A Comfortable Wife Read online

  He was confounded by her smile, a bewitching, beguil­ing, very gentle siren's smile. "I've been waiting—" An­tonia declared, her voice soft, serene, her eyes meeting his directly. "I think for years—for you to do just that."

  Desire bucked; Philip dragged in a shuddering breath. Very conscious of his limitations, he directed a warning glance at her. "If you could refrain from doing anything too encouraging, I'd be grateful."

  She shot him a mischievous glance—Philip saw the teas­ing glint he loved in her eyes. The sight made him groan— just the thought of what it might mean if she brought her usual, questing mind to bear in that arena too, threatened his already overtried control.

  Antonia stretched up; shifting his hands to her waist, Philip held her back. "We'll go directly to town tomorrow, given we have my phaeton. We'll stop at Ruthven House so you can change and pick up anything you want, then go straight on to the Manor. We can be married in a few days.'' He paused to draw breath, then forced himself to add, "Or wait the usual three weeks—whichever you prefer."

  Antonia studied his face, his eyes, then raised one brow in open speculation. "I think I'll reserve my decision—until tomorrow." She smiled, and pressed closer. "Tonight, after all, might influence my conclusion."

  Philip closed his eyes and groaned. “Is that an invitation or a threat?''

  "Both."

  Antonia reached up, twining her arms about his neck, stretching up to kiss him, letting her lips, her body, make her promises, purposely inviting, then inciting him to take all she had—all she was.

  He did, kissing her until she was breathless, witless, filled with an unnameable longing, before tumbling her into the billows of the bed. Slowly, leisurely, he divested her of her clothes. Passion burned freely within her; she felt neither the chill of the air nor any lingering restraint.

  Inevitable, he had termed it; as she lay back against the pillows and waited for him to join her. Antonia fell the rightness, the unquestionable truth, of his words. This had been destined to be. From the first.

  Then he returned to her, taking her in his arms, wrapping her in a cocoon of warm desire, sating her senses with delight. The night spun about them, a wild kaleidoscope of stars and suns set spinning by passion's hand.

  He held her tight, guiding her through the whirling of their senses, holding her steady, safe in his arms. He con­ducted her through a landscape she had never known ex­isted, guiding her unerringly through each deepening layer of intimacy until they came together, as it was always meant to be, the ease of old friendship and long-standing love investing each caress with a significance far greater than its physical form.

  Later, wrapped in the warm haven of his arms, settled against the heat of him, delicious languor in every limb, she felt his lips at her temple. The words he murmured were so low, she only just caught them.

  "Tonight, tomorrow—and forever."

  The note of finality in his voice set the seal on her hap­piness. Buoyed on its swell, Antonia slept.

  Philip woke the next morning to the distracting sensation of a warm, curvaceous, silk-encased form snuggled into his side. As the silk in question was his wife-to-be's skin, his reaction was instantaneous. He glanced at her—but all he could see was a mass of golden curls fanned out on the pillow. Raising his brows, he considered his next move— and recalled a few loose ends. Carefully, he eased from the bed.

  Dressing quickly, he left Antonia slumbering while he went downstairs.

  He returned twenty minutes later, having dispatched the Countess's gig along with various missives, some rather longer than others, back to Ticehurst Place, only to discover Antonia still hidden beneath the covers. With a rakish grin, Philip shrugged out of his coat.

  He was pulling off his shirt when he heard rustling from the bed. Looking up, he watched as Antonia blinked awake. She saw him; her lips curved in a sleepy, sated, gloriously happy smile.

  Philip felt his lips curve in automatic response. Dropping the shirt on a chair, he walked to the side of the bed, his hands at his waistband.

  It took a moment for Antonia's mind to clear enough to realise his clothes were coming off, rather than going on. “What are you doing?'' With an effort, she tugged her gaze all the way up to his face.

  His smile made her toes curl. "I thought," he said, rais­ing a brow in the way only he could, “that I should attend to our unfinished business without delay."

