The Trouble with Virtue. Stephanie Laurens

located the stream and the ford, nodded agreement and left.

      Antonia watched him cross the fields, an affectionate smile on her lips. Then she sighed and turned to Philip, her eyes holding an expression he could not immediately place. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see he hasn’t lost the knack.”

      Leading the way off the knoll, Philip raised his brows. “Of riding neck or nothing? Why should he?”

      Keeping pace beside him, Antonia’s lips twisted; she gave a light shrug. “Eight years is a long time.”

      Philip blinked. A long moment passed before he asked, “Haven’t you—and Geoffrey—been riding regularly?”

      Antonia looked up, surprised. “I thought you knew.” When Philip threw her a blank look, she explained, “Papa died in a hunting accident. Virtually immediately Mama sold his stable. She only kept two carriage horses—she said that’s all we’d need.”

      Philip kept his eyes fixed ahead; his face felt like stone. His tone was carefully even when he asked, “So, essentially since you were last here, you’ve been unable to ride?”

      Simply voicing the idea made him blackly furious. She had always found immense joy in riding, delighting in her special affinity with the equine species. What sort of parent would deny her that? His opinion of the late Lady Mannering, never high, spiralled downwards.

      Her attention on the roan, Antonia shook her head. “For me, it didn’t really matter, but for Geoffrey—well, you know how important such skills are to young gentlemen.”

      Philip forced himself to let her answer pass unchallenged; he had no wish to reopen old wounds. As they gained the flat, he tried for a lighter note. “Geoffrey has, after all, had excellent teachers. Your father and yourself.”

      He was rewarded with a swift smile.

      “Many would say that I’m hardly a good example, riding as I do.”

      “Only because they’re jealous.”

      She laughed at that, a warm, husky, rippling sound Philip was certain he’d never heard before. His eyes locked on her lips, on the column of her white throat; his gelding pranced.

      Instinctively, he tightened his reins. “Come, let’s ride. Or Geoffrey will tire of waiting.”

      They rode side by side, fast but not furiously, chestnut and roan flowing effortlessly over the turf. Geoffrey joined them at the ford; they wheeled and rode on, ultimately clattering into the stableyard a short hour after they had left it.

      The two men swung down from their saddles; Philip tossed his reins to Geoffrey, who led both grey and chestnut away.

      Before Antonia had well caught her breath, she lost it again. Philip’s hands closed, strong and sure, about her waist. He lifted her, as if she weighed no more than a child, lowering her slowly until her feet touched the ground.

      Antonia felt a blush tinge her cheeks; it was all she could do to meet his gaze fleetingly. “Thank you, my lord.” Her heart was galloping faster than any horse.

      Philip looked down at her. “The pleasure, my dear, is entirely mine.” He hesitated, then released her. “But do you think you could possibly stop ‘my lording’ me?” His tone, slightly acid, softened. “You used to call me Philip.”

      Still breathless, but at least now free of his paralysing touch, Antonia wrestled her wits into order. Frowning, she looked up and met his grey gaze. “That was before you came into the title.” Considering, she tilted her head. “Now that you have, I’ll have to call you Ruthven—like everyone else.”

      His eyes, cloudy grey, held hers; for an instant, she thought he would argue. Then the ends of his long lips twisted, in grimace or self-deprecation she couldn’t say. His lids fell; he inclined his head in apparent acquiescence.

      “Breakfast awaits.” With a graceful flourish, Philip offered her his arm. “Shall we? Before Geoffrey devours all the herrings.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      “AH—I WONDERED WHO was attacking my rose bushes.”

      Startled in the act of lopping off a developing rose-hip with a buccaneer-like swipe, Antonia jumped. Half turning, she glanced reprovingly at Philip as he descended the steps to the walk. “Your rose bushes, my lord, are running to seed. Not at all the thing.” With a decisive click, she removed another deadhead.

      She had spent the morning inscribing invitations for the fête-champêtre. In the silence of the afternoon, with Henrietta napping, she had taken to the gardens. After their ride that morning, she hadn’t expected to see Philip before dinner.

      Smiling lazily, Philip strolled towards her. “Henrietta mentioned you were easing her burden by taking things in hand around the house. Am I to take it you intend to personally deal with anything you discover running to seed around here?”

      Poised to pluck a half-opened rose, the delicate bloom cradled in her hand, Antonia froze. Philip had halted a bare foot away; she could feel his gently teasing gaze on her half-averted face. Catching her breath, surreptitiously, she hoped, she looked up and met his eyes. “As to my personal interest, I rather suspect it depends on the subject. However,” she said, turning back and carefully snipping the rose, “as far as the garden is concerned, I intend speaking with your head gardener immediately.” She laid the bloom in the basket on her arm, then looked up. “I take it you don’t disapprove of my...” she gestured gracefully “...impertinence?”

      Philip’s smile deepened. “My dear Antonia, if acting as chatelaine can be termed impertinent, you may be as impertinent as you please. Indeed,” he continued, one brow rising, his gaze sweeping her face, “I find it distinctly reassuring to see you thus employed.”

      For an instant, Antonia met his gaze, then, with the slightest inclination of her head, turned and glided along the path. Reassuring? Because, as she hoped, he saw such actions as evidence of her wifely skills? Or because she might, conceivably, make his unfettered existence more comfortable?

      “The design of your gardens is unusual,” she said, glancing back to find him strolling in her wake like a predator on her trail. “I’ve studied both contemporary and classical landscapes—yours seems a combination of both.”

      Philip nodded. “The fact that the lake and stream are so distant from the house rendered the usual water features ineligible. Capability Brown saw it as a challenge.” His eyes met Antonia’s. “One he couldn’t resist.”

      “Indeed?” Inwardly cursing the breathlessness that seemed to afflict her whenever he was near, Antonia halted beside a clump of cleomes. “To my mind, he’s succeeded in moulding the raw ingredients into a veritable triumph. The vistas are quite enchanting.” Setting aside her basket, she bent over the clump of soft white flowers, selecting and snipping two stems for her collection.

      Beside her, Philip stood transfixed, his gaze on an unexpected but thoroughly enchanting vista. Antonia shifted, then straightened; Philip quickly lifted his gaze to the neat row of conifers bordering the sunken garden. “Yes,” was all he could think of to say.

      Antonia threw him a swift, slightly suspicious look; he promptly smiled charmingly down at her. “Have you been through the peony walk?”

      “Not for a few days.”

      “Come, walk with me there—it’s always a pleasant route.”

      Antonia hesitated, then acquiesced. Together, they climbed the steps from the sunken garden, then turned into the narrow hedged walk where peonies of every description filled beds on either side of the flags. Although past their best, the plants were still blooming, displaying splashes of white and all shades of maroon against glossy green leaves. The path had been laid like a stream, gently twisting; here and there, small specimen trees grew, no longer in blossom but adding interest with their foliage.

      They strolled