Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,162

to add to that.

“Does your father know you’re here?”

“He’s busy.”

“Very busy.”

“He’s a very busy man.”

“Much too busy for you.”

Eloise watched and listened with interest as the twins shot off their lightning-fast statements, falling all over themselves to demonstrate how busy Sir Phillip was.

“So what you’re telling me,” Eloise said, “is that your father is busy.”

They stared at her, momentarily dumbfounded by her calm retelling of the facts, then nodded.

“But that still doesn’t explain your presence,” Eloise mused. “Because I don’t think your father sent you here in his stead. . . .” She waited until they shook their heads in the negative, then added, “Unless . . . I know!” she said in an excited voice, allowing herself a mental smile over her cleverness. She had nine nephews and nieces. She knew exactly how to talk to children. “You’re here to tell me you have magical powers and can predict the weather.”

“No,” they said, but Eloise heard a giggle.

“No? That’s a shame, because this constant drizzle is miserable, don’t you think?”

“No,” Amanda said, quite forcefully. “Father likes the rain, and so do we.”

“He likes the rain?” Eloise asked in surprise. “How very odd.”

“No, it’s not,” Oliver replied, his stance defensive. “My father isn’t odd. He’s perfect. Don’t say mean things about him.”

“I didn’t,” Eloise replied, wondering what on earth was going on now. At first she’d merely thought the twins were here to frighten her away. Presumably, they had heard that their father was thinking of marrying her and wanted no part of a stepmother, especially given the stories Eloise had been told by the housemaid of the succession of poor, abused governesses who had come and gone.

But if that were the simple truth, wouldn’t they want her to think there was something wrong with Sir Phillip? If they wanted her gone, wouldn’t they be trying to convince her that he would be a terrible candidate for marriage?

“I assure you, I harbor no ill will toward any of you,” Eloise said. “In fact, I barely know your father.”

“If you make Father sad, I will . . . I will . . .”

Eloise watched the poor little boy’s face grow red with frustration as he fought for words and bravado. Carefully, gently, she crouched next to him until her face was on a level with his and said, “Oliver, I promise you, I am not here to make your father sad.” He said nothing, so she turned to his twin and asked, “Amanda?”

“You need to go,” Amanda blurted out, her arms crossed so tightly that her face was turning red. “We don’t want you here.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere for at least a week,” Eloise told them, keeping her voice firm. The children needed sympathy, and probably a great deal of love as well, but they also needed a bit of discipline and a clear idea of who was in charge.

And then, out of nowhere, Oliver hurled himself forward and pushed her hard, with both hands against her chest.

Her balance was precarious, crouching as she was on the balls of her feet. Eloise toppled over backward, landing most inelegantly on her bottom and rolling back until she was quite certain the twins had received a nice look at her petticoats.

“Well,” she declared, rising to her feet and crossing her arms as she stared sternly down at them. They had both taken several steps back and were staring at her with a mixture of glee and horror, as if they couldn’t quite believe that one of them had had the nerve to push her over. “That,” Eloise continued, “was inadvisable.”

“Are you going to hit us?” Oliver asked. His voice was defiant, but there was a hint of fright there, as if someone had hit them before.

“Of course not,” Eloise said quickly. “I don’t believe in striking children. I don’t believe in striking anyone.” Except people who strike children, she added to herself.

They looked somewhat relieved to hear it.

“I might remind you, however,” Eloise continued, “that you struck me first.”

“I pushed you,” he corrected.

She allowed herself a tiny groan. She ought to have anticipated that one. “If you do not want people striking you, you ought to practice the same philosophy.”

“The Golden Rule,” Amanda piped up.

“Exactly,” Eloise said with a wide smile. She rather doubted she’d changed the course of their lives with one little lesson, but nonetheless it was nice to hope that something she’d said provoked some consideration.

“But doesn’t that mean,” Amanda said thoughtfully, “that you should go home?”

Eloise felt her