. . . and how did you know that you and Simon were well- suited for marriage? For I vow I have not met a man about which I might say the same, and this after three long seasons on the Marriage Mart.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her sister the Duchess of Hastings,
upon refusing her third proposal of marriage
Eloise had time to breathe—barely—before his mouth came down on hers. And it was a good thing she did, because it didn’t feel as if he had any plans to release her until, oh, the next millennium.
But then, abruptly, he drew back, his large hands cradling her face. And he looked at her.
Just looked at her.
“What?” she asked, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. She knew she was considered to be attractive, but she was no legendary beauty, and he was examining her as if he wanted to catalogue her every feature.
“I wanted to see you,” he whispered. He touched her cheek, then smoothed his thumb down the line of her jaw. “You’re always in motion. I don’t get to just see you.”
Her legs turned wobbly, and her lips parted, but she couldn’t seem to make them work, couldn’t seem to do anything other than stare up into his dark eyes.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “Do you know what I thought when I saw you the first time?”
She shook her head, desperate for his words.
“I thought I could drown in your eyes. I thought”—he moved in closer, his words now as much breath as sound—“I could drown in you.”
She felt herself swaying toward him.
He touched her lips, tickling the tender skin with his forefinger. The motion sent ripples of pleasure throughout her, right down to the center of her being, to places forbidden even to her.
And she realized that she had never really understood the power of desire until that very moment. Never really understood what it was at all.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
He smiled. “You always order me about.” “Kiss me.”
“Are you sure?” he murmured, his mouth curved into a teasing smile. “Because once I do, I might not be able to—”
She grabbed the back of his head and yanked him down.
He chuckled against her lips, his arms tightening around her with uncompromising strength. She opened her mouth, welcoming his invasion, moaning with pleasure as his tongue swept in, exploring her warmth. He nibbled and licked, slowly stirring a fire within her, all the while pressing her closer and closer against him until his heat poured through her clothing, wrapping her in a haze of desire.
His hands stole around her back, then down to her derriere, squeezing and kneading, then tilting her up until—
She gasped. She was twenty-eight years old, old enough to have heard indiscreet whispers. She knew what his hardness meant. She’d just never expected it to feel quite so hot, so insistent.
She jerked back, the motion more instinct than anything else, but he wouldn’t let her go, pulled her closer and groaned, rubbing her against him. “I want to be inside you,” he groaned in her ear.
Her legs completely gave out.
It didn’t matter, of course; he just held her even tighter, then sank her onto the sofa, coming down atop her until the full length of him pressed her into the soft, cream-colored cushions. He was heavy, but his weight was thrilling, and she could do nothing but loll her head back as his lips left hers to travel down the column of her throat.
“Phillip,” she moaned, and then again, as if his name were the only word left to her.
“Yes,” he grunted, “yes.” His words seemed torn from his throat, and she had no idea what he was talking about, only that whatever he was
saying yes to, she wanted it, too. She wanted everything. Anything he wanted, anything possible.
She wanted everything that was possible and everything impossible, too. There was no more reason, only sensation. Only need and desire and this overwhelming sense of now.
This wasn’t about yesterday and it wasn’t about tomorrow. This was now, and she wanted it all.
She felt his hand on her ankle, rough and callused as it moved up her leg until it reached the edge of her stocking. He didn’t pause, did nothing to implicitly ask her permission, but she gave it anyway, urging her legs apart until he settled more firmly between them, giving him more room to caress, more space to tickle her skin.
He moved up and up and up, pausing every now and then to squeeze, and she thought she might die from the waiting. She was on fire, burning for him, feeling strange and wet and so completely unlike herself she thought she might dissolve into a pool of nothingness.
Or evaporate completely. Or maybe even explode.
And then, just when she was quite convinced that nothing could be stranger, nothing could wind her even tighter than she was, he touched her.
Touched her.
Touched her where no one had ever touched her, where she didn’t dare touch herself. Touched her so intimately, so tenderly that she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming his name.
