Contents

Cover

Title Page

Romancing Mister Bridgerton

To Sir Phillip, With Love

When He Was Wicked

Meet the Bridgerton Family

Bridgerton Family Tree

About the Author

Also by Julia Quinn

About the Publisher

Dedication

For the women on avonloop,

colleagues and friends all—

thanks for giving me someone to talk to all day long.

Your support and friendship

have meant more to me than I could ever say.

And for Paul, even though the closest thing

you’d ever find to a romance in his field

is a lecture called “The Kiss of Death.”

Acknowledgments

With utmost thanks to Lisa Kleypas and Stephanie Laurens

for the gracious use of their characters.

Contents

1. Cover

2. Title Page

3. Dedication

4. Acknowledgments

5. Prologue

6. Chapter 1

7. Chapter 2

8. Chapter 3

9. Chapter 4

10. Chapter 5

11. Chapter 6

12. Chapter 7

13. Chapter 8

14. Chapter 9

15. Chapter 10

16. Chapter 11

17. Chapter 12

18. Chapter 13

19. Chapter 14

20. Chapter 15

21. Chapter 16

22. Chapter 17

23. Chapter 18

24. Chapter 19

25. Chapter 20

26. Chapter 21

27. Chapter 22

28. Chapter 23

29. Epilogue

30. Romancing Mister Bridgerton: The 2nd Epilogue

31. Copyright

Prologue

On the sixth of April, in the year 1812—precisely two days before her sixteenth birthday—Penelope Featherington fell in love.

It was, in a word, thrilling. The world shook. Her heart leaped. The moment was breathtaking. And, she was able to tell herself with some satisfaction, the man in question—one Colin Bridgerton—felt precisely the same way.

Oh, not the love part. He certainly didn’t fall in love with her in 1812 (and not in 1813, 1814, 1815, or—oh, blast, not in all the years 1816–1822, either, and certainly not in 1823, when he was out of the country the whole time, anyway). But his earth shook, his heart leaped, and Penelope knew without a shadow of a doubt that his breath was taken away as well. For a good ten seconds.

Falling off a horse tended to do that to a man.

It happened thus:

She’d been out for a walk in Hyde Park with her mother and two older sisters when she felt a thunderous rumbling under her feet (see above: the bit about the earth shaking). Her mother wasn’t paying much attention to her (her mother rarely did), so Penelope slipped away for a moment to see what was about. The rest of the Featheringtons were in rapt conversation with Viscountess Bridgerton and her daughter Daphne, who had just begun her second season in London, so they were pretending to ignore the rumbling. The Bridgertons were an important family indeed, and conversations with them were not to be ignored.

As Penelope skirted around the edge of a particularly fat-trunked tree, she saw two riders coming her way, galloping along hell-for-leather or whatever expression people liked to use for fools on horseback who care not for their safety and well-being. Penelope felt her heart quicken (it would have been difficult to maintain a sedate pulse as a witness to such excitement, and besides, this allowed her to say that her heart leaped when she fell in love).

Then, in one of those inexplicable quirks of fate, the wind picked up quite suddenly and lifted her bonnet (which, much to her mother’s chagrin, she had not tied properly since the ribbon chafed under her chin) straight into the air and, splat! right onto the face of one of the riders.

Penelope gasped (taking her breath away!), and then the man fell off his horse, landing most inelegantly in a nearby mud puddle.

She rushed forward, quite without thinking, squealing something that was meant to inquire after his welfare, but that she suspected came out as nothing more than a strangled shriek. He would, of course, be furious with her, since she’d effectively knocked him off his horse and covered him with mud—two things guaranteed to put any gentleman in the foulest of moods. But when he finally rose to his feet, brushing off whatever mud could be dislodged from his clothing, he didn’t lash out at her. He didn’t give her a stinging set-down, he didn’t yell, he didn’t even glare.

He laughed.

He laughed.

Penelope hadn’t much experience with the laughter of men, and what little she had known had not been kind. But this man’s eyes—a rather intense shade of green—were filled with mirth as he wiped a rather embarrassingly placed spot of mud off his cheek and said, “Well, that wasn’t very well done of me, was it?”

And in that moment, Penelope fell in love.

When she found her voice (which, she was pained to note, was a good three seconds after a person of any intelligence would have replied), she said, “Oh, no, it is I who should apologize! My bonnet came right off my head, and . . .”

She stopped talking when she realized he hadn’t actually apologized, so there was little point in contradicting him.

“It was no trouble,” he said, giving her a somewhat amused smile. “I—Oh, good day, Daphne! Didn’t know you were in the park.”

Penelope whirled around to find herself facing Daphne Bridgerton, standing next to her mother, who promptly hissed, “What have you done, Penelope Featherington?” and Penelope couldn’t even answer with her stock, Nothing, because in truth, the accident was completely her fault, and she’d just made a fool of herself in front of what was obviously—judging from the expression on her mother’s face—a very eligible bachelor indeed.

Not that her mother would have thought that she had a chance with him. But Mrs. Featherington held high matrimonial hopes for her older girls. Besides, Penelope wasn’t even “out” in society yet.

But if Mrs. Featherington intended to scold her any further, she was unable to do so, because that would have required that she remove her attention from the all-important Bridgertons, whose ranks, Penelope was quickly figuring out, included the man presently covered in mud.

“I hope your son isn’t injured,” Mrs. Featherington said to Lady Bridgerton.

“Right as rain,” Colin interjected, making an expert sidestep before Lady Bridgerton could maul him with motherly concern.

Introductions were made, but the rest of the conversation was unimportant, mostly because Colin quickly and accurately sized up Mrs. Featherington as a matchmaking mama. Penelope was not at all surprised when he beat a hasty retreat.

But the damage had already been done. Penelope had discovered a reason to dream.

Later that night, as she replayed the encounter for about the thousandth time in her mind, it occurred to her that it would have been nice if she could have said that she’d fallen in love with him as he kissed her hand before a dance, his green eyes twinkling devilishly while his fingers held hers just a little more tightly than was proper. Or maybe it could have happened as he rode boldly across a windswept moor, the (aforementioned) wind no deterrent as he (or rather, his horse) galloped ever closer, his (Colin’s, not the horse’s) only intention to reach her side.

But no, she had to go and fall in love with Colin Bridgerton when he fell off a horse and landed on his bottom in a mud puddle. It was highly irregular, and highly unromantic, but there was a certain poetic justice in that, since nothing was ever going to come of it.

Why waste romance on a love that would never be returned? Better to save the windswept-moor introductions for people who might actually have a future together.

And if there was one thing Penelope knew, even then, at the age of sixteen years minus two days, it was that her future did not feature Colin Bridgerton in the role of husband.

She simply wasn’t the sort of girl who attracted a man like him, and she feared that she never would be.

On the tenth of April, in the year 1813—precisely two days after her seventeenth birthday—Penelope Featherington made her debut into London society. She hadn’t wanted to do it. She begged her mother to let her wait a year. She was at least two stone heavier than she ought to be, and her face still had an awful tendency to develop spots whenever she was nervous, which meant that she always had spots, since nothing in the world could make her as nervous as a London ball.

She tried to remind herself that beauty was only skin deep, but that didn’t offer any helpful excuses when she was berating herself for never knowing what to say to people. There was nothing more depressing than an ugly girl with no personality. And in that first year on the marriage mart, that was exactly what Penelope was. An ugly girl with no—oh, very well, she had to give herself some credit—with very little personality.

Deep inside, she knew who she was, and that person was smart and kind and often even funny, but somehow her personality always got lost somewhere between her heart and her mouth, and she found herself saying the wrong thing or, more often, nothing at all.

To make matters even less attractive, Penelope’s mother refused to allow Penelope to choose her own clothing, and when she wasn’t in the requisite white that most young ladies wore (and which of course didn’t flatter her complexion one bit), she was forced to wear yellow and red and orange, all of which made her look perfectly wretched. The one time Penelope had suggested green, Mrs. Featherington had planted her hands on her more-than-ample hips and declared that green was too melancholy.

Yellow, Mrs. Featherington declared, was a happy color and a happy girl would snare a husband.

Penelope decided then and there that it was best not to try to understand the workings of her mother’s mind.

So Penelope found herself outfitted in yellow and orange and the occasional red, even though such colors made her look decidedly unhappy, and in fact were positively ghastly with her brown eyes and red-tinged hair. There was nothing she could do about it, though, so she decided to grin and bear it, and if she couldn’t manage a grin, at least she wouldn’t cry in public.

Which, she took some pride in noting, she never did.

And if that weren’t enough, 1813 was the year that the mysterious (and fictitious) Lady Whistledown began publishing her thrice-weekly Society Papers. The single-sheet newspaper became an instant sensation. No one knew who Lady Whistledown really was, but everyone seemed to have a theory. For weeks—no, months, really—London could speak of nothing else. The paper had been delivered for free for two weeks—just long enough to addict the ton—and then suddenly there was no delivery, just paperboys charging the outrageous price of five pennies a paper.

But by then, no one could live without the almost-daily dose of gossip, and everyone paid their pennies.

Somewhere some woman (or maybe, some people speculated, some man) was growing very rich indeed.

What set Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers apart from any previous society newssheets was that the author actually listed her subjects’ names in full. There was no hiding behind abbreviations such as Lord P——or Lady B——. If Lady Whistledown wanted to write about someone, she used his full name.

And when Lady Whistledown wanted to write about Penelope Featherington, she did. Penelope’s first appearance in Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers went as follows:

Miss Penelope Featherington’s unfortunate gown left the unfortunate girl looking like nothing more than an overripe citrus fruit.

A rather stinging blow, to be sure, but nothing less than the truth.

Her second appearance in the column was no better.

Not a word was heard from Miss Penelope Featherington, and no wonder! The poor girl appeared to have drowned amidst the ruffles of her dress.

Not, Penelope was afraid, anything that would enhance her popularity.

But the season wasn’t a complete disaster. There were a few people with whom she seemed able to speak. Lady Bridgerton, of all people, took a liking to her, and Penelope found that she could often tell things to the lovely viscountess that she would never dream of saying to her own mother. It was through Lady Bridgerton that she met Eloise Bridgerton, the younger sister of her beloved Colin. Eloise was also just turned seventeen, but her mother had wisely allowed her to delay her debut by a year, even though Eloise possessed the Bridgerton good looks and charm in abundance.

And while Penelope spent her afternoons in the green-and-cream drawing room at Bridgerton House (or, more often, up in Eloise’s bedchamber where the two girls laughed and giggled and discussed everything under the sun with great earnestness), she found herself coming into occasional contact with Colin, who at two-and-twenty had not yet moved out of the family home and into bachelor lodgings.

If Penelope had thought she loved him before, that was nothing compared to what she felt after actually getting to know him. Colin Bridgerton was witty, he was dashing, he had a devil-may-care jokester quality to him that made women swoon, but most of all . . .

Colin Bridgerton was nice.

Nice. Such a silly little word. It should have been banal, but somehow it fit him to perfection. He always had something nice to say to Penelope, and when she finally worked up the courage to say something back (other than the very basic greetings and farewells), he actually listened. Which made it all the easier the next time around.

By the end of the season, Penelope judged that Colin Bridgerton was the only man with whom she’d managed an entire conversation.

This was love. Oh, this was love love love love love love. A silly repetition of words, perhaps, but that was precisely what Penelope doodled on a ridiculously expensive sheet of writing paper, along with the words, “Mrs. Colin Bridgerton” and “Penelope Bridgerton” and “Colin Colin Colin.” (The paper went into the fire the moment Penelope heard footsteps in the hall.)

How wonderful it was to feel love—even the one-sided sort—for a nice person. It made one feel so positively sensible.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that Colin possessed, as did all the Bridgerton men, fabulous good looks. There was that famous Bridgerton chestnut hair, the wide and smiling Bridgerton mouth, the broad shoulders, the six-foot height, and in Colin’s case, the most devastating green eyes ever to grace a human face.

They were the sort of eyes that haunted a girl’s dreams.

And Penelope dreamed and dreamed and dreamed.

April of 1814 found Penelope back in London for a second season, and even though she attracted the same number of suitors as the year before (zero), the season wasn’t, in all honesty, quite so bad. It helped that she’d lost nearly two stone and could now call herself “pleasantly rounded” rather than “a hideous pudge.” She was still nowhere near the slender ideal of womanhood that ruled the day, but at least she’d changed enough to warrant the purchase of a completely new wardrobe.

Unfortunately, her mother once again insisted on yellow, orange, and the occasional splash of red. And this time, Lady Whistledown wrote:

Miss Penelope Featherington (the least inane of the Featherington sisters) wore a gown of lemon yellow that left a sour taste in one’s mouth.

Which at least seemed to imply that Penelope was the most intelligent member of her family, although the compliment was backhanded, indeed.

But Penelope wasn’t the only one singled out by the acerbic gossip columnist. Dark-haired Kate Sheffield was likened to a singed daffodil in her yellow dress, and Kate went on to marry Anthony Bridgerton, Colin’s older brother and a viscount to boot!

So Penelope held out hope.

Well, not really. She knew Colin wasn’t going to marry her, but at least he danced with her at every ball, and he made her laugh, and every now and then she made him laugh, and she knew that that would have to be enough.

And so Penelope’s life continued. She had her third season, then her fourth. Her two older sisters, Prudence and Philippa, finally found husbands of their own and moved away. Mrs. Featherington held out hope that Penelope might still make a match, since it had taken both Prudence and Philippa five seasons to snare husbands, but Penelope knew that she was destined to remain a spinster. It wouldn’t be fair to marry someone when she was still so desperately in love with Colin. And maybe, in the far reaches of her mind—in the farthest-back corner, tucked away behind the French verb conjugations she’d never mastered and the arithmetic she never used—she still held out a tiny shred of hope.

Until that day.

Even now, seven years later, she still referred to it as that day.

She’d gone to the Bridgerton household, as she frequently did, to take tea with Eloise and her mother and sisters. It was right before Eloise’s brother Benedict had married Sophie, only he didn’t know who she really was, and—well, that didn’t signify, except that it may have been the one truly great secret in the last decade that Lady Whistledown had never managed to unearth.

Anyway, she was walking through the front hall, listening to her feet tap along the marble tile as she saw herself out. She was adjusting her pelisse and preparing to walk the short distance to her own home (just around the corner, really) when she heard voices. Male voices. Male Bridgerton voices.

It was the three elder Bridgerton brothers: Anthony, Benedict, and Colin. They were having one of those conversations that men have, the kind in which they grumble a lot and poke fun at each other. Penelope had always liked to watch the Bridgertons interact in this manner; they were such a family.

Penelope could see them through the open front door, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying until she’d reached the threshold. And in a testament to the bad timing that had plagued her throughout her life, the first voice she heard was Colin’s, and the words were not kind.

“. . . and I am certainly not going to marry Penelope Featherington!”

“Oh!” The word slipped over her lips before she could even think, the squeal of it piercing the air like an off-key whistle.

The three Bridgerton men turned to face her with identical horrified faces, and Penelope knew that she had just entered into what would certainly be the most awful five minutes of her life.

She said nothing for what seemed like an eternity, and then, finally, with a dignity she never dreamed she possessed, she looked straight at Colin and said, “I never asked you to marry me.”

His cheeks went from pink to red. He opened his mouth, but not a sound came out. It was, Penelope thought with wry satisfaction, probably the only time in his life he’d ever been at a loss for words.

“And I never—” She swallowed convulsively. “I never said to anyone that I wanted you to ask me.”

“Penelope,” Colin finally managed, “I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said.

“No,” he insisted, “I do. I hurt your feelings, and—”

“You didn’t know I was there.”

“But nevertheless—”

“You are not going to marry me,” she said, her voice sounding very strange and hollow to her ears. “There is nothing wrong with that. I am not going to marry your brother Benedict.”

Benedict had clearly been trying not to look, but he snapped to attention at that.

Penelope fisted her hands at her sides. “It doesn’t hurt his feelings when I announce that I am not going to marry him.” She turned to Benedict, forcing her eyes directly on his. “Does it, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Of course not,” Benedict answered quickly.

“It’s settled, then,” she said tightly, amazed that, for once, exactly the right words were coming out of her mouth. “No feelings were hurt. Now, then, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I should like to go home.”

The three gentlemen immediately stood back to let her pass, and she would have made a clean escape, except that Colin suddenly blurted out, “Don’t you have a maid?”

She shook her head. “I live just around the corner.”

“I know, but—”

“I’ll escort you,” Anthony said smoothly.

“That’s really not necessary, my lord.”

“Humor me,” he said, in a tone that told her quite clearly she hadn’t any choice in the matter.

She nodded, and the two of them took off down the street. After they had passed about three houses, Anthony said in a strangely respectful voice, “He didn’t know you were there.”

Penelope felt her lips tighten at the corners—not out of anger, just out of a weary sense of resignation. “I know,” she replied. “He’s not the sort to be cruel. I expect your mother has been hounding him to get married.”

Anthony nodded. Lady Bridgerton’s intentions to see each and every one of her eight offspring happily married were legendary.

“She likes me,” Penelope said. “Your mother, that is. She can’t see beyond that, I’m afraid. But the truth is, it doesn’t matter so much if she likes Colin’s bride.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Anthony mused, sounding not so much like a highly feared and respected viscount and rather more like a well-behaved son. “I shouldn’t like to be married to someone my mother didn’t like.” He shook his head in a gesture of great awe and respect. “She’s a force of nature.”

“Your mother or your wife?”

He considered that for about half a second. “Both.”

They walked for a few moments, and then Penelope blurted out, “Colin should go away.”

Anthony eyed her curiously. “I beg your pardon?”

“He should go away. Travel. He’s not ready to marry, and your mother won’t be able to restrain herself from pressuring him. She means well. . . .” Penelope bit her lip in horror. She hoped the viscount didn’t think she was actually criticizing Lady Bridgerton. As far as she was concerned, there was no greater lady in England.

“My mother always means well,” Anthony said with an indulgent smile. “But maybe you’re right. Perhaps he should get away. Colin does enjoy travel. Although he did just return from Wales.”

“Did he?” Penelope murmured politely, as if she didn’t know perfectly well that he’d been in Wales.

“Here we are,” he said as he nodded his reply. “This is your house, is it not?”

“Yes. Thank you for accompanying me home.”

“It was my pleasure, I assure you.”

Penelope watched as he left, then she went inside and cried.

The very next day, the following account appeared in Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers:

La, but such excitement yesterday on the front steps of Lady Bridgerton’s residence on Bruton Street!

First, Penelope Featherington was seen in the company of not one, not two, but THREE Bridgerton brothers, surely a heretofore impossible feat for the poor girl, who is rather infamous for her wallflower ways. Sadly (but perhaps predictably) for Miss Featherington, when she finally departed, it was on the arm of the viscount, the only married man in the bunch.

If Miss Featherington were to somehow manage to drag a Bridgerton brother to the altar, it would surely mean the end of the world as we know it, and This Author, who freely admits she would not know heads from tails in such a world, would be forced to resign her post on the spot.

It seemed even Lady Whistledown understood the futility of Penelope’s feelings for Colin.

The years drifted by, and somehow, without realizing it, Penelope ceased to be a debutante and found herself sitting with the chaperones, watching her younger sister Felicity—surely the only Featherington sister blessed with both natural beauty and charm—enjoying her own London seasons.

Colin developed a taste for travel and began to spend more and more time outside of London; it seemed that every few months he was off to some new destination. When he was in town, he always saved a dance and a smile for Penelope, and somehow she managed to pretend that nothing had ever happened, that he’d never declared his distaste for her on a public street, that her dreams had never been shattered.

And when he was in town, which wasn’t often, they seemed to settle into an easy, if not terribly deep, friendship. Which was all an almost twenty-eight-year-old spinster could hope for, right?

Unrequited love was never easy, but at least Penelope Featherington was used to it.

Chapter 1

Matchmaking mamas are united in their glee—Colin Bridgerton has returned from Greece!

For those gentle (and ignorant) readers who are new to town this year, Mr. Bridgerton is third in the legendary string of eight Bridgerton siblings (hence the name Colin, beginning with C; he follows Anthony and Benedict, and precedes Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth).

Although Mr. Bridgerton holds no noble title and is unlikely ever to do so (he is seventh in line for the title of Viscount Bridgerton, behind the two sons of the current viscount, his elder brother Benedict, and his three sons) he is still considered one of the prime catches of the season, due to his fortune, his face, his form, and most of all, his charm. It is difficult, however, to predict whether Mr. Bridgerton will succumb to matrimonial bliss this season; he is certainly of an age to marry (three-and-thirty), but he has never shown a decided interest in any lady of proper parentage, and to make matters even more complicated, he has an appalling tendency to leave London at the drop of a hat, bound for some exotic destination.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 APRIL 1824

“Look at this!” Portia Featherington squealed. “Colin Bridgerton is back!”

Penelope looked up from her needlework. Her mother was clutching the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers the way Penelope might clutch, say, a rope while hanging off a building. “I know,” she murmured.

Portia frowned. She hated when someone—anyone—was aware of gossip before she was. “How did you get to Whistledown before I did? I told Briarly to set it aside for me and not to let anyone touch—”

“I didn’t see it in Whistledown,” Penelope interrupted, before her mother went off to castigate the poor, beleaguered butler. “Felicity told me. Yesterday afternoon. Hyacinth Bridgerton told her.”

“Your sister spends a great deal of time over at the Bridgerton household.”

“As do I,” Penelope pointed out, wondering where this was leading.

Portia tapped her finger against the side of her chin, as she always did when she was plotting or scheming. “Colin Bridgerton is of an age to be looking for a wife.”

Penelope managed to blink just before her eyes bugged right out of her head. “Colin Bridgerton is not going to marry Felicity!”

Portia gave a little shrug. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Not that I’ve ever seen,” Penelope muttered.

“Anthony Bridgerton married that Kate Sheffield girl, and she was even less popular than you.”

That wasn’t exactly true; Penelope rather thought they’d been on equally low rungs of the social ladder. But there seemed little point in telling this to her mother, who probably thought she’d complimented her third daughter by saying she’d not been the least popular girl that season.

Penelope felt her lips tightening. Her mother’s “compliments” had a habit of landing rather like wasps.

“Do not think I mean to criticize,” Portia said, suddenly all concern. “In truth, I am glad for your spinsterhood. I am alone in this world save for my daughters, and it’s comforting to know that one of you shall be able to care for me in my older years.”

Penelope had a vision of the future—the future as described by her mother—and she had a sudden urge to run out and marry the chimney sweep. She’d long since resigned herself to a life of eternal spinsterhood, but somehow she’d always pictured herself off in her own neat little terrace house. Or maybe a snug cottage by the sea.

But lately Portia had been peppering her conversations with references to her old age and how lucky she was that Penelope could care for her. Never mind that both Prudence and Philippa had married well-heeled men and possessed ample funds to see to their mother’s every comfort. Or that Portia was moderately wealthy in her own right; when her family had settled money on her as a dowry, one-fourth had been set aside for her own personal account.

No, when Portia talked about being “cared for,” she wasn’t referring to money. What Portia wanted was a slave.

Penelope sighed. She was being overly harsh with her mother, if only in her own mind. She did that too often. Her mother loved her. She knew her mother loved her. And she loved her mother back.

It was just that sometimes she didn’t much like her mother.

She hoped that didn’t make her a bad person. But truly, her mother could try the patience of even the kindest, gentlest of daughters, and as Penelope was the first to admit, she could be a wee bit sarcastic at times.

“Why don’t you think Colin would marry Felicity?” Portia asked.

Penelope looked up, startled. She’d thought they were done with that subject. She should have known better. Her mother was nothing if not tenacious. “Well,” she said slowly, “to begin with, she’s twelve years younger than he is.”

“Pfft,” Portia said, waving her hand dismissively. “That’s nothing, and you know it.”

Penelope frowned, then yelped as she accidentally stabbed her finger with her needle.

“Besides,” Portia continued blithely, “he’s”—she looked back down at Whistledown and scanned it for his exact age—“three-and-thirty! How is he meant to avoid a twelve-year difference between him and his wife? Surely you don’t expect him to marry someone your age.”

Penelope sucked on her abused finger even though she knew it was hopelessly uncouth to do so. But she needed to put something in her mouth to keep her from saying something horrible and horribly spiteful.

Everything her mother said was true. Many ton weddings—maybe even most of them—saw men marrying girls a dozen or more years their junior. But somehow the age gap between Colin and Felicity seemed even larger, perhaps because . . .

Penelope was unable to keep the disgust off her face. “She’s like a sister to him. A little sister.”

“Really, Penelope. I hardly think—”

“It’s almost incestuous,” Penelope muttered.

“What did you say?”

Penelope snatched up her needlework again. “Nothing.”

“I’m sure you said something.”

Penelope shook her head. “I did clear my throat. Perhaps you heard—”

“I heard you saying something. I’m sure of it!”

Penelope groaned. Her life loomed long and tedious ahead of her. “Mother,” she said, with the patience of, if not a saint, at least a very devout nun, “Felicity is practically engaged to Mr. Albansdale.”

Portia actually began rubbing her hands together. “She won’t be engaged to him if she can catch Colin Bridgerton.”

“Felicity would die before chasing after Colin.”

“Of course not. She’s a smart girl. Anyone can see that Colin Bridgerton is a better catch.”

“But Felicity loves Mr. Albansdale!”

Portia deflated into her perfectly upholstered chair. “There is that.”

“And,” Penelope added with great feeling, “Mr. Albansdale is in possession of a perfectly respectable fortune.”

Portia tapped her index finger against her cheek. “True. Not,” she said sharply, “as respectable as a Bridgerton portion, but it’s nothing to sneeze at, I suppose.”

Penelope knew it was time to let it go, but she couldn’t stop her mouth from opening one last time. “In all truth, Mother, he’s a wonderful match for Felicity. We should be delighted for her.”

“I know, I know,” Portia grumbled. “It’s just that I so wanted one of my daughters to marry a Bridgerton. What a coup! I would be the talk of London for weeks. Years, maybe.”

Penelope stabbed her needle into the cushion beside her. It was a rather foolish way to vent her anger, but the alternative was to jump to her feet and yell, What about me? Portia seemed to think that once Felicity was wed, her hopes for a Bridgerton union were forever dashed. But Penelope was still unmarried—didn’t that count for anything?

Was it so much to wish that her mother thought of her with the same pride she felt for her other three daughters? Penelope knew that Colin wasn’t going to choose her as his bride, but shouldn’t a mother be at least a little bit blind to her children’s faults? It was obvious to Penelope that neither Prudence, Philippa, nor even Felicity had ever had a chance with a Bridgerton. Why did her mother seem to think their charms so exceeded Penelope’s?

Very well, Penelope had to admit that Felicity enjoyed a popularity that exceeded that of her three older sisters combined. But Prudence and Philippa had never been Incomparables. They’d hovered on the perimeters of ballrooms just as much as Penelope had.

Except, of course, that they were married now. Penelope wouldn’t have wanted to cleave herself unto either of their husbands, but at least they were wives.

Thankfully, however, Portia’s mind had already moved on to greener pastures. “I must pay a call upon Violet,” she was saying. “She’ll be so relieved that Colin is back.”

“I’m sure Lady Bridgerton will be delighted to see you,” Penelope said.

“That poor woman,” Portia said, her sigh dramatic. “She worries about him, you know—”

“I know.”

“Truly, I think it is more than a mother should be expected to bear. He goes gallivanting about, the good Lord only knows where, to countries that are positively unheathen—”

“I believe they practice Christianity in Greece,” Penelope murmured, her eyes back down on her needlework.

“Don’t be impertinent, Penelope Anne Featherington, and they’re Catholics!” Portia shuddered on the word.

“They’re not Catholics at all,” Penelope replied, giving up on the needlework and setting it aside. “They’re Greek Orthodox.”

“Well, they’re not Church of England,” Portia said with a sniff.

“Seeing as how they’re Greek, I don’t think they’re terribly worried about that.”

Portia’s eyes narrowed disapprovingly. “And how do you know about this Greek religion, anyway? No, don’t tell me,” she said with a dramatic flourish. “You read it somewhere.”

Penelope just blinked as she tried to think of a suitable reply.

“I wish you wouldn’t read so much,” Portia sighed. “I probably could have married you off years ago if you had concentrated more on the social graces and less on . . . less on . . .”

Penelope had to ask. “Less on what?”

“I don’t know. Whatever it is you do that has you staring into space and daydreaming so often.”

“I’m just thinking,” Penelope said quietly. “Sometimes I just like to stop and think.”

“Stop what?” Portia wanted to know.

Penelope couldn’t help but smile. Portia’s query seemed to sum up all that was different between mother and daughter. “It’s nothing, Mother,” Penelope said. “Really.”

Portia looked as if she wanted to say more, then thought the better of it. Or maybe she was just hungry. She did pluck a biscuit off the tea tray and pop it into her mouth.

Penelope started to reach out to take the last biscuit for herself, then decided to let her mother have it. She might as well keep her mother’s mouth full. The last thing she wanted was to find herself in another conversation about Colin Bridgerton.

“Colin’s back!”

Penelope looked up from her book—A Brief History of Greece—to see Eloise Bridgerton bursting into her room. As usual, Eloise had not been announced. The Featherington butler was so used to seeing her there that he treated her like a member of the family.

“Is he?” Penelope asked, managing to feign (in her opinion) rather realistic indifference. Of course, she did set A Brief History of Greece down behind Mathilda, the novel by S. R. Fielding that had been all the rage a year earlier. Everyone had a copy of Mathilda on their bedstand. And it was thick enough to hide A Brief History of Greece.

Eloise sat down in Penelope’s desk chair. “Indeed, and he’s very tanned. All that time in the sun, I suppose.”

“He went to Greece, didn’t he?”

Eloise shook her head. “He said the war there has worsened, and it was too dangerous. So he went to Cyprus instead.”

“My, my,” Penelope said with a smile. “Lady Whistledown got something wrong.”

Eloise smiled that cheeky Bridgerton smile, and once again Penelope realized how lucky she was to have her as her closest friend. She and Eloise had been inseparable since the age of seventeen. They’d had their London seasons together, reached adulthood together, and, much to their mothers’ dismay, had become spinsters together.

Eloise claimed that she hadn’t met the right person.

Penelope, of course, hadn’t been asked.

“Did he enjoy Cyprus?” Penelope inquired.

Eloise sighed. “He said it was brilliant. How I should love to travel. It seems everyone has been somewhere but me.”

“And me,” Penelope reminded her.

“And you,” Eloise agreed. “Thank goodness for you.”

“Eloise!” Penelope exclaimed, throwing a pillow at her. But she thanked goodness for Eloise, too. Every day. Many women went through their entire lives without a close female friend, and here she had someone to whom she could tell anything. Well, almost anything. Penelope had never told her of her feelings for Colin, although she rather thought Eloise suspected the truth. Eloise was far too tactful to mention it, though, which only validated Penelope’s certainty that Colin would never love her. If Eloise had thought, for even one moment, that Penelope actually had a chance at snaring Colin as a husband, she would have been plotting her matchmaking strategies with a ruthlessness that would have impressed any army general.

When it came right down to it, Eloise was a rather managing sort of person.

“. . . and then he said that the water was so choppy that he actually cast up his accounts over the side of the boat, and—” Eloise scowled. “You’re not listening to me.”

“No,” Penelope admitted. “Well, yes, actually, parts of it. I cannot believe Colin actually told you he vomited.”

“Well, I am his sister.”

“He’d be furious with you if he knew you’d told me.”

Eloise waved off her protest. “He won’t mind. You’re like another sister to him.”

Penelope smiled, but she sighed at the same time.

“Mother asked him—of course—whether he was planning to remain in town for the season,” Eloise continued, “and—of course—he was terribly evasive, but then I decided to interrogate him myself—”

“Terribly smart of you,” Penelope murmured.

Eloise threw the pillow back at her. “And I finally got him to admit to me that yes, he thinks he will stay for at least a few months. But he made me promise not to tell Mother.”

“Now, that’s not”—Penelope cleared her throat—“terribly intelligent of him. If your mother thinks his time here is limited, she will redouble her efforts to see him married. I should think that was what he wanted most to avoid.”

“It does seem his usual aim in life,” Eloise concurred.

“If he lulled her into thinking that there was no rush, perhaps she might not badger him quite so much.”

“An interesting idea,” Eloise said, “but probably more true in theory than in practice. My mother is so determined to see him wed that it matters not if she increases her efforts. Her regular efforts are enough to drive him mad as it is.”

“Can one go doubly mad?” Penelope mused.

Eloise cocked her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think I should want to find out.”

They both fell silent for a moment (a rare occurrence, indeed) and then Eloise quite suddenly jumped to her feet and said, “I must go.”

Penelope smiled. People who didn’t know Eloise very well thought she had a habit of changing the subject frequently (and abruptly), but Penelope knew that the truth was something else altogether. When Eloise had her mind set on something, she was completely unable to let it go. Which meant that if Eloise suddenly wanted to leave, it probably had to do with something they’d been talking about earlier in the afternoon, and—

“Colin is expected for tea,” Eloise explained.

Penelope smiled. She loved being right.

“You should come,” Eloise said.

Penelope shook her head. “He’ll want it to be just family.”

“You’re probably right,” Eloise said, nodding slightly. “Very well, then, I must be off. Terribly sorry to cut my visit so short, but I wanted to be sure that you knew Colin was home.”

“Whistledown,” Penelope reminded her.

“Right. Where does that woman get her information?” Eloise said, shaking her head in wonder. “I vow sometimes she knows so much about my family I wonder if I ought to be frightened.”

“She can’t go on forever,” Penelope commented, getting up to see her friend out. “Someone will eventually figure out who she is, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know.” Eloise put her hand on the doorknob, twisted, and pulled. “I used to think so. But it’s been ten years. More, actually. If she were going to be caught, I think it would have happened already.”

Penelope followed Eloise down the stairs. “Eventually she’ll make a mistake. She has to. She’s only human.”

Eloise laughed. “And here I thought she was a minor god.”

Penelope found herself grinning.

Eloise stopped and whirled around so suddenly that Penelope crashed right into her, nearly sending both of them tumbling down the last few steps on the staircase. “Do you know what?” Eloise demanded.

“I couldn’t begin to speculate.”

Eloise didn’t even bother to pull a face. “I’d wager that she has made a mistake,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said it yourself. She—or it could be he, I suppose—has been writing the column for over a decade. No one could do that for so long without making a mistake. Do you know what I think?”

Penelope just spread her hands in an impatient gesture.

“I think the problem is that the rest of us are too stupid to notice her mistakes.”

Penelope stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, Eloise,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “I do love you.”

Eloise grinned. “And it’s a good thing you do, spinster that I am. We shall have to set up a household together when we are thirty and truly crones.”

Penelope caught hold of the idea like a lifeboat. “Do you think we could?” she exclaimed. And then, in a hushed voice, after looking furtively up and down the hall, “Mother has begun to speak of her old age with alarming frequency.”

“What’s so alarming about that?”

“I’m in all of her visions, waiting on her hand and foot.”

“Oh, dear.”

“A milder expletive than had crossed my mind.”

“Penelope!” But Eloise was grinning.

“I love my mother,” Penelope said.

“I know you do,” Eloise said, in a rather placating sort of voice.

“No, I really do.”

The left corner of Eloise’s mouth began to twitch. “I know you really do. Really.”

“It’s just that—”

Eloise put up a hand. “You don’t need to say any more. I understand perfectly. I—Oh! Good day, Mrs. Featherington!”

“Eloise,” Portia said, bustling down the hall. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“I’m sneaky as always,” Eloise said. “Cheeky, even.”

Portia gave her an indulgent smile. “I heard your brother is back in town.”

“Yes, we are all overjoyed.”

“I’m sure you must be, especially your mother.”

“Indeed. She is beside herself. I believe she is drawing up a list right now.”

Portia’s entire aspect perked up, as it did at the mention of anything that might be construed as gossip. “A list? What sort of list?”

“Oh, you know, the same list she has made for all of her adult children. Prospective spouses and all that.”

“It makes me wonder,” Penelope said in a dry voice, “what constitutes ‘all that.’”

“Sometimes she includes one or two people who are hopelessly unsuitable so as to highlight the qualities of the real possibilities.”

Portia laughed. “Perhaps she’ll put you on Colin’s list, Penelope!”

Penelope didn’t laugh. Neither did Eloise. Portia didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, I’d best be off,” Eloise said, clearing her throat to cover a moment that was awkward to two of the three people in the hall. “Colin is expected for tea. Mother wants the entire family in attendance.”

“Will you all fit?” Penelope asked. Lady Bridgerton’s home was large, but the Bridgerton children, spouses, and grandchildren numbered twenty-one. It was a large brood, indeed.

“We’re going to Bridgerton House,” Eloise explained. Her mother had moved out of the Bridgertons’ official London residence after her eldest son had married. Anthony, who had been viscount since the age of eighteen, had told Violet that she needn’t go, but she had insisted that he and his wife needed their privacy. As a result, Anthony and Kate lived with their three children in Bridgerton House, while Violet lived with her unmarried children (with the exception of Colin, who kept his own lodgings) just a few blocks away at 5 Bruton Street. After a year or so of unsuccessful attempts to name Lady Bridgerton’s new home, the family had taken to calling it simply Number Five.

“Do enjoy yourself,” Portia said. “I must go and find Felicity. We are late for an appointment at the modiste.”

Eloise watched Portia disappear up the stairs, then said to Penelope, “Your sister seems to spend a great deal of time at the modiste.”

Penelope shrugged. “Felicity is going mad with all the fittings, but she’s Mother’s only hope for a truly grand match. I’m afraid she’s convinced that Felicity will catch a duke if she’s wearing the right gown.”

“Isn’t she practically engaged to Mr. Albansdale?”

“I imagine he’ll make a formal offer next week. But until then, Mother is keeping her options open.” She rolled her eyes. “You’d best warn your brother to keep his distance.”

“Gregory?” Eloise asked in disbelief. “He’s not even out of university.”

“Colin.”

“Colin?” Eloise exploded with laughter. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“That’s what I told her, but you know how she is once she gets an idea in her head.”

Eloise chuckled. “Rather like me, I imagine.”

“Tenacious to the end.”

“Tenacity can be a very good thing,” Eloise reminded her, “at the proper time.”

“Right,” Penelope returned with a sarcastic smile, “and at the improper time, it’s an absolute nightmare.”

Eloise laughed. “Cheer up, friend. At least she let you rid yourself of all those yellow frocks.”

Penelope looked down at her morning dress, which was, if she did say so herself, a rather flattering shade of blue. “She stopped choosing my clothing once she finally realized I was officially on the shelf. A girl with no marriage prospects isn’t worth the time and energy it takes her to offer fashion advice. She hasn’t accompanied me to the modiste in over a year! Bliss!”

Eloise smiled at her friend, whose complexion turned the loveliest peaches and cream whenever she wore cooler hues. “It was apparent to all, the moment you were allowed to choose your own clothing. Even Lady Whistledown commented upon it!”

“I hid that column from Mother,” Penelope admitted. “I didn’t want her feelings to be hurt.”

Eloise blinked a few times before saying, “That was very kind of you, Penelope.”

“I have my moments of charity and grace.”

“One would think,” Eloise said with a snort, “that a vital component of charity and grace is the ability not to draw attention to one’s possession of them.”

Penelope pursed her lips as she pushed Eloise toward the door. “Don’t you need to go home?”

“I’m leaving! I’m leaving!”

And she left.

It was, Colin Bridgerton decided as he took a sip of some truly excellent brandy, rather nice to be back in England.

It was quite strange, actually, how he loved returning home just as much as he did the departure. In another few months—six at the most—he’d be itching to leave again, but for now, England in April was positively brilliant.

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

Colin looked up. His brother Anthony was leaning against the front of his massive mahogany desk, motioning to him with his own glass of brandy.

Colin nodded. “Hadn’t realized how much I missed it until I returned. Ouzo has its charms, but this”—he lifted his glass—“is heaven.”

Anthony smiled wryly. “And how long do you plan to remain this time?”

Colin wandered over to the window and pretended to look out. His eldest brother made little attempt to disguise his impatience with Colin’s wanderlust. In truth, Colin really couldn’t blame him. Occasionally, it was difficult to get letters home; he supposed that his family often had to wait a month or even two for word of his welfare. But while he knew that he would not relish being in their shoes—never knowing if a loved one was dead or alive, constantly waiting for the knock of the messenger at the front door—that just wasn’t enough to keep his feet firmly planted in England.

Every now and then, he simply had to get away. There was no other way to describe it.

Away from the ton, who thought him a charming rogue and nothing else, away from England, which encouraged younger sons to enter the military or the clergy, neither of which suited his temperament. Even away from his family, who loved him unconditionally but had no clue that what he really wanted, deep down inside, was something to do.

His brother Anthony held the viscountcy, and with that came myriad responsibilities. He ran estates, managed the family’s finances, and saw to the welfare of countless tenants and servants. Benedict, his elder by four years, had gained renown as an artist. He’d started with pencil and paper, but at the urging of his wife had moved on to oils. One of his landscapes now hung in the National Gallery.

Anthony would be forever remembered in family trees as the seventh Viscount Bridgerton. Benedict would live through his paintings, long after he left this earth.

But Colin had nothing. He managed the small property given to him by his family and he attended parties. He would never dream of claiming he didn’t have fun, but sometimes he wanted something a little more than fun.

He wanted a purpose.

He wanted a legacy.

He wanted, if not to know then at least to hope, that when he was gone, he’d be memorialized in some manner other than in Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.

He sighed. No wonder he spent so much time traveling. “Colin?” his brother prompted.

Colin turned to him and blinked. He was fairly certain Anthony had asked him a question, but somewhere in the meanderings of his mind, he’d forgotten what.

“Oh. Right.” Colin cleared his throat. “I’ll be here for the rest of the season, at least.”

Anthony said nothing, but it was difficult to miss the satisfied expression on his face.

“If nothing else,” Colin added, affixing his legendary crooked grin on his face, “someone has to spoil your children. I don’t think Charlotte has nearly enough dolls.”

“Only fifty,” Anthony agreed in a deadpan voice. “The poor girl is horribly neglected.”

“Her birthday is at the end of this month, is it not? I shall have to neglect her some more, I think.”

“Speaking of birthdays,” Anthony said, settling into the large chair behind his desk, “Mother’s is a week from Sunday.”

“Why do you think I hurried to return?”

