An uncertain, less-than-confident Antonia was a being he had little experience of, yet he felt a pressing need to reassure her, to accede to her plans. He scowled at his lawns. "Everyone will know that having hailed from Yorkshire, you might be feeling your way."
"Exactly." Antonia nodded. "And should our betrothal have been announced, they'll be watching like hawks, taking note of any and all mistakes I make. If I am merely your stepmother's niece being introduced to the ton, beyond natural curiosity no great attention will focus on me. I'll be able to study how ladies go on without giving rise to any adverse comment."
Philip remained silent; sensing victory, Antonia pressed her point. "You know that's true. In the eyes of the ton, a deficient upbringing is no excuse for gauche behaviour."
"You couldn't be gauche if you tried."
Antonia smiled. "Unintentionally, perhaps." She sobered, studying his profile, the rigid line of his shoulders. Straightening her own, metaphorically girding her loins, she drew in a deep breath. "I comprehend. . .that is, I imagine your expectations of your wife are that she will manage your households, act as your hostess both here and in town, and. . .and. . ." Dragging in another breath, she r
attled on, "In short, that she will fulfill all the usual functions and roles ascribed by society."
"I would want your friendship, Antonia." That and a great deal more. Philip kept his gaze on the gardens, unwilling to let her glimpse the emotions visible in his eyes.
Heartened by his statement, Antonia replied, "I, too, would hope our friendship would continue." She waited; when he said no more, she prompted, "I do want to marry you, Philip, but you do see, don't you, why we can't be betrothed until after our return?"
Philip turned, his jaw set, his gaze sharp and penetrating. For a long moment, he studied her eyes, and the conviction therein. She was asking for four, possibly five weeks of grace. Curtly, he nodded. “Very well—no—announcement of our betrothal. There is, however, no reason whatever why we cannot be betrothed, but keep the fact a secret."
Antonia met his gaze with one of her very direct looks. "Henrietta."
Philip swore beneath his breath. Hands rising to his hips, he swung away, facing the lawns again. Henrietta! His fond stepmama would never be able to keep the news to herself. And a legal betrothal was impossible without her knowledge.
It was an effort not to grind his teeth. He drew in a very deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Antonia, I am not about to let you waltz through the ballrooms of London without some agreement." He turned on the words, shifting to stand directly before her, trapping her with his gaze. "I will agree—grudgingly, make no mistake—not to press you for a formal betrothal, secret or otherwise, until we return to the Manor—which we will do immediately you've gained sufficient experience of the ton."
Holding hard to his reins, acutely conscious of the debilitating effects of frustration, Philip reached for her hands. Lifting them, he held them, palm to palm, between his and looked down into her eyes. "Antonia, I want you as my wife. If we cannot be betrothed formally, then I ask that we be betrothed privately—an agreement between the two of us."
Briefly, Philip glanced up at the sickle moon, riding high in the softly tinted sky, then looked down to recapture Antonia's green-gold gaze. "I ask that we plight our troth witnessed only by the moon—to consider ourselves promised, you to me and me to you, from now until we return to the Manor, after which we will wed as soon as custom permits."
He felt her fingers flutter between his, sensed the catch in her breath. For a long moment, he held her gaze, then, slowly, he separated her hands and carried one to his lips. "Do you agree, Antonia?" He brushed a kiss across her knuckles, then lifted her other hand, his eyes all the while on hers. "To be mine?"
His words were so deep, so velvety dark, Antonia barely heard them. She sensed them deep inside her, and felt a compulsion she couldn't deny. His lips grazed her fingers and she shivered. "Yes." She had always been his.
His eyes still held her trapped; slowly, he drew her hands up and out. When he let them go, they fell to his shoulders; his shifted to her waist, spanning it, then firming as he drew her close.
Antonia felt a quake ripple through her. "Philip?"
The question was the merest whisper. Philip heard and understood “All troths must be sealed with a kiss, sweetheart."
Her heart blocking her throat, Antonia felt her bodice brush his coat. She watched his head lower; her lids fell.
His lips found hers; warm and persuasive, their pressure soothed and reassured. Antonia relaxed, then stiffened as he gathered her into his arms, locking her in his embrace. Yet his hold remained gentle; his hands stroked her back.
Again she relaxed, again the kiss took hold, sweeping her into some magical realm of mystery, of sensation. His lips firmed; hesitantly, she parted hers, a flicker of nervousness distracting her momentarily, called forth by recollections of their encounter in the woods. But this time there was only warmth and pleasure, enticing, beckoning caresses that made her hungry—for what she didn't know. No unbridled passions arose to confront her, to elicit the wanton craving she was convinced she had to hide.
Reassured, she drifted deeper, giving herself up to gentle pleasure.
It took all of Philip's skill to keep the kiss, if not light, then at least non-conflagrationary. He was acutely aware of her untutored responses, of the way her body slowly softened in his arms, accepting his embrace in the same way her lips accepted his kiss. As in all things, she was deliciously direct, unambiguous-ly open, totally innocent of intrigue. For one of his ilk, the novelty was as heady as summer wine.
He forced himself to draw back, to gradually bring the kiss to an end, despite the ravenous hunger eating him. He was familiar with that demon; while it might make his life hell, he was its master.
When he eventually lifted his head, it was to the pleasure of watching Antonia's eyes, heavy-lidded, slowly open. She blinked at him, then made an obvious effort to compose herself.
"Ah. . ." Gently, Antonia tried to draw back, only to feel his arms firm.
"Not yet." Prodded by his demon, Philip lowered his head and stole another kiss, then another, before she could catch her breath.
"Philip!" Antonia barely got the word out; this time she insisted on pulling back.
Reluctantly, Philip dropped his arms but kept hold of one of her hands. "You're mine, Antonia." Possessiveness surged; he shackled it, unaware of the deep resonance of his voice, of the dark glitter in his gaze, of the way his fingers tightened about hers. Raising her hand, he pressed a kiss to her fingertips, then turned her hand and pressed a warm kiss to her palm. "Never forget it."