Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,194

father. And it was all right to miss him.

Eloise still remembered, but it no longer haunted her, and she hadn’t had a nightmare in over a decade.

But Phillip . . . his was a different story. Whatever had happened to him in the past, it was still very much with him.

And unlike Eloise, he was facing it alone.

“Phillip,” she said, touching his cheek. He didn’t move, and if she hadn’t felt his breath on her fingers, she would have sworn he was a statue. She said his name again, stepping even closer.

She wanted to erase that shattered look from his eyes; she wanted to heal him.

She wanted to make him the person she knew he was, deep down in his heart.

She whispered his name one last time, offering him compassion and understanding and the promise of help, all in one single word. She hoped he heard; she hoped he listened.

And then, slowly, his hand covered hers. His skin was warm and rough, and he pressed her hand against his cheek, as if he were trying to sear her touch into his memory. Then he moved her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm, intensely, almost reverently, before sliding it down to his chest.

Across his beating heart.

“Phillip?” she whispered, question in her voice even though she knew what he intended to do.

His free hand found the small of her back, and he pulled her to him, slowly but surely, with a firmness she could not deny. And then he touched her chin and tilted her face to his, stopping only to whisper her name before capturing her mouth in a kiss that was blinding in its intensity. He was hungry, needy, and he kissed her as if he would die without her, as if she were his very food, his air, his body and soul.

It was the type of kiss a woman could never forget, the sort Eloise had never even dreamed possible.

He pulled her even closer, until the entire length of her body was pressed up against his. One of his hands traveled down her back to her bottom, cupping her, pulling her against him until she gasped at the intimacy of it.

“I need you,” he groaned, the words sounding as if they were ripped from his throat. His lips slid off her mouth to her cheek, then down her neck, teasing and tickling as they went.

She was melting. He was melting her, until she didn’t know who she was or what she was doing.

All she wanted was him. More of him. All of him.

Except . . .

Except not like this. Not when he was using her like some sort of succor to heal his wounds.

“Phillip,” she said, somehow finding the strength to pull back. “We can’t. Not like this.”

For a moment she didn’t think he would let her go, but then, abruptly, he did. “I’m sorry,” he said, breathing hard. He looked dazed, and she didn’t know if that was from the kiss or simply from the tumultuous events of the morning.

“Don’t apologize,” she said, instinctively smoothing her skirts, only to find them wet and unsmoothable. But she ran her hands along them anyway, feeling nervous and uncomfortable in her own body. If she didn’t move, didn’t force herself into some sort of meaningless motion, she was afraid she would launch herself back into his arms.

“You should go back to the house,” he said, his voice still low and hoarse.

She felt her eyes widen with surprise. “Aren’t you coming as well?”

He shook his head and said in an oddly flat voice, “You won’t freeze. It’s May, after all.”

“Well, yes, but . . .” She let her words trail off, since she didn’t really know what to say. She supposed she’d been hoping he’d interrupt her.

She turned to walk up the hill, then stopped when she heard his voice, quiet and intent behind her.

“I need to think,” he said.

“About what?” She shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have intruded, but she’d never been able to mind her own business.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged helplessly. “Everything, I suppose.”

Eloise nodded and continued back to the house.

But the bleak look in his eyes haunted her all day.

Chapter 9

. . . we all miss Father, especially this time of year. But think how lucky you were to have had eighteen years with him. I remember so little, and I do wish he could have known me, and all that I’ve grown up to be.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her

brother Viscount Bridgerton,

upon the occasion of the tenth

anniversary