Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,237

offensive,” she ground out, “but I was trying to talk to you about something important, and you tried to kiss me.”

He shrugged. “I always try to kiss you. You’re my wife. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

“But sometimes it’s not the right time,” she said. “Phillip, if we want to have a good marriage—”

“We do have a good marriage,” he interrupted, his voice defensive and bitter.

“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, “but it can’t always be about . . . you know.”

“No,” he said, deliberately obtuse. “I don’t know.”

Eloise ground her teeth together. “Phillip, don’t be like this.”

He said nothing, just tightened his already crossed arms and stared at her face.

She closed her eyes, and her chin bobbed slightly forward as her lips moved. And he realized that she was talking. She wasn’t making a sound, but she was still talking.

Dear God, the woman never stopped. Even now she was talking to herself.

“What are you doing?” he finally asked.

She didn’t open her eyes as she said, “Trying to convince myself it’s all right to ignore my mother’s advice.”

He shook his head. He would never understand women.

“Phillip,” she finally said, just when he’d decided that he was going to leave and let her talk to herself in private. “I very much enjoy what we do in bed—”

“That’s nice to hear,” he bit off, still too irritated to be gracious.

She ignored his lack of civility. “But it can’t be just about that.”

“It?”

“Our marriage.” She blushed, clearly uncomfortable with such frank speech. “It can’t be just about making love.”

“It can certainly be a great deal about it,” he muttered.

“Phillip, why won’t you discuss this with me? We have a problem, and we need to talk about it.”

And then something within him simply snapped. He was convinced that his was the perfect marriage, and she was complaining? He’d been so sure he’d gotten it right this time. “We’ve been married one week, Eloise,” he ground out. “One week. What do you expect of me?”

“I don’t know. I—”

“I’m just a man.”

“And I’m just a woman,” she said softly.

For some reason, her quiet words only irritated him more. He leaned forward, deliberately using his size to intimidate her. “Do you know how long it had been since I’d lain with a woman?” he hissed. “Do you have any idea?”

Her eyes grew impossibly wide, and she shook her head.

“Eight years,” he bit off. “Eight long years with nothing but my own hand for comfort. So the next time I seem to be enjoying myself while I’m driving into you, please do excuse my immaturity and my maleness—” He spoke the word as she might, with sarcasm and anger. “I’m simply having a ripping good time after a long dry spell.”

And then, unable to bear her for one moment longer—

No, that wasn’t true. He was unable to bear himself.

Either way, he left.

Chapter 16

. . . you do have the right of it, dearest Kate. Men are so easy to manage. I cannot imagine ever losing an argument with one. Of course, had I accepted Lord Lacye’s proposal, I should not have had even the opportunity. He rarely speaks, which I do find most odd.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her

sister-in-law Viscountess Bridgerton,

upon refusing her fifth offer of marriage

Eloise remained in the greenhouse for nearly an hour, unable to do anything but stare off into space, wondering—

What had happened?

One minute they were talking—very well, they were arguing, but in a relatively reasonable and civilized manner—and the next he was out of his head, his face pinched with fury.

And then he’d left. Left. He actually walked away from her in the middle of an argument and left her standing there in his greenhouse, her mouth hanging open and her pride more than pricked.

He’d walked away. That was what really bothered her. How could someone walk away in the middle of an argument?

Granted, she’d been the one to instigate the discussion—oh, very well, argument—but still, nothing had transpired that warranted such a storming off on his part.

And the worst of it was, she didn’t know what to do.

All her life, she’d known what to do. She hadn’t always turned out to be right, but at least she’d felt sure of herself when she had made her decisions. And as she sat there on Phillip’s workbench, feeling utterly confused and inept, she realized that for her, at least, it was a great deal better to act and be wrong than it was to feel helpless and impotent.

And as if all that