So she scrawled something short and hasty and resumed her vigil. Phillip would understand.
***
By eight in the evening, Phillip realized that one of two things had happened to his wife. She had either perished in a carriage accident, or she had left him.
Neither prospect was terribly appealing.
He didn’tthinkshe would have left him; she seemed mostly happy in their marriage, despite their quarrel that afternoon. And besides, she hadn’t taken any of her belongings with her, although that didn’t mean much; most of her belongings had yet to arrive from her home in London. It wasn’t as if she’d be leaving much behind here at Romney Hall.
Just a husband and two children.
Good God, and he’d just said to them this afternoon—I do believe she’s here to stay.
No, he thought savagely, Eloise would not leave him. She would never do such a thing. She didn’t have a cowardly bone in her body, and she would never slink off and abandon their marriage. If she was displeased in some way, she’d tell him so, right to his face and without mincing words.
Which, he realized, yanking on his coat as he practically hurled himself out the front door, meant that she was dead in some ditch on the Wiltshire road. It had been raining steadily all evening, and the roads between his house and Benedict’s were not well tended to begin with.
Hell, it would almost be better if she’d left him.
But as he rode up the drive to My Cottage, Benedict Bridgerton’s absurdly named house, soaking wet and in a terrible temper, it was starting to look more like Eloise had decided to abandon her marriage.
Because she hadn’t been lying in a ditch by the side of the road, and there hadn’t been any sign of any sort of carriage accident, and furthermore, she hadn’t been holed up at either of the two inns along the way.
And as there was only one route between his home and Benedict’s, it wasn’t as if she were in some other inn on some other road, and this entire farce could be chalked up to nothing more than a big misunderstanding.
“Temper,” he said under his breath as he stomped up the front steps. “Temper.”
Because he had never been so close to losing his.
Maybe there was a logical explanation. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to drive home in the rain. It wasn’tthatbad, but it was more than a drizzle, and he supposed she might not have cared to travel.
He lifted up the knocker on the door and slammed it down. Hard.
Maybe the carriage had broken a wheel.
He banged the knocker again.
No, that couldn’t explain it. Benedict could easily have sent her home in his carriage.
Maybe ...
Maybe ...
His mind searched fruitlessly for some other reason why she would be here with her brother and not at home with her husband. He couldn’t think of one.
The curse that hissed out of his mouth was one he had not uttered in years.
He reached up for the knocker again, this time prepared to yank the damned thing off the door and hurl it through the window, but just then the door opened, and Phillip found himself staring at Graves, whom he had met less than a fortnight earlier, during his farce of a courtship.
“My wife?” Phillip practically growled.
“Sir Phillip!” the butler gasped.
Phillip didn’t move, even though the rain was streaming down his face. Damned house didn’t have a portico. Whoever heard of such a thing, in England, of all places?
“My wife,” he bit off again.
“She’s here,” Graves assured him. “Come in.”
