“Get out of here, Antonia. Now.”
There was no real force behind the command, as if only a part of him meant it.
Yet the unspoken warning was clear.
The sense of standing on a precipice expanded and grew…and she chose the path of wisdom. Of immediate safety.
Despite her quaking limbs, she managed to—carefully—rise. It was an effort to wrench her gaze from his, but once she had, a curious defiance bloomed. Moving slowly, deliberately, she smoothed her skirt, then she raised her head, looked directly into his shadowed eyes, less than a foot away, and despite being entirely unable to draw breath, coolly said, “Do let me know when you succeed in speaking with Ennis.”
He’d asked for her help with his mission several times, had availed himself of her social skills; she wasn’t about to allow him to keep her in the dark over what was going on. As he would, if she let him.
Boldly, she stepped past him. Her nerves leapt as she sensed him tense and swivel as if to seize her, but he didn’t. Exhaling silently, head high, she walked toward the door. “Goodnight.”
She opened the door and stepped outside. Without looking back into the unlit room, she started to draw the door closed behind her—and heard from within a dark murmur, “Goodnight.”
She shut the door, released the doorknob, then paused, for one instant, savoring the thrill of having played—just for a moment—with fire. Of having faced such a challenge—unknown and dangerous, at least to her—and survived the encounter.
Then she realized a silly, far-too-smug-for-her-own-good smile had curved her lips. She forced them straight, shook her head at her delusions—dealing further with Sebastian was not going to be so easy—and walked slowly up the dim corridor.
To reach the door to her room, she had to pass the archway to the gallery; as she did, from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a dim figure lurking in the shadows on the other side of the archway. From the hairstyle, she instantly recognized Cecilia.
Antonia gave no sign of having seen their hostess hovering in the dark. She reached her door, opened it, then paused and frowned. There’d been something about the way Cecilia had been standing, dithering…
That was it. She’d intended to visit Sebastian, but had seen Antonia come out of his room and had drawn back, uncertain.
Antonia glanced along the corridor. She didn’t think Sebastian was expecting Cecilia; if he had been, he would have got rid of her much more quickly and with much less…tension. Still, she waited and watched.
After a minute or more had ticked past, her straining senses picked up the soft swish of silk skirts, but Cecilia didn’t step into the corridor.
Antonia debated, then quit her door and crept silently back to the archway. Peering into the gallery, she saw Cecilia retreating, then Cecilia opened a door, went through, and shut the door behind her.
Antonia drew back. Proprietorial satisfaction bloomed again. “Good,” she murmured.
Then she smiled and headed for her bed.
Things had changed—or perhaps evolved—between her and Sebastian. She reacted as if he was hers, and he did the same over her. Well and good. As for the tension—the visceral connection—that had erupted between them in the dark of his room…she wasn’t entirely sure exactly what that presaged, but she was ready and distinctly eager to find out.
Chapter 4
Sebastian bided his time through the morning—through an extended breakfast in the breakfast room, then, as the day was once again fine, he followed the other guests outside. The younger ladies set off for the folly from which they planned to sketch the views; after exchanging a coolly challenging glance with him, Antonia joined their ranks.
Connell Boyne and his friends went out onto the rear lawn to smoke cheroots. After strolling the rear terrace and evaluating their options, the older men retreated to the library; Hadley Featherstonehaugh and Sebastian trailed behind.
Sebastian and Hadley settled in comfortable chairs at one end of the library; Ennis, Parrish, and McGibbin appeared to be discussing business of sorts at the other end. The table between Sebastian’s and Hadley’s chairs held a stack of gentlemen’s sporting journals; they spent a quiet half hour flicking pages and trading the occasional remark.
Then Filbury looked in. “Connell suggested a croquet tournament. Who’s in?”
As it transpired, all the men were gripped by competitive zeal. The entire male half of the company duly gathered on the croquet lawn where Connell and Worthington had already set out the hoops. Mallets were passed around and various structures for a tournament were discussed before a series of games was decided, and they settled to play in rotating groups of three.