“Fiends,” Sophie muttered, leading Eloise to realize that what she’d really been sick of the night before was that horribly chummish and collegial manner of men. Clearly, all she’d needed was one sensible female with whom she might disparage the lot of them.
Sophie scowled. “Don’t tell me they were talking about that poor Lucy woman again.”
Eloise gasped. “You know about her?”
“Everyone knows about her. Heaven knows, one can’tmissher if you pass in the street.”
Eloise stopped, thought, tried to imagine. She couldn’t.
“Truth be told,” Sophie said, whispering under her breath even though there wasn’t a soul nearby who might hear, “I feel sorry for the woman. All that unwanted attention, and, well, it can’t be good for her back.”
Eloise tried to stifle her laugh, but a little snort made it through.
“Posy once even asked her about it!”
Eloise’s mouth fell open. Posy was Sophie’s stepsister, who had lived for several years with the Bridgertons before marrying the rather jolly vicar who lived just five miles from Benedict and Sophie. She was also, quite honestly, the friendliest person of Eloise’s acquaintance, and if anyone was going to befriend a married serving wench with large bosoms, it would have been her.
“She’s in Hugh’s parish,” Sophie explained, referring to Posy’s husband. “So of course they would have met.”
“What did she say?” Eloise asked.
“Posy?”
“No. Lucy.”
“Oh. I don’t know.” Sophie pulled a face. “Posy wouldn’t tell me. Can you believe that? I don’t think Posy has kept a secret from me in all her life. She said she couldn’t betray the confidence of a parishioner.”
Eloise thought that rather noble of Posy.
“It doesn’t concern me, of course,” Sophie said, with all the confidence of a woman who knows she is loved. “Benedict would never stray.”
“Of course not,” Eloise said quickly. Benedict and Sophie’s love story was legendary in their family. It had been one of the reasons Eloise had refused so many proposals of marriage. She’d wanted that kind of love and passion and drama. She’d wanted more than, “I have three homes, sixteen horses, and forty-two hounds,” which is what one of her suitors had informed her when he asked for her hand.
“But,” Sophie continued, “I don’t think it’s so much to ask that he manage to keep his mouth closed when she walks by.”
Eloise was about to offer her firm and vehement agreement when she saw Sir Phillip walking across the lawn in her direction.
“Is that him?” Sophie asked, smiling.
Eloise nodded.
“He’s very handsome.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Eloise said slowly.
“You suppose?” Sophie snorted with impatience. “Don’t play coy with me, Eloise Bridgerton. I was once your lady’s maid, and I know you better than anyone ought.”
Eloise forbore to point out that Sophie had been her lady’s maid for all of two weeks before she and Benedict had come to their senses and decided to marry. “Very well,” she allowed, “he’s quite handsome, if you like the rough, rural sort.”
“Which you do,” Sophie said pertly.
To her complete mortification, Eloise felt herself blush. “Perhaps,” she muttered.
“And,” Sophie said approvingly, “he brought flowers.”
“He’s a botanist,” Eloise said.
“That doesn’t make the gesture any less sweet.”
