. . . and then, I’m sure you will not be surprised to hear, I talked far too much. I simply couldn’t stop talking, but I suppose that is what I do when I am nervous. One can only hope I have less cause for nerves as the rest of my life unfolds.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her brother Colin, upon the occasion of
Eloise’s debut into London society
Then she opened her mouth.
“Sir Phillip?” she asked, and before he even had a chance to nod in the affirmative, she said, at quite the speed of lightning, “I’m so terribly sorry to arrive unannounced, but I really had no other option, and to be honest, if I’d sent notice, it probably would have arrived behind me, making the notice really quite moot, as I’m sure you’ll agree, and . . .”
Phillip blinked, certain he was supposed to be following what she was saying but no longer able to make out where one word ended and the next began.
“. . . a long journey, and I’m afraid I didn’t sleep, and so I must beg you to forgive my appearance and . . .”
She was making him dizzy. Would it be rude if he sat down? “. . . didn’t bring very much, but I had no choice, and . . .”
This had clearly gone on far too long, with no sign, in truth, that it would ever end. If he allowed her to speak for one moment longer, he was quite certain that he would suffer an inner ear imbalance, or perhaps she would swoon from lack of breath and hit her head on the floor. Either way, one of them would be injured and in debilitating pain.
“Madam,” he said, clearing his throat.
If she heard him, she gave no indication, instead saying something about the coach that had apparently conveyed her to his doorstep.
“Madam,” he said, a little louder this time.
“. . . but then I—” She looked up, blinking those devastating gray eyes at him, and for a moment he felt frighteningly off balance. “Yes?” she asked.
Now that he had her attention, he seemed to have forgotten why he’d sought it. “Er,” he asked, “who are you?”
She stared at him for a good five seconds, her lips parting with surprise, and then she finally answered, “Eloise Bridgerton, of course.”
Eloise was fairly certain she was talking too much, and she knew she was talking too fast, but she tended to do that when she was nervous, and while she prided herself on the fact that she was rarely nervous, now seemed like a rather deserving time to explore that emotion, and besides, Sir Phillip—if indeed he was the large bear of a man standing before her—was not at all what she had expected.
“You’re Eloise Bridgerton?”
She looked up into his gaping face and felt the first stirrings of annoyance. “Well, of course I am. Who else would I be?”
“I could not possibly imagine.”
“You did invite me,” she pointed out.
“And you did not respond to my invitation,” he returned.
She swallowed. He had a point there. A rather large one, if one wanted to be fair, which she didn’t. Not just then, anyway.
“I didn’t really have the opportunity,” she hedged, and then, when it seemed from his expression that that wasn’t enough explanation, she added, “as I mentioned when I spoke earlier.”
He stared at her for longer than made her comfortable, his dark eyes inscrutable, and then he said, “I didn’t understand a word you said.”
She felt her mouth form an oval of . . . surprise? No, annoyance. “Weren’t you listening?” she asked.
“I tried.”
Eloise pursed her lips. “Very well, then,” she said, counting to five in her head—in Latin—before adding, “My apologies. I am sorry to have arrived unannounced. It was dreadfully ill-bred of me.”
He was silent for a full three seconds—Eloise counted that as well— before saying, “I accept your apology.”
She cleared her throat.
“And of course”—he coughed, glancing around as if in search of someone who might save him from her—“I am delighted that you are here.” It would probably be impolite to point out that he sounded anything but delighted, so Eloise just stood there, staring at his right cheekbone as she
tried to decide what she could say without insulting him.
Eloise considered it a sad state of affairs that she—who generally had something to say for any occasion—couldn’t think of a thing.
Luckily, he saved their awkward silence from growing to monumental proportions by asking, “Is this all of your luggage?”
