-she had no cause to