. . . I cannot believe that you will not tell me more. As your elder sister (by a full year, I should not have to remind you) I am owed a certain measure of respect, and while I appreciate your informing me that Annie Mavel’s account of married love was correct, I should have liked a few details beyond that brief account. Surely you are not so wrapped in your own bliss that you cannot spare a few words (adjectives, in particular, would be helpful) for your beloved sister.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her sister the Countess of Kilmartin,
two weeks after Francesca’s wedding
One week later, Eloise was sitting in the small parlor that had recently been converted into an office for her, chewing on the end of her pencil as she attempted to go over the household accounts. She was supposed to be counting funds, and bags of flour, and the servants’ wages, and the like, but in truth all she could count was the number of times she and Phillip had made love.
Thirteen, she thought. No, fourteen. Well, fifteen, actually, if she counted that time when he hadn’t actually gone inside of her, but they’d both . . .
She blushed, even though there wasn’t a soul in the room besides her, and it wasn’t as if anyone would have known what she was thinking, anyway.
But good God, had she really done that? Kissed him there?
She hadn’t even known such a thing was possible. Annie Mavel certainly hadn’t described anything like that when she’d delivered her little lesson to Eloise and Francesca all those years ago.
Eloise scrunched her face as she thought back. She wondered if Annie Mavel had even known such things were possible. It was difficult to imagine Annie doing it, but then, it was difficult to imagine anyone doing it, most especially herself.
It was amazing, she thought, utterly amazing and beyond wonderful to have a husband who was so mad for her. They didn’t see one another too terribly often during the day—he had his work, after all, and she had hers, of a sort—but at night, after he’d given her five minutes for her toilette (it had started at twenty, but it seemed to be getting progressively shorter, and she could even hear his footsteps pacing outside the door during the scant minutes he now allowed her) . . .
At night, he pounced upon her like a man possessed. A starving man, really. His energy seemed endless, and he was always trying new things, positioning her in new ways, teasing and tormenting until she was screaming and begging, never sure whether it was for him to stop or keep going.
He’d said that he hadn’t felt passion for Marina, but Eloise found that hard to believe. He was a man of hearty appetites (it was a silly word, but she could not think of any other way to describe it), and the things he did with his hands . . .
And his mouth . . . And his teeth . . . And his tongue . . .
She blushed again. The things he did—well, a woman would have to be half dead not to respond.
She looked back down at the columns in her ledger. The numbers hadn’t miraculously added themselves up while she daydreamed, and every time Eloise tried to concentrate they began swimming around before her eyes. She glanced out the window; she couldn’t see Phillip’s greenhouse from her position, but she knew it was just around the corner, and that he was in it, toiling away, snipping leaves and planting seeds and whatever else it was that he did there all day.
All day.
She frowned. It was actually a very apt phrase. Phillip did spend the entire day in the greenhouse, often even having his midday meal brought in on a tray. She knew it wasn’t terribly abnormal for man and wife to lead
separate lives during the day (and, for many couples, at night as well), but they had only been married one week.
And in truth, she was in many ways still learning who her new husband was. The marriage had come about so precipitously; she really knew very little about him. Oh, she knew he was honest and honorable and would treat her well, and now she knew that he possessed a carnal side that she would never have dreamed lurked beneath his reserved exterior.
But aside from what she had learned about his father, she didn’t know his experiences, his opinions, what had happened in his life to make him the man he now was. She tried, sometimes, to draw him out in conversation, and she sometimes succeeded, but more often than not, her attempts melted away.
Because he never seemed to want to talk when he could kiss. And that, inevitably, led to his nudging her into the bedroom, where words were forgotten.
And on the few occasions when she did manage to engage him in conversation, it proved to be nothing more than an exercise in frustration. She would ask his opinion on anything relating to the household, for example, and he would just shrug and tell her that she should handle it how she saw fit. Sometimes she wondered if he’d married her just to gain a housekeeper.
And, of course, a warm body in his bed.
