Free A Comfortable Wife by Stephanie Laurens Page A

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, she reviewed their recent meetings. He was usually so even-tempered, too indolent to be moved to any excess of emotion—his aggravated mood was a mystery.
    She glanced back—he had paused, shoulders propped against the side of the stall. He was watching her, his gaze brooding and intent.
    “Miss—do you want the doilies put out now or tomorrow?”
    “Ah…” Whirling, Antonia blinked at the young maid. “Tomorrow. Leave them in the morning-room until then.”
    The maid bobbed and scurried away. Drawing in a deep breath, Antonia followed more gracefully in her wake.
    Philip watched her go, hips gently swaying as she climbed the slope, then pushed away from the wall and reached for another handful of nails.
    An hour later, lunch was served—huge plates of sandwiches and mugs of ale laid out on the trestles already up and waiting. Exhorted by Antonia, no one stood on ceremony; as he helped himself to a sandwich stuffed full ofham, Philip noticed Geoffrey’s fair head among the crowd. The boy waved and pushed through to him.
    “Antonia’s put me in charge of the Punch and Judy. Fenton’s helping me—one of the footmen is going to do Punch but I think I’ll have to do Judy. None of the maids will stop giggling long enough to say the lines.”
    Philip uttered a short laugh. Geoffrey’s eyes were alight.
    “We’ve got the booth up, but the stage is going to take some work.”
    Philip clapped him on the shoulder. “If you can keep the children out of the lake, I’ll be forever in your debt.”
    Geoffrey grinned. “I might take you up on that once we get to London.”
    “Just as long as it’s not my greys you’re after.”
    Geoffrey laughed and shook his head. Still grinning, he moved away.
    Sipping his ale, Philip saw his steward and baliff, both ostensibly lending a hand. Normally, both men considered themselves above such activities; Philip wondered whether it was his presence that had changed their minds—or Antonia’s confident imperiousness.
    His eye ranging the throng, he saw one of the maids—Emma was the name that came to mind—artfully jog Joe’s elbow. Joe was a likely lad, well grown and easy-mannered, barely twenty. As he watched Emma apologise profusely, smiling ingenuously up at Joe, Philip felt cynicism raise its mocking head. Joe smiled down at her, truly ingenuous. The little scene was played out in predictable vein; Philip moodily wondered if it might not be his duty to warn Joe that, despite the common assumption that man was the hunter, there were times when he might prove to be the prey.
    As he himself had found.
    He could see it now—now that Hugo had ripped the scales from his eyes. Henrietta’s behaviour should have triggered his innate alarms—instead, as he’d admitted, he’d been distracted. Not by the usual flirtatious encouragements—they wouldn’t have worked. But Antonia had not sought to attract him in the usual way—she’d used other wiles—more sophisticated wiles—wiles more likely to succeed with an