The Trouble with Virtue. Stephanie LaurensЧитать онлайн книгу.
glance convinced Antonia that her ladyship saw nothing outrageous in her statement. Philip, she noticed, looked bored.
Oblivious, Lady Castleton rolled on. “So you’ve driven us to make our wishes plain, my lord. Calliope has conceived a great wish to view your rose garden but unfortunately Gerald cannot abide the flowers—they make him sneeze.”
“Quite right.” Gerald Moresby grinned. “Can’t abide the smell, y’know.”
“So,” Lady Castleton concluded, “as Miss Mannering is apparently acting as hostess in her aunt’s stead, I suggest she takes Mr Moresby on an amble about the lake while you, my lord, can lend me your arm and escort myself and Calliope through your rose garden.”
Gerald rubbed his hands together, his gaze on Antonia. “Capital idea, what?”
Antonia did not think so. Eight years ago, Gerald had been a most untrustworthy character. Judging by the expression in his pale blue eyes and the way his weak mouth shifted, he had not improved with the years.
Sensing sudden tension beside her, she glanced up to find Philip’s gaze fixed on Gerald’s face, his lips curved in a smile that was not entirely pleasant.
“I’m afraid, dear lady,” Philip smoothly said, shifting his gaze from Gerald Moresby’s lecherous countenance, thereby denying a sudden urge to rearrange it, “that as Miss Mannering and I are sharing the honours in entertaining my tenants, our time is not our own. I’m sure you understand the situation,” he sauvely continued, “being yourself the chatelaine of an estate.”
He was well aware of Lady Castleton’s background; it did not encompass any great experience of “lady of the manor” duties.
Which was why, stumped by his comment, unable to contradict it, her ladyship resorted to a cold-eyed stare.
“I knew you’d understand.” Philip inclined his head, his hand trapping Antonia’s where it rested on his sleeve. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us—the junior equestrians await.” He included Lady Castleton and her daughter in his benedictory smile; it didn’t stretch as far as Gerald Moresby.
As they passed out of earshot, Antonia drew a deep breath. “How positively...” She paused, hunting for words.
“Brilliant?” Philip suggested. “Glib? Artful?”
“I was thinking of ruthless.” She cast him a reproving glance.
The look he bent upon her was less readable. “You wanted to wander by the lake with Gerald Moresby?”
“Of course not.” Antonia quelled a shudder. “He’s a positive toad.”
Philip humphed. “Well, Miss Castleton’s a piranha, so they’re well matched—and we’re well rid of them.”
Antonia had no wish to argue.
They arrived at the edge of the roped-off area in time to watch the final rounds of the low jumps. Johnny Smidgins, the headgroom’s son, won by a whisker. His sister, little Emily, a tiny tot barely big enough to hold the reins, guided a fat pony through the course to take the girls’ prize.
Everybody made much of them both. Ruthven gravely shook Johnny’s hand and presented him with a blue ribbon. Antonia couldn’t resist picking up little Emily and giving her a quick kiss before pinning her blue rosette to her dress. Sheer pride struck the little girl dumb; Philip patted her curls and left well alone.
After that, only the last event remained—the Punch and Judy show. Virtually everyone, even some of the dowagers, crowded before the stage erected in front of the green wall of the shrubbery.
The children sat on the grass, their elders standing behind them. Among the last to join the throng, just as the makeshift curtain arose to whoops, claps and expectant shrieks, Antonia and Philip found themselves at the very back of the crowd. Philip could see; despite ducking and peering, Antonia could not.
“Here.” Philip drew her aside to where a low retaining wall held back a section of lawn. “Stand on this.” Gathering her skirts, Antonia took his proffered hand and let him help her up. The stone was not high but narrow on top.
“Put your hand on my shoulder.”
She had to to keep her balance. He stood beside her, and they both turned to watch the stage.
Geoffrey’s script was hilarious, the puppets inspired. Some of the props, including such diverse items as the cook’s favourite ladle and a moth-eaten tiger’s head from the billiard-room, were both novel and inventively used. By the time the curtain finally dropped—literally—Antonia was leaning heavily on Philip’s shoulder, her other hand pressed to the stitch in her side.
“Oh, my!” she said, blinking away tears of laughter. “I never knew my brother had such a solid grasp of double entendres.”
Philip threw her a cynical look. “I suspect there’s a few things you don’t know about your brother.”
Antonia raised a brow. She straightened, about to lift her hand from his shoulder. And sucked in a breath as her bruised back protested.
Instantly, Philip’s arm came around her.
“You are hurt.”
The words, forced out, sounded almost like an accusation. Leaning into the support of his arm, Antonia looked at him in surprise. Courtesy of the stone wall, their eyes were level; when his lids lifted and his gaze met hers, she had a clear view of the stormy depths, the emotions clouding his grey eyes.
Their gazes locked; for an instant, his sharpened, became clearer, then he blinked and the expression was gone. Her heart thudding, Antonia dropped her gaze and let him lift her gently down. She stretched and shifted, trying to ease the spot between her shoulder blades where Horatia Mimms’s elbow had connected. She wished he would massage it again.
He remained rigid beside her, his hands fisted by his sides. Antonia glanced up through her lashes; his face was unreadable. “It’s only a bit stiff,” she said, in response to the tension in the air.
“That witless female—!”
“Philip—I’m perfectly all right.” Antonia nodded at the people streaming across the lawns. “Come—we must bid your guests farewell.”
They did, standing by the drive and waving each carriage, each family of tenants, goodbye. Needless to say, Horatia Mimms was treated to an unnerving stare; Antonia held herself ready throughout the Mimms’s effusive leave-taking to quell, by force if necessary, any outburst on Philip’s part.
But all passed smoothly; even the Castletons eventually left.
When all had departed, Antonia returned to the lawns to supervise the clearing. Philip strolled beside her, watching the late-afternoon sun strike gold gleams from her hair.
“I’m really very impressed with Geoffrey,” he eventually said. “He took on the responsibility of staging the Punch and Judy and saw it through.”
Antonia smiled. “And very well, too. The children were enthralled.”
“Mmm. As far as I know, none fell in the lake, either—for which he has my heartfelt thanks.” Philip glanced down at her. “But I think some part of his glory is owed to you.” They had almost reached the nearest shore of the lake. Brows rising in question, Antonia stopped on a small rise; meeting her gaze, Philip halted beside her. “You must have had a hard time bringing him up, essentially alone.”
Antonia shrugged and looked away across the lake. “I never regretted having the care of him. In its way, it’s been very rewarding.”
“Perhaps—but there are many who would say it was not your responsibility—not while your mother still lived.”
Antonia’s lips twisted. “True, but after my father died, I’m not entirely certain my mother did live, you see.”
There was