Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,201

butter. “What else is there?”

“Your wife,” Benedict drawled.

“Ah, yes, my wife,” Colin said with a nod. He turned to Phillip, leveled a hard stare at him, and said, “Just so that you are aware, I would have rather spent the night with my wife.”

Phillip couldn’t think of a reply that might not hint at insult to the absent Mrs. Bridgerton, so he just nodded and buttered a roll of his own.

Colin took a huge bite, then spoke with his mouth full, the etiquette breach a clear insult to his host. “We’ve only been married a few weeks.”

Phillip raised one of his brows in question.

“Still newlyweds.”

Phillip nodded, since some sort of response seemed to be required.

Colin leaned forward. “I really did not want to leave my wife.”

“I see,” Phillip murmured, since truly, what else could he have said?

“Do you understand what he’s saying?” Gregory demanded.

Colin turned and sent a chilling look at his brother, who was clearly too young to have mastered the fine art of nuance and circumspect speech. Phillip waited until Colin had turned back to the table, offered him a plate of asparagus (which he took), then said, “I gather you miss your wife.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Colin said, after sending one last disdainful glance at his brother, “Indeed.”

Phillip looked over at Benedict, since he was the only one uninvolved in the latest spat.

Big mistake. Benedict was flexing his hands, still looking as if he regretted not strangling him when he had his chance.

Phillip then turned his gaze to Gregory, whose arms were crossed angrily over his chest. His entire body practically quivered with fury, perhaps aimed at Phillip, perhaps at his family, who’d been treating him like a green boy all evening. Phillip’s glance was not met with favor. Gregory’s chin jutted angrily out, his teeth clenched, and—

And Phillip had had enough of that. He looked back to Colin.

Colin was still working on his food, having somehow managed to charm the servants into bringing him a bowl of soup. He’d set down his spoon, though, and was presently examining his other hand, idly flexing each finger in turn, murmuring a word as each pointed out toward Phillip.

“Miss. My. Wife.”

“Bloody hell,” Phillip finally burst out. “If you’re going to break my legs, would you just go ahead and do it now?”

Chapter 10

. . . you will never know how unfortunate you are, dearest Penelope, to have sisters only. Brothers are ever so much more fun.

—from Eloise Bridgerton

to Penelope Featherington,

following a midnight ride in Hyde Park

with her three older brothers

“Here are your choices,” Anthony said, sitting behind Phillip’s desk as if he owned the place. “You can marry him in one week, or you can marry him in two.”

Eloise’s mouth fell open into a horrified oval. “Anthony!”

“Did you expect me to suggest an alternative?” he asked mildly. “I suppose we might stretch it to three, given a sufficiently compelling reason.”

She hated when he spoke like that, as if he were reasonable and wise, and she were nothing more than a recalcitrant child. It was far better when he ranted and raved. Then, at least, she could pretend he was mad in the head and she was a poor, beleaguered innocent.

“I don’t see why you would object,” he continued. “Didn’t you come here with the intention to marry him?”

“No! I came here with the intention to find out if he was suitable for marriage.”

“And is he?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s only been two days.”

“And yet,” Anthony said, idly examining his fingernails in the dim candlelight, “that’s still more than enough time to ruin your reputation.”

“Does anyone know I was gone?” she quickly asked. “Outside the family, that is.”

“Not yet,” he admitted, “but someone will find out. Someone always finds out.”

“There was supposed to be a chaperone,” Eloise said sullenly.

“Was there?” he asked, his voice perfectly conversational, as if he were asking if there was supposed to have been lamb for dinner, or maybe a hunting expedition arranged for his entertainment.

“She’s coming soon.”

“Hmmm. Too bad for her I arrived first.”

“Too bad for everyone,” Eloise muttered.

“What was that?” he asked, but again he used that awful voice, the one that made it clear he’d heard every word.

“Anthony,” Eloise said, and his name came out like a plea, even though she had no idea what it was she was pleading for.

He turned to her, his dark eyes blazing, the force of his stare so violent that it was only then that she realized she ought to have been