But there could be more. Eloise knew there could be more to a marriage, knew there could be more in a marriage. She couldn’t recall much of her parents’ union, but she’d seen her siblings with their spouses, and she thought she and Phillip might find the same bliss if they would only spend a little time together outside the bedroom.
She stood abruptly and walked to the door. She should talk to him. There was no reason she couldn’t go to the greenhouse and talk to him. Maybe he’d even appreciate it if she asked about his work.
She wasn’t going to interrogate him, exactly, but surely there could be no harm in a question or two, peppered into the conversation. And if he even hinted that she was bothering him or making it difficult to work, she’d leave immediately.
But then she heard her mother’s voice echoing in her head.
Don’t push, Eloise. Don’t push.
It took willpower she’d never thought she possessed, since it went against her every last natural inclination, but she stopped, turned around, and sat back down.
She’d never known her mother to be wrong about anything truly important, and if Violet had seen fit to give advice on her wedding night, Eloise rather suspected she ought to pay it careful attention.
This, she thought with a grumpy frown, must have been what her mother had meant when she’d said to give it time.
She jammed her hands under her bottom, as if to keep them from reaching forward and leading her back toward the door. She glanced out the window, then had to avert her gaze because even though she couldn’t see the greenhouse, she knew it was right there, just around the corner.
This was not, she thought through clenched teeth, her natural state. She’d never been the sort who could sit still and smile while she did so. She was meant to be moving, doing, exploring, questioning. And if she were to be honest—bothering, pestering, and stating her opinions to anyone who would listen as well.
She frowned, sighing. Put that way, she didn’t sound a terribly attractive person.
She tried to remember her mother’s wedding-night speech. Surely there was something positive in there as well. Her mother loved her, after all. She must have said something good. Hadn’t there been something about her being charming?
She sighed. If she recalled correctly, her mother had said she found her impatience charming, which wasn’t really the same as finding someone’s good temperament charming.
How awful this was. She was eight and twenty, for heaven’s sake. She’d sailed through her entire life feeling perfectly happy with who she was and how she conducted herself.
Well, almost perfectly happy. She knew she talked too much and was perhaps a little too direct at times, and very well, not everybody liked her, but most people did, and she’d long since decided that that was fine with her.
So why now? Why was she suddenly so unsure of herself, so fearful of doing or saying the wrong thing?
She stood. She couldn’t stand this—the indecision, the lack of action. She’d heed her mother’s advice and give Phillip a bit of privacy, but by God, she couldn’t sit here doing nothing one moment longer.
She looked down at the incomplete ledgers. Oh, dear. If she’d been doing what she was supposed to be doing, she wouldn’t have been doing nothing, would she?
With a little huff of irritation, she slammed the ledgers shut. It didn’t really matter if she could be adding her sums, because she knew herself well enough to know that she wouldn’t be adding them, even if she sat here, so she might as well go off and do something else.
The children. That was it. She’d become a wife a week ago, but she’d also become a mother. And if anyone needed interfering in their lives, it was Oliver and Amanda.
Buoyed by her newfound sense of purpose, she strode out the door, feeling once again like her old self. She needed to oversee their lessons, make sure they were learning properly. Oliver was going to need to prepare himself for Eton, where he really ought to enroll in the fall term.
And then there was their clothing. They’d quite outgrown everything in their wardrobes, and Amanda deserved something prettier, and . . .
She sighed with contentment as she hurried up the stairs. Already she was ticking off her projects on her fingers, mentally planning for the dressmaker and the tailor, not to mention devising the wording for the advertisement she intended to place to secure the services of a few more tutors, because they desperately needed to learn French and the pianoforte, and, of course, sums—and were they too young for long division?
Feeling rather jaunty, she pushed open the door to the nursery, and then .
. .
She stopped short, trying to figure out what was going on.
Oliver’s eyes were red, as if he’d been crying, and Amanda was
sniffling, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Both were taking those hiccuppy gasps of breath that one does when one is upset.
“Is something wrong?” Eloise asked, looking first at the children and then at their nurse.
The twins said nothing, but they looked at her with wide, imploring eyes.
“Nurse Edwards?” Eloise asked.