Eloise straightened her shoulders, delighted to move on to a comparatively trivial topic. “Yes. I didn’t really—” She broke herself off. Did she really need to tell him that she’d stolen away from home in the middle of the night? It didn’t seem to speak well of her, or of her family, for that matter. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want him to know that she had, for all intents and purposes, run away. She wasn’t certain why she thought so, but she had a distinct feeling that if he knew the truth, he’d pack her up and send her back to London posthaste. And while her meeting with Sir Phillip had not thus far proven to be the stuff of romance and bliss she’d imagined it to be, she was not yet prepared to give up.
Especially when that meant running back to her family with her tail between her legs.
“This is all I have,” she said firmly.
“Good. I, er . . .” He looked around again, this time a little desperately, which Eloise did not find flattering in the least. “Gunning!” he bellowed.
The butler appeared so quickly that he must have been eavesdropping. “Yes, sir?”
“We . . . ah . . . need to prepare a room for Miss Bridgerton.” “I have already done so,” Gunning assured him.
Sir Phillip’s cheeks colored slightly. “Good,” he grunted. “She will be staying here for . . .” He looked to her in askance.
“A fortnight,” she supplied, hoping that was about the right amount of time.
“A fortnight,” Sir Phillip reiterated as if the butler wouldn’t have heard her reply. “We will do everything in our power to make her comfortable, of course.”
“Of course,” the butler agreed.
“Good,” Sir Phillip said, still looking somewhat uncomfortable with the entire situation. Or if not uncomfortable, precisely, then perhaps weary, which might have been even worse.
Eloise was disappointed. She’d pictured him as a man of easy charm, rather like her brother Colin, who possessed a dashing smile and always knew what to say in any situation, awkward or otherwise.
Sir Phillip, on the other hand, looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else but where he was, which Eloise did not find encouraging, as his present surroundings included her. And what’s more, he was supposed to be making at least some effort to make her acquaintance and determine if she would make him an acceptable wife.
And his efforts had better be good ones indeed, because if it was true that first impressions were the most accurate, she rather doubted that she would determine that he would make an acceptable husband.
She smiled at him through gritted teeth.
“Would you like to sit down?” he blurted out. “That would be quite pleasing, thank you.”
He looked around with a blank expression on his face, giving Eloise the impression he barely knew his way around his own house. “Here,” he mumbled, motioning to a door at the end of the hall, “the drawing room.”
Gunning coughed.
Sir Phillip looked at him and scowled.
“Perhaps you intended to order refreshments, sir?” the butler asked solicitously.
“Er, yes, of course,” Sir Phillip replied, clearing his throat. “Of course.
Er, perhaps . . .”
“A tea tray, perhaps?” Gunning suggested. “With muffins?” “Excellent,” Sir Phillip muttered.
“Or perhaps if Miss Bridgerton is hungry,” the butler continued, “I could have a more extensive breakfast prepared.”
Sir Phillip swung his gaze over to Eloise.
“Muffins will be lovely,” she said, even though she was hungry.
Eloise allowed Sir Phillip to take her arm and lead her to the drawing room, where she sat on a sofa covered in striped blue satin. The room was neat and clean, but the furnishings were shabby. The entire house had a vague neglected quality to it, as if the owner had run out of money, or perhaps just didn’t care.
Eloise tended to think that it was the latter. She supposed it was possible that Sir Phillip was short of funds, but the grounds had been magnificent, and she had seen enough of his greenhouse as she was driving in to realize that it was in excellent condition. Given that Sir Phillip was a botanist, that might explain the great care given to the exterior while the interior was left to fade.
Clearly, he needed a wife.
She folded her hands in her lap, then watched as he took a seat across from her, folding his large frame into a chair that had obviously been designed for one much smaller than he.
He looked most uncomfortable and (and Eloise had enough brothers to recognize the signs) rather like he wanted desperately to curse, but Eloise decided it was his own fault for choosing that chair, and so she smiled at him in what she hoped was a polite and encouraging manner, waiting for him to begin the conversation.
He cleared his throat. She leaned forward.
