And the look on his face told her that he didn’t much care that his manners were not de rigeur. It wasn’t the same sort of defiant attitude she saw so often among young men of the ton. She’d met so many men of that kind—the ones who made such a point of defying convention, and then spoiled the effect by going out of their way to make sure that everyone knew how daring and scandalous they were.
But with Sir Phillip it was different. Eloise would have bet good money that it would simply never have occurred to him to care that he wasn’t sitting in a properly formal manner, and it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to him to make sure that other people knew he didn’t care.
It made Eloise wonder if that was the mark of a truly self-confident person, and if so, why did he need to resort to her? Because from what she’d seen of him, curt manners this morning aside, he shouldn’t have had too much trouble finding himself a wife.
“I am here,” she said, finally remembering that he had asked her a question, “because after refusing several offers of marriage”—she knew that a better person would have been more modest and not taken such pains to emphasize the word “several,” but she just couldn’t help herself—“I find that I still desire a husband. Your letters seemed to indicate that you might be a good candidate. It seemed shortsighted not to meet with you and find out if that was indeed true.”
He nodded. “Very practical of you.”
“What about you?” she countered. “You were the one who initially brought up the topic of marriage. Why couldn’t you simply find yourself a wife among the women here?”
For a moment he did nothing but blink, looking at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t figured it out for herself. Finally, he said, “You’ve met my children.”
Eloise nearly choked on the bite of sandwich she’d just started to chew. “I beg your pardon?”
“My children,” he said flatly. “You’ve met them. Twice, I think. You told me so.”
“Yes, but what . . .” She felt her eyes grow wide. “Oh, no, don’t tell me they’ve scared away every prospective wife in the district?”
The look he leveled at her was grim. “Most of the women in the area refuse to even enter the ranks of the prospectives.”
She scoffed. “They’re not that bad.”
“They need a mother,” he said baldly.
She raised her brows. “Surely you can find a more romantic way to convince me to be your wife.”
Phillip sighed wearily, running a hand through his already ruffled hair. “Miss Bridgerton,” he said, then corrected himself with, “Eloise. I’m going to be honest with you, because, to be frank, I have neither the energy nor the patience for fancy romantic words or cleverly constructed stories. I need a wife. My children need a mother. I invited you here to see if you would be willing to assume such a role, and indeed, if you and I would suit.”
“Which one?” she whispered.
He clenched his hands, his knuckles brushing the tablecloth. What was it about women? Did they speak in some sort of code? “Which one . . . what?” he asked, impatience coloring his voice.
“Which one do you want,” she clarified, her voice still soft. “A wife or a mother?”
“Both,” he said. “I should think that was obvious.”
“Which one do you want more?”
Phillip stared at her for a long while, aware that this was an important question, quite possibly one that could signal the end of his unusual courtship. Finally, he just offered her a helpless shrug and said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to separate the two.”
She nodded, her eyes serious. “I see,” she murmured. “I expect you are right.”
Phillip let out a long breath he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. Somehow—God Himself only knew how—he’d answered correctly. Or at the very least, not incorrectly.
Eloise fidgeted slightly in her seat, then motioned to the half-eaten sandwich on his plate. “Shall we continue with our meal?” she suggested. “You’ve been in your greenhouse all morning. I’m sure you must be quite famished.”
Phillip nodded and took a bite of his food, all of a sudden feeling quite pleased with life. He still wasn’t certain that Miss Bridgerton was going to consent to become Lady Crane, but if she did . . .
Well, he didn’t think he would have any objections.
But wooing her wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d anticipated. It was clear to him that he needed her more than the other way around. He’d been counting on her being a desperate spinster, which was clearly not the case, despite her advanced years. Miss Bridgerton, he suspected, had a number of options in her life, of which he was only one.
But still, something must have compelled her to leave her home and travel all the way out to Gloucestershire. If her life in London was so perfect, why, then, had she left?
But as he watched her across the table, watched her face transform with a mere smile, it occurred to him—he didn’t much care why she’d left.
He just needed to make sure that she stayed.
Chapter 4
. . . so sorry to hear that Caroline is colicky and giving you fits. And of course it is too bad that neither Amelia nor Belinda is amenable to her arrival. But you must look upon the bright side, dear Daphne. It would all have been so much more difficult had you birthed twins.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her
sister the Duchess of Hastings,
one month after the birth
of Daphne’s third child
Phillip whistled to himself as he walked through the main hall toward the staircase, inordinately pleased with his life. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon in the company of Miss Bridgerton—no, Eloise, he reminded himself—and he was now convinced she’d make an excellent wife. She was quite clearly intelligent, and with all those brothers and sisters (not to mention nephews and nieces) she’d told him about, surely she’d know how to manage Oliver and Amanda.
