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."

Antonia shivered as he released her hand.

Holding her with no more than his gaze, Philip lowered his head one last time, barely touching his lips to hers. "Sleep well, my dear. I'll see you next in London."

She drew back, wide-eyed and, he thought, wondering. Then she inclined her head and slowly turned away. He let her go, watching as she retreated into his house, to spend the night under his roof, as she would from now on.

The smile on his lips slowly fading, Philip turned back to the lawns. After a moment, he grimaced feelingly, then descended the steps; hands in his pockets, he strode into the cool night.

Chapter Seven

"There's a message arrived for you, m'lord. Up from the Manor."

Seated in a wing-chair in his library, Philip waved Car-ring, his major-domo, forward. After spending an afternoon about town, calling in at his club and spending an hour at Manton's, he had retreated to his library secure in the knowledge that few of his peers had yet quit their summer hunting grounds. The continuing fine weather gave little incentive for returning to town before the round of balls and parties that made up the Little Season. Which meant Antonia would have a relatively quiet few weeks in which to gain her balance.

The silver salver Carring presented held a note addressed in Banks's finicky script. Frowning, Philip picked it up and unfolded it. He read Banks's few lines, then swore. "The damned woman's finally made up her mind!"

"Is that good news or bad news, m'lord?" Carring held himself correctly by his master's side, his lugubrious tone absolving his query of any hint of impertinence.

Philip considered the point, eyeing Banks's missive with distaste. "Both," he eventually replied. "It means that at long last we'll be able to close the sale of Lower Farm. Unfortunately, Mrs Mortingdale wants to see me in person over the matter of certain unspecified assurances." Exasperated, he sighed. "I'll have to go back." He glanced at the clock. "Not tonight. Tell Hamwell to have the greys ready at first light-wake me before then."

If he took the Brighton road, he could reach the Manor by midday; if luck was with him, he might be free of the vacillating widow in time to make the trip back that evening.

"Very good, m'lord." Caning, ponderously round and suited all in black, unhurriedly headed for the door. There, he turned, his hand on the knob. “Am I to take it, my lord, that her ladyship and her visitors will still be arriving tomorrow?"

"They will." Philip's tones were clipped. "Make sure all is ready."

Carring's brows rose fractionally as he turned away. "Naturally, m'lord."

Contrary to his plans, it was early afternoon two days hence before Philip returned to Grosvenor Square.

Carring helped him out of his greatcoat. "I take it the business of Lower Farm was successfully completed, m'lord?"

"Finally." Resetthng his coat, Philip turned to the hall minor to check his cravat. “Her ladyship and the Mannerings arrived yesterday?''

"Indeed, m'lord. I comprehend their journey passed without incident."

"No highwaymen-not even a scheming landlord to chouse us over the reckoning."

Turning, Philip beheld Antonia, a vision in soft turquoise muslin floating down the stairs. A stray sunbeam lancing through the fanlight struck golden gleams from her hair. “I should hope not," he said, moving forward to meet her. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her fingers. "I presume my coachman and grooms took good care of you?"

Antonia raised a brow. "Of all of us. But what of you? Did the widow eventually weaken?"

"She finally came to her senses." Tucking her hand in his arm, Philip turned her down the corridor. "However, nothing would do for it but that she had to see me in person so that I could give her an assurance-word of a gentleman-that I would keep her farm labourers on."

As he opened the door to the back parlour and handed her through, Antonia mused, "Actually, that seems rather wise-and kind of her, too."

Philip hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. "But I would have kept them on anyway. As it was, her summons meant I wasn't here to greet you. It appears I'm fated to return to my house to find you gracing my hall."

He shut the door behind them. Antonia slanted him a questioning glance as he came to stand beside her. "Do you find that so disturbing?"

Philip looked down into her green-gold eyes. "Disturbing?” For all his experience, he felt his senses slide. Taking firm hold of his wits, he clasped his hands behind his back. "On the contrary." His lips curved in a deliberately provocative smile. "That's precisely the result I'm aiming for. In this particular case, however, I had looked forward to welcoming you on your first evening in London."

Antonia smiled back. “We would hardly have been scintillating company." Calmly, she strolled to the chaise before the windows. “Henrietta retired immediately. Geoffrey and I had an early dinner and followed her upstairs." With a swish of her skirts, she settled on the flowered chintz.

"And this morning?" Gracefully, Philip sat beside her, neither overly close nor yet greatly distant. "I have difficulty believing you slept until noon."

"No, indeed." Antonia's smile grew gently teasing. “Geoffrey and I did discuss riding in the Park-he was sure you wouldn't mind if we raided your stable. But I convinced him to wait for your return."

Philip's expression blanked as he imagined what might have been.

Antonia shifted to face him. "What is it?"

Philip grimaced. "There's something I should explain- to you both." He focused on Antonia's face. "About riding in town."

Antonia frowned. “I had thought it was acceptable to ride in the Park."

"It is. It's the definition of the term 'riding' wherein the ton and the Mannerings differ."

“Oh?'' Antonia looked her question.

Philip pulled a face. "For ladies, the prescribed activity known as 'riding in the Park' involves a slow walk for much of the time, with at the most a short canter. Galloping, at least as you know it, is not just frowned upon-for you, it's utterly out of the question."

Antonia sat back, her expression a study of disgust and dismay. "Good heavens!"

One of her curls fell in a golden coil over one ear; Philip put out a hand and wound the curl about one finger, then, letting it slowly slip free, he gently brushed his finger against her cheek.