Anthony raised a brow, and Colin had the distinct impression that he was trying to decide if Colin had truly rushed home for their mother’s birthday, or if he was simply taking advantage of some very good timing.

“We’re holding a party for her,” Anthony said.

“She’s letting you?” It was Colin’s experience that women of a certain age did not enjoy birthday celebrations. And although his mother was still exceedingly lovely, she was definitely of a certain age.

“We were forced to resort to blackmail,” Anthony admitted. “She agreed to the party or we revealed her true age.”

Colin shouldn’t have taken a sip of his brandy; he choked on it and just barely managed to avert spraying it all over his brother. “I should have liked to have seen that.”

Anthony offered a rather satisfied smile. “It was a brilliant maneuver on my part.”

Colin finished the rest of his drink. “What, do you think, are the chances she won’t use the party as an opportunity to find me a wife?”

“Very small.”

“I thought so.”

Anthony leaned back in his chair. “You are thirty-three now, Colin . . .”

Colin stared at him in disbelief. “God above, don’t you start on me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I was merely going to suggest that you keep your eyes open this season. You needn’t actively look for a wife, but there’s no harm in remaining at least amenable to the possibility.”

Colin eyed the doorway, intending to pass through it very shortly. “I assure you I am not averse to the idea of marriage.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Anthony demurred.

“I see little reason to rush, however.”

“There’s never a reason to rush,” Anthony returned. “Well, rarely, anyway. Just humor Mother, will you?”

Colin hadn’t realized he was still holding his empty glass until it slipped through his fingers and landed on the carpet with a loud thunk. “Good God,” he whispered, “is she ill?”

“No!” Anthony said, his surprise making his voice loud and forceful. “She’ll outlive us all, I’m sure of it.”

“Then what is this about?”

Anthony sighed. “I just want to see you happy.”

“I am happy,” Colin insisted.

“Are you?”

“Hell, I’m the happiest man in London. Just read Lady Whistledown. She’ll tell you so.”

Anthony glanced down at the paper on his desk.

“Well, maybe not this column, but anything from last year. I’ve been called charming more times than Lady Danbury has been called opinionated, and we both know what a feat that is.”

“Charming doesn’t necessarily equal happy,” Anthony said softly.

“I don’t have time for this,” Colin muttered. The door had never looked so good.

“If you were truly happy,” Anthony persisted, “you wouldn’t keep leaving.”

Colin paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Anthony, I like to travel.”

“Constantly?”

“I must, or I wouldn’t do it.”

“That’s an evasive sentence if ever I’ve heard one.”

“And this”—Colin flashed his brother a wicked smile—“is an evasive maneuver.”

“Colin!”

But he’d already left the room.

Chapter 2

It has always been fashionable among the ton to complain of ennui, but surely this year’s crop of partygoers has raised boredom to an art form. One cannot take two steps at a society function these days without hearing the phrase “dreadfully dull,” or “hopelessly banal.” Indeed, This Author has even been informed that Cressida Twombley recently remarked that she was convinced that she might perish of eternal boredom if forced to attend one more off-key musicale.

(This Author must concur with Lady Twombley on that note; while this year’s selection of debutantes are an amiable bunch, there is not a decent musician among them.)

If there is to be an antidote for the disease of tedium, surely it will be Sunday’s fête at Bridgerton House. The entire family will gather, along with a hundred or so of their closest friends, to celebrate the dowager viscountess’s birthday.

It is considered crass to mention a lady’s age, and so This Author will not reveal which birthday Lady Bridgerton is celebrating.

But have no fear! This Author knows!

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 APRIL 1824

Spinsterhood was a word that tended to invoke either panic or pity, but Penelope was coming to realize that there were decided advantages to the unmarried state.

First of all, no one really expected the spinsters to dance at balls, which meant that Penelope was no longer forced to hover at the edge of the dance floor, looking this way and that, pretending that she didn’t really want to dance. Now she could sit off to the side with the other spinsters and chaperones. She still wanted to dance, of course—she rather liked dancing, and she was actually quite good at it, not that anyone ever noticed—but it was much easier to feign disinterest the farther one got from the waltzing couples.

Second, the number of hours spent in dull conversation had been drastically reduced. Mrs. Featherington had officially given up hope that Penelope might ever snag a husband, and so she’d stopped thrusting her in the path of every third-tier eligible bachelor. Portia had never really thought Penelope had a prayer of attracting the attention of a first- or second-tier bachelor, which was probably true, but most of the third-tier bachelors were classified as such for a reason, and sadly, that reason was often personality, or lack thereof. Which, when combined with Penelope’s shyness with strangers, didn’t tend to promote sparkling conversation.

And finally, she could eat again. It was maddening, considering the amount of food generally on display at ton parties, but women on the hunt for husbands weren’t supposed to exhibit anything more robust than a bird’s appetite. This, Penelope thought gleefully (as she bit into what had to be the most heavenly éclair outside of France), had to be the best spinster perk of all.

“Good heavens,” she moaned. If sin could take a solid form, surely it would be a pastry. Preferably one with chocolate.

“That good, eh?”

Penelope choked on the éclair, then coughed, sending a fine spray of pastry cream through the air. “Colin,” she gasped, fervently praying the largest of the globs had missed his ear.

“Penelope.” He smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you.”

He rocked on his heels—once, twice, thrice—then said, “You look well.”

“And you,” she said, too preoccupied with trying to figure out where to set down her éclair to offer much variety to her conversation.

“That’s a nice dress,” he said, motioning to her green silk gown.

She smiled ruefully, explaining, “It’s not yellow.”

“So it’s not.” He grinned, and the ice was broken. It was strange, because one would think her tongue would be tied the tightest around the man she loved, but there was something about Colin that set everyone at ease.

Maybe, Penelope had thought on more than one occasion, part of the reason she loved him was that he made her feel comfortable with herself.

“Eloise tells me you had a splendid time in Cyprus,” she said.

He grinned. “Couldn’t resist the birthplace of Aphrodite, after all.”

Penelope found herself smiling as well. His good humor was infectious, even if the last thing she wanted to do was take part in a discussion of the goddess of love. “Was it as sunny as everyone says?” she asked. “No, forget I asked. I can see from your face that it was.”

“I did acquire a bit of a tan,” he said with a nod. “My mother nearly fainted when she saw me.”

“From delight, I’m sure,” Penelope said emphatically. “She misses you terribly when you’re gone.”

He leaned in. “Come, now, Penelope, surely you’re not going to start in on me? Between my mother, Anthony, Eloise, and Daphne, I’m liable to perish of guilt.”

“Not Benedict?” she couldn’t help quipping.

He shot her a slightly smirky look. “He’s out of town.”

“Ah, well, that explains his silence.”

His narrowed eyes matched his crossed arms to perfection. “You’ve always been cheeky, did you know that?”

“I hide it well,” she said modestly.

“It’s easy to see,” he said in a dry voice, “why you are such good friends with my sister.”

“I’m assuming you intended that as a compliment?”

“I’m fairly certain I’d be endangering my health if I’d intended it any other way.”

Penelope was standing there hoping she’d think of a witty rejoinder when she heard a strange, wet, splattish sound. She looked down to discover that a large yellowish blob of pastry cream had slid from her half-eaten éclair and landed on the pristine wooden floor. She looked back up to find Colin’s oh-so-green eyes dancing with laughter, even as his mouth fought for a serious expression.

“Well, now, that’s embarrassing,” Penelope said, deciding that the only way to avoid dying of mortification was to state the painfully obvious.

“I suggest,” Colin said, raising one brow into a perfectly debonair arch, “that we flee the scene.”

Penelope looked down at the empty carcass of the éclair still in her hand. Colin answered her with a nod toward a nearby potted plant.

“No!” she said, her eyes growing wide.

He leaned in closer. “I dare you.”

Her eyes darted from the éclair to the plant and back to Colin’s face. “I couldn’t,” she said.

“As far as naughty things go, this one is fairly mild,” he pointed out.

It was a dare, and Penelope was usually immune to such childish ploys, but Colin’s half-smile was difficult to resist. “Very well,” she said, squaring her shoulders and dropping the pastry onto the soil. She took a step back, examined her handiwork, looked around to see if anyone besides Colin was watching her, then leaned down and rotated the pot so that a leafy branch covered the evidence.

“I didn’t think you’d do it,” Colin said.

“As you said, it’s not terribly naughty.”

“No, but it is my mother’s favorite potted palm.”

“Colin!” Penelope whirled around, fully intending to sink her hand right back into the plant to retrieve the éclair. “How could you let me—Wait a second.” She straightened, her eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a palm.”

He was all innocence. “It’s not?”

“It’s a miniature orange tree.”

He blinked. “Is it, now?”

She scowled at him. Or at least she hoped it was a scowl. It was difficult to scowl at Colin Bridgerton. Even his mother had once remarked that it was nearly impossible to reprimand him.

He would just smile and look contrite and say something funny, and you just couldn’t stay angry with him. You simply couldn’t do it.

“You were trying to make me feel guilty,” Penelope said.

“Anyone could confuse a palm with an orange tree.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Except for the oranges.”

He chewed on his lower lip, his eyes thoughtful. “Yes, hmmm, one would think they’d be a bit of a giveaway.”

“You’re a terrible liar, did you know that?”

He straightened, tugging slightly at his waistcoat as he lifted his chin. “Actually, I’m an excellent liar. But what I’m really good at is appearing appropriately sheepish and adorable after I’m caught.”

What, Penelope wondered, was she meant to say to that? Because surely there was no one more adorably sheepish (sheepishly adorable?) than Colin Bridgerton with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes flitting along the ceiling, and his lips puckered into an innocent whistle.

“When you were a child,” Penelope asked, abruptly changing the subject, “were you ever punished?”

Colin immediately straightened to attention. “I beg your pardon?”

“Were you ever punished as a child?” she repeated. “Are you ever punished now?”

Colin just stared at her, wondering if she had any idea what she was asking. Probably not. “Errr . . .” he said, mostly because he hadn’t anything else to say.

She let out a vaguely patronizing sigh. “I thought not.”

If he were a less indulgent man, and if this were anyone but Penelope Featherington, whom he knew did not possess a malicious bone in her body, he might take offense. But he was an uncommonly easygoing fellow, and this was Penelope Featherington, who had been a faithful friend to his sister for God knows how many years, so instead of adopting a hard, cynical stare (which, admittedly, was an expression at which he’d never excelled), he merely smiled and murmured, “Your point being?”

“Do not think I mean to criticize your parents,” she said with an expression that was innocent and sly at the same time. “I would never dream of implying that you were spoiled in any way.”

He nodded graciously.

“It’s just that”—she leaned in, as if imparting a grave secret—“I rather think you could get away with murder if you so chose.”

He coughed—not to clear his throat and not because he wasn’t feeling well, but rather because he was so damned startled. Penelope was such a funny character. No, that wasn’t quite right. She was . . . surprising. Yes, that seemed to sum her up. Very few people really knew her; she had certainly never developed a reputation as a sterling conversationalist. He was fairly certain she’d made it through three-hour parties without ever venturing beyond words of a single syllable.

But when Penelope was in the company of someone with whom she felt comfortable—and Colin realized that he was probably privileged to count himself among that number—she had a dry wit, a sly smile, and evidence of a very intelligent mind, indeed.

He wasn’t surprised that she’d never attracted any serious suitors for her hand; she wasn’t a beauty by any stretch, although upon close examination she was more attractive than he’d remembered her to be. Her brown hair had a touch of red to it, highlighted nicely by the flickering candles. And her skin was quite lovely—that perfect peaches-and-cream complexion that ladies were always slathering their faces with arsenic to achieve.

But Penelope’s attractiveness wasn’t the sort that men usually noticed. And her normally shy and occasionally even stuttering demeanor didn’t exactly showcase her personality.

Still, it was too bad about her lack of popularity. She would have made someone a perfectly good wife.

“So you’re saying,” he mused, steering his mind back to the matter at hand, “that I should consider a life of crime?”

“Nothing of the sort,” she replied, a demure smile on her face. “Just that I rather suspect you could talk your way out of anything.” And then, unexpectedly, her mien grew serious, and she quietly said, “I envy that.”

Colin surprised himself by holding out his hand and saying, “Penelope Featherington, I think you should dance with me.”

And then Penelope surprised him by laughing and saying, “That’s very sweet of you to ask, but you don’t have to dance with me any longer.”

His pride felt oddly pricked. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

She shrugged. “It’s official now. I’m a spinster. There’s no longer a reason to dance with me just so that I don’t feel left out.”

“That’s not why I danced with you,” he protested, but he knew that it was exactly the reason. And half the time he’d only remembered to ask because his mother had poked him—hard—in the back and reminded him.

She gave him a faintly pitying look, which galled him, because he’d never thought to be pitied by Penelope Featherington.

“If you think,” he said, feeling his spine grow stiff, “that I’m going to allow you to wiggle out of a dance with me now, you’re quite delusional.”

“You don’t have to dance with me just to prove you don’t mind doing it,” she said.

“I want to dance with you,” he fairly growled.

“Very well,” she said, after what seemed to be a ridiculously long pause. “It would surely be churlish for me to refuse.”

“It was probably churlish of you to doubt my intentions,” he said as he took her arm, “but I’m willing to forgive you if you can forgive yourself.”

She stumbled, which made him smile.

“I do believe I’ll manage,” she choked out.

“Excellent.” He offered her a bland smile. “I’d hate to think of you living with the guilt.”

The music was just beginning, so Penelope took his hand and curtsied as they began the minuet. It was difficult to talk during the dance, which gave Penelope a few moments to catch her breath and gather her thoughts.

Perhaps she’d been a bit too harsh with Colin. She shouldn’t have scolded him for asking her to dance, when the truth was, those dances were among her most cherished memories. Did it really matter if he’d only done it out of pity? It would have been worse if he’d never asked her at all.

She grimaced. Worse still, did this mean she had to apologize?

“Was something wrong with that éclair?” Colin inquired the next time they stepped toward each other.

A full ten seconds passed before they were close enough again for her to say, “I beg your pardon?”

“You look as if you’ve swallowed something vile,” he said, loudly this time, for he’d clearly lost patience with waiting for the dance to allow them to speak.

Several people looked over, then stepped discreetly away, as if Penelope might actually be sick right there on the ballroom floor.

“Do you need to shout it to the entire world?” Penelope hissed.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, bending into an elegant bow as the music drew to a close, “that was the loudest whisper I’ve ever heard.”

He was insufferable, but Penelope wasn’t going to say so, because it would only make her sound like a character in a very bad romantic novel. She’d read one just the other day in which the heroine used the word (or one of its synonyms) on every other page.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said, once they’d reached the perimeter of the room. She almost added, You can now tell your mother that you’ve fulfilled your obligations, but immediately regretted her impulse. Colin hadn’t done anything to deserve such sarcasm. It wasn’t his fault that men only danced with her when forced to by their mothers. He’d always at least smiled and laughed while doing his duty, which was more than she could say for the rest of the male population.

He nodded politely and murmured his own thanks. They were just about to part ways when they heard a loud female voice bark out, “Mr. Bridgerton!”

They both froze. It was a voice they both knew. It was a voice everyone knew.

“Save me,” Colin groaned.

Penelope looked over her shoulder to see the infamous Lady Danbury pushing her way through the crowd, wincing when her ever-present cane landed on the foot of some hapless young lady. “Maybe she means a different Mr. Bridgerton?” Penelope suggested. “There are quite a few of you, after all, and it’s possible—”

“I’ll give you ten pounds if you don’t leave my side,” Colin blurted out.

Penelope choked on air. “Don’t be silly, I—”

“Twenty.”

“Done!” she said with a smile, not because she particularly needed the money but rather because it was strangely enjoyable to be extorting it from Colin. “Lady Danbury!” she called out, hurrying to the elderly lady’s side. “How nice to see you.”

“Nobody ever thinks it’s nice to see me,” Lady Danbury said sharply, “except maybe my nephew, and half the time I’m not even sure about him. But I thank you for lying all the same.”

Colin said nothing, but she still turned in his direction and swatted his leg with her cane. “Good choice dancing with this one,” she said. “I’ve always liked her. More brains than the rest of her family put together.”

Penelope opened her mouth to defend at least her younger sister, when Lady Danbury barked out, “Ha!” after barely a second’s pause, adding, “I noticed neither of you contradicted me.”

“It is always a delight to see you, Lady Danbury,” Colin said, giving her just the sort of smile he might have directed at an opera singer.

“Glib, this one is,” Lady Danbury said to Penelope. “You’ll have to watch out for him.”

“It is rarely necessary that I do so,” Penelope said, “as he is most often out of the country.”

“See!” Lady Danbury crowed again. “I told you she was bright.”

“You’ll notice,” Colin said smoothly, “that I did not contradict you.”

The old lady smiled approvingly. “So you didn’t. You’re getting smart in your old age, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“It has occasionally been remarked that I possessed a small modicum of intelligence in my youth, as well.”

“Hmmph. The important word in that sentence being small, of course.”

Colin looked at Penelope through narrowed eyes. She appeared to be choking on laughter.

“We women must look out for one another,” Lady Danbury said to no one in particular, “since it is clear that no one else will do so.”

Colin decided it was definitely time to go. “I think I see my mother.”

“Escape is impossible,” Lady Danbury crowed. “Don’t bother to attempt it, and besides, I know for a fact you don’t see your mother. She’s attending to some brainless twit who tore the hem off her dress.” She turned to Penelope, who was now exerting such effort to control her laughter that her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “How much did he pay you not to leave him alone with me?”

Penelope quite simply exploded. “I beg your pardon,” she gasped, clasping a hand over her horrified mouth.

“Oh, no, go right ahead,” Colin said expansively. “You’ve been such a help already.”

“You don’t have to give me the twenty pounds,” she said. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“Only twenty pounds?” Lady Danbury asked. “Hmmph. I would have thought I’d be worth at least twenty-five.”

Colin shrugged. “I’m a third son. Perpetually short of funds, I’m afraid.”

“Ha! You’re as plump in the pocket as at least three earls,” Lady Danbury said. “Well, maybe not earls,” she added, after a bit of thought. “But a few viscounts, and most barons, to be sure.”

Colin smiled blandly. “Isn’t it considered impolite to talk about money in mixed company?”

Lady Danbury let out a noise that was either a wheeze or a giggle—Colin wasn’t sure which—then said, “It’s always impolite to talk about money, mixed company or no, but when one is my age, one can do almost anything one pleases.”

“I do wonder,” Penelope mused, “what one can’t do at your age.”

Lady Danbury turned to her. “I beg your pardon?”

“You said that one could do almost anything one pleases.”

Lady Danbury stared at her in disbelief, then cracked a smile. Colin realized he was smiling as well.

“I like her,” Lady D said to him, pointing at Penelope as if she were some sort of statue for sale. “Did I tell you I like her?”

“I believe you did,” he murmured.

Lady Danbury turned to Penelope and said, her face a mask of utter seriousness, “I do believe I couldn’t get away with murder, but that might be all.”

All at once, both Penelope and Colin burst out laughing.

“Eh?” Lady Danbury said. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Penelope gasped. As for Colin, he couldn’t even manage that much.

“It’s not nothing,” Lady D persisted. “And I shall remain here and pester you all night until you tell me what it is. Trust me when I tell you that that is not your desired course of action.”

Penelope wiped a tear from her eye. “I just got through telling him,” she said, motioning with her head toward Colin, “that he probably could get away with murder.”

“Did you, now?” Lady Danbury mused, tapping her cane lightly against the floor the way someone else might scratch her chin while pondering a deep question. “Do you know, but I think you might be right. A more charming man I don’t think London has ever seen.”

Colin raised a brow. “Now, why don’t I think you meant that as a compliment, Lady Danbury?”

“Of course it’s a compliment, you dunderhead.”

Colin turned to Penelope. “As opposed to that, which was clearly a compliment.”

Lady Danbury beamed. “I declare,” she said (or in all truth, declared), “this is the most fun I’ve had all season.”

“Happy to oblige,” Colin said with an easy smile.

“It’s been an especially dull year, don’t you think?” Lady Danbury asked Penelope.

Penelope nodded. “Last year was a bit tedious as well.”

“But not as bad as this year,” Lady D persisted.

“Don’t ask me,” Colin said affably. “I’ve been out of the country.”

“Hmmph. I suppose you’re going to say that your absence is the reason we’ve all been so bored.”

“I would never dream of it,” Colin said with a disarming smile. “But clearly, if the thought has crossed your mind, it must have some merit.”

“Hmmph. Whatever the case, I’m bored.”

Colin looked over at Penelope, who appeared to be holding herself very, very still—presumably to stave off laughter.

“Haywood!” Lady Danbury suddenly called out, waving over a middle-aged gentleman. “Wouldn’t you agree with me?”

A vaguely panicked expression drifted across Lord Haywood’s face, and then, when it became clear that he could not escape, he said, “I try to make a policy of always agreeing with you.”

Lady Danbury turned to Penelope and said, “Is it my imagination, or are men getting more sensible?”

Penelope’s only answer was a noncommittal shrug. Colin decided she was a wise girl, indeed.

Haywood cleared his throat, his blue eyes blinking fast and furious in his rather fleshy face. “Er, what, precisely, am I agreeing to?”

“That the season is boring,” Penelope supplied helpfully.

“Ah, Miss Featherington,” Haywood said in a blustery sort of voice. “Didn’t see you there.”

Colin stole just enough of a glance at Penelope to see her lips straighten into a small, frustrated smile. “Right here next to you,” she muttered.

“So you are,” Haywood said jovially, “and yes, the season is dreadfully boring.”

“Did someone say the season is dull?”

Colin glanced to his right. Another man and two ladies had just joined the group and were avidly expressing their agreement.

“Tedious,” one of them murmured. “Appallingly tedious.”

“I have never attended a more banal round of parties,” one of the ladies announced with an affected sigh.

“I shall have to inform my mother,” Colin said tightly. He was among the most easygoing of men, but really, there were some insults he could not let pass.

“Oh, not this gathering,” the woman hastened to add. “This ball is truly the only shining light in an otherwise dark and dismal string of gatherings. Why, I was just saying to—”

“Stop now,” Lady Danbury ordered, “before you choke on your foot.”

The lady quickly silenced herself.

“It’s odd,” Penelope murmured.

“Oh, Miss Featherington,” said the lady who’d previously been going on about dark and dismal gatherings. “Didn’t see you there.”

“What’s odd?” Colin asked, before anyone else could tell Penelope how unremarkable they found her.

She gave him a small, grateful smile before explaining herself. “It’s odd how the ton seems to entertain themselves by pointing out how unentertained they are.”

“I beg your pardon?” Haywood said, looking confused.

Penelope shrugged. “I think the lot of you are having a jolly good time talking about how bored you are, that’s all.”

Her comment was met with silence. Lord Haywood continued to look confused, and one of the two ladies must have had a speck of dust in her eye, because she couldn’t seem to do anything but blink.

Colin couldn’t help but smile. He hadn’t thought Penelope’s statement was such a terribly complicated concept.

“The only interesting thing to do is read Whistledown,” said the nonblinking lady, as if Penelope had never even spoken.

The gentleman next to her murmured his assent.

And then Lady Danbury began to smile.

Colin grew alarmed. The old lady had a look in her eye. A frightening look.

“I have an idea,” she said.

Someone gasped. Someone else groaned.

“A brilliant idea.”

“Not that any of your ideas are anything but,” Colin murmured in his most affable voice.

Lady Danbury shushed him with a wave of her hand. “How many great mysteries are there in life, really?”

No one answered, so Colin guessed, “Forty-two?”

She didn’t even bother to scowl at him. “I am telling you all here and now. . . .”

Everyone leaned in. Even Colin. It was impossible not to indulge the drama of the moment.

“You are all my witnesses. . . .”

Colin thought he heard Penelope mutter, “Get on with it.”

“One thousand pounds,” Lady Danbury said.

The crowd surrounding her grew.

“One thousand pounds,” she repeated, her voice growing in volume. Really, she would have been a natural on the stage. “One thousand pounds . . .”

It seemed the entire ballroom had hushed into reverent silence.

“. . . to the person who unmasks Lady Whistledown!”

Chapter 3

This Author would be remiss if it was not mentioned that the most talked-about moment at last night’s birthday ball at Bridgerton House was not the rousing toast to Lady Bridgerton (age not to be revealed) but rather Lady Danbury’s impertinent offer of one thousand pounds to whomever unmasks . . .

Me.

Do your worst, ladies and gentlemen of the ton. You haven’t a prayer of solving this mystery.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 12 APRIL 1824

Precisely three minutes were required for news of Lady Danbury’s outrageous dare to spread throughout the ballroom. Penelope knew this to be true because she happened to be facing a large (and, according to Kate Bridgerton, extremely precise) grandfather clock when Lady Danbury made her announcement. At the words, “One thousand pounds to the person who unmasks Lady Whistledown,” the clock read forty-four minutes past ten. The long hand had advanced no farther than forty-seven when Nigel Berbrooke stumbled into the rapidly growing circle of people surrounding Lady Danbury and proclaimed her latest scheme “scrumbly good fun!”

And if Nigel had heard about it, that meant everyone had, because Penelope’s brother-in-law was not known for his intelligence, his attention span, or his listening ability.

Nor, Penelope thought wryly, for his vocabulary. Scrumbly, indeed.

“And who do you think Lady Whistledown is?” Lady Danbury asked Nigel.

“No earthly idea,” he admitted. “Ain’t me, that’s all I know!”

“I think we all know that,” Lady D replied.

“Who do you think it is?” Penelope asked Colin.

He offered her a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ve been out of town too often to speculate.”

“Don’t be silly,” Penelope said. “Your cumulative time in London certainly adds up to enough parties and routs to form a few theories.”

But he just shook his head. “I really couldn’t say.”

Penelope stared at him for a moment longer than was necessary, or, in all honesty, socially acceptable. There was something odd in Colin’s eyes. Something fleeting and elusive. The ton often thought him nothing more than a devil-may-care charmer, but he was far more intelligent than he let on, and she’d have bet her life that he had a few suspicions.

But for some reason, he wasn’t willing to share them with her.

“Who do you think it is?” Colin asked, avoiding her question with one of his own. “You’ve been out in society just about as long as Lady Whistledown. Surely you must have thought about it.”

Penelope looked about the ballroom, her eyes resting on this person and that, before finally returning to the small crowd around her. “I think it could very well be Lady Danbury,” she replied. “Wouldn’t that be a clever joke on everyone?”

Colin looked over at the elderly lady, who was having a grand old time talking up her latest scheme. She was thumping her cane on the ground, chattering animatedly, and smiling like a cat with cream, fish, and an entire roast turkey. “It makes sense,” he said thoughtfully, “in a rather perverse sort of way.”

Penelope felt the corners of her mouth twist. “She’s nothing if not perverse.”

She watched Colin watching Lady D for another few seconds, then quietly said, “But you don’t think it’s her.”

Colin slowly turned his head to face her, raising one brow in silent question.

“I can tell by the expression on your face,” Penelope explained.

He grinned, that loose easy grin he so often used in public. “And here I thought I was inscrutable.”

“Afraid not,” she replied. “Not to me, anyway.”

Colin sighed. “I fear it will never be my destiny to be a dark, brooding hero.”

“You may well find yourself someone’s hero,” Penelope allowed. “There’s time for you yet. But dark and brooding?” She smiled. “Not very likely.”

“Too bad for me,” he said jauntily, giving her another one of his well-known smiles—this one the lopsided, boyish one. “The dark, brooding types get all the women.”

Penelope coughed discreetly, a bit surprised he’d be speaking of such things with her, not to mention the fact that Colin Bridgerton had never had trouble attracting women. He was grinning at her, awaiting a response, and she was trying to decide whether the correct reaction was polite maidenly outrage or a laugh and an I’m-such-a-good-sport sort of chuckle, when Eloise quite literally skidded to a halt in front of them.

“Did you hear the news?” Eloise asked breathlessly.

“Were you running?” Penelope returned. Truly a remarkable feat in such a crowded ballroom.

“Lady Danbury has offered one thousand pounds to whomever unmasks Lady Whistledown!”

“We know,” Colin said in that vaguely superior tone exclusive to older brothers.

Eloise let out a disappointed sigh. “You do?”

Colin motioned to Lady Danbury, who was still a scant few yards away. “We were right here when it happened.”

Eloise looked annoyed in the extreme, and Penelope knew exactly what she was thinking (and would most probably relate to her the following afternoon). It was one thing to miss an important moment. It was another entirely to discover that one’s brother had seen the entire thing.

“Well, people are already talking about it,” Eloise said. “Gushing, really. I haven’t been witness to such excitement in years.”

Colin turned to Penelope and murmured, “This is why I so often choose to leave the country.”

Penelope tried not to smile.

“I know you’re talking about me and I don’t care,” Eloise continued, barely pausing to take a breath. “I tell you, the ton has gone mad. Everyone—and I mean everyone—is speculating on her identity, although the shrewdest ones won’t say a word. Don’t want others to win on their hunch, don’t you know.”

“I think,” Colin announced, “that I am not so in need of a thousand pounds that I care to worry about this.”

“It’s a lot of money,” Penelope said thoughtfully.

He turned to her in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re going to join in this ridiculous game.”

She cocked her head to the side, lifting her chin in what she hoped was an enigmatic—or if not enigmatic, at the very least slightly mysterious—manner. “I am not so well heeled that I can ignore the offer of one thousand pounds,” she said.

“Perhaps if we work together . . .” Eloise suggested.

“God save me,” was Colin’s reply.

Eloise ignored him, saying to Penelope, “We could split the money.”

Penelope opened her mouth to reply, but Lady Danbury’s cane suddenly came into view, waving wildly through the air. Colin had to take a quick step to the side just to avoid getting his ear clipped off.

“Miss Featherington!” Lady D boomed. “You haven’t told me who you suspect.”

“No, Penelope,” Colin said, a rather smirky smile on his face, “you haven’t.”

Penelope’s first instinct was to mumble something under her breath and hope that Lady Danbury’s age had left her hard enough of hearing that she would assume that any lack of understanding was the fault of her own ears and not Penelope’s lips. But even without glancing to her side, she could feel Colin’s presence, sense his quirky, cocky grin egging her on, and she found herself standing a little straighter, with her chin perched just a little higher than usual.

He made her more confident, more daring. He made her more . . . herself. Or at least the herself she wished she could be.

“Actually,” Penelope said, looking Lady Danbury almost in the eye, “I think it’s you.”

A collective gasp echoed around them.

And for the first time in her life, Penelope Featherington found herself at the very center of attention.

Lady Danbury stared at her, her pale blue eyes shrewd and assessing. And then the most amazing thing happened. Her lips began to twitch at the corners. Then they widened until Penelope realized she was not just smiling, but positively grinning.

“I like you, Penelope Featherington,” Lady Danbury said, tapping her right on the toe with her cane. “I wager half the ballroom is of the same notion, but no one else has the mettle to tell me so.”

“I really don’t, either,” Penelope admitted, grunting slightly as Colin elbowed her in the ribs.

“Obviously,” Lady Danbury said with a strange light in her eyes, “you do.”

Penelope didn’t know what to say to this. She looked at Colin, who was smiling at her encouragingly, then she looked back to Lady Danbury, who looked almost . . . maternal.

Which had to be the strangest thing of all. Penelope rather doubted that Lady Danbury had given maternal looks to her own children.

“Isn’t it nice,” the older lady said, leaning in so that only Penelope could hear her words, “to discover that we’re not exactly what we thought we were?”

And then she walked away, leaving Penelope wondering if maybe she wasn’t quite what she’d thought she was.

Maybe—just maybe—she was something a little bit more.

The next day was a Monday, which meant that Penelope took tea with the Bridgerton ladies at Number Five. She didn’t know when, precisely, she’d fallen into that habit, but it had been so for close to a decade, and if she didn’t show up on a Monday afternoon, she rather thought Lady Bridgerton would send someone over to fetch her.

Penelope rather enjoyed the Bridgerton custom of tea and biscuits in the afternoon. It wasn’t a widespread ritual; indeed, Penelope knew of no one else who made a daily habit of it. But Lady Bridgerton insisted that she simply could not last from luncheon to supper, especially not when they were observing town hours and eating so late at night. And thus, every afternoon at four, she and any number of her children (and often a friend or two) met in the informal upstairs drawing room for a snack.

There was drizzle in the air, even though it was a fairly warm day, so Penelope took her black parasol with her for the short walk over to Number Five. It was a route she’d followed hundreds of times before, a few houses down to the corner of Mount and Davies Street, then along the edge of Berkeley Square to Bruton Street. But she was in an odd mood that day, a little bit lighthearted and maybe even a little bit childish, so she decided to cut across the northern corner of the Berkeley Square green for no other reason than she liked the squishy sound her boots made on the wet grass.

It was Lady Danbury’s fault. It had to be. She’d been positively giddy since their encounter the night before.

“Not. What. I. Thought. I. Was,” she sang to herself as she walked, adding a word every time the soles of her boots sank into the ground. “Something more. Something more.”

She reached a particularly wet patch and moved like a skater on the grass, singing (softly, of course; she hadn’t changed so much from the night before that she actually wanted someone to hear her singing in public), “Something moooore,” as she slid forward.

Which was, of course (since it was fairly well established—in her own mind, at least—that she had the worst timing in the history of civilization), right when she heard a male voice call out her name.

She skidded to a halt and gave fervent thanks that she caught her balance at the very last moment instead of landing on her bottom on the wet and messy grass.

It was, of course, him.

“Colin!” she said in a slightly embarrassed voice, holding still as she waited for him to reach her side. “What a surprise.”

He looked like he was trying not to smile. “Were you dancing?”

“Dancing?” she echoed.

“It looked like you were dancing.”

“Oh. No.” She swallowed guiltily, because even though she wasn’t technically lying, it felt as if she were. “Of course not.”

His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Pity, then. I would have felt compelled to partner you, and I’ve never danced in Berkeley Square.”

If he’d said the same to her just two days earlier, she would have laughed at his joke and let him be the witty and charming one. But she must have heard Lady Danbury’s voice at the back of her head again, because she suddenly decided she didn’t want to be the same old Penelope Featherington.

She decided to join in the fun.

She smiled a smile she didn’t think she’d even known how to smile. It was wicked and she was mysterious, and she knew it wasn’t all in her head because Colin’s eyes widened markedly as she murmured, “That’s a shame. It’s rather enjoyable.”

“Penelope Featherington,” he drawled, “I thought you said you weren’t dancing.”

She shrugged. “I lied.”

“If that’s the case,” he said, “then surely this must be my dance.”

Penelope’s insides suddenly felt very queer. This was why she shouldn’t let whispers from Lady Danbury go to her head. She might manage daring and charm for a fleeting moment, but she had no idea how to follow through.

Unlike Colin, obviously, who was grinning devilishly as he held his arms out in perfect waltz position.

“Colin,” she gasped, “we’re in Berkeley Square!”

“I know. I just finished telling you I’ve never danced here, don’t you recall?”

“But—”

Colin crossed his arms. “Tsk. Tsk. You can’t issue a dare like that and then try to weasel out of it. Besides, dancing in Berkeley Square seems like the sort of thing a person ought to do at least once in his life, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Anyone might see,” she whispered urgently.

He shrugged, trying to hide the fact that he was rather entertained by her reaction. “I don’t care. Do you?”

Her cheeks grew pink, then red, and it seemed to take her a great deal of effort to form the words, “People will think you are courting me.”

He watched her closely, not understanding why she was disturbed. Who cared if people thought they were courting? The rumor would soon be proven false, and they’d have a good laugh at society’s expense. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, Hang society, but he held silent. There was something lurking deep in the brown depths of her eyes, some emotion he couldn’t even begin to identify.

An emotion he suspected he’d never even felt.

And he realized that the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Penelope Featherington. She was his sister’s best friend, and moreover, she was, plain and simple, a very nice girl.

He frowned. He supposed he shouldn’t be calling her a girl anymore. At eight-and-twenty she was no more a girl than he was still a boy at three-and-thirty.

Finally, with great care and what he hoped was a good dose of sensitivity, he asked, “Is there a reason why we should worry if people think we are courting?”

She closed her eyes, and for a moment Colin actually thought she might be in pain. When she opened them, her gaze was almost bittersweet. “It would be very funny, actually,” she said. “At first.”

He said nothing, just waited for her to continue.

“But eventually it would become apparent that we are not actually courting, and it would . . .” She stopped, swallowed, and Colin realized that she was not as composed on the inside as she hoped to appear.

“It would be assumed,” she continued, “that you were the one to break things off, because—well, it just would be.”

He didn’t argue with her. He knew that her words were true.

She let out a sad-sounding exhale. “I don’t want to subject myself to that. Even Lady Whistledown would probably write about it. How could she not? It would be far too juicy a piece of gossip for her to resist.”

“I’m sorry, Penelope,” Colin said. He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, but it still seemed like the right thing to say.

She acknowledged him with a tiny nod. “I know I shouldn’t care what other people say, but I do.”

He found himself turning slightly away as he considered her words. Or maybe he was considering the tone of her voice. Or maybe both.

He’d always thought of himself as somewhat above society. Not really outside of it, precisely, since he certainly moved within it and usually enjoyed himself quite a bit. But he’d always assumed that his happiness did not depend upon the opinions of others.

But maybe he wasn’t thinking about this the right way. It was easy to assume that you didn’t care about the opinions of others when those opinions were consistently favorable. Would he be so quick to dismiss the rest of society if they treated him the way they treated Penelope?

She’d never been ostracized, never been made the subject of scandal. She just hadn’t been . . . popular.

Oh, people were polite, and the Bridgertons had all befriended her, but most of Colin’s memories of Penelope involved her standing at the perimeter of a ballroom, trying to look anywhere but at the dancing couples, clearly pretending that she really didn’t want to dance. That was usually when he went over and asked her himself. She always looked grateful for the request, but also a little bit embarrassed, because they both knew he was doing it at least a little bit because he felt sorry for her.

Colin tried to put himself in her shoes. It wasn’t easy. He’d always been popular; his friends had looked up to him at school and the women had flocked to his side when he’d entered society. And as much as he could say he didn’t care what people thought, when it came right down to it . . .

He rather liked being liked.

Suddenly he didn’t know what to say. Which was strange, because he always knew what to say. In fact, he was somewhat famous for always knowing what to say. It was, he reflected, probably one of the reasons he was so well liked.

But he sensed that Penelope’s feelings depended on his next words, and at some point in the last ten minutes, her feelings had become very important to him.

“You’re right,” he finally said, deciding that it was always a good idea to tell someone she was correct. “It was very insensitive of me. Perhaps we should start anew?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He waved his hand about, as if the motion could explain everything. “Make a fresh start.”

She looked quite adorably confused, which confused him, since he’d never thought Penelope the least bit adorable.

“But we’ve known each other for twelve years,” she said.

“Has it really been that long?” He searched his brain, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall the event of their first meeting. “Never mind that. I meant just for this afternoon, you ninny.”

She smiled, clearly in spite of herself, and he knew that calling her a ninny had been the exact right thing to do, although in all truth he had no idea why.

“Here we go,” he said slowly, drawing his words out with a long flourish of his arm. “You are walking across Berkeley Square, and you spy me in the distance. I call out your name, and you reply by saying . . .”

Penelope caught her lower lip between her teeth, trying, for some unknown reason, to contain her smile. What magical star had Colin been born under, that he always knew what to say? He was the pied piper, leaving nothing but happy hearts and smiling faces in his wake. Penelope would have bet money—far more than the thousand pounds Lady Danbury had offered up—that she was not the only woman in London desperately in love with the third Bridgerton.

He dipped his head to the side and then righted it in a prompting sort of motion.

“I would reply . . .” Penelope said slowly. “I would reply . . .”

Colin waited two seconds, then said, “Really, any words will do.”

Penelope had planned to fix a bright grin on her face, but she discovered that the smile on her lips was quite genuine. “Colin!” she said, trying to sound as if she’d just been surprised by his arrival. “What are you doing about?”

“Excellent reply,” he said.

She shook her finger at him. “You’re breaking out of character.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Apologies.” He paused, blinked twice, then said, “Here we are. How about this: Much the same as you, I imagine. Heading to Number Five for tea.”

Penelope found herself falling into the rhythm of the conversation. “You sound as if you’re just going for a visit. Don’t you live there?”

He grimaced. “Hopefully just for the next week. A fortnight at most. I’m trying to find a new place to live. I had to give up the lease on my old set of rooms when I left for Cyprus, and I haven’t found a suitable replacement yet. I had a bit of business down on Piccadilly and thought I’d walk back.”

“In the rain?”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t raining when I left earlier this morning. And even now it’s just drizzle.”

Just drizzle, Penelope thought. Drizzle that clung to his obscenely long eyelashes, framing eyes of such perfect green that more than one young lady had been moved to write (extremely bad) poetry about them. Even Penelope, levelheaded as she liked to think herself, had spent many a night in bed, staring at the ceiling and seeing nothing but those eyes.

Just drizzle, indeed.

“Penelope?”

She snapped to attention. “Right. Yes. I’m going to your mother’s for tea as well. I do so every Monday. And often on other days, too,” she admitted. “When there’s, er, nothing interesting occurring at my house.”

“No need to sound so guilty about it. My mother’s a lovely woman. If she wants you over for tea, you should go.”

Penelope had a bad habit of trying to hear between the lines of people’s conversations, and she had a suspicion that Colin was really saying that he didn’t blame her if she wanted to escape her own mother from time to time.

Which somehow, unaccountably, made her feel a little sad.

He rocked on his heels for a moment, then said, “Well, I shouldn’t keep you out here in the rain.”

She smiled, since they’d been standing outside for at least fifteen minutes. Still, if he wanted to continue with the ruse, she would do so as well. “I’m the one with the parasol,” she pointed out.

His lips curved slightly. “So you are. But still, I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t steer you toward a more hospitable environment. Speaking of which . . .” He frowned, looking around.

“Speaking of what?”

“Of being a gentleman. I believe we’re supposed to see to the welfare of ladies.”

“And?”

He crossed his arms. “Shouldn’t you have a maid with you?”

“I live just around the corner,” she said, a little bit deflated that he didn’t remember that. She and her sister were best friends with two of his sisters, after all. He’d even walked her home once or twice. “On Mount Street,” she added, when his frown did not dissipate.

He squinted slightly, looking in the direction of Mount Street, although she had no idea what he hoped to accomplish by doing so.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Colin. It’s just near the corner of Davies Street. It can’t be more than a five-minute walk to your mother’s. Four, if I’m feeling exceptionally sprightly.”

