Antonia's eyes flashed; she lifted her chin. "What carriage do you drive in London?"
"A high-perch phaeton. Forget it," Philip tersely advised. "I'll permit you to drive my curricle, but only here."
Brows rising haughtily, Antonia started up the steps. "But when we get to London—"
"Who knows?" Philip mused. "You might turn out to be ham-fisted."
“Ham—!'' Antonia rounded on him—or tried to, only to feel his fingers close about her elbow. Effortlessly, he propelled her over the threshold into the morning-room where Henrietta sat tatting.
"One step at a time, my dear." His words were a murmur in her ear. "Let's see how well you can handle the reins before you reach for the whip."
That comment, of course, ensured she was on her mettle when, the following afternoon, Philip lifted her to the box-seat of his curricle. Determined that nothing—not even he—would distract her from her lesson, Antonia thrust her ridiculous sensitivity to the back of her mind and carefully gathered the reins.
"Not like that." Philip climbed up beside her, settling on the seat alongside. Deftly plucking the reins from her fingers, he demonstrated the correct hold, then laid the leather ribbons in her palms, tracing their prescribed path through her fingers with his. Despite her gloves, Antonia had to lock her jaw against the sensation of
his touch. She frowned.
Philip noticed. He sat back, resting one arm along the back of the seat. "Today, we'll go no faster than a sedate trot. Not having second thoughts, are you?"
Antonia shot him a haughty look. "Of course not. What now?"
"Give 'em the office."
Antonia clicked the reins; the horses, a pair of perfectly matched greys, lunged.
Her shriek lodged in her throat. Philip's arm locked about her; his other hand descended over hers as she grappled with the reins. The curricle rattled down the drive, not yet fast but with the greys lengthening their stride. The next seconds passed in total confusion—by the time she had the horses under control and pacing, restless but aware of her authority at the other end of the ribbons, Antonia was more rattled than she had ever been in her life before.
She shot Philip a fiery glance but could not—dared not— take exception to the steely arm anchoring her safely to his side. And despite the urge to tell him just what she thought of his tactics, she felt ridiculously grateful that he had not, in fact, taken control, but had let her wrestle with his thoroughbreds, entrusting their soft mouths to her skill, untutored though he knew that to be.
It took several, pulse-pounding minutes before she had herself sufficiently in hand to turn her head and meet his improbably bland gaze with one of equal impassivity. "And now?"
She saw his lips twitch.
"Just follow the drive. We'll stay in the lanes until you feel more confident."
Antonia put her nose in the air and gave her attention to his horses. She had, as she had earlier informed him, some experience of driving a gig. Managing a dull-witted carriage horse was not in the same league as guiding a pair of high-couraged thoroughbreds. At first, the task took all her concentration; Philip spoke only when necessary, giving instructions in clear and precise terms. Only when she was convinced she had mastered the "feel", the response of the horses to her commands, did she permit herself to relax enough to take stock.
Only then did the full import of her situation strike her.
Philip's arm had loosened yet still lay protectively about her. Although still watchful, he sat back beside her, his gaze idly scanning the fields. They were in a lane, bordered by hedges, meandering along a rolling ridge. Glimpses of distant woods beyond emerald fields, of orchards and of willows lining streams, beckoned; Antonia saw none of them, too distracted by the sensation of the solid masculine thigh pressed alongside hers.
She drew in a deep breath and felt her breasts swell, impossibly sensitive against her fine chemise. If she'd been wearing stays, she would have been sure they were laced too tight. That left only one reason for her giddiness—the same ridiculous sensitivity that had assailed her from the first, from the moment she had met Philip in the hall. She had put it down to simple nervousness—if not that, then merely a dim shadow of the infatuation she had felt for years.
An infatuation she had convinced herself would fade when confronted with reality.
Instead, reality had taken her infatuation and turned it into—what?
A shiver threatened—Antonia struggled to suppress it. She didn't, in fact, succeed.
Through the arm about her, Philip felt the telltale reaction. Lazily, he studied her, his gaze shrewd and penetrating. Her attention was locked on his leader's ears. "I've been thinking—about Geoffrey."
"Oh?"
"I was wondering if, considering his age, it might not be advisable to temporarily delay his departure for Oxford. He hasn't seen much of the world—a few weeks in London might be for the best. It would certainly put him on a more even footing with his peers."
Her gaze on the road, Antonia frowned. After neatly if absentmindedly taking the next corner, she replied, "For myself, I agree." She grimaced and glanced fleetingly at Philip. "But I'm not sure he will—he's very attached to his books. And how can we argue, if the time wasted will put him behind?"
Philip's lips curved. "Don't worry your head about convincing him—you may leave that to me."