Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,196

at his face. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a man so pained, and yet in an odd way it warmed her heart. Anyone who cared so much for his children—even if he didn’t quite know how to act around them—well, he had to be a good man. Eloise knew that she tended to see the world in blacks and whites, that she sometimes leapt to judgment because she didn’t stop to analyze the gradations of gray, but of this she was certain.

Sir Phillip Crane was a good man. He might not be perfect, but he was good, and his heart was true.

“Well,” she said briskly, since that was her manner, and she preferred to deal with problems by charging ahead and fixing them rather than stopping to lament, “there’s nothing to be done about it now. They can’t very well unlearn what they already know.”

He stopped, looked at her. “You’re right, of course.” And then, more softly, “But no matter who did the teaching, I should have known they were able.”

Eloise agreed with him, but he was so obviously distressed, a scolding seemed inappropriate, not to mention unfeeling. “You still have time, you know,” she said softly.

“What,” he said, his mocking tone turned upon himself, “to teach them the backstroke so that they might expand their repertoire?”

“Well, yes,” she said, her tone slightly sharp, since she’d never had much patience for self-pity, “but also to learn other things about them. They’re charming children.”

He looked at her dubiously.

She cleared her throat. “They do misbehave on occasion—”

One of his brows shot up.

“Very well, they misbehave quite often, but truly, all they want is a little attention from you.”

“They told you this?”

“Of course not,” she said, smiling at his naïveté. “They’re only eight. They’re not going to say it in so many words. But it’s quite clear to me.”

They reached the dining room, so Eloise took the seat held out for her by a footman. Phillip sat across from her, put his hand on his wineglass, then drew it back. His lips moved, but very slightly, as if he had something to say but wasn’t quite certain how to phrase it. Finally, after Eloise had taken a sip of her own wine, he asked, “Did they enjoy it? Swimming, I mean.”

She smiled. “Very much. You should take them.”

He closed his eyes and held them that way, not for very long, but still, more than a blink. “I don’t think I’d be able,” he said.

She nodded. She knew the power of memories. “Perhaps somewhere else,” she suggested. “Surely there must be another lake nearby. Or even a mere pond.”

He waited for her to pick up her spoon, then dipped his own in his soup. “That’s a fine idea. I think . . .” He stopped, cleared his throat. “I think I could do that. I shall ponder where we might go.”

There was something so heartbreaking about his expression—the uncertainty, the vulnerability. The awareness that even though he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing, he was going to try to do it anyway. Eloise felt her heart lurch, skip a beat, even, and she wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand. But of course she couldn’t. Even if the table weren’t a foot longer than the length of her arm, she couldn’t. So in the end, she just smiled and hoped that her manner was reassuring.

Phillip ate a bit of his soup, then dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and said, “I hope that you will join us.”

“Of course,” Eloise said, delighted. “I would be desolate if I weren’t invited.”

“I’m quite certain you overstate,” he said with a wry twist to his lips, “but nonetheless, we would be honored, and to be quite honest, I would be relieved to have you there.” At her curious expression, he added, “The outing is certain to be a successful one with your presence.”

“I’m sure you—”

He stopped her midsentence. “We will all enjoy ourselves much better with your accompaniment,” he said quite emphatically, and Eloise decided to stop arguing and graciously accept the compliment. He was, in all likelihood, correct. He and his children were so unused to spending time together that they would probably benefit from having Eloise along to smooth the way.

Eloise found she didn’t mind the idea one bit. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she suggested, “if the fine weather holds out.”

“I think it will,” Phillip said conversationally. “The air didn’t feel changeable.”

Eloise glanced at him as she sipped her soup, a chicken