“I was just looking to see if there were any darkened or recessed spots.” He turned back to face her. “Where a criminal might lurk.”

“In Mayfair?”

“In Mayfair,” he said grimly. “I really think you ought to have a maid accompany you when you journey to and fro. I should hate for something to happen to you.”

She was oddly touched by his concern, even though she knew he would have extended equal thoughtfulness to just about every female of his acquaintance. That was simply the sort of man he was.

“I can assure you that I observe all of the usual proprieties when I am traveling longer distances,” she said. “But truly, this is so close. Just a few blocks, really. Even my mother doesn’t mind.”

Colin’s jaw suddenly looked quite stiff.

“Not to mention,” Penelope added, “that I am eight-and-twenty.”

“What has that to do with anything? I am three-and-thirty, if you care to know.”

She knew that, of course, since she knew almost everything about him. “Colin,” she said, a slightly annoyed whine creeping into her voice.

“Penelope,” he replied, in exactly the same tone.

She let out a long exhale before saying, “I am quite firmly on the shelf, Colin. I needn’t worry about all of the rules that plagued me when I was seventeen.”

“I hardly think—”

One of Penelope’s hands planted itself on her hip. “Ask your sister if you don’t believe me.”

He suddenly looked more serious than she had ever seen him. “I make it a point not to ask my sister on matters that relate to common sense.”

“Colin!” Penelope exclaimed. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“I didn’t say I don’t love her. I didn’t even say I don’t like her. I adore Eloise, as you well know. However—”

“Anything that begins with however has got to be bad,” Penelope muttered.

“Eloise,” he said with uncharacteristic high-handedness, “should be married by now.”

Now, that was really too much, especially in that tone of voice. “Some might say,” Penelope returned with a self-righteous little tilt of her chin, “that you should be married by now, too.”

“Oh, pl—”

“You are, as you so proudly informed me, three-and-thirty.”

His expression was slightly amused, but with that pale tinge of irritation which told her he would not remain amused for long. “Penelope, don’t even—”

“Ancient!” she chirped.

He swore under his breath, which surprised her, since she didn’t think she’d ever heard him do so in the presence of a lady. She probably should have taken it as a warning, but she was too riled up. She supposed the old saying was true—courage spawned more courage.

Or maybe it was more that recklessness emboldened more recklessness, because she just looked at him archly and said, “Weren’t both of your older brothers married by the age of thirty?”

To her surprise, Colin merely smiled and crossed his arms as he leaned one shoulder against the tree they were standing beneath. “My brothers and I are very different men.”

It was, Penelope realized, a very telling statement, because so many members of the ton, including the fabled Lady Whistledown, made so much of the fact that the Bridgerton brothers looked so alike. Some had even gone so far as to call them interchangeable. Penelope hadn’t thought any of them were bothered by this—in fact, she’d assumed they’d all felt flattered by the comparison, since they seemed to like each other so well. But maybe she was wrong.

Or maybe she’d never looked closely enough.

Which was rather strange, because she felt as if she’d spent half her life watching Colin Bridgerton.

One thing she did know, however, and should have remembered, was that if Colin had any sort of a temper, he had never chosen to let her see it. Surely she’d flattered herself when she thought that her little quip about his brothers marrying before they turned thirty might set him off.

No, his method of attack was a lazy smile, a well-timed joke. If Colin ever lost his temper . . .

Penelope shook her head slightly, unable even to fathom it. Colin would never lose his temper. At least not in front of her. He’d have to be really, truly—no, profoundly—upset to lose his temper. And that kind of fury could only be sparked by someone you really, truly, profoundly cared about.

Colin liked her well enough—maybe even better than he liked most people—but he didn’t care. Not that way.

“Perhaps we should just agree to disagree,” she finally said.

“On what?”

“Er . . .” She couldn’t remember. “Er, on what a spinster may or may not do?”

He seemed amused by her hesitation. “That would probably require that I defer to my younger sister’s judgment in some capacity, which would be, as I’m sure you can imagine, very difficult for me.”

“But you don’t mind deferring to my judgment?”

His smile was lazy and wicked. “Not if you promise not to tell another living soul.”

He didn’t mean it, of course. And she knew he knew she knew he didn’t mean it. But that was his way. Humor and a smile could smooth any path. And blast him, it worked, because she heard herself sighing and felt herself smiling, and before she knew it she was saying, “Enough! Let us be on our way to your mother’s.”

Colin grinned. “Do you think she’ll have biscuits?”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “I know she’ll have biscuits.”

“Good,” he said, taking off at a lope and half dragging her with him. “I do love my family, but I really just go for the food.”

Chapter 4

It is difficult to imagine that there is any news from the Bridgerton ball other than Lady Danbury’s determination to discern the identity of This Author, but the following items should be duly noted:

Mr. Geoffrey Albansdale was seen dancing with Miss Felicity Featherington.

Miss Felicity Featherington was also seen dancing with Mr. Lucas Hotchkiss.

Mr. Lucas Hotchkiss was also seen dancing with Miss Hyacinth Bridgerton.

Miss Hyacinth Bridgerton was also seen dancing with Viscount Burwick.

Viscount Burwick was also seen dancing with Miss Jane Hotchkiss.

Miss Jane Hotchkiss was also seen dancing with Mr. Colin Bridgerton.

Mr. Colin Bridgerton was also seen dancing with Miss Penelope Featherington.

And to round out this incestuous little ring-around-the-rosy, Miss Penelope Featherington was seen speaking with Mr. Geoffrey Albansdale. (It would have been too perfect if she’d actually danced with him, don’t you agree, Dear Reader?)

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 12 APRIL 1824

When Penelope and Colin entered the drawing room, Eloise and Hyacinth were already sipping tea, along with both of the Ladies Bridgerton. Violet, the dowager, was seated in front of a tea service, and Kate, her daughter-in-law and the wife of Anthony, the current viscount, was attempting, without much success, to control her two-year-old daughter Charlotte.

“Look who I bumped into in Berkeley Square,” Colin said.

“Penelope,” Lady Bridgerton said with a warm smile, “do sit down. The tea is still nice and hot, and Cook made her famous butter biscuits.”

Colin made a beeline for the food, barely pausing to acknowledge his sisters.

Penelope followed Lady Bridgerton’s wave to a nearby chair and took a seat.

“Biscuits are good,” Hyacinth said, thrusting a plate in her direction.

“Hyacinth,” Lady Bridgerton said in a vaguely disapproving voice, “do try to speak in complete sentences.”

Hyacinth looked at her mother with a surprised expression. “Biscuits. Are. Good.” She cocked her head to the side. “Noun. Verb. Adjective.”

“Hyacinth.”

Penelope could see that Lady Bridgerton was trying to look stern as she scolded her daughter, but she wasn’t quite succeeding.

“Noun. Verb. Adjective,” Colin said, wiping a crumb from his grinning face. “Sentence. Is. Correct.”

“If you’re barely literate,” Kate retorted, reaching for a biscuit. “These are good,” she said to Penelope, a sheepish smile crossing her face. “This one’s my fourth.”

“I love you, Colin,” Hyacinth said, ignoring Kate completely.

“Of course you do,” he murmured.

“I myself,” Eloise said archly, “prefer to place articles before my nouns in my own writings.”

Hyacinth snorted. “Your writings?” she echoed.

“I write many letters,” Eloise said with a sniff. “And I keep a journal, which I assure you is a very beneficial habit.”

“It does keep one disciplined,” Penelope put in, taking her cup and saucer from Lady Bridgerton’s outstretched hands.

“Do you keep a journal?” Kate asked, not really looking at her, since she had just jumped up from her chair to grasp her daughter before the two-year-old climbed on a side table.

“I’m afraid not,” Penelope said with a shake of her head. “It requires far too much discipline for me.”

“I don’t think it is always necessary to put an article before a noun,” Hyacinth persisted, completely unable, as always, to let her side of the argument go.

Unfortunately for the rest of the assemblage, Eloise was equally tenacious. “You may leave off the article if you are referring to your noun in a general sense,” she said, pursing her lips in a rather supercilious manner, “but in this case, as you were referring to specific biscuits . . .”

Penelope wasn’t positive, but she thought she heard Lady Bridgerton groan.

“. . . then specifically,” Eloise said with an arch of her brows, “you are incorrect.”

Hyacinth turned to Penelope. “I am positive she did not use specifically correctly in that last sentence.”

Penelope reached for another butter biscuit. “I refuse to enter the conversation.”

“Coward,” Colin murmured.

“No, just hungry.” Penelope turned to Kate. “These are good.”

Kate nodded her agreement. “I have heard rumors,” she said to Penelope, “that your sister may become betrothed.”

Penelope blinked in surprise. She hadn’t thought that Felicity’s connection to Mr. Albansdale was public knowledge. “Er, where have you heard rumors?”

“Eloise, of course,” Kate said matter-of-factly. “She always knows everything.”

“And what I don’t know,” Eloise said with an easy grin, “Hyacinth usually does. It’s very convenient.”

“Are you certain that neither one of you is Lady Whistledown?” Colin joked.

“Colin!” Lady Bridgerton exclaimed. “How could you even think such a thing?”

He shrugged. “They’re certainly both smart enough to carry off such a feat.”

Eloise and Hyacinth beamed.

Even Lady Bridgerton couldn’t quite dismiss the compliment. “Yes, well,” she hemmed, “Hyacinth is much too young, and Eloise . . .” She looked over at Eloise, who was watching her with a most amused expression. “Well, Eloise is not Lady Whistledown. I’m sure of it.”

Eloise looked at Colin. “I’m not Lady Whistledown.”

“That’s too bad,” he replied. “You’d be filthy rich by now, I imagine.”

“You know,” Penelope said thoughtfully, “that might be a good way to discern her identity.”

Five pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

“She has to be someone who has more money than she ought to have,” Penelope explained.

“A good point,” Hyacinth said, “except that I haven’t a clue how much money people ought to have.”

“Neither do I, of course,” Penelope replied. “But most of the time one has a general idea.” At Hyacinth’s blank stare, she added, “For example, if I suddenly went out and bought myself a diamond parure, that would be very suspect.”

Kate nudged Penelope with her elbow. “Bought any diamond parures lately, eh? I could use a thousand pounds.”

Penelope let her eyes roll up for a second before replying, because as the current Viscountess Bridgerton, Kate most certainly did not need a thousand pounds. “I can assure you,” she said, “I don’t own a single diamond. Not even a ring.”

Kate let out an “euf” of mock disgruntlement. “Well, you’re no help, then.”

“It’s not so much the money,” Hyacinth announced. “It’s the glory.”

Lady Bridgerton coughed on her tea. “I’m sorry, Hyacinth,” she said, “but what did you just say?”

“Think of the accolades one would receive for having finally caught Lady Whistledown,” Hyacinth said. “It would be glorious.”

“Are you saying,” Colin asked, a deceptively bland expression on his face, “that you don’t care about the money?”

“I would never say that,” Hyacinth said with a cheeky grin. It occurred to Penelope that of all the Bridgertons, Hyacinth and Colin were the most alike. It was probably a good thing Colin was so often out of the country. If he and Hyacinth ever joined forces in earnest, they could probably take over the world.

“Hyacinth,” Lady Bridgerton said firmly, “you are not to make the search for Lady Whistledown your life’s work.”

“But—”

“I’m not saying you cannot ponder the problem and ask a few questions,” Lady Bridgerton hastened to add, holding up one hand to ward off further interruptions. “Good gracious, I would hope that after nearly forty years of motherhood I would know better than to try to stop you when you have your mind quite so set on something, nonsense as it may be.”

Penelope brought her teacup to her mouth to cover her smile.

“It’s just that you have been known to be rather”—Lady Bridgerton delicately cleared her throat—“single-minded at times . . .”

“Mother!”

Lady Bridgerton continued as if Hyacinth had never spoken. “. . . and I do not want you to forget that your primary focus at this time must be to look for a husband.”

Hyacinth uttered the word “Mother” again, but this time it was more of a groan than a protest.

Penelope stole a glance at Eloise, who had her eyes fixed on the ceiling and was clearly trying not to break out in a grin. Eloise had endured years of relentless matchmaking at her mother’s hands and did not mind in the least that she seemed to have given up and moved on to Hyacinth.

In truth, Penelope was surprised that Lady Bridgerton seemed to have finally accepted Eloise’s unmarried state. She had never hidden the fact that her greatest aim in life was to see all eight of her children happily married. And she’d succeeded with four. First Daphne had married Simon and become the Duchess of Hastings. The following year Anthony had married Kate. There had been a bit of a lull after that, but both Benedict and Francesca had married within a year of each other, Benedict to Sophie, and Francesca to the Scottish Earl of Kilmartin.

Francesca, unfortunately, had been widowed only two years after her marriage. She now divided her time between her late husband’s family in Scotland and her own in London. When in town, however, she insisted upon living at Kilmartin House instead of at Bridgerton House or Number Five. Penelope didn’t blame her. If she were a widow, she’d want to enjoy all of her independence, too.

Hyacinth generally bore her mother’s matchmaking with good humor since, as she had told Penelope, it wasn’t as if she didn’t want to get married eventually. Might as well let her mother do all the work and then she could choose a husband when the right one presented himself.

And it was with this good humor that she stood, kissed her mother on the cheek, and dutifully promised that her main focus in life was to look for a husband—all the while directing a cheeky, sneaky smile at her brother and sister. She was barely back in her seat when she said to the crowd at large, “So, do you think she’ll be caught?”

“Are we still discussing that Whistledown woman?” Lady Bridgerton groaned.

“Have you not heard Eloise’s theory, then?” Penelope asked.

All eyes turned to Penelope, then to Eloise.

“Er, what is my theory?” Eloise asked.

“It was just, oh, I don’t know, maybe a week ago,” Penelope said. “We were talking about Lady Whistledown, and I said that I didn’t see how she could possibly go on forever, that eventually she would have to make a mistake. Then Eloise said she wasn’t so sure, that it had been over ten years and if she were going to make a mistake, wouldn’t she have already done so? Then I said, no, she was only human. Eventually she would have to slip up, because no one could go on forever, and—”

“Oh, I remember now!” Eloise cut in. “We were at your house, in your room. I had the most brilliant idea! I said to Penelope that I would wager that Lady Whistledown has already made a mistake, and it’s just we were too stupid to have noticed it.”

“Not very complimentary for us, I must say,” Colin murmured.

“Well, I did intend we to mean all of society, not just us Bridgertons,” Eloise demurred.

“So maybe,” Hyacinth mused, “all I need to do to catch Lady Whistledown is peruse back issues of her column.”

Lady Bridgerton’s eyes filled with a mild panic. “Hyacinth Bridgerton, I don’t like the look on your face.”

Hyacinth smiled and shrugged. “I could have a great deal of fun with one thousand pounds.”

“God help us all,” was her mother’s reply.

“Penelope,” Colin said quite suddenly, “you never did finish telling us about Felicity. Is it true that she is to be engaged?”

Penelope gulped down the tea she’d been in the process of sipping. Colin had a way of looking at a person, his green eyes so focused and intent that you felt as if you must be the only two people in the universe. Unfortunately for Penelope, it also seemed to have a way of reducing her to a stammering imbecile. If they were in the midst of conversation, she could generally hold her own, but when he surprised her like that, turning his attention onto her just when she’d convinced herself she blended in perfectly with the wallpaper, she was completely and utterly lost.

“Er, yes, it is quite possible,” she said. “Mr. Albansdale has been hinting at his intentions. But if he does decide to propose, I imagine he will travel to East Anglia to ask my uncle for her hand.”

“Your uncle?” Kate asked.

“My uncle Geoffrey. He lives near Norwich. He’s our closest male relative, although truth be told, we don’t see him very often. But Mr. Albansdale is rather traditional. I don’t think he would feel comfortable asking my mother.”

“I hope he asks Felicity as well,” Eloise said. “I’ve often thought it foolish that a man asks a woman’s father for her hand before he asks her. The father doesn’t have to live with him.”

“This attitude,” Colin said with an amused smile that was only partly hidden by his teacup, “may explain why you are as yet unmarried.”

Lady Bridgerton gave her son a stern glare and said his name disapprovingly.

“Oh, no, Mother,” Eloise said, “I don’t mind. I’m perfectly comfortable as an old maid.” She gave Colin a rather superior look. “I’d much rather be a spinster than be married to a bore. As,” she added with a flourish, “would Penelope!”

Startled by Eloise’s hand waving rather suddenly in her direction, Penelope straightened her spine and said, “Er, yes. Of course.”

But Penelope had a feeling she wasn’t quite as firm in her convictions as her friend. Unlike Eloise, she hadn’t refused six offers of marriage. She hadn’t refused any; she hadn’t received even a one.

She’d told herself that she wouldn’t have accepted in any case, since her heart belonged to Colin. But was that really the truth, or was she just trying to make herself feel better for having been such a resounding failure on the marriage mart?

If someone asked her to marry him tomorrow—someone perfectly kind and acceptable, whom she might never love but would in all probability like very well—would she say yes?

Probably.

And this made her melancholy, because admitting this to herself meant she’d really, truly given up hope on Colin. It meant she wasn’t as true to her principles as she’d hoped she was. It meant she was willing to settle on a less-than-perfect husband in order to have a home and family of her own.

It wasn’t anything that hundreds of women didn’t do every year, but it was something that she’d never thought she’d do herself.

“You look very serious all of a sudden,” Colin said to her. Penelope jerked out of her musings. “Me? Oh. No, no. I just lost myself in my thoughts, that’s all.”

Colin acknowledged her statement with a brief nod before reaching for another biscuit. “Have we anything more substantial?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

“If I’d known you were coming,” his mother said in a dry voice, “I would have doubled the food.”

He stood and walked to the bellpull. “I’ll ring for more.” After giving it a yank, he turned back and asked, “Did you hear about Penelope’s Lady Whistledown theory?”

“No, I haven’t,” Lady Bridgerton replied.

“It’s very clever, actually,” Colin said, stopping to ask a maid for sandwiches before finishing with, “She thinks it’s Lady Danbury.”

“Ooooh.” Hyacinth was visibly impressed. “That’s very cunning, Penelope.”

Penelope nodded her head to the side in thanks.

“And just the sort of thing Lady Danbury would do,” Hyacinth added.

“The column or the challenge?” Kate asked, catching hold of the sash on Charlotte’s frock before the little girl could scramble out of reach.

“Both,” Hyacinth said.

“And,” Eloise put in, “Penelope told her so. Right to her face.”

Hyacinth’s mouth dropped open, and it was obvious to Penelope that she’d just gone up—way up—in Hyacinth’s estimation.

“I should have liked to have seen that!” Lady Bridgerton said with a wide, proud smile. “Frankly, I’m surprised that didn’t show up in this morning’s Whistledown.”

“I hardly think Lady Whistledown would comment upon individual people’s theories as to her identity,” Penelope said.

“Why not?” Hyacinth asked. “It would be an excellent way for her to set out a few red herrings. For example”—she held her hand out toward her sister in a most dramatic pose—“say I thought it was Eloise.”

“It is not Eloise!” Lady Bridgerton protested.

“It’s not me,” Eloise said with a grin.

“But say I thought it was,” Hyacinth said in an extremely beleaguered voice. “And that I said so publicly.”

“Which you would never do,” her mother said sternly.

“Which I would never do,” Hyacinth parroted. “But just to be academic, let us pretend that I did. And say that Eloise really was Lady Whistledown. Which she’s not,” she hastened to add before her mother could interrupt again.

Lady Bridgerton held up her hands in silent defeat.

“What better way to fool the masses,” Hyacinth continued, “than to make fun of me in her column?”

“Of course, if Lady Whistledown really were Eloise . . .” Penelope mused.

“She’s not!” Lady Bridgerton burst out.

Penelope couldn’t help but laugh. “But if she were . . .”

“You know,” Eloise said, “now I really wish I were.”

“What a joke you’d be having on us all,” Penelope continued. “Of course, then on Wednesday you couldn’t run a column making fun of Hyacinth for thinking you are Lady Whistledown, because then we’d all know it had to be you.”

“Unless it was you.” Kate laughed, looking at Penelope. “That would be a devious trick.”

“Let me see if I have it straight,” Eloise said with a laugh. “Penelope is Lady Whistledown, and she is going to run a column on Wednesday making fun of Hyacinth’s theory that I’m Lady Whistledown just to trick you into thinking that I really am Lady Whistledown, because Hyacinth suggested that that would be a cunning ruse.”

“I am utterly lost,” Colin said to no one in particular.

“Unless Colin were really Lady Whistledown . . .” Hyacinth said with a devilish gleam in her eye.

“Stop!” Lady Bridgerton said. “I beg you.”

By then everyone was laughing too hard for Hyacinth to continue, anyway.

“The possibilities are endless,” Hyacinth said, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Perhaps we should all simply look to the left,” Colin suggested as he sat back down. “Who knows, that person may very well be our infamous Lady Whistledown.”

Everyone looked left, with the exception of Eloise, who looked right . . . right to Colin. “Were you trying to tell me something,” she asked with an amused smile, “when you sat down to my right?”

“Not at all,” he murmured, reaching for the biscuit plate and then stopping when he remembered it was empty.

But he didn’t quite meet Eloise’s eyes when he said so.

If anyone other than Penelope had noticed his evasiveness, they were unable to question him on it, because that was when the sandwiches arrived, and he was useless for conversation after that.

Chapter 5

It has come to This Author’s attention that Lady Blackwood turned her ankle earlier this week whilst chasing down a delivery boy for This Humble Newssheet.

One thousand pounds is certainly a great deal of money, but Lady Blackwood is hardly in need of funds, and moreover, the situation is growing absurd. Surely Londoners have better things to do with their time than chase down poor, hapless delivery boys in a fruitless attempt to uncover the identity of This Author.

Or maybe not.

This Author has chronicled the activities of the ton for over a decade now and has found no evidence that they do indeed have anything better to do with their time.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 14 APRIL 1824

Two days later Penelope found herself once again cutting across Berkeley Square, on her way to Number Five to see Eloise. This time, however, it was late morning, and it was sunny, and she did not bump into Colin along the way.

Penelope wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or not.

She and Eloise had made plans the week before to go shopping, but they’d decided to meet at Number Five so that they could head out together and forgo the accompaniment of their maids. It was a perfect sort of day, far more like June than April, and Penelope was looking forward to the short walk up to Oxford Street.

But when she arrived at Eloise’s house, she was met with a puzzled expression on the butler’s face.

“Miss Featherington,” he said, blinking several times in rapid succession before locating a few more words. “I don’t believe Miss Eloise is here at present.”

Penelope’s lips parted in surprise. “Where did she go? We made our plans over a week ago.”

Wickham shook his head. “I do not know. But she departed with her mother and Miss Hyacinth two hours earlier.”

“I see.” Penelope frowned, trying to decide what to do. “May I wait, then? Perhaps she was merely delayed. It’s not like Eloise to forget an appointment.”

He nodded graciously and showed her upstairs to the informal drawing room, promising to bring a plate of refreshments and handing her the latest edition of Whistledown to read while she bided her time.

Penelope had already read it, of course; it was delivered quite early in the morning, and she made a habit of perusing the column at breakfast. With so little to occupy her mind, she wandered over to the window and peered out over the Mayfair streetscape. But there wasn’t much new to see; it was the same buildings she’d seen a thousand times before, even the same people walking along the street.

Maybe it was because she was pondering the sameness of her life that she noticed the one object new to her vista: a bound book lying open on the table. Even from several feet away she could see that it was filled not with the printed word, but rather with neat handwritten lines.

She inched toward it and glanced down without actually touching the pages. It appeared to be a journal of sorts, and in the middle of the right-hand side there was a heading that was set apart from the rest of the text by a bit of space above and below:

22 February 1824

Troodos Mountains, Cyprus

One of her hands flew to her mouth. Colin had written this! He’d said just the other day that he’d visited Cyprus instead of Greece. She had no idea that he kept a journal.

She lifted a foot to take a step back, but her body didn’t budge. She shouldn’t read this, she told herself. This was Colin’s private journal. She really ought to move away.

“Away,” she muttered, looking down at her recalcitrant feet. “Away.”

Her feet didn’t move.

But maybe she wasn’t quite so in the wrong. After all, was she really invading his privacy if she read only what she could see without turning a page? He had left it lying open on the table, for all the world to see.

But then again, Colin had every reason to think that no one would stumble across his journal if he dashed out for a few moments. Presumably, he was aware that his mother and sisters had departed for the morning. Most guests were shown to the formal drawing room on the ground floor; as far as Penelope knew, she and Felicity were the only non-Bridgertons who were taken straight up to the informal drawing room. And since Colin wasn’t expecting her (or, more likely, hadn’t thought of her one way or another), he wouldn’t have thought there was any danger in leaving his journal behind while he ran an errand.

On the other hand, he had left it lying open.

Open, for heaven’s sake! If there were any valuable secrets in that journal, surely Colin would have taken greater care to secret it when he left the room. He wasn’t stupid, after all.

Penelope leaned forward.

Oh, bother. She couldn’t read the writing from that distance. The heading had been legible since it was surrounded by so much white space, but the rest was a bit too close together to make out from far away.

Somehow she’d thought she wouldn’t feel so guilty if she didn’t have to step any closer to the book to read it. Never mind, of course, that she’d already crossed the room to get to where she was at that moment.

She tapped her finger against the side of her jaw, right near her ear. That was a good point. She had crossed the room some time ago, which surely meant that she’d already committed the biggest sin she was likely to that day. One little step was nothing compared to the length of the room.

She inched forward, decided that only counted as half a step, then inched forward again and looked down, beginning her reading right in the middle of a sentence.

in England. Here the sand ripples between tan and white, and the consistency is so fine that it slides over a bare foot like a whisper of silk. The water is a blue unimaginable in England, aquamarine with the glint of the sun, deep cobalt when the clouds take the sky. And it is warm—surprisingly, astoundingly warm, like a bath that was heated perhaps a half an hour earlier. The waves are gentle, and they lap up on the shore with a soft rush of foam, tickling the skin and turning the perfect sand into a squishy delight that slips and slides along the toes until another wave arrives to clean up the mess.

It is easy to see why this is said to be the birthplace of Aphrodite. With every step I almost expect to see her as in Botticelli’s painting, rising from the ocean, perfectly balanced on a giant shell, her long titian hair streaming around her.

If ever a perfect woman was born, surely this would be the place. I am in paradise. And yet . . .

And yet with every warm breeze and cloudless sky I am reminded that this is not my home, that I was born to live my life elsewhere. This does not quell the desire—no, the compulsion!—to travel, to see, to meet. But it does feed a strange longing to touch a dew-dampened lawn, or feel a cool mist on one’s face, or even to remember the joy of a perfect day after a week of rain.

The people here can’t know that joy. Their days are always perfect. Can one appreciate perfection when it is a constant in one’s life?

22 February 1824

Troodos Mountains, Cyprus

It is remarkable that I am cold. It is, of course, February, and as an Englishman I’m quite used to a February chill (as well as that of any month with an R in its name), but I am not in England. I am in Cyprus, in the heart of the Mediterranean, and just two days ago I was in Paphos, on the southwest coast of the island, where the sun is strong and the ocean salty and warm. Here, one can see the peak of Mount Olympus, still capped with snow so white one is temporarily blinded when the sun glints off of it.

The climb to this altitude was treacherous, with danger lurking around more than one corner. The road is rudimentary, and along the way we met

Penelope let out a soft grunt of protest when she realized that the page ended in the middle of a sentence. Who had he met? What had happened? What danger?

She stared down at the journal, absolutely dying to flip the page and see what happened next. But when she’d started reading, she had managed to justify it by telling herself she wasn’t really invading Colin’s privacy; he’d left the book open, after all. She was only looking at what he had left exposed.

Turning the page, however, was something else altogether.

She reached out, then yanked her hand back. This wasn’t right. She couldn’t read his journal. Well, not beyond what she’d already read.

On the other hand, it was clear that these were words worth reading. It was a crime for Colin to keep them for himself. Words should be celebrated, shared. They should be—

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered to herself. She reached for the edge of the page.

“What are you doing?”

Penelope whirled around. “Colin!”

“Indeed,” he snapped.

Penelope lurched back. She’d never heard him use such a tone. She hadn’t even thought him capable of it.

He strode across the room, grabbed the journal, and snapped it shut. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Waiting for Eloise,” she managed to get out, her mouth suddenly quite dry.

“In the upstairs drawing room?”

“Wickham always takes me here. Your mother told him to treat me like family. I . . . uh . . . he . . . uh . . .” She realized that she was wringing her hands together and willed herself to stop. “It’s the same with my sister Felicity. Because she and Hyacinth are such good friends. I—I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

He threw the leather-bound book carelessly onto a nearby chair and crossed his arms. “And do you make a habit of reading the personal letters of others?”

“No, of course not. But it was open and—” She gulped, recognizing how awful the excuse sounded the second the words left her lips. “It’s a public room,” she mumbled, somehow feeling like she had to finish her defense. “Maybe you should have taken it with you.”

“Where I went,” he ground out, still visibly furious with her, “one doesn’t ordinarily take a book.”

“It’s not very big,” she said, wondering why why why she was still talking when she was so clearly in the wrong.

“For the love of God,” he exploded. “Do you want me to say the word chamberpot in your presence?”

Penelope felt her cheeks blush deep red. “I’d better go,” she said. “Please tell Eloise—”

“I’ll go,” Colin practically snarled. “I’m moving out this afternoon, anyway. Might as well leave now, since you’ve so obviously taken over the house.”

Penelope had never thought that words could cause physical pain, but right then she would have sworn that she’d taken a knife to the heart. She hadn’t realized until that very moment just how much it meant to her that Lady Bridgerton had opened her home to her.

Or how much it would hurt to know that Colin resented her presence there.

“Why do you have to make it so difficult to apologize?” she burst out, dogging his heels as he crossed the room to gather the rest of his things.

“And why, pray tell, should I make it easy?” he returned. He didn’t face her as he said it; he didn’t even break his stride.

“Because it would be the nice thing to do,” she ground out.

That got his attention. He whirled around, his eyes flashing so furiously that Penelope stumbled back a step. Colin was the nice one, the easygoing one. He didn’t lose his temper.

Until now.

“Because it would be the nice thing to do?” he thundered. “Is that what you were thinking when you read my journal? That it would be a nice thing to read someone’s private papers?”

“No, Colin, I—”

“There is nothing you can say—” he said, jabbing her in the shoulder with his index finger.

“Colin! You—”

He turned around to gather his belongings, rudely giving her his back while he spoke. “Not a thing that could justify your behavior.”

“No, of course not, but—”

“OW!”

Penelope felt the blood drain from her face. Colin’s yell was one of real pain. His name escaped her lips in a panicked whisper and she rushed to his side. “What’s—Oh, my heavens!”

Blood was gushing from a wound on the palm of his hand.

Never terribly articulate in a crisis, Penelope managed to say, “Oh! Oh! The carpet!” before leaping forward with a piece of writing paper that had been lying on a nearby table and sliding it under his hand to catch the blood before it ruined the priceless carpet below.

“Ever the attentive nurse,” Colin said in a shaky voice.

“Well, you’re not going to die,” she explained, “and the carpet—”

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “I was trying to make a joke.”

Penelope looked up at his face. Tight white lines were etched in the skin around his mouth, and he looked very pale. “I think you’d better sit down,” she said.

He nodded grimly and sagged into a chair.

Penelope’s stomach did a rather seasickish sway. She’d never been terribly good with blood. “Maybe I’d better sit down, too,” she mumbled, sinking onto the low table opposite him.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked.

She nodded, swallowing against a tiny wave of nausea. “We need to find something to wrap this,” she said, grimacing as she looked down at the ridiculous setup below. The paper wasn’t absorbent, and the blood was rolling precariously along its surface, with Penelope desperately trying to keep it from dripping over the side.

“I have a handkerchief in my pocket,” he said.

She carefully set the paper down and retrieved the handkerchief from his breast pocket, trying not to notice the warm beat of his heart as her fingers fumbled for the creamy white scrap of cloth. “Does it hurt?” she asked as she wrapped it around his hand. “No, don’t answer that. Of course it hurts.”

He managed a very wobbly smile. “It hurts.”

She peered down at the gash, forcing herself to look at it closely even though the blood made her stomach turn. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

“Do you know much about wounds?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. But it doesn’t look too bad. Except for . . . ah, all the blood.”

“Feels worse than it looks,” he joked.

Her eyes flew to his face in horror.

“Another joke,” he reassured her. “Well, not really. It does feel worse than it looks, but I assure you it’s bearable.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, increasing pressure on the wound to staunch the flow of blood. “This is all my fault.”

“That I sliced open my hand?”

“If you hadn’t been so angry . . .”

He just shook his head, closing his eyes briefly against the pain. “Don’t be silly, Penelope. If I hadn’t gotten angry with you, I would have gotten angry with someone else some other time.”

“And you’d of course have a letter opener by your side when that happened,” she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes as she bent over his hand.

When his eyes met hers, they were filled with humor and maybe just a touch of admiration.

And something else she’d never thought to see—vulnerability, hesitancy, and even insecurity. He didn’t know how good his writing was, she realized with amazement. He had no idea, and he was actually embarrassed that she’d seen it.

“Colin,” Penelope said, instinctively pressing harder on his wound as she leaned in, “I must tell you. You—”

She broke off when she heard the sharp, even clatter of footsteps coming down the hall. “That will be Wickham,” she said, glancing toward the door. “He insisted upon bringing me a small meal. Can you keep the pressure on this for now?”

Colin nodded. “I don’t want him to know I’ve hurt myself. He’ll only tell Mother, and then I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Well, here, then.” She stood and tossed him his journal. “Pretend you’re reading this.”

Colin barely had time to open it and lay it across his injured hand before the butler entered with a large tray.

“Wickham!” Penelope said, jumping to her feet and turning to face him as if she hadn’t already known he was coming. “As usual you’ve brought far more than I could possibly eat. Luckily, Mr. Bridgerton has been keeping me company. I’m certain that with his help, I’ll be able to do justice to your meal.”

Wickham nodded and removed the covers from the serving dishes. It was a cold repast—pieces of meat, cheese, and fruit, accompanied by a tall pitcher of lemonade.

Penelope smiled brightly. “I hope you didn’t think I could eat all of this myself.”

“Lady Bridgerton and her daughters are expected soon. I thought they might be hungry as well.”

“Won’t be any left after I’m through with it,” Colin said with a jovial smile.

Wickham bowed slightly in his direction. “If I’d known you were here, Mr. Bridgerton, I would have trebled the portions. Would you like me to fix you a plate?”

“No, no,” Colin said, waving his uninjured hand. “I’ll get up just as soon as I . . . ah . . . finish reading this chapter.”

The butler said, “Let me know if you require further assistance,” and exited the room.

“Aaaaaahhh,” Colin groaned, the moment he heard Wickham’s steps disappear down the hall. “Damn—I mean, dash it—it hurts.”

Penelope plucked a napkin off the tray. “Here, let’s replace that handkerchief.” She peeled it away from his skin, keeping her eyes on the cloth rather than the wound. For some reason that didn’t seem to bother her stomach quite as much. “I’m afraid your handkerchief is ruined.”

Colin just closed his eyes and shook his head. Penelope was smart enough to interpret the action to mean, I don’t care. And she was sensible enough not to say anything further on the subject. Nothing worse than a female who chattered forever about nothing.

He’d always liked Penelope, but how was it he’d never realized how intelligent she was up till now? Oh, he supposed if someone had asked him, he would have said she was bright, but he’d certainly never taken the time to think about it.

It was becoming clear to him, however, that she was very intelligent, indeed. And he thought he remembered his sister once telling him that she was an avid reader.

And probably a discriminating one as well.

“I think the bleeding is slowing down,” she was saying as she wrapped the fresh napkin around his hand. “In fact, I’m sure it is, if only because I don’t feel quite so sick every time I look at the wound.”

He wished that she hadn’t read his journal, but now that she had . . .

“Ah, Penelope,” he began, startled by the hesitancy in his own voice.

She looked up. “I’m sorry. Am I pressing too hard?”

For a moment Colin did nothing but blink. How was it possible he’d never noticed how big her eyes were? He’d known they were brown, of course, and . . . No, come to think of it, if he were to be honest with himself, he would have to admit that if asked earlier this morning, he’d not have been able to identify the color of her eyes.

But somehow he knew that he’d never forget again.

She eased up on the pressure. “Is this all right?”

He nodded. “Thank you. I would do it myself, but it’s my right hand, and—”

“Say no more. It’s the very least I can do, after . . . after . . .” Her eyes slid slightly to the side, and he knew she was about to apologize another time.

“Penelope,” he began again.

“No, wait!” she cried out, her dark eyes flashing with . . . could it be passion? Certainly not the brand of passion with which he was most familiar. But there were other sorts, weren’t there? Passion for learning. Passion for . . . literature?

“I must tell you this,” she said urgently. “I know it was unforgivably intrusive of me to look at your journal. I was just . . . bored . . . and waiting . . . and I had nothing to do, and then I saw the book and I was curious.”

He opened his mouth to interrupt her, to tell her that what was done was done, but the words were rushing from her mouth, and he found himself oddly compelled to listen.

“I should have stepped away the moment I realized what it was,” she continued, “but as soon as I read one sentence I had to read another! Colin, it was wonderful! It was just like I was there. I could feel the water—I knew exactly the temperature. It was so clever of you to describe it the way you did. Everyone knows exactly what a bath feels like a half an hour after it has been filled.”

For a moment Colin could do nothing but stare at her. He’d never seen Penelope quite so animated, and it was strange and . . . good, really, that all that excitement was over his journal.

“You—you liked it?” he finally asked.

“Liked it? Colin, I loved it! I—”

“Ow!”

In her excitement, she’d started squeezing his hand a bit too hard. “Oh, sorry,” she said perfunctorily. “Colin, I really must know. What was the danger? I couldn’t bear to be left hanging like that.”

“It was nothing,” he said modestly. “The page you read really wasn’t a very exciting passage.”

“No, it was mostly description,” she agreed, “but the description was very compelling and evocative. I could see everything. But it wasn’t—oh, dear, how do I explain this?”

Colin discovered that he was very impatient for her to figure out what she was trying to say.

“Sometimes,” she finally continued, “when one reads a passage of description, it’s rather . . . oh, I don’t know . . . detached. Clinical, even. You brought the island to life. Other people might call the water warm, but you related it to something we all know and understand. It made me feel as if I were there, dipping my toe in right alongside you.”

Colin smiled, ridiculously pleased by her praise.

“Oh! And I don’t want to forget—there was another brilliant thing I wanted to mention.”

Now he knew he must be grinning like an idiot. Brilliant brilliant brilliant. What a good word.

Penelope leaned in slightly as she said, “You also showed the reader how you relate to the scene and how it affects you. It becomes more than mere description because we see how you react to it.”

Colin knew he was fishing for compliments, but he didn’t much care as he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you look at—May I see the journal to refresh my memory?”

“Of course,” he murmured, handing it to her. “Wait, let me find the correct page again.”

Once he had done so, she scanned his lines until she found the section she was looking for. “Here we are. Look at this part about how you are reminded that England is your home.”

“It’s funny how travel can do that to a person.”

“Do what to a person?” she asked, her eyes wide with interest.

“Make one appreciate home,” he said softly.

Her eyes met his, and they were serious, inquisitive. “And yet you still like to go away.”

He nodded. “I can’t help it. It’s like a disease.”

She laughed, and it sounded unexpectedly musical. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “A disease is harmful. It’s clear that your travels feed your soul.” She looked down to his hand, carefully peeling the napkin back to inspect his wound. “It’s almost better,” she said.

“Almost,” he agreed. In truth, he suspected the bleeding had stopped altogether, but he was reluctant to let the conversation end. And he knew that the moment she was done caring for him, she would go.

He didn’t think she wanted to go, but he somehow knew that she would. She’d think it was the proper thing to do, and she’d probably also think it was what he wanted.

Nothing, he was surprised to realize, could be further from the truth.

And nothing could have scared him more.

Chapter 6

Everyone has secrets.

Especially me.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 14 APRIL 1824

“I wish I’d known you kept a journal,” Penelope said, reapplying pressure to his palm.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure,” she said with a shrug. “It’s always interesting to find out that there is more to someone than meets the eye, don’t you think?”

Colin didn’t say anything for several moments, and then, quite suddenly, he blurted out, “You really liked it?”

She looked amused. He was horrified. Here he was, considered one of the most popular and sophisticated men of the ton, and he’d been reduced to a bashful schoolboy, hanging on Penelope Featherington’s every word, just for a single scrap of praise.

Penelope Featherington, for God’s sake.

Not that there was anything wrong with Penelope, of course, he hastened to remind himself. Just that she was . . . well . . . Penelope.

“Of course I liked it,” she said with a soft smile. “I just finished telling you so.”

“What was the first thing that struck you about it?” he asked, deciding that he might as well act like a complete fool, since he was already more than halfway there.

She smiled wickedly. “Actually, the first thing that struck me was that your penmanship was quite a bit neater than I would have guessed.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I have difficulty seeing you bent over a desk, practicing your flicks,” she replied, her lips tightening at the corners to suppress a smile.

If ever there were a time for righteous indignation, this was clearly it. “I’ll have you know I spent many an hour in the nursery schoolroom, bent over a desk, as you so delicately put it.”

“I’m sure,” she murmured.

“Hmmmph.”

She looked down, clearly trying not to smile.

“I’m quite good with my flicks,” he added. It was just a game now, but somehow it was rather fun to play the part of the petulant schoolboy.

“Obviously,” she replied. “I especially liked them on the H’s. Very well done. Quite . . . flicky of you.”

“Indeed.”

She matched his straight face perfectly. “Indeed.”

His gaze slid from hers, and for a moment he felt quite unaccountably shy. “I’m glad you liked the journal,” he said.

“It was lovely,” she said in a soft, faraway kind of voice. “Very lovely, and . . .” She looked away, blushing. “You’re going to think I’m silly.”

“Never,” he promised.

“Well, I think one of the reasons I enjoyed it so much is that I could somehow feel that you’d enjoyed writing it.”

Colin was silent for a long moment. It hadn’t ever occurred to him that he enjoyed his writing; it was just something he did.

He did it because he couldn’t imagine not doing it. How could he travel to foreign lands and not keep a record of what he saw, what he experienced, and perhaps most importantly, what he felt?