And as his finger slid inside, she knew that in that moment she no longer belonged to herself.
She was his.
Sometime later, much later, she’d be herself again, back in control, with all her powers and faculties, but for now she was his. In this moment, for this second, she lived for him, for all he could make her feel, for every last whisper of pleasure, each moan of desire.
“Oh, Phillip,” she gasped, his name a plea, a promise, a question. It was whatever she needed to say to make sure he didn’t stop. She had no idea where this was all heading, whether she’d even be the same person when it was done, but it had to go somewhere. She couldn’t possibly continue in this state forever. She was wound so tight, so tense that she’d surely shatter.
She was near the end. She had to be.
She needed something. She needed release, and she knew that only he could give it to her.
She arched to him, pressed up with a power she would never have imagined she possessed, actually lifting them both off the sofa with her need. Her hands found his shoulders, biting into his muscles, then moved down to the small of his back in an effort to pull him even closer against her.
“Eloise,” he groaned, sliding his other hand up her skirt until it found her backside. “Do you have any idea—”
And then she had no idea what he did—he probably didn’t know, either
—but her entire body went impossibly tense. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe as her mouth opened into a silent scream of surprise and delight and a hundred other things all rolled into one. And then, just when she thought she couldn’t possibly survive even a second longer, she shuddered and collapsed beneath him, panting with exhaustion, so limp and spent she couldn’t have moved even her littlest finger.
“Oh, my God,” she finally said, the blasphemy the only words coursing through her mind. “Oh, my God.”
His hands tightened on her backside. “Oh, my God.”
His hand moved, came up to stroke her hair. He was gentle, achingly gentle, even though his body was rigid and tense.
Eloise just lay there, wondering if she’d ever be able to move again, breathing against him as she felt his breath on her temple. Eventually he shifted and moved, mumbling something about being too heavy for her, and then there was nothing but air, and when she looked to the side, he was kneeling next to the sofa, smoothing her skirts back down.
It seemed a rather tender and gentlemanly gesture, given her recent wantonness.
She looked into his face, knowing she must have the silliest smile on hers. “Oh, Phillip,” she sighed.
“Is there a washroom?” he asked hoarsely.
She blinked, noticing for the first time that he looked rather strained. “A washroom?” she echoed.
He nodded stiffly.
She pointed to the door leading to the hall. “Out and to the right,” she said. It was hard to believe he needed to relieve himself right after such a thrilling encounter, but who was she to attempt to understand the workings of the male body?
He walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, then turned around. “Do you believe me now?” he asked, one of his brows rising into an impossibly arrogant arch.
Her lips parted in confusion. “About what?”
He smiled. Slowly. And all he said was, “We’ll suit.”
Phillip had no idea how long it would take Eloise to regain her composure and restore her appearance. She’d looked quite delectably disheveled when he’d left her on the sofa in Sophie Bridgerton’s little office. He never could understand the intricacies of a woman’s toilette, and was quite certain he never would, but he was fairly sure she was going to need to redress her hair at the very least.
As for him, he required less than a minute in the washroom to find his release; he was wound that tight from his encounter with Eloise.
Dear God, she was magnificent.
It had been so long since he’d been with a woman. He’d known that when he finally found one he wanted to bed that his body would react strongly. He’d had more years than he’d cared to count with only his hand to satisfy his needs; a female body seemed like pure bliss.
And heaven knew he had imagined one often enough.
But this had been different, not at all what he’d pictured in his mind. He’d been mad for her. For her. For the sounds that escaped her throat, for the scent of her skin, for the way his body seemed to fit perfectly in the crook of hers. Even though he’d had to finish off himself, he’d still felt more, and more intensely, than he’d ever thought possible.
He’d thought almost any female body would do, but it was now quite clear to him that there was a reason he’d never availed himself of the services of the whores and barmaids who’d expressed their willingness. There was a reason he’d never found himself a discreet widow.
He’d needed more. He’d needed Eloise.
He wanted to sink himself into her and never come out.
