He looked most uncomfortable and (and Eloise had enough brothers to recognize the signs) rather like he wanted desperately to curse, but Eloise decided it was his own fault for choosing that chair, and so she smiled at him in what she hoped was a polite and encouraging manner, waiting for him to begin the conversation.
He cleared his throat.
She leaned forward.
He cleared his throat again.
She coughed.
He cleared his throat once more.
“Do you need some tea?” she finally asked, unable to bear even the thought of one moreahem.
He looked up gratefully, although Eloise wasn’t certain whether that was due to her offer of tea or her merciful breaking of the silence. “Yes,” he said, “that would be lovely.”
Eloise opened her mouth to reply, then remembered she was inhishouse and had no business offering tea. Not to mention that he ought to have remembered that fact as well. “Right,” she said. “Well, I’m sure it will be here soon.”
“Right,” he agreed, shifting in his seat.
“I’m sorry to have come by unannounced,” she murmured, even though she’d already said as much. But somethinghadto be said; Sir Phillip might be well used to awkward pauses, but Eloise was the sort who liked to fill any silence.
“It’s quite all right,” he said.
“It’s not, actually,” she replied. “It was terribly ill-mannered of me to do so, and I apologize.”
He looked startled at her frankness. “Thank you,” he murmured. “It is no problem, I assure you. I was merely ...”
“Surprised?” she offered.
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Yes, well, anyone would have been. I should have thought of that, and I truly am sorry for the inconvenience.”
He opened his mouth, but then closed it, instead glancing out the window. “It’s a sunny day,” he said.
“Yes, it is,” Eloise agreed, thinking that quite obvious.
He shrugged. “I imagine it will still rain by nightfall.”
She wasn’t quite certain how to respond to that, so she just nodded, surreptitiously studying him while his gaze was still fixed on the window. He was bigger than she’d imagined him, rougher-looking, less urbane. His letters had been so charming and well written; she’d pictured him to be more ... smooth. More slender, perhaps, certainly not given to fat, but still, less muscled. He looked as if he worked outside like a laborer, especially in those rough trousers and shirt with no cravat. And even though he’d written that his hair was brown, she’d always imagined him as a dark blond, looking rather like a poet (why she always pictured poets with blond hair she did not know). But his hair was exactly as he’d described it—brown, a rather dark shade, actually, bordering on black, with an unruly wave to it. His eyes were brown, much the same shade as his hair, so dark they were utterly unreadable.
She frowned. She hated people she couldn’t figure out in a heartbeat.
“Did you travel all night?” he inquired politely.
“I did.”
“You must be tired.”
She nodded. “I am, quite.”
He stood, motioning gallantly to the door. “Would you prefer to rest? I don’t wish to keep you here if you’d rather sleep.”
Eloise was exhausted, but she was also ferociously hungry. “I’ll have just a bite to eat first,” she said, “and then I would be grateful to accept your hospitality and rest.”
He nodded and started to sit down, trying to fold himself back into the ridiculously small chair, then finally muttering something under his breath, turning to her with a slightly more intelligible, “Excuse me,” and moving to another, larger chair.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, once he was settled.
