Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,193

single word. “I—”

She took a step forward, whispering, “Are you all right?”

He nodded, or at least he thought he nodded. Her voice was ringing in his head—Yes they can yes they can they can they can—and it didn’t even matter what she was saying. It had been the tone. Surprise, and maybe even a hint of disdain.

And he hadn’t known.

His children were growing and changing and he didn’t know them. He saw them, he recognized them, but he didn’t know who they were.

He felt himself take a gasp of air. He didn’t know what their favorite colors were.

Pink? Blue? Green?

Did it matter, or did it only matter that he didn’t know?

He was, in his own way, every bit as awful a father as his own had been. Thomas Crane may have beaten his children to within an inch of their lives, but at least he knew what they were up to. Phillip ignored and avoided and pretended—anything to keep his distance and avoid losing his temper. Anything to stop him from becoming his father all over again.

Except maybe distance wasn’t always such a good thing.

“Phillip?” Eloise whispered, laying a hand on his arm. “Is something the matter?”

He stared at her, but he still felt blinded, and his eyes couldn’t seem to focus.

“I think you should go home,” she said, slowly and carefully. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m—” He meant to say I’m fine, but the words didn’t quite come out. Because he wasn’t fine, and he wasn’t good, and these days he wasn’t even sure what he was.

Eloise chewed on her lower lip, then hugged her arms to her chest and glanced up at the sky as a shadow passed over her.

Phillip followed her gaze, watched as a cloud slid over the sun, dropping the temperature of the air at least ten degrees. He looked at Eloise, his breath catching in his throat as she shivered.

Phillip felt colder than he ever had in his life. “You need to get inside,” he said, grabbing her arm and attempting to haul her up the hill.

“Phillip!” she yelped, stumbling along behind him. “I’m fine. Just a little chilled.”

He touched her skin. “You’re not just a little chilled, you’re bloody well freezing.” He yanked off his coat. “Put this on.”

Eloise didn’t argue, but she did say, “Truly, I’m fine. There is no need to run.”

The last word came out halfway strangled as he yanked her forward, nearly off her feet. “Phillip, stop,” she yelped. “Please, just let me walk.”

He halted so quickly that she stumbled, whirling around and hissing, “I will not be responsible for your freezing yourself into a lung fever.”

“But it’s May.”

“I don’t care if it’s bloody July. You will not remain in those wet clothes.”

“Of course not,” Eloise replied, trying to sound reasonable, since it was quite clear that argument was simply going to make him dig his heels in even further. “But there is no reason I cannot walk. It’s only ten minutes back to the house. I’m not going to die.”

She hadn’t thought that blood could literally drain from a person’s face, but she had no idea how else to describe the sudden blanching of his skin.

“Phillip?” she asked, growing alarmed. “What is wrong?”

For a moment she didn’t think he was going to answer, and then, almost as if he weren’t aware that he was making a noise, he whispered, “I don’t know.”

She touched his arm and gazed up at his face. He looked confused, almost dazed, as if he’d been dropped into a theatrical play and didn’t know his lines. His eyes were open, and they were on her, but she didn’t think he saw anything, just a memory of something that must have been very awful indeed.

Her heart broke for him. She knew bad memories, knew how they could squeeze a heart and haunt one’s dreams until one was afraid to blow out the candle.

Eloise had, at the age of seven, watched her father die, shrieked and sobbed as he’d gasped for air and collapsed to the ground, then beaten against his chest when he could no longer speak, begging him to wake up and say something.

It was obvious now that he’d already been dead by that point, but somehow that made the memory even worse.

But Eloise had managed to put that behind her. She didn’t know how—it was probably all due to her mother, who had come to her side every night and held her hand and told her it was all right to talk about her