She turned to him with a supremely irritated expression. “I cannot believe you even thought that of me.”
Phillip was beginning to wonder the same thing himself. He’d only known Eloise—Dear God, could it possibly have been only two weeks? It felt, in many ways, like a lifetime. Because he did feel he knew her, inside and out. She’d always have her secrets, of course, as all people did, and he was quite certain he’d neverunderstandher, since he couldn’t imagine ever understanding anyone female.
But he knew her. He was quite certain he knew her. And he should have known better than to have worried that she’d abandoned their marriage.
It must have been panic, pure and simple. And, he supposed, because it was better to think she’d left him than to imagine her dead in a ditch by the side of the road. With the former he could at least storm her brother’s house and drag her home.
If she’d died ...
He was unprepared for the pain he felt in his gut at the mere thought.
When had she come to mean so much to him? And what was he going to do to keep her happy?
Because he needed her happy. Not just, as he’d been telling himself, because a happy Eloise meant that his life would continue to run smoothly. He needed her happy because the mere thought of her unhappy was like a knife in his heart.
The irony was well aimed, indeed. He’d told himself, over and over, that he’d married her to be a mother to his children, but just now, when she’d declared that she would never leave their marriage, that her commitment to the twins was too strong—
He’d felt jealous.
He’d actually felt jealous of his own children. He’d wanted her to mention the wordwife,and all he’d heard was mother.
He wanted her to want him. Him. Not just because she’d made a vow in a church, but because she was quite convinced she could not live without him. Maybe even because she loved him.
Loved him.
Dear God, when had this happened? When had he come to want so much from marriage? He’d married her to mother his children; they both knew that.
And then there was the passion. He was a man, for God’s sake, and he’d not lain with a woman for eight years. How could he not be drunk on the feel of Eloise’s skin next to his, on the sound of her whimpers and moans when she exploded around him?
On the pure force of his own pleasure every time he entered her?
He’d found everything he’d ever wanted in a marriage. Eloise ran his life to perfection by day and warmed his bed with the skill of a courtesan by night. She fulfilled his every desire so well that he hadn’t noticed that she’d done something more.
She’d found his heart. She’d touched it, changed it. Changed him.
He loved her. He hadn’t been looking for love, hadn’t even given a thought to it, but there it was, and it was the most precious thing imaginable.
He was at the dawn of a new day, the first page of a new chapter of his life. It was thrilling. And terrifying. Because he did not want to fail. Not now, not when he’d finally found everything he needed. Eloise. His children. Himself.
It had been years since he’d felt comfortable in his own skin, since he’d trusted his instincts. Since he’d looked in the mirror without avoiding his own gaze.
He glanced out the window. The carriage was slowing down, pulling up alongside Romney Hall. Everything looked gray—the skies, the stone of the house, the windows, which reflected the clouds. Even the grass seemed a little less green without the sun to brighten its hue.
It suited his contemplative mood perfectly.
A footman appeared to help Eloise down, and once Phillip had hopped down beside her, she turned to him and said, “I’m exhausted, and you look the same. Shall we go take a nap?”
He was just about to agree, since he was exhausted, but then, just before the words could leave his lips, he shook his head and said, “You go along without me.”
She opened her mouth to question him, but he silenced her with a gentle squeeze on her shoulder. “I’ll be up shortly,” he said. “But right now, I think I want to hug my children.”
Chapter 18
... I do not tell you often enough, dear Mother, how very grateful I am that I am yours. It is a rare parent who would offer a child such latitude and understanding. It is an even rarer one who calls a daughter friend. I do love you, dear Mama.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her mother,
upon refusing her sixth offer of marriage
