A Comfortable Wife Read online

  Nell swallowed her snort and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, she paused, eyeing the slim figure by the win­dow with open affection. Antonia did not move; Nell's eyes narrowed, then her features relaxed. "Should I warn Master Geoffrey to come to the table prepared to be civil?"

  The question jerked Antonia from her reverie. "Heavens, yes! I forgot about Geoffrey."

  "That's a first," Nell muttered.

  Frowning at the bedpost, Antonia didn't hear. "Be sure to warn him not to come to table with his nose in a book."

  "Aye. I'll make the matter plain." With a grim nod, Nell departed.

  As the door clicked shut, Antonia turned back to the gar­den, letting her senses slide into the sylvan beauty. She loved Ruthven Manor. Coming back had felt like coming home; at some instinctive level she had always belonged, not at Mannering Park, but here—amid the gentle rolls of the Downs, surrounded by trees so old they stood like mas­sive sentinels all around the house. Those feelings and her affection for Henrietta had both influenced her decision.

  Given Geoffrey was soon to enter the world, it was time for her to do the same. At twenty-four, her prospects were few; prosaic consideration had brought her here.

  Philip, Lord Ruthven, had yet to take a wife.

  Antonia grimaced, her unprecedented nervousness very fresh in her mind. But there was no place in her scheme for faintheartedness; this afternoon, she'd taken the first step. Playing out her part was now inevitable—aside from any­thing else, she would never forgive herself if she didn't at least try. If Philip didn't see her in that light, so be it.

  Recalling her promise to warn her aunt of his arrival, she shook herself. Glancing in the mirror, she fluffed her curls, her fingers stilling as she recalled Philip's fixation. Her lips quirked. Almost as if he'd been bowled over—in the cir­cumstances, a definitely heartening thought.

  Holding tight to that prop to her confidence, she headed for her aunt's rooms.

  Downstairs in the library, duly fortified by a tankard of superlative ale, Hugo turned his thoughts to satisfying his curiosity. "Mannering, Mannering," he mused, then cocked a brow at Philip. "Can't quite place the family."

  Jerked from contemplation of the most beguiling lips he'd ever seen, Philip set aside his empty tankard. "York­shire."

  "Ah—that explains it." Hugo nodded sagely. "The wilds to the north."

  "It's not as bad as that." Philip settled back. "Manner­ing Park, so I understand, is an estate of some signifi­cance."

  "So what's the darling of it doing here?"

  "She's Henrietta's niece—her father was Henrietta's only brother. He and Lady Mannering used to visit every summer." Philip felt the years roll back, saw again a young girl with long thick plaits astride his father's favourite hunter. "They'd leave Antonia here while they went the rounds through summer. She was always about.'' Laughing, chattering but, somehow, never irritating. He was ten years her senior, but that had never stopped her—he'd never been able to retreat behind any superior social facade, not with Antonia. He'd watched her change from a delightfully pre­cocious brat to an engagingly quick-witted young girl; he had yet to come to terms with her most recent transforma­tion.

  "Their visits stopped when her father died." Philip paused, calculating. "Eight years ago now. I understand Lady Mannering declared she was too weary to face the social round thereafter. Henrietta was—is—very fond of Antonia. She issued a standing invitation but apparently Lady Mannering could never spare her daughter."

  Hugo raised his brows. "So at long last Miss Mannering's escaped the maternal clutches?"

  Philip shook his head. "Lady Mannering died about a year ago. Henrietta renewed her entreaties with a vengeance but, if I recall Henrietta's ramblings aright, Antonia was adamant on remaining at Mannering Park to care for her brother—he's much younger than she." Philip frowned. "I can't remember how old he'd be now—I can't even remem­ber his name."

  "Whatever, it looks like she's changed her mind."

  "Knowing Antonia, that's unlikely. Not unless she's al­tered dramatically." After a moment, Philip added, "Per­haps her brother's gone up to Oxford?"

  Studying his friend's distant expression, Hugo sighed. "I hate to be obvious but there's a mystery here, in case you haven't noticed."

  Philip glanced at him. "Mystery?"

