“But it smells bad.”
“You have only yourself to blame.”
“But my bed—”
“You’ll have to sleep on the floor,” he replied.
Face quivering—entire body quivering, truth be told—she dragged herself toward the door. “But . . . but . . .”
“Yes, Amanda?” he asked, in what he thought to be an impressively patient voice.
“But she didn’t punish Oliver,” the little girl whispered. “That wasn’t very fair of her. The flour was his idea.”
Phillip raised his brows.
“Well, it wasn’t only my idea,” Amanda insisted. “We thought it up together.”
Phillip actually chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about Oliver if I were you, Amanda. Or rather,” he said, giving his chin a thoughtful stroke with his fingers, “I would worry. I suspect Miss Bridgerton has plans for him yet.”
That seemed to satisfy Amanda, and she mumbled a barely articulate “Good night, Father,” before allowing her nursemaid to lead her from the room.
Phillip turned back to his soup, feeling very pleased with himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d emerged from a run-in with one of the twins in which he’d felt he’d handled everything just right. He took a sip, then, still holding his spoon, looked over at Eloise and said, “Poor Oliver will be quaking in his boots.”
She appeared to be trying hard not to grin. “He won’t be able to sleep.”
Phillip shook his head. “Not a wink, I should think. And you should watch your step. I’d wager he’ll set some sort of trap at his door.”
“Oh, I have no plans to torture Oliver this evening,” she said with a blithe wave of her hand. “That would be far too easy to predict. I prefer the element of surprise.”
“Yes,” he said with a chuckle. “I can see that you would.”
Eloise answered him with a smug expression. “I would almost consider leaving him in perpetual agony, except that it really wouldn’t be fair to Amanda.”
Phillip shuddered. “I hate fish.”
“I know. You wrote me as much.”
“I did?”
She nodded. “Odd that Mrs. Smith even had any in the house, but I suppose the servants like it.”
They descended into silence, but it was a comfortable, companionable sort of quietude. And as they ate, moving through the courses of the supper as they chatted about nothing in particular, it occurred to Phillip that perhaps marriage wasn’t supposed to be so hard.
With Marina he’d always felt like he was tiptoeing around the house, always fearful that she was going to descend into one of her bouts with melancholia, always disappointed when she seemed to withdraw from life, and indeed, almost disappear.
But maybe marriage was supposed to be easier than that. Maybe it was supposed to be like this. Companionable. Comfortable.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken with anyone about his children, or the raising thereof. His burdens had always been his alone, even when Marina had been alive. Marina herself had been a burden, and he was still wrestling with the guilt he felt at his relief that she was gone.
But Eloise . . .
He looked across the table at the woman who had so unexpectedly fallen into his life. Her hair glowed almost red in the flickering candlelight, and her eyes, when she caught him staring at her, sparkled with vitality and just a hint of mischief.
She was, he was coming to realize, exactly what he needed. Smart, opinionated, bossy—they weren’t the sort of things men usually looked for in a wife, but Phillip so desperately needed someone to come to Romney Hall and fix things. Nothing was quite right, from the house to his children to the slightly hushed pall that had hung over the place when Marina had been alive, and sadly had not lifted even after her death.
Phillip would gladly cede some of his husbandly power to a wife if she would only make everything right again. He’d be more than happy to disappear into his greenhouse and let her be in charge of everything else.
Would Eloise Bridgerton be willing to take on such a role?
Dear God, he hoped so.
Chapter 5
. . . implore you, Mother, you MUST punish Daphne. It is NOT FAIR that I am the only one sent to bed without pudding. And for a week. A week is far too long. Especially since it was all mostly Daphne’s idea.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her mother,
left upon Violet Bridgerton’s night table
during Eloise’s tenth year
It was strange, Eloise thought, how much could change in a single day.
Because now, as Sir Phillip was escorting her through his home, ostensibly viewing the portrait gallery but really just prolonging their time together, she was thinking—
He might make a perfectly fine husband after all.
Not the most poetic way to phrase a concept that ought to have been full of romance and passion, but theirs wasn’t a typical courtship, and with only two years remaining until her thirtieth birthday, Eloise couldn’t really afford to be fanciful.
But still, there was something . . .
In the candlelight, Sir Phillip was somehow more handsome, perhaps even a little dangerous-looking. The rugged planes of his face seemed to angle and shadow in the flickering light, lending him a more sculptured look, almost like the statues she’d visited at the British Museum. And as he stood next to her, his large hand possessively at her elbow, his entire presence seemed to envelop her.
It was odd, and thrilling, and just a little bit terrifying.
But gratifying, too. She’d done a crazy thing, running off in the middle of the night, hoping to find happiness with a man she’d never met. It was a relief to think that maybe it hadn’t all been a complete mistake, that maybe she’d gambled with her future and won.