The Trouble with Virtue. Stephanie Laurens

to catch you for a quiet word all day.”

      “Oh?” Philip glanced up from his shot. “What about?”

      Hugo waited until he had pocketed the ball before answering. “I’ve decided to return to town tomorrow.”

      Philip straightened, his question in his eyes.

      Hugo grimaced and pulled at his ear. “This fête, y’know. All very well for you in the circumstances—you’ll have Miss Mannering to hide behind. But who’s to shield me?” Palms raised in appeal, Hugo shuddered. “All these earnest young misses—your stepmama’s been listing their best features. Having succeeded with you, I rather think she’s considering fixing her sights on me. Which definitely won’t do.”

      Philip stilled. “Succeeded?”

      “Well,” Hugo said, “it was pretty obvious from the start. Particularly the way her ladyship always clung to yours truly. I was almost in danger of thinking myself a wit until the penny dropped. Perfectly understandable, of course—what with Miss Mannering being an old family friend and you being thirty-four and the last in line and so on.”

      Slowly, Philip leaned over the table and lined up his next shot. “Indeed.”

      “Mind,” Hugo added. “If I couldn’t see your reasoning—Miss Mannering being well in the way of being a peach—I wouldn’t have thought you’d stand it—being hunted in your own house.”

      Sighting along his cue, Philip smelt again the teasing scent of lavender, heard the scrunch of gravel beneath slippered feet, saw again Antonia’s airily innocent expression as she ingenuously led him along the garden path.

      His shot went awry. Expression impassive, he straightened and stepped back.

      Hugo studied the table. “Odd of you to miss that.”

      “Indeed.” Philip’s gaze was unfocused. “I was distracted.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THE NEXT MORNING, Antonia awoke with the larks. By nine o’clock, she had already spoken with the cook and Mrs Hobbs, the housekeeper, and seen the head-gardener, old Mr Potts, about flowers for the morrow. She was turning away from a conference with Fenton on which of the indoor tables should be used on the terrace when Philip strode into the hall.

      He saw Antonia and immediately changed course, his heels ringing on the black and white tiles. He halted directly before her.

      “You didn’t come riding.”

      Staring up into storm-clouded eyes, Antonia felt her own widen. “I did mention that there was a great deal to do.”

      His jaw firming, Philip cast a jaundiced eye over the figures scurrying about his hall. “Ah, yes.” His quirt struck the white top of one boot. “The fête.”

      “Indeed. We’re going to be terribly busy all day.”

      He swung back to Antonia, his gaze intent. “All day?”

      Antonia lifted her chin. “All day,” she reiterated. “And all tomorrow, too, until the festivities begin. And then we’ll be even more busy.”

      Beneath his breath, Philip swore.

      Antonia stiffened. Her expression aloof, she waved to the dining-room. “I believe you’ll find breakfast still available—if you hurry.”

      The look Philip cast her could only be called black. Without a word, he swung on his heel and headed for the dining-room.

      A frown in her eyes, Antonia watched him go—then realized what seemed so strange. He was striding. Briskly.

      “Excuse me, miss, but should I put this chair with those for the terrace?”

      “Ah...” Antonia swung around to see a footman struggling with a wing-chair. “Oh, yes. The dowagers will need all of those that we can find. They’ll want to doze in the sun.”

      As she laboured through the morning, Antonia kept her mind firmly fixed on her aim. The fête had to be a success—a complete, unqualified tour de force. It was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate to Philip that she was, at least at a county level, fully qualified to be his bride.

      Summoning two maids, she led them to the Italian garden and pointed out the lavender. “You need to cut not just the flower but the stem as well—as long as you can. We’ll need them to freshen the withdrawing-rooms.”

      Watching the maids as they set to work, Antonia found her gaze drawn to the seat at the end of the pool. The look in Philip’s eyes as he’d kissed her fingers returned, crystal clear, to her mind. A smile tugged at her lips. Despite her panic, she had made definite progress there. Unbidden, the memory of his odd behaviour in the hall rose to taunt her. A frown chased the smile from her eyes.

      “This right, miss?”

      Jerked back to reality, Antonia examined the spike held up for her approval. “Perfect.” The little maid glowed. “Be sure to collect two handfuls each—take them up to Mrs Hobbs as soon as you’re done.” Ruthlessly banishing Philip from her mind, Antonia stalked back to the house, determined more than ever to focus on the job at hand.

      * * *

      HE WOULD HAVE taken refuge in the library or the billiard-room but she had commandeered those as well. In a mood close to perilous, Philip abandoned his search for peace and quiet to wander through the throngs of his servitors, all furiously engaged in executing Antonia’s commands.

      He wondered if he should tell her her assertiveness was showing. He knew it of old—her tendency to take charge, to organise, to get things done. His lawns looked like chaos run mad, but even he could see, beneath the hectic bustle, that it was effective, organised activity. Pausing to watch two of his farm labourers struggle to erect a stall, he mused on Antonia’s very real talent for getting people to work for her, often for no more direct reward than her smile and a brief word of approbation. Even now, he could see her at the far end of the lawn, where a narrow arm of the distant lake lipped a reed-fringed shore, exhorting the undergardeners to get all the punts cleaned and launched.

      “Watch it there, Joe! Easy now, lad—just let me see if we’ve got this thing straight.”

      Refocusing on the action more immediately before him, Philip saw the younger of the two labourers trying to balance the front beam of the stall while simultaneously holding one of the side walls erect. The older man, a hammer and wooden strut in his hands, had backed, trying to gauge if the beam and wall were at the right angle. Joe, however, had no hope of keeping both pieces still.

      Philip hesitated, then stepped forward and clapped the older man on the shoulder. “Give Joe a hand, McGill—I’ll direct you.”

      McGill touched his cap. “If you would, m’lord, we’ll get on a dashed sight faster.”

      Joe simply looked grateful.

      Before they were done, Philip had his coat off and was helping to hammer in nails. That was how Antonia found him when she did her rounds, checking on progress.

      She couldn’t keep the surprise from her face.

      Philip looked up—and read her expression. It didn’t improve his mood. Nor did the instant urge he felt to call her to him—or go to her. Instead, he held her gaze, his own, he knew, dark and moody. Half of him wanted to speak to her, the other half wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea—not yet. He hadn’t yet decided how he felt about anything—about her, about what he inwardly labelled her machinations. Looking away, he grimly hammered in another nail. He hadn’t felt this uncertain in years; pounding metal into wood was a comforting occupation.

      Released from his mesmerising stare, Antonia couldn’t resist a swift survey of his shoulders and back, muscles flexing beneath his fine shirt as he worked, his hands, long-fingered but strong, gripped about nail and handle. When she moved on, her mouth was dry, her heartbeat not entirely even. Oblivious of the activity about her,