. . . and as I’m sure you can imagine, they were all possessed of a most foul temper. Is it my fault I am so superior? I think not. No more, I suppose, than it is their fault they were born men and thus without the barest hint of common sense or innate good manners.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to Penelope Featherington,
after trouncing six men (three not related to her) in a shooting match
The following day Eloise traveled to Romney Hall for lunch, along with Anthony, Benedict, and Sophie. Colin and Gregory had declared that the rest of the family had the situation well enough in hand and decided to return to London, Colin back to his new wife, and Gregory back to whatever it was the young unmarried men of the ton did to fill their daily lives.
Eloise was happy to see them go; she loved her brothers, but truly, the four of them at once was more than any woman ought to be expected to bear.
She was feeling optimistic as she stepped down from the carriage; the previous day had gone far better than she could ever have hoped. Even if Phillip hadn’t taken her into Sophie’s office to prove to her that they “would suit” (Eloise could now think of those words only as if they were in quotations), the day would have been a success. Phillip had more than held his own against the collective force of the Bridgerton brothers, which had left her feeling quite pleased and more than a little proud.
Funny how it hadn’t occurred to her until then that she could never marry a man who couldn’t square off with each and any of her brothers and
emerge unscathed.
And in Phillip’s case, he’d taken on all four at once. Most impressive.
Eloise still had reservations about the marriage, of course. How could she not? She and Phillip had developed a sense of mutual respect and hopefully even affection, but they were not in love, and Eloise had no way of knowing if they ever would be.
Still, she was convinced that she was doing the right thing by marrying him. She had little choice in the matter, of course; it was either marry Phillip or face complete ruin and a life alone. But even so, she thought he would make a fine husband. He was honest and honorable, and if he was at times too quiet, at least he seemed to have a sense of humor, which Eloise felt was essential for any prospective spouse.
And when he kissed her . . .
Well, it was quite obvious that he knew exactly how to turn her knees to butter.
And the rest of her as well.
Eloise was, of course, a pragmatic. She always had been, and she knew that passion was not enough to sustain a marriage.
But, she thought with a wicked smile, surely it couldn’t hurt.
Phillip checked the clock on the mantel for about the fifteenth time in as many minutes. The Bridgertons were due to arrive at half noon, and it was already thirty-five past the hour. Not that five minutes was anything to worry about when one had to travel over country roads, but still, it was deuced hard to keep Oliver and Amanda neat and tidy and, above all, well behaved as they waited with him in the drawing room.
“I hate this jacket,” Oliver said, tugging on his little coat. “It’s too small,” Amanda told him.
“I know,” he replied, with clear disdain. “If it weren’t too small, I wouldn’t have complained.”
Phillip rather thought he’d have found something else to complain about, but there seemed little reason to express this opinion.
“And anyway,” Oliver continued, “your dress is too small, too. I can see your ankles.”
“You’re supposed to be able to see my ankles,” Amanda said, frowning down at her lower legs.
“Not so much of them.”
She looked down again, this time with an expression of alarm.
“You’re only eight years old,” Phillip said in a weary voice. “The dress is perfectly suitable.” Or at least he hoped it was, little that he knew of such things.
Eloise, he thought, her name echoing through his head like the answer to his prayers. Eloise would know these things. She would know if a child’s dress was too short and when a girl should start wearing her hair up and even whether a boy should attend Eton or Harrow.
Eloise would know all these things. Thank God.
“I think they’re late,” Oliver announced.
“They’re not late,” Phillip said automatically.
“I think they are late,” Oliver said. “I can read the clock now, you know.”
Phillip didn’t know, which depressed him. It was rather like the swimming thing. Too much like it, really.
Eloise, he reminded himself. Whatever his failings as a father, he was making up for all of that by marrying the perfect mother for them. He was, for the first time since their birth, doing the exact right thing for his children, and the sense of relief was almost overwhelming.
Eloise. She couldn’t get here soon enough.
Hell, he couldn’t marry her soon enough. How did one procure a special license, anyway? It hadn’t been the sort of thing he’d ever thought he’d need to know, but the last thing he wanted to do was wait several weeks to have banns read.
Weren’t weddings meant to be held on Saturday mornings? Could they manage it by this Saturday? It was only two days away, but if they could get that special license . . .
Phillip caught Oliver by the collar as he tried to race out the door. “No,” he said firmly. “You will wait here for Miss Bridgerton. And you will do so quietly, without incident, and with a smile on your face.”
