. . . I do not tell you often enough, dear Mother, how very grateful I am that I am yours. It is a rare parent who would offer a child such latitude and understanding. It is an even rarer one who calls a daughter friend. I do love you, dear Mama.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her mother, upon refusing her sixth offer of marriage

When Eloise awoke from her nap, she was surprised to see that the sheets on the other side of the bed were neat and unrumpled. Phillip had been just as tired as she had been, probably more so, since he had ridden all the way to Benedict’s house the night before, in the wind and rain, no less.

After she’d tidied herself, she set about to locate him, but he was nowhere to be found. She told herself not to worry, that they’d had a difficult few days, that he probably just needed some time to himself, to think.

Just because she tended not to prefer solitude didn’t mean everyone else agreed with her.

She laughed humorlessly to herself. That was a lesson she’d been trying

—unsuccessfully—to learn her entire life.

And so she forced herself to stop looking for him. She was married now, and suddenly she understood what it was her mother had been trying so hard to tell her on her wedding night. Marriage was about compromise, and she and Phillip were very different people. They might be perfect for one another, but that didn’t mean they were the same. And if she wanted him to change some of his ways for her, well then, she was going to have to do the same for him.

She didn’t see him for the rest of the day, not when she took tea in the afternoon, not when she bade the twins good night, and not at supper, which she was forced to take by herself, feeling very small and very alone at the large mahogany table. She dined in silence, ever aware of the watchful eyes of the footmen, both of whom smiled at her sympathetically as they brought forth her food.

Eloise smiled back, because she did believe in being polite in all things, but inside she was sighing with resignation. It was a sad state of affairs when the footmen (men, for goodness’ sakes, who were normally oblivious to another’s distress) felt sorry for you.

But then again, here she was, only one week into her marriage and dining alone. Who wouldn’t have pitied her?

Besides, the last the servants knew, Sir Phillip had raged out the door to fetch his wife, who had presumably fled to her brother’s house after a horrible row.

Put that way, Eloise thought with a sigh, it wasn’t quite so surprising that Phillip might have thought she’d left him.

She ate sparingly, not wanting to prolong the meal any longer than was necessary, and when she finished her obligatory two bites of pudding, she rose, fully intending to take herself off to bed, where, she presumed, she would pass her time as she had all day—alone.

But as she stepped into the hall, she found herself restless, not quite ready to retire. And so she began to walk, somewhat aimlessly, through the house. It was a chilly night for late May, and she was glad she’d brought a shawl. Eloise had spent time in many grand country homes, where all the fireplaces were lit at night, leaving the house in a blaze of light and warmth, but Romney Hall, while snug and comfortable, held no such delusions of self-importance, and so most of the rooms were kept closed off for the night, with the fireplaces only lit when needed.

And blast it, it was cold.

She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders as she walked along, rather enjoying finding her way with only the dim moonlight to guide her. But then, as she approached the portrait gallery, she saw the unmistakable light of a lantern.

Someone was there, and she knew, even before she’d taken another step forward, that it was Phillip.

She approached quietly, glad that she’d worn her soft-soled slippers, and peered through the doorway.

The sight she saw nearly broke her heart.

Phillip was standing there, stock-still, in front of Marina’s portrait. He moved not at all, save for the occasional blink of his eyes. He just stood there, looking at her, looking at his dead wife, and the expression on his face was so bleak and sorrowful that Eloise almost gasped.

Had he lied to her when he’d said that he hadn’t loved Marina? When he’d said he hadn’t felt passion?

And did it matter? Marina was dead. It wasn’t as if she was a true competitor for Phillip’s affections. And even if she was, did it matter? Because he didn’t love Eloise, either, and she didn’t—

Or maybe, she realized, in one of those flashes that knock the very breath from one’s lungs, she did.

It was hard to imagine when it had happened, or even how it had happened, but this feeling she had for him, this affection and respect, had grown into something deeper.

And oh, how she wanted him to feel the same way.

He needed her. Of that she was quite sure. He needed her maybe even more than she needed him, but that wasn’t it. She loved being needed, being wanted, being indispensable, even, but there was more to her feelings.

She loved the way he smiled, slightly lopsided, a little boyish, and with a little lilt of surprise, as if he couldn’t quite believe in his own happiness.

She loved the way he looked at her, as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world, when she knew, quite patently, that she was not.