He cleared his throat again. She coughed.
He cleared his throat once more.
“Do you need some tea?” she finally asked, unable to bear even the thought of one more ahem.
He looked up gratefully, although Eloise wasn’t certain whether that was due to her offer of tea or her merciful breaking of the silence. “Yes,” he said, “that would be lovely.”
Eloise opened her mouth to reply, then remembered she was in his house and had no business offering tea. Not to mention that he ought to have remembered that fact as well. “Right,” she said. “Well, I’m sure it will be here soon.”
“Right,” he agreed, shifting in his seat.
“I’m sorry to have come by unannounced,” she murmured, even though she’d already said as much. But something had to be said; Sir Phillip might be well used to awkward pauses, but Eloise was the sort who liked to fill any silence.
“It’s quite all right,” he said.
“It’s not, actually,” she replied. “It was terribly ill-mannered of me to do so, and I apologize.”
He looked startled at her frankness. “Thank you,” he murmured. “It is no problem, I assure you. I was merely . . .”
“Surprised?” she offered. “Yes.”
She nodded. “Yes, well, anyone would have been. I should have thought of that, and I truly am sorry for the inconvenience.”
He opened his mouth, but then closed it, instead glancing out the window. “It’s a sunny day,” he said.
“Yes, it is,” Eloise agreed, thinking that quite obvious. He shrugged. “I imagine it will still rain by nightfall.”
She wasn’t quite certain how to respond to that, so she just nodded, surreptitiously studying him while his gaze was still fixed on the window. He was bigger than she’d imagined him, rougher-looking, less urbane. His letters had been so charming and well written; she’d pictured him to be more . . . smooth. More slender, perhaps, certainly not given to fat, but still, less muscled. He looked as if he worked outside like a laborer, especially in those rough trousers and shirt with no cravat. And even though he’d written that his hair was brown, she’d always imagined him as a dark blond, looking rather like a poet (why she always pictured poets with blond hair she did not know). But his hair was exactly as he’d described it—brown, a rather dark shade, actually, bordering on black, with an unruly wave to it. His eyes were brown, much the same shade as his hair, so dark they were utterly unreadable.
She frowned. She hated people she couldn’t figure out in a heartbeat. “Did you travel all night?” he inquired politely.
“I did.”
“You must be tired.”
She nodded. “I am, quite.”
He stood, motioning gallantly to the door. “Would you prefer to rest? I don’t wish to keep you here if you’d rather sleep.”
Eloise was exhausted, but she was also ferociously hungry. “I’ll have just a bite to eat first,” she said, “and then I would be grateful to accept your hospitality and rest.”
He nodded and started to sit down, trying to fold himself back into the ridiculously small chair, then finally muttering something under his breath, turning to her with a slightly more intelligible, “Excuse me,” and moving to another, larger chair.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, once he was settled.
Eloise just nodded at him, wondering when she had ever found herself in a more awkward situation.
He cleared his throat. “Er, was your journey a pleasant one?”
“Indeed,” she replied, mentally giving him credit for at least trying to keep up a conversation. One good turn deserved another, so she made her contribution with, “You have a lovely home.”
He raised a brow at that, giving her a look that said he didn’t believe her false flattery for a second.
“The grounds are magnificent,” she added hastily. Who would have thought that he’d actually know his furnishings were faded? Men never noticed such things.
“Thank you,” he said. “I am a botanist, as you know, and so I spend a great deal of my time out-of-doors.”
“Were you planning to work outside today?” He answered in the affirmative.
Eloise offered him a tentative smile. “I’m sorry to have disrupted your schedule.”
“It is nothing, I assure you.” “But—”
“You really needn’t apologize again,” he cut in. “For anything.”
And then there was that awful silence again, with both of them looking longingly at the door, waiting for Gunning to return with salvation in the form of a tea tray.
