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.

Antonia sniffed. "If we're speaking of planning-"

"Which thankfully we aren't." Ignoring her haughty glance, Philip continued, "Henrietta is your nearest adult relative. I don't see much point in asking her permission to pay my addresses-she's going to be unbearably smug as it is. As for Geoffrey, I doubt he'll object."

"Given he's halfway to idolising you," Antonia retorted. "I sincerely doubt it, too."

Philip's brows rose. "Do you mind?"

Antonia met his gaze; inherently truthful, she shook her head. A species of dizzying panic was gathering momentum inside her. Consternation threatened. This was all happening much too soon.

"Which leaves only your inclination in question." His tone deepening, Philip held out his hand. "So-will you, dear Antonia, agree to be my wife?"

The world was definitely spinning. Her heart raced-Antonia could feel it beating wildly in her throat. Disregarding the fact, her gaze trapped in the grey of his, she laid her hand in Philip's palm. "Yes, of course. Eventually."

Philip's fingers closed about hers, then convulsively tightened. His features, about to relax into lines of arrogant satisfaction, froze; his expression wavered between shock and incredulity. "Eventually?"

Antonia gestured vaguely. "Afterwards."

"Afterwards when?"

She frowned. "After we return from London was what I had imagined."

"Well, imagine again." Abruptly, Philip stood. "If you imagined I'd consent to letting you swan through London's ballrooms without the protection of a betrothal, free as a bird, attracting God-knows-what attention, you are, my dear, fair and far out. We'll announce our betrothal tomorrow-I'll place a notice in the Gazette when I reach town."

"Tomorrow?" Antonia stared at him. "But that's impossible!"

"Impossible?" Philip towered over her, his expression growing more intimidating by the second.

Lifting her chin, Antonia met his gaze squarely. "Impossible," she reiterated-and watched his eyes darken, felt his fingers tighten about hers. "I thought you understood," she said, as the familiar vice tightened about her chest. Frowning, she dropped her gaze to his cravat. "You do understand-of course you do." Raising her head, she looked directly into his eyes. "So why can't you see it?"

For one, long instant, Philip closed his eyes. Then, opening them, he drew in a deep, steadying breath, and forced himself to release her hand. "I fear, my dear, that despite your conviction, I must claim temporary mental obfuscation. I have no idea what it is that I'm supposed to be able to see, much less why or how it, whatever it might be, comes to render my proposal ineligible."

Antonia blinked at him. "I didn't say your proposal was ineligible-just that it's impossible to announce our betrothal before we return from London."

Philip frowned at her; the tension locking his muscles slowly dissipated. "Let's see if I've got this straight. You agree to marry me as long as we don't announce our betrothal until after we return from London." He held Antonia's gaze. "Is that right?"

Antonia coloured. "If… I mean…" hands clasped before her, she lifted her chin "… presuming you still want me as your wife."

"That, thank heavens, is not in question." Eyeing her uptilted face, Philip had to fight the urge to take advantage of it. He fell to pacing, two steps away, then two steps back. "Kindly get it fixed in your head that I wish to marry you-if I had my way, immediately. Society and the laws, however, require a certain interval between proposal and execution. I had therefore planned…" he paused to throw Antonia a narrow-eyed glance "… in light of our apparent similarity of purpose, to announce our betrothal immediately so that we may be married on our return from town. Now you inform me that that's not possible!"

Antonia stood her ground. "It may be theoretically possible, but it's a great deal too soon."

"Too soon?"

Shutting her ears to his disbelief, Antonia nodded. "Too soon for me. You must see that, Philip. You know what…that is…" She frowned, searching for words to delicately allude to the effect he had on her. “You know how I react-I don't yet know how to go on in tonnish society. I need to learn the knack-and I can't do that if we're betrothed."

"Why not?" Philip frowned back. He kept pacing.

"What difference does it make if we're betrothed, married or merely acquaintances?"

Antonia lifted her chin. "As you very well know, if we were married or betrothed, people-certainly all the ladies-would expect me to know how things were done, how to behave in all circumstances. They would expect the lady you had chosen as your bride to be accomplished in such matters."

Seeking his face, she fixed her eyes on his. "As you also know, I don't have any experience of society at large-nothing more than a limited exposure to selected entertainments in Yorkshire. That's hardly sufficient basis on which to, as you phrased it, swan through the ton. I'd fall at the first hurdle." Her lips twisted wrily. "You know I would. In that particular arena, I've no experience in the saddle, and even less confidence in my ability to clear the hedges."

Philip slowed, then stopped. His frown had deepened.

Calmly, Antonia held his gaze. "You told me I needed to practice my skills before I tried handling the whip. The same is true here-I need to learn how to go on, how to behave as your wife, before we marry."

Philip grimaced then glanced away. To his mind, she needed no instruction in how to behave socially; her innate breeding, her natural directness, her honest openness, would stand her in good stead. Her performance on the day of the fete had been exemplary, but she clearly did not see that success as equivalent to facing the ton, a point he could hardly argue.

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 rattled 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."