He wanted to own her, to possess her, and then to lay back and let her torture him until he screamed.
He’d had fantasies before. Hell, every man did. But now his fantasy had a face, and he feared he was going to find himself walking around with a constant erection if he didn’t learn how to control his thoughts.
He needed a wedding. Fast.
He groaned, giving his hands a quick wash in the basin. She didn’t know she’d left him in such a state. She didn’t even realize. She’d just looked at him with that blissful smile, too caught in her own passion to notice that he was ready to explode.
He pushed open the door, his feet moving quickly along the marble floor as he made his way back to the lawn. He’d have plenty of time to explode soon enough. And when he did, she’d be right there along with him.
The thought brought a smile to his lips, and very nearly sent him back into the washroom.
“Ah, there he is,” Benedict Bridgerton said as Phillip walked toward him across the lawn. Phillip saw the gun in his hand and stopped in his tracks, wondering if he ought to be worried. Benedict couldn’t possibly know what had just happened in his wife’s office, could he?
Phillip swallowed, thinking hard. No, there was no way. And besides, Benedict was smiling.
Of course, he could be the sort who would enjoy picking off the spoiler of his sister’s innocence . . .
“Er, good morning,” Phillip said, glancing at everyone else in an attempt to gauge the situation.
Benedict nodded his greeting, then said, “Do you shoot?” “Of course,” Phillip replied.
“Good.” He jerked his head toward a target. “Join us.”
Phillip noted with relief that the target seemed to be firmly in place, indicating that he would not have to play that role. “I didn’t bring a pistol,” he said.
“Of course not,” Benedict replied. “Why would you? We’re all friends here.” His brows rose. “Aren’t we?”
“One would hope.”
Benedict’s lips curved, but it wasn’t the sort of smile that inspired confidence in one’s well-being. “Don’t worry about the pistol,” he said. “We’ll provide one.”
Phillip nodded. If this was to be how he was to prove his manhood to Eloise’s brothers, so be it. He could shoot as well as the best of them. It had been one of those manly pursuits his father had been so insistent he learn. He’d spent countless hours outside Romney Hall, his arm outstretched until his muscles burned, holding his breath as he aimed for whatever it was his father was out to destroy. Every shot was accompanied by a fervent prayer that his aim would be true.
If he hit the target, his father wouldn’t hit him. It was as simple—and desperate—as that.
He walked over to a table with several pistols on it, murmuring his hellos to Anthony, Colin, and Gregory. Sophie was sitting about ten or so yards away, her nose in a book.
“Let’s get on with this,” Anthony said, “before Eloise returns.” He looked over at Phillip. “Where is Eloise?”
“She went off to read the letter from your mother,” Phillip lied.
“I see. Well, that won’t take long,” Anthony said with a frown. “We’d better hurry, then.”
“Maybe she’ll want to reply,” Colin said, picking up a gun and examining it. “That’ll buy us a few extra minutes. You know Eloise. She’s always writing someone a letter.”
“Indeed,” Anthony replied. “Got us into this mess, didn’t it?”
Phillip just looked at him with an inscrutable smile. He was far too pleased with himself this morning to rise to any bait Anthony Bridgerton cared to offer.
Gregory chose a gun. “Even if she replies, she’ll be back soon. She’s fiendishly fast.”
“At writing?” Phillip queried.
“At everything,” Gregory said grimly. “Let’s shoot.”
“Why are you all so eager to get started without Eloise?” Phillip asked.
“Er, no reason,” Benedict said, at precisely the same moment Anthony mumbled, “Who said anything about that?”
They all had, of course, but Phillip didn’t remind them of it.
“Age before beauty, old chap,” Colin said, slapping Anthony on the back.
“You’re too kind,” Anthony murmured, stepping up to a chalk line someone had drawn in the grass. He lifted his arm, took aim, and fired.
“Well done,” Phillip said, once the footman had brought forth the bull’s- eye. Anthony had not hit dead center, but he was only an inch off.