Eloise tapped her hands against the cushion of the sofa in a manner that her mother would have deemed horribly ill-bred. She looked over at Sir Phillip and was somewhat gratified to see that he was doing the same. Then
he caught her looking and quirked an irritating half-smile as his gaze dropped down to her restless hand.
She stilled herself immediately.
She looked over at him, silently daring—imploring?—him to say
something. Anything.
He didn’t.
This was killing her. She had to break the silence. This was not natural.
It was too awful. People were meant to talk. This was—
She opened her mouth, driven by a desperation she didn’t quite understand. “I—”
But before she could continue on with a sentence she fully intended to make up as she went along, a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the air.
Eloise jumped to her feet. “What was—”
“My children,” Sir Phillip said, letting out a haggard sigh. “You have children?”
He noticed that she was standing and rose wearily to his feet. “Of course.”
She gaped at him. “You never said you had children.”
His eyes narrowed. “Is that a problem?” he asked, quite sharply.
“Of course it isn’t!” she said, bristling. “I adore children. I have more nieces and nephews than I can count, and I can assure you that I am their favorite aunt. But that does not excuse the fact that you did not mention their existence.”
“That is impossible,” he said, shaking his head. “You must have overlooked it.”
Her chin jerked back so suddenly it was a wonder she didn’t snap her neck. “That is not,” she said haughtily, “the sort of thing I would overlook.”
He shrugged, clearly dismissing her protest.
“You never mentioned them,” she said, “and I can prove it.” He crossed his arms, giving her a patently disbelieving look. She marched to the door. “Where is my valise?”
“Right where you left it, I imagine,” he said, watching her with a condescending expression. “Or more likely already up in your room. My servants are not that inattentive.”
She turned to him with a scowl. “I have every single one of your letters with me, and I can assure you, not one of them contains the words, ‘my
children.’”
Phillip’s lips parted in surprise. “You saved my letters?” “Of course. Didn’t you save mine?”
He blinked. “Uh . . .”
She gasped. “You didn’t save them?”
Phillip had never understood women and half the time was quite willing to put aside all current medical thought and declare them a separate species altogether. He fully accepted that he rarely knew what one was supposed to say to them, but this time even he knew he had blundered badly. “I’m sure I have some of them,” he tried.
Her jaw clamped into a straight angry line. “Most of them, I’m sure,” he added hastily.
She looked mutinous. Eloise Bridgerton, he was coming to realize, had a formidable will.
“It’s not that I would have disposed of them,” he said, trying to dig his way out of his bottomless pit. “It is just that I’m not certain precisely where I put them.”
He watched with interest as she gained control of her anger, then let out a short breath. Her eyes, however, remained a stormy gray. “Very well,” she said. “It hardly signifies, anyway.”
Exactly his opinion, Phillip thought, but even he was smart enough not to say so.
Besides, her tone made it quite clear that in her opinion, it did signify. A great deal.
Another scream rent the air, followed by a resounding crash. Phillip winced. It sounded like furniture.
Eloise glanced toward the ceiling, as if expecting plaster to start spinning down at any moment. “Shouldn’t you go to them?” she asked.
He should, but by all that was holy, he didn’t want to. When the twins were out of control, no one could manage them, which, Phillip supposed, was the definition of “out of control.” It was his opinion that it was generally easier to let them run wild until they dropped from exhaustion (which usually didn’t take too long) and deal with them then. It probably wasn’t the most beneficial course of action, and certainly nothing that any other parent would have recommended, but a man only had so much energy
to deal with two eight-year-olds, and he feared he’d run out of his a good six months ago.
“Sir Phillip?” Eloise prodded.
He let out a breath. “You’re right, of course.” It certainly wouldn’t do to appear a disinterested parent in front of Miss Bridgerton, whom he was trying to woo, however clumsily, into the position of mother to the two hellions presently attempting the complete destruction of his home. “If you will excuse me,” he said, giving her a nod as he stepped into the hall.
