Antonia threw him a sceptical look.

Philip lifted one hand and tapped her nose with one finger. "I promise I'm not bamming you for my own, nefarious ends." He fought to lighten his tone. "Within the ton, there are two sides to any successful marriage-the social and the private. Given the evidence of their Graces of Eversleigh, as well as Jack and Sophie Lester, not to mention Harry and Lucinda-all of whom you have yet to meet but whose marriages I, for one, envy-there's no gainsaying the fact that-" He paused, caught by the tide of his own eloquence. "Marriages based on…" Philip hesitated, then continued, "Deep mutual attraction have a great deal to recommend them."

He looked down and met Antonia's searching gaze.

"I thought you wanted a comfortable wife-one who would not make any…" Antonia blushed again. Irritated, she lifted her chin. "Any demands on your time."

Philip smiled, the gesture strained. “You mean one who would not be a constant distraction?" With one tug, he pulled the ribbon from her hair. The heavy mass cascaded down, scattering pins on the cushions. His smile tightened as he plunged one hand into the golden wave. “Who would not leave me daydreaming of how she will look, how she will feel, when I have her naked beneath my hands?" His eyes on the golden curls, he spread his fingers, then drew them through the thick mane, laying it across Antonia's shoulder. Then he trapped her gaze in his. "Is that what you thought I wanted?"

Wide-eyed, barely able to breathe, Antonia nodded.

Philip's gaze dropped, fastening on her lips. "Then you were wrong."

His head lowered, his lips found hers. He kissed her and kept kissing her, whirling her back into the mesmerising world of desire and delight, commanding her senses and her responses, murmuring encouragements in gravelly tones whenever her preconceived notions threatened to intrude.

The logs he had earlier placed on the fire were glowing embers when he finally lifted his head. Satisfied with Antonia's regretful sigh, he drew back.

Wits still adrift, her senses swimming, Antonia heard him murmur, "Lady mine."

"I hadn't thought to see so many here today." One hand on her bonnet, anchoring it against the stiff breeze, Antonia looked ahead to where the usual congestion of carriages constricted the main avenue of the Park.

Beside her on the box-seat of his phaeton, Philip smothered a snort. "Nothing less than a deluge will serve to keep them away. Mere threats-" his glance took in the lowering clouds scudding across the leaden sky "-have no power to intimidate the grande dames of the ton."

"Obviously." Sinking her fingers into the swansdown lining of her new muff, Antonia returned the gracious nods of the matrons they passed, her smile serenely confident. Inwardly, she remained amazed at her assurance, at the steady, unruffled beat of her heart.

After last night, and their interlude following Lady Darcy-d'Lisle's ball, she had expected to feel distinctly raffled when next she set eyes on Philip. Instead, unexpectedly meeting over the breakfast table, they had fallen into their usual friendly banter; there had been nothing in their interaction to unnerve her. Not even the gleam that occasionally lit his eyes, and the understanding she detected behind it, had served to disrupt the deep happiness that had laid hold of her.

Her fingers gently flexed; Antonia glanced down at her muff. Philip's latest present. She eyed it consideringly, then slanted him a glance. "I've noticed, my lord, that any item I admire has a tendency to become mine. Parasols, bonnets, even emeralds."

Engrossed with managing his greys, Philip merely arched a brow.

“Will it work if I admire a high-perch phaeton?''

She had quickly lost her fear of the lightweight carriage, she now revelled in its power and speed.

"No." Philip's answer was unequivocal. Stealing a moment from his cattle, he frowned at Antonia. “I will never consent to letting you risk your neck-don't even think it."

Antonia opened her eyes wide.

Philip humphed and turned back to his horses. His tone marginally less severe, he added, "If you behave yourself and don't tease me, you can have a pair of high-steppers for your carriage. I'll speak to Harry when next I see him."

The comment diverted Antonia. "Harry?" He had mentioned a Harry before.

Philip nodded. "Harry Lester-brother of Jack." After a second's pause, he added, "Both good friends of mine."

"Ah." Antonia knew what she was supposed to make of that. "Does this Harry have horses to sell?"

"Possibly." Philip glanced at her, a smile in his eyes. "Harry Lester is the owner of one of the country's foremost studs. That stallion you claimed at the Manor-Raker-is a colt of one of his champions. When it comes to quality horseflesh, you can't go past Harry."

"I see." As they slowed to join the line of carriages waiting to turn and retrace their route along the avenue, Antonia asked, "Is this the same Harry who married a Lucinda?"

Philip nodded. "Lucinda-Mrs Babbacombe that was. They married a few months ago, towards the end of the Season."

"Is there some reason they aren't in London?"

"Knowing Harry," Philip replied, wheeling his horses, "I assume they're too busy amusing themselves at home."

Antonia slanted him a glance. "Amusing themselves?"

Setting his horses to a trot, Philip turned to meet her gaze. "Strange to tell, there's one attraction guaranteed to hold greater allure for rakes than the ton in all its glory."

Antonia opened her eyes wide. "What?"

"Their wives in all their glory."

Blushing furiously, she threw him a speaking look, then switched her attention to the approaching carriages.

Hiding a grin, Philip looked to his horses. Antonia blushing was a sight very much to his liking; the response was not one to which she had previously been particularly susceptible. He was becoming adept at making her blush-yet another talent that improved with practice.

He waited until they passed the last of the stationary carriages before glancing her way again. "With the weather turning, the ranks will start to thin soon. There's really only a week more of the Little Season to go."

Antonia met his gaze, her own open and direct. "And then?"