She loved the way he actually listened to what she had to say, and the way he didn’t allow her to cow him. She even loved the way he told her she talked too much, because he almost always did it with a smile, and because, of course, it was true.

And she loved the way he still listened to her, even after he told her she talked too much.

She loved the way he loved his children.

She loved his honor, his honesty, and his sly sense of humor.

And she loved the way she fit into his life, and the way he fit into hers. It was comfortable. It was right.

And this, she finally realized, was where she belonged.

But he was standing there, staring at a portrait of his dead wife, and from the way he was so still and unmoving . . . well, God only knew how long he’d been doing that. And if he still loved her . . .

She choked back a wave of guilt. Who was she to feel anything but sorrow on behalf of Marina? She had died so young, so unexpectedly. And she’d lost what Eloise considered every mother’s God-given right—to watch her children grow up.

To feel jealous of a woman like that was unconscionable. And yet . . .

And yet Eloise must not be as good a person as she ought, because she couldn’t watch this scene, couldn’t watch Phillip staring at the portrait of his first wife without envy squeezing around her heart. She’d just realized she loved this man, and would, to the very last of her days. She needed him, not a dead woman.

No, she thought fiercely. He didn’t still love Marina. Maybe he’d never loved Marina. He’d said the morning before that he hadn’t been with a woman for eight years.

Eight years?

It sank in, finally. Good God.

She’d spent the past two days in such a flurry of emotion that she hadn’t really stopped and thought—really thought—about what he’d said.

Eight years.

It was not what she would have expected. Not from a man such as Phillip, who clearly enjoyed—no, clearly needed—the physical aspects of married love.

Marina had only been dead for fifteen months. If Phillip had gone without a woman for eight years, that meant they hadn’t shared a bedroom since the twins had been conceived.

No . . .

Eloise did some mental arithmetic. No, it would have been after the twins had been born. A little bit after.

Of course, Phillip could have been off in his dates, or perhaps exaggerating, but somehow Eloise didn’t think so. She rather thought he knew exactly when he and Marina had last slept together, and she feared,

especially now that she had pinpointed the date of it, that it had been a terrible occasion indeed.

But he had not betrayed her. He had remained faithful to a woman from whose bed he’d been banned. Eloise wasn’t surprised, given his innate sense of honor and dignity, but she didn’t think she would have thought less of him if he had sought comfort elsewhere.

And the fact that he hadn’t—

It made her love him all the more.

But if his time with Marina had been so difficult and disturbing, why had he come here tonight? Why was he staring at her portrait, standing there as if he couldn’t move from the spot? Gazing upon her as if he were pleading with her, begging her for something.

Begging the favor of a dead woman.

Eloise couldn’t stand it any longer. She stepped forward and cleared her throat.

Phillip surprised her by turning instantly; she’d thought that he was so completely lost in his own world that he would not hear her. He didn’t say anything, not even her name, but then . . .

He held out his hand.

She walked forward and took it, not knowing what else to do, not even knowing—as strange as it seemed—what to say. So she just stood beside him and stared up at Marina’s portrait.

“Did you love her?” she asked, even though she’d asked him before.

“No,” he said, and she realized that a small part of her must have still been very worried, because the rush of relief she felt at his denial was surprising in its force.

“Do you miss her?”

His voice was softer, but it was sure. “No.” “Did you hate her?” she whispered.

He shook his head, and he sounded very sad when he said, “No.”

She didn’t know what else to ask, wasn’t sure what she should ask, so she just waited, hoping he would speak.

And after a very long while, he did.

“She was sad,” he said. “She was always sad.”

Eloise looked up at him, but he did not return the glance. His eyes were on Marina’s portrait, as if he had to look at her while he spoke about her. As

if maybe he owed her that.

“She was always somber,” he continued, “always a bit too serene, if that makes any sense, but it was worse after the twins were born. I don’t know what happened. The midwife said it was normal for women to cry after childbirth but that I shouldn’t worry, that it would clear away in a few weeks.”

“But it didn’t,” Eloise said softly.

He shook his head, then harshly brushed one dark lock of hair aside when it fell onto his brow. “It just got worse. I don’t know how to explain it. It was almost as if . . .” He shrugged helplessly as he searched for words, and when he continued, he was whispering. “It was almost as if she’d disappeared. . . . She rarely left her bed. . . . I never saw her smile. She

cried a lot. A great deal.”