And, he thought with a wolfish smile, she was rather pretty, and more than once this afternoon he’d caught himself looking at her, wondering how she’d feel in his arms, whether she’d respond to his kiss.
His body tightened at the thought. It had been so long since he’d been with a woman. More years than he cared to count.
More years, quite honestly, than any man would care to admit to.
He’d not availed himself of any of the services offered by the barmaids at the local public inn, preferring his women more freshly washed and, in truth, not quite so anonymous.
Or maybe more anonymous. None of those barmaids were likely to leave the village during their lifetime, and Phillip enjoyed his time at the public inn too much to ruin it by constantly having to run into women with whom he’d once lain and no longer cared to.
And before Marina’s death—well, he’d never even considered being unfaithful to her, despite the fact that they’d not shared a bed since the twins were quite young.
She’d been so melancholy following their birth. Marina had always seemed fragile and overly pensive, but it was only after Oliver and Amanda had arrived that she’d sunk into her own world of sorrow and despair. It had been horrifying for Phillip, watching the life behind her eyes slip away, day by day, until all that was left was an eerie flatness, the barest shadow of the woman who had once existed.
He knew that women couldn’t have relations immediately following childbirth, but even once she was physically healed he couldn’t have even imagined forcing himself upon her. How was one supposed to lust after a woman who always looked as if she might cry?
When the twins were a bit older, and Phillip had thought—hoped, really—that Marina was getting better, he had visited her in her bedchamber.
Once.
She had not refused him, but nor had she taken part in his lovemaking. She’d just lain there, doing nothing, her head turned to the side, her eyes open, barely blinking.
It was almost as if she hadn’t been there at all.
He’d left feeling soiled, morally corrupt, as if he’d somehow violated her, even though she had never uttered the word no.
And he had never touched her again.
His needs weren’t so great that he needed to slake them upon a woman who lay beneath him like a corpse.
And he never wanted to feel again as he had that final night. Once he’d returned to his own room, he’d promptly emptied the contents of his stomach, shaking and trembling, disgusted with himself. He had behaved like an animal, desperately trying to rouse in her some sort—any sort—of response. When that had proven impossible, he’d grown angry with her, wanted to punish her.
And that had terrified him.
He’d been too rough. He didn’t think he’d hurt her, but he hadn’t been gentle. And he never wanted to see that side of himself again.
But Marina was gone.
Gone.
And Eloise was different. She wasn’t going to cry at the drop of a hat or shut herself in her room, picking at her food and crying into her pillow.
Eloise had spirit. Backbone.
Eloise was happy.
And if that wasn’t a good criterion for a wife, he didn’t know what was.
He paused at the base of the stairs to check his pocket watch. He had told Eloise that supper would be at seven and that he would meet her outside her door to take her down to the dining room. He didn’t want to be early and appear too eager.
On the other hand, it wouldn’t do to be late. There was little to be gained in making her think he was disinterested.
He snapped his watch shut and rolled his eyes. He was behaving no better than a green boy. This was ridiculous. He was master of his own house and an accomplished scientist. He ought not to be counting minutes just so he could best win a woman’s favor.
But even as he thought that, he opened his watch for one more check. Three minutes prior to seven. Excellent. That would give him just enough time to ascend the stairs and meet her outside her door with precisely one minute to spare.
He grinned, enjoying his warm flush of desire at the thought of her in an evening gown. He hoped it was blue. She would look lovely in blue.
His smile deepened. She would look lovely in nothing at all.
Except when he found her, upstairs in the hall outside her bedchamber, her hair had gone white.
As, it seemed, had the rest of her.
Bloody hell. “Oliver!” he bellowed. “Amanda!”
“Oh, they’re long gone,” Eloise bit off. She looked up at him with fuming eyes. Fuming eyes which, he couldn’t help but note, were the only part of her not covered with a remarkably thick coating of flour.
Well, good for her for closing them in time. He’d always admired quick reflexes in a woman.
“Miss Bridgerton,” he said, his hand moving forward to help her, then retracting as he realized there was no helping her. “I cannot begin to express—”
“Don’t apologize for them,” she snapped.
“Right,” he said. “Of course. But I promise you . . . I will . . .”
His words trailed off. Truly, the look in her eyes would have been enough to silence Napoleon himself.
“Sir Phillip,” she said . . . slowly, tightly, looking very much as if she might launch herself at him in a furious frenzy. “As you can see, I’m not quite ready for supper.”
He took a self-preservational step back. “I gather the twins paid you a visit,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, with no small measure of sarcasm. “And then scampered away. The little cowards themselves are nowhere to be found.”
“Well, they wouldn’t be far,” he mused, allowing her the well-deserved insult to his children while he tried to carry on a conversation as if she didn’t look like some sort of hideous ghostly apparition.
Somehow it seemed the best course of action. Or at the very least, the one least likely to result in her wrapping her fingers around his throat.