  Her mind still dimmed by the aftereffects of the long night, Antonia could not divine what he meant. "I thought," she said, trying to frown as he lifted the covers and slid in beside her, "that we'd concluded things quite satisfactorily." Nagging uncertainty made her add, "Didn't we?"

  His laugh was as devilish as his look.

  "Indubitably." Philip rolled her into his arms, settling her against him. "However, as we have a little time, I thought it might be wise to grasp the opportunity to. . ." His lips trailed down her throat. "Get in a little extra persua­sion—just to help you make up your mind."

  "My mind?" Antonia wasn't sure it was functioning at all. "On what matter?" Her memory tended to stall, fixed on certain memorable moments of the previous evening, all the rest merging into a less interesting background haze.

  "On whether we should marry sooner—" Philip bent his head to place a kiss on one pert nipple "—or later." He transferred his attention to its twin, hiding a smug grin when Antonia shifted restlessly against him.

  "Ah. . ." Antonia tried very hard to think. "I don't be­lieve I've yet made up my mind." As his hands fastened on her soft flesh, she was suddenly very sure of her answer. Moistening her lips, she glanced down and found Philip's eyes. "Maybe you'd better persuade me a bit more?"

  Philip's eyes gleamed. "That, my love, is precisely my intention."

  They returned to Ruthven House late that afternoon. Carring opened the door; Philip smiled, openly smug, when he saw his major-domo blink. A blink from Carring was the equivalent of an openmouthed stare from less controlled mortals.

  With a laughing smile, Antonia hurried upstairs, as eager as he to be on their way home—to the Manor, where they both belonged. Her smile hadn't faded all morning—he'd enjoyed every minute of the time he had invested putting it on her face.

  His own smile reflected his satisfaction as he stood in his hall and watched her disappear up the stairs.

  “And the wedding, my lord—if I might make so bold as to enquire?"

  Philip glanced at Carring. "Miss Mannering and I have reached a mutual understanding. We'll be married as soon as can be arranged."

  Carring's smile held a reciprocating smugness Philip wasn't at all sure he understood.

  "Very good, my lord," Carring intoned. "Might I re­quest to be apprised of the date on which the nuptials will be celebrated?"

  Philip fought a frown. "Why?"

  "With your permission, my lord, I'd like to close the house on that day—so the staff can travel to the Manor to be on hand to tender their wishes to you and your lady."

  Philip raised his brows. "If they wish it, by all means."

  "Rest assured, my lord, we will certainly be there." Magisterially ponderous, Carring headed for the baize door. "Indeed, I have long looked forward to throwing rice at your wedding."

  The baize door swung closed before Philip could think of a suitable reply. Eyes narrowed, he glared at the door—and wondered how good Carring's aim might be.

  Antonia's breathless return distracted him; he forgot the matter entirely—until the moment, three days hence, when, with Antonia radiant on his arm, he left the safety of the door of the local church to brave a positive hail of rice.

  One particular handful hit him on the back of his head; the grains quickly slid down beneath the folds of his cravat.

  Philip swore beneath his breath. He wriggled his shoul­ders to no avail. Glancing back, he searched the crowd— and located Carring, a wide grin on his face.

  An answering grin transformed Philip's face. The car­riage, bedecked with flowers, stood befo
re them. He pulled Antonia to him; to the cheers of their well-wishers, he kissed her soundly, then lifted her up to the carriage.

  Carring, as always, had had the last word; as he followed his wife into the carriage, Philip decided he didn't care in the least.

  He glanced at Antonia, gloriously happy as she waved to their friends.

  She was the wife he wanted, the wife he needed—not the comfortable wife she had thought to be but one to keep him on his toes.

  Smiling proudly, Philip settled back against the squabs, his gaze firmly fixed on his wife.

  His thirty-fifth year would be one he'd remember; he was, he discovered, looking forward, not just to the next, but to all the rest of his life.

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