Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,206

standing, since she’d never vacated her position in the doorway.

Phillip walked to her side. “Is something amiss?”

“I was worried they were going to kill you,” she hissed.

“Oh.” He smiled, that lopsided, three-glasses-of-wine sort of smile. “They didn’t.”

“I see that,” she ground out. “What happened?”

He looked back over at the table. Anthony was eating the meager scraps that Colin had left behind (almost certainly only because he hadn’t realized they were there), and Benedict was tipping back in his chair, trying to balance it on two legs. Gregory was humming to himself, his eyes closed as he smiled beatifically, presumably thinking of Lucy, or, more likely, certain large and squishy parts of Lucy.

Phillip turned back to her and shrugged.

“When,” Eloise said with exaggerated patience, “did you all become the best of friends?”

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Funny thing, actually. I asked them to break my legs.”

Eloise just stared at him. As long as she lived, she’d never understand men. She had four brothers, and quite frankly should have understood them better than most women, and maybe it had taken all of her twenty-eight years to come to this realization, but men were, quite simply, freaks.

Phillip shrugged again. “It seemed to break the ice.”

“Clearly.”

She stared at him, and he stared at her, and all the while she could see Anthony staring at them both, and then suddenly Phillip seemed to sober.

“We’ll have to marry,” he said.

“I know.”

“They really will break my legs if I don’t.”

“That’s not all they would do,” she grumbled, “but even so, a lady might like to think she’s been chosen for a reason other than osteopathic health.”

He blinked at her in surprise.

“I’m not stupid,” she muttered. “I’ve studied Latin.”

“Right,” he said slowly, in that way men do when they are trying to cover up the fact that they’re not sure what to say.

“Or at least,” she tried desperately, searching for something that might be even loosely interpreted as a compliment, “if not a reason other, then perhaps a reason in addition.”

“Right,” he said, nodding, but still not saying anything more.

Her eyes narrowed. “How much wine have you drunk?”

“Only three.” He stopped, considered that. “Maybe four.”

“Glasses or bottles?”

He didn’t seem to know the answer to that.

Eloise looked over at the table. There were four bottles of wine littered among the remains of supper. Three were empty.

“I wasn’t gone that long,” she said.

He shrugged. “It was either drink with them or let them break my legs. It seemed a fairly straightforward decision.”

“Anthony!” she called out. She’d had enough of Phillip. She’d had enough of them all, of everything, of men, of marriage, of broken legs and empty wine bottles. But most of all, she’d had enough of herself, of feeling so out of control, so helpless against the tides of her life.

“I want to go,” she said.

Anthony nodded and grunted, still chewing the solitary piece of chicken that Colin had missed.

“Now, Anthony.”

And he must have heard the crack in her voice, the hollow note that choked on the syllables, because he stood immediately and said, “Of course.”

Eloise had never been so glad to see the inside of a carriage in all her life.

Chapter 11

. . . cannot abide a man who drinks to excess. Which is why I’m sure you will understand why I could not accept Lord Wescott’s offer.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her brother Benedict,

upon refusing her second proposal of marriage

“No!” gushed Sophie Bridgerton, Benedict’s petite and almost ethereal-looking wife. “They didn’t!”

“They did,” Eloise said grimly, as she sat back in her lawn chair and sipped a cup of lemonade. “And then they all got drunk!”

“Fiends,” Sophie muttered, leading Eloise to realize that what she’d really been sick of the night before was that horribly chummish and collegial manner of men. Clearly, all she’d needed was one sensible female with whom she might disparage the lot of them.

Sophie scowled. “Don’t tell me they were talking about that poor Lucy woman again.”

Eloise gasped. “You know about her?”

“Everyone knows about her. Heaven knows, one can’t miss her if you pass in the street.”

Eloise stopped, thought, tried to imagine. She couldn’t.

“Truth be told,” Sophie said, whispering under her breath even though there wasn’t a soul nearby who might hear, “I feel sorry for the woman. All that unwanted attention, and, well, it can’t be good for her back.”

Eloise tried to stifle her laugh, but a little snort made it through.

“Posy once even asked her about it!”

Eloise’s mouth fell open. Posy was Sophie’s stepsister, who had lived for several years with the Bridgertons before