“Thank you.” He set his pistol down. “How old are you?”
Phillip blinked at the unexpected question, then replied, “Thirty.”
Anthony jerked his head toward Colin. “You’re after Colin, then. We always do these things by age. It’s the only way to keep track.”
“By all means,” Phillip said, watching as Benedict and Colin took their turns. They were both good shots, neither dead center, but certainly close enough to kill a man, had that been their goal.
Which, thankfully, it didn’t seem to be, at least not that morning.
Phillip selected a pistol, tested its weight in his hand, then stepped up to the chalk line. It had only been recently that he’d stopped thinking of his father every time he took aim at a target. It had taken years, but he’d finally allowed himself to realize that he actually liked shooting, that it didn’t have to be a chore. And then suddenly his father’s voice, so often at the back of his mind, always yelling, always criticizing, was gone.
He lifted his arm, his muscles rock steady, and fired.
He squinted toward the target. It looked good. The footman brought it forward. One-half inch, at most, off the center. Closer than anyone else thus far.
The target went back, and Gregory took his turn, proving himself to be Phillip’s equal.
“We do five rounds,” Anthony told Phillip. “Best out, and if there’s a tie, the leaders face off.”
“I see,” Phillip said. “Any particular reason?”
“No,” Anthony said, picking up his gun. “Just that we’ve always done it this way.”
Colin looked at Phillip with deadly serious eyes. “We take our games seriously.”
“I’m gathering.” “Do you fence?”
“Not well,” Phillip said.
One corner of Colin’s mouth turned up. “Excellent.”
“Be quiet,” Anthony barked, looking testily over at them. “I’m trying to aim.”
“Such need for silence will not serve you well at a time of crisis,” Colin remarked.
“Shut up,” Anthony bit off.
“If we were attacked,” Colin continued, one of his hands moving expressively as he wove his tale, “it would be quite noisy, and frankly, I find it disturbing to think—”
“Colin!” Anthony bellowed. “Don’t mind me,” Colin said.
“I’m going to kill him,” Anthony announced. “Does anyone mind if I kill him?”
No one did, although Sophie did look up and mention something about blood and messes and not wanting to have to clean up.
“It’s an excellent fertilizer,” Phillip said helpfully, since, after all, that was his area of expertise.
“Ah.” Sophie nodded and turned back to her book. “Kill him, then.” “How’s that book, darling?” Benedict called out to her.
“It’s quite good, actually.”
“Will you all shut up?” Anthony ground out. Then, his cheeks coloring slightly, he turned to his sister-in-law and mumbled, “Not you, of course, Sophie.”
“Glad to be exempted,” she said cheerfully.
“Do try not to threaten my wife,” Benedict said mildly.
Anthony turned to his brother and skewered him with a glare. “The lot of you should be drawn and quartered,” he grunted.
“Except for Sophie,” Colin reminded him.
Anthony turned to him with a deadly expression. “You do realize this gun is loaded, don’t you?”
“Lucky for me fratricide is considered quite beyond the pale.”
Anthony clamped his mouth shut and turned back toward the target. “Round two,” he called out, taking aim.
“Waaaaaaait!”
All four Bridgerton men sagged and turned around, groaning as they saw Eloise careening down the hill.
“Are you shooting?” she demanded, stumbling to a halt.
No one answered. No one really needed to. It was quite obvious. “Without me?”
“We’re not shooting,” Gregory said. “Just standing about with guns.” “Near a target,” Colin added helpfully.
“You’re shooting.”
“Of course we’re shooting,” Anthony snapped. He flicked his head off to the right. “Sophie is by herself. You should keep her company.”
Eloise planted her hands on her hips. “Sophie is reading a book.”
“A good one, too,” Sophie put in, returning her attention to the pages.
“You should read a book, too, Eloise,” Benedict suggested. “They’re very improving.”
“I don’t need any improving,” she shot back. “Give me a gun.”
“I’m not giving you a gun,” Benedict retorted. “We don’t have enough to go around.”
