The Trouble with Virtue. Stephanie Laurens

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.