“No,” she murmured, “you wouldn’t.”
He looked over at her sharply, unable to discern if she meant that as an insult. “I don’t feel the need to keep my children apprised of my personal matters.”
She shrugged, a delicate little motion that he found infuriating.
“Miss Bridgerton,” he said, “I don’t need your advice on how to raise my children.”
“I didn’t say a word on the subject,” she returned, “although I might point out that you do appear rather desperate to find them a mother, which would seem to indicate that youdowant help.”
“Until you agree to take on that role,” he bit off, “you may keep your opinions to yourself.”
She speared him with a frosty stare, then turned her attention back to her soup. After only two spoonfuls, however, she looked back up at him defiantly, and said, “They need discipline.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
“They also need love.”
“They get love,” he muttered.
“And attention.”
“They get that, too.”
“Fromyou.”
Phillip might have been aware that he was far from being a perfect father, but he was damned if he would allow someone else to say so. “And I suppose you have deduced their state of shameful neglect during thetwelve hourssince your arrival.”
She snorted her disdain. “It hardly required twelve hours to listen to them this morning, begging you to spend a paltry few minutes in their company.”
“They did nothing of the sort,” he retorted, but he could feel the tips of his ears growing hot, as they always did when he was lying. Hedidn’tspend enough time with them, and he was mortified that she’d managed to figure that out in such a short amount of time.
“They practically begged you not to be busyall day,” she shot back. “If you spent a bit more time with them—”
“You don’t know anything about my children,” he hissed. “And you don’t know anything about me.”
She stood abruptly. “Clearly,” she said, heading for the door.
“Wait!” he called, jumping to his feet. Damn. How had this happened? Barely an hour ago he’d been convinced that she would become his wife, and now she was practically on her way back to London.
He let out a frustrated breath. Nothing had the ability to turn his temper like his children, or the discussion thereof. Or, to be more precise, the discussion of his failings as their father.
“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it, too. Or at least meaning it enough not to want her to leave. “Please.” He held out his hand. “Don’t go.”
“I’ll not be treated like an imbecile.”
“If there is one thing I’ve learned in the twelve hours since your arrival,” he said, purposefully repeating his earlier words, “it’s that you’re no imbecile.”
She regarded him for a few more seconds, then placed her hand in his.
“At the very least,” he said, not even caring that he sounded as if he were pleading with her, “you must stay until Amanda arrives.”
Her brows rose in question.
“Surely you’ll want to savor your victory,” he murmured, then added under his breath, “I know I would.”
She allowed him to reseat her, but they had only one more minute together before Amanda came shrieking into the room, her nursemaid hot on her heels.
“Father!” Amanda wailed, throwing herself onto his lap.