Oliver made at least some attempt to settle down at the mention of Eloise’s name, but his “smile” (performed obediently at his father’s order)
was a ghastly stretch of the lips that left Phillip feeling like he’d just had an audience with an anemic gorgon.
“That wasn’t a smile,” Amanda immediately said. “It was, too.”
“No. Your lips didn’t even curve up. ”
Phillip sighed as he attempted to block his ears from the inside out. He’d talk to Anthony Bridgerton about the special license this afternoon. It seemed like the sort of thing the viscount would know about.
Saturday couldn’t come soon enough. He could turn the twins over to Eloise during the day, and . . .
He smiled to himself. She could turn herself over to him at night. “Why are you smiling?” Amanda demanded.
“I’m not smiling,” Phillip said, feeling himself begin to—dear God— blush.
“You are smiling,” she accused. “And now your cheeks are turning pink.”
“Don’t be silly,” he muttered.
“I’m not silly,” she insisted. “Oliver, look at Father. Don’t his cheeks look pink?”
“One more word about my cheeks,” Phillip threatened, “and I’m going to ”
Hell, he’d been about to say horsewhip, but they all knew he would never do that.
“ do something,” he finished, in a lame attempt at a threat.
Amazingly, it worked, and they held still and silent for a moment. Then Amanda swung her legs from her perch on the sofa and knocked over a footstool.
Phillip looked at the clock.
“Oops,” she said, jumping down and then bending over to right it. “Oliver!” she howled.
Phillip tore his eyes away from the minute hand, which was, inexplicably, not even to the eight. Amanda was sprawled on the floor, glaring at her brother.
“He pushed me,” Amanda said. “Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did—”
“Oliver,” Phillip cut in. “Someone pushed her, and I’m fairly certain it was not I.”
Oliver chewed on his lower lip, having forgotten to consider the fact that his culpability would be quite obvious. “Maybe she fell over on her own,” he suggested.
Phillip just stared at him, hoping that the ferocious expression would be enough to nip that idea in the bud.
“Very well,” Oliver admitted. “I pushed her. I’m sorry.”
Phillip blinked with surprise. Maybe he was getting better at fatherhood.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard an unsolicited apology. “You can push me back,” Oliver said to Amanda.
“Oh, no,” Phillip said quickly. Bad idea. Very, very bad idea. “All right,” Amanda said brightly.
“No, Amanda,” Phillip said, jumping to his feet. “Do not—”
But she’d already pressed both of her little hands to her brother’s chest and heaved.
Oliver went tumbling back with a loud burst of laughter. “Now I get to push you!” he yelled with glee.
“You will not push your sister!” Phillip roared, jumping over an ottoman.
“She pushed me!” Oliver hollered.
“Because you asked her to, you miserable little wretch.” Phillip swung his hand out to grab Oliver’s sleeve before he slithered away, but the sneaky little bugger was slippery as an eel.
“Push me!” Amanda squealed. “Push me!”
“Do not push her!” Phillip yelled. Visions of his drawing room floated ominously in his brain, the image strewn with broken furniture and overturned lamps.
Good God, and with the Bridgertons due at any moment.
He reached Oliver just as Oliver reached Amanda, and the three of them went tumbling down, taking two cushions off the sofa with them. Phillip thanked the Lord for small favors. At least the cushions were not breakable.
Crash.
“What the devil?”
“I think it was the clock,” Oliver gulped.
How on earth they’d managed to topple the clock off the mantel, Phillip would never know. “The two of you are hereby banished to your rooms until you’re sixty-eight,” he hissed.
“Oliver did it,” Amanda said quickly.
“I don’t give a—care who did it,” Phillip bit off. “You know that Miss Bridgerton is expected at any—”
“Ahem.”
Phillip turned slowly to the doorway, horrified—but not surprised—to see Anthony Bridgerton standing there, Benedict, Sophie, and Eloise right behind him.
“My lord,” Phillip said, his voice too curt. Really, he should have been more gracious—it wasn’t the viscount’s fault that his children were just one transgression short of being complete monsters—but Phillip just couldn’t manage good cheer at the moment.
“Perhaps we’re interrupting?” Anthony said mildly.
“Not at all,” Phillip replied. “As you can see, we’re merely . . . ah . . . rearranging the furniture.”