“Oliver!” he bellowed. “Amanda!”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Miss Bridgerton stifle a horrified laugh.
A wave of irritation washed over him, and he glared at her, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He supposed she thought she could do a better job with those two hellions.
He strode to the stairs and yelled the twins’ names again. On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t be so uncharitable. He rather hoped—no, fervently prayed—that Eloise Bridgerton could do a better job with the twins than he could.
Good God, if she could teach them to mind, he would bloody well kiss the ground she walked upon on a thrice-daily schedule.
Oliver and Amanda rounded the corner in the staircase and descended the rest of the way down to the hall, looking not a bit sheepish.
“What,” Phillip demanded, “was that all about?” “What was what all about?” Oliver replied cheekily. “The screaming,” Phillip ground out.
“That was Amanda,” Oliver said. “It certainly was,” she agreed.
Phillip waited for further elucidation, and when it appeared that none was forthcoming, he added, “And why was Amanda screaming?”
“It was a frog,” she explained. “A frog.”
She nodded. “Indeed. In my bed.”
“I see,” Phillip said. “Do you have any idea how it got there?” “I put it there,” she replied.
He swung his gaze off of Oliver, to whom he’d addressed his question, and back to Amanda. “You put a frog in your own bed?”
She nodded.
Why why why? He cleared his throat. “Why?” She shrugged. “I wanted to.”
Phillip felt his chin thrust forward in disbelief. “You wanted to?” “Yes.”
“Put a frog in your bed?”
“I was trying to grow tadpoles,” she explained.
“In your bed?”
“It seemed warm and cozy.” “I helped,” Oliver put in.
“Of that I had no doubt,” Phillip said in a tight voice. “But why did you scream?”
“I didn’t scream,” Oliver said indignantly. “Amanda did.”
“I was asking Amanda!” Phillip said, just barely resisting the urge to throw his arms up in defeat and retire to his greenhouse.
“You were looking at me, sir,” Oliver said. And then, as if his father were too dim to understand what he meant, he added, “When you asked the question.”
Phillip took a deep breath before schooling his features into what he hoped was a patient expression and turned back to Amanda. “Why, Amanda, did you scream?”
She shrugged. “I forgot I put the frog there.”
“I thought she was going to die!” Oliver put in, most dramatically. Phillip decided not to pursue that statement. “I thought,” he said,
crossing his arms and leveling his sternest gaze at his children, “that we had said no frogs in the house.”
“No,” Oliver said (with vehement nodding from Amanda), “you said no
toads.”
“No amphibians of any kind,” Phillip ground out.
“But what if one of them is dying?” Amanda asked, her pretty blue eyes filling with tears.
“Not even then.” “But—”
“You may tend to it outside.”
“What if it’s cold and freezing and only needs my care and a warm bed inside the house?”
“Frogs are supposed to be cold and freezing,” Phillip shot back. “It’s why they are amphibians.”
“But what if—”
“No!” he bellowed. “No frogs, toads, crickets, grasshoppers, or animals of any kind in the house!”
Amanda started gulping for air. “But but but—”
Phillip let out a long sigh. He never knew what to say to his children, and now his daughter looked as if she might dissolve into a pool of tears. “For the love of—” He caught himself just in time and softened his voice. “What is it, Amanda?”
She gasped, then sobbed, “What about Bessie?”
Phillip felt around unsuccessfully for a wall to sag against. “Naturally,” he ground out, “I did not intend to include our beloved spaniel in that statement.”
“Well, I wish you’d said so,” Amanda sniffed, looking surprisingly— and suspiciously—recovered. “You made me extremely sad.”
Phillip gritted his teeth. “I am sorry I made you feel sad.” She nodded at him like a queen.
Phillip groaned. When had the twins gained the upper hand in the conversation? Surely a man of his size and (he’d like to think, anyway) intellect, ought to be able to manage two eight-year-olds.
