Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,173

what he needed. Smart, opinionated, bossy—they weren’t the sort of things men usually looked for in a wife, but Phillip so desperately needed someone to come to Romney Hall and fix things. Nothing was quite right, from the house to his children to the slightly hushed pall that had hung over the place when Marina had been alive, and sadly had not lifted even after her death.

Phillip would gladly cede some of his husbandly power to a wife if she would only make everything right again. He’d be more than happy to disappear into his greenhouse and let her be in charge of everything else.

Would Eloise Bridgerton be willing to take on such a role?

Dear God, he hoped so.

Chapter 5

. . . implore you, Mother, you MUST punish Daphne. It is NOT FAIR that I am the only one sent to bed without pudding. And for a week. A week is far too long. Especially since it was all mostly Daphne’s idea.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her mother,

left upon Violet Bridgerton’s night table

during Eloise’s tenth year

It was strange, Eloise thought, how much could change in a single day.

Because now, as Sir Phillip was escorting her through his home, ostensibly viewing the portrait gallery but really just prolonging their time together, she was thinking—

He might make a perfectly fine husband after all.

Not the most poetic way to phrase a concept that ought to have been full of romance and passion, but theirs wasn’t a typical courtship, and with only two years remaining until her thirtieth birthday, Eloise couldn’t really afford to be fanciful.

But still, there was something . . .

In the candlelight, Sir Phillip was somehow more handsome, perhaps even a little dangerous-looking. The rugged planes of his face seemed to angle and shadow in the flickering light, lending him a more sculptured look, almost like the statues she’d visited at the British Museum. And as he stood next to her, his large hand possessively at her elbow, his entire presence seemed to envelop her.

It was odd, and thrilling, and just a little bit terrifying.

But gratifying, too. She’d done a crazy thing, running off in the middle of the night, hoping to find happiness with a man she’d never met. It was a relief to think that maybe it hadn’t all been a complete mistake, that maybe she’d gambled with her future and won.

Nothing would have been worse than slinking back to London, admitting failure and having to explain to her entire family what she’d done.

She didn’t want to have to admit that she’d been wrong, to herself or anyone else.

But mostly to herself.

Sir Phillip had proven to be an enjoyable supper companion, even if he wasn’t quite so glib or conversational as she was used to.

But he obviously possessed a sense of fair play, which Eloise deemed essential in any spouse. He had accepted—even admired—her fish-in-the-bed technique with Amanda. Many of the men Eloise had met in London would have been horrified that a gently bred lady would even think of resorting to such underhanded tactics.

And maybe, just maybe, this would work. Marriage to Sir Phillip did seem a harebrained scheme when she allowed herself to think about it in a logical manner, but it wasn’t as if he were a complete stranger—they had been corresponding for over a year, after all.

“My grandfather,” Phillip said mildly, gesturing to a large portrait.

“He was quite handsome,” Eloise said, even though she could barely see him in the dim light. She motioned to the picture to the right. “Is that your father?”

Phillip nodded once, curtly, the corners of his lips tightening.

“And where are you?” she asked, sensing that he didn’t wish to talk about his father.

“Over here, I’m afraid.”

Eloise followed his direction to a portrait of Phillip as a young boy of perhaps twelve years, posing with someone who could only have been his brother.

His older brother.

“What happened to him?” she asked, since he had to be dead. If he lived, Phillip could not have inherited his house or baronetcy.

“Waterloo,” he answered succinctly.

Impulsively, she placed her hand over his. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment she didn’t think he was going to say anything, but eventually he let out a quiet, “No one was sorrier than I.”

“What was his name?”

“George.”

“You must have been quite young,” she said, counting back to 1815 and doing the math in her head.

“Twenty-one. My father died two weeks following.”

She thought about that. At twenty-one, she was supposed to have been married. All young ladies of her station were expected to have