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 a pause, then Philip answered, “No. I don’t.”
Antonia glanced at him, then turned and headed back towards the house. Philip kept pace beside her. They were halfway to the terrace before she spoke again. “My mother was devoted to my father. Totally caught up with him and his life. When that ended unexpectedly, she was lost. Her interest in me and Geoffrey sprang from the fact we were his children—when he died, she lost interest in us.”
Philip’s jaw set. “Hardly a motherly sort.”
“You mustn’t misjudge her—she was never intentionally negligent. But she didn’t see things in the light you might expect—nothing was important after my father had gone.”
Together, they climbed the rising lawns towards the terrace. As they neared the house, Antonia paused and looked up, putting up a hand to shade her eyes so she could admire the elegant facade. “It took a long time for me to understand—to realise what it was to love so completely—to love like that. So that nothing else mattered anymore.”
For long moments, they stood silently side by side, then Antonia lowered her hand. She glanced briefly at Philip then accepted his proffered arm.
On the terrace, they turned, surveying the lawns, neat again but marked by the tramp of many feet.
Philip’s lips twisted. “Remind me not to repeat this exercise any time soon.”
He turned—and read the expression in Antonia’s eyes. “Not that it wasn’t a roaring success,” he hastened to reassure her. “However, I doubt my temper will bear the strain of a repeat performance too soon.”
The obvious riposte flashed through Antonia’s mind so forcefully it was all she could do to keep the words from her lips.
Philip read them in her eyes, in the shifting shades of green and gold. The planes of his face hardened. “Indeed,” he said, his tone dry. “When I marry, the problem will disappear.”
Antonia stiffened but did not look away. Their gazes locked; for a moment, all was still.
Then Philip reached for her hand. He raised it; with cool deliberation, he brushed a lingering kiss across her fingertips, savouring the response that rippled through her, the response she could not hide.
Defiantly, her eyes still on his, Antonia lifted her chin.
Philip held her challenging gaze, one brow slowly rising. “A successful day—in all respects.”
With languid grace, he gestured towards the morning-room windows. Together, they went inside.
“AH, ME!” GEOFFREY yawned hugely. “I’m done in. Wrung out like a rag. I think I’ll go up.”
Setting the billiard cues back in their rack, Philip nodded. “I’d rather you did—before you pass out and I have to haul you up.”
Geoffrey grinned. “I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble. G’night, then.” With a nod, he went out, closing the door behind him.
Philip shut the cue case; turning, his wandering gaze fell on the tantalus set against the opposite wall. Strolling across, he poured himself a large brandy. Cradling the glass, he opened the long windows and went out, thrusting his free hand into his pocket as he slowly paced the terrace.
All was still and silent—his home, his estate, rested under the blanket of night. Stars glimmered through a light cloud; stillness stretched, comforting and familiar, about him. Everyone had retired to recoup after the hectic day. He felt as wrung out as Geoffrey but too restless to seek his bed.
The emotions the day had stirred still whirled and clashed within him, too novel to be easily dismissed, too strong to simply ignore. Protectiveness, jealousy, concern—he was hardly a stranger to such feelings but never before had he felt them so acutely nor in so focused a fashion.
Superimposed over all was a frustrated irritation, a dislike of being compelled even though the compulsion sprang from within him.
In its way, it was all new to him.
He took a long sip of his brandy and stared into the night.
It was impossible to pretend that he didn’t understand. He knew, unequivocally, that if it had been any other woman, he would have found some excuse, some fashionable reason, for being elsewhere, far distant, entirely out of reach.
Instead, he was still here.
Philip drained his glass and felt the fumes wreathe through his head. Presumably this was part of being thirty-four.
CHAPTER SIX
TWO DAYS LATER, Philip stood at the library windows, looking out over the sun-washed gardens. The business that had kept him inside on such a glorious day was concluded; behind him, Banks, his steward, shuffled his papers.
“I’ll take the offer in to Mrs Mortingdale’s man then, m’lord, though heaven knows if she’ll accept it.” Banks’s tone turned peevish. “Smidgins has been doing his best to persuade her to it but she just can’t seem to come at putting her signature to the deed.”
Philip’s gaze roamed the gardens; he wondered where Antonia was hiding today. “She’ll sign in the end—she just needs time to decide.” At Banks’s snort, he swung about. “Patience, Banks. Lower Farm isn’t going anywhere—and all but surrounded by my land as it is, there’ll be precious few others willing to make an offer, let alone one to match mine.”
“Aye—I know,” Banks grumbled. “If you want the truth it’s that that sticks. It’s nothing but senseless female shilly-shallying that’s holding us up.”
Philip’s brows rose. “Shilly-shallying, unfortunately, is what one must endure when dealing with females.”
With a disapproving grunt, Banks took himself off.
After a long, assessing glance at his gardens, Philip followed him out.
She wasn’t in the rose garden, and the formal garden was empty. Deserted, the peony walk slumbered beneath the afternoon sun. The shrubbery was cool and inviting but disappointingly uninhabited. Eyes narrowed, Philip paused in the shadow of a hedge and considered the known characteristics of his quarry. Then, with a grunt to rival Banks’s, he strode towards the house.
He ran her to earth in the still-room.
Antonia looked up, blinking in surprise as he strolled into the dimly lit room. “Hello.” Hands stilling, she hesitated, her gaze shifting to the shelves of bottles and jars ranged along the walls. “Were you after something?”
“As it happens, I was.” Philip leaned against the bench at which she was working. “You.”
Antonia’s eyes widened. She looked down at the herbs she was snipping. “I—”
“I missed you this morning.” Philip lifted a brow as