But no, once again, despite his best intentions, he’d lost all control of the conversation and now he was actually apologizing to them.
Nothing made him feel more like a failure.
“Right, then,” he said, eager to be done. “Run along. I’m very busy.” They stood there for a moment, just looking up at him with wide,
blinking eyes. “All day?” Oliver finally asked.
“All day?” Phillip echoed. What the devil was he talking about? “Are you going to be busy all day?” Oliver amended.
“Yes,” he said sharply, “I am.”
“What if we went on a nature walk?” Amanda suggested.
“I can’t,” he said, even though part of him wanted to. But the twins were so vexing, and they were sure to force him to lose his temper, and nothing terrified him more.
“We could help you in the greenhouse,” Oliver said.
Destroy it was more like it. “No,” Phillip said. He honestly didn’t think he could answer to his temper if they ruined his work.
“But—”
“I can’t,” he snapped, hating the tone of his voice. “But—”
“And who is this?” came a voice from behind him.
He turned around. It was Eloise Bridgerton, sticking her nose into what was assuredly not her business, and this after arriving on his doorstep without even so much as a hint of warning.
“I beg your pardon,” he said to her, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.
She ignored him and faced the twins. “And who might you be?” she asked.
“Who are you?” Oliver demanded. Amanda’s eyes narrowed into slits.
Phillip allowed himself his first true grin of the morning and crossed his arms. Yes, let’s see how Miss Bridgerton handled this.
“I am Miss Bridgerton,” she said.
“You’re not our new governess, are you?” Oliver asked, with suspicion bordering on venom.
“Heavens, no,” she replied. “What happened to your last governess?” Phillip coughed. Loudly.
The twins took the hint. “Er, nothing,” Oliver said.
Miss Bridgerton didn’t look the least bit fooled by the air of innocence the twins were trying to convey, but she wisely did not choose to pursue the subject, and instead just said, “I am your guest.”
The twins pondered that for a moment, and then Amanda said, “We don’t want any guests.”
Followed by Oliver’s, “We don’t need any guests.”
“Children!” Phillip interjected, not really wanting to take Miss Bridgerton’s side after she’d been so meddlesome, but really having no other choice. He couldn’t let his children be so rude.
The twins crossed their arms in unison and gave Miss Bridgerton the cut direct.
“That’s it,” Phillip boomed. “You will apologize to Miss Bridgerton at once.”
They stared at her mutinously. “Now!” he roared.
“Sorry,” they mumbled, but no one could ever have mistaken them for meaning it.
“Back to your room, the both of you,” Phillip said sharply.
They marched off like a pair of proud soldiers, noses in the air. It would have been quite an impressive sight, if Amanda hadn’t turned around at the bottom of the stairs and stuck out her tongue.
“Amanda!” he bellowed, striding toward her. She tore up the stairs with the speed of a fox.
Phillip held himself very still for several moments, his hands fisted and shaking at his sides. Just once—once!—he would like his children to behave and mind and not answer a question with a question and be polite to guests and not stick out their tongues, and—
Just once, he’d like to feel that he was a good father, that he knew what he was doing.
And not raise his voice. He hated when he raised his voice, hated the flash of terror he thought he saw in their eyes.
Hated the memories it brought back for him. “Sir Phillip?”
Miss Bridgerton. Damn, he’d almost forgotten she was there. He turned around. “Yes?” he asked, mortified that she’d witnessed his humiliation. Which of course made him irritated with her.
“Your butler brought the tea tray,” she said, motioning to the drawing room.
He gave her a curt nod. He needed to get outside. Away from his children, away from the woman who’d seen what a terrible father he was to them. It had started to rain, but he didn’t care.
“I hope you enjoy your breakfast,” he said. “I will see you after you have rested.”
And then he made haste out the door, making his way to his greenhouse, where he could be alone with his nonspeaking, nonmisbehaving, nonmeddlesome plants.
