Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,155

she hedged, and then, when it seemed from his expression that that wasn’t enough explanation, she added, “as I mentioned when I spoke earlier.”

He stared at her for longer than made her comfortable, his dark eyes inscrutable, and then he said, “I didn’t understand a word you said.”

She felt her mouth form an oval of . . . surprise? No, annoyance. “Weren’t you listening?” she asked.

“I tried.”

Eloise pursed her lips. “Very well, then,” she said, counting to five in her head—in Latin—before adding, “My apologies. I am sorry to have arrived unannounced. It was dreadfully ill-bred of me.”

He was silent for a full three seconds—Eloise counted that as well—before saying, “I accept your apology.”

She cleared her throat.

“And of course”—he coughed, glancing around as if in search of someone who might save him from her—“I am delighted that you are here.”

It would probably be impolite to point out that he sounded anything but delighted, so Eloise just stood there, staring at his right cheekbone as she tried to decide what she could say without insulting him.

Eloise considered it a sad state of affairs that she—who generally had something to say for any occasion—couldn’t think of a thing.

Luckily, he saved their awkward silence from growing to monumental proportions by asking, “Is this all of your luggage?”

Eloise straightened her shoulders, delighted to move on to a comparatively trivial topic. “Yes. I didn’t really—” She broke herself off. Did she really need to tell him that she’d stolen away from home in the middle of the night? It didn’t seem to speak well of her, or of her family, for that matter. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want him to know that she had, for all intents and purposes, run away. She wasn’t certain why she thought so, but she had a distinct feeling that if he knew the truth, he’d pack her up and send her back to London posthaste. And while her meeting with Sir Phillip had not thus far proven to be the stuff of romance and bliss she’d imagined it to be, she was not yet prepared to give up.

Especially when that meant running back to her family with her tail between her legs.

“This is all I have,” she said firmly.

“Good. I, er . . .” He looked around again, this time a little desperately, which Eloise did not find flattering in the least. “Gunning!” he bellowed.

The butler appeared so quickly that he must have been eavesdropping. “Yes, sir?”

“We . . . ah . . . need to prepare a room for Miss Bridgerton.”

“I have already done so,” Gunning assured him.

Sir Phillip’s cheeks colored slightly. “Good,” he grunted. “She will be staying here for . . .” He looked to her in askance.

“A fortnight,” she supplied, hoping that was about the right amount of time.

“A fortnight,” Sir Phillip reiterated as if the butler wouldn’t have heard her reply. “We will do everything in our power to make her comfortable, of course.”

“Of course,” the butler agreed.

“Good,” Sir Phillip said, still looking somewhat uncomfortable with the entire situation. Or if not uncomfortable, precisely, then perhaps weary, which might have been even worse.

Eloise was disappointed. She’d pictured him as a man of easy charm, rather like her brother Colin, who possessed a dashing smile and always knew what to say in any situation, awkward or otherwise.

Sir Phillip, on the other hand, looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else but where he was, which Eloise did not find encouraging, as his present surroundings included her. And what’s more, he was supposed to be making at least some effort to make her acquaintance and determine if she would make him an acceptable wife.

And his efforts had better be good ones indeed, because if it was true that first impressions were the most accurate, she rather doubted that she would determine that he would make an acceptable husband.

She smiled at him through gritted teeth.

“Would you like to sit down?” he blurted out.

“That would be quite pleasing, thank you.”

He looked around with a blank expression on his face, giving Eloise the impression he barely knew his way around his own house. “Here,” he mumbled, motioning to a door at the end of the hall, “the drawing room.”

Gunning coughed.

Sir Phillip looked at him and scowled.

“Perhaps you intended to order refreshments, sir?” the butler asked solicitously.

“Er, yes, of course,” Sir Phillip replied, clearing his throat. “Of course. Er, perhaps . . .”

“A tea tray, perhaps?” Gunning suggested. “With muffins?”

“Excellent,” Sir Phillip muttered.

“Or perhaps if Miss Bridgerton