Philip felt a fierce tension close like a fist about his heart. He kept all hint of the compelling force within him from his expression, from his eyes. "If you're agreeable, we'll return to the Manor. And then-" He broke off, quickly glancing at his horses. When he looked back, his expression was mild. "And then, my dear, we'll proceed as planned."

Antonia's gaze remained steady. She searched his eyes, then, her smile serene, inclined her head. "As we agreed, my lord."

Two nights later, Philip stood by the side of Lady Car-stairs's ballroom and wondered if there was any way he could make the Little Season end sooner. There were still five full nights of balls and parties to be endured; he wasn't sure his patience was up to it-up to the challenge of toeing the line he had drawn, the line beyond which he would not step. Given they were to wed and wed soon, he was not particularly averse to seducing Antonia. Seducing her while she resided under his roof, essentially under his protection, was another matter entirely, one which impinged on his honour, rather than simply his morals.

Swallowing a disgusted "humph", he resisted the urge to cross his arms and glower at the delightful picture she made, swirling down the room in the Roger de Clovely. Lord Ashby, one of his peers, was her partner; despite that, Philip felt no qualms. The fact gave him pause.

He was, now he thought of it, totally, unshakeably, sure of Antonia-sure of her affection, sure of her loyalty, sure of her wish to marry him. Why, then, was he torturing himself by standing here, watching over her?

None who saw her could doubt her assurance. If she should need any help, Henrietta was there, gossiping avidly with her intimates. Geoffrey, too, was somewhere in the throng, almost certainly with the Marquess, Miss Dalling and Mr Fortescue.

As the music swirled towards its conclusion, Philip cast one last glance about. There was no reason he couldn't do as husbands did and leave the room. Antonia didn't need him; he, however, could use the time to consider an urgent problem-what additional steps he could introduce, what byways they could explore, to lengthen her road to seduction.

Given the unexpected violence of his feelings, and her passionate response, that was an increasingly pertinent requirement.

As she rose from her final curtsy, Antonia laughed gaily at Lord Ashby, then automatically scanned the room. She saw Philip's back as he passed through the main door; smiling, she assumed he had gone to get some air.

Confident, buoyed by content, she chatted with Lord Ashby and the others who gathered around. Ten minutes of artless, on her part distracted, prattle convinced her that her thoughts had gone with Philip. Idly glancing around, she decided there was really no reason she, too, couldn't slip out to get some air. The blustery weather outside had meant the terrace doors were firmly shut; the temperature in the ballroom was steadily rising.

Smiling sweetly, she turned to Lord Ashby. "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I believe I must have a word with my aunt."

Given Henrietta was ensconced in the heart of the Dowager Marchioness of Hammersley's circle, Antonia was not the least surprised when none of the gentlemen present insisted on accompanying her. Slipping through the crowd, initially towards her aunt, she then changed tack and headed for the ballroom door.

In the library, otherwise deserted, Philip paced slowly before the hearth, his mind engrossed with Antonia and the latest unforeseen problem she had managed to present him. He did not hear the door ease open, then quietly close. It was the soft rustle of silk skirts, a very familiar sound, that brought him alert.

He turned, his heart lifting spontaneously, only to find it was not Antonia who stood artfully poised by the end of the chaise.

"Good evening, my lord."

Any thought that Lady Ardale had innocently happened upon him was laid to rest by her tone-pure unadulterated adulteress. A stunningly handsome woman, her voluptuous curves were encased in silk so fine it was clear she wore little beneath. Her skirts rustled again, a softly seductive sound, as, her dark gaze on his, she came slowly towards him.

Despite himself, Philip felt a certain fascination-the sort anyone would feel on observing a sight one had heard tell of but had never before encountered. He had certainly heard tell of Lady Ardale. She was one of those he would unhesitatingly label a piranha-in her case, she ate up rakes and spat out their bones. Rumour had it she was impossible to satisfy; attempting that feat that had literally brought some of the fraternity to their knees. As Lord Ardale was still strong enough to insist on discretion, her ladyship limited her prey to those already safely wed. Until now, Philip had thought himself safe.

Her ladyship's next words banished the illusion.

"You've been exceedingly clever, Ruthven." Halting directly before him, Lady Ardale smiled knowingly. Lifting one long-nailed finger, she traced a fold of his cravat. “Finding a friend of the family, a young lady of breeding but no knowledge of the ton-a sweet, innocent miss to be your bride." Archly, Lady Ardale lifted one brow. "Very clever indeed."

Almost imperceptibly, Philip stiffened.

"Indeed, my lord, such cleverness fairly begs a reward." Lady Ardale swayed closer; automatically, Philip put out one arm to steady her; his hand came to rest on one curvaceous hip. Lady Ardale drifted closer still, settling her curves against him. "I expect," she said, her words breathy but definite, "that your plans to marry the chit are well advanced. Might I suggest that, rather than waste the next three weeks at your estate, you join me and my guests at Ardale Place? A convivial little gathering." Lady Ardale's rouged lips curved. Her dark eyes on Philip's face, she caught his free hand and, unblushingly, guided it to her breast, trapping his fingers against the ripe swell. "I can assure you you'll get plenty of opportunity to partake of your just desserts. After all your careful planning, you won't want to deny yourself."

The intensity of the revulsion that swept him, the appallingly strong impulse to fling Lady Ardale from him, forced Philip to pause, to draw a slow, steady breath before declining, with what civility he could muster, her ladyship's salacious invitation. The idea that he would prefer her overripe, tawdry charms to those of Antonia struck him as an insult to his intelligence; her pronouncements on Antonia only raised his hackles further.