  "You've seen the lady!" Hugo sat up, gesticulating freely. "There she is—beautiful as be damned. Not a giddy girl, nor yet too long in the tooth but the sort to stop a charge of chasseurs in their tracks. And, to all appearances, she's unwed." Sinking back in his chair, Hugo shook his head. "Doesn't make sense. If she's as well-born and well-connected as you say, she'd have been snapped up years ago." As an afterthought, he asked, "They do have gentle­men up north, don't they?"

  Philip's brows slowly rose. "I'm sure they do—and they can't all be blind." A long moment passed while they both considered a situation that, in their experience, constituted a conundrum. "A mystery indeed," Philip eventually mused. "Given the facts you've so eloquently expounded, I can only conclude that you and I, dear Hugo, might be the first to catch sight of Miss Mannering in many a long year."

  Hugo's eyes slowly widened. "You're not suggesting her mama kept her locked up?"

  "Not locked up, but possibly very close. Mannering Park is isolated and, I gather, Lady Mannering became some­thing of a recluse." Uncrossing his legs, Philip stood, his expression unreadable. Settling his sleeves, he glanced at Hugo. "I rather think I should pay my anticipated visit to Henrietta. As to Miss Mannering's state, I strongly suspect we'll discover that to be a direct consequence of her mother's malaise."

  Henrietta, Lady Ruthven, put it rather more forcefully.

  "A damned shame, if you ask me. No!" She held up one hand, pink chins quivering with indignation. "I know one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead but Araminta Mannering's neglect of poor Antonia was nothing short of wicked!''

  They were in Henrietta's sitting-room, a cosy apartment made bright with flowers and floral embroideries. Henrietta occupied her favourite armchair beside the hearth; Philip stood before her, one arm negligently extended along the mantelpiece. At the back of the room, Henrietta's dresser, Trant, sat stitching industriously, head bent, ears flapping.

  Lifting eyes of faded blue presently lit by her ire to Philip's face, Henrietta went on, "Indeed, if it hadn't been for the good offices of the other local ladies, that poor child would have grown to womanhood with not the first inkling of the social graces." Her expression mulish, she fluffed up her shawls. "And as for contracting a suitable alliance—it pains me to say it but I'm quite sure that that was the furthest thought from Araminta's mind!"

  With her frown as near as it ever came to forbidding, she looked like an irate owl; Philip set himself to soothe her. "I met Antonia as we came in. She seemed wholly confi­dent, quite in her customary mould."

  "Of course!" Henrietta threw him a scornful glance. "The girl's no namby-pamby chit full of die-away airs! Araminta left the running of that huge old house entirely on Antonia's shoulders. Naturally she knows how to greet visitors and act the hostess—she's been doing it for years. Not only that, she had to manage the estate and take com­plete care of Geoffrey, too. It's a wonder she hasn't become bowed down beneath the weight of all the accumulated re­sponsibilities."

  Philip raised one brow. "Her shoulders—indeed, her car­riage—seem to have held up admirably under the strain."

  "Humph!" Henrietta shot him a glance, then settled deeper into her armchair. "Be that as it may, it's not right! The poor child should have been brought out years ago." She fell silent, idly toying with a fringe, then she looked up at Philip. "I don't know if you were aware of it but we offered to sponsor her—take her to London and introduce her to the ton. Puff her off with all the rrimmings. Your father insisted—you know Horace always had a soft spot for Antonia."

  Philip nodded, aware that was the truth. Even when, as a scrawny twelve-year-old, Antonia had blithely put a sad­dle on hi
s father's favourite hunter and taken the ferocious beast on a long amble about the lanes, his sire, stunned as they all had been, had praised her bottom rather than spanked it. His sire had never disguised the admiration he felt for Antonia's particular brand of straightforward con­fidence, an admiration Philip was well aware he shared.

  "We argued and even pleaded but Araminta wouldn't hear of it." Henrietta's gaze grew cold. "It was perfectly plain she considered Antonia's place was to act as her nursemaid and chatelaine; she was determined the girl would have no chance at any other role."

  Philip said nothing, his expression remote.

  "Anyway," Henrietta said, her tone that of one who would brook no denial, "I'm determined, now that she has come to me, to see Antonia right." Lifting her head, she fixed Philip with a challenging stare. "I intend taking her to London for the Little Season."

  For one instant Philip felt shaken, but by what force he couldn't comprehend. Holding fast to his customary imper-mrbabihty, he raised his brows. "Indeed?"

  Henrietta nodded, the action an eloquent testimony to the strength of her resolution.

