It didn’t matter, of course; he just held her even tighter, then sank her onto the sofa, coming down atop her until the full length of him pressed her into the soft, cream-colored cushions. He was heavy, but his weight was thrilling, and she could do nothing but loll her head back as his lips left hers to travel down the column of her throat.
“Phillip,” she moaned, and then again, as if his name were the only word left to her.
“Yes,” he grunted, “yes.” His words seemed torn from his throat, and she had no idea what he was talking about, only that whatever he was saying yes to, she wanted it, too. She wanted everything. Anything he wanted, anything possible.
She wanted everything that was possible and everything impossible, too. There was no more reason, only sensation. Only need and desire and this overwhelming sense of now.
This wasn’t about yesterday and it wasn’t about tomorrow. This was now, and she wanted it all.
She felt his hand on her ankle, rough and callused as it moved up her leg until it reached the edge of her stocking. He didn’t pause, did nothing to implicitly ask her permission, but she gave it anyway, urging her legs apart until he settled more firmly between them, giving him more room to caress, more space to tickle her skin.
He moved up and up and up, pausing every now and then to squeeze, and she thought she might die from the waiting. She was on fire, burning for him, feeling strange and wet and so completely unlike herself she thought she might dissolve into a pool of nothingness.
Or evaporate completely. Or maybe even explode.
And then, just when she was quite convinced that nothing could be stranger, nothing could wind her even tighter than she was, he touched her.
Touched her.
Touched her where no one had ever touched her, where she didn’t dare touch herself. Touched her so intimately, so tenderly that she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming his name.
And as his finger slid inside, she knew that in that moment she no longer belonged to herself.
She was his.
Sometime later, much later, she’d be herself again, back in control, with all her powers and faculties, but for now she was his. In this moment, for this second, she lived for him, for all he could make her feel, for every last whisper of pleasure, each moan of desire.
“Oh, Phillip,” she gasped, his name a plea, a promise, a question. It was whatever she needed to say to make sure he didn’t stop. She had no idea where this was all heading, whether she’d even be the same person when it was done, but it had to go somewhere. She couldn’t possibly continue in this state forever. She was wound so tight, so tense that she’d surely shatter.
She was near the end. She had to be.
She needed something. She needed release, and she knew that only he could give it to her.
She arched to him, pressed up with a power she would never have imagined she possessed, actually lifting them both off the sofa with her need. Her hands found his shoulders, biting into his muscles, then moved down to the small of his back in an effort to pull him even closer against her.
“Eloise,” he groaned, sliding his other hand up her skirt until it found her backside. “Do you have any idea—”
And then she had no idea what he did—he probably didn’t know, either—but her entire body went impossibly tense. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe as her mouth opened into a silent scream of surprise and delight and a hundred other things all rolled into one. And then, just when she thought she couldn’t possibly survive even a second longer, she shuddered and collapsed beneath him, panting with exhaustion, so limp and spent she couldn’t have moved even her littlest finger.
“Oh, my God,” she finally said, the blasphemy the only words coursing through her mind. “Oh, my God.”
His hands tightened on her backside.
“Oh, my God.”
His hand moved, came up to stroke her hair. He was gentle, achingly gentle, even though his body was rigid and tense.
Eloise just lay there, wondering if she’d ever be able to move again, breathing against him as she felt his breath on her temple. Eventually he shifted and moved, mumbling something about being too heavy for her, and then there was nothing but air, and when she looked to the side, he was kneeling next to the sofa, smoothing her skirts back down.
It seemed a rather tender and gentlemanly gesture, given her recent wantonness.
She looked into his face, knowing she must have the silliest smile on hers. “Oh, Phillip,” she sighed.
“Is there a washroom?” he asked hoarsely.
She blinked, noticing for the first time that he looked rather strained. “A washroom?” she echoed.
He nodded stiffly.
She pointed to the door leading to the hall. “Out and to the right,” she said. It was hard to believe he needed to relieve himself right after such a thrilling encounter, but who was she to attempt to understand the workings of the male body?
He walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, then turned around. “Do you believe me now?” he asked, one of his brows rising into an impossibly arrogant arch.
Her lips parted in confusion. “About what?”
He smiled. Slowly. And all he said was, “We’ll suit.”
Phillip had no idea how long it would take Eloise to regain her composure and restore her appearance. She’d looked quite delectably disheveled when he’d left her on the sofa in Sophie Bridgerton’s little office. He never could understand the intricacies of a woman’s toilette, and was quite certain he never would, but he was fairly sure she was going to need to redress her hair at the very least.
As for him, he required less than a minute in the washroom to find his release; he was wound that tight from his encounter with Eloise.
Dear God, she was magnificent.
It had been so long since he’d been with a woman. He’d known that when he finally found one he wanted to bed that his body would react strongly. He’d had more years than he’d cared to count with only his hand to satisfy his needs; a female body seemed like pure bliss.
And heaven knew he had imagined one often enough.
But this had been different, not at all what he’d pictured in his mind. He’d been mad for her. For her. For the sounds that escaped her throat, for the scent of her skin, for the way his body seemed to fit perfectly in the crook of hers. Even though he’d had to finish off himself, he’d still felt more, and more intensely, than he’d ever thought possible.
He’d thought almost any female body would do, but it was now quite clear to him that there was a reason he’d never availed himself of the services of the whores and barmaids who’d expressed their willingness. There was a reason he’d never found himself a discreet widow.