The sentences came forth, not in a rush, but one at a time, as if each piece of information were being brought forth from his memory in slow succession. Eloise didn’t say anything, didn’t feel it her place to interrupt him or to try to inject her feelings on a matter she knew nothing about.

And then, finally, he turned away from Marina to Eloise, and looked her squarely in the eye.

“I tried everything to make her happy. Everything in my power.

Everything I knew. But it wasn’t enough.”

Eloise opened her mouth, made a small sound, the beginnings of a murmur meant to assure him that he’d done his best, but he cut her off.

“Do you understand, Eloise?” he asked, his voice growing louder, more urgent. “It wasn’t enough.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly, because even though she hadn’t known Marina as an adult, she knew Phillip, and she knew that had to be the truth.

“Eventually I just gave up,” he said, his voice flat. “I stopped trying to help her at all. I was so sick and tired of beating my head against a wall where she was concerned. And all I tried to do was protect the children, and keep them away when she was in a really bad spell. Because they loved her so much.” He looked at her pleadingly, maybe for understanding, maybe for something else Eloise didn’t understand. “She was their mother.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“She was their mother, and she didn’t . . . she couldn’t ”

“But you were there,” Eloise said fervently. “You were there.”

He laughed harshly. “Yes, and a fat lot of good that did them. It’s one thing to be born with one dreadful parent, but to have two? I would never have wished that on my children, and yet . . . here we are.”

“You are not a bad father,” Eloise said, unable to keep the scolding tone out of her voice.

He just shrugged and turned back to the portrait, clearly unable to consider her words.

“Do you know how much it hurt?” he whispered. “Do you have any idea?”

She shook her head, even though he’d turned away.

“To try so hard, so damned hard, and never succeed? Hell—” He laughed, a short, bitter sound, full of self-loathing. “Hell,” he said again, “I didn’t even like her and it hurt so much.”

“You didn’t like her?” Eloise asked, her surprise pitching her words into a different register.

His lips quirked ironically. “Can you like someone you don’t even know?” He turned back to her. “I didn’t know her, Eloise. I was married to her for eight years, and I never knew her.”

“Maybe she didn’t let you know her.” “Maybe I should have tried harder.”

“Maybe,” Eloise said, infusing her voice with all the surety and conviction she could, “there was nothing more you could have done. Some people are born melancholy, Phillip. I don’t know why, and I doubt anyone knows why, but that’s just the way they are.”

He looked at her sardonically, his dark eyes clearly dismissing her opinion, and so she leapt back in with, “Don’t forget, I knew her, too. As a child, long before you even knew she existed.”

Phillip’s expression changed then, and his gaze grew so intense upon her face that she nearly squirmed under the pressure of it.

“I never heard her laugh,” Eloise said softly. “Not even once. I’ve been trying to remember her better since I met you, trying to recall why my memories of her always seemed so strange and odd, and I think that’s it. She never laughed. Whoever heard of a child who doesn’t laugh?”

Phillip was silent for a few moments, then he said, “I don’t think I ever heard her laugh, either. Sometimes she would smile, usually when the

children came to see her, but she never laughed.”

Eloise nodded. And then she said, “I’m not Marina, Phillip.”

“I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know. It’s why I married you, you know.”

It wasn’t quite what she wanted to hear, but she stifled her disappointment and allowed him to continue.

The creases in his forehead deepened, and he rubbed them hard. He looked so burdened, so tired of his responsibilities. “I just wanted someone who wasn’t going to be sad,” he said. “Someone who would be present for the children, someone who wouldn’t—”

He cut himself off, turned away.

“Someone who wouldn’t what?” she asked urgently, sensing that this was important.

For the longest time she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then, just when she’d quite given up on him, he said, “She died of influenza. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, since his back was to her and he wouldn’t see her nod. “She died of influenza,” he repeated. “That’s what we told everyone—”

Eloise suddenly felt very sick, because she knew, absolutely knew what he was going to say.

“Well, it was the truth,” he said bitterly, surprising her with his words. She’d been so sure he was going to say that they’d been lying all the while.

“It’s the truth,” he said again. “But it wasn’t all of the truth. She did die of influenza, but we never told anyone why she fell ill.”

“The lake,” Eloise whispered, her words coming forth unbidden. She hadn’t even realized she’d been thinking them until she spoke.

He nodded grimly. “She didn’t fall in by accident.”