“And doing an excellent job of it,” Sophie said brightly.
Phillip shot her a grateful smile. She seemed like the type of woman who always went out of her way to make others feel more comfortable, and at the moment he could have kissed her for it.
He rose, stopping to right the overturned ottoman as he did so, then grabbed both of his children by the arms and hauled them to their feet. Oliver’s little cravat was now completely undone, and Amanda’s hair clip hung limply near her ear. “May I present my children,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster, “Oliver and Amanda Crane.”
Oliver and Amanda mumbled their greetings, both looking rather uncomfortable at being paraded before so many adults. Either that, or maybe they were actually shamefaced for their abominable behavior, unlikely as that seemed.
“Very well,” Phillip said, once the twins had done their duty. “You can run along now.”
They looked at him with woeful expressions. “What now?”
“Can we stay?” Amanda asked in a small voice.
“No,” Phillip answered. He’d invited the Bridgertons over for lunch and a tour of his greenhouse, and he needed the children to disappear back to the nursery if either endeavor was to be successful.
“Please?” Amanda pleaded.
Phillip studiously avoided looking at his guests, aware that they were all witnessing his supreme lack of command over his children. “Nurse Edwards is waiting for you in the hall,” he said.
“We don’t like Nurse Edwards,” Oliver said. Amanda nodded beside him.
“Of course you like Nurse Edwards,” Phillip said impatiently. “She’s been your nurse for months.”
“But we don’t like her.”
Phillip looked over at the Bridgertons. “Excuse me,” he said in a clipped voice. “I apologize for the interruption.”
“It’s no bother,” Sophie said quickly, her face taking on a maternal air as she assessed the situation.
Phillip guided the twins to the far corner of the room, then crossed his arms and stared down at them. “Children,” he said sternly, “I have asked Miss Bridgerton to be my wife.”
Their eyes lit up.
“Good,” he grunted. “I see that you agree with me that this is a superior idea.”
“Will she—”
“Don’t interrupt me,” Phillip interrupted, too impatient by now to deal with any of their questions. “I want you to listen to me. I still need to gain approval from her family, and for that I need to entertain them and offer them lunch, and all this without children underfoot.” It was almost the truth, at least. The twins didn’t need to know that Anthony had practically ordered the wedding and that approval was no longer an issue.
But Amanda’s lower lip started wobbling, and even Oliver looked upset. “What now?” Phillip asked wearily.
“Are you ashamed of us?” Amanda asked.
Phillip sighed, feeling utterly sick of himself. Dear God, how had it come to this? “I’m not—”
“May I be of assistance?”
He looked over at Eloise as if she were his savior. He watched in silence as she knelt down near his children, telling them something in a voice so soft that he couldn’t understand the words, only the gentle quality of the tone.
The twins said something which was obviously in protest, but Eloise cut them off, gesticulating with her hands as she spoke. Then, to his complete and utter amazement, the twins said their farewells and walked out into the hall. They didn’t look especially happy to go, but they did it all the same.
“Thank God I’m marrying you,” Phillip said under his breath.
“Indeed,” she murmured, brushing past him with a secretive smile as she walked back to her family.
Phillip followed her and immediately apologized to Anthony, Benedict, and Sophie for his children’s behavior. “They have been difficult to manage since their mother passed,” he explained, trying to put it in the most excusable terms possible.
“There is nothing more difficult than the death of a parent,” Anthony said quietly. “Please, do not feel any need to apologize on their behalf.”
Phillip nodded his thanks, grateful for the older man’s understanding. “Come,” he said to the group, “let’s go on to lunch.”
But as he led them to the dining room, Oliver’s and Amanda’s faces loomed large in his mind. Their eyes had been sad as they’d walked away.
He’d seen his children obstinate, insufferable, even in full-fledged tantrums, but he’d not seen them sad since their mother had died.
It was very troubling.
After lunch and a tour through the greenhouse, the quintet broke into two groups. Benedict had brought along an artist’s pad, so he and Sophie remained near the house, chattering contentedly as he sketched the exterior. Anthony, Eloise, and Phillip decided to take a walk around the grounds, but Anthony very discreetly allowed Eloise and Phillip to tarry a good many yards behind, affording the affianced couple the opportunity to speak with some privacy.
“What did you say to the children?” Phillip immediately asked.
“I don’t know,” Eloise said quite honestly. “I just tried to act like my mother.” She shrugged. “It seemed to work.”