But when he thought back, he realized that he felt a strange rush of satisfaction whenever he wrote a phrase that was exactly right, a sentence that was particularly true. He distinctly remembered the moment he’d written the passage Penelope had read. He’d been sitting on the beach at dusk, the sun still warm on his skin, the sand somehow rough and smooth at the same time under his bare feet. It had been a heavenly moment—full of that warm, lazy feeling one can truly only experience in the dead of summer (or on the perfect beaches of the Mediterranean), and he’d been trying to think of the exact right way to describe the water.

He’d sat there for ages—surely a full half an hour—his pen poised above the paper of his journal, waiting for inspiration. And then suddenly he’d realized the temperature was precisely that of slightly old bathwater, and his face had broken into a wide, delighted smile.

Yes, he enjoyed writing. Funny how he’d never realized it before.

“It’s good to have something in your life,” Penelope said quietly. “Something satisfying—that will fill the hours with a sense of purpose.” She crossed her hands in her lap and looked down, seemingly engrossed by her knuckles. “I’ve never understood the supposed joys of a lazy life.”

Colin wanted to touch his fingers to her chin, to see her eyes when he asked her—And what do you do to fill your hours with a sense of purpose? But he didn’t. It would be far too forward, and it would mean admitting to himself just how interested he was in her answer.

So he asked the question, and he kept his own hands still.

“Nothing, really,” she replied, still examining her fingernails. Then, after a pause, she looked up quite suddenly, her chin rising so quickly it almost made him dizzy. “I like to read,” she said. “I read quite a bit, actually. And I do a bit of embroidery now and then, but I’m not very good at it. I wish there were more, but, well . . .”

“What?” Colin prodded.

Penelope shook her head. “It’s nothing. You should be grateful for your travels. I’m quite envious of you.”

There was a long silence, not awkward, but strange nonetheless, and finally Colin said brusquely, “It’s not enough.”

The tone of his voice seemed so out of place in the conversation that Penelope could do nothing but stare. “What do you mean?” she finally asked.

He shrugged carelessly. “A man can’t travel forever; to do so would take all the fun out of it.”

She laughed, then looked at him and realized he was serious. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You weren’t rude,” he said, taking a swig of his lemonade. It sloshed on the table when he set the glass down; clearly, he was unused to using his left hand. “Two of the best parts of travel,” he explained, wiping his mouth with one of the clean napkins, “are the leaving and the coming home, and besides, I’d miss my family too much were I to go off indefinitely.”

Penelope had no reply—at least nothing that wouldn’t sound like platitudes, so she just waited for him to continue.

For a moment he didn’t say anything, then he scoffed and shut his journal with a resounding thud. “These don’t count. They’re just for me.”

“They don’t have to be,” she said softly.

If he heard her, he made no indication. “It’s all very well and good to keep a journal while you’re traveling,” he continued, “but once I’m home I still have nothing to do.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

He didn’t say anything, just reached for a piece of cheese off the tray. She watched him while he ate, and then, after he’d washed it down with more lemonade, his entire demeanor changed. He seemed more alert, more on edge as he asked, “Have you read Whistledown lately?”

Penelope blinked at the sudden change of subject. “Yes, of course, why? Doesn’t everyone read it?”

He waved off her question. “Have you noticed how she describes me?”

“Er, it’s almost always favorable, isn’t it?”

His hand began to wave again—rather dismissively, in her opinion. “Yes, yes, that’s not the point,” he said in a distracted voice.

“You might think it more the point,” Penelope replied testily, “if you’d ever been likened to an overripe citrus fruit.”

He winced, and he opened and closed his mouth twice before finally saying, “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t remember that she’d called you that until just now.” He stopped, thought for a moment, then added, “In fact, I still don’t remember it.”

“It’s all right,” she said, putting on her best I’m-a-good-sport face. “I assure you, I’m quite beyond it. And I’ve always had a fondness for oranges and lemons.”

He started to say something again, then stopped, then looked at her rather directly and said, “I hope what I’m about to say isn’t abominably insensitive or insulting, given that when all is said and done, I’ve very little to complain about.”

The implication being, Penelope realized, that perhaps she did.

“But I’m telling you,” he continued, his eyes clear and earnest, “because I think maybe you’ll understand.”

It was a compliment. A strange, uncommon one, but a compliment nonetheless. Penelope wanted nothing more than to lay her hand across his, but of course she could not, so she just nodded and said, “You can tell me anything, Colin.”

“My brothers—” he began. “They’re—” He stopped, staring rather blankly toward the window before finally turning back to her and saying, “They’re very accomplished. Anthony is the viscount, and God knows I wouldn’t want that responsibility, but he has a purpose. Our entire heritage is in his hands.”

“More than that, I should think,” Penelope said softly.

He looked at her, question in his eyes.

“I think your brother feels responsible for your entire family,” she said. “I imagine it’s a heavy burden.”

Colin tried to keep his face impassive, but he’d never been an accomplished stoic, and he must have shown his dismay on his face, because Penelope practically rose from her seat as she rushed to add, “Not that I think he minds it! It’s part of who he is.”

“Exactly!” Colin exclaimed, as if he’d just discovered something that was actually important. As opposed to this . . . this . . . this inane discussion about his life. He had nothing to complain about. He knew he had nothing to complain about, and yet . . .

“Did you know Benedict paints?” he found himself asking.

“Of course,” she replied. “Everyone knows he paints. He has a painting in the National Gallery. And I believe they are planning to hang another soon. Another landscape.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Eloise told me.”

He slumped again. “Then it must be true. I can’t believe no one mentioned it to me.”

“You have been away,” she reminded him.

“What I’m trying to say,” he continued, “is that they both have a purpose to their lives. I have nothing.”

“That can’t be true,” she said.

“I should think I would be in a position to know.”

Penelope sat back, startled by the sharp tone of his voice.

“I know what people think of me,” he began, and although Penelope had told herself that she was going to remain silent, to allow him to speak his mind fully, she couldn’t help but interrupt.

“Everyone likes you,” she rushed to say. “They adore you.”

“I know,” he groaned, looking anguished and sheepish at the same time. “But . . .” He raked a hand through his hair. “God, how to say this without sounding a complete ass?”

Penelope’s eyes widened.

“I’m sick of being thought an empty-headed charmer,” he finally blurted out.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, faster than immediately, if that were possible.

“Penelope—”

“No one thinks you’re stupid,” she said.

“How would—”

“Because I’ve been stuck here in London for more years than anyone should have to,” she said sharply. “I may not be the most popular woman in town, but after ten years, I’ve heard more than my fair share of gossip and lies and foolish opinions, and I have never—not once—heard someone refer to you as stupid.”

He stared at her for a moment, a bit startled by her passionate defense. “I didn’t mean stupid, precisely,” he said in a soft, and he hoped humble, voice. “More . . . without substance. Even Lady Whistledown refers to me as a charmer.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he replied testily, “if she didn’t do it every other day.”

“She only publishes every other day.”

“My point exactly,” he shot back. “If she thought there was anything to me other than my so-called legendary charm, don’t you think she would have said so by now?”

Penelope was quiet for a long moment, then she said, “Does it really matter what Lady Whistledown thinks?”

He slumped forward, smacking his hands against his knees, then yelping with pain when he (belatedly) remembered his injury. “You’re missing the point,” he said, wincing as he reapplied pressure to his palm. “I couldn’t care less about Lady Whistledown. But whether we like it or not, she represents the rest of society.”

“I would imagine that there are quite a few people who would take exception to that statement.”

He raised one brow. “Including yourself?”

“Actually, I think Lady Whistledown is rather astute,” she said, folding her hands primly in her lap.

“The woman called you an overripe melon!”

Two splotches of red burned in her cheeks. “An overripe citrus fruit,” she ground out. “I assure you there is a very big difference.”

Colin decided then and there that the female mind was a strange and incomprehensible organ—one which no man should even attempt to understand. There wasn’t a woman alive who could go from point A to B without stopping at C, D, X, and 12 along the way.

“Penelope,” he finally said, staring at her in disbelief, “the woman insulted you. How can you defend her?”

“She said nothing more than the truth,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “She’s been rather kind, actually, since my mother started allowing me to pick out my own clothing.”

Colin groaned. “Surely we were talking about something else at some point. Tell me we didn’t intend to discuss your wardrobe.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “I believe we were discussing your dissatisfaction with life as the most popular man in London.”

Her voice rose on the last four words, and Colin realized he’d been scolded. Soundly.

Which he found extraordinarily irritating. “I don’t know why I thought you’d understand,” he bit off, hating the childish tinge in his voice but completely unable to edit it out.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s a little difficult for me to sit here and listen to you complain that your life is nothing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You most certainly did!”

“I said I have nothing,” he corrected, trying not to wince as he realized how stupid that sounded.

“You have more than anyone I know,” she said, jabbing him in the shoulder. “But if you don’t realize that, then maybe you are correct—your life is nothing.”

“It’s too hard to explain,” he said in a petulant mutter.

“If you want a new direction for your life,” she said, “then for heaven’s sake, just pick something out and do it. The world is your oyster, Colin. You’re young, wealthy, and you’re a man.” Penelope’s voice turned bitter, resentful. “You can do anything you want.”

He scowled, which didn’t surprise her. When people were convinced they had problems, the last thing they wanted to hear was a simple, straightforward solution.

“It’s not that simple,” he said.

“It’s exactly that simple.” She stared at him for the longest moment, wondering, perhaps for the first time in her life, just who he was.

She’d thought she knew everything about him, but she hadn’t known that he kept a journal.

She hadn’t known that he possessed a temper.

She hadn’t known that he felt dissatisfied with his life.

And she certainly hadn’t known that he was petulant and spoiled enough to feel that dissatisfaction, when heaven knew he didn’t deserve to. What right did he have to feel unhappy with his life? How dare he complain, especially to her?

She stood, smoothing out her skirts in an awkward, defensive gesture. “Next time you want to complain about the trials and tribulations of universal adoration, try being an on-the-shelf spinster for a day. See how that feels and then let me know what you want to complain about.”

And then, while Colin was still sprawled on the sofa, gaping at her as if she were some bizarre creature with three heads, twelve fingers, and a tail, she swept out of the room.

It was, she thought as she descended the outer steps to Bruton Street, quite the most splendid exit of her existence.

It was really too bad, then, that the man she’d been leaving was the only one in whose company she’d ever wanted to remain.

Colin felt like hell all day.

His hand hurt like the devil, despite the brandy he’d sloshed both on his skin and into his mouth. The estate agent who’d handled the lease for the snug little terrace house he’d found in Bloomsbury had informed him that the previous tenant was having difficulties and Colin wouldn’t be able to move in today as planned—would next week be acceptable?

And to top it off, he suspected that he might have done irreparable harm to his friendship with Penelope.

Which made him feel worst of all, since (A) he rather valued his friendship with Penelope and (B) he hadn’t realized how much he valued his friendship with Penelope, which (C) made him feel slightly panicked.

Penelope was a constant in his life. His sister’s friend—the one who was always at the fringes of the party; nearby, but not truly a part of things.

But the world seemed to be shifting. He’d only been back in England for a fortnight, but already Penelope had changed. Or maybe he’d changed. Or maybe she hadn’t changed but the way he saw her had changed.

She mattered. He didn’t know how else to put it.

And after ten years of her just being . . . there, it was rather bizarre for her to matter quite so much.

He didn’t like that they’d parted ways that afternoon on such awkward terms. He couldn’t remember feeling awkward with Penelope, ever—no, that wasn’t true. There was that time . . . dear God, how many years ago was it? Six? Seven? His mother had been pestering him about getting married, which was nothing new, except this time she’d suggested Penelope as a potential bride, which was new, and Colin just hadn’t been in the mood to deal with his mother’s matchmaking in his usual manner, which was to tease her back.

And then she just hadn’t stopped. She’d talked about Penelope all day and night, it seemed, until Colin finally fled the country. Nothing drastic—just a short jaunt to Wales. But really, what had his mother been thinking?

When he’d returned, his mother had wanted to speak with him, of course—except this time it had been because his sister Daphne was with child again and she had wanted to make a family announcement. But how was he to have known that? So he had not been looking forward to the visit, since he was sure it would involve a great deal of completely unveiled hints about marriage. Then he had run into his brothers, and they’d started tormenting him about the very same subject, as only brothers can do, and the next thing he knew, he announced, in a very loud voice, that he was not going to marry Penelope Featherington!

Except somehow Penelope had been standing right there in the doorway, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with pain and embarrassment and probably a dozen other unpleasant emotions that he’d been too ashamed to delve into.

It had been one of the most awful moments of his life. One, in fact, that he made an effort not to remember. He didn’t think Penelope had ever fancied him—at least not any more than other ladies fancied him—but he’d embarrassed her. To single her out for such an announcement . . .

It had been unforgivable.

He’d apologized, of course, and she’d accepted, but he’d never quite forgiven himself.

And now he’d gone and insulted her again. Not in as direct a manner, of course, but he should have thought a bit longer and harder before complaining about his life.

Hell, it had sounded stupid, even to him. What did he have to complain about?

Nothing.

And yet there was still this nagging emptiness. A longing, really, for something he couldn’t define. He was jealous of his brothers, for God’s sake, for having found their passions, their legacies.

The only mark Colin had left on the world was in the pages of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.

What a joke.

But all things were relative, weren’t they? And compared to Penelope, he had little to complain about.

Which probably meant that he should have kept his thoughts to himself. He didn’t like to think of her as an on-the-shelf spinster, but he supposed that was exactly what she was. And it wasn’t a position of much reverence in British society.

In fact, it was a situation about which many people would complain. Bitterly.

Penelope had never once presented herself as anything less than a stoic—perhaps not content with her lot, but at least accepting of it.

And who knows? Maybe Penelope had hopes and dreams of a life beyond the one she shared with her mother and sister in their small home on Mount Street. Maybe she had plans and goals of her own but kept them to herself under a veil of dignity and good humor.

Maybe there was more to her than there seemed.

Maybe, he thought with a sigh, she deserved an apology. He wasn’t precisely certain what he needed to apologize for; he wasn’t certain there was a precise thing that needed it.

But the situation needed something.

Aw, hell. Now he was going to have to attend the Smythe-Smith musicale this evening. It was a painful, discordant, annual event; just when one was sure that all the Smythe-Smith daughters had grown up, some new cousin rose to take her place, each more tone deaf than the last.

But that was where Penelope was going to be that evening, and that meant that was where Colin would have to be as well.

Chapter 7

Colin Bridgerton had quite the bevy of young ladies at his side at the Smythe-Smith musicale Wednesday night, all fawning over his injured hand.

This Author does not know how the injury was sustained—indeed, Mr. Bridgerton has been rather annoyingly tight-lipped about it. Speaking of annoyances, the man in question seemed rather irritated by all of the attention. Indeed, This Author overheard him tell his brother Anthony that he wished he’d left the (unrepeatable word) bandage at home.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 16 APRIL 1824

Why why why did she do this to herself?

Year after year the invitation arrived by messenger, and year after year Penelope swore she would never, as God was her witness, ever attend another Smythe-Smith musicale.

And yet year after year she found herself seated in the Smythe-Smith music room, desperately trying not to cringe (at least not visibly) as the latest generation of Smythe-Smith girls butchered poor Mr. Mozart in musical effigy.

It was painful. Horribly, awfully, hideously painful. Truly, there was no other way to describe it.

Even more perplexing was that Penelope always seemed to end up in the front row, or close to it, which was beyond excruciating. And not just on the ears. Every few years, there would be one Smythe-Smith girl who seemed aware that she was taking part in what could only be termed a crime against auditory law. While the other girls attacked their violins and pianofortes with oblivious vigor, this odd one out played with a pained expression on her face—an expression Penelope knew well.

It was the face one put on when one wanted to be anywhere but where one was. You could try to hide it, but it always came out in the corners of the mouth, which were held tight and taut. And the eyes, of course, which floated either above or below everyone else’s line of vision.

Heaven knew Penelope’s face had been cursed with that same expression many a time.

Maybe that was why she never quite managed to stay home on a Smythe-Smith night. Someone had to smile encouragingly and pretend to enjoy the music.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she were forced to come and listen more than once per year, anyway.

Still, one couldn’t help but think that there must be a fortune to be made in discreet earplugs.

The quartet of girls were warming up—a jumble of discordant notes and scales that only promised to worsen once they began to play in earnest. Penelope had taken a seat in the center of the second row, much to her sister Felicity’s dismay.

“There are two perfectly good seats in the back corner,” Felicity hissed in her ear.

“It’s too late now,” Penelope returned, settling down on the lightly cushioned chair.

“God help me,” Felicity groaned.

Penelope picked up her program and began leafing through it. “If we don’t sit here, someone else will,” she said.

“Precisely my desire!”

Penelope leaned in so that only her sister could hear her murmured words. “We can be counted on to smile and be polite. Imagine if someone like Cressida Twombley sat here and snickered all the way through.”

Felicity looked around. “I don’t think Cressida Twombley would be caught dead here.”

Penelope chose to ignore the statement. “The last thing they need is someone seated right in front who likes to make unkind remarks. Those poor girls would be mortified.”

“They’re going to be mortified anyway,” Felicity grumbled.

“No, they won’t,” Penelope said. “At least not that one, that one, or that one,” she said, pointing to the two on violins and the one at the piano. But that one”—she motioned discreetly to the girl sitting with a cello between her knees—“is already miserable. The least we can do is not to make it worse by allowing someone catty and cruel to sit here.”

“She’s only going to be eviscerated later this week by Lady Whistledown,” Felicity muttered.

Penelope opened her mouth to say more, but at that exact moment she realized that the person who had just occupied the seat on her other side was Eloise.

“Eloise,” Penelope said with obvious delight. “I thought you were planning to stay home.”

Eloise grimaced, her skin taking on a decidedly green pallor. “I can’t explain it, but I can’t seem to stay away. It’s rather like a carriage accident. You just can’t not look.”

“Or listen,” Felicity said, “as the case may be.”

Penelope smiled. She couldn’t help it.

“Did I hear you talking about Lady Whistledown when I arrived?” Eloise asked.

“I told Penelope,” Felicity said, leaning rather inelegantly across her sister to speak to Eloise, “that they’re going to be destroyed by Lady W later this week.”

“I don’t know,” Eloise said thoughtfully. “She doesn’t pick on the Smythe-Smith girls every year. I’m not sure why.”

“I know why,” cackled a voice from behind.

Eloise, Penelope, and Felicity all twisted in their seats, then lurched backward as Lady Danbury’s cane came perilously close to their faces.

“Lady Danbury,” Penelope gulped, unable to resist the urge to touch her nose—if only to reassure herself that it was still there.

“I have that Lady Whistledown figured out,” Lady Danbury said.

“You do?” Felicity asked.

“She’s soft at heart,” the old lady continued. “You see that one”—she poked her cane in the direction of the cellist, nearly piercing Eloise’s ear in the process—“right over there?”

“Yes,” Eloise said, rubbing her ear, “although I don’t think I’m going to be able to hear her.”

“Probably a blessing,” Lady Danbury said before turning back to the subject at hand. “You can thank me later.”

“You were saying something about the cellist?” Penelope said swiftly, before Eloise said something entirely inappropriate.

“Of course I was. Look at her,” Lady Danbury said. “She’s miserable. And well she should be. She’s clearly the only one who has a clue as to how dreadful they are. The other three don’t have the musical sense of a gnat.”

Penelope gave her younger sister a rather smug glance.

“You mark my words,” Lady Danbury said. “Lady Whistledown won’t have a thing to say about this musicale. She won’t want to hurt that one’s feelings. The rest of them—”

Felicity, Penelope, and Eloise all ducked as the cane came swinging by.

“Bah. She couldn’t care less for the rest of them.”

“It’s an interesting theory,” Penelope said.

Lady Danbury sat back contentedly in her chair. “Yes, it is. Isn’t it?”

Penelope nodded. “I think you’re right.”

“Hmmph. I usually am.”

Still twisted in her seat, Penelope turned first to Felicity, then to Eloise, and said, “It’s the same reason why I keep coming to these infernal musicales year after year.”

“To see Lady Danbury?” Eloise asked, blinking with confusion.

“No. Because of girls like her.” Penelope pointed at the cellist. “Because I know exactly how she feels.”

“Don’t be silly, Penelope,” Felicity said. “You’ve never played piano in public, and even if you did, you’re quite accomplished.”

Penelope turned to her sister. “It’s not about the music, Felicity.”

Then the oddest thing happened to Lady Danbury. Her face changed. Completely, utterly, astoundingly changed. Her eyes grew misty, wistful. And her lips, which were usually slightly pinched and sarcastic at the corners, softened. “I was that girl, too, Miss Featherington,” she said, so quietly that both Eloise and Felicity were forced to lean forward, Eloise with an, “I beg your pardon,” and Felicity with a considerably less polite, “What?”

But Lady Danbury only had eyes for Penelope. “It’s why I attend, year after year,” the older lady said. “Just like you.”

And for a moment Penelope felt the oddest sense of connection to the older woman. Which was mad, because they had nothing in common aside from gender—not age, not status, nothing. And yet it was almost as if the countess had somehow chosen her—for what purpose Penelope could never guess. But she seemed determined to light a fire under Penelope’s well-ordered and often boring life.

And Penelope couldn’t help but think that it was somehow working.

Isn’t it nice to discover that we’re not exactly what we thought we were?

Lady Danbury’s words from the other night still echoed in Penelope’s head. Almost like a litany.

Almost like a dare.

“Do you know what I think, Miss Featherington?” Lady Danbury asked, her tone deceptively mild.

“I couldn’t possibly begin to guess,” Penelope said with great honesty—and respect—in her voice.

“I think you could be Lady Whistledown.”

Felicity and Eloise gasped.

Penelope’s lips parted with surprise. No one had ever even thought to accuse her of such before. It was unbelievable . . . unthinkable . . . and . . .

Rather flattering, actually.

Penelope felt her mouth sliding into a sly smile, and she leaned forward, as if getting ready to impart news of great import.

Lady Danbury leaned forward.

Felicity and Eloise leaned forward.

“Do you know what I think, Lady Danbury?” Penelope asked, in a compellingly soft voice.

“Well,” Lady D said, a wicked gleam in her eye, “I would tell you that I am breathless with anticipation, but you’ve already told me once before that you think that I am Lady Whistledown.”

“Are you?”

Lady Danbury smiled archly. “Maybe I am.”

Felicity and Eloise gasped again, louder this time.

Penelope’s stomach lurched.

“Are you admitting it?” Eloise whispered.

“Of course I’m not admitting it,” Lady Danbury barked, straightening her spine and thumping her cane against the floor with enough force to momentarily stop the four amateur musicians in their warm-up. “Even if it were true—and I’m not saying whether or not it is—would I be fool enough to admit it?”

“Then why did you say—”

“Because, you ninnyhead, I’m trying to make a point.”

She then proceeded to fall silent until Penelope was forced to ask, “Which is?”

Lady Danbury gave them all an extremely exasperated look. “That anyone could be Lady Whistledown,” she exclaimed, thumping her cane on the floor with renewed vigor. “Anyone at all.”

“Well, except me,” Felicity put in. “I’m quite certain it’s not me.”

Lady Danbury didn’t even honor Felicity with a glance. “Let me tell you something,” she said.

“As if we could stop you,” Penelope said, so sweetly that it came out like a compliment. And truth be told, it was a compliment. She admired Lady Danbury a great deal. She admired anyone who knew how to speak her mind in public.

Lady Danbury chuckled. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Penelope Featherington.”

“It’s true,” Felicity said with a grin. “She can be rather cruel, for example. Nobody would believe it, but when we were young—”

Penelope elbowed her in the ribs.

“See?” Felicity said.

“What I was going to say,” Lady Danbury continued, “was that the ton is going about my challenge all wrong.”

“How do you suggest we go about it, then?” Eloise asked.

Lady Danbury waved her hand dismissively in Eloise’s face. “I have to explain what people are doing wrong first,” she said. “They keep looking toward the obvious people. People like your mother,” she said, turning to Penelope and Felicity.

“Mother?” they both echoed.

“Oh, please,” Lady Danbury scoffed. “A bigger busybody this town has never seen. She’s exactly the sort of person everyone suspects.”

Penelope had no idea what to say to that. Her mother was a notorious gossip, but it was difficult to imagine her as Lady Whistledown.

“Which is why,” Lady Danbury continued, a shrewd look in her eye, “it can’t be her.”

“Well, that,” Penelope said with a touch of sarcasm, “and the fact that Felicity and I could tell you for certain that it’s not her.”

“Pish. If your mother were Lady Whistledown, she’d have figured out a way to keep it from you.”

“My mother?” Felicity said doubtfully. “I don’t think so.”

“What I am trying to say,” Lady Danbury ground out, “prior to all of these infernal interruptions—”

Penelope thought she heard Eloise snort.

“—was that if Lady Whistledown were someone obvious, she’d have been found out by now, don’t you think?”

Silence, until it became clear some response was required, then all three of them nodded with appropriate thoughtfulness and vigor.

“She must be someone that nobody suspects,” Lady Danbury said. “She has to be.”

Penelope found herself nodding again. Lady Danbury did make sense, in a strange sort of way.

“Which is why,” the older lady continued triumphantly, “I am not a likely candidate!”

Penelope blinked, not quite following the logic. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, please.” Lady Danbury gave Penelope quite the most disdainful glance. “Do you think you’re the first person to suspect me?”

Penelope just shook her head. “I still think it’s you.”

That earned her a measure of respect. Lady Danbury nodded approvingly as she said, “You’re cheekier than you look.”

Felicity leaned forward and said in a rather conspiratorial voice, “It’s true.”

Penelope swatted her sister’s hand. “Felicity!”

“I think the musicale is starting,” Eloise said.

“Heaven help us all,” Lady Danbury announced. “I don’t know why I—Mr. Bridgerton!”

Penelope had turned to face the small stage area, but she whipped back around to see Colin making his way along the row to the empty seat beside Lady Danbury, apologizing good-naturedly as he bumped into people’s knees.

His apologies, of course, were accompanied by one of his lethal smiles, and no fewer than three ladies positively melted in their seats as a result.

Penelope frowned. It was disgusting.

“Penelope,” Felicity whispered. “Did you just growl?”

“Colin,” Eloise said. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

He shrugged, his face alight with a lopsided grin. “Changed my mind at the last moment. I’ve always been a great lover of music, after all.”

“Which would explain your presence here,” Eloise said in an exceptionally dry voice.

Colin acknowledged her statement with nothing more than an arch of his brow before turning to Penelope and saying, “Good evening, Miss Featherington.” He nodded at Felicity with another, “Miss Featherington.”

It took Penelope a moment to find her voice. They had parted most awkwardly that afternoon, and now here he was with a friendly smile. “Good evening, Mr. Bridgerton,” she finally managed.

“Does anyone know what is on the program tonight?” he asked, looking terribly interested.

Penelope had to admire that. Colin had a way of looking at you as if nothing in the world could be more interesting than your next sentence. It was a talent, that. Especially now, when they all knew that he couldn’t possibly care one way or another what the Smythe-Smith girls chose to play that evening.

“I believe it’s Mozart,” Felicity said. “They almost always choose Mozart.”

“Lovely,” Colin replied, leaning back in his chair as if he’d just finished an excellent meal. “I’m a great fan of Mr. Mozart.”

“In that case,” Lady Danbury cackled, elbowing him in the ribs, “you might want to make your escape while the possibility still exists.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “I’m sure the girls will do their best.”

“Oh, there’s no question of them doing their best,” Eloise said ominously.

“Shhh,” Penelope said. “I think they’re ready to begin.”

Not, she admitted to herself, that she was especially eager to listen to the Smythe-Smith version of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. But she felt profoundly ill-at-ease with Colin. She wasn’t sure what to say to him—except that whatever it was she should say definitely shouldn’t be said in front of Eloise, Felicity, and most of all Lady Danbury.

A butler came around and snuffed out a few candles to signal that the girls were ready to begin. Penelope braced herself, swallowed in such a way as to clog her inner ear canals (it didn’t work), and then the torture began.

And went on . . . and on . . . and on.

Penelope wasn’t certain what was more agonizing—the music or the knowledge that Colin was sitting right behind her. The back of her neck prickled with awareness, and she found herself fidgeting like mad, her fingers tapping relentlessly on the dark blue velvet of her skirts.

When the Smythe-Smith quartet was finally done, three of the girls were beaming at the polite applause, and the fourth—the cellist—looked as if she wanted to crawl under a rock.

Penelope sighed. At least she, in all of her unsuccessful seasons, hadn’t ever been forced to parade her deficiencies before all the ton like these girls had. She’d always been allowed to melt into the shadows, to hover quietly at the perimeter of the room, watching the other girls take their turns on the dance floor. Oh, her mother dragged her here and there, trying to place her in the path of some eligible gentleman or another, but that was nothing—nothing!—like what the Smythe-Smith girls were forced to endure.

Although, in all honesty, three out of the four seemed blissfully unaware of their musical ineptitude. Penelope just smiled and clapped. She certainly wasn’t going to burst their collective bubble.

And if Lady Danbury’s theory was correct, Lady Whistledown wasn’t going to write a word about the musicale.

The applause petered out rather quickly, and soon everyone was milling about, making polite conversation with their neighbors and eyeing the sparsely laid refreshment table at the back of the room.

“Lemonade,” Penelope murmured to herself. Perfect. She was dreadfully hot—really, what had she been thinking, wearing velvet on such a warm night?—and a cool beverage would be just the thing to make her feel better. Not to mention that Colin was trapped in conversation with Lady Danbury, so it was the ideal time to make her escape.

But as soon as Penelope had her glass in hand, she heard Colin’s achingly familiar voice behind her, murmuring her name.

She turned around, and before she had any idea what she was doing, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“You are?”

“Yes,” she assured him. “At least I think I am.”

His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “The conversation grows more intriguing by the second.”

“Colin—”

He held out his arm. “Take a turn with me around the room, will you?”

“I don’t think—”

He moved his arm closer to her—just by an inch or so, but the message was clear. “Please,” he said.

She nodded and set her lemonade down. “Very well.”

They walked in silence for almost a minute, then Colin said, “I would like to apologize to you.”

“I was the one who stormed out of the room,” Penelope pointed out.

He tilted his head slightly, and she could see an indulgent smile playing across his lips. “I’d hardly call it ‘storming,’” he said.

Penelope frowned. She probably shouldn’t have left in such a huff, but now that she had, she was oddly proud of it. It wasn’t every day that a woman such as herself got to make such a dramatic exit.

“Well, I shouldn’t have been so rude,” she muttered, by now not really meaning it.

He arched a brow, then obviously decided not to pursue the matter. “I would like to apologize,” he said, “for being such a whiny little brat.”

Penelope actually tripped over her feet.

He helped her regain her balance, then said, “I am aware that I have many, many things in my life for which I should be grateful. For which I am grateful,” he corrected, his mouth not quite smiling but certainly sheepish. “It was unforgivably rude to complain to you.”

“No,” she said, “I have spent all evening thinking about what you said, and while I . . .” She swallowed, then licked her lips, which had gone quite dry. She’d spent all day trying to think of the right words, and she’d thought that she’d found them, but now that he was here, at her side, she couldn’t think of a deuced thing.

“Do you need another glass of lemonade?” Colin asked politely.

She shook her head. “You have every right to your feelings,” she blurted out. “They may not be what I would feel, were I in your shoes, but you have every right to them. But—”

She broke off, and Colin found himself rather desperate to know what she’d planned to say. “But what, Penelope?” he urged.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing to me.” His hand was on her arm, and so he squeezed slightly, to let her know that he meant what he said.

For the longest time, he didn’t think she was actually going to respond, and then, just when he thought his face would crack from the smile he held so carefully on his lips—they were in public, after all, and it wouldn’t do to invite comment and speculation by appearing urgent and disturbed—she sighed.

It was a lovely sound, strangely comforting, soft, and wise. And it made him want to look at her more closely, to see into her mind, to hear the rhythms of her soul.

“Colin,” Penelope said quietly, “if you feel frustrated by your current situation, you should do something to change it. It’s really that simple.”

“That’s what I do,” he said with a careless shrug of his outside shoulder. “My mother accuses me of picking up and leaving the country completely on whim, but the truth is—”

“You do it when you’re feeling frustrated,” she finished for him.

He nodded. She understood him. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, or even that it made any sense, but Penelope Featherington understood him.

“I think you should publish your journals,” she said.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

He stopped in his tracks, letting go of her arm. He didn’t really have an answer, other than the odd pounding in his heart. “Who would want to read them?” he finally asked.

“I would,” she said frankly. “Eloise, Felicity . . .” she added, ticking off names on her fingers. “Your mother, Lady Whistledown, I’m sure,” she added with a mischievous smile. “She does write about you rather a lot.”

Her good humor was infectious, and Colin couldn’t quite suppress his smile. “Penelope, it doesn’t count if the only people who buy the book are the people I know.”

“Why not?” Her lips twitched. “You know a lot of people. Why, if you only count Bridgertons—”

He grabbed her hand. He didn’t know why, but he grabbed her hand. “Penelope, stop.”

She just laughed. “I think Eloise told me that you have piles and piles of cousins as well, and—”

“Enough,” he warned. But he was grinning as he said it.

Penelope stared down at her hand in his, then said, “Lots of people will want to read about your travels. Maybe at first it will only be because you’re a well-known figure in London, but it won’t take long before everyone realizes what a good writer you are. And then they’ll be clamoring for more.”

“I don’t want to be a success because of the Bridgerton name,” he said.

She dropped his hand and planted hers on her hips. “Are you even listening to me? I just told you that—”

“What are you two talking about?”

Eloise. Looking very, very curious.

“Nothing,” they both muttered at the same time.

Eloise snorted. “Don’t insult me. It’s not nothing. Penelope looked as if she might start breathing fire at any moment.”

“Your brother is just being obtuse,” Penelope said.

“Well, that is nothing new,” Eloise said.

“Wait a moment!” Colin exclaimed.

“But what,” Eloise probed, ignoring him entirely, “is he being obtuse about?”

“It’s a private matter,” Colin ground out.

“Which makes it all the more interesting,” Eloise said. She looked to Penelope expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” Penelope said. “I really can’t say.”

“I can’t believe it!” Eloise cried out. “You’re not going to tell me.”

“No,” Penelope replied, feeling rather oddly satisfied with herself, “I’m not.”

“I can’t believe it,” Eloise said again, turning to her brother. “I can’t believe it.”

His lips quirked into the barest of smiles. “Believe it.”

“You’re keeping secrets from me.”

He raised his brows. “Did you think I told you everything?”

“Of course not.” She scowled. “But I thought Penelope did.”

“But this isn’t my secret to tell,” Penelope said. “It’s Colin’s.”

“I think the planet has shifted on its axis,” Eloise grumbled. “Or perhaps England has crashed into France. All I know is this is not the same world I inhabited just this morning.”

Penelope couldn’t help it. She giggled.

“And you’re laughing at me!” Eloise added.

“No, I’m not,” Penelope said, laughing. “Really, I’m not.”

“Do you know what you need?” Colin asked.

“Me?” Eloise queried.

He nodded. “A husband.”

“You’re as bad as Mother!”

“I could be a lot worse if I really put my mind to it.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Eloise shot back.

“Stop, stop!” Penelope said, truly laughing in earnest now. They both looked at her expectantly, as if to say, Now what?

“I’m so glad I came tonight,” Penelope said, the words tumbling unbidden from her lips. “I can’t remember a nicer evening. Truly, I can’t.”

Several hours later, as Colin was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling in the bedroom of his new flat in Bloomsbury, it occurred to him that he felt the exact same way.

Chapter 8

Colin Bridgerton and Penelope Featherington were seen in conversation at the Smythe-Smith musicale, although no one seems to know what exactly they were discussing. This Author would venture to guess that their conversation centered upon This Author’s identity, since that was what everyone else seemed to be talking about before, after, and (rather rudely, in This Author’s esteemed opinion) during the performance.

In other news, Honoria Smythe-Smith’s violin was damaged when Lady Danbury accidentally knocked it off a table while waving her cane.

Lady Danbury insisted upon replacing the instrument, but then declared that as it is not her habit to buy anything but the best, Honoria will have a Ruggieri violin, imported from Cremona, Italy.

It is This Author’s understanding that, when one factors in manufacture and shipping time, along with a lengthy waiting list, it takes six months for a Ruggieri violin to reach our shores.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 16 APRIL 1824

There are moments in a woman’s life when her heart flips in her chest, when the world suddenly seems uncommonly pink and perfect, when a symphony can be heard in the tinkle of a doorbell.

Penelope Featherington had just such a moment two days after the Smythe-Smith musicale.

All it took was a knock on her bedroom door, followed by her butler’s voice, informing her:

“Mr. Colin Bridgerton is here to see you.”

Penelope tumbled right off the bed.

Briarly, who had butlered for the Featherington family long enough so that he did not even so much as bat an eyelash at Penelope’s clumsiness, murmured, “Shall I tell him you are not in?”

“No!” Penelope nearly shrieked, stumbling to her feet. “I mean, no,” she added in a more reasonable voice. “But I will require ten minutes to prepare myself.” She glanced in the mirror and winced at her disheveled appearance. “Fifteen.”

“As you wish, Miss Penelope.”

“Oh, and make certain to prepare a tray of food. Mr. Bridgerton is sure to be hungry. He’s always hungry.”

The butler nodded again.

Penelope stood stock-still as Briarly disappeared out the door, then, completely unable to contain herself, danced from foot to foot, emitting a strange squealing sort of noise—one that she was convinced—or at least hoped—had never before crossed her lips.

Then again, she couldn’t remember the last time a gentleman had called upon her, much less the one with whom she’d been desperately in love for almost half of her life.

“Settle down,” she said, spreading her fingers and pressing her flattened palms out in much the same motion she might make if she were trying to placate a small, unruly crowd. “You must remain calm. Calm,” she repeated, as if that would actually do the trick. “Calm.”

But inside, her heart was dancing.

She took a few deep breaths, walked over to her dressing table, and picked up her hairbrush. It would only take a few minutes to repin her hair; surely Colin wasn’t going to flee if she kept him waiting for a short while. He’d expect her to take a bit of time to ready herself, wouldn’t he?

But still, she found herself fixing her hair in record time, and by the time she stepped through the sitting room door, a mere five minutes had passed since the butler’s announcement.

“That was quick,” Colin said with a quirky grin. He’d been standing by the window, peering out at Mount Street.

“Oh, was it?” Penelope said, hoping that the heat she felt on her skin wasn’t translating into a blush. A woman was supposed to keep a gentleman waiting, although not too long. Still, it made no sense to hold to such silly behavior with Colin, of all people. He would never be interested in her in a romantic fashion, and besides, they were friends.

Friends. It seemed like such an odd concept, and yet that was exactly what they were. They’d always been friendly acquaintances, but since his return from Cyprus, they’d become friends in truth.

It was magical.

Even if he never loved her—and she rather thought he never would—this was better than what they’d had before.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, taking a seat on her mother’s slightly faded yellow damask sofa.

Colin sat across from her in a rather uncomfortable straight-backed chair. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, and Penelope knew instantly that something was wrong. It simply wasn’t the pose a gentleman adopted for a regular social call. He looked too distraught, too intense.

“It’s rather serious,” he said, his face grim.

Penelope nearly rose to her feet. “Has something happened? Is someone ill?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” He paused, let out a long breath, then raked his hand through his already mussed-up hair. “It’s about Eloise.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how to say this. I—Do you have anything to eat?”

Penelope was ready to wring his neck. “For heaven’s sake, Colin!”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

“A first, I’m sure,” Penelope said impatiently. “I already told Briarly to fix a tray. Now, will you just tell me what is wrong, or do you plan to wait until I expire of impatience?”

“I think she’s Lady Whistledown,” he blurted out.

Penelope’s mouth fell open. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to say, but it wasn’t this.

“Penelope, did you hear me?”

“Eloise?” she asked, even though she knew exactly who he was talking about.

He nodded.

“She can’t be.”

He stood and began to pace, too full of nervous energy to sit still. “Why not?”

“Because . . . because . . .” Because why? “Because there is no way she could have done that for ten years without my knowing.”

His expression went from disturbed to disdainful in an instant. “I hardly think you’re privy to everything that Eloise does.”

“Of course not,” Penelope replied, giving him a rather irritated look, “but I can tell you with absolute certainty that there is no way Eloise could keep a secret of that magnitude from me for over ten years. She’s simply not capable of it.”

“Penelope, she’s the nosiest person I know.”

“Well, that much is true,” Penelope agreed. “Except for my mother, I suppose. But that’s hardly enough to convict her.”

Colin stopped his pacing and planted his hands on his hips. “She is always writing things down.”

“Why would you think that?”

He held up his hand, rubbing his thumb briskly against his fingertips. “Inkstains. Constantly.”

“Lots of people use pen and ink.” Penelope motioned broadly at Colin. “You write in journals. I am certain you’ve had your share of ink on your fingers.”

“Yes, but I don’t disappear when I write in my journals.”

Penelope felt her pulse quicken. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice growing breathless.

“I mean that she locks herself in her room for hours on end, and it’s after those periods that her fingers are covered with ink.”

Penelope didn’t say anything for an agonizingly long moment. Colin’s “evidence” was damning, indeed, especially when combined with Eloise’s well-known and well-documented penchant for nosiness.

But she wasn’t Lady Whistledown. She couldn’t be. Penelope would bet her life on it.

Finally Penelope just crossed her arms and, in a tone of voice that probably would have been more at home on an exceedingly stubborn six-year-old, said, “It’s not her. It’s not.”

Colin sat back down, looking defeated. “I wish I could share your certainty.”

“Colin, you need to—”

“Where the hell is the food?” he grumbled.

She should have been shocked, but somehow his lack of manners amused her. “I’m sure Briarly will be here shortly.”

He sprawled into a chair. “I’m hungry.”

“Yes,” Penelope said, lips twitching, “I surmised as much.”

He sighed, weary and worried. “If she’s Lady Whistledown, it’ll be a disaster. A pure, unmitigated disaster.”

“It wouldn’t be that bad,” Penelope said carefully. “Not that I think she’s Lady Whistledown, because I don’t! But truly, if she were, would it be so very dreadful? I rather like Lady Whistledown myself.”

“Yes, Penelope,” Colin said rather sharply, “it would be so very dreadful. She’d be ruined.”

“I don’t think she’d be ruined. . . .”