Her hand flew to cover her mouth. No wonder he’d been so upset that she’d taken the children there. She felt awful. Of course she didn’t know, couldn’t have known, but still . . .

“I got her just in time,” he said. “Just in time to save her from drowning, that is. Not in time to save her from lung fever three days later.” He choked back bitter laughter. “Not even my famed willow bark tea could do the job for her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Eloise whispered, and she was, even though Marina’s death had, in so many ways, made her own happiness possible.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his gaze fixed on the ground. “You can’t possibly.”

“I’ve never known anyone who took their own life,” she replied carefully, unsure if those were the right words for such a moment.

“That’s not what I mean,” he said, his voice sharp. “You don’t know what it’s like to feel trapped, hopeless. To fight every single day and never—” He turned to her, his eyes burning. “—break free. I tried. Every day, I tried. I tried for myself, for Marina, and most of all for Oliver and Amanda. I did everything I could, everything everyone suggested, and nothing worked. Not a single thing. I tried, and she cried, and I tried again, and all she did was bury herself deeper in her bed, pulling the covers over her head. She lived in darkness, curtains drawn, lights dimmed, and then, on the one sunny day, she chose to end it all.”

Eloise’s eyes widened in shock.

“A sunny day,” he continued, bitterness in his voice. “After a month of gray skies, the sun finally breaks through, and that’s when she decided to go.” He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “After everything she put us through, she had to ruin sunny days for me.”

“Phillip,” Eloise said, placing a hand on his arm.

He shrugged her off. “And as if that wasn’t enough, she didn’t even do it right. Well, no,” he said harshly, “maybe that was my fault. She would’ve been gone if I hadn’t come along, forcing us to suffer through three more days of uncertainty, wondering if she would live or die.” He crossed his arms, a snort escaping his lips. “But of course, she died. I don’t know why we even dared to hope. She didn’t fight—not an ounce of energy to resist the illness. She just lay there, surrendering to it, while I kept waiting for her to smile, as if she were finally content because she’d achieved the one thing she wanted.”

“Oh, my God,” Eloise whispered, sickened by the image. “Did she?”

He shook his head. “No. She didn’t have even the energy for that. She just died with the same expression on her face she always had. Empty.”

“I’m so sorry,” Eloise said, even though she knew her words could never be enough. “No one should have to go through something like that.”

He stared at her for the longest time, his eyes searching hers, looking for something, searching for an answer that she wasn’t sure she had. Then he turned abruptly away and walked to the window, staring out at the inky night sky. “I tried so hard,” he said, his voice quiet with resignation and regret, “and still, every day I wished I were married to someone else.” His head tipped forward, until his forehead was leaning against the glass. “Anyone else.”

He was silent for a very long time. Too long, in Eloise’s estimation, and so she stepped forward, murmuring his name, just to hear his response. Just to know that he was all right.

“Yesterday,” he said, his voice abrupt, “you said we have a problem—” “No,” she cut in, as quickly as she was able. “I didn’t mean—”

“You said we have a problem,” he repeated, his voice so low and forceful she didn’t think he’d hear another interruption even if she tried. “But until you live through what I lived through,” he continued, “until you’ve been trapped in a hopeless marriage, to a hopeless spouse, until you’ve gone to bed alone for years wishing for nothing more than the touch of another human being . . .”

He turned around, stepped toward her, his eyes alight with a fire that humbled her. “Until you’ve lived through all that,” he said, “don’t you ever complain about what we have. Because to me . . . to me . . .” He choked on the words, but he barely paused before he continued. “This—us—is heaven. And I can’t bear to hear you say otherwise.”

“Oh, Phillip,” she said, and then she did the only thing she knew to do. She closed the distance between them and threw her arms around him and held on for all she was worth. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her tears soaking into his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want to fail again,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “I can’t—I couldn’t—”

“You won’t,” she vowed. “We won’t.”

“You’ve got to be happy,” he said, his words sounding as if they’d been ripped from his throat. “You have to be. Please say—”

“I am,” she assured him. “I am. I promise you.”

He pulled back and took her face in his hands, forcing her to look deeply into his eyes. He seemed to be searching for something in her

expression, desperately seeking confirmation, or maybe absolution, or maybe just a simple promise.

“I am happy,” she whispered, covering his hands with her own. “More than I ever dreamed possible. And I am proud to be your wife.”