He thought about that. “It must be nice to have parents one can emulate.”
She looked at him curiously. “Didn’t you?” He shook his head. “No.”
She hoped he would say more, gave him time, even, but he did not speak. Finally, she decided to press the matter and asked, “Was it your mother or your father?”
“What do you mean?”
“Which of your parents was so difficult?”
He looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes inscrutable as his brows ever-so-slightly came together. Then he said, “My mother died at my birth.”
She nodded. “I see.”
“I doubt you do,” he said in a tight, hollow voice, “but I appreciate your trying.”
They walked along, keeping their pace slow, not wanting to come within earshot of Anthony, even though neither broke the silence for several minutes. Finally, as they turned along the path toward the back side of the house, Eloise uttered the question she’d been dying to ask all day—
“Why did you take me into Sophie’s study yesterday?”
He spluttered and stumbled. “I should think that would be obvious,” he mumbled, his cheeks turning pink.
“Well, yes,” Eloise said, blushing as she realized exactly what it was she had asked. “But surely you didn’t think that was going to happen.”
“A man can always hope,” he muttered. “You don’t mean that!”
“Of course I do. But,” he added, looking rather like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation, “as it happens, no, it never crossed my mind that matters would get quite so out of hand.” He gave her a sly, sideways sort of look. “I’m not sorry, however, that they did.”
She felt her cheeks turn hot. “You still haven’t answered my question.” “I haven’t?”
“No.” She knew she was being persistent to the point of unseemliness, but as matters went, this seemed an important one to press. “Why did you take me in there?”
He stared at her for a full ten seconds, presumably to ascertain if she was daft, then shot a quick look at Anthony to make sure he was out of earshot before answering, “Well, if you must know, yes, I did intend to kiss you. You were yapping on about the marriage and asking me all sorts of ridiculous questions.” He planted his hands on his hips and shrugged. “It seemed a good way to prove once and for all that we are well suited.”
She decided to let his description of her as a yapping female pass. “But passion is surely not enough to sustain a marriage,” she persisted.
“It’s certainly a good start,” he muttered. “May we talk of something else?”
“No. What I’m trying to say—”
He snorted and rolled his eyes. “You are always trying to say something.”
“It’s what makes me charming,” she said peevishly.
He looked at her with exaggerated patience. “Eloise. We are well suited and will enjoy a perfectly pleasant and amiable marriage. I don’t know what else to say or do to prove it.”
“But you don’t love me,” she said, her voice soft.
That seemed to knock the wind out of him, and he just stopped and stared at her for the longest moment. “Why do you say things like that?” he asked.
She shrugged helplessly. “Because it’s important.”
For a moment he did nothing but stare. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that every thought and feeling doesn’t need to be given voice?”
“Yes,” she said, a lifetime of regrets wrapped into that single syllable. “All the time.” She looked away, discomforted by the odd, hollow sensation rumbling in her throat. “I can’t seem to help myself, though.”
He shook his head, obviously perplexed, which didn’t surprise her. Half the time she perplexed herself. Why had she forced the issue? Why couldn’t she ever be subtle, coy? Her mother had once told her that she could catch more flies with honey than a sledgehammer, but Eloise never could learn to keep her thoughts to herself.
She had practically asked Sir Phillip if he loved her, and his silence was as much of an answer as no would have been. Her heart twisted. She hadn’t really thought he would contradict her, but her disappointment was proof that some tiny part of her had been hoping that he’d drop to his knees and
cry out that he did love her, that he cherished her, and was in fact quite certain that he would die without her.
Which was all nothing but rot, and she didn’t know why she’d even wished for it, when she didn’t love him, either.
But she could. She had this feeling that if she gave it enough time, she could love this man. And maybe she’d just wanted him to say the same.
“Did you love Marina?” she asked, the words crossing her lips before she’d even had a chance to ponder the wisdom of asking. She winced. There she went again, asking questions that were far too personal.
It was a wonder he hadn’t thrown up his arms and run screaming in the opposite direction already.
He didn’t answer for the longest moment. They just stood there, watching one another, trying to ignore Anthony, who was studiously examining a tree some thirty yards away. Finally, in a low voice, Phillip said, “No.”
Eloise didn’t feel elated; she didn’t feel sorrow. She didn’t feel anything at all at his pronouncement, which surprised her. But she did let out a long breath, one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. And she did feel rather glad that she now knew.
