path.”
Antonia’s eyes lit; her lips quirked.
Philip noticed. “Now what is there in that to make you laugh?” Mentally replaying the conversation, he could see nothing to account for the laughter he sensed welling within her. He lifted one brow interrogatively. “Well?”
Antonia’s smile broke. “I was considering, my lord,” she said, shifting her gaze to the crowds before them, “whether your last comment might not be an example of the pot calling the kettle black?”
She glanced up at him; he trapped her gaze, both brows rising. For a long moment, he held her mesmerised; Antonia felt a shiver start deep inside, spreading through her until it quivered just beneath her skin.
Only when awareness blossomed in her eyes did Philip glance away. “You, my dear, are hardly one to talk.” After a moment, he added, his tone less dark, “I suspect that we should mingle. When are the archery contests scheduled to start?”
The hours passed swiftly, filled with conversations. They strolled the lawns, stopping every few feet to chat with their guests. Antonia was of the firm opinion that Philip should spend at least five minutes with each of his tenants; it transpired he was of similar mind; she was not called on to steer him their way. A fact for which she gave due thanks.
Her control of the fête and its associated events might be absolute; it did not extend to him.
To her surprise, he held by her side, even waiting patiently while she exchanged recipes with one of his farmers’ wives. Despite the years, the majority of his tenants were still known to her; they were keen to renew their acquaintance as well as catch up with their landlord. After every encounter, Philip drew her close before moving on.
Exactly as if she did indeed provide the protection he claimed.
While most of the mamas had read the signs aright and consequently made no effort to put their darlings in his way, their darlings proved less perceptive. Miss Abercrombie and Miss Harris, greatly daring, accosted them as they strolled.
“Such a frightfully warm day, don’t you think, my lord?” Miss Abercrombie’s gaze was certainly sultry. She fanned herself with her hand, the action drawing attention to the ample charms revealed by her deeply scooped neckline.
“Quite positively enervating, I think.” Miss Harris, not to be outdone, fluttered her lashes and cast Philip a languishing look.
Antonia felt him stiffen; his expression was shuttered, remote.
“Before you find yourselves prostrated, ladies, might I suggest you repair to the drawing-room?” Philip’s tone alone lowered the temperature ten degrees. “I believe there are cold drinks laid out there.” With a distant nod, he changed tack, steering Antonia away from the budding courtesans.
After one glance at the rigid set of his lips, Antonia amused herself looking over the stalls. She could have told all the young misses that gushing declarations and fluttering lashes were definitely the wrong way to approach their host. He disliked all show of emotion, preferring the correct, properly restrained modes of interaction. He was a conventional man—she strongly suspected most gentlemen were.
They paused to allow Philip to discuss crop rotation withone of his tenant farmers. Covertly studying him, Antonia smiled wrily. His languid indolence was very much to the fore, at least in his projected image.
The girls watching could not hear his brisk words on ploughing and the optimum depth of furrows. As handsome as any, with that subtle aura of restrained power which derived, she suspected, from that affected indolence, while strolling the lawns with smoothly elegant stride, every movement polished and assured, he was a natural target for the sighing, die-away looks of the massed host of young girls.
Quelling an unhelpful shiver, Antonia looked around. Horatia Mimms and two of the girls from the vicarage stood in a knot nearby, giggling and whispering. Feeling immeasurably older, she
Antonia’s eyes lit; her lips quirked.
Philip noticed. “Now what is there in that to make you laugh?” Mentally replaying the conversation, he could see nothing to account for the laughter he sensed welling within her. He lifted one brow interrogatively. “Well?”
Antonia’s smile broke. “I was considering, my lord,” she said, shifting her gaze to the crowds before them, “whether your last comment might not be an example of the pot calling the kettle black?”
She glanced up at him; he trapped her gaze, both brows rising. For a long moment, he held her mesmerised; Antonia felt a shiver start deep inside, spreading through her until it quivered just beneath her skin.
Only when awareness blossomed in her eyes did Philip glance away. “You, my dear, are hardly one to talk.” After a moment, he added, his tone less dark, “I suspect that we should mingle. When are the archery contests scheduled to start?”
The hours passed swiftly, filled with conversations. They strolled the lawns, stopping every few feet to chat with their guests. Antonia was of the firm opinion that Philip should spend at least five minutes with each of his tenants; it transpired he was of similar mind; she was not called on to steer him their way. A fact for which she gave due thanks.
Her control of the fête and its associated events might be absolute; it did not extend to him.
To her surprise, he held by her side, even waiting patiently while she exchanged recipes with one of his farmers’ wives. Despite the years, the majority of his tenants were still known to her; they were keen to renew their acquaintance as well as catch up with their landlord. After every encounter, Philip drew her close before moving on.
Exactly as if she did indeed provide the protection he claimed.
While most of the mamas had read the signs aright and consequently made no effort to put their darlings in his way, their darlings proved less perceptive. Miss Abercrombie and Miss Harris, greatly daring, accosted them as they strolled.
“Such a frightfully warm day, don’t you think, my lord?” Miss Abercrombie’s gaze was certainly sultry. She fanned herself with her hand, the action drawing attention to the ample charms revealed by her deeply scooped neckline.
“Quite positively enervating, I think.” Miss Harris, not to be outdone, fluttered her lashes and cast Philip a languishing look.
Antonia felt him stiffen; his expression was shuttered, remote.
“Before you find yourselves prostrated, ladies, might I suggest you repair to the drawing-room?” Philip’s tone alone lowered the temperature ten degrees. “I believe there are cold drinks laid out there.” With a distant nod, he changed tack, steering Antonia away from the budding courtesans.
After one glance at the rigid set of his lips, Antonia amused herself looking over the stalls. She could have told all the young misses that gushing declarations and fluttering lashes were definitely the wrong way to approach their host. He disliked all show of emotion, preferring the correct, properly restrained modes of interaction. He was a conventional man—she strongly suspected most gentlemen were.
They paused to allow Philip to discuss crop rotation withone of his tenant farmers. Covertly studying him, Antonia smiled wrily. His languid indolence was very much to the fore, at least in his projected image.
The girls watching could not hear his brisk words on ploughing and the optimum depth of furrows. As handsome as any, with that subtle aura of restrained power which derived, she suspected, from that affected indolence, while strolling the lawns with smoothly elegant stride, every movement polished and assured, he was a natural target for the sighing, die-away looks of the massed host of young girls.
Quelling an unhelpful shiver, Antonia looked around. Horatia Mimms and two of the girls from the vicarage stood in a knot nearby, giggling and whispering. Feeling immeasurably older, she
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