The nurse’s lips were twisted into an unpleasant frown. “They are merely sulking because they were punished.”
Eloise nodded slowly. It wasn’t the least bit surprising that Oliver and Amanda might do something requiring punishment, but nonetheless, there was something wrong about what she was seeing. Maybe it was the broken look in their eyes, as if they’d tried defiance and had given up on it.
Not that she wanted to encourage defiance, especially not against their nurse, who needed to maintain her position of authority in the schoolroom, but nor did she ever want to see this expression in their eyes—so totally humbled, so meek and sorrowful.
“Why were they punished?” Eloise asked.
“Disrespectful speech,” came their nurse’s immediate reply.
“I see.” Eloise sighed. The twins probably had deserved punishment; they did often speak with disrespect and it was something she herself had scolded them about on several occasions. “And what punishment was meted out?”
“They were rapped on the knuckles,” Nurse Edwards said, her back ramrod stiff.
Eloise forced herself to unclench her jaw. She didn’t like corporal punishment, but at the same time, rapped knuckles were a staple in all the best schools. She was quite certain all of her brothers had had their knuckles rapped on numerous occasions at Eton; she couldn’t imagine they had made it through all those years without a number of disciplinary transgressions.
Still, she didn’t like the look in the children’s eyes, so she took Nurse Edwards aside and said softly, “I understand their need for discipline, but if you must do this again, I must ask that you do it more softly.”
“If I do it softly,” the nurse said quite sharply, “they won’t learn their lesson.”
“I will be the judge of their learned lessons,” Eloise said, bristling at the nurse’s tone. “And I am no longer asking. I am telling you, they are children, and you must be more gentle.”
Nurse Edwards’s lips pursed, but she nodded. Once, sharply, to show that she would do as asked, but that she disagreed—and disapproved of Eloise’s interference.
Eloise turned back to the children and said in a loud voice, “I am quite certain they have learned their lesson for today. Perhaps they might take a short break with me.”
“We are practicing our penmanship,” Nurse Edwards said. “We can’t afford to take any time off. Especially not if I am meant to act as both nurse and governess.”
“I assure you that I plan to address that problem with all possible haste,” Eloise said. “And as for today, I will be happy to practice penmanship with the children. You may be assured that they will not fall behind.”
“I do not think—”
Eloise speared her with a glare. She was not a Bridgerton for nothing, and by God, she knew how to deal with recalcitrant servants. “You need only to inform me of your lesson plans.”
The nurse looked exceedingly grumpy, but she informed Eloise that today they were practicing M, N, and O. “Both uppercase and lowercase,” she added sharply.
“I see,” Eloise said, giving her voice a supercilious lilt. “I am fairly certain that I am qualified in that particular area of scholarly pursuit.”
Nurse Edwards’s face turned red at the sarcasm. “Will that be all?” she bit off.
Eloise nodded. “Indeed. You are dismissed. Do enjoy your free time— surely you don’t get enough of it, serving double duty as you do, as both nurse and governess—and please return to see to their lunch.”
Head held high, Nurse Edwards left the room.
“Well then,” Eloise announced, turning her attention to the two children, who were still sitting at their little table, gazing up at her as if she were a minor deity, come down to earth for the sole purpose of saving children from evil witches. “Shall we—”
But she couldn’t finish her question, because Amanda had launched herself at her, throwing her arms around her midsection with enough force to knock her back against the wall. And Oliver soon followed.
“There, there,” Eloise said, patting their hair in confusion. “Whatever could be wrong?”
“Nothing,” came Amanda’s muffled reply.
Oliver pulled back and stood straight like the little man people were always telling him to be. Then he ruined the effect by wiping his nose with
the back of his hand.
Eloise handed him a handkerchief.
He used it, nodded his thanks, and said, “We like you better than Nurse Edwards.”
Eloise couldn’t imagine liking anyone worse than Nurse Edwards, and she privately vowed to look into finding a replacement as soon as possible. But she wasn’t going to say anything to the children about this; they would almost certainly relate the information to the nurse, who would either give her notice immediately, leaving them all in a terrible bind, or take her frustration and ire out on the children, which wouldn’t do at all.
