Without turning, Geoffrey waved. "I will." He paused in the doorway to beam a belated smile at them all. "Good night."
As the door clicked shut, Philip glanced briefly at Antonia, then shifted his gaze to Henrietta, comfortably ensconced on the chaise. "I had thought to show your niece the beauties of the sunset. I believe I've heard you extoll its splendours when viewed from the terrace at this time of year?"
Transfixed by a gaze far too sharp for her comfort, Henrietta shifted. "Ah—yes." When Philip's gaze remained pointedly upon her, she shook her wits into order. "Yes, indeed! The effect can be quite. . ." she gestured airily ". . .breathtaking."
Philip smiled. Approvingly. Any doubt in Henrietta's mind that he had divined her secret purpose was firmly laid to rest.
“I believe you intend retiring early?''
Caution and curiosity warred in Henrietta's breast. Caution won. "Indeed," she said. Affecting a die-away air, she reclined against the cushions and waved listlessly. "If you'll ring for Trant, I think I'll go up immediately."
"An excellent notion." Philip crossed to the bellpull and tugged it twice. "You wouldn't want to overdo things."
Henrietta did not risk a reply. With a mildly affectionate smile, she waved dismissal to them both.
Intrigued, Antonia bobbed a respectful curtsy. Philip bowed with his customary grace, then, taking Antonia's arm, turned her towards the long windows which stood open to the terrace. "Come—give me your opinion."
Guided irresistibly through the gently billowing curtains, Antonia dutifully lifted her eyes to the western sky. "On the sunset?"
"Among other things."
Philip's tone, clipped and dry, had her shifting her gaze to his face.
Looking down into her wide eyes, he saw speculation leap into being, only to be replaced by a certain wariness. He halted by the balustrade, his gaze locked on hers. "I believe, my dear, that it's time for a little plain speaking."
Antonia felt giddy. Searching his eyes, she asked, "On what subject?"
"On the subject of the future. Specifically, ours." In an endeavour to disguise the tension that had, somewhat unexpectedly, gripped him, Philip sat on the stone balustrade. Meeting Antonia's gaze levelly, he raised an impatient brow. “It can hardly come as a surprise to you that I hope you will consent to be my wife?"
"No." The word was out before she had considered it; Antonia blushed furiously and tried to erase the admission with a wave. "That is. . ."
The look on Philip's face halted her.
"Plain speaking I believe I said?"
Antonia lifted her chin. “I had hoped—''
"You and Henrietta planned.'''
"Henrietta?" Utterly bemused, Antonia stared at him. "What has Henrietta to do with it?" She blinked. "What plans?"
Faced with her patent bewilderment, Philip had to accept his error. "Never mind."
Antonia stiffened; her eyes flared. "But I do mind! You thought—"
"I didn't think!" Philip made the admission through clenched teeth, belatedly realizing the truth. Antonia, wilful, stubborn Antonia, was no more likely to be a party to Henrietta's machinations than he. "I assumed— incorrectly, I admit. However, that subject is now entirely beside the point—I no longer particularly care how we reached our present pass." Much to his amazement, that statement, too, held the undeniable ring of truth. "What concerns me now—what we need to discuss—is what comes next."
Forcing himself to remain seated, Philip caught Antonia's glittering gaze and held it. "We both know what we want— don't we?"
Antonia studied his expression, grey eyes clear, filled with undisguised, unmistakable purpose. Holding his gaze, she drew in a slow breath, then nodded.
"Good—at least we agree on that much." Philip finked his fingers, laying them on one thigh, the better to resist a distracting urge to catch hold of her. “My affairs are currently in order; the matter of settlements can be decided at any time."
Antonia's eyes widened. "Your discussions with Banks. . ."
"Indeed." Philip couldn't resist a superior glance.