She hated the not knowing. About anything.
And so she really shouldn’t have been surprised when she whispered, “Why did you marry her?”
A rather blank expression washed over his eyes, and finally he just shrugged and said, “I don’t know. It seemed like the right thing to do.”
She nodded. It all made so much sense. It was exactly the sort of thing he would do. Phillip was always doing the right thing, the honorable thing, apologizing for his transgressions, shouldering everyone’s burdens . . .
Honoring his brother’s promises.
And then she had one more question. “Did you . . .” she whispered, almost losing her nerve. “Did you feel passion for her?” She knew she shouldn’t ask, but after that afternoon, she had to know. The answer didn’t matter—or at least she told herself it didn’t.
But she had to know.
“No.” He turned away, began to walk, his long stride forcing her to jump to attention and follow. But then, just when she’d gathered enough
speed to catch up, he stopped, causing her to stumble and put her hands out against his arm just to keep her balance.
“I have a question for you,” he said, his voice abrupt.
“Of course,” she murmured, surprised by his sudden change of demeanor. Still, it was only fair. She’d practically interrogated the poor man.
“Why did you leave London?” he asked.
She blinked in surprise. She hadn’t been expecting something with such an easy answer. “To meet you, of course.”
“Balderdash.”
Her mouth fell open at his palpable disdain.
“That’s why you came,” he said, “not why you left.”
It hadn’t occurred to her until that very minute that there was a difference, but he was right. He’d had nothing to do with why she’d left London. He’d just provided an easy means of escape, a way to leave without feeling she was running away.
He’d given her something to run to, which was so much easier to justify than running from.
“Did you have a lover?” he asked, his voice low.
“No!” she answered, loud enough so that Anthony actually turned around, forcing her to smile and wave at him, assuring him that all was well. “Just a bee,” she called out.
Anthony’s eyes widened, and he started to stride in their direction.
“It’s gone now!” Eloise called quickly, shooing him away. “Nothing about it!” She turned to Phillip and explained, “He’s rather morbidly afraid of bees.” She grimaced. “I forgot. I should have said it was a mouse.”
Phillip looked over at Anthony, curiosity on his face. Eloise wasn’t surprised; it was difficult to imagine that a man such as her brother was afraid of bees, but it did make sense, seeing as how their father had died after being stung by one.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Damn. She’d thought she’d got him off the subject. “How could you even ask it?” she asked.
Phillip shrugged. “How could I not? You ran away from home, not bothering to tell your family where you were going—”
“I left a note,” she interrupted.
“Yes, of course, the note.”
Her mouth fell open. “Don’t you believe me?”
He nodded. “I do, actually. You’re much too organized and officious to leave without making sure all of your loose ends were tied up.”
“It’s not my fault it got shuffled into Mother’s invitations,” she muttered.
“The note is not the issue,” he stated, crossing his arms.
Crossing his arms? She clenched her teeth together. It made her feel a child, and there was nothing she could do or say about it, because she had a feeling that whatever he was about to say concerning her recent behavior, he was right.
Much as it pained her to admit it.
“The fact of the matter,” he continued, “is that you fled London like a criminal in the middle of the night. It simply occurred to me that something might have happened to . . . ah . . . stain your reputation.” At her peevish expression, he added, “It’s not an unreasonable conclusion to reach.”
He was right, of course. Not about her reputation—that was still as pure and clean as snow. But it did look odd, and frankly, it was a wonder he hadn’t inquired after it already.
“If you had a lover,” he said quietly, “it won’t change my intentions.” “It’s not that at all,” she said quickly, mostly just to make him stop
talking about it. “It was . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she sighed. “It was . .
.”
And then she told him everything. All about the marriage proposals she’d received, and the ones Penelope hadn’t, and the plans they’d jokingly made to grow old and spinsterish together. And she told him how guilty she’d felt when Penelope and Colin had married, and she couldn’t stop thinking about herself and how alone she was.
She told him all that and more. She told him what was in her mind and what was in her heart, and she told him things she’d never told another soul. And it occurred to her that for a woman who opened her mouth every other second, there was an awful lot inside of her that she’d never shared.
And then, when she was done (and, in truth, she didn’t even realize she’d finished; she just kind of ran out of energy and dwindled off into silence), he reached out and took her hand.
“It’s all right,” he said.
And it was, she realized. It actually was.
