LITMIR.BIZ

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propped against the side of the stall. He was watching her, his gaze brooding and intent.

      “Miss—do you want the doilies put out now or tomorrow?”

      “Ah...” Whirling, Antonia blinked at the young maid. “Tomorrow. Leave them in the morning-room until then.”

      The maid bobbed and scurried away. Drawing in a deep breath, Antonia followed more gracefully in her wake.

      Philip watched her go, hips gently swaying as she climbed the slope, then pushed away from the wall and reached for another handful of nails.

      An hour later, lunch was served—huge plates of sandwiches and mugs of ale laid out on the trestles already up and waiting. Exhorted by Antonia, no one stood on ceremony; as he helped himself to a sandwich stuffed full of ham, Philip noticed Geoffrey’s fair head among the crowd. The boy waved and pushed through to him.

      “Antonia’s put me in charge of the Punch and Judy. Fenton’s helping me—one of the footmen is going to do Punch but I think I’ll have to do Judy. None of the maids will stop giggling long enough to say the lines.”

      Philip uttered a short laugh. Geoffrey’s eyes were alight.

      “We’ve got the booth up, but the stage is going to take some work.”

      Philip clapped him on the shoulder. “If you can keep the children out of the lake, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

      Geoffrey grinned. “I might take you up on that once we get to London.”

      “Just as long as it’s not my greys you’re after.”

      Geoffrey laughed and shook his head. Still grinning, he moved away.

      Sipping his ale, Philip saw his steward and bailiff, both ostensibly lending a hand. Normally, both men considered themselves above such activities; Philip wondered whether it was his presence that had changed their minds—or Antonia’s confident imperiousness.

      His eye ranging the throng, he saw one of the maids—Emma was the name that came to mind—artfully jog Joe’s elbow. Joe was a likely lad, well grown and easy-mannered, barely twenty. As he watched Emma apologise profusely, smiling ingenuously up at Joe, Philip felt cynicism raise its mocking head. Joe smiled down at her, truly ingenuous. The little scene was played out in predictable vein; Philip moodily wondered if it might not be his duty to warn Joe that, despite the common assumption that man was the hunter, there were times when he might prove to be the prey.

      As he himself had found.

      He could see it now—now that Hugo had ripped the scales from his eyes. Henrietta’s behaviour should have triggered his innate alarms—instead, as he’d admitted, he’d been distracted. Not by the usual flirtatious encouragements—they wouldn’t have worked. But Antonia had not sought to attract him in the usual way—she’d used other wiles—more sophisticated wiles—wiles more likely to succeed with an experienced and recalcitrant gentleman rake who had seen it all before.

      She’d used their old friendship.

      With a grimace, Philip set aside his empty tankard and hefted the hammer he’d been using. He was still not sure how he felt—how he should feel. He had thought Antonia was different from the rest. Instead, she’d simply been using different tactics.

      His expression still grim, he headed back to help McGill and Joe put up the rest of the refreshment stalls. They were banging the supports into place on the last of the stalls when a sound to his left had him turning his head. Antonia stood three feet away.

      She met his gaze, then, with a slight smile, gestured to the tray she had placed on the counter of the next stall. “Ale—I thought it might be more acceptable than tea.”

      Philip glanced about and saw the womenfolk bearing trays and mugs to the men. Most of the small workforce had completed their tasks; the refreshment was welcomed by one and all.

      Looking back, Philip met Antonia’s calmly questioning gaze, then turned and, with one heavy blow, drove his last nail home. Laying the hammer aside, he called Joe’s and McGill’s attention to the ale. Antonia stepped back, hands clasped before her. Turning, Philip picked up a mug—and took the two strides necessary to trap her between the stall and himself.

      Scanning his lawns, he took a long draught of ale. “Is there much more to do?”

      Distracted from watching his lean throat work as he downed the ale, Antonia blinked and quickly looked about. “No—I think most of what we can do we’ve done.” She reviewed her mental lists. “The only thing remaining is for the barrels to be brought out. We decided to leave them under tarpaulins for the night.”

      Still not looking at her, Philip nodded. “Good. That leaves us time to talk before dinner.”

      “Talk?” Antonia stared at him. “What about?”

      Philip turned his head and met her gaze. “I’ll tell you when we meet.”

      Antonia studied his eyes, what she could see of them before he looked away. “If it’s about the fête—?”

      “It’s not.”

      The finality in his tone declared he was not about to explain. Inwardly, Antonia frowned; outwardly, she inclined her head gracefully. “In that case, I’ll just—”

      Her words were cut off by shouts and yells and a muffled rumbling. Antonia turned—as did everyone else—to see an ale barrel come rolling down the lawn.

      “Stop it!” someone yelled.

      “Heavens!” Antonia picked up her skirts and hurried forward.

      For one stunned instant, Philip watched her rush towards the barrel. Then, with a comprehensive oath, he flung aside his tankard and went after her.

      She slowed as she drew in line with the oncoming barrel, deaf to the cries of warning. Close on her heels, Philip wrapped one arm about her waist and swung her out of harm’s way, pulling her hard against him.

      “Wha—!”

      Her strangled exclamation was music to his ears.

      “Philip!” Antonia eventually got out, all in a breathless rush. “Put me down! The barrel—!”

      “Weighs at least three times as much as you and would have flattened you into the ground.” Philip heard it rumble past them.

      His terse words came from directly behind Antonia’s right ear. Horrified, she waggled her toes but couldn’t touch the grass. He had scooped her up, holding her with her back against his chest, one large hand splayed across her middle, easily supporting her weight. He made no move to obey her injunction. She considered struggling—and blushed. The realisation of her predicament sent shock waves to merge with the odd heat spiralling through her.

      Men had rushed from all around to slow the rolling barrel. Antonia watched as they brought it under control, then turned it and rolled it towards the stall which would serve the ale.

      Only then did Philip consent to set her feet back on solid earth.

      Antonia immediately drew in a deep breath. She drew in another before she turned around.

      Philip got in first. “You would never have stopped it.”

      Antonia put her nose in the air. “I hadn’t intended to try—I would merely have slowed it until the men reached it—then they could have managed it as they did.”

      Philip narrowed his eyes. “After it had rolled right over you.”

      Antonia eyed his set chin, then lifted her eyes to his. Her jaw slowly set. “In that case,” she said, determinedly gracious although she spoke through clenched teeth. “I suspect I must thank you, my lord.”

      “Indeed. You can thank me by coming for a ride.”

      “A ride?”

      Philip caught her hand. Lifting his head, he scanned

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