Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,207

marrying the rather jolly vicar who lived just five miles from Benedict and Sophie. She was also, quite honestly, the friendliest person of Eloise’s acquaintance, and if anyone was going to befriend a married serving wench with large bosoms, it would have been her.

“She’s in Hugh’s parish,” Sophie explained, referring to Posy’s husband. “So of course they would have met.”

“What did she say?” Eloise asked.

“Posy?”

“No. Lucy.”

“Oh. I don’t know.” Sophie pulled a face. “Posy wouldn’t tell me. Can you believe that? I don’t think Posy has kept a secret from me in all her life. She said she couldn’t betray the confidence of a parishioner.”

Eloise thought that rather noble of Posy.

“It doesn’t concern me, of course,” Sophie said, with all the confidence of a woman who knows she is loved. “Benedict would never stray.”

“Of course not,” Eloise said quickly. Benedict and Sophie’s love story was legendary in their family. It had been one of the reasons Eloise had refused so many proposals of marriage. She’d wanted that kind of love and passion and drama. She’d wanted more than, “I have three homes, sixteen horses, and forty-two hounds,” which is what one of her suitors had informed her when he asked for her hand.

“But,” Sophie continued, “I don’t think it’s so much to ask that he manage to keep his mouth closed when she walks by.”

Eloise was about to offer her firm and vehement agreement when she saw Sir Phillip walking across the lawn in her direction.

“Is that him?” Sophie asked, smiling.

Eloise nodded.

“He’s very handsome.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Eloise said slowly.

“You suppose?” Sophie snorted with impatience. “Don’t play coy with me, Eloise Bridgerton. I was once your lady’s maid, and I know you better than anyone ought.”

Eloise forbore to point out that Sophie had been her lady’s maid for all of two weeks before she and Benedict had come to their senses and decided to marry. “Very well,” she allowed, “he’s quite handsome, if you like the rough, rural sort.”

“Which you do,” Sophie said pertly.

To her complete mortification, Eloise felt herself blush. “Perhaps,” she muttered.

“And,” Sophie said approvingly, “he brought flowers.”

“He’s a botanist,” Eloise said.

“That doesn’t make the gesture any less sweet.”

“No, just easier.”

“Eloise,” Sophie said disapprovingly, “stop this right now.”

“Stop what?”

“Trying to cut the poor man down before he even has a chance.”

“That’s not what I was doing at all,” Eloise protested, but she knew she was lying the moment the words left her lips. She hated that her family was trying to run her life, no matter how well intentioned they were, and it had left her feeling sullen and uncooperative.

“Well, I think the flowers are very sweet,” Sophie declared firmly. “I don’t care if he had eight thousand different varieties available to him. He still thought to bring them.”

Eloise nodded, hating herself. She wanted to feel better, wanted to be all smiles and cheer and optimism, but she just couldn’t manage it.

“Benedict didn’t give me all the details,” Sophie continued, ignoring Eloise’s distress. “You know how men are. They never tell you what you want to know.”

“What do you want to know?”

Sophie looked over at Sir Phillip, gauging how long she’d have before he reached their side. “Well, for one thing, is it true you’d not met him before you ran off?”

“Not face-to-face, no,” Eloise admitted. It all sounded so stupid when she recounted the tale. Who would have thought that she, a Bridgerton, would run away to a man she’d never met?

“Well,” Sophie said, her voice matter-of-fact, “if it all works out in the end, what a romantic tale it will be.”

Eloise swallowed uncomfortably. It was still too soon to know if it would “all work out in the end.” She rather suspected—no, in truth she was quite certain—that she’d find herself married to Sir Phillip, but who knew what sort of marriage it would be? She didn’t love him, not yet, anyway, and he didn’t love her, and she’d thought that would be all right, but now that she was here in Wiltshire, trying not to notice how Benedict looked at Sophie, she was wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake.

And did she really want to wed a man who was looking primarily for a mother for his children?

If one didn’t have love, was it better, then, to be alone?

Unfortunately, the only way to answer these questions was to marry Sir Phillip and see how it went. And if it didn’t go well . . .

She’d be stuck.

The easiest way out of marriage was death, and frankly,