Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,189

kept her nearby (or even better, holding her hand), then her mother couldn’t leave, either.

Was it any wonder that these children resented their new nursemaid? They had probably been cared for by Nurse Millsby since birth. Losing her so soon after Marina’s death must have been doubly difficult.

“I’m sorry we blackened your eye,” Amanda said.

Eloise squeezed her hand. “It looks much worse than it actually is.”

“It looks dreadful,” Oliver admitted, his little face beginning to show signs of remorse.

“Yes, it does,” Eloise agreed, “but it’s starting to grow on me. I think I look rather like a soldier who’s been to battle—and won!”

“You don’t look like you’ve won,” Oliver said, one corner of his mouth twisting in a dubious expression.

“Nonsense. Of course I do. Anyone who actually comes home from battle wins.”

“Does that mean Uncle George lost?” Amanda asked.

“You father’s brother?”

Amanda nodded. “He died before we were born.”

Eloise wondered if they knew that their mother was originally to have married him. Probably not. “Your uncle was a hero,” she said with quiet respect.

“But not Father,” Oliver said.

“Your father couldn’t go to war because he had too many responsibilities here,” Eloise explained. “But this is a very serious conversation for such a fine morning, don’t you think? We should be out swimming and having a grand time.”

The twins quickly caught her enthusiasm, and in no time they were changed into their bathing costumes and headed across the fields to the lake.

“We must practice our arithmetic!” Eloise called out as they skipped ahead.

And much to her surprise, they actually did. Who would have known that sixes and eights could be so much fun?

Chapter 8

. . . how fortunate you are to be at school. We girls have been presented with a new governess, and she is misery personified. She drones on about sums from dawn until dusk. Poor Hyacinth now breaks into tears every time she hears the word “seven.” (Although I must confess that I don’t understand why one through six do not elicit similar reactions.) I don’t know what we shall do. Dip her hair in ink, I suppose. (Miss Haversham’s, that is, not Hyacinth’s, although I would never rule out the latter.)

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her brother Gregory,

during his first term as a student at Eton

When Phillip returned from the rose garden, he was surprised to find his home quiet and empty. It was a rare day when the air wasn’t exploding with the sound of some overturned table or shriek of outrage.

The children, he thought, pausing to savor the silence. Clearly, they had been vacated from the premises. Nurse Edwards must have taken them out for a walk.

And, he supposed, Eloise would still be abed, although in truth it was already nearly ten, and she did not seem the sort to laze the day away under her covers.

Phillip stared down at the roses in his hand. He’d spent an hour choosing exactly the right ones; Romney Hall boasted three rose gardens, and he’d had to go to the far one to find the early-blooming varieties. He’d then painstakingly picked them, careful to snip at the exact right spot so as to encourage further blooming, and then meticulously sliced away each thorn.

Flowers he could do. Green plants he could do even better, but somehow he didn’t think Eloise would find much romance in a fistful of ivy.

He wandered over to the breakfast room, expecting to see food laid out, awaiting Eloise’s arrival, but the sideboard was tidy and spotless, signaling that the morning meal had come to an end. Phillip frowned and stood in the middle of the room for a moment, trying to figure out what he ought to do next. Eloise had obviously already arisen and eaten breakfast, but deuced if he knew where she was.

Just then a maid came through, holding a feather duster and a rag. She bobbed a quick curtsy when she saw him.

“I’ll need a vase for these,” he said, holding up the flowers. He’d hoped to hand them to Eloise directly, but he didn’t feel like clutching them all morning while he hunted her down.

The maid nodded and started to leave, but he stopped her with, “Oh, and do you happen to know where Miss Bridgerton might have gone off to? I noticed that breakfast has been cleared.”

“Out, Sir Phillip,” the maid said. “With the children.”

Phillip blinked in surprise. “She went out with Oliver and Amanda? Willingly?”

The maid nodded.

“That’s interesting.” He sighed, trying not to envision the scene. “I hope they don’t