“Let’s sit down,” she said, steering them toward the table. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t want to have to face her if we haven’t practiced our Ms, Ns, and Os.”
And she thought to herself—I really must speak with Phillip about this.
She looked down at Oliver’s hands. They didn’t look abused, but one of the knuckles looked a little bit red. It might have been her imagination, but still . . .
She needed to talk to Phillip. As soon as she was able.
Phillip hummed to himself as he carefully transplanted a seedling, well aware that prior to his marriage, he had always labored in complete and utter silence.
He had never felt like whistling before, he realized, never once wanted to sing softly to himself or hum. But now . . . well, now it seemed as if music were simply in the air, all around him. He felt more relaxed, too, and the constant knots of tension in his shoulders had started to dissolve.
Marrying Eloise was, quite simply, the best thing he could have done.
Hell, he’d even go so far as to say it was the best thing he’d ever done.
He was, for the first time in recent memory, happy.
It seemed such a simple thing now, to be happy. And he wasn’t even sure that he’d realized he wasn’t happy before. He had certainly laughed on occasion, and enjoyed himself from time to time—it wasn’t, as it had been for Marina, that he’d been completely and constantly unhappy.
But he hadn’t been happy. Not in the way he was now, waking up each day with the feeling that the world was indeed a wonderful place and that it
would still be a wonderful place when he went to bed that night and still yet again when he got up the following morning.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like that. Probably not since his university days, when he’d had his first taste of the thrill of intellectual discovery—and he was far enough away from his father that he didn’t have to worry about the constant threat of the rod.
It was difficult to count the ways that Eloise had improved his life. There was, of course, their time in the bedroom, which was quite beyond anything he might have imagined. If he’d even dreamed that sexual intercourse could be so splendid, there was no way he would have remained celibate for so long. No way he could have, quite frankly, if his current appetite was any indication.
But he simply hadn’t known. Lovemaking certainly hadn’t been like that with Marina. Or with any of the women he’d fumbled with as a university lad, before his marriage.
But if he were honest with himself—and that was a difficult task, considering how completely besotted his body was with Eloise’s—the intercourse wasn’t the main reason for his current sense of contentment.
It was this feeling—this knowledge, really—that he had finally, and truly, for the first time since he’d become a father, done the absolute right thing for the twins.
He’d never be a perfect father. He knew that, and even if he hated it, he accepted it. But he had finally done the next best thing, and gotten them the perfect mother.
It was as if a thousand pounds of guilt had been lifted from his shoulders.
No wonder his muscles finally felt unknotted and relaxed.
He could go into his greenhouse in the morning and not worry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that, simply gone in and worked without cringing every time he heard a loud noise or shriek. Or been able to concentrate on his work without his mind wandering into guilt, unable to focus on anything other than his lacks as a father.
But now he walked in and forgot all his cares. Hell, he had no cares. It was splendid. Magical.
A relief.
And if sometimes his wife looked at him as if she wanted him to say something different or do something different—well, he chalked that up to the simple fact that he was a man and she was a woman, and his sort would never understand her sort, and truly, he ought just to be grateful that Eloise almost always said exactly what she meant, which was a very good thing, since he wasn’t constantly left guessing what was expected of him.
What was that thing his brother had always said—Beware a woman asking questions. You will never answer correctly.
Phillip smiled to himself, enjoying the memory. Put that way, there was no reason to worry if occasionally their conversations dwindled off into nothingness. Most of the time they dwindled right into bed, which was perfectly fine by him.
He looked down at the bulge forming in his breeches. Damn. He was going to have to stop thinking about his wife in the middle of the day. Or at the very least, find a way to get discreetly back to the house in his condition and find her quickly.
But then, almost as if she’d known he was standing there thinking how perfect she was, and she wanted to prove it one more time, she opened the door to the greenhouse and poked her head in.
Phillip looked around and wondered why he’d built the structure entirely of glass. He might need to install some sort of privacy screen if she was going to come visiting on a regular basis.
