A Comfortable Wife by Stephanie Laurens Page B

his face.
    Unconscious of her scrutiny, Geoffrey went on, “I assume you know he’s suggested I should accompany you to London? I wasn’t too sure at first—but he explained how it would set yours and Henrietta’s minds at ease—if you could see me in society a bit, build your confidence in me, that sort of thing.”
    “Oh?” When Geoffrey glanced her way, Antonia hurriedly changed her tone. “I mean—yes, that’s right.” After a moment, she added, “Ruthven’s very good at thinking of such things.”
    “He said that’s one of the traits that distinguishes a manfrom a boy—that a man thinks of his actions in the wider context, not just in terms of himself.”
    Despite her inclination, Antonia felt a surge of gratitude towards Philip; his subtle mentoring would help to fill the large gap their father’s death had left in Geoffrey’s life. Any lingering reservations she had regarding Geoffrey’s visit to London evaporated. “I think you would be very wise to take Ruthven’s hints to heart. I’m certain you can have every confidence in his experience.”
    “Oh, I have!” Geoffrey strode along beside her, then recalled he should match his steps to hers. “You know—when you decided to come here, I thought I’d be—well, the odd man out. I didn’t think Philip would still be friendly, like he was to you all those years ago. But it’s just the same, isn’t it? He might be a swell and a gentleman about town and all that, but he still treats us as friends.”
    “Indeed.” Antonia hid a glum grimace. “We’re very fortunate to have his regard.”
    Grinning, Geoffrey disengaged. “Think I’ll take a fowling piece out for the rest of the afternoon.”
    Antonia nodded absentmindedly. Alone, she let her feet follow the gravel walks, her mind treading other paths. Geoffrey, unfortunately, was right. While Philip could be counted on to tease and twit her, in all their hours together, whether strolling the gardens or driving his greys, she had never detected anything in his manner to suggest he saw her other than as a friend. An old friend, admittedly—one on whom he need not stand on terms—but nothing more than an agreeable companion.
    It was not what she wanted.
    Looking back, analysing all their interactions, the only change the years had wrought was what she termed her “ridiculous sensitivity”—the leaping, fluttering feeling that afflicted her whenever he was close, the tension that immobilized her limbs, the distraction that did the same to her wits, the vice that made breathing so difficult every time hetouched her, every time he lifted her down and held her between his strong hands, every time he took her hand in his to help her up a step or over some obstacle.
    As for the times his fingers had inadvertently brushed the back of her hand—they were undoubtedly the worst. But all that came from her, not him. It was simply her reaction to his presence, a reaction that was becoming harder and harder to hide.
    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