  A pause ensued, which Philip, somewhat diffidently, broke. "Might I enquire as to whether you have any. . ." he gestured languidly ". . .further scheme in mind?"

  A beatific smile lit Henrietta's lined face. "I intend find­ing her a husband, of course."

  For an instant, Philip remained perfectly still, his expres­sion utterly impassive. Then his lids fell, veiling his eyes. "Of course." Gracefully, he bowed; when he straightened, his expression was as bland as his tone. "Hugo Satterly's downstairs—I should return to him. If you'll excuse me?"

  Only when the door had closed behind him and she had listened to his footsteps retreat along the corridor did Hen­rietta allow herself a gleeful cackle. “Not a bad start, if I do say so myself."

  Trant came forward to plump the cushions at her back and straighten her myriad shawls. "Seems like they've al­ready met."

  "Indeed—nothing could be more fortunate!" Henrietta beamed. "So like dear Antonia to remember to summon you to make sure I didn't oversleep. I detect fate's blessing in Philip arriving at just that moment."

  "Maybe so, but he didn't seem all that taken. You don't want to get your hopes too high." Trant had been with her mistress ever since her marriage to the late Lord Ruthven. She had seen young ladies aspiring to the role of her mis­tress's successor come and go with sufficient frequency to entertain serious reservations as to the present Lord Ruth­ven's susceptibility. "I don't want you getting moped if it don't come off."

  "Nonsense, Trant!" Henrietta turned to view her hench-woman. "If there's one thing I've learned after sixteen years of observing Philip, it's that one should never place any reliance on how he reacts. His nerves, I'm persuaded, have become so deadened by fashionable disinterest that even should he suffer a. . .a coup de coeur, he would merely raise a brow and make some mildly polite comment. No impassioned speeches or wild declarations from Philip, of that you may be sure. Nevertheless, I'm determined, Trant."

  "So I see."

  "Determined to see that languidly uninterested stepson of mine legshackled to Antonia Mannering." Henrietta thumped her chair arm for emphasis, then swivelled to look at Trant who had retreated to the windowseat. "You have to admit she's everything he needs."

  Without raising her eyes from her stitchery, Trant nod­ded. "She's that and more—you'll get no argument from me on that score. We've watched her grow and know her background—good bones, good breeding and all the graces you could want."

  "Precisely." Henrietta's eyes gleamed. "She's just what Philip needs. All we have to do is ensure he realizes it. Shouldn't be too difficult—he's not at all dull-witted."

  "That's what worries me, if you want to know." Trant snipped a thread and reached into her basket. "Despite that sleepy air of his, he's wide awake enough on most suits. If he gets wind of your plans, he might just slip his leash. Not so much a case of not liking the girl as of not liking the persuading, if you take my meaning."

  Henrietta grimaced. "I do indeed. I haven't forgotten what happened when I invited Miss Locksby and her family for a week and promised them Philip would be here—re­member?" She shuddered. "He took one look, not at Miss Locksby but at her mother, then recalled a prior engagement at Belvoir. Such a coil—I spent the entire week trying to make amends." Henrietta sighed. "The worst of it was that after that week I couldn't help but feel grateful he wouldn't marry Miss Locksby—I could never have borne Mrs Locksby as a relative."

  A sound suspiciously like a smothered snort came from Trant.

  "Yes, well." Henrietta fluffed her shawls. "You may be sure that I understand that we must go carefully in this— and not just because of Ruthven. I warn you, Trant, if An­tonia gets any inkling of my active interest, she's likely to. . .to. . .well, at the very least, she's likely to become un­cooperative."

  Trant nodded. "Aye. She likes running in harness no more'n he."

  "Exactly. But whether they like it or not, I see this as my duty, Trant. As I've said before, I don't believe it's my place to criticize Ruthven, but in this particular area I feel he's allowing his natural indolence to lead him to neglect his obligations to his name and to the family. He must marry and set up his nursery—he's thirty-four years gone and has shown no signs whatever of succumbing to Cupid's darts."

  "Mind you," Henrietta declared, warming to her theme, “I freely admit that susceptibility on his part would be the most desirable avenue to pursue, but we cannot base our plans on improbabilities. No! We must do what we can to, very tactfully, promote a match between them. Antonia is now my responsibility, whatever she may think. And as for Ruthven—" Henrietta paused to lay a hand on her ample bosom "—I consider it my sacred duty to his sainted father to see him comfortably established."