“Am I intruding?”
He thought about that. She was, actually; he was quite in the middle of something, but he realized he didn’t mind. Which was odd and rather pleasing at the same time. He’d always been irritated by interruptions before. Even when it was someone whose company he enjoyed, after a few minutes he found himself wishing they would just leave so that he could get back to whatever project he’d had to put aside for their benefit. “Not at all,” he said, “if you are not offended by my appearance.”
She looked at him, taking in the dirt and mud, including the smudge he was rather certain he sported on his left cheek, and she shook her head. “It’s no problem at all.”
“What is troubling you?”
“It’s the children’s nurse,” she said without preamble. “I don’t like her.”
That was not what he expected. He set down his spade. “You don’t?
What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know exactly. I just don’t like her.”
“Well, that’s hardly a reason to terminate her employment.”
Eloise’s lips thinned slightly, a sure sign, he was coming to realize, that she was irritated. She said, “She rapped the children across the knuckles.”
He sighed. He didn’t like the thought of someone striking his children, but then again, it was just a knuckle rap. Nothing that didn’t occur in every schoolroom across the country. And, he thought resignedly, his children were not exactly models of good behavior. And so, wanting to groan, he asked, “Did they deserve it?”
“I don’t know,” Eloise admitted. “I wasn’t there. She said they spoke to her disrespectfully.”
Phillip felt his shoulders sag a bit. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I do not find that difficult to believe.”
“No, of course not,” Eloise said. “I’m sure they were little beasts. But still, something didn’t seem right.”
He leaned back against his workbench, tugging her hand until she tumbled against him. “Then look into it.”
Her lips parted with surprise. “Don’t you want to look into it?”
He shrugged. “I’m not the one with concerns. I’ve never had cause to doubt Nurse Edwards before, but if you feel uncomfortable, by all means, you should investigate. Besides, you’re better at this sort of thing than I am.”
“But”—she squirmed slightly as he pulled her against him and nuzzled her neck—“you’re their father.”
“And you’re their mother,” he said, his words coming out thick and hot against her skin. She was intoxicating, and he was aching with desire, and if he could only get her to stop talking, he could probably maneuver her to the bedroom, where they could have considerably more fun. “I trust your judgment,” he said, thinking that would placate her—and besides, it was the truth. “It’s why I married you.”
Clearly, his answer surprised her. “It’s why you . . . what?”
“Well, this, too,” he murmured, trying to figure out just how much he could fondle her with so many clothes between them.
“Phillip, stop!” she cried out, wrenching herself away.
What the devil? “Eloise,” he asked—cautiously, since it was his experience, limited though it was, that one should always tread carefully with a woman in a temper—“what is wrong?”
“What is wrong?” she demanded, her eyes flashing dangerously. “How can you even ask that?”
“Well,” he said slowly, and with just a touch of sarcasm, “it might be because I don’t know what is wrong.”
“Phillip, this is not the time.” “To ask you what is wrong?” “No!” she nearly shrieked.
Phillip took a step back. Self-preservation, he thought wryly. Surely that had to be what the male side of marital spats was all about. Self- preservation and nothing else.
She began waving her arms in a bizarre fashion. “To do this.”
He looked around. She was waving at the workbench, at the pea plants, at the sky above, winking in through the panes of glass. “Eloise,” he said, his voice deliberately even, “I am not an unintelligent man, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Her mouth fell open, and he knew he was in trouble. “You don’t know?” she asked.
He probably should have heeded his own warnings about self- preservation, but some little devil—some annoyed male devil, he was sure
—forced him to say, “I don’t read minds, Eloise.”
“It is not the time,” she finally ground out, “to be intimate.”
“Well, of course not,” he agreed. “We haven’t a bit of privacy. But”—he smiled just thinking about it—“we could always go back to the house. I know it’s the middle of the day, but—”
“That is not what I meant at all!”
“Very well,” he said, crossing his arms. “I give up. What do you mean, Eloise? Because I assure you, I haven’t a clue.”