His face seemed to tighten, and his lower lip began to quiver. Eloise caught her breath. She’d never seen a man cry, never really even thought it possible, but then a tear rolled slowly down his cheek, settling into the dimple at the corner of his mouth until she reached out and brushed it away. “I love you,” he said, choking on the words. “I don’t even care if you

don’t feel the same way. I love you and . . . and . . .”

“Oh, Phillip,” she whispered, reaching up and touching the tears on his face. “I love you, too.”

His lips moved as if trying to form words, and then he gave up on speech, and he reached out for her, crushing her to him with a strength and intensity that humbled her. He buried his face in her neck, murmuring her name over and over again, and then his words became kisses, and he moved along her skin until he found her mouth.

How long they stood there, kissing as if the world were to end that very night, Eloise would never know. Then he swept her into his arms and carried her out of the portrait gallery and up the stairs, and before she knew it, she was on her bed, and he was on top of her.

And his lips had never left hers.

“I need you,” he said hoarsely, pulling her dress from her body with shaking fingers. “I need you like I need breath. I need you like food, like water.”

She tried to say she needed him, too, but she couldn’t, not when his mouth had closed around her nipple, not when he was sucking in such a way that made her feel it down in her belly, a warm, slow heat that curled and grew, taking her hostage until she could do nothing but reach for this man, her husband, and give herself to him with everything that she had.

He lifted himself away from her, just long enough to yank off his own clothing, and then he rejoined her, this time lying beside her. He pulled her to him until they were belly to belly, and then he stroked her hair, softly, gently, and his other hand splayed at the small of her back.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I want nothing more than to grab you and

—” He swallowed. “You have no idea how much I want you right now.”

Her lips curved. “I think I have some idea.”

That made him smile. “My body is dying. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, and yet . . .” He leaned in closer and brushed his lips across hers. “I had to stop. I had to tell you.”

She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. And she felt the tears coming, burning in her eyes until they spilled out, flowing over his hands.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered.

“I can’t help it,” she said, her voice shaking. “I love you so much. I didn’t think—I’d always hoped, but I guess I never really thought—”

“I never thought, either,” he said, and they both knew what they were thinking—

I never thought it would happen to me.

“I’m so lucky,” he said, and his hands moved, sliding down her rib cage, over her belly, and then around to her backside. “I think I’ve waited my entire life for you.”

“I know I’ve been waiting for you,” Eloise said.

He squeezed and pulled her against him, nearly burning her with his touch. “I’m not going to be able to go slowly,” he said, his voice shaking. “I think I used up my entire allotment of willpower just now.”

“Don’t go slowly,” she said, sliding onto her back and pulling him atop her. She spread her legs, opening until he settled between them, his sex coming to rest right at the opening of her womanhood. Her hands found his hair and sank in, pulling his head down until his mouth was right at hers. “I don’t want it slow,” she said.

And then, in a single fluid motion, so fast that it took her breath away, he was inside her, embedded to the hilt, knocking against her womb with enough force to jolt a surprised little “Oh!” from her lips.

He smiled wickedly. “You said you wanted it fast.”

She responded by curling her legs around his, locking him to her. She tilted her hips, which pulled him in even deeper, and smiled back. “You’re not doing anything,” she said to him.

And then he did.

All words were lost as they moved. They weren’t graceful, and they didn’t move as one. Their bodies weren’t in tune, and the sounds they made were not musical or lovely.

They just moved, with need and fire and total abandon, reaching for each other, reaching for the summit. The wait was not long. Eloise tried to make it last, tried to hold out, but there was no way. With every stroke, Phillip unleashed a fire within her that could not be denied. And then finally, when she couldn’t contain herself one moment longer, Eloise cried out and arched beneath him, lifting them both from the bed with the force of her fulfillment. Her body quivered and shook, and she gasped for breath, and all she could do was clutch his back, her fingers surely leaving bruises on his skin as she clung to him.

And then, before she could even fall back down to earth, Phillip cried out, and he slammed forward over and over again, emptying himself within her until he collapsed, the full weight of him pinning her into the mattress.

But she didn’t mind. She loved the feel of him atop her, loved the heaviness, loved the smell and the taste of the sweat on his skin.

She loved him.

It was that simple.

She loved him, and he loved her, and if there was anything more, anything else important in her world, it just didn’t matter. Not right there, not right then.

“I love you,” he whispered, finally rolling off of her and allowing her lungs to fill with air.

I love you.

It was all she needed.