“Of course she’d be ruined. Do you have any idea how many people that woman has insulted over the years?”

“I didn’t realize you hated Lady Whistledown so much,” Penelope said.

“I don’t hate her,” Colin said impatiently. “It doesn’t matter if I hate her. Everyone else hates her.”

“I don’t think that’s true. They all buy her paper.”

“Of course they buy her paper! Everyone buys her bloody paper.”

“Colin!”

“Sorry,” he muttered, but it didn’t really sound like he meant it.

Penelope nodded her acceptance of his apology.

“Whoever that Lady Whistledown is,” Colin said, shaking his finger at her with such vehemence that she actually lurched backward, “when she is unmasked, she will not be able to show her face in London.”

Penelope delicately cleared her throat. “I didn’t realize you cared so much about the opinions of society.”

“I don’t,” he retorted. “Well, not much, at least. Anyone who tells you they don’t care at all is a liar and a hypocrite.”

Penelope rather thought he was correct, but she was surprised he’d admitted it. It seemed men always liked to pretend that they were wholly self-contained, completely unaffected by the whims and opinions of society.

Colin leaned forward, his green eyes burning with intensity. “This isn’t about me, Penelope, it’s about Eloise. And if she is cast out of society, she will be crushed.” He sat back, but his entire body radiated tension. “Not to mention what it would do to my mother.”

Penelope let out a long breath. “I really think you’re getting upset over nothing,” she said.

“I hope you’re right,” he replied, closing his eyes. He wasn’t sure when he’d started to suspect that his sister might be Lady Whistledown. Probably after Lady Danbury had issued her now famous challenge. Unlike most of London, Colin had never been terribly interested in Lady Whistledown’s true identity. The column was entertaining, and he certainly read it along with everyone else, but to his mind, Lady Whistledown was simply . . . Lady Whistledown, and that was all she needed to be.

But Lady Danbury’s dare had started him thinking, and like the rest of the Bridgertons, once he got hold of an idea, he was fundamentally incapable of letting it go. Somehow it had occurred to him that Eloise had the perfect temperament and skills to write such a column, and then, before he could convince himself that he was crazy, he’d seen the ink spots on her fingers. Since then he’d gone nearly mad, unable to think about anything but the possibility that Eloise had a secret life.

He didn’t know which irritated him more—that Eloise might be Lady Whistledown, or that she had managed to hide it from him for over a decade.

How galling, to be hoodwinked by one’s sister. He liked to think himself smarter than that.

But he needed to focus on the present. Because if his suspicions were correct, how on earth were they going to deal with the scandal when she was discovered?

And she would be discovered. With all of London lusting after the thousand-pound prize, Lady Whistledown didn’t stand a chance.

“Colin! Colin!”

He opened his eyes, wondering how long Penelope had been calling his name.

“I really think you should stop worrying about Eloise,” she said. “There are hundreds and hundreds of people in London. Lady Whistledown could be any one of them. Heavens, with your eye for detail”—she waggled her fingers to remind him of Eloise’s ink-stained fingertips—“you could be Lady Whistledown.”

He shot her a rather condescending look. “Except for the small detail of my having been out of the country half the time.”

Penelope chose to ignore his sarcasm. “You’re certainly a good enough writer to carry it off.”

Colin had intended to say something droll and slightly gruff, dismissing her rather weak arguments, but the truth was he was so secretly delighted about her “good writer” compliment that all he could do was sit there with a loopy smile on his face.

“Are you all right?” Penelope asked.

“Perfectly fine,” he replied, snapping to attention and trying to adopt a more sober mien. “Why would you ask?”

“Because you suddenly looked quite ill. Dizzy, actually.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, probably a little louder than was necessary. “I’m just thinking about the scandal.”

She let out a beleaguered sigh, which irritated him, because he didn’t see that she had any reason to feel so impatient with him. “What scandal?” she asked.

“The scandal that is going to erupt when she is discovered,” he ground out.

“She’s not Lady Whistledown!” she insisted.

Colin suddenly sat up straight, his eyes alight with a new idea. “Do you know,” he said in a rather intense sort of voice, “but I don’t think it matters if she is Lady Whistledown or not.”

Penelope stared at him blankly for a full three seconds before looking about the room, muttering, “Where’s the food? I must be light-headed. Haven’t you spent the last ten minutes positively going mad over the possibility that she is?”

As if on cue, Briarly entered the room with a heavily laden tray. Penelope and Colin watched in silence as the butler laid out the meal. “Would you like me to fix your plates?” he inquired.

“No, that’s quite all right,” Penelope said quickly. “We can manage for ourselves.”

Briarly nodded and, as soon as he’d laid the flatware and filled the two glasses with lemonade, left the room.

“Listen to me,” Colin said, jumping to his feet and moving the door so that it almost rested against the doorframe (but remained technically open, should anyone quibble about proprieties).

“Don’t you want something to eat?” Penelope inquired, holding aloft a plate that she’d filled with various small snacks.

He snatched a piece of cheese, ate it in two rather indelicate bites, then continued, “Even if Eloise isn’t Lady Whistledown—and mind you, I still think she is—it doesn’t matter. Because if I suspect that she’s Lady Whistledown, then surely someone else will as well.”

“Your point being?”

Colin realized that his arms were reaching forward, and he stopped himself before he reached out to shake her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter! Don’t you see? If someone points his finger at her, she’ll be ruined.”

“But not,” Penelope said, appearing to require a great deal of effort to unclench her teeth, “if she’s not Lady Whistledown!”

“How could she prove it?” Colin returned, jumping to his feet. “Once a rumor is started, the damage is done. It develops a life of its own.”

“Colin, you ceased to make sense five minutes ago.”

“No, hear me out.” He whirled to face her, and he was seized by a feeling of such intensity that he couldn’t have ripped his eyes from hers if the house were falling down around them. “Suppose I told everyone that I had seduced you.”

Penelope grew very, very still.

“You would be ruined forever,” he continued, crouching down near the edge of the sofa so that they were more on the same level. “It wouldn’t matter that we had never even kissed. That, my dear Penelope, is the power of the word.”

She looked oddly frozen. And at the same time flushed. “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she stammered.

And then the most bizarre thing happened. He realized that he didn’t know what to say, either. Because he’d forgotten about rumors and the power of the word and all of that rot, and the only thing he could think of was the part about the kissing, and—

And—

And—

Good God in heaven, he wanted to kiss Penelope Featherington.

Penelope Featherington!

He might as well have said he wanted to kiss his sister.

Except—he stole a glance at her; she looked uncommonly fetching, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed that earlier that afternoon—she wasn’t his sister.

She definitely wasn’t his sister.

“Colin?” His name was a mere whisper on her lips, her eyes were quite adorably blinking and befuddled, and how was it he’d never noticed what an intriguing shade of brown they were? Almost gold near the pupil. He’d never seen anything like it, and yet it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her a hundred times before.

He stood—suddenly, drunkenly. Best if they weren’t quite on the same latitude. Harder to see her eyes from up here.

She stood, too.

Damn it.

“Colin?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Could I ask you a favor?”

Call it male intuition, call it insanity, but a very insistent voice inside of him was screaming that whatever she wanted had to be a very bad idea.

He was, however, an idiot.

He had to be, because he felt his lips part and then he heard a voice that sounded an awful lot like his own say, “Of course.”

Her lips puckered, and for a moment he thought she was trying to kiss him, but then he realized that she was just bringing them together to form a word.

“Would—”

Just a word. Nothing but a word beginning with W. W always looked like a kiss.

“Would you kiss me?”

Chapter 9

Every week there seems to be one invitation that is coveted above all others, and this week’s prize must surely go to the Countess of Macclesfield, who is hosting a grand ball on Monday night. Lady Macclesfield is not a frequent hostess here in London, but she is very popular, as is her husband, and it is expected that a great many bachelors plan to attend, including Mr. Colin Bridgerton (assuming he does not collapse from exhaustion after four days with the ten Bridgerton grandchildren), Viscount Burwick, and Mr. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby.

This Author anticipates that a great many young and unmarried ladies will choose to attend as well, following the publication of this column.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 16 APRIL 1824

His life as he knew it was over.

“What?” he asked, aware that he was blinking rapidly.

Her face turned a deeper shade of crimson than he’d thought humanly possible, and she turned away. “Never mind,” she mumbled. “Forget I said anything.”

Colin thought that a very good idea.

But then, just when he’d thought that his world might resume its normal course (or at least that he’d be able to pretend it had), she whirled back around, her eyes alight with a passionate fire that astonished him.

“No, I’m not going to forget it,” she cried out. “I’ve spent my life forgetting things, not saying them, never telling anyone what I really want.”

Colin tried to say something, but it was clear to him that his throat had begun to close. Any minute now he’d be dead. He was sure of it.

“It won’t mean a thing,” she said. “I promise you, it won’t mean anything, and I’d never expect anything from you because of it, but I could die tomorrow, and—”

“What?”

Her eyes looked huge, and meltingly dark, and pleading, and . . .

He could feel his resolve melting away.

“I’m eight-and-twenty,” she said, her voice soft and sad. “I’m an old maid, and I’ve never been kissed.”

“Gah . . . gah . . . gah . . .” He knew he knew how to speak; he was fairly certain he’d been perfectly articulate just minutes earlier. But now he didn’t seem able to form a word.

And Penelope kept talking, her cheeks delightfully pink, and her lips moving so quickly that he couldn’t help but wonder what they’d feel like on his skin. On his neck, on his shoulder, on his . . . other places.

“I’m going to be an old maid at nine-and-twenty,” she said, “and I’ll be an old maid at thirty. I could die tomorrow, and—”

“You’re not going to die tomorrow!” he somehow managed to get out.

“But I could! I could, and it would kill me, because—”

“You’d already be dead,” he said, thinking his voice sounded rather strange and disembodied.

“I don’t want to die without ever having been kissed,” she finally finished.

Colin could think of a hundred reasons why kissing Penelope Featherington was a very bad idea, the number one being that he actually wanted to kiss her.

He opened his mouth, hoping that a sound would emerge and that it might actually be intelligible speech, but there was nothing, just the sound of breath on his lips.

And then Penelope did the one thing that could break his resolve in an instant. She looked up at him, deeply into his eyes, and uttered one, simple word.

“Please.”

He was lost. There was something heartbreaking in the way she was gazing at him, as if she might die if he didn’t kiss her. Not from heartbreak, not from embarrassment—it was almost as if she needed him for nourishment, to feed her soul, to fill her heart.

And Colin couldn’t remember anyone else ever needing him with such fervor.

It humbled him.

It made him want her with an intensity that nearly buckled his knees. He looked at her, and somehow he didn’t see the woman he’d seen so many times before. She was different. She glowed. She was a siren, a goddess, and he wondered how on earth no one had ever noticed this before.

“Colin?” she whispered.

He took a step forward—barely a half a foot, but it was close enough so that when he touched her chin and tipped her face up, her lips were mere inches from his.

Their breath mingled, and the air grew hot and heavy. Penelope was trembling—he could feel that under his fingers—but he wasn’t so sure that he wasn’t trembling, too.

He assumed he’d say something flip and droll, like the devil-may-care fellow he was reputed to be. Anything for you, perhaps, or maybe, Every woman deserves at least one kiss. But as he closed the bare distance between them, he realized that there were no words that could capture the intensity of the moment.

No words for the passion. No words for the need.

No words for the sheer epiphany of the moment.

And so, on an otherwise unremarkable Friday afternoon, in the heart of Mayfair, in a quiet drawing room on Mount Street, Colin Bridgerton kissed Penelope Featherington.

And it was glorious.

His lips touched hers softly at first, not because he was trying to be gentle, although if he’d had the presence of mind to think about such things, it probably would have occurred to him that this was her first kiss, and it ought to be reverent and beautiful and all the things a girl dreams about as she’s lying in bed at night.

But in all truth, none of that was on Colin’s mind. In fact, he was thinking of quite little. His kiss was soft and gentle because he was still so surprised that he was kissing her. He’d known her for years, had never even thought about touching his lips to hers. And now he couldn’t have let her go if the fires of hell were licking his toes. He could barely believe what he was doing—or that he wanted to do it so damned much.

It wasn’t the sort of a kiss one initiates because one is overcome with passion or emotion or anger or desire. It was a slower thing, a learning experience—for Colin just as much as for Penelope.

And he was learning that everything he thought he’d known about kissing was rubbish.

Everything else had been mere lips and tongue and softly murmured but meaningless words.

This was a kiss.

There was something in the friction, the way he could hear and feel her breath at the same time. Something in the way she held perfectly still, and yet he could feel her heart pounding through her skin.

There was something in the fact that he knew it was her.

Colin moved his lips slightly to the left, until he was nipping the corner of her mouth, softly tickling the very spot where her lips joined. His tongue dipped and traced, learning the contours of her mouth, tasting the sweet-salty essence of her.

This was more than a kiss.

His hands, which had been lightly splayed against her back, grew rigid, more tense as they pressed into the fabric of her dress. He could feel the heat of her under his fingertips, seeping up through the muslin, swirling in the delicate muscles of her back.

He drew her to him, pulling her closer, closer, until their bodies were pressed together. He could feel her, the entire length of her, and it set him on fire. He was growing hard, and he wanted her—dear God, how he wanted her.

His mouth grew more insistent, and his tongue darted forward, nudging her until her lips parted. He swallowed her soft moan of acquiescence, then pushed forward to taste her. She was sweet and a little tart from the lemonade, and she was clearly as intoxicating as fine brandy, because Colin was starting to doubt his ability to remain on his feet.

He moved his hands along the length of her—slowly, so as not to frighten her. She was soft, curvy, and lush, just as he’d always thought a woman should be. Her hips flared, and her bottom was perfect, and her breasts . . . good God, her breasts felt good pressing against his chest. His palms itched to cup them, but he forced his hands to remain where they were (rather enjoyably on her derrière, so it really wasn’t that much of a sacrifice.) Beside the fact that he really shouldn’t be groping a gently bred lady’s breasts in the middle of her drawing room, he had a rather painful suspicion that if he touched her in that way, he would lose himself completely.

“Penelope, Penelope,” he murmured, wondering why her name tasted so good on his lips. He was ravenous for her, heady and drugged by passion, and he wanted desperately for her to feel the same way. She felt perfect in his arms, but thus far, she had made no reaction. Oh, she had swayed in his arms and opened her mouth to welcome his sweet invasion, but other than that, she had done nothing.

And yet, from the pant of her breath and the beat of her heart, he knew that she was aroused.

He pulled back, just a few inches so that he could touch her chin and tilt her face up toward his. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes that were dazed with passion, perfectly matching her lips, which were lightly parted, completely soft, and thoroughly swollen from his kisses.

She was beautiful. Utterly, completely, soul-stirringly beautiful. He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed it all these years.

Was the world populated with blind men, or merely stupid ones?

“You can kiss me, too,” he whispered, leaning his forehead lightly against hers.

She did nothing but blink.

“A kiss,” he murmured, lowering his lips to hers again, although just for a fleeting moment, “is for two people.”

Her hand stirred at his back. “What do I do?” she whispered.

“Whatever you want to do.”

Slowly, tentatively, she lifted one of her hands to his face. Her fingers trailed lightly over his cheek, skimming along the line of his jaw until they fell away.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Thank you?

He went still.

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. He didn’t want to be thanked for his kiss.

It made him feel guilty.

And shallow.

As if it had been something done out of pity. And the worst part was he knew that if all this had come to pass only a few months earlier, it would have been out of pity.

What the hell did that say about him?

“Don’t thank me,” he said gruffly, shoving himself backward until they were no longer touching.

“But—”

“I said don’t,” he repeated harshly, turning away as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her, when the truth was that he couldn’t quite bear himself.

And the damnedest thing was—he wasn’t sure why. This desperate, gnawing feeling—was it guilt? Because he shouldn’t have kissed her? Because he shouldn’t have liked it?

“Colin,” she said, “don’t be angry with yourself.”

“I’m not,” he snapped.

“I asked you to kiss me. I practically forced you—”

Now, there was a surefire way to make a man feel manly. “You didn’t force me,” he bit off.

“No, but—”

“For the love of God, Penelope, enough!”

She drew back, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He looked down at her hands. They were shaking. He closed his eyes in agony. Why why why was he being such an ass?

“Penelope . . .” he began.

“No, it’s all right,” she said, her words rushed. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, I should.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

And now she looked so quietly dignified. Which made him feel even worse. She was standing there, her hands clasped demurely in front of her, her eyes downward—not quite on the floor, but not on his face.

She thought he’d kissed her out of pity.

And he was a knave because a small part of him wanted her to think that. Because if she thought it, then maybe he could convince himself that it was true, that it was just pity, that it couldn’t possibly be more.

“I should go,” he said, the words quiet, and yet still too loud in the silent room.

She didn’t try to stop him.

He motioned to the door. “I should go,” he said again, even as his feet refused to move.

She nodded.

“I didn’t—” he started to say, and then, horrified by the words that had nearly come out of his mouth, he actually did head toward the door.

But Penelope called out—of course she called out—“You didn’t what?”

And he didn’t know what to say, because what he’d started to say was, I didn’t kiss you out of pity. If he wanted her to know that, if he wanted to convince himself of that, then that could only mean that he craved her good opinion, which could only mean—

“I have to go,” he blurted out, desperate now, as if leaving the room might be the only way to keep his thoughts from traveling down such a dangerous road. He crossed the remaining distance to the door, waiting for her to say something, to call out his name.

But she didn’t.

And he left.

And he’d never hated himself more.

Colin was in an exceedingly bad mood before the footman showed up at his front door with a summons from his mother. Afterward, he was beyond repair.

Bloody hell. She was going to start in on him again about getting married. Her summonses were always about getting married. And he really wasn’t in the mood for it right now.

But she was his mother. And he loved her. And that meant he couldn’t very well ignore her. So with considerable grumbling and a fair bit of cursing while he was at it, he yanked on his boots and coat, and headed out the door.

He was living in Bloomsbury, not the most fashionable section of town for a member of the aristocracy, although Bedford Square, where he had taken out a lease on a small but elegant terrace house, was certainly an upscale and respectable address.

Colin rather liked living in Bloomsbury, where his neighbors were doctors and lawyers and scholars and people who actually did things other than attend party after party. He wasn’t ready to trade in his heritage for a life in trade—it was rather good to be a Bridgerton, after all—but there was something stimulating about watching professional men going about their daily business, the lawyers heading east to the Inns of the Court, the doctors northwest to Portland Place.

It would have been easy enough to drive his curricle across town; it had only been brought back to the mews an hour ago upon his return from the Featheringtons’. But Colin was feeling a bit in need of some fresh air, not to mention perverse enough to take the slowest means possible to Number Five.

If his mother intended to deliver another lecture on the virtues of marriage, followed by a lengthy dissertation on the attributes of each and every eligible miss in London, she could bloody well wait for him.

Colin closed his eyes and groaned. His mood must be worse than even he had thought if he was cursing in relation to his mother, whom he (and all the Bridgertons, really) held in the highest esteem and affection.

It was Penelope’s fault.

No, it was Eloise’s fault, he thought, grinding his teeth. Better to blame a sibling.

No—he slumped back into his desk chair, groaning—it was his fault. If he was in a bad mood, if he was ready to yank someone’s head off with his bare hands, it was his fault and his fault alone.

He shouldn’t have kissed Penelope. It didn’t matter that he’d wanted to kiss her, even though he hadn’t even realized that he wanted to until right before she’d mentioned it. He still shouldn’t have kissed her.

Although, when he really thought about it, he wasn’t quite sure why he shouldn’t have kissed her.

He stood, then trudged to the window and let his forehead rest against the pane. Bedford Square was quiet, with only a few men walking along the pavement. Laborers, they looked to be, probably working on the new museum being built just to the east. (It was why Colin had taken a house on the west side of the square; the construction could get very noisy.)

His gaze traveled north, to the statue of Charles James Fox. Now, there was a man with a purpose. Led the Whigs for years. He hadn’t always been very well liked, if some of the older members of the ton were to be believed, but Colin was coming to think that perhaps being well liked was overrated. Heaven knew that no one was better liked than he was, and look at him now, frustrated and malcontent, grumpy and ready to lash out at anyone who crossed his path.

He sighed, planting one hand on the window frame and pushing himself back to an upright position. He’d better get going, especially if he was planning to walk all the way to Mayfair. Although, in truth, it really wasn’t that far. Probably not more than thirty minutes if he kept his pace brisk (and he always did), less if the pavements weren’t littered with slow people. It was longer than most members of the ton cared to be outside in London unless they were shopping or fashionably strolling in the park, but Colin felt the need to clear his head. And if the air in London wasn’t particularly fresh, well, it would still have to do.

His luck that day being what it was, however, by the time he reached the intersection of Oxford and Regent Streets, the first splats of raindrops began to dance against his face. By the time he was turning off Hanover Square onto St. George Street, it was pouring in earnest. And he was just close enough to Bruton Street that it would have been really ridiculous to have tried to hail a hackney to take him the rest of the way.

So he walked on.

After the first minute or so of annoyance, however, the rain began to feel oddly good. It was warm enough out that it didn’t chill him to the bone, and the fat, wet sting of it almost felt like a penance.

And he felt like maybe that was what he deserved.

The door to his mother’s house opened before Colin’s foot had even found the top step; Wickham must have been waiting for him.

“Might I suggest a towel?” the butler intoned, handing him a large white cloth.

Colin took it, wondering how on earth Wickham had had time to get a towel. He couldn’t have known that Colin would be fool enough to walk in the rain.

Not for the first time it occurred to Colin that butlers must be possessed of strange, mystical powers. Perhaps it was a job requirement.

Colin used the towel to dry his hair, causing great consternation to Wickham, who was terribly proper and surely expected Colin to retire to a private room for at least a half an hour to mend his appearance.

“Where’s my mother?” Colin asked.

Wickham’s lips tightened, and he looked pointedly down at Colin’s feet, which were now creating small puddles. “She is in her office,” he replied, “but she is speaking with your sister.”

“Which sister?” Colin asked, keeping a sunny smile on his face, just to annoy Wickham, who had surely been trying to annoy him by omitting his sister’s name.

As if you could simply say “your sister” to a Bridgerton and expect him to know who you were talking about.

“Francesca.”

“Ah, yes. She’s returning to Scotland soon, isn’t she?”

“Tomorrow.”

Colin handed the towel back to Wickham, who regarded it as he might a large insect. “I won’t bother her, then. Just let her know I’m here when she’s done with Francesca.”

Wickham nodded. “Would you care to change your clothes, Mr. Bridgerton? I believe we have some of your brother Gregory’s garments upstairs in his bedchamber.”

Colin found himself smiling. Gregory was finishing up his final term at Cambridge. He was eleven years younger than Colin, and it was difficult to believe they could actually share clothing, but he supposed it was time to accept that his little brother had finally grown up.

“That’s an excellent idea,” Colin said. He gave his sodden sleeve a rueful glance. “I’ll leave these here to be cleaned and fetch them later.”

Wickham nodded again, murmured, “As you wish,” and disappeared down the hall to parts unknown.

Colin took the steps two at a time up to the family quarters. As he sloshed down the hall, he heard the sound of a door opening. Turning around, he saw that it was Eloise.

Not the person he wanted to see. She immediately brought back all the memories of his afternoon with Penelope. Their conversation. The kiss.

Especially the kiss.

And even worse, the guilt he’d felt afterward.

The guilt he still felt.

“Colin,” Eloise said brightly, “I didn’t realize you—what did you do, walk?”

He shrugged. “I like the rain.”

She eyed him curiously, her head cocking to the side as it always did when she was puzzling through something. “You’re in a rather odd mood today.”

“I’m soaking wet, Eloise.”

“No need to snap at me about it,” she said with a sniff. “I didn’t force you to walk across town in the rain.”

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” he felt rather compelled to say. There was something about a sibling that brought out the eight-year-old in a body.

“I’m sure the sky was gray,” she returned.

Clearly, she had a bit of the eight-year-old in her as well.

“May we continue this discussion when I’m dry?” he asked, his voice deliberately impatient.

“Of course,” she said expansively, all accommodation. “I’ll wait for you right here.”

Colin took his time while he changed into Gregory’s clothes, taking more care with his cravat than he had in years. Finally, when he was convinced that Eloise must be grinding her teeth, he reentered the hall.

“I heard you went to see Penelope today,” she said without preamble.

Wrong thing to say.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked carefully. He knew that his sister and Penelope were close, but surely Penelope wouldn’t have told Eloise about that.

“Felicity told Hyacinth.”

“And Hyacinth told you.”

“Of course.”

“Something,” Colin muttered, “has got to be done about all the gossip in this town.”

“I hardly think this counts as gossip, Colin,” Eloise said. “It’s not as if you’re interested in Penelope.”

If she had been talking about any other woman, Colin would have expected her to give him a sidelong glance, followed by a coy, Are you?

But this was Penelope, and even though Eloise was her very best friend, and thus her finest champion, even she couldn’t imagine that a man of Colin’s reputation and popularity would be interested in a woman of Penelope’s reputation and (lack of) popularity.

Colin’s mood shifted from bad to foul.

“Anyway,” Eloise continued, completely oblivious to the thunderstorm that was brewing in her normally sunny and jovial brother, “Felicity told Hyacinth that Briarly told her that you’d visited. I was just wondering what it was about.”

“It’s none of your business,” Colin said briskly, hoping she’d leave it at that, but not really believing she would. He took a step toward the stairwell, though, always optimistic.

“It’s about my birthday, isn’t it?” Eloise guessed, dashing in front of him with such suddenness that his toe crashed into her slipper. She winced, but Colin didn’t feel particularly sympathetic.

“No, it’s not about your birthday,” he snapped. “Your birthday isn’t even until—”

He stopped. Ah, hell.

“Until next week,” he grumbled.

She smiled slyly. Then, as if her brain had just realized it had taken a wrong turn, her lips parted with dismay as she mentally backed up and headed in another direction. “So,” she continued, moving slightly so that she better blocked his path, “if you didn’t go over there to discuss my birthday—and there’s nothing you could say now that would convince me you did—why did you go see Penelope?”

“Is nothing private in this world?”

“Not in this family.”

Colin decided that his best bet was to adopt his usual sunny persona, even though he didn’t feel the least bit charitable toward her at the moment, and so he slapped on the smoothest and easiest of his smiles, quirked his head to the side, and asked, “Do I hear Mother calling my name?”

“I didn’t hear a thing,” Eloise said pertly, “and what is wrong with you? You look very odd.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You look as if you’ve been to the dentist.”

His voice descended into a mutter. “It’s always nice to receive compliments from family.”

“If you can’t trust your family to be honest with you,” she volleyed, “who can you trust?”

He leaned fluidly back against the wall, crossing his arms. “I prefer flattery to honesty.”

“No, you don’t.”

Dear God, he wanted to smack her. He hadn’t done that since he was twelve. And he’d been horsewhipped for it. The only time he could recall his father laying a hand on him.

“What I want,” Colin returned, arching one brow, “is an immediate cessation of this conversation.”

“What you want,” Eloise needled, “is for me to stop asking you why you went to see Penelope Featherington, but I think we both know that isn’t likely to occur.”

And that was when he knew it. Knew it deep in his bones, from his head to his toes, his heart to his mind that his sister was Lady Whistledown. All of the pieces fit. There was no one more stubborn and bullheaded, no one who could—or would—take the time to get to the bottom of every last piece of gossip and innuendo.

When Eloise wanted something, she didn’t stop until she had it firmly in her grasp. It wasn’t about money, or greed, or material goods. With her it was about knowledge. She liked knowing things, and she’d needle and needle and needle until you’d told her exactly what she wanted to hear.

It was a miracle no one had found her out sooner.

Out of nowhere he said, “I need to talk to you.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her into the nearest room, which happened to be her own.

“Colin!” she shrieked, trying unsuccessfully to shake him off. “What are you doing?”

He slammed the door shut, let go of her, and crossed his arms, his stance wide, his expression menacing.

“Colin?” she repeated, her voice dubious. “I know what you’ve been up to.”

“What I’ve been—”

And then, damn her, she started laughing.

“Eloise!” he boomed. “I’m talking to you!”

“Clearly,” she just barely managed to get out.

He held his ground, glaring at her.

She was looking away, nearly doubled over with laughter. Finally, she said, “What are you—”

But then she looked at him again and even though she’d tried to keep her mouth shut, she exploded again.

If she’d been drinking something, Colin thought without a trace of humor, it would have come out her nose. “What the hell is the matter with you?” he snapped.

That finally got her attention. He didn’t know whether it was his tone of voice or maybe his use of profanity, but she sobered in an instant.

“My word,” she said softly, “you’re serious.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“No,” Eloise said. “Although you did at first. I’m sorry, Colin, but it’s just not like you to be glowering and yelling and all that. You looked rather like Anthony.”

“You—”

“Actually,” she said, giving him a look that was not nearly as wary as it should have been, “you looked more like yourself, trying to imitate Anthony.”

He was going to kill her. Right here in her room, in his mother’s house, he was going to commit sororicide.

“Colin?” she asked hesitantly, as if she’d just finally noticed that he had long since passed angry on his way to furious.

“Sit. Down.” He jerked his head toward a chair. “Now.”

“Are you all right?”

“SIT DOWN!” he roared.

And she did. With alacrity. “I can’t remember the last time you raised your voice,” she whispered.

“I can’t remember the last time I had cause to.”

“What’s wrong?”

He decided he might as well just come out and say it.

“Colin?”

“I know you’re Lady Whistledown.”

“Whaaaaat?”

“There’s no use denying it. I’ve seen—”

Eloise jumped to her feet. “Except that it’s not true!”

Suddenly he no longer felt quite so angry. Instead he felt tired, old. “Eloise, I’ve seen the proof.”

“What proof?” she asked, her voice rising with disbelief. “How can there be proof of something that isn’t true?”

He grabbed one of her hands. “Look at your fingers.”

She did so. “What about them?”

“Inkstains.”

Her mouth fell open. “From that you’ve deduced that I’m Lady Whistledown?”

“Why are they there, then?”

“You’ve never used a quill?”

“Eloise . . .” There was a great deal of warning in his voice.

“I don’t have to tell you why I have inkstains on my fingers.”

He said her name again.

“I don’t,” she protested. “I owe you no—oh, very well, fine.” She crossed her arms mutinously. “I write letters.”

He shot her an extremely disbelieving look.

“I do!” she protested. “Every day. Sometimes two in a day when Francesca is away. I’m quite a loyal correspondent. You should know. I’ve written enough letters with your name on the envelope, although I doubt half of them ever reached you.”

“Letters?” he asked, his voice full of doubt . . . and derision. “For God’s sake, Eloise, do you really think that will wash? Who the devil are you writing so many letters to?”

She blushed. Really, truly, deeply blushed. “It’s none of your business.”

He would have been intrigued by her reaction if he still weren’t so sure that she was lying about being Lady Whistledown. “For God’s sake, Eloise,” he bit off, “who is going to believe that you’re writing letters every day? I certainly don’t.”

She glared at him, her dark gray eyes flashing with fury. “I don’t care what you think,” she said in a very low voice. “No, that’s not true. I am furious that you don’t believe me.”

“You’re not giving me much to believe in,” he said wearily.

She stood, walked over to him, and poked him in the chest. Hard. “You are my brother,” she spat out. “You should believe me unquestioningly. Love me unconditionally. That’s what it means to be family.”

“Eloise,” he said, her name coming out really as nothing more than a sigh.

“Don’t try to make excuses now.”

“I wasn’t.”

“That’s even worse!” She stalked to the door. “You should be on your hands and knees, begging me for forgiveness.”

He hadn’t thought he had it in him to smile, but somehow that did it for him. “Now, that doesn’t really seem in keeping with my character, does it?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but the sound that came out was not precisely English. All she managed was something along the lines of, “Ooooooooh,” in an extremely irate voice, and then she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Colin slouched into a chair, wondering when she’d realize that she’d left him in her own bedchamber.

The irony was, he reflected, possibly the only bright spot in an otherwise miserable day.

Chapter 10

Dear Reader—

It is with a surprisingly sentimental heart that I write these words. After eleven years of chronicling the lives and times of the beau monde, This Author is putting down her pen.

Although Lady Danbury’s challenge was surely the catalyst for the retirement, in truth the blame cannot be placed (entirely) upon that countess’s shoulders. The column has grown wearisome of late, less fulfilling to write, and perhaps less entertaining to read. This Author needs a change. It is not so difficult to fathom. Eleven years is a long time.

And in truth, the recent renewal of interest in This Author’s identity has grown disturbing. Friends are turning against friends, brothers against sisters, all in the futile attempt to solve an unsolvable secret. Furthermore, the sleuthing of the ton has grown downright dangerous. Last week it was Lady Blackwood’s twisted ankle, this week’s injury apparently belongs to Hyacinth Bridgerton, who was slightly hurt at Saturday’s soirée held at the London home of Lord and Lady Riverdale. (It has not escaped This Author’s notice that Lord Riverdale is Lady Danbury’s nephew.) Miss Hyacinth must have suspected someone in attendance, because she sustained her injuries while falling into the library after the door was opened while she had her ear pressed up to the wood.

Listening at doors, chasing down delivery boys—and these are only the tidbits that have reached This Author’s ears! What has London Society come to? This Author assures you, Dear Reader, that she never once listened at a door in all eleven years of her career. All gossip in this column was come by fairly, with no tools or tricks other than keen eyes and ears.

I bid you au revoir, London! It has been a pleasure to serve you.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 19 APRIL 1824

It was, not surprisingly, the talk of the Macclesfield ball.

“Lady Whistledown has retired!”

“Can you believe it?”

“What will I read with my breakfast?”

“How will I know what happened if I miss a party?”

“We’ll never find out who she is now!”

“Lady Whistledown has retired!”

One woman fainted, nearly cracking her head against the side of a table as she slumped gracelessly to the floor. Apparently, she had not read that morning’s column and thus heard the news for the first time right there at the Macclesfield ball. She was revived by smelling salts but then quickly swooned again.

“She’s a faker,” Hyacinth Bridgerton muttered to Felicity Featherington as they stood in a small group with the Dowager Lady Bridgerton and Penelope. Penelope was officially attending as Felicity’s chaperone due to their mother’s decision to remain home with an upset stomach.

“The first faint was real,” Hyacinth explained. “Anyone could tell that by the clumsy way she fell. But this . . .” Her hand flicked toward the lady on the floor with a gesture of disgust. “No one swoons like a ballet dancer. Not even ballet dancers.”

Penelope had overheard the entire conversation, as Hyacinth was directly to her left, and so she murmured, “Have you ever swooned?” all the while keeping her eyes on the unfortunate woman, who was now coming awake with a delicate fluttering of eyelashes as the smelling salts were once again wafted under her nose.

“Absolutely not!” Hyacinth replied, with no small measure of pride. “Swoons are for the tenderhearted and foolish,” she added. “And if Lady Whistledown were still writing, mark my words, she would say the exact same thing in her next column.”

“Alas, there are no words to mark anymore,” Felicity answered with a sad sigh.

Lady Bridgerton agreed. “It’s the end of an era,” she said. “I feel quite bereft without her.”

“Well, it’s not as if we’ve had to go more than eighteen hours without her yet,” Penelope felt compelled to point out. “We did receive a column this morning. What is there yet to feel bereft about?”

“It’s the principle of it,” Lady Bridgerton said with a sigh. “If this were an ordinary Monday, I would know that I’d receive a new report on Wednesday. But now . . .”

Felicity actually sniffled. “Now we’re lost,” she said.

Penelope turned to her sister in disbelief. “Surely you’re being a little melodramatic.”

Felicity’s overblown shrug was worthy of the stage. “Am I? Am I?”

Hyacinth gave her a sympathetic pat on the back. “I don’t think you are, Felicity. I feel precisely the same way.”

“It’s only a gossip column,” Penelope said, looking around for any sign of sanity in her companions. Surely they realized that the world was not drawing to a close just because Lady Whistledown had decided to end her career.

“You’re right, of course,” said Lady Bridgerton, jutting her chin out and pursing her lips in a manner that was probably supposed to convey an air of practicality. “Thank you for being the voice of reason for our little party.” But then she seemed to deflate slightly, and she said, “But I must admit, I’d grown rather used to having her around. Whoever she is.”

Penelope decided it was well past time to change the topic. “Where is Eloise this evening?”

“Ill, I’m afraid. A headache,” Lady Bridgerton said, small frowns of worry creasing her otherwise unlined face. “She hasn’t been feeling the thing for almost a week now. I’m starting to grow concerned about her.”

Penelope had been staring rather aimlessly at a sconce on the wall, but her attention was immediately brought back to Lady Bridgerton. “It’s nothing serious, I hope?”

“It’s nothing serious,” Hyacinth answered, before her mother could even open her mouth. “Eloise never gets sick.”

“Which is precisely why I’m worried,” Lady Bridgerton said. “She hasn’t been eating very well.”

“That’s not true,” Hyacinth said. “Just this afternoon Wickham brought up a very heavy tray. Scones and eggs and I think I smelled gammon steak.” She gave an arch look to no one in particular. “And when Eloise left the tray out in the hall it was completely empty.”

Hyacinth Bridgerton, Penelope decided, had a surprisingly good eye for detail.

“She’s been in a bad mood,” Hyacinth continued, “since she quarreled with Colin.”

“She quarreled with Colin?” Penelope asked, an awful feeling beginning to roil her stomach. “When?”

“Sometime last week,” Hyacinth said.

WHEN? Penelope wanted to scream, but surely it would look odd if she demanded an exact day. Was it Friday? Was it?

Penelope would always remember that her first, and most probably only, kiss had occurred on a Friday.

She was strange that way. She always remembered the days of the week.

She’d met Colin on a Monday.

She’d kissed him on a Friday.

Twelve years later.

She sighed. It seemed fairly pathetic.

“Is something wrong, Penelope?” Lady Bridgerton asked.

Penelope looked at Eloise’s mother. Her blue eyes were kind and filled with concern, and there was something about the way she tilted her head to the side that made Penelope want to cry.

She was getting far too emotional these days. Crying over the tilt of a head.

“I’m fine,” she said, hoping that her smile looked true. “I’m just worried about Eloise.”

Hyacinth snorted.

Penelope decided she needed to make her escape. All these Bridgertons—well, two of them, anyway—were making her think of Colin.

Which wasn’t anything she hadn’t been doing nearly every minute of the day for the past three days. But at least that had been in private where she could sigh and moan and grumble to her heart’s content.

But this must have been her lucky night, because just then she heard Lady Danbury barking her name.

(What was her world coming to, that she considered herself lucky to be trapped in a corner with London’s most acerbic tongue?)

But Lady Danbury would provide the perfect excuse to leave her current little quartet of ladies, and besides, she was coming to realize that in a very odd way, she rather liked Lady Danbury.

“Miss Featherington! Miss Featherington!”

Felicity instantly took a step away. “I think she means you,” she whispered urgently.

“Of course she means me,” Penelope said, with just a touch of hauteur. “I consider Lady Danbury a cherished friend.”

Felicity’s eyes bugged out. “You do?”

“Miss Featherington!” Lady Danbury said, thumping her cane an inch away from Penelope’s foot as soon as she reached her side. “Not you,” she said to Felicity, even though Felicity had done nothing more than smile politely as the countess had approached. “You,” she said to Penelope.

“Er, good evening, Lady Danbury,” Penelope said, which she considered an admirable number of words under the circumstances.

“I have been looking for you all evening,” Lady D announced.

Penelope found that a trifle surprising. “You have?”

“Yes. I want to talk with you about that Whistledown woman’s last column.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” Lady Danbury grumbled. “I’d be happy to talk with someone else if you could find me a body with more than half a brain.”

Penelope choked on the beginnings of laughter as she motioned to her companions. “Er, I assure you that Lady Bridgerton—”

Lady Bridgerton was furiously shaking her head.

“She’s too busy trying to get that oversized brood of hers married off,” Lady Danbury announced. “Can’t be expected to know how to conduct a decent conversation these days.”

Penelope stole a frantic glance over at Lady Bridgerton to see if she was upset by the insult—after all, she had been trying to marry off her oversized brood for a decade now. But Lady Bridgerton didn’t look the least bit upset. In fact, she appeared to be stifling laughter.

Stifling laughter and inching away, taking Hyacinth and Felicity with her.

Sneaky little traitors.

Ah, well, Penelope shouldn’t complain. She’d wanted an escape from the Bridgertons, hadn’t she? But she didn’t particularly enjoy having Felicity and Hyacinth think they’d somehow pulled one over on her.

“They’re gone now,” Lady Danbury cackled, “and a good thing it is, too. Those two gels haven’t an intelligent thing to say between them.”

“Oh, now, that isn’t true,” Penelope felt compelled to protest. “Felicity and Hyacinth are both very bright.”

“I never said they weren’t smart,” Lady D replied acidly, “just that they haven’t an intelligent thing to say. But don’t worry,” she added, giving Penelope a reassuring—reassuring? whoever heard of Lady Danbury being reassuring?—pat on the arm. “It’s not their fault that their conversation is useless. They’ll grow out of it. People are like fine wines. If they start off good, they only get better with age.”

Penelope had actually been glancing slightly to the right of Lady Danbury’s face, peering over her shoulder at a man who she thought might be Colin (but wasn’t), but this brought her attention right back to where the countess wanted it.

“Fine wines?” Penelope echoed.

“Hmmph. And here I thought you weren’t listening.”

“No, of course I was listening.” Penelope felt her lips tugging into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I was just . . . distracted.”

“Looking for that Bridgerton boy, no doubt.”

Penelope gasped.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked. It’s written all over your face. I’m just surprised he hasn’t noticed.”

“I imagine he has,” Penelope mumbled.

“Has he? Hmmph.” Lady Danbury frowned, the corners of her mouth spilling into long vertical wrinkles on either side of her chin. “Doesn’t speak well of him that he hasn’t done anything about it.”

Penelope’s heart ached. There was something oddly sweet about the old lady’s faith in her, as if men like Colin fell in love with women like Penelope on a regular basis. Penelope had had to beg him to kiss her, for heaven’s sake. And look how that had ended up. He’d left the house in a fit of temper and they hadn’t spoken for three days.

“Well, don’t worry over him,” Lady Danbury said quite suddenly. “We’ll find you someone else.”

Penelope delicately cleared her throat. “Lady Danbury, have you made me your project?”