“Men,” she muttered.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Her glare could have frozen the Thames. It quite froze off his desire, which irritated him no end, since he’d been looking forward to getting rid of it in another fashion altogether.
“It wasn’t meant as such,” she said.
He leaned back against the workbench, his casual posture meant to irritate her. “Eloise,” he said calmly, “try to afford a small measure of respect for my intelligence.”
“It is difficult,” she shot back, “when you display so little.”
That was it. “I don’t even know why we are arguing!” he exploded. “One minute you were willing in my arms, and the next you’re shrieking like a banshee.”
She shook her head. “I was never willing in your arms.” It was as if the bottom dropped out of his world.
She must have seen the shock on his face, because she quickly added, “Today. I meant just today. Just now, actually.”
His body sagged with relief, even as the rest of him seethed with anger. “I was trying to talk with you,” she explained.
“You’re always trying to talk with me,” he pointed out. “That’s all you ever do. Talk talk talk.”
She drew back. “If you didn’t like it,” she said in a snippy voice, “you shouldn’t have married me.”
“It wasn’t as if I had a choice in the matter,” he bit off. “Your brothers were ready to castrate me. And just so you don’t paint me completely black, I don’t mind your talking. Just not, for the love of God, all of the time.”
She looked like she was trying to say something utterly clever and cutting, but all she could do was gape like a fish and make sounds like, “Unh! Unh!”
“Every now and then,” he said, feeling quite superior, “you might consider shutting your mouth and using it for some other purpose.”
“You,” she fumed, “are insufferable.”
He raised his brows, knowing it would irritate her.
“I’m sorry you find my propensity for speech so offensive,” she ground out, “but I was trying to talk to you about something important, and you tried to kiss me.”
He shrugged. “I always try to kiss you. You’re my wife. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”
“But sometimes it’s not the right time,” she said. “Phillip, if we want to have a good marriage—”
“We do have a good marriage,” he interrupted, his voice defensive and bitter.
“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, “but it can’t always be about . . . you know.”
“No,” he said, deliberately obtuse. “I don’t know.”
Eloise ground her teeth together. “Phillip, don’t be like this.”
He said nothing, just tightened his already crossed arms and stared at her face.
She closed her eyes, and her chin bobbed slightly forward as her lips moved. And he realized that she was talking. She wasn’t making a sound, but she was still talking.
Dear God, the woman never stopped. Even now she was talking to herself.
“What are you doing?” he finally asked.
She didn’t open her eyes as she said, “Trying to convince myself it’s all right to ignore my mother’s advice.”
He shook his head. He would never understand women.
“Phillip,” she finally said, just when he’d decided that he was going to leave and let her talk to herself in private. “I very much enjoy what we do in bed—”
“That’s nice to hear,” he bit off, still too irritated to be gracious. She ignored his lack of civility. “But it can’t be just about that.” “It?”
“Our marriage.” She blushed, clearly uncomfortable with such frank speech. “It can’t be just about making love.”
“It can certainly be a great deal about it,” he muttered.
“Phillip, why won’t you discuss this with me? We have a problem, and we need to talk about it.”
And then something within him simply snapped. He was convinced that his was the perfect marriage, and she was complaining? He’d been so sure he’d gotten it right this time. “We’ve been married one week, Eloise,” he ground out. “One week. What do you expect of me?”
“I don’t know. I—” “I’m just a man.”
“And I’m just a woman,” she said softly.
For some reason, her quiet words only irritated him more. He leaned forward, deliberately using his size to intimidate her. “Do you know how
long it had been since I’d lain with a woman?” he hissed. “Do you have any idea?”
Her eyes grew impossibly wide, and she shook her head.
“Eight years,” he bit off. “Eight long years with nothing but my own hand for comfort. So the next time I seem to be enjoying myself while I’m driving into you, please do excuse my immaturity and my maleness—” He spoke the word as she might, with sarcasm and anger. “I’m simply having a ripping good time after a long dry spell.”
And then, unable to bear her for one moment longer— No, that wasn’t true. He was unable to bear himself.
Either way, he left.