“We can share,” Eloise ground out. “Have you ever tried sharing? It’s very improving.”
Benedict scowled at her in a manner that wasn’t particularly fitting for a man of his years.
“I think,” Colin said, “that what Benedict was trying to say is that he’s as improved as he’s ever going to be.”
“For certain,” Sophie said, not even raising her eyes from her book.
“Here,” Phillip said magnanimously, handing his gun to Eloise, “have mine.” The four Bridgerton men groaned, but he decided he rather enjoyed annoying them.
“Thank you,” Eloise said graciously. “From Anthony’s bark of ‘Round two’ I deduce that you’ve each taken one shot?”
“Indeed,” Phillip replied. He looked over at her brothers, all of whom wore dejected expressions. “What’s wrong?”
Anthony just shook his head. Phillip looked to Benedict.
“She’s a freak of nature,” Benedict muttered.
Phillip looked back at Eloise with renewed interest. She didn’t look particularly freakish to him.
“I’m dropping out,” Gregory muttered. “I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”
“You’ll have to ring for more,” Colin told him. “I already finished it all.”
Gregory let out an annoyed sigh. “It’s a wonder I haven’t starved,” he grumbled, “younger brother that I am.”
Colin shrugged. “You’ve got to be quick if you want to eat.”
Anthony looked at the two of them with disgust. “Did the two of you grow up in an orphanage?” he asked.
Phillip bit his lip to contain his smile.
“Are we going to shoot?” Eloise demanded.
“You certainly are,” Gregory said, slumping against a tree. “I’m leaving to eat.”
He stayed, though, watching his sister with a bored expression as she lifted her arm and, without even appearing to aim, fired.
Phillip blinked in surprise as the footman brought forth the target. Dead center.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked, trying not to gape.
She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. I’ve always been able to do it.” “Freak of nature,” Colin muttered. “Clearly.”
“I think it’s splendid,” Phillip said.
Eloise looked at him with glowing eyes. “Do you really?”
“Of course. Should I ever need to defend my home, I shall know who to send out to the front line.”
She beamed. “Where’s the next target?”
Gregory threw his arms up in disgust. “I forfeit. I’m getting something to eat.”
“Get something for me, too,” Colin called out. “Of course,” Gregory muttered.
Eloise turned to Anthony. “Is it your turn now?”
He took the gun from her hands and set it on the table to be reloaded. “As if it matters.”
“We have to do all five rounds,” she said officiously. “You were the one who made the rules.”
“I know,” he said glumly. He lifted his arm and fired off a shot, but his heart clearly was not into it, and he was off by five inches.
“You’re not even trying!” Eloise accused.
Anthony just turned to Benedict and said, “I hate shooting with her.” “Your turn,” Eloise said to Benedict.
He took his turn, as did Colin, both men putting in a bit more effort than Anthony had, but still coming up off the mark.
Phillip stepped up to the chalk line, pausing only to listen as Eloise said, “Don’t you decide to give up.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured.
“Good. It’s no fun to play with bad sports.” She directed the last two words quite vehemently toward her brothers.
“That’s the point,” Benedict said.
“They do this every time,” Eloise said to Phillip. “They shoot badly until I decide the match isn’t worth it, and then they all have fun.”
“Be quiet,” Phillip told her, lips twitching. “I’m aiming.”
“Oh.” She shut her mouth with alacrity, watching with interest as he focused on the target.
Phillip took his shot, allowing himself a slow, satisfied smile as the target was brought forward.
“Perfect!” Eloise exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Oh, Phillip, that was wonderful!”
Anthony muttered something under his breath that he probably ought not to have said in his sister’s presence, then added, directing his words to Phillip, “You are going to marry her, aren’t you? Because frankly, if you get her off of our hands and allow her to shoot with you so that she doesn’t pester us, I’ll gladly double her dowry.”
Phillip was quite certain at that point that he’d wed her for nothing, but he just grinned and said, “It’s a deal.”