  Chapter Two

  At precisely six o'clock, Philip stood before the mirror above the mantelpiece in the drawing-room, idly checking his cravat. It was the household's habit to gather there dur­ing the half-hour preceding dinner; Henrietta, however, rarely made it down much in advance of Fenton's appear­ance.

  Focusing on his reflection, Philip grimaced. Dropping his hands, he surveyed the room. When no distraction offered, he fell to pacing.

  The latch clicked. Philip halted, straightening, conscious of a surge of expectation—which remained unfulfilled. A boy—or was it a young man?—came diffidently into the room. He stopped when he saw him.

  "Er. . .who are you?"

  "I believe that's my line." Philip took in the wide hazel eyes and the thick thatch of wavy blonde hair. "Antonia's brother?"

  The youth blushed. "You must be Ruthven." He blushed even more when Philip inclined his head. "I'm sorry—that is, yes, I'm Geoffrey Mannering. I'm staying here, you know." The boy stuck out his hand, then, in a paroxysm of uncertainty, very nearly pulled it back.

  Philip solved the problem by grasping it firmly. "I didn't know," he said, releasing Geoffrey's hand. "But had I con­sidered the matter, I should, undoubtedly, have guessed." Studying the boy's open face, he raised a brow. "I presume your sister felt she needed to keep you under her wing?''

  Geoffrey grimaced. "Exactly." His eyes met Philip's and he promptly blushed again. "Not that she's not probably right, of course. I dare say it would have been dev—" he caught himself up "—deuced slow staying at Mannering by myself."

  Rapidly revising his estimates of Geoffrey's age down­wards and his intelligence upwards, Philip inclined his head. The boy had the same ivory skin Antonia possessed, likewise untouched by the sun—strange in one of his years. "Are you down for the summer?"

  Geoffrey flushed yet again, but this time with gratifica­tion. "I haven't actually gone up yet. Next term."

  "You've gained entrance?"

  Geoffrey nodded proudly. “Yes. Quite a stir it was, ac­tually. I'm only just sixteen, you see."

  Philip's lips curved. "No more than I would expect of a Mannering." He had years of experience of Antonia's swi
ft wits on which to base that judgement.

  Engaged in an entirely unaffected scrutiny of Philip's coat, Geoffrey nodded absentmindedly. "Dare say you don't remember me, but I was here, years ago, when the parents used to leave Antonia and me with Henrietta. But I was mostly in the nursery—and when I wasn't I was with Henrietta. She used to be very. . . well, motherly, you know."

  Draping an arm along the mantelpiece, Philip's smile wry. "I do, as it happens. You've no idea how grateful I was, first to Antonia, then to you, for giving Henrietta an outlet for her maternal enthusiasms. I'm extremely fond of her, but I seriously doubt our relationship would be quite so cordial had she been forced to exercise her talents on me in lieu of other, more suitable targets."

  Geoffrey regarded Philip measuringly. "But you must have been quite. . .that is, almost an adult when Henrietta married your father."

  “Not quite a greybeard—only eighteen. And if you think you've outgrown Henrietta's mothering just because you've reached sixteen, I suggest you think again."

  "I already know that!" With a disgusted grimace, Geof­frey turned aside, picking up a figurine and turning it in his hands. "Sometimes," he said, his voice low, "I think I'll always be a child in their eyes."

  Philip flicked a fleck of lint from his sleeve. "I shouldn't let it bother you." His tone was even, man to man. "You've only so many weeks to go before they'll be forced to cut the apron strings."

  Geoffrey's expressive features contorted. "That's just it—I can't believe they actually will. They've never let me go before." His brow clouded. "Mama wouldn't hear of me going to school—I've had all my learning from tutors."

  The door opened, cutting short their tête-à-tête. Philip straightened as Antonia came into the room. Geoffrey noted the movement. Replacing the figurine, he unobtrusively fol­lowed suit.

  "Good evening, Antonia." Philip watched as she ap­proached, a picture in soft yellow silk, the sheening fabric draping her curves, clinging, then hanging free, concealing then revealing in tantalizing glimpses. Her guinea-gold curls rioted in prolific confusion about her neat head; her ex­pression was open, her hazel gaze, as always, direct.