The old lady beamed, her smile a bright and glowing streak in her wrinkled face. “Of course! I’m surprised it has taken you so long to figure it out.”

“But why?” Penelope asked, truly unable to fathom it.

Lady Danbury sighed. The sound wasn’t sad—more wistful, really. “Would you mind if we sat down for a spell? These old bones aren’t what they used to be.”

“Of course,” Penelope said quickly, feeling terrible that she’d never once considered Lady Danbury’s age as they stood there in the stuffy ballroom. But the countess was so vibrant; it was difficult to imagine her ailing or weak.

“Here we are,” Penelope said, taking her arm and leading her to a nearby chair. Once Lady Danbury was settled, Penelope took a seat beside her. “Are you more comfortable now? Would you like something to drink?”

Lady Danbury nodded gratefully, and Penelope signaled to a footman to bring them two glasses of lemonade, since she didn’t want to leave the countess while she was looking so pale.

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” Lady Danbury told her once the footman had hied off to the refreshment table.

“None of us are,” Penelope replied. It could have been a flip comment, but it was spoken with wry warmth, and somehow Penelope thought that Lady Danbury would appreciate the sentiment.

She was right. Lady D chuckled and sent Penelope an appreciative glance before saying, “The older I get, the more I realize that most of the people in this world are fools.”

“You’re only just figuring that out now?” Penelope asked, not to mock, but rather because, given Lady Danbury’s usual demeanor, it was difficult to believe that she hadn’t reached that conclusion years ago.

Lady Danbury laughed heartily. “No, sometimes I think I knew that before I was born. What I’m realizing now is that it’s time I did something about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t care less what happens to the fools of this world, but the people like you”—lacking a handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes with her fingers—“well, I’d like to see you settled.”

For several seconds, Penelope did nothing but stare at her. “Lady Danbury,” she said carefully, “I very much appreciate the gesture . . . and the sentiment . . . but you must know that I am not your responsibility.”

“Of course I know that,” Lady Danbury scoffed. “Have no fear, I feel no responsibility to you. If I did, this wouldn’t be half so much fun.”

Penelope knew she sounded the veriest ninny, but all she could think to say was, “I don’t understand.”

Lady Danbury held silent while the footmen returned with their lemonade, then began speaking once she had taken several small sips. “I like you, Miss Featherington. I don’t like a lot of people. It’s as simple as that. And I want to see you happy.”

“But I am happy,” Penelope said, more out of reflex than anything else.

Lady Danbury raised one arrogant brow—an expression that she did to perfection. “Are you?” she murmured.

Was she? What did it mean, that she had to stop and think about the answer? She wasn’t unhappy, of that she was sure. She had wonderful friends, a true confidante in her younger sister Felicity, and if her mother and older sisters weren’t women she’d have chosen as close friends—well, she still loved them. And she knew they loved her.

Hers wasn’t such a bad lot. Her life lacked drama and excitement, but she was content.

But contentment wasn’t the same thing as happiness, and she felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest as she realized that she could not answer Lady Danbury’s softly worded question in the affirmative.

“I’ve raised my family,” Lady Danbury said. “Four children, and they all married well. I even found a bride for my nephew, who, truth be told”—she leaned in and whispered the last three words, giving Penelope the impression that she was about to divulge a state secret—“I like better than my own children.”

Penelope couldn’t help but smile. Lady Danbury looked so furtive, so naughty. It was rather cute, actually.

“It may surprise you,” Lady Danbury continued, “but by nature I’m a bit of a meddler.”

Penelope kept her expression scrupulously even.

“I find myself at loose ends,” Lady Danbury said, holding up her hands as if in surrender. “I’d like to see one last person happily settled before I go.”

“Don’t talk that way, Lady Danbury,” Penelope said, impulsively reaching out and taking her hand. She gave it a little squeeze. “You’ll outlive us all, I am certain.”

“Pfffft, don’t be silly.” Lady Danbury’s tone was dismissive, but she made no move to remove her hand from Penelope’s grasp. “I’m not being depressive,” she added. “I’m just realistic. I’ve passed seventy years of age, and I’m not going to tell you how many years ago that was. I haven’t much time left in this world, and that doesn’t bother me one bit.”

Penelope hoped she would be able to face her own mortality with the same equanimity.

“But I like you, Miss Featherington. You remind me of myself. You’re not afraid to speak your mind.”

Penelope could only look at her in shock. She’d spent the last ten years of her life never quite saying what she wanted to say. With people she knew well she was open and honest and even sometimes a little funny, but among strangers her tongue was quite firmly tied.

She remembered a masquerade ball she’d once attended. She’d attended many masquerade balls, actually, but this one had been unique because she’d actually found a costume—nothing special, just a gown styled as if from the 1600s—in which she’d truly felt her identity was hidden. It had probably been the mask. It was overly large and covered almost all of her face.

She had felt transformed. Suddenly free of the burden of being Penelope Featherington, she felt a new personality coming to the fore. It wasn’t as if she had been putting on false airs; rather, it was more like her true self—the one she didn’t know how to show to anyone she didn’t know well—had finally broken loose.

She’d laughed; she’d joked. She’d even flirted.

And she’d sworn that the following night, when the costumes were all put away and she was once again attired in her finest evening dress, she’d remember how to be herself.

But it hadn’t happened. She’d arrived at the ball and she’d nodded and smiled politely and once again found herself standing near the perimeter of the room, quite literally a wallflower.

It seemed that being Penelope Featherington meant something. Her lot had been cast years ago, during that first awful season when her mother had insisted she make her debut even though Penelope had begged otherwise. The pudgy girl. The awkward girl. The one always dressed in colors that didn’t suit her. It didn’t matter that she’d slimmed and grown graceful and finally thrown out all of her yellow dresses. In this world—the world of London society and the ton—she would always be the same old Penelope Featherington.

It was her own fault just as much as anyone else’s. A vicious circle, really. Every time Penelope stepped into a ballroom, and she saw all those people who had known her for so long, she felt herself folding up inside, turning into the shy, awkward girl of years gone past, rather than the self-assured woman she liked to think she’d become—at least in her heart.

“Miss Featherington?” came Lady Danbury’s soft—and surprisingly gentle—voice. “Is something wrong?”

Penelope knew she took longer than she should have to reply, but somehow she needed a few seconds to find her voice. “I don’t think I know how to speak my mind,” she finally said, turning to look at Lady Danbury only as she uttered the final words of the sentence. “I never know what to say to people.”

“You know what to say to me.”

“You’re different.”

Lady Danbury threw her head back and laughed. “If ever there was an understatement . . . Oh, Penelope—I hope you don’t mind if I call you by your given name—if you can speak your mind to me, you can speak it to anyone. Half the grown men in this room run cowering into corners the minute they see me coming.”

“They just don’t know you,” Penelope said, patting her on the hand.

“And they don’t know you, either,” Lady Danbury quite pointedly replied.

“No,” Penelope said, a touch of resignation in her voice, “they don’t.”

“I’d say that it was their loss, but that would be rather cavalier of me,” Lady Danbury said. “Not to them, but to you, because as often as I call them all fools—and I do call them fools often, as I’m sure you know—some of them are actually rather decent people, and it’s a crime they haven’t gotten to know you. I—Hmmm . . . I wonder what is going on.”

Penelope found herself unaccountably sitting up a little straighter. She asked Lady Danbury, “What do you mean?” but it was clear that something was afoot. People were whispering and motioning to the small dais where the musicians were seated.

“You there!” Lady Danbury said, poking her cane into the hip of a nearby gentleman. “What is going on?”

“Cressida Twombley wants to make some sort of announcement,” he said, then quickly stepped away, presumably to avoid any further conversation with Lady Danbury or her cane.

“I hate Cressida Twombley,” Penelope muttered.

Lady Danbury choked on a bit of laughter. “And you say you don’t know how to speak your mind. Don’t keep me in suspense. Why do you detest her so?”

Penelope shrugged. “She’s always behaved quite badly toward me.”

Lady Danbury nodded knowingly. “All bullies have a favorite victim.”

“It’s not so bad now,” Penelope said. “But back when we were both out—when she was still Cressida Cowper—she never could resist the chance to torment me. And people . . . well . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“No, please,” Lady Danbury said, “do go on.”

Penelope sighed. “It’s nothing, really. Just that I’ve noticed that people don’t often rush to another’s defense. Cressida was popular—at least with a certain set—and she was rather frightening to the other girls our age. No one dared go against her. Well, almost no one.”

That got Lady Danbury’s attention, and she smiled. “Who was your champion, Penelope?”

“Champions, actually,” Penelope replied. “The Bridgertons always came to my aid. Anthony Bridgerton once gave her the cut direct and took me in to dinner, and”—her voice rose with remembered excitement—“he really shouldn’t have done so. It was a formal dinner party, and he was supposed to escort in some marchioness, I think.” She sighed, treasuring the memory. “It was lovely.”

“He’s a good man, that Anthony Bridgerton.”

Penelope nodded. “His wife told me that that was the day she fell in love with him. When she saw him being my hero.”

Lady Danbury smiled. “And has the younger Mr. Bridgerton ever rushed to your aid?”

“Colin, you mean?” Penelope didn’t even wait for Lady Danbury’s nod before adding, “Of course, although never with quite so much drama. But I must say, as nice as it is that the Bridgertons are so supportive. . . .”

“What is it, Penelope?” Lady Danbury asked.

Penelope sighed again. It seemed a night for sighs. “I just wish they didn’t have to defend me so often. You’d think I could defend myself. Or at least comport myself in such a manner so that no defending was necessary.”

Lady Danbury patted her hand. “I think you get on a great deal better than you think you do. And as for that Cressida Twombley . . .” Lady Danbury’s face soured with distaste. “Well, she got her just desserts, if you ask me. Although,” she added sharply, “people don’t ask me as often as they should.”

Penelope could not quite suppress a little snort of laughter.

“Look where she is now,” Lady Danbury said sharply. “Widowed and without even a fortune to show for it. She married that old lecher Horace Twombley and it turned out he’d managed to fool everyone into thinking he had money. Now she has nothing but fading good looks.”

Honesty compelled Penelope to say, “She is still quite attractive.”

“Hmmph. If you like flashy women.” Lady Danbury’s eyes narrowed. “There is something far too obvious about that woman.”

Penelope looked toward the dais, where Cressida was waiting, standing there with a surprising amount of patience while the ballroom quieted down. “I wonder what she is going to say.”

“Nothing that could possibly interest me,” Lady Danbury retorted. “I—Oh.” She stopped, and her lips curved into the oddest of expressions, a little bit frown, a little bit smile.

“What is it?” Penelope asked. She craned her neck to try to see Lady Danbury’s line of vision, but a rather portly gentleman was blocking her way.

“Your Mr. Bridgerton is approaching,” Lady Danbury said, the smile edging out the frown. “And he looks quite determined.”

Penelope immediately twisted her head around.

“For the love of God, girl, don’t look!” Lady Danbury exclaimed, jamming her elbow into Penelope’s upper arm. “He’ll know you’re interested.”

“I don’t think there’s much of a chance he hasn’t figured that out already,” Penelope mumbled.

And then there he was, standing splendidly in front of her, looking like some handsome god, deigning to grace earth with his presence. “Lady Danbury,” he said, executing a smooth and graceful bow. “Miss Featherington.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Lady Danbury said, “how nice to see you.”

Colin looked to Penelope.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she murmured, not knowing what else to say. What did one say to a man one had recently kissed? Penelope certainly had no experience in that area. Not to mention the added complication of his storming out of the house once they were through.

“I’d hoped . . .” Colin began, then stopped and frowned, looking up toward the dais. “What is everyone looking at?”

“Cressida Twombley has some sort of announcement,” Lady Danbury said.

Colin’s face slid into a vaguely annoyed frown. “Can’t imagine what she has to say that I’d want to listen to,” he muttered.

Penelope couldn’t help but grin. Cressida Twombley was considered a leader in society, or at least she had been when she’d been young and unmarried, but the Bridgertons had never liked her, and somehow that had always made Penelope feel a little better.

Just then a trumpet blared, and the room fell silent as everyone turned their attention to the Earl of Macclesfield, who was standing on the dais next to Cressida, looking vaguely uncomfortable with all the attention.

Penelope smiled. She’d been told the earl had once been a terrible rake, but now he was a rather scholarly sort, devoted to his family. He was still handsome enough to be a rake, though. Almost as handsome as Colin.

But only almost. Penelope knew she was biased, but it was difficult to imagine any creature quite as magnetically good-looking as Colin when he was smiling.

“Good evening,” the earl said loudly.

“Good evening to you!” came a drunken shout from the back of the room.

The earl gave a good-natured nod, a tolerant half-smile playing along his lips. “My, er, esteemed guest here”—he motioned to Cressida—“would like to make an announcement. So if you would all give your attention to the lady beside me, I give you Lady Twombley.”

A low ripple of whispers spread across the room as Cressida stepped forward, nodding regally at the crowd. She waited for the room to fall into stark silence, and then she said, “Ladies and gentleman, thank you so much for taking time out of your festivities to lend me your attention.”

“Hurry up with it!” someone shouted, probably the same person who had yelled good evening to the earl.

Cressida ignored the interruption. “I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer continue the deception that has ruled my life for the last eleven years.”

The ballroom was rocked with the low buzz of whispers. Everyone knew what she was going to say, and yet no one could believe it was actually true.

“Therefore,” Cressida continued, her voice growing in volume, “I have decided to reveal my secret.

“Ladies and gentleman, I am Lady Whistledown.”

Chapter 11

Colin couldn’t remember the last time he’d entered a ballroom with quite so much apprehension.

The last few days had not been among his best. He’d been in a bad mood, which had only been worsened by the fact that he was rather renowned for his good humor, which meant that everyone had felt compelled to comment on his foul disposition.

There was nothing worse for a bad mood than being subjected to constant queries of, “Why are you in such a bad mood?”

His family had stopped asking after he’d actually snarled—snarled!—at Hyacinth when she’d asked him to accompany her to the theater the following week.

Colin hadn’t even been aware that he knew how to snarl.

He was going to have to apologize to Hyacinth, which was going to be a chore, since Hyacinth never accepted apologies gracefully—at least not those that came from fellow Bridgertons.

But Hyacinth was the least of his problems. Colin groaned. His sister wasn’t the only person who deserved his apology.

And that was why his heart was beating with this strange, nervous, and completely unprecedented rapidity as he entered the Macclesfield ballroom. Penelope would be here. He knew she’d be here because she always attended the major balls, even if she was now most often doing so as her sister’s chaperone.

There was something quite humbling in feeling nervous about seeing Penelope. Penelope was . . . Penelope. It was almost as if she’d always been there, smiling politely at the perimeter of a ballroom. And he’d taken her for granted, in a way. Some things didn’t change, and Penelope was one of them.

Except she had changed.

Colin didn’t know when it had happened, or even if anyone other than himself had noticed it, but Penelope Featherington was not the same woman he used to know.

Or maybe she was, and he had changed.

Which made him feel even worse, because if that was the case, then Penelope had been interesting and lovely and kissable years ago, and he hadn’t the maturity to notice.

No, better to think that Penelope had changed. Colin had never been a great fan of self-flagellation.

Whatever the case, he needed to make his apology, and he needed to do it soon. He had to apologize for the kiss, because she was a lady and he was (most of the time, at least) a gentleman. And he had to apologize for behaving like a raving idiot afterward, because it was simply the right thing to do.

God only knew what Penelope thought he thought of her now.

It wasn’t difficult to find her once he entered the ballroom. He didn’t bother to look among the dancing couples (which angered him—why didn’t the other men think to ask her to dance?). Rather, he focused his attention along the walls, and sure enough, there she was, seated on a long bench next to—oh, God—Lady Danbury.

Well, there was nothing else to do but walk right up. The way Penelope and the old busybody were clutching each other’s hands, he couldn’t expect Lady Danbury to disappear anytime soon.

When he reached the pair of ladies, he turned first to Lady Danbury and swept into an elegant bow. “Lady Danbury,” he said, before turning his attention to Penelope. “Miss Featherington.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Lady Danbury said, with a surprising lack of sharpness in her voice, “how nice to see you.”

He nodded, then looked to Penelope, wondering what she was thinking, and whether he’d be able to see it in her eyes.

But whatever she was thinking—or feeling—it was hidden under a rather thick layer of nervousness. Or maybe the nervousness was all she was feeling. He couldn’t really blame her. The way he’d stormed out of her drawing room without an explanation . . . she had to feel confused. And it was his experience that confusion invariably led to apprehension.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she finally murmured, her entire bearing scrupulously polite.

He cleared his throat. How to extract her from Lady Danbury’s clutches? He’d really rather not humble himself in front of the nosy old countess.

“I’d hoped . . .” he began, intending to say that he’d hoped to have a private word with Penelope. Lady Danbury would be ferociously curious, but there was really no other course of action, and it would probably do her good to be left in the dark for once.

But just as his lips were forming his query, he realized that something strange was afoot in the Macclesfield ballroom. People were whispering and pointing toward the small orchestra, whose members had recently laid their instruments down. Furthermore, neither Penelope nor Lady Danbury were paying him the least attention.

“What is everyone looking at?” Colin asked.

Lady Danbury didn’t even bother looking back at him as she replied, “Cressida Twombley has some sort of announcement.”

How annoying. He’d never liked Cressida. She’d been mean and petty when she was Cressida Cowper, and she was meaner and pettier as Cressida Twombley. But she was beautiful, and she was intelligent, in a rather cruel sort of way, and so she was still considered a leader in certain society circles.

“Can’t imagine what she has to say that I’d want to listen to,” Colin muttered.

He spied Penelope trying to stifle a smile and flashed her an I-caught-you sort of look. But it was the sort of I-caught-you look that also said And-I-agree-completely.

“Good evening!” came the loud voice of the Earl of Macclesfield.

“Good evening to you!” replied some drunken fool in the back. Colin twisted to see who it was, but the crowd had grown too thick.

The earl spoke some more, then Cressida opened her mouth, at which point Colin ceased paying attention. Whatever Cressida had to say, it wasn’t going to help him solve his main problem: figuring out exactly how he was going to apologize to Penelope. He’d tried rehearsing the words in his mind, but they never sounded quite right, and so he was hoping his famously glib tongue would lead him in the right direction when the time came. Surely she’d understand—

“Whistledown!”

Colin only caught the last word of Cressida’s monologue, but there was no way he could have missed the massive collective indrawn breath that swept the ballroom.

Followed by the flurry of harsh, urgent whispers one generally only hears after someone is caught in a very embarrassing, very public compromising position.

“What?” he blurted out, turning to Penelope, who’d gone white as a sheet. “What did she say?”

But Penelope was speechless.

He looked to Lady Danbury, but the old lady had her hand over her mouth and looked as if she might possibly swoon.

Which was somewhat alarming, as Colin would have bet large sums of money that Lady Danbury had never once swooned in all of her seventy-odd years.

“What?” he demanded again, hoping one of them would break free of her stupor.

“It can’t be true,” Lady Danbury finally whispered, her mouth slack even as she spoke the words. “I don’t believe it.”

“What?”

She pointed toward Cressida, her extended index finger quivering in the flickering candlelight. “That lady is not Lady Whistledown.”

Colin’s head snapped back and forth. To Cressida. To Lady Danbury. To Cressida. To Penelope. “She’s Lady Whistledown?” he finally blurted out.

“So she says,” Lady Danbury replied, doubt written all over her face.

Colin tended to agree with her. Cressida Twombley was the last person he’d have pegged as Lady Whistledown. She was smart; there was no denying that. But she wasn’t clever, and she wasn’t terribly witty unless she was poking fun at others. Lady Whistledown had a rather cutting sense of humor, but with the exception of her infamous comments on fashion, she never seemed to pick on the less popular members of society.

When all was said and done, Colin had to say that Lady Whistledown had rather good taste in people.

“I can’t believe this,” Lady Danbury said with a loud snort of disgust. “If I’d dreamed this would happen, I would never have made that beastly challenge.”

“This is horrible,” Penelope whispered.

Her voice was quavering, and it made Colin uneasy. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think I am. I feel rather ill, actually.”

“Do you want to leave?”

Penelope shook her head again. “But I’ll sit right here, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” he said, keeping a concerned eye on her. She was still terribly pale.

“Oh, for the love of . . .” Lady Danbury blasphemed, which took Colin by surprise, but then she actually swore, which he thought might very well have tilted the planet on its axis.

“Lady Danbury?” he asked, gaping.

“She’s coming this way,” she muttered, jerking her head to the right. “I should have known I’d not escape.”

Colin looked to his left. Cressida was trying to make her way through the crowd, presumably to confront Lady Danbury and collect her prize. She was, naturally, being accosted at every turn by fellow partygoers. She seemed to be reveling in the attention—no big surprise there; Cressida had always reveled in attention—but she also seemed rather determined to reach Lady Danbury’s side.

“There’s no way to avoid her, I’m afraid,” Colin said to Lady Danbury.

“I know,” she grumbled. “I’ve been trying to avoid her for years, and I’ve never succeeded. I thought I was so clever.” She looked to Colin, shaking her head with disgust. “I thought it would be such fun to rout out Lady Whistledown.”

“Er, well, it was fun,” Colin said, not really meaning it.

Lady Danbury jabbed him in the leg with her cane. “It’s not the least bit fun, you foolish boy. Now look what I have to do!” She waved the cane toward Cressida, who was drawing ever closer. “I never dreamed I’d have to deal with the likes of her.”

“Lady Danbury,” Cressida said, swishing to a stop in front of her. “How nice to see you.”

Lady Danbury had never been known for her pleasantries, but even she outdid herself by skipping any pretense of a greeting before snapping, “I suppose you’re here to try to collect your money.”

Cressida cocked her head to the side in a very pretty, very practiced manner. “You did say you would give a thousand pounds to whomever unmasked Lady Whistledown.” She shrugged, lifting her hands in the air and then twisting them gracefully until her palms were up in a gesture of false humility. “You never stipulated that I couldn’t unmask myself.”

Lady Danbury rose to her feet, narrowed her eyes, and said, “I don’t believe it’s you.”

Colin liked to think that he was rather suave and unflappable, but even he gasped at that.

Cressida’s blue eyes blazed with fury, but she quickly regained control of her emotions and said, “I would be shocked if you did not behave with a degree of skepticism, Lady Danbury. After all, it is not your way to be trusting and gentle.”

Lady Danbury smiled. Well, perhaps not a smile, but her lips did move. “I shall take that as a compliment,” she said, “and allow you to tell me that you meant it as such.”

Colin watched the stalemate with interest—and with a growing sense of alarm—until Lady Danbury turned quite suddenly to Penelope, who had risen to her feet mere seconds after she had.

“What do you think, Miss Featherington?” Lady Danbury asked.

Penelope visibly started, her entire body jerking slightly as she stammered, “What . . . I . . . I beg your pardon?”

“What do you think?” Lady Danbury persisted. “Is Lady Twombley Lady Whistledown?”

“I—I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Oh, come, now, Miss Featherington.” Lady Danbury planted her hands on her hips and looked at Penelope with an expression that bordered on exasperation. “Surely you have an opinion on the matter.”

Colin felt himself stepping forward. Lady Danbury had no right to speak to Penelope in such a manner. And furthermore, he didn’t like the expression on Penelope’s face. She looked trapped, like a fox in a hunt, her eyes darting to him with a panic he’d never seen there before.

He’d seen Penelope uncomfortable, and he’d seen her pained, but he’d never seen her truly panicked. And then it occurred to him—she hated being the center of attention. She might poke fun at her status as a wallflower and a spinster, and she’d probably have liked a little more attention from society, but this kind of attention . . . with everyone staring at her and awaiting the merest word from her lips . . .

She was miserable.

“Miss Featherington,” Colin said smoothly, moving to her side, “you look unwell. Would you like to leave?”

“Yes,” she said, but then something strange happened.

She changed. He didn’t know how else to describe it. She simply changed. Right there, in the Macclesfield ballroom, by his side, Penelope Featherington became someone else.

Her spine stiffened, and he could swear the heat from her body increased, and she said, “No. No, I have something to say.”

Lady Danbury smiled.

Penelope looked straight at the old countess and said, “I don’t think she’s Lady Whistledown. I think she’s lying.”

Colin instinctively pulled Penelope a little closer to his side. Cressida looked as if she might go for her throat.

“I’ve always liked Lady Whistledown,” Penelope said, her chin rising until her bearing was almost regal. She looked to Cressida, and their eyes caught as she added, “And it would break my heart if she turned out to be someone like Lady Twombley.”

Colin took her hand and squeezed it. He couldn’t help himself.

“Well said, Miss Featherington!” Lady Danbury exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. “That is exactly what I was thinking, but I couldn’t find the words.” She turned to Colin with a smile. “She’s very clever, you know.”

“I know,” he replied, a strange, new pride brimming within him.

“Most people don’t notice it,” Lady Danbury said, twisting so that her words were directed to—and probably only heard by—Colin.

“I know,” he murmured, “but I do.” He had to smile at Lady Danbury’s behavior, which he was certain was chosen in part to annoy the devil out of Cressida, who did not like to be ignored.

“I will not be insulted by that . . . by that nothing!” Cressida fumed. She turned to Penelope with a seething glare and hissed, “I demand an apology.”

Penelope just nodded slowly and said, “That is your prerogative.”

And then she said nothing more.

Colin had to physically wipe the smile from his face.

Cressida clearly wanted to say more (and perhaps commit an act of violence while she was at it), but she held back, presumably because it was obvious that Penelope was among friends. She had always been renowned for her poise, however, and thus Colin was not surprised when she composed herself, turned to Lady Danbury, and said, “What do you plan to do about the thousand pounds?”

Lady Danbury looked at her for the longest second Colin had ever endured, then she turned to him—dear God, the last thing he wanted to do was get involved in this disaster—and asked, “And what do you think, Mr. Bridgerton? Is our Lady Twombley telling the truth?”

Colin gave her a practiced smile. “You must be mad if you think I’m going to offer an opinion.”

“You’re a surprisingly wise man, Mr. Bridgerton,” Lady Danbury said approvingly.

He nodded modestly, then ruined the effect by saying, “I pride myself on it.” But what the hell—it wasn’t every day a man was called wise by Lady Danbury.

Most of her adjectives, after all, were of the decidedly negative variety.

Cressida didn’t even bother to bat her eyelashes at him; as Colin had already reflected, she wasn’t stupid, just mean, and after a dozen years out in society, she had to know that he didn’t much like her and certainly wasn’t about to fall prey to her charms. Instead, she looked squarely at Lady Danbury and kept her voice evenly modulated as she asked, “What shall we do now, my lady?”

Lady Danbury’s lips pursed together until she almost appeared mouthless, then she said, “I need proof.”

Cressida blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Proof!” Lady Danbury’s cane slammed against the floor with remarkable force. “Which letter of the word did you not understand? I’m not handing over a king’s ransom without proof.”

“One thousand pounds is hardly a king’s ransom,” Cressida said, her expression growing petulant.

Lady Danbury’s eyes narrowed. “Then why are you so keen to get it?”

Cressida was silent for a moment, but there was a tightness in everything about her—her stance, her posture, the line of her jaw. Everyone knew that her husband had left her in bad financial straits, but this was the first time anyone had hinted as such to her face.

“Get me proof,” Lady Danbury said, “and I’ll give you the money.”

“Are you saying,” Cressida said (and even as he despised her, Colin was forced to admire her ability to keep her voice even), “that my word is not good enough?”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying,” Lady Danbury barked. “Good God, girl, you don’t get to be my age without being allowed to insult anyone you please.”

Colin thought he heard Penelope choking, but when he stole a glance at her, there she was at his side, avidly watching the exchange. Her brown eyes were huge and luminous in her face, and she’d regained most of the color she’d lost when Cressida had made her unexpected announcement. In fact, now Penelope looked positively intrigued by the goings-on.

“Fine,” Cressida said, her voice low and deadly. “I will bring you proof in a fortnight’s time.”

“What sort of proof?” Colin asked, then mentally kicked himself. The last thing he wanted to do was embroil himself in this mess, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

Cressida turned to him, her face remarkably placid considering the insult she’d just been dealt by Lady Danbury—before countless witnesses. “You shall know it when I deliver it,” she told him archly. And then she held out her arm, waiting for one of her minions to take it and lead her away.

Which was really quite amazing, because a young man (a besotted fool, from all appearances) materialized at her side as if she’d conjured him by the mere tilt of her arm. A moment later they were gone.

“Well,” Lady Danbury said, after everyone had stood in reflective—or maybe stunned—silence for nearly a minute. “That was unpleasant.”

“I’ve never liked her,” Colin said, to no one in particular. A small crowd had gathered around them, so his words were heard by more than Penelope and Lady Danbury, but he didn’t much care.

“Colin!”

He turned to see Hyacinth skidding through the crowd, dragging along Felicity Featherington as she barreled to his side.

“What did she say?” Hyacinth asked breathlessly. “We tried to get here sooner, but it’s been such a crush.”

“She said exactly what you would have expected her to say,” he replied.

Hyacinth pulled a face. “Men are never good for gossip. I want exact words.”

“It’s very interesting,” Penelope said suddenly.

Something about the thoughtful tone of her voice demanded attention, and in seconds the entire crowd had quieted.

“Speak up,” Lady Danbury instructed. “We’re all listening.”

Colin expected such a demand to make Penelope uncomfortable, but whatever silent infusion of confidence she’d experienced a few minutes earlier was still with her, because she stood straight and proud as she said, “Why would someone reveal herself as Lady Whistledown?”

“For the money, of course,” Hyacinth said.

Penelope shook her head. “Yes, but you’d think that Lady Whistledown would be quite wealthy by now. We’ve all been paying for her paper for years.”

“By God, she’s right!” Lady Danbury exclaimed.

“Perhaps Cressida merely sought attention,” Colin suggested. It wasn’t such an unbelievable hypothesis; Cressida had spent the bulk of her adult life trying to place herself at the center of attention.

“I’d thought of that,” Penelope allowed, “but does she really want this sort of attention? Lady Whistledown has insulted quite a few people over the years.”

“No one who means anything to me,” Colin joked. Then, when it became obvious that his companions required an explanation, he added, “Haven’t you all noticed that Lady Whistledown only insults the people who need insulting?”

Penelope cleared her throat delicately. “I have been referred to as an overripe citrus fruit.”

He waved off her concern. “Except for the bits about fashion, of course.”

Penelope must have decided not to pursue the matter any further, because all she did was give Colin a long, assessing stare before turning back to Lady Danbury and saying, “Lady Whistledown has no motive to reveal herself. Cressida obviously does.”

Lady Danbury beamed, then all at once her face scrunched into a frown. “I suppose I’ll have to give her the fortnight to come up with her ‘proof.’ Fair play and all that.”

“I, for one, will be very interested to see what she comes up with,” Hyacinth put in. She turned to Penelope and added, “I say, you’re very clever, did you know that?”

Penelope blushed modestly, then she turned to her sister and said, “We must be going, Felicity.”

“So soon?” Felicity asked, and to his horror, Colin realized that he’d mouthed the very same words.

“Mother wanted us home early,” Penelope said.

Felicity looked truly perplexed. “She did?”

“She did,” Penelope said emphatically. “And besides that, I am not feeling well.”

Felicity nodded glumly. “I shall instruct a footman to see that our carriage is brought around.”

“No, you stay,” Penelope said, placing a hand on her sister’s arm. “I will see to it.”

“I will see to it,” Colin announced. Really, what was the use of being a gentleman when ladies insisted upon doing things for themselves?

And then, before he even realized what he was doing, he’d facilitated Penelope’s departure, and she left the scene without his ever having apologized to her.

He supposed he should have deemed the evening a failure for that reason alone, but in all truth, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do so.

After all, he’d spent the better part of five minutes holding her hand.

Chapter 12

It wasn’t until Colin woke up the following morning that he realized he still hadn’t apologized to Penelope. Strictly speaking, it probably was no longer necessary that he do so; even though they’d barely spoken at the Macclesfield ball the night before, they seemed to have forged an unspoken truce. Still, Colin didn’t think he’d feel comfortable in his own skin until he spoke the words, “I’m sorry.”

It was the right thing to do.

He was a gentleman, after all.

And besides, he rather fancied seeing her that morning.

He’d gone to Number Five for breakfast with his family, but he wanted to head straight for home after seeing Penelope, so he hopped in his carriage for the trip to the Featherington home on Mount Street, even though the distance was short enough to make him feel utterly lazy for doing so.

He smiled contentedly and lay back against the squabs, watching the lovely springtime scene roll by his window. It was one of those perfect sorts of days when everything simply felt right. The sun was shining, he felt remarkably energized, he’d had an excellent morning meal . . .

Life really didn’t get better than this.

And he was going over to see Penelope.

Colin chose not to analyze why he was so eager to see her; that was the sort of thing an unmarried man of three-and-thirty didn’t generally care to think about. Instead he simply enjoyed the day—the sun, the air, even the three neat townhouses he passed on Mount Street before spying Penelope’s front door. There was nothing remotely different or original about any of them, but it was such a perfect morning that they seemed unusually charming butted up next to each other, tall and thin, and stately with their gray Portland stone.

It was a wonderful day, warm and serene, sunny and tranquil . . .

Except that just as he started to rise from his seat, a short flurry of movement across the street caught his eye.

Penelope.

She was standing on the corner of Mount and Penter streets—the far corner, the one that would be not be visible to anyone looking out a window in the Featherington home. And she was climbing into a hired hack.

Interesting.

Colin frowned, mentally smacking himself on the forehead. It wasn’t interesting. What the hell was he thinking? It wasn’t interesting at all. It might have been interesting, had she been, say, a man. Or it might have been interesting if the conveyance into which she’d just entered had been one from the Featherington mews and not some scruffy hired hack.

But no, this was Penelope, who was certainly not a man, and she was entering a carriage by herself, presumably heading to some completely unsuitable location, because if she were doing anything proper and normal, she’d be in a Featherington conveyance. Or better yet, with one of her sisters or a maid, or anyone, just not, damn it, by herself.

This wasn’t interesting, it was idiotic.

“Fool woman,” he muttered, hopping down from his carriage with every intention of dashing toward the hack, wrenching the door open, and dragging her out. But just as his right foot left the confines of his carriage, he was struck by the same madness that led him to wander the world.

Curiosity.

Several choice curses were grumbled under his breath, all of them self-directed. He couldn’t help it. It was so unlike Penelope to be taking off by herself in a hired hack; he had to know where she was going.

And so, instead of forcibly shaking some sense into her, he directed his driver to follow the hack, and they rolled north toward the busy thoroughfare of Oxford Street, where, Colin reflected, surely Penelope intended to do a bit of shopping. There could be any number of reasons she wasn’t using the Featherington carriage. Perhaps it was damaged, or one of their horses had taken ill, or Penelope was buying someone a gift and wanted to keep it a secret.

No, that wasn’t right. Penelope would never embark on a shopping expedition by herself. She would take a maid, or one of her sisters, or even one of his sisters. To stroll along Oxford Street by herself was to invite gossip. A woman alone was practically an advertisement for the next Whistledown column.

Or used to be, he supposed. It was hard to get used to a life without Whistledown. He hadn’t realized how accustomed he’d been to seeing it at his breakfast table whenever he was in town.

And speaking of Lady Whistledown, he was even more certain than ever that she was none other than his sister Eloise. He’d gone over to Number Five for breakfast with the express purpose of questioning her, only to be informed that she was still feeling poorly and would not be joining the family that morning.

It had not escaped Colin’s notice, however, that a rather hefty tray of food had been sent up to Eloise’s room. Whatever ailed his sister, it had not affected her appetite.

He hadn’t made any mention of his suspicions at the breakfast table; truly, he saw no reason to upset his mother, who would surely be horrified at the thought. It was difficult to believe, however, that Eloise—whose love of discussing scandal was eclipsed only by her thrill at discovering it—would miss the opportunity to gossip about Cressida Twombley’s revelation of the night before.

Unless Eloise was Lady Whistledown, in which case she’d be up in her room, plotting her next step.

The pieces all fit. It would have been depressing if Colin hadn’t felt so oddly thrilled at having found her out.

After they rolled along for a few minutes, he poked his head outside to make sure his driver had not lost sight of Penelope’s carriage. There she was, right in front of him. Or at least he thought it was her. Most hired hacks looked the same, so he was going to have to trust and hope that he was following the right one. But as he looked out, he realized that they’d traveled much farther east than he would have anticipated. In fact, they were just now passing Soho Street, which meant they were nearly to Tottenham Court Road, which meant—

Dear God, was Penelope taking the carriage to his house? Bedford Square was practically right around the corner.

A delicious thrill shot up his spine, because he couldn’t imagine what she was doing in this part of town if not to see him; who else would a woman like Penelope know in Bloomsbury? He couldn’t imagine that her mother allowed her to associate with people who actually worked for a living, and Colin’s neighbors, though certainly well enough born, were not of the aristocracy and rarely even of the gentry. And they all plodded off to work each day, doctoring and lawyering, or—

Colin frowned. Hard. They’d just rolled past Tottenham Court Road. What the devil was she doing this far east? He supposed her driver might not know his way around town very well and thought to take Bloomsbury Street up to Bedford Square, even though it was a bit out of the way, but—

He heard something very strange and realized it was the sound of his teeth grinding together. They’d just passed Bloomsbury Street and were presently veering right onto High Holborn.

Devil take it, they were nearly in the City. What in God’s name was Penelope planning to do in the City? It was no place for a woman. Hell, he hardly ever went there himself. The world of the ton was farther west, in the hallowed buildings of St. James’s and Mayfair. Not here in the City, with its narrow, twisting, medieval roads and rather dangerous proximity to the tenements of the East End.

Colin’s jaw dropped progressively lower as they rolled on . . . and on . . . and on . . . until he realized they were turning down Shoe Lane. He craned his head out the window. He’d only been here once before, at the age of nine when his tutor had dragged him and Benedict off to show them where the Great Fire of London had started in 1666. Colin remembered feeling vaguely disappointed when he’d learned that the culprit was a mere baker who’d not dampened the ashes in his oven properly. A fire like that should have had arson or intrigue in its origin.

A fire like that was nothing compared to the feelings coming to a boil in his chest. Penelope had better have a damned good reason for coming out here by herself. She shouldn’t be going anywhere unaccompanied, much less the City.

Then, just when Colin was convinced that Penelope was going to travel all the way to the Dover coast, the carriages crossed Fleet Street and ground to a halt. Colin held still, waiting to see what Penelope was up to even though every fiber of his being was screaming to leap out of the carriage and tackle her right there on the pavement.

Call it intuition, call it madness, but somehow he knew that if he accosted Penelope right away, he would never learn of her true purpose here near Fleet Street.

Once she was far enough away so that he could alight unnoticed, he jumped down from the carriage and followed her south toward some church that looked decidedly like a wedding cake.

“For God’s sake,” Colin muttered, completely unaware of blasphemy or puns, “now is not the time to find religion, Penelope.”

She disappeared into the church, and his legs ate up the pavement after her, slowing only when he reached the front door. He didn’t want to surprise her too quickly. Not before he found out what exactly she was doing there. His earlier words notwithstanding, he did not for one moment think that Penelope had suddenly developed a desire to extend her churchgoing habits to midweek visits.

He slipped quietly into the church, keeping his footsteps as soft as he could. Penelope was walking down the center aisle, her left hand tapping along each pew, almost as if she were . . .

Counting?

Colin frowned as she picked her pew, then scooted in until she was in the middle. She sat utterly still for a moment, then reached into her reticule and pulled out an envelope. Her head moved the teeniest bit to the left, then to the right, and Colin could easily picture her face, her dark eyes darting in either direction as she checked the room for other people. He was safe from her gaze at the back, so far in the shadows that he was practically pressed up against the wall. And besides, she seemed intent upon remaining still and quiet in her movements; she certainly hadn’t moved her head far enough to see him behind her.

Bibles and prayer books were tucked in little pockets on the backs of the pews, and Colin watched as Penelope surreptitiously slid the envelope behind one. Then she stood and edged her way out toward the center aisle.

And that was when Colin made his move.

Stepping out of the shadows, he strode purposefully toward her, taking grim satisfaction in the horror on her face when she saw him.

“Col—Col—” she gasped.

“That would be Colin,” he drawled, grasping her arm just above the elbow. His touch was light, but his grip was firm, and there was no way she could think that she might make an escape.

Smart girl that she was, she didn’t even try.

But smart girl that she was, she did attempt a play at innocence.

“Colin!” she finally managed to get out. “What a . . . what a . . .”

“Surprise?”

She gulped. “Yes.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Her eyes darted to the door, to the nave, everywhere but to the pew where she’d hidden her envelope. “I’ve—I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I’ve never been.”

Penelope’s mouth moved several times before her next words emerged. “It’s quite appropriate, actually, that you’d be here, actually, because, actually . . . uh . . . do you know the story of St. Bride’s?”

He raised one brow. “Is that where we are?”

Penelope was clearly trying for a smile, but the result was more of the openmouthed idiot sort of look. Normally this would have amused him, but he was still angry with her for taking off on her own, not giving a care to her safety and welfare.

But most of all, he was furious that she had a secret.

Not so much that she’d kept a secret. Secrets were meant to be kept, and he couldn’t blame her for that. Irrational as it was, he absolutely could not tolerate the fact that she had a secret. She was Penelope. She was supposed to be an open book. He knew her. He’d always known her.

And now it seemed he’d never known her.

“Yes,” she finally replied, her voice squeaking on the word. “It’s one of Wren’s churches, actually, you know, the ones he did after the Great Fire, they’re all over the City, and actually it’s my favorite. I do so love the steeple. Don’t you think it looks like a wedding cake?”

She was babbling. It was never a good sign when someone babbled. It generally meant they were hiding something. It was already obvious that Penelope was making an attempt at concealment, but the uncharacteristic rapidity of her words told him that her secret was exceedingly large, indeed.

He stared at her for a very long time, drawn out over many seconds just to torture her, then finally asked, “Is that why you think it’s appropriate that I’m here?”

Her face went blank.

“The wedding cake . . .” he prompted.

“Oh!” she squealed, her skin flushing a deep, guilty red. “No! Not at all! It’s just that—What I meant to say was that this is the church for writers. And publishers. I think. About the publishers, that is.”

She was flailing and she knew she was flailing. He could see it in her eyes, on her face, in the very way her hands twisted as she spoke. But she kept trying, kept attempting to keep up the pretense, and so he did nothing but give her a sardonic stare as she continued with, “But I’m sure about the writers.” And then, with a flourish that might have been triumphant if she hadn’t ruined it with a nervous swallow, “And you’re a writer!”

