Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,208

that wasn’t something Eloise cared to contemplate.

“Miss Bridgerton.”

Phillip was standing in front of her, holding out a bouquet of white orchids. “I brought these for you.”

She smiled at him, heartened by the slightly nervous, giddy feeling that arose within her at his appearance. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking them and smelling the blooms. “They’re lovely.”

“Wherever did you find orchids?” Sophie asked. “They’re exquisite.”

“I grew them,” he answered. “I keep a greenhouse.”

“Yes, of course,” Sophie said. “Eloise mentioned that you are a botanist. I do like to garden myself, although I must say that most of the time I haven’t the least idea what I’m doing. Our caretakers here consider me the bane of their existence, I’m sure.”

Eloise cleared her throat, aware that she had not yet made introductions. “Sir Phillip,” she said, motioning to her sister-in-law, “this is Benedict’s wife Sophie.”

He bowed over her hand, murmuring, “Mrs. Bridgerton.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Sophie said in her most friendly manner. “And please, do use my Christian name. I’m told you already do so with Eloise, and furthermore, it sounds as if you are practically a member of the family already.”

Eloise flushed.

“Oh!” Sophie exclaimed, instantly embarrassed. “I did not mean that in relation to you, Eloise. I would never assume—Oh, dear. What I meant to say was that I meant it because the men . . .” Her cheeks turned a deep red as she looked down at her hands. “Well,” she mumbled, “I’d heard there was a great deal of wine.”

Phillip cleared his throat. “A detail I’d prefer not to remember.”

“The fact that you remember at all is remarkable,” Eloise said sweetly.

He looked over at her, his expression clearly indicating that he had not been taken in by her sugary tone. “You’re too kind.”

“Does your head ache?” she asked.

He winced. “Like the devil.”

She should have been concerned. She should have been kind, especially since he’d gone to the trouble of bringing her rare orchids. But she couldn’t help feeling it was no more than he deserved, so she said (quietly, but still said it), “Good.”

“Eloise!” Sophie said disapprovingly.

“How is Benedict feeling?” Eloise asked her sweetly.

Sophie sighed. “He’s been a bear all morning, and Gregory hasn’t even risen from bed.”

“I seemed to have fared well by comparison, then,” Phillip said.

“Except for Colin,” Eloise told him. “He never feels the aftereffects of alcohol. And of course Anthony drank little last night.”

“Lucky man.”

“Would you care for something to drink, Sir Phillip?” Sophie asked, adjusting her bonnet so that it better shaded her eyes. “Of the benign, nonintoxicating variety, of course, given the circumstances. I would be happy to have someone bring you a glass of lemonade.”

“That would be most appreciated. Thank you.” He watched as she rose and walked up the slight incline to the house, then sat in her place across from Eloise.

“It is good to see you this morning,” he said, clearing his throat. He was never the most talkative of men, and he was clearly making no exceptions this morning, despite the rather extraordinary circumstances that had led to this moment.

“And you,” she murmured.

He shifted in his seat. It was too small for him; most chairs were. “I must apologize for my behavior last night,” he said stiffly.

She looked over at him, staring into his dark eyes for just a moment before her gaze slid down to a patch of grass beside him. He seemed sincere; he probably was. She didn’t know him well—certainly not well enough to marry, although it seemed that point was now moot—but he didn’t seem the sort to make false apologies. Still, she wasn’t quite ready to fall all over him with gratitude, so when she answered, she did so in a sparing fashion. “I have brothers,” she said. “I am used to it.”

“Perhaps, but I am not. I assure you I do not make a habit of overimbibing.”

She nodded, accepting his apology.

“I have been thinking,” he said.

“As have I.”

He cleared his throat, then tugged at his cravat, as if it had suddenly grown too tight. “We will, of course, have to marry.”

It was nothing more than she knew, but there was something awful in the way he said it. Maybe it was the lack of emotion in his voice, as if she were a problem he had to solve. Or maybe it was the way he said it so matter-of-factly, as if she had no choice (which, in truth, she did not, but she didn’t care to be reminded of that).

Whatever it was, it