He’d needed more.
He’d needed Eloise.
He wanted to sink himself into her and never come out.
He wanted to own her, to possess her, and then to lay back and let her torture him until he screamed.
He’d had fantasies before. Hell, every man did. But now his fantasy had a face, and he feared he was going to find himself walking around with a constant erection if he didn’t learn how to control his thoughts.
He needed a wedding. Fast.
He groaned, giving his hands a quick wash in the basin. She didn’t know she’d left him in such a state. She didn’t even realize. She’d just looked at him with that blissful smile, too caught in her own passion to notice that he was ready to explode.
He pushed open the door, his feet moving quickly along the marble floor as he made his way back to the lawn. He’d have plenty of time to explode soon enough. And when he did, she’d be right there along with him.
The thought brought a smile to his lips, and very nearly sent him back into the washroom.
“Ah, there he is,” Benedict Bridgerton said as Phillip walked toward him across the lawn. Phillip saw the gun in his hand and stopped in his tracks, wondering if he ought to be worried. Benedict couldn’t possibly know what had just happened in his wife’s office, could he?
Phillip swallowed, thinking hard. No, there was no way. And besides, Benedict was smiling.
Of course, he could be the sort who would enjoy picking off the spoiler of his sister’s innocence . . .
“Er, good morning,” Phillip said, glancing at everyone else in an attempt to gauge the situation.
Benedict nodded his greeting, then said, “Do you shoot?”
“Of course,” Phillip replied.
“Good.” He jerked his head toward a target. “Join us.”
Phillip noted with relief that the target seemed to be firmly in place, indicating that he would not have to play that role. “I didn’t bring a pistol,” he said.
“Of course not,” Benedict replied. “Why would you? We’re all friends here.” His brows rose. “Aren’t we?”
“One would hope.”
Benedict’s lips curved, but it wasn’t the sort of smile that inspired confidence in one’s well-being. “Don’t worry about the pistol,” he said. “We’ll provide one.”
Phillip nodded. If this was to be how he was to prove his manhood to Eloise’s brothers, so be it. He could shoot as well as the best of them. It had been one of those manly pursuits his father had been so insistent he learn. He’d spent countless hours outside Romney Hall, his arm outstretched until his muscles burned, holding his breath as he aimed for whatever it was his father was out to destroy. Every shot was accompanied by a fervent prayer that his aim would be true.
If he hit the target, his father wouldn’t hit him. It was as simple—and desperate—as that.
He walked over to a table with several pistols on it, murmuring his hellos to Anthony, Colin, and Gregory. Sophie was sitting about ten or so yards away, her nose in a book.
“Let’s get on with this,” Anthony said, “before Eloise returns.” He looked over at Phillip. “Where is Eloise?”
“She went off to read the letter from your mother,” Phillip lied.
“I see. Well, that won’t take long,” Anthony said with a frown. “We’d better hurry, then.”
“Maybe she’ll want to reply,” Colin said, picking up a gun and examining it. “That’ll buy us a few extra minutes. You know Eloise. She’s always writing someone a letter.”
“Indeed,” Anthony replied. “Got us into this mess, didn’t it?”
Phillip just looked at him with an inscrutable smile. He was far too pleased with himself this morning to rise to any bait Anthony Bridgerton cared to offer.
Gregory chose a gun. “Even if she replies, she’ll be back soon. She’s fiendishly fast.”
“At writing?” Phillip queried.
“At everything,” Gregory said grimly. “Let’s shoot.”
“Why are you all so eager to get started without Eloise?” Phillip asked.
“Er, no reason,” Benedict said, at precisely the same moment Anthony mumbled, “Who said anything about that?”
They all had, of course, but Phillip didn’t remind them of it.
“Age before beauty, old chap,” Colin said, slapping Anthony on the back.
“You’re too kind,” Anthony murmured, stepping up to a chalk line someone had drawn in the grass. He lifted his arm, took aim, and fired.
“Well done,” Phillip said, once the footman had brought forth the bull’s-eye. Anthony had not hit dead center, but he was only an inch off.
“Thank you.” He set his pistol down. “How old are you?”
Phillip blinked at the unexpected question, then replied, “Thirty.”
Anthony jerked his head toward Colin. “You’re after Colin, then. We always do these things by age. It’s the only way to keep track.”
“By all means,” Phillip said, watching as Benedict and Colin took their turns. They were both good shots, neither dead center, but certainly close enough to kill a man, had that been their goal.
Which, thankfully, it didn’t seem to be, at least not that morning.
Phillip selected a pistol, tested its weight in his hand, then stepped up to the chalk line. It had only been recently that he’d stopped thinking of his father every time he took aim at a target. It had taken years, but he’d finally allowed himself to realize that he actually liked shooting, that it didn’t have to be a chore. And then suddenly his father’s voice, so often at the back of his mind, always yelling, always criticizing, was gone.
He lifted his arm, his muscles rock steady, and fired.
He squinted toward the target. It looked good. The footman brought it forward. One-half inch, at most, off the center. Closer than anyone else thus far.
The target went back, and Gregory took his turn, proving himself to be Phillip’s equal.
“We do five rounds,” Anthony told Phillip. “Best out, and if there’s a tie, the leaders face off.”
“I see,” Phillip said. “Any particular reason?”
“No,” Anthony said, picking up his gun. “Just that we’ve always done it this way.”