“So you’re saying this is my church?”

“Er . . .” Her eyes darted to her left. “Yes.”

“Excellent.”

She gulped. “It is?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, with a smooth casualness to his words that was intended to terrify her.

Her eyes darted to her left again . . . toward the pew where she’d hidden her correspondence. She’d been so good until now, keeping her attention off of her incriminating evidence. He’d almost been proud of her for it.

“My church,” he repeated. “What a lovely notion.”

Her eyes grew round, scared. “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”

He tapped his finger to his jaw, then held out his hand in a thoughtful manner. “I believe I’m developing a taste for prayer.”

“Prayer?” she echoed weakly. “You?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I . . . well . . . I . . . I . . .”

“Yes?” he queried, beginning to enjoy this in a sick sort of way. He’d never been the angry, brooding type. Clearly, he hadn’t known what he was missing. There was something rather pleasing in making her squirm. “Penelope?” he continued. “Did you have something to say?”

She swallowed. “No.”

“Good.” He smiled blandly. “Then I believe I require a few moments for myself.”

“I’m sorry?”

He stepped to his right. “I’m in a church. I believe I want to pray.”

She stepped to her left. “I beg your pardon?”

He cocked his head very slightly to the side in question. “I said that I want to pray. It wasn’t a terribly complicated sentiment.”

He could tell that she was straining hard not to rise to his bait. She was trying to smile, but her jaw was tense, and he’d wager that her teeth were going to grind themselves to powder within minutes.

“I didn’t think you were a particularly religious person,” she said.

“I’m not.” He waited for her to react, then added, “I intend to pray for you.”

She swallowed uncontrollably. “Me?” she squeaked.

“Because,” he began, unable to prevent his voice from rising in volume, “by the time I’m done, prayer is the only thing that is going to save you!”

And with that he brushed her aside and strode to where she’d hidden the envelope.

“Colin!” she yelled, running frantically after him. “No!”

He yanked the envelope out from behind the prayer book but didn’t yet look at it. “Do you want to tell me what this is?” he demanded. “Before I look myself, do you want to tell me?”

“No,” she said, her voice breaking on the word.

His heart breaking at the expression in her eyes.

“Please,” she begged him. “Please give it to me.” And then, when he did nothing but stare at her with hard, angry eyes, she whispered, “It’s mine. It’s a secret.”

“A secret worth your welfare?” he nearly roared. “Worth your life?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for a woman alone in the City? Alone anywhere?”

All she said was, “Colin, please.” She reached for the envelope, still held out of her reach.

And suddenly he didn’t know what he was doing. This wasn’t him. This insane fury, this anger—it couldn’t be his.

And yet it was.

But the troubling part was . . . it was Penelope who had made him thus. And what had she done? Traveled across London by herself? He was rather irritated at her for her lack of concern for her own safety, but that paled in comparison to the fury he felt at her keeping of secrets.

His anger was entirely unwarranted. He had no right to expect that Penelope share her secrets with him. They had no commitments to each other, nothing beyond a rather nice friendship and a single, albeit disturbingly moving, kiss. He certainly wouldn’t have shared his journals with her if she hadn’t stumbled upon them herself.

“Colin,” she whispered. “Please . . . don’t.”

She’d seen his secret writings. Why shouldn’t he see hers? Did she have a lover? Was all that nonsense about never having been kissed exactly that—nonsense?

Dear God, was this fire burning in his belly . . . jealousy?

“Colin,” she said again, choking now. She placed her hand on his, trying to prevent him from opening the envelope. Not with strength, for she could never match him on that, just with her presence.

But there was no way . . . no way he could have stopped himself at that point. He would have died before surrendering that envelope to her unopened.

He tore it open.

Penelope let out a strangled cry and ran from the church.

Colin read the words.

And then he sank to the pew, bloodless, breathless.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Oh, my God.”

By the time Penelope reached the outer steps to St. Bride’s Church, she was hysterical. Or at least as hysterical as she’d ever been. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, tears pricked her eyes, and her heart felt . . .

Well, her heart felt as if it wanted to throw up, if such a thing were possible.

How could he have done this? He’d followed her. Followed her! Why would Colin follow her? What would he have to gain? Why would he—

She suddenly looked around.

“Oh, damn!” she wailed, not caring if anyone heard her. The hack had left. She’d given specific instructions to the driver to wait for her, that she’d only be a minute, but he was nowhere in sight.

Another transgression she could lay at Colin’s door. He’d delayed her inside the church, and now the hack had left, and she was stuck here on the steps of St. Bride’s Church, in the middle of the City of London, so far from her home in Mayfair that she might as well have been in France. People were staring at her and any minute now she was sure to be accosted, because who had ever seen a gently bred lady alone in the City, much less one who was so clearly on the verge of a nervous attack?

Why why why had she been so foolish as to think that he was the perfect man? She’d spent half her life worshiping someone who wasn’t even real. Because the Colin she knew—no, the Colin she’d thought she’d known—clearly didn’t exist. And whoever this man was, she wasn’t even sure she liked him. The man she’d loved so faithfully over the years never would have behaved like this. He wouldn’t have followed her—Oh, very well, he would have, but only to assure himself of her safety. But he wouldn’t have been so cruel, and he certainly wouldn’t have opened her private correspondence.

She had read two pages of his journal, that was true, but they hadn’t been in a sealed envelope!

She sank onto the steps and sat down, the stone cool even through the fabric of her dress. There was little she could do now besides sit here and wait for Colin. Only a fool would take off on foot by herself so far from home. She supposed she could hail a hack on Fleet Street, but what if they were all occupied, and besides, was there really any point in running from Colin? He knew where she lived, and unless she decided to run to the Orkney Islands, she wasn’t likely to escape a confrontation.

She sighed. Colin would probably find her in the Orkneys, seasoned traveler that he was. And she didn’t even want to go to the Orkneys.

She choked back a sob. Now she wasn’t even making sense. Why was she fixated on the Orkney Islands?

And then there was Colin’s voice behind her, clipped and so very cold. “Get up,” was all he said.

She did, not because he’d ordered her to (or at least that was what she told herself), and not because she was afraid of him, but rather because she couldn’t sit on the steps of St. Bride’s forever, and even if she wanted nothing more than to hide herself from Colin for the next six months, at the moment he was her only safe means home.

He jerked his head toward the street. “Into the carriage.”

She went, climbing up as she heard Colin give the driver her address and then instruct him to “take the long way.”

Oh, God.

They’d been moving a good thirty seconds before he handed her the single sheet of paper that had been folded into the envelope she’d left in the church. “I believe this is yours,” he said.

She gulped and looked down, not that she needed to. She already had the words memorized. She’d written and rewritten them so many times the previous night, she didn’t think they’d ever escape her memory.

There is nothing I despise more than a gentleman who thinks it amusing to give a lady a condescending pat on the hand as he murmurs, “It is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.” And indeed, because I feel one should always support one’s words with one’s actions, I endeavor to keep my opinions and decisions steadfast and true.

Which is why, Gentle Reader, when I wrote my column of 19 April, I truly intended it to be my last. However, events entirely beyond my control (or indeed beyond my approval) force me to put my pen to paper one last time.

Ladies and Gentleman, This Author is NOT Lady Cressida Twombley. She is nothing more than a scheming imposter, and it would break my heart to see my years of hard work attributed to one such as her.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 21 APRIL 1824

Penelope refolded the paper with great precision, using the time to try to compose herself and figure out what on earth she was supposed to say at a moment like that. Finally, she attempted a smile, didn’t quite meet his eyes, and joked, “Did you guess?”

He didn’t say anything, so she was forced to look up. She immediately wished she hadn’t. Colin looked completely unlike himself. The easy smile that always tugged at his lips, the good humor forever lurking in his eyes—they were all gone, replaced by harsh lines and cold, pure ice.

The man she knew, the man she’d loved for so very long—she didn’t know who he was anymore.

“I’ll take that as a no,” she said shakily.

“Do you know what I am trying to do right now?” he asked, his voice startling and loud against the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves.

She opened her mouth to say no, but one look at his face told her he didn’t desire an answer, so she held her tongue.

“I am trying to decide what, precisely, I am most angry with you about,” he said. “Because there are so many things—so very many things—that I am finding it extraordinarily difficult to focus upon just one.”

It was on the tip of Penelope’s tongue to suggest something—her deception was a likely place to start—but on second thought, now seemed an excellent time to hold her counsel.

“First of all,” he said, the terribly even tone of his voice suggesting that he was trying very hard to keep his temper in check (and this was, in and of itself, rather disturbing, as she hadn’t been aware that Colin even possessed a temper), “I cannot believe you were stupid enough to venture into the City by yourself, and in a hired hack, no less!”

“I could hardly go by myself in one of our own carriages,” Penelope blurted out before she remembered that she’d meant to remain silent.

His head moved about an inch to the left. She didn’t know what that meant, but she couldn’t imagine it was good, especially since it almost seemed as if his neck were tightening as it twisted. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, his voice still that awful blend of satin and steel.

Well, now she had to answer, didn’t she? “Er, it’s nothing,” she said, hoping the evasion would reduce his attention on the rest of her reply. “Just that I’m not allowed to go out by myself.”

“I am aware of that,” he bit off. “There’s a damned good reason for it, too.”

“So if I wanted to go out by myself,” she continued, choosing to ignore the second part of his reply, “I couldn’t very well use one of our carriages. None of our drivers would agree to take me here.”

“Your drivers,” he snapped, “are clearly men of impeccable wisdom and sense.”

Penelope said nothing.

“Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?” he demanded, his sharp mask of control beginning to crack.

“Er, very little, actually,” she said, gulping on the sentence. “I’ve come here before, and—”

“What?” His hand closed over her upper arm with painful force. “What did you just say?”

Repeating it seemed almost dangerous to her health, so Penelope just stared at him, hoping that maybe she could break through the wild anger in his eyes and find the man she knew and loved so dearly.

“It’s only when I need to leave an urgent message for my publisher,” she explained. “I send a coded message, then he knows to pick up my note here.”

“And speaking of which,” Colin said roughly, snatching the folded paper back from her hands, “what the hell is this?”

Penelope stared at him in confusion. “I would have thought it was obvious. I’m—”

“Yes, of course, you’re bloody Lady Whistledown, and you’ve probably been laughing at me for weeks as I insisted it was Eloise.” His face twisted as he spoke, nearly breaking her heart.

“No!” she cried out. “No, Colin, never. I would never laugh at you!”

But his face told her clearly that he did not believe her. There was humiliation in his emerald eyes, something she’d never seen there, something she’d never expected to see. He was a Bridgerton. He was popular, confident, self-possessed. Nothing could embarrass him. No one could humiliate him.

Except, apparently, her.

“I couldn’t tell you,” she whispered, desperately trying to make that awful look in his eyes go away. “Surely you knew I couldn’t tell you.”

He was silent for an agonizingly long moment, and then, as if she’d never spoken, never tried to explain herself, he lifted the incriminating sheet of paper into the air and shook it, completely disregarding her impassioned outcry. “This is stupidity,” he said. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You had a perfectly good escape, just waiting for you. Cressida Twombley was willing to take the blame for you.”

And then suddenly his hands were on her shoulders, and he was holding her so tightly she could barely breathe.

“Why couldn’t you just let it die, Penelope?” His voice was urgent, his eyes blazing. It was the most feeling she’d ever seen in him, and it broke her heart that it was directed toward her in anger. And in shame.

“I couldn’t let her do it,” she whispered. “I couldn’t let her be me.”

Chapter 13

“Why the hell not?”

Penelope could do nothing but stare for several seconds. “Because . . . because . . .” she flailed, wondering how she was supposed to explain this. Her heart was breaking, her most terrifying—and exhilarating—secret had been shattered, and he thought she had the presence of mind to explain herself?

“I realize she’s quite possibly the biggest bitch . . .”

Penelope gasped.

“. . . that England has produced in this generation at least, but for God’s sake, Penelope”—he raked his hand through his hair, then fixed a hard stare on her face—“she was going to take the blame—”

“The credit,” Penelope interrupted testily.

“The blame,” he continued. “Do you have any idea what will happen to you if people find out who you really are?”

The corners of her lips tightened with impatience . . . and irritation at being so obviously condescended to. “I’ve had over a decade to ruminate the possibility.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“Not at all,” she shot back. “Do you really think I haven’t spent a good portion of the last ten years of my life contemplating what would happen if I were found out? I’d be a blind idiot if I hadn’t.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders, holding tight even as the carriage bumped over uneven cobbles. “You will be ruined, Penelope. Ruined! Do you understand what I am saying?”

“If I did not,” she replied, “I assure you I would now, after your lengthy dissertations on the subject when you were accusing Eloise of being Lady Whistledown.”

He scowled, obviously annoyed at having his errors thrown in his face. “People will stop talking to you,” he continued. “They will cut you dead—”

“People never talked to me,” she snapped. “Half the time they didn’t even know I was there. How do you think I was able to keep up the ruse for so long in the first place? I was invisible, Colin. No one saw me, no one talked to me. I just stood and listened, and no one noticed.”

“That’s not true.” But his eyes slid from hers as he said it.

“Oh, it is true, and you know it. You only deny it,” she said, jabbing him in the arm, “because you feel guilty.”

“I do not!”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “Everything you do, you do out of guilt.”

“Pen—”

“That involves me, at least,” she corrected. Her breath was rushing through her throat, and her skin was pricking with heat, and for once, her soul was on fire. “Do you think I don’t know how your family pities me? Do you think it escapes my notice that anytime you or your brothers happen to be at the same party as me, you ask me to dance?”

“We’re polite,” he ground out, “and we like you.”

“And you feel sorry for me. You like Felicity but I don’t see you dancing with her every time your paths cross.”

He let go of her quite suddenly and crossed his arms. “Well, I don’t like her as well as I do you.”

She blinked, knocked rather neatly off her verbal stride. Trust him to go and compliment her in the middle of an argument. Nothing could have disarmed her more.

“And,” he continued with a rather arch and superior lifting of his chin, “you have not addressed my original point.”

“Which was?”

“That Lady Whistledown will ruin you!”

“For God’s sake,” she muttered, “you talk as if she were a separate person.”

“Well, excuse me if I still have difficulty reconciling the woman in front of me with the harridan writing the column.”

“Colin!”

“Insulted?” he mocked.

“Yes! I’ve worked very hard on that column.” She clenched her fists around the thin fabric of her mint-green morning dress, oblivious to the wrinkled spirals she was creating. She had to do something with her hands or she’d quite possibly explode with the nervous energy and anger coursing through her veins. Her only other option seemed to be crossing her arms, and she refused to give in to such an obvious show of petulance. Besides, he was crossing his arms, and one of them needed to act older than six.

“I wouldn’t dream of denigrating what you’ve done,” he said condescendingly.

“Of course you would,” she interrupted.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Then what do you think you’re doing?”

“Being an adult!” he answered, his voice growing loud and impatient. “One of us has to be.”

“Don’t you dare speak to me of adult behavior!” she exploded. “You, who run at the very hint of responsibility.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” he bit off.

“I thought it was rather obvious.”

He drew back. “I can’t believe you’re speaking to me like this.”

“You can’t believe I’m doing it,” she taunted, “or that I possess the nerve to do so?”

He just stared at her, obviously surprised by her question.

“There’s more to me than you think, Colin,” she said. And then, in a quieter tone of voice, she added, “There’s more to me than I used to think.”

He said nothing for several moments, and then, as if he just couldn’t drag himself away from the topic, he asked, practically between his teeth, “What did you mean when you said I run from responsibility?”

She pursed her lips, then relaxed as she let out what she hoped would be a calming exhale. “Why do you think you travel so much?”

“Because I like it,” he replied, his tone clipped.

“And because you’re bored out of your mind here in England.”

“And that makes me a child because . . . ?”

“Because you’re not willing to grow up and do something adult that would keep you in one place.”

“Like what?”

Her hands came up in an I-should-think-it-was-obvious sort of gesture. “Like get married.”

“Is that a proposal?” he mocked, one corner of his mouth rising into a rather insolent smile.

She could feel her cheeks flushing deep and hot, but she forced herself to continue. “You know it’s not, and don’t try to change the subject by being deliberately cruel.” She waited for him to say something, perhaps an apology. His silence was an insult, and so she let out a snort and said, “For heaven’s sake, Colin, you’re three-and-thirty.”

“And you’re eight-and-twenty,” he pointed out, and not in a particularly kind tone of voice.

It felt like a punch in the belly, but she was too riled up to retreat into her familiar shell. “Unlike you,” she said with low precision, “I don’t have the luxury of asking someone. And unlike you,” she added, her intention now solely to induce the guilt she’d accused him of just minutes earlier, “I don’t have a massive pool of prospective suitors, so I’ve never had the luxury of saying no.”

His lips tightened. “And you think that your unveiling as Lady Whistledown is going to increase the number of your suitors?”

“Are you trying to be insulting?” she ground out.

“I’m trying to be realistic! Something which you seem to have completely lost sight of.”

“I never said I was planning to unveil myself as Lady Whistledown.”

He snatched the envelope with the final column in it back up off the cushioned bench. “Then what is this about?”

She grabbed it back, yanking the paper from the envelope. “I beg your pardon,” she said, every syllable heavy with sarcasm. “I must have missed the sentence proclaiming my identity.”

“You think this swan song of yours will do anything to dampen the frenzy of interest in Lady Whistledown’s identity? Oh, excuse me”—he placed one insolent hand over his heart—“perhaps I should have said your identity. After all, I don’t want to deny you your credit.”

“Now you’re just being ugly,” she said, a little voice at the back of her brain wondering why she wasn’t crying by now. This was Colin, and she’d loved him forever, and he was acting as if he hated her. Was there anything else in the world more worthy of tears?

Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe all this sadness building up inside of her was for the death of a dream. Her dream of him. She’d built up the perfect image of him in her mind, and with every word he spat in her face, it was becoming more and more obvious that her dream was quite simply wrong.

“I’m making a point,” he said, snatching the paper back from her hands. “Look at this. It might as well be an invitation for further investigation. You’re mocking society, daring them to uncover you.”

“That’s not at all what I’m doing!”

“It may not be your intention, but it is certainly the end result.”

He probably had something of a point there, but she was loath to give him credit for it. “It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” she replied, crossing her arms and looking pointedly away from him. “I’ve gone eleven years without detection. I don’t see why I’m in need of undue worry now.”

His breath left him in a short punch of exasperation. “Do you have any concept of money? Any idea how many people would like Lady Danbury’s thousand pounds?”

“I have more of a concept of money than you do,” she replied, bristling at the insult. “And besides, Lady Danbury’s reward doesn’t make my secret any more vulnerable.”

“It makes everyone else more determined, and that makes you more vulnerable. Not to mention,” he added with a wry twist to his lips, “as my youngest sister pointed out, there is the glory.”

“Hyacinth?” she asked.

He nodded grimly, setting the paper down on the bench beside him. “And if Hyacinth thinks the glory at having uncovered your identity is enviable, then you can be sure she’s not the only one. It may very well be why Cressida is pursuing her stupid ruse.”

“Cressida’s doing it for the money,” Penelope grumbled. “I’m sure of it.”

“Fine. It doesn’t matter why she’s doing it. All that matters is that she is, and once you dispose of her with your idiocy”—he slammed his hand against the paper, causing Penelope to wince as a loud crinkle filled the air—“someone else will take her place.”

“This is nothing I don’t already know,” she said, mostly because she couldn’t bear to give him the last word.

“Then for the love of God, woman,” he burst out, “let Cressida get away with her scheme. She’s the answer to your prayers.”

Her eyes snapped up to his. “You don’t know my prayers.”

Something in her tone hit Colin squarely in the chest. She hadn’t changed his mind, hadn’t even budged it, but he couldn’t seem to find the right words to fill the moment. He looked at her, then he looked out the window, his mind absently focusing on the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

“We really are taking the long way home,” he murmured.

She didn’t say anything. He didn’t blame her. It had been a stupid non sequitur, words to fill the silence and nothing else.

“If you let Cressida—” he began.

“Stop,” she implored him. “Please, don’t say any more. I can’t let her do it.”

“Have you really thought about what you’d gain?”

She looked at him sharply. “Do you think I’ve been able to think of anything else these past few days?”

He tried another tactic. “Does it truly matter that people know you were Lady Whistledown? You know that you were clever and fooled us all. Can’t that be enough?”

“You’re not listening to me!” Her mouth remained frozen open, in an odd incredulous oval, as if she couldn’t quite believe that he didn’t understand what she was saying. “I don’t need for people to know it was me. I just need for them to know it wasn’t her.”

“But clearly you don’t mind if people think someone else is Lady Whistledown,” he insisted. “After all, you’ve been accusing Lady Danbury for weeks.”

“I had to accuse someone,” she explained. “Lady Danbury asked me point-blank who I thought it was, and I couldn’t very well say myself. Besides, it wouldn’t be so very bad if people thought it was Lady Danbury. At least I like Lady Danbury.”

“Penelope—”

“How would you feel if your journals were published with Nigel Berbrooke as the author?” she demanded.

“Nigel Berbrooke can barely string two sentences together,” he said with a derisive snort. “I hardly think anyone would believe he could have written my journals.” As an afterthought, he gave her a little nod as an apology, since Berbrooke was, after all, married to her sister.

“Try to imagine it,” she ground out. “Or substitute whomever you think is similar to Cressida.”

“Penelope,” he sighed, “I’m not you. You can’t compare the two. Besides, if I were to publish my journals, they would hardly ruin me in the eyes of society.”

She deflated in her seat, sighing loudly, and he knew that his point had been well made. “Good,” he announced, “then it is decided. We will tear this up—” He reached for the sheet of paper.

“No!” she cried out, practically leaping from her seat. “Don’t!”

“But you just said—”

“I said nothing!” she shrilled. “All I did was sigh.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Penelope,” he said testily. “You clearly agreed with—”

She gaped at his audacity. “When did I give you leave to interpret my sighs?”

He looked at the incriminating paper, still held in his hands, and wondered what on earth he was meant to do with it at this moment.

“And anyway,” she continued, her eyes flashing with an anger and fire that made her almost beautiful, “it isn’t as if I don’t have every last word memorized. You can destroy that paper, but you can’t destroy me.”

“I’d like to,” he muttered.

“What did you say?”

“Whistledown,” he ground out. “I’d like to destroy Whistledown. You, I’m happy to leave as is.”

“But I am Whistledown.”

“God help us all.”

And then something within her simply snapped. All her rage, all her frustration, every last negative feeling she’d kept bottled up inside over the years broke forth, all directed at Colin, who, of all the ton, was probably the least deserving of it.

“Why are you so angry with me?” she burst out. “What have I done that is so repellent? Been cleverer than you? Kept a secret? Had a good laugh at the expense of society?”

“Penelope, you—”

“No,” she said forcefully. “You be quiet. It’s my turn to speak.”

His jaw went slack as he stared at her, shock and disbelief crowding in his eyes.

“I am proud of what I’ve done,” she managed to say, her voice shaking with emotion. “I don’t care what you say. I don’t care what anyone says. No one can take that from me.”

“I’m not trying—”

“I don’t need for people to know the truth,” she said, jumping on top of his ill-timed protest. “But I will be damned if I allow Cressida Twombley, the very person who . . . who . . .” Her entire body was trembling now, as memory after memory swept over her, all of them bad.

Cressida, renowned for her grace and carriage, tripping and spilling punch on Penelope’s gown that first year—the only one her mother had allowed her to buy that wasn’t yellow or orange.

Cressida, sweetly begging young bachelors to ask Penelope to dance, her requests made with such volume and fervor that Penelope could only be mortified by them.

Cressida, saying before a crowd how worried she was about Penelope’s appearance. “It’s just not healthful to weigh more than ten stone at our age,” she’d cooed.

Penelope never knew whether Cressida had been able to hide her smirk following her barb. She’d fled the room, blinded by tears, unable to ignore the way her hips jiggled as she ran away.

Cressida had always known exactly where to stick her sword, and she’d known how to twist her bayonet. It didn’t matter that Eloise remained Penelope’s champion or that Lady Bridgerton always tried to bolster her confidence. Penelope had cried herself to sleep more times than she could remember, always due to some well-placed barb from Cressida Cowper Twombley.

She’d let Cressida get away with so much in the past, all because she hadn’t the courage to stand up for herself. But she couldn’t let Cressida have this. Not her secret life, not the one little corner of her soul that was strong and proud and completely without fear.

Penelope might not know how to defend herself, but by God, Lady Whistledown did.

“Penelope?” Colin asked cautiously.

She looked at him blankly, taking several seconds to remember that it was 1824, not 1814, and she was here in a carriage with Colin Bridgerton, not cowering in the corner of a ballroom, trying to escape Cressida Cowper.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. Or at least she tried to.

He opened his mouth to say something, then paused, his lips remaining parted for several seconds. Finally, he just placed his hand on hers, saying, “We’ll talk about this later?”

This time she did manage a short nod. And truly, she just wanted the entire awful afternoon to be over, but there was one thing she couldn’t quite let go of yet.

“Cressida wasn’t ruined,” she said quietly.

He turned to her, a slight veil of confusion descending over his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

Her voice rose slightly in volume. “Cressida said she was Lady Whistledown, and she wasn’t ruined.”

“That’s because no one believed her,” Colin replied. “And besides,” he added without thinking, “she’s . . . different.”

She turned to him slowly. Very slowly, with steadfast eyes. “Different how?”

Something akin to panic began to pound in Colin’s chest. He’d known he wasn’t saying the right words even as they’d spilled from his lips. How could one little sentence, one little word be so very wrong?

She’s different.

They both knew what he’d meant. Cressida was popular, Cressida was beautiful, Cressida could carry it all off with aplomb.

Penelope, on the other hand . . .

She was Penelope. Penelope Featherington. And she hadn’t the clout nor the connections to save her from ruin. The Bridgertons could stand behind her and offer support, but even they wouldn’t be able prevent her downfall. Any other scandal might have been manageable, but Lady Whistledown had, at one time or another, insulted almost every person of consequence in the British Isles. Once people were over their surprise, that was when the unkind remarks would begin.

Penelope wouldn’t be praised for being clever or witty or daring.

She’d be called mean, and petty, and jealous.

Colin knew the ton well. He knew how his peers acted. The aristocracy was capable of individual greatness, but collectively they tended to sink to the lowest common denominator.

Which was very low, indeed.

“I see,” Penelope said into the silence.

“No,” he said quickly, “you don’t. I—”

“No, Colin,” she said, sounding almost painfully wise, “I do. I suppose I’d just always hoped you were different.”

His eyes caught hers, and somehow his hands were on her shoulders, gripping her with such intensity that she couldn’t possibly look away. He didn’t say anything, letting his eyes ask his questions.

“I thought you believed in me,” she said, “that you saw beyond the ugly duckling.”

Her face was so familiar to him; he’d seen it a thousand times before, and yet until these past few weeks, he couldn’t have said he truly knew it. Would he have remembered that she had a small birthmark near her left earlobe? Had he ever noticed the warm glow to her skin? Or that her brown eyes had flecks of gold in them, right near the pupil?

How had he danced with her so many times and never noticed that her mouth was full and wide and made for kissing?

She licked her lips when she was nervous. He’d seen her do that just the other day. Surely she’d done that at some point in the dozen years of their acquaintance, and yet it was only now that the mere sight of her tongue made his body clench with need.

“You’re not ugly,” he told her, his voice low and urgent.

Her eyes widened.

And he whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

“No,” she said, the word barely more than a breath. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

His fingers dug into her shoulders. “You’re beautiful,” he repeated. “I don’t know how . . . I don’t know when . . .” He touched her lips, feeling her hot breath on his fingertips. “But you are,” he whispered.

He leaned forward and kissed her, slowly, reverently, no longer quite so surprised that this was happening, that he wanted her so badly. The shock was gone, replaced by a simple, primitive need to claim her, to brand her, to mark her as his.

His?

He pulled back and looked at her for a moment, his eyes searching her face.

Why not?

“What is it?” she whispered.

“You are beautiful,” he said, shaking his head in confusion. “I don’t know why nobody else sees it.”

Something warm and lovely began to spread in Penelope’s chest. She couldn’t quite explain it; it was almost as if someone had heated her blood. It started in her heart and then slowly swept through her arms, her belly, down to the tips of her toes.

It made her light-headed. It made her content.

It made her whole.

She wasn’t beautiful. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, she knew she’d never be more than passably attractive, and that was only on her good days. But he thought she was beautiful, and when he looked at her . . .

She felt beautiful. And she’d never felt that way before.

He kissed her again, his lips hungrier this time, nibbling, caressing, waking her body, rousing her soul. Her belly had begun to tingle, and her skin felt hot and needy where his hands touched her through the thin green fabric of her dress.

And never once did she think, This is wrong. This kiss was everything she’d been brought up to fear and avoid, but she knew—body, mind, and soul—that nothing in her life had ever been so right. She had been born for this man, and she’d spent so many years trying to accept the fact that he had been born for someone else.

To be proven wrong was the most exquisite pleasure imaginable.

She wanted him, she wanted this, she wanted the way he made her feel.

She wanted to be beautiful, even if it was only in one man’s eyes.

They were, she thought dreamily as he laid her down on the plush cushion of the carriage bench, the only eyes that mattered.

She loved him. She had always loved him. Even now, when he was so angry with her that she barely recognized him, when he was so angry with her that she wasn’t even sure she liked him, she loved him.

And she wanted to be his.

The first time he had kissed her, she had accepted his advances with a passive delight, but this time she was determined to be an active partner. She still couldn’t quite believe that she was here, with him, and she certainly wasn’t ready to let herself dream that he might ever be kissing her on a regular basis.

This might never happen again. She might never again feel the exquisite weight of him pressing against her, or the scandalous tickle of his tongue against hers.

She had one chance. One chance to make a memory that would have to last a lifetime. One chance to reach for bliss.

Tomorrow would be awful, knowing that he would find some other woman with whom to laugh and joke and even marry, but today . . .

Today was hers.

And by God, she was going to make this a kiss to remember.

She reached up and touched his hair. She was hesitant at first—just because she was determined to be an active, willing partner didn’t mean she had a clue what she was doing. His lips were slowly easing all the reason and intelligence from her mind, but still, she couldn’t quite help noticing that his hair felt exactly like Eloise’s, which she had brushed countless times during their years of friendship. And heaven help her . . .

She giggled.

That got his attention, and he lifted his head, his lips touched by an amused smile. “I beg your pardon?” he queried.

She shook her head, trying to fight off her smile, knowing she was losing the battle.

“Oh, no, you must,” he insisted. “I couldn’t possibly continue without knowing the reason for the giggle.”

She felt her cheeks burning, which struck her as ridiculously ill-timed. Here she was, completely misbehaving in the back of a carriage, and it was only now that she had the decency to blush?

“Tell me,” he murmured, nibbling at her ear.

She shook her head.

His lips found the exact point where her pulse beat in her throat. “Tell me.”

All she did—all she could do—was moan, arching her neck to give him greater access.

Her dress, which she hadn’t even realized had been partially unbuttoned, slid down until her collarbone was exposed, and she watched with giddy fascination as his lips traced the line of it, until his entire face was nuzzled perilously close to her bosom.

“Will you tell me?” he whispered, grazing her skin with his teeth.

“Tell you what?” she gasped.

His lips were wicked, moving lower, then lower still. “Why you were laughing?”

For several seconds Penelope couldn’t even remember what he was talking about.

His hand cupped her breast through her dress. “I’ll torment you until you tell me,” he threatened.

Penelope’s answer was an arch of her back, settling her breast even more firmly in his grasp.

She liked his torment.

“I see,” he murmured, simultaneously sliding her bodice down and moving his hand so that his palm grazed her nipple. “Then perhaps I’ll”—his hand stilled, then lifted—“stop.”

“No,” she moaned.

“Then tell me.”

She stared at her breast, mesmerized by the sight of it, bare and open to his gaze.

“Tell me,” he whispered, blowing softly so that his breath brushed across her.

Something clenched inside Penelope, deep inside of her, in places that were never talked about.

“Colin, please,” she begged.

He smiled, slow and lazy, satisfied and still somehow hungry. “Please what?” he asked.

“Touch me,” she whispered.

His index finger slid along her shoulder. “Here?”

She shook her head frantically.

He trailed down the column of her neck. “Am I getting closer?” he murmured.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving her breast.

He found her nipple again, his fingers tracing slow, tantalizing spirals around it, then on it, and all the while she watched, her body growing tighter and tighter.

And all she could hear was her breath, hot and heavy from her lips.

Then—

“Colin!” His name flew from her mouth in a strangled gasp. Surely he couldn’t—

His lips closed around her, and before she’d even felt more than the heat of him, she bucked off the bench in surprise, her hips pressing shamelessly against his, then settling back down as he ground against her, holding her immobile as he pleasured her.

“Oh, Colin, Colin,” she gasped, her hands flying around to his back, pressing desperately into his muscles, wanting nothing other than to hold him and keep him and never let him go.

He yanked at his shirt, pulling it free from the waist of his breeches, and she followed his cue by slipping her hands under the fabric and running them along the hot skin of his back. She’d never touched a man this way; she’d never touched anyone like this, except maybe herself, and even then, it wasn’t like she could easily reach her own back.

He groaned when she touched him, then tensed when her fingers skimmed along his skin. Her heart leaped. He liked this; he liked the way she was touching him. She hadn’t the least clue what to do with herself, but he liked it just the same.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered against her skin, his lips blazing a trail back up to the underside of her chin. His mouth claimed hers again, this time with increased fervor, and his hands slid underneath to cup her derriere, squeezing and kneading and pressing her up against his arousal.

“My God, I want you,” he gasped, grinding his hips down. “I want to strip you bare and sink into you and never let you go.”

Penelope groaned with desire, unable to believe how much pleasure she could feel from mere words. He made her feel wicked, naughty, and oh-so-desirable.

And she never wanted it to end.

“Oh, Penelope,” he was groaning, his lips and hands growing more frantic. “Oh, Penelope. Oh, Penelope, oh—” He lifted his head. Very abruptly.

“Oh, God.”

“What is it?” she asked, trying to lift the back of her head from the cushion.

“We’ve stopped.”

It took her a moment to recognize the import of this. If they’d stopped, that meant they’d most likely reached their destination, which was . . .

Her home.

“Oh, God!” She started yanking at the bodice of her gown with frantic motions. “Can’t we just ask the driver to keep going?”

She’d already proven herself a complete wanton. There seemed little harm at this point in adding “shameless” to her list of behaviors.

He grabbed the bodice for her and hauled it into place. “What is the possibility your mother won’t have noticed my carriage in front of your house yet?”

“Fairly good, actually,” she said, “but Briarly will have done.”

“Your butler will recognize my carriage?” he asked in disbelief.

She nodded. “You came the other day. He always remembers things like that.”

His lips twisted in a grimly determined manner. “Very well, then,” he said. “Make yourself presentable.”

“I can race up to my room,” Penelope said. “No one will see me.”

“I doubt that,” he said ominously, tucking in his shirt and smoothing his hair.

“No, I assure you—”

“And I assure you,” he said, leaping on top of her words. “You will be seen.” He licked his fingers, then ran them through his hair. “Do I look presentable?”

“Yes,” she lied. In truth, he looked rather flushed, with swollen lips, and hair that didn’t remotely adhere to a current style.

“Good.” He hopped down from the carriage and held his hand out to her.

“You’re coming in as well?” she asked.

He looked at her as if she’d suddenly gone daft. “Of course.”

She didn’t move, too perplexed by his actions to give her legs the orders to step down. There was certainly no reason he had to accompany her inside. Propriety didn’t really demand it, and—

“For God’s sake, Penelope,” he said, grabbing her hand and yanking her down. “Are you going to marry me or not?”

Chapter 14

She hit the pavement.

Penelope was—in her opinion, at least—a bit more graceful than most people gave her credit for. She was a good dancer, could play the piano with her fingers arched perfectly, and could usually navigate a crowded room without bumping into an uncommon amount of people or furniture.

But when Colin made his rather matter-of-fact proposal, her foot—at the time halfway out of the carriage—found only air, her left hip found the curb, and her head found Colin’s toes.

“Good God, Penelope,” he exclaimed, crouching down. “Are you all right?”

“Just fine,” she managed to get out, searching for the hole in the ground that must have just opened up, so that she could crawl into it and die.

“Are you certain?”

“It’s nothing, really,” she replied, holding her cheek, which she was certain now sported a perfect imprint of the top of Colin’s boot. “Just a bit surprised, that is all.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she echoed.

“Yes, why?”

She blinked. Once, twice, then again. “Er, well, it might have to do with your mentioning marriage.”

He yanked her unceremoniously to her feet, nearly dislocating her shoulder in the process. “Well, what did you think I would say?”

She stared at him in disbelief. Was he mad? “Not that,” she finally replied.

“I’m not a complete boor,” he muttered.

She brushed dust and pebbles off her sleeves. “I never said you were, I just—”

“I can assure you,” he continued, now looking mortally offended, “that I do not behave as I did with a woman of your background without rendering a marriage proposal.”

Penelope’s mouth fell open, leaving her feeling rather like an owl.

“Don’t you have a reply?” he demanded.

“I’m still trying to figure out what you said,” she admitted.

He planted his hands on his hips and stared at her with a decided lack of indulgence.

“You must admit,” she said, her chin dipping until she was regarding him rather dubiously through her lashes, “it did sound rather like you’ve, er—how did you say it—rendered marriage proposals before.”

He scowled at her. “Of course I haven’t. Now take my arm before it starts to rain.”

She looked up at the clear blue sky.

“At the rate you’re going,” he said impatiently, “we’ll be here for days.”

“I . . . well . . .” She cleared her throat. “Surely you can forgive me my lack of composure in the face of such tremendous surprise.”

“Now who’s speaking in circles?” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon.”

His hand tightened on her arm. “Let’s just get going.”

“Colin!” she nearly shrieked, tripping over her feet as she stumbled up the stairs. “Are you sure—”

“No time like the present,” he said, almost jauntily. He seemed quite pleased with himself, which puzzled her, because she would have bet her entire fortune—and as Lady Whistledown, she’d amassed quite a fortune—that he had not intended to ask her to marry him until the moment his carriage had ground to a halt in front her house.

Perhaps not even until the words had left his lips.

He turned to her. “Do I need to knock?”

“No, I—”

He knocked anyway, or rather banged, if one wanted to be particular about it.

“Briarly,” Penelope said through an attempted smile as the butler opened the door to receive them.

“Miss Penelope,” he murmured, one brow rising in surprise. He nodded at Colin. “Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Is Mrs. Featherington at home?” Colin asked brusquely.

“Yes, but—”

“Excellent.” Colin barged in, pulling Penelope along with him. “Where is she?”

“In the drawing room, but I should tell you—”

But Colin was already halfway down the hall, Penelope one step behind him. (Not that she could be anywhere else, seeing as how his hand was wrapped rather tightly around her upper arm.)

“Mr. Bridgerton!” the butler yelled out, sounding slightly panicked.

Penelope twisted, even as her feet continued to follow Colin. Briarly never panicked. About anything. If he didn’t think she and Colin ought to enter the drawing room, he had to have a very good reason.

Maybe even—

Oh, no.

Penelope dug in her heels, skidding along the hardwood floor as Colin dragged her along by the arm. “Colin,” she said, gulping on the first syllable. “Colin!”

“What?” he asked, not breaking his stride.

“I really think—Aaack!” Her skidding heels hit the edge of the runner carpet, sending her flying forward.

He caught her neatly and set her on her feet. “What is it?”

She glanced nervously at the door to the drawing room. It was slightly ajar, but maybe there was enough noise inside so that her mother hadn’t yet heard them approaching.

“Penelope . . .” Colin prompted impatiently.

“Er . . .” There was still time to escape, wasn’t there? She looked frantically about, not that she was likely to find a solution to her problems anywhere in the hall.

“Penelope,” Colin said, now tapping his foot, “what the devil is the matter?”

She looked back to Briarly, who simply shrugged his shoulders. “This really might not be the best time to speak to my mother.”

He raised one brow, looking rather like the butler had just seconds earlier. “You’re not planning to refuse me, are you?”

“No, of course not,” she said hastily, even though she hadn’t truly accepted the fact that he even intended to offer for her.

“Then this is an excellent time,” he stated, his tone inviting no further protest.

“But it’s—”

“What?”

Tuesday, she thought miserably. And it was just past noon, which meant—

“Let’s go,” Colin said, striding forward, and before she could stop him, he pushed open the door.

Colin’s first thought upon stepping into the drawing room was that the day, while certainly not proceeding in any manner he might have anticipated when he’d risen from bed that morning, was turning out to be a most excellent endeavor. Marriage to Penelope was an eminently sensible idea, and surprisingly appealing as well, if their recent encounter in the carriage was any indication.

His second thought was that he’d just entered his worst nightmare.

Because Penelope’s mother was not alone in the drawing room. Every last Featherington, current and former, was there, along with assorted spouses and even a cat.

It was the most frightening assemblage of people Colin had ever witnessed. Penelope’s family was . . . well . . . except for Felicity (whom he’d always held in some suspicion; how could one truly trust anyone who was such good friends with Hyacinth?), her family was . . . well . . .

He couldn’t think of a good word for it. Certainly nothing complimentary (although he’d like to think he could have avoided an outright insult), and really, was there a word that effectively combined slightly dim, overly talkative, rather meddlesome, excruciatingly dull, and—and one couldn’t forget this, not with Robert Huxley a recent addition to the clan—uncommonly loud.

So Colin just smiled. His great, big, friendly, slightly mischievous smile. It almost always worked, and today was no exception. The Featheringtons all smiled right back at him, and—thank God—said nothing.

At least not right away.

“Colin,” Mrs. Featherington said with visible surprise. “How nice of you to bring Penelope home for our family meeting.”

“Your family meeting?” he echoed. He looked to Penelope, who was standing next to him, looking rather ill.

“Every Tuesday,” she said, smiling weakly. “Didn’t I mention it?”

“No,” he replied, even though it was obvious her question had been for the benefit of their audience. “No, you didn’t mention it.”

“Bridgerton!” bellowed Robert Huxley, who was married to Penelope’s eldest sister Prudence.

“Huxley,” Colin returned, taking a discreet step back. Best to protect his eardrums in case Penelope’s brother-in-law decided to leave his post near the window.

Thankfully, Huxley stayed put, but Penelope’s other brother-in-law, the well-meaning but vacant-minded Nigel Berbrooke, did cross the room, greeting Colin with a hearty slap on the back. “Wasn’t expecting you,” Berbrooke said jovially.

“No,” Colin murmured, “I wouldn’t think so.”

“Just family, after all,” Berbrooke said, “and you’re not family. Not my family, at least.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Colin murmured, stealing a glance at Penelope. She was blushing.

Then he looked back at Mrs. Featherington, who looked as if she might faint from excitement. Colin groaned through his smile. He hadn’t meant for her to hear his comment about possibly joining the family. For some reason he’d wanted to retain an element of surprise before he asked for Penelope’s hand. If Portia Featherington knew his intentions ahead of time, she’d likely twist the whole thing around (in her mind, at least) so that she had somehow orchestrated the match herself.

And for some reason, Colin found that exceedingly distasteful.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” he said to Mrs. Featherington.

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “We are delighted to have you here, at a family gathering.” But she looked rather odd, not precisely undecided about his presence there, but certainly unsure of what her next move should be. She was chewing on her lower lip, and then she darted a furtive glance at Felicity, of all people.

Colin turned to Felicity. She was looking at Penelope, a small secret smile fixed to her face. Penelope was glaring at her mother, her mouth twisted into an irritated grimace.

Colin’s gaze went from Featherington to Featherington to Featherington. Something was clearly simmering under the surface here and if he weren’t trying to figure out (A) how to avoid being trapped into conversation with Penelope’s relations while (B) somehow managing to issue a proposal of marriage at the same time—well, he’d be rather curious as to what was causing all the secret, underhanded glances being tossed back and forth between the Featherington women.

Mrs. Featherington cast one last glance at Felicity, did a little gesture that Colin could have sworn meant, Sit up straight, then fixed her attention on Colin. “Won’t you sit down?” she asked, smiling widely and patting the seat next to her on the sofa.

“Of course,” he murmured, because there was really no getting out of it now. He still had to ask for Penelope’s hand in marriage, and even if he didn’t particularly want to do it in front of every last Featherington (and their two inane spouses), he was stuck here, at least until a polite opportunity to make his escape presented itself.

He turned and offered his arm to the woman he intended to make his bride. “Penelope?”

“Er, yes, of course,” she stammered, placing her hand at the crook of his elbow.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Featherington said, as if she’d completely forgotten about her daughter’s presence. “Terribly sorry, Penelope. Didn’t see you. Won’t you please go and ask Cook to increase our order? We’ll surely need more food with Mr. Bridgerton here.”

“Of course,” Penelope said, the corners of her lips quivering.

“Can’t she ring for it?” Colin asked loudly.

“What?” Mrs. Featherington said distractedly. “Well, I suppose she could, but it would take longer, and Penelope doesn’t mind, do you?”

Penelope gave her head a little shake.

“I mind,” Colin said.

Mrs. Featherington let out a little “Oh” of surprise, then said, “Very well. Penelope, er, why don’t you sit right there?” She motioned to a chair that was not quite situated to be a part of the inner conversation circle.

Felicity, who was seated directly across from her mother, jumped up. “Penelope, please take my seat.”

“No,” Mrs. Featherington said firmly. “You have been feeling under the weather, Felicity. You need to sit.”

Colin thought Felicity looked the picture of perfect health, but she sat back down.

“Penelope,” Prudence said loudly, from over by the window. “I need to speak with you.”

Penelope glanced helplessly from Colin to Prudence to Felicity to her mother.

Colin yanked her in closer. “I need to speak with her as well,” he said smoothly.

“Right, well, I suppose there is room for both of you,” Mrs. Featherington said, scooting over on the sofa.

Colin was caught between the good manners that had been drummed into his head since birth and the overwhelming urge to strangle the woman who would someday be his mother-in-law. He had no idea why she was treating Penelope like some sort of lesser-favored stepchild, but really, it had to stop.

“What brings you this way?” yelled Robert Huxley.

Colin touched his ears—he couldn’t help himself—then said, “I was—”

“Oh, goodness,” fluttered Mrs. Featherington, “we do not mean to interrogate our guest, do we?”

Colin hadn’t really thought Huxley’s question constituted an interrogation, but he didn’t really want to insult Mrs. Featherington by saying so, so he merely nodded and said something completely meaningless like, “Yes, well, of course.”

“Of course what?” asked Philippa.

Philippa was married to Nigel Berbrooke, and Colin had always thought it was a rather good match, indeed.

“I’m sorry?” he queried.

“You said, ‘Of course,’” Philippa said. “Of course what?”

“I don’t know,” Colin said.

“Oh. Well, then, why did you—”

“Philippa,” Mrs. Featherington said loudly, “perhaps you should fetch the food, since Penelope has forgotten to ring for it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Penelope said quickly, starting to rise to her feet.

“Don’t worry,” Colin said through a smooth smile, grabbing hold of her hand and yanking her back down. “Your mother said Prudence could go.”

“Philippa,” Penelope said.

“What about Philippa?”

“She said Philippa could go, not Prudence.”

He wondered what had happened to her brain, because somewhere between his carriage and this sofa, it had clearly disappeared. “Does it matter?” he asked.

“No, not really, but—”

“Felicity,” Mrs. Featherington interrupted, “why don’t you tell Mr. Bridgerton about your watercolors?”

For the life of him, Colin couldn’t imagine a less interesting topic (except, maybe, for Philippa’s watercolors), but he nonetheless turned to the youngest Featherington with a friendly smile and asked, “And how are your watercolors?”

But Felicity, bless her heart, gave him a rather friendly smile herself and said nothing but, “I imagine they’re fine, thank you.”

Mrs. Featherington looked as if she’d just swallowed a live eel, then exclaimed, “Felicity!”

“Yes?” Felicity said sweetly.

“You didn’t tell him that you’d won an award.” She turned to Colin. “Felicity’s watercolors are very unique.” She turned back to Felicity. “Do tell Mr. Bridgerton about your award.”

“Oh, I don’t imagine he is interested in that.”

“Of course he is,” Mrs. Featherington ground out.

Normally, Colin would have chimed in with, Of course I am, since he was, after all, an exceedingly affable fellow, but doing so would have validated Mrs. Featherington’s statement and, perhaps more critically, ruined Felicity’s good fun.

And Felicity appeared to be having a lot of fun. “Philippa,” she said, “weren’t you going to go after the food?”

“Oh, right,” Philippa replied. “Forgot all about it. I do that a lot. Come along, Nigel. You can keep me company.”

“Right-o!” Nigel beamed. And then he and Philippa left the room, giggling all the way.

Colin reaffirmed his conviction that the Berbrooke-Featherington match had been a good one, indeed.

“I think I shall go out to the garden,” Prudence suddenly announced, taking hold of her husband’s arm. “Penelope, why don’t you come with me?”

Penelope opened her mouth a few seconds before she figured out what to say, leaving her looking a little bit like a confused fish (but in Colin’s opinion a rather fetching fish, if such a thing were possible). Finally, her chin took on a resolute mien, and she said, “I don’t think so, Prudence.”

“Penelope!” Mrs. Featherington exclaimed.

“I need you to show me something,” Prudence ground out.

“I really think I’m needed here,” Penelope replied. “I can join you later this afternoon, if you like.”

“I need you now.”

Penelope looked to her sister in surprise, clearly not expecting quite so much resistance. “I’m sorry, Prudence,” she reiterated. “I believe I’m needed here.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Featherington said breezily. “Felicity and I can keep Mr. Bridgerton company.”

Felicity jumped to her feet. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, her eyes round and innocent. “I forgot something.”

“What,” Mrs. Featherington asked between her teeth, “could you possibly have forgotten?”

“Uhh . . . my watercolors.” She turned to Colin with a sweet, mischievous smile. “You did want to see them, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” he murmured, deciding he very much liked Penelope’s younger sister. “Seeing as how they are so unique.”

“One might say they are uniquely ordinary,” Felicity said with an overly earnest nod.

“Penelope,” Mrs. Featherington said, obviously trying to hide her annoyance, “would you be so kind as to fetch Felicity’s watercolors?”

“Penelope doesn’t know where they are,” Felicity said quickly.

“Why don’t you tell her?”

“For God’s sake,” Colin finally exploded, “let Felicity go. I need a private moment with you, anyway.”

Silence reigned. It was the first time Colin Bridgerton had ever lost his temper in public. Beside him, Colin heard Penelope let out a little gasp, but when he glanced at her, she was hiding a tiny smile behind her hand.

And that made him feel ridiculously good.

“A private moment?” Mrs. Featherington echoed, her hand fluttering to her chest. She glanced over at Prudence and Robert, who were still standing by the window. They immediately left the room, although not without a fair bit of grumbling on Prudence’s part.

“Penelope,” Mrs. Featherington said, “perhaps you should accompany Felicity.”

“Penelope will remain,” Colin ground out.

“Penelope?” Mrs. Featherington asked doubtfully.

“Yes,” he said slowly, in case she still didn’t understand his meaning, “Penelope.”

“But—”

Colin gave her such a glare that she actually drew back and folded her hands in her lap.

“I’m gone!” Felicity chirped, sailing out of the room. But before she closed the door behind her, Colin saw her give a quick wink to Penelope.

And Penelope smiled, love for her younger sister shining clearly in her eyes.

Colin relaxed. He hadn’t realized just how tense Penelope’s misery was making him. And she was definitely miserable. Good God, he couldn’t wait to remove her from the bosom of her ridiculous family.

Mrs. Featherington’s lips spread into a feeble attempt at a smile. She looked from Colin to Penelope and back again, and then finally said, “You desired a word?”

“Yes,” he replied, eager to get this done with. “I would be honored if you would grant me your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

For a moment Mrs. Featherington made no reaction. Then her eyes grew round, her mouth grew round, her body—well, her body was already round—and she clapped her hands together, unable to say anything other than, “Oh! Oh!”

And then, “Felicity! Felicity!”

Felicity?

Portia Featherington jumped to her feet, ran to the door and actually screamed like a fishwife. “Felicity! Felicity!”

“Oh, Mother,” Penelope moaned, closing her eyes.

“Why are you summoning Felicity?” Colin asked, rising to his feet.

Mrs. Featherington turned to him quizzically. “Don’t you want to marry Felicity?”

Colin actually thought he might be sick. “No, for God’s sake, I don’t want to marry Felicity,” he snapped. “If I’d wanted to marry Felicity, I’d hardly have sent her upstairs for her bloody watercolors, would I?”

Mrs. Featherington swallowed uncomfortably. “Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, wringing her hands together. “I don’t understand.”

He stared at her in horror, which then turned to disgust. “Penelope,” he said, grabbing her hand and yanking her until she was pressed close to his side. “I want to marry Penelope.”

“Penelope?” Mrs. Featherington echoed. “But—”

“But what?” he interrupted, his voice pure menace.

“But—but—”

“It’s all right, Colin,” Penelope said hastily. “I—”

“No, it is not all right,” he exploded. “I’ve never given any indication I’m the least bit interested in Felicity.”

Felicity appeared in the doorway, clapped her hand over her mouth, and quickly disappeared, wisely shutting the door behind her.

“Yes,” Penelope said placatingly, shooting a quick look at her mother, “but Felicity is unmarried, and—”

“So are you,” he pointed out.

“I know, but I’m old, and—”

“And Felicity is an infant,” he spat. “Good God, marrying her would be like marrying Hyacinth.”

“Er, except for the incest,” Penelope said.

He gave her an extremely unamused look.

“Right,” she said, mostly to fill the silence. “It’s just a terrible misunderstanding, isn’t it?”

No one said anything. Penelope looked at Colin pleadingly. “Isn’t it?”

“It certainly is,” he muttered.

She turned to her mother. “Mama?”

“Penelope?” she murmured, and Penelope knew that her mother wasn’t asking her a question; rather, she was still expressing her disbelief that Colin would want to marry her.

And oh, but it hurt so much. You’d think she’d be used to it by now.

“I would like to marry Mr. Bridgerton,” Penelope said, trying to summon up as much quiet dignity as she could manage. “He asked me, and I said yes.”

“Well, of course you would say yes,” her mother retorted. “You’d have to be an idiot to say no.”

“Mrs. Featherington,” Colin said tightly, “I suggest you begin treating my future wife with a bit more respect.”

“Colin, it’s not necessary,” Penelope said, placing her hand on his arm, but the truth was—her heart was soaring. He might not love her, but he cared about her. No man could defend a woman with such fierce protectiveness without caring for her a little.

“It is necessary,” he returned. “For God’s sake, Penelope, I arrived with you. I made it abundantly clear that I required your presence in the room, and I practically shoved Felicity out the door to fetch her watercolors. Why on earth would anyone think I wanted Felicity?”

Mrs. Featherington opened and closed her mouth several times before finally saying, “I love Penelope, of course, but—”

“But do you know her?” Colin shot back. “She’s lovely and intelligent and has a fine sense of humor. Who wouldn’t want to marry a woman like that?”

Penelope would have melted to the floor if she weren’t already holding on to his hand. “Thank you,” she whispered, not caring if her mother heard her, not even really caring if Colin heard her. Somehow she needed to say the words for herself.

Not what she thought she was.

Lady Danbury’s face swam before her eyes, her expression warm and just a little bit cunning.

Something more. Maybe Penelope was something more, and maybe Colin was the only other person to realize that as well.

It made her love him all the more.

Her mother cleared her throat, then stepped forward and gave Penelope a hug. It was, at first, a hesitant embrace on both of their parts, but then Portia tightened her arms around her thirdborn daughter, and with a choked cry, Penelope found herself returning the hug in equal measure.

“I do love you, Penelope,” Portia said, “and I am very pleased for you.” She drew back and wiped a tear from her eye. “I shall be lonely without you, of course, since I’d assumed we would grow old together, but this is what’s best for you, and that, I suppose, is what being a mother is all about.”

Penelope let out a loud sniffle, then blindly reached for Colin’s handkerchief, which he had already pulled from his pocket and was holding in front of her.

“You’ll learn someday,” Portia said, patting her on the arm. She turned to Colin and said, “We are delighted to welcome you to the family.”

He nodded, not terribly warmly, but Penelope thought he made a rather nice effort considering how angry he’d been just moments earlier.

Penelope smiled and squeezed his hand, aware that she was about to embark upon the adventure of her life.

Chapter 15

“You know,” Eloise said, three days after Colin and Penelope made their surprise announcement, “it’s really a pity that Lady Whistledown has retired, because this would have been the coup of the decade.”

“Certainly from Lady Whistledown’s viewpoint,” Penelope murmured, lifting her teacup to her lips and keeping her eyes trained on the wall clock in Lady Bridgerton’s informal drawing room. Better not to look at Eloise directly. She had a way of noticing secrets in a person’s eyes.

It was funny. Penelope had gone years without worrying that Eloise would discover the truth about Lady Whistledown. At least, not worrying overmuch. But now that Colin knew, it somehow felt as if her secret were floating about in the air, like particles of dust just waiting to form into a cloud of knowledge.

Maybe the Bridgertons were like dominoes. Once one found out, it was only a matter of time before they all fell.

“What do you mean?” Eloise asked, breaking into Penelope’s nervous thoughts.

“If I recall correctly,” Penelope said, very carefully, “she once wrote that she would have to retire if I ever married a Bridgerton.”

Eloise’s eyes bugged out. “She did?”

“Or something like that,” Penelope said.

“You’re joking,” Eloise said, making a “pffft” sort of sound as she waved her hand dismissively. “She would never have been that cruel.”

Penelope coughed, not really thinking that she could end the topic by faking a biscuit crumb in her throat, but trying nonetheless.

“No, really,” Eloise persisted. “What did she say?”

“I don’t recall, precisely.”

“Try.”

Penelope stalled by setting her cup down and reaching for another biscuit. They were alone for tea, which was odd. But Lady Bridgerton had dragged Colin off on some errand regarding the upcoming wedding—set for only a month hence!—and Hyacinth was off shopping with Felicity, who had, upon hearing Penelope’s news, thrown her arms around her sister and shrieked her delight until Penelope’s ears had gone numb.

As far as sisterly moments went, it had been something wonderful.

“Well,” Penelope said, chewing on a bite of biscuit, “I believe she said that if I married a Bridgerton, it would be the end of the world as she knew it, and as she wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails of such a world, she would have to retire immediately.”

Eloise stared at her for a moment. “That’s not a precise recollection?”

“One doesn’t forget things like that,” Penelope demurred.

“Hmmmph.” Eloise’s nose wrinkled with disdain. “Well, that was rather horrid of her, I must say. Now I doubly wish she were still writing, because she would have to eat an entire gaggle of crow.”

“Do crows gather in gaggles?”

“I don’t know,” Eloise replied promptly, “but they should.”

“You’re a very good friend, Eloise,” Penelope said quietly.

“Yes,” Eloise said with an affected sigh, “I know. The very best.”

Penelope smiled. Eloise’s breezy reply made it clear that she wasn’t in the mood for emotion or nostalgia. Which was fine. There was a time and a place for everything. Penelope had said what she wanted to say, and she knew that Eloise returned the sentiment, even if she preferred to joke and tease at that moment.

“I must confess, though,” Eloise said, reaching for another biscuit, “you and Colin did surprise me.”

“We surprised me as well,” Penelope admitted wryly.

“Not that I’m not delighted,” Eloise hastened to add. “There is no one I’d rather have as a sister. Well, aside from the ones I already have, of course. And if I’d ever dreamed the two of you were inclined in that direction, I’m sure I would have meddled horribly.”

“I know,” Penelope said, laughter forcing her lips up at the corners.

“Yes, well”—Eloise waved the comment away—“I’m not known for minding my own business.”

“What’s that on your fingers?” Penelope asked, leaning forward for a better look.

“What? That? Oh, nothing.” But she settled her hands in her lap nonetheless.

“It’s not nothing,” Penelope said. “Let me see. It looks like ink.”

“Well, of course it does. It is ink.”

“Then why didn’t you say so when I asked?”

“Because,” Eloise said pertly, “it’s none of your business.”

Penelope drew back in shock at Eloise’s sharp tone. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said stiffly. “I had no idea it was such a sensitive subject.”

“Oh, it’s not,” Eloise said quickly. “Don’t be silly. It’s just that I’m clumsy and I can’t write without getting ink all over my fingers. I suppose I could wear gloves, but then they’d be stained, and I’d be forever replacing them, and I can assure you that I have no wish to spend my entire allowance—meager as it is—on gloves.”

Penelope stared at her through her lengthy explanation, then asked, “What were you writing?”

“Nothing,” Eloise said dismissively. “Just letters.”

Penelope could tell from Eloise’s brisk tone that she didn’t particularly want to subject the topic to further exploration, but she was being so uncharacteristically evasive that Penelope couldn’t resist asking, “To whom?”

“The letters?”

“Yes,” Penelope replied, even though she thought that was rather obvious.

“Oh, no one.”

“Well, unless they’re a diary, they’re not to no one,” Penelope said, impatience adding a short tinge to her voice.

Eloise gave her a vaguely affronted look. “You’re rather nosy today.”

“Only because you’re being so evasive.”

“They’re just to Francesca,” Eloise said with a little snort.

“Well, then, why didn’t you say so?”

Eloise crossed her arms. “Perhaps I didn’t appreciate your questioning me.”

Penelope’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Eloise had had anything even remotely approaching a row. “Eloise,” she said, her shock showing in her voice, “what is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“I know that’s not true.”

Eloise said nothing, just pursed her lips and glanced toward the window, a clear attempt to end the conversation.

“Are you angry with me?” Penelope persisted.

“Why would I be angry with you?”

“I don’t know, but it’s clear that you are.”

Eloise let out a little sigh. “I’m not angry.”

“Well, you’re something.”

“I’m just . . . I’m just . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I am. Restless, I suppose. Out of sorts.”

Penelope was silent as she digested that, then said quietly, “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” Eloise smiled wryly. “If there were, you can be sure I’d have already asked it of you.”

Penelope felt something that was almost a laugh rising within her. How like Eloise to make such a comment.

“I suppose it’s . . .” Eloise began, her chin lifting in thought. “No, never mind.”

“No,” Penelope said, reaching out and taking her friend’s hand. “Tell me.”

Eloise pulled her hand free and looked away. “You’ll think I’m silly.”

“Maybe,” Penelope said with a smile, “but you’ll still be my very closest friend.”

“Oh, Penelope, but I’m not,” Eloise said sadly. “I’m not worthy of it.”

“Eloise, don’t talk such madness. I’d have gone right-out insane trying to navigate London and society and the ton without you.”

Eloise smiled. “We did have fun, didn’t we?”

“Well, yes, when I was with you,” Penelope admitted. “The rest of the time I was bloody miserable.”

“Penelope! I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you curse before.”

Penelope gave her a sheepish smile. “It slipped out. And besides, I couldn’t possibly think of a better adjective to describe life for a wallflower among the ton.”

Eloise let out an unexpected chuckle. “Now, that’s a book I would like to read: A Wallflower Among the Ton.”

“Not unless you’re given to tragedies.”

“Oh, come, now, it couldn’t be a tragedy. It would have to be a romance. You’re getting your happy ending, after all.”

Penelope smiled. As strange as it was, she was getting her happy ending. Colin had been a lovely and attentive fiancé, at least for the three days that he’d been playing that role. And it couldn’t have been particularly easy; they’d been subject to more speculation and scrutiny than Penelope could have imagined.

She wasn’t surprised, though; when she (as Lady Whistledown) had written that the world would end as she knew it if a Featherington married a Bridgerton, she rather thought she’d been echoing a prevalent sentiment.

To say that the ton had been shocked by Penelope’s engagement would have been an understatement, indeed.

But much as Penelope liked to anticipate and reflect upon her upcoming marriage, she was still a bit disturbed about Eloise’s strange mood. “Eloise,” she said seriously, “I want you to tell me what has you so upset.”

Eloise sighed. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten about it.”

“I’ve learned tenacity from the master,” Penelope commented.

That made Eloise smile, but only for a moment. “I feel so disloyal,” she said.

“What have you done?”

“Oh, nothing.” She patted her heart. “It’s all inside. I—” She stopped, looked to the side, her eyes settling on the fringed corner of the carpet, but Penelope suspected that she didn’t see much of anything. At least nothing beyond what was rumbling about in her mind.

“I’m so happy for you,” Eloise said, the words tumbling forth in odd bursts, punctuated by awkward pauses. “And I honestly think I can really, truly say that I’m not jealous. But at the same time . . .”

Penelope waited for Eloise to collect her thoughts. Or maybe she was collecting her courage.

“At the same time,” she said, so softly that Penelope could barely hear her, “I suppose I always thought you’d be a spinster right along with me. I’ve chosen this life. I know that I have. I could have married.”

“I know,” Penelope said quietly.

“But I never did, because it never seemed right, and I didn’t want to settle for anything less than what my brothers and sister have. And now Colin, too,” she said, motioning toward Penelope.

Penelope didn’t mention that Colin had never said he loved her. It didn’t seem like the right time, or, frankly, the sort of thing she cared to share. Besides, even if he didn’t love her, she still thought he cared about her, and that was enough.

“I would never have wanted you not to marry,” Eloise explained, “I just never thought you would.” She closed her eyes, looking quite agonized. “That came out all wrong. I’ve insulted you terribly.”

“No, you haven’t,” Penelope said, meaning it. “I never thought I would marry, either.”

Eloise nodded sadly. “And somehow, it made it all . . . all right. I was almost twenty-eight and unmarried, and you were already twenty-eight and unmarried, and we’d always have each other. But now you have Colin.”

“I still have you, too. At least I hope I do.”

“Of course you do,” Eloise said fervently. “But it won’t be the same. You must cleave unto your husband. Or at least that’s what they all say,” she added with a slightly mischievous spark in her eyes. “Colin will come first, and that is how it should be. And frankly,” she added, her smile growing a bit sly, “I’d have to kill you if he didn’t. He is my favorite brother, after all. It really wouldn’t do for him to have a disloyal wife.”

Penelope laughed out loud at that.

“Do you hate me?” Eloise asked.

Penelope shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “If anything I love you all the more, because I know how difficult it must have been to be honest with me about this.”

“I’m so glad you said that,” Eloise said with a loud, dramatic sigh. “I was terrified you’d say that the only solution would be for me to find myself a husband as well.”

The thought had crossed Penelope’s mind, but she shook her head and said, “Of course not.”

“Good. Because my mother has been saying it constantly.”

Penelope smiled wryly. “I’d be surprised if she hadn’t.”

“Good afternoon, ladies!”

The two women looked up to see Colin entering the room. Penelope’s heart did a little flip upon seeing him, and she found herself oddly out of breath. Her heart had been doing little flips for years whenever he walked into a room, but it was somehow different now, more intense.

Perhaps because she knew.

Knew what it was like to be with him, to be wanted by him.

To know that he would be her husband.

Her heart flipped again.

Colin let out a loud groan. “You ate all the food?”

“There was only one small plate of biscuits,” Eloise said in their defense.

“That’s not what I was led to believe,” Colin grumbled.

Penelope and Eloise shared a glance, then both burst out laughing.

“What?” Colin demanded, leaning down to press a quick, dutiful kiss on Penelope’s cheek.

“You sounded so sinister,” Eloise explained. “It’s just food.”

“It’s never just food,” Colin said, plopping down in a chair.

Penelope was still wondering when her cheek would stop tingling.

“So,” he said, taking a half-eaten biscuit off of Eloise’s plate, “what were you two talking about?”

“Lady Whistledown,” Eloise said promptly.

Penelope choked on her tea.

“Were you?” Colin said softly, but Penelope detected a definite edge in his voice.

“Yes,” Eloise said. “I was telling Penelope that it is really too bad she’s retired, since your engagement would have been quite the most newsworthy piece of gossip we’ve had all year.”

“Interesting how that works out,” Colin murmured.

“Mmmm,” Eloise agreed, “and she surely would have devoted an entire column just to your engagement ball tomorrow night.”

Penelope did not lower her teacup from her mouth.

“Do you want some more?” Eloise asked her.

Penelope nodded and handed her the cup, although she very much missed having it in front of her face as a shield. She knew that Eloise had blurted out Lady Whistledown’s name because she did not want Colin to know that she had mixed feelings about his marriage, but still, Penelope fervently wished that Eloise had said anything else in reply to Colin’s question.

“Why don’t you ring for more food?” Eloise asked Colin.

“Already did so,” he answered. “Wickham intercepted me in the hall and asked if I was hungry.” He popped the last bite of Eloise’s biscuit into his mouth. “Wise man, that Wickham.”

“Where did you go today, Colin?” Penelope asked, eager to get the topic firmly off of Lady Whistledown.

He gave his head a beleaguered shake. “Devil if I know. Mother dragged me from shop to shop.”

“Aren’t you thirty-three years old?” Eloise inquired sweetly.

He answered her with a scowl.

“Just thought you’d be beyond the age of having Mother drag you about, that’s all,” she murmured.

“Mother will be dragging all of us about when we’re doddering old fools, and you know it,” he replied. “Besides, she’s so delighted to see me married, I really can’t bring myself to spoil her fun.”

Penelope sighed. This had to be why she loved the man. Anyone who treated his mother so well would surely be an excellent husband.

“And how are your wedding preparations coming along?” Colin asked Penelope.

She hadn’t meant to pull a face, but she did, anyway. “I have never been so exhausted in all my life,” she admitted.

He reached over and grabbed a large crumb off of her plate. “We should elope.”

“Oh, could we really?” Penelope asked, the words flying from her lips in an unsummoned rush.

He blinked. “Actually, I was joking, mostly, although it does seem a prime idea.”

“I shall arrange for a ladder,” Eloise said, clapping her hands together, “so that you might climb to her room and steal her away.”

“There’s a tree,” Penelope said. “Colin will have no difficulty with it.”

“Good God,” he said, “you’re not serious, are you?”

“No,” she sighed. “But I could be. If you were.”

“I can’t be. Do you know what it would do to my mother?” He rolled his eyes. “Not to mention yours.”

Penelope groaned. “I know.”

“She’d hunt me down and kill me,” Colin said.

“Mine or yours?”

“Both. They’d join forces.” He craned his neck toward the door. “Where is the food?”

“You just got here, Colin,” Eloise said. “Give them time.”

“And here I thought Wickham a sorcerer,” he grumbled, “able to conjure food with the snap of his hand.”

“Here you are, sir!” came Wickham’s voice as he sailed into the room with a large tray.

“See?” Colin said, raising his brows first at Eloise and then at Penelope. “I told you so.”

“Why,” Penelope asked, “do I sense that I will be hearing those words from your lips far too many times in my future?”

“Most likely because you will,” Colin replied. “You’ll soon learn”—he shot her an extremely cheeky grin—“that I am almost always right.”

“Oh, please,” Eloise groaned.

“I may have to side with Eloise on this one,” Penelope said.

“Against your husband?” He placed a hand on his heart (while the other one reached for a sandwich). “I’m wounded.”

“You’re not my husband yet.”

Colin turned to Eloise. “The kitten has claws.”

Eloise raised her brows. “You didn’t realize that before you proposed?”

“Of course I did,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “I just didn’t think she’d use them on me.”

And then he looked at her with such a hot, masterful expression that Penelope’s bones went straight to water.

“Well,” Eloise announced, rising quite suddenly to her feet, “I think I shall allow you two soon-to-be-newlyweds a moment or two of privacy.”

“How positively forward-thinking of you,” Colin murmured.

Eloise looked to him with a peevish twist to her mouth. “Anything for you, dear brother. Or rather,” she added, her expression growing arch, “anything for Penelope.”

Colin stood and turned to his betrothed, “I seem to be slipping down the pecking order.”

Penelope just smiled behind her teacup and said, “I am making it my policy never to get in the middle of a Bridgerton spat.”

“Oh ho!” Eloise chortled. “You’ll not be able to keep to that one, I’m afraid, Mrs. Soon-to-be-Bridgerton. Besides,” she added with a wicked grin, “if you think this is a spat, I can’t wait until you see us in full form.”

“You mean I haven’t?” Penelope asked.

Both Eloise and Colin shook their heads in a way that made her extremely fearful.

Oh, dear.

“Is there something I should know?” Penelope asked.

Colin grinned rather wolfishly. “It’s too late now.”

Penelope gave Eloise a helpless glance, but all she did was laugh as she left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

“Now, that was nice of Eloise,” Colin murmured.

“What?” Penelope asked innocently.

His eyes gleamed. “The door.”

“The door? Oh!” she yelped. “The door.”

Colin smiled, moving over to the sofa beside her. There was something rather delightful about Penelope on a rainy afternoon. He’d hardly seen her since they’d become engaged—wedding plans had a way of doing that to a couple—and yet she’d not been out of his thoughts, even as he slept.

Funny how that happened. He’d spent years not really ever thinking about her unless she was standing in front of his face, and now she had permeated his every last thought.

His every last desire.

How had this happened?

When had it happened?

And did it really matter? Maybe the only important thing was that he wanted her and she was—or at least she would be—his. Once he put his ring on her finger, the hows, whys, and whens would become irrelevant, provided that this madness he felt never went away.

He touched his finger to her chin, tipping her face up to the light. Her eyes shone with anticipation, and her lips—dear God, how was it possible that the men of London had never noticed how perfect they were?

He smiled. This was a permanent madness. And he couldn’t have been more pleased.

Colin had never been opposed to marriage. He’d simply been opposed to a dull marriage. He wasn’t picky; he just wanted passion and friendship and intellectual conversation and a good laugh every now and then. A wife from whom he wouldn’t want to stray.

Amazingly, he seemed to have found that in Penelope.

All he needed to do now was make sure her Big Secret remained just that. A secret.

Because he didn’t think he could bear the pain he’d see in her eyes if she were cast out of society.

“Colin?” she whispered, her breath quivering across her lips, making him really want to kiss her.

He leaned in. “Hmmm?”

“You were so quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He gave her an indulgent smile. “You really have been spending too much time with my sister.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, her lips twitching in such a way that he knew she’d never feel any compunction at poking fun at him. She would keep him on his toes, this woman.

“You seem,” he said, “to have developed a certain penchant for persistence.”

“Tenacity?”

“That, too.”

“But that’s a good thing.”

Their lips were still mere inches apart, but the urge to continue the teasing conversation was too strong. “When you’re persistently avowing your obedience for your husband,” he murmured, “that’s a good thing.”

“Oh, really?”

His chin dipped into the barest hint of a nod. “And when you’re tenaciously holding on to my shoulders when I’m kissing you, that’s a good thing as well.”

Her dark eyes widened so delightfully that he had to add, “Don’t you think?”

And then she surprised him.

“Like this?” she asked, placing her hands on his shoulders. Her tone was daring, her eyes pure flirtation.

Lord, he loved that she surprised him.

“That’s a start,” he said. “You might have to”—he moved one of his hands to cover hers, pressing her fingers into his skin—“hold me a little more tenaciously.”

“I see,” she murmured. “So what you’re saying is that I should never let go?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Yes,” he answered, realizing that there was a deeper meaning in her words, whether she’d intended it or not. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

And then words were simply not enough. He brought his lips to hers, remaining gentle for barely a second before his hunger overtook him. He kissed her with a passion he hadn’t even known he possessed. It wasn’t about desire—or at least it wasn’t just about desire.

It was about need.

It was about a strange sensation, hot and fierce inside of him, urging him to lay claim to her, to somehow brand her as his.

He wanted her desperately, and he had absolutely no idea how he could possibly make it through an entire month before the wedding.

“Colin?” Penelope gasped, just as he was easing her down onto her back on the sofa.

He was kissing her jaw, and then her neck, and his lips were far too busy for anything other than a low, “Mmm?”

“We’re—Oh!”

He smiled, even as he nipped her earlobe gently with his teeth. If she could finish a sentence, then he clearly wasn’t befuddling her as much as he ought.

“You were saying?” he murmured, then kissed her deeply on the mouth, just to torture her.

He lifted his lips off hers just long enough for her to say, “I just—” and then he kissed her again, reeling with pleasure when she groaned with desire.

“I’m sorry,” he said, scooting his hands under the hem of her dress and then using them to do all sorts of wicked things to her calves, “you were saying?”

“I was?” she asked, her eyes glazed.

He moved his hands higher, until they were tickling the back of her knee. “You were saying something,” he said, pressing his hips against her because he honestly thought he would burst into flame at that very moment if he did not. “I think,” he whispered, sliding his hand over the soft skin of her thigh, “that you were going to say that you wanted me to touch you here.”

She gasped, then groaned, then somehow managed to say, “I don’t think that was what I was going to say.”

He grinned against her neck. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“So then you want me to stop?”

She shook her head. Frantically.

He could take her now, he realized. He could make love to her right there on his mother’s sofa and not only would she let him, she would enjoy herself in every way a woman should.

It wouldn’t be a conquest, it wouldn’t even be seduction.

It would be more than that. Maybe even . . .

Love.

Colin froze.

“Colin?” she whispered, opening her eyes.

Love?

It wasn’t possible.

“Colin?”

Or maybe it was.

“Is something wrong?”

It wasn’t that he feared love, or didn’t believe in it. He just hadn’t . . . expected it.

He’d always thought love would hit a man like a thunderbolt, that one day you’d be loitering about at some party, bored to tears, and then you’d see a woman, and you’d know instantly that your life would be changed forever. That was what had happened to his brother Benedict, and heaven knew that he and his wife Sophie were blissfully happy rusticating away in the country.

But this thing with Penelope . . . it had crept up on him. The change had been slow, almost lethargic, and if it was love, well . . .

If it was love, wouldn’t he know?

He watched her closely, curiously, thinking that maybe he’d find his answer in her eyes, or the sweep of her hair, or the way the bodice of her gown hung slightly crookedly. Maybe if he watched her long enough, he’d know.

“Colin?” she whispered, starting to sound slightly anxious.

He kissed her again, this time with a fierce determination. If this was love, wouldn’t it become obvious when they kissed?

But if his mind and body were working separately, then the kiss was clearly in league with his body, because while his mind’s confusion remained just as blurry as ever, his body’s need was brought into sharper focus.

Hell, now he was in pain. And he really couldn’t do anything about it here in his mother’s drawing room, even if Penelope would have been a willing participant.

He pulled back, letting his hand slip down her leg toward the edge of her skirt. “We can’t do this here.”

“I know,” she said, sounding so sad that his hand stilled on her knee, and he almost lost his resolve to do the right thing and mind the dictates of propriety.

He thought hard and fast. It was possible that he could make love to her and no one would walk in on them. Heaven knew that in his current state, it would be an embarrassingly fast endeavor, anyway.

“When is the wedding?” he growled.

“A month.”

“What would it take to change that to a fortnight?”

She thought about that for a moment. “Bribery or blackmail. Maybe both. Our mothers will not be easily swayed.”

He groaned, letting his hips sink against hers for one delicious moment before heaving himself off. He couldn’t take her now. She was going to be his wife. There would be plenty of time for midday tumbles on illicit sofas, but he owed it to her to use a bed for the first time, at least.

“Colin?” she asked, straightening her dress and smoothing her hair, even though there was no way she was going to make the latter look anything even approaching presentable without a mirror, hairbrush, and maybe even a maid. “Is something wrong?”

“I want you,” he whispered.

She looked up at him, startled.

“I just wanted you to know that,” he said. “I didn’t want you to think I stopped because you didn’t please me.”

“Oh.” She looked as if she wanted to say something; she looked almost absurdly happy at his words. “Thank you for saying that.”

He took her hand and squeezed.

“Do I look a mess?” she asked.

He nodded. “But you’re my mess,” he whispered.

And he was very glad for that.

Chapter 16

As Colin liked to walk, and in fact frequently did so to clear his mind, it was no surprise that he spent much of the next day traversing Bloomsbury . . . and Fitzrovia . . . and Marylebone . . . and in fact several other London neighborhoods, until he looked up and realized that he was standing in the heart of Mayfair, in Grosvenor Square, to be precise, outside of Hastings House, town home of the Dukes of Hastings, the latest of whom happened to be married to his sister Daphne.

It had been a while since they’d had a conversation, anything above the usual family chitchat, that was. Of all his siblings, Daphne was the closest in age to him, and they’d always shared a rather special bond, even though they didn’t see each other as much as they used to, what with Colin’s frequent travels and Daphne’s busy family life.

Hastings House was one of those enormous mansions that one could find scattered throughout Mayfair and St. James’s. Large and square and constructed of elegant Portland stone, it was thoroughly imposing in its ducal splendor.

Which made it all the more amusing, Colin thought with a wry grin, that his sister was the current duchess. He couldn’t imagine anyone less haughty or imposing. In fact, Daphne had had difficulty finding a husband when she’d been out on the marriage mart, precisely because she was so friendly and easy to be with. Gentlemen had tended to think of her as their friend and not as a prospective bride.

But all that had changed when she’d met Simon Bassett, Duke of Hastings, and now she was a respectable society matron with four children, aged ten, nine, eight, and seven. It still sometimes seemed odd to Colin that his sister was a mother, of all things, while he still lived the free and unfettered life of a bachelor. With only one year between them, he and Daphne had always passed through the various stages of life together. Even when she’d married, things hadn’t seemed so very different; she and Simon attended the same parties he did and had many of the same interests and pursuits.

But then she’d started reproducing, and while Colin was always delighted to welcome a new niece or nephew into his life, each arrival had brought home the fact that Daphne had moved on in a way he had not.

But, he thought, smiling as Penelope’s face drifted through his mind, he supposed all that would soon change.

Children. It was a rather nice thought, actually.

He hadn’t consciously meant to visit Daphne, but now that he was here, he figured he might as well stop by and say hello, so he marched up the steps and gave the big brass knocker a sturdy clanking. Jeffries, the butler, opened the door almost immediately.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” he said. “Your sister was not expecting you.”

“No, I decided to surprise her. Is she at home?”

“I shall see,” the butler said with a nod, even though they both knew that Daphne would never refuse to see a member of her family.

Colin waited in the drawing room while Jeffries informed Daphne of his presence, wandering idly about, feeling too restless to sit or even stand in one place. After a few minutes, Daphne appeared in the doorway, looking slightly disheveled but happy as always.

And why shouldn’t she be? Colin wondered. All she’d ever wanted in life was to be a wife and mother, and it seemed that reality had more than surpassed her dreams.

“Hello there, sister,” he said with a sloppy smile as he crossed the room to give her a quick hug. “You’ve got . . .” He motioned to his shoulder.

She looked down at her own shoulder, then smiled sheepishly as she saw the large dark gray smudge on the pale pink fabric of her dress. “Charcoal,” she explained ruefully. “I’ve been trying to teach Caroline to draw.”

“You?” Colin asked doubtfully.

“I know, I know,” she said. “She really couldn’t have picked a worse tutor, but she only decided yesterday that she loves art, so I’m all she’s got on such short notice.”

“You should pack her off to see Benedict,” Colin suggested. “I’m sure he’d be happy to give her a lesson or two.”

“The thought had already crossed my mind, but I’m sure she’ll have moved on to some other pursuit by the time I can make the arrangements.” She motioned to a sofa. “Sit. You look rather like a caged cat over there, pacing as you are.”

He sat, even though he felt uncommonly fidgety.

“And before you ask,” Daphne said, “I already told Jeffries to see to food. Will sandwiches be enough?”

“Could you hear my stomach grumbling from across the room?”

“From across town, I’m afraid.” She laughed. “Did you know that whenever it thunders, David says that it’s your stomach?”

“Oh, good God,” Colin muttered, but he was chuckling all the while. His nephew was a rather clever little fellow.

Daphne smiled broadly as she settled down against the sofa cushions, folding her hands elegantly in her lap. “What brings you by, Colin? Not that you need a reason, of course. It’s always lovely to see you.”

He shrugged. “Just passing by.”

“Did you visit Anthony and Kate?” she asked. Bridgerton House, where their eldest brother lived with his family, was just across the square from Hastings House. “Benedict and Sophie are already there with the children, helping to prepare for your engagement ball tonight.”

He shook his head. “No, you’re my chosen victim, I’m afraid.”

She smiled again, but this time it was a softer expression, tempered by a fair dose of curiosity. “Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not,” he said quickly. “Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know.” She cocked her head to the side. “You seem odd, that’s all.”

“Just tired.”

She nodded knowingly. “Wedding plans, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” he said, jumping on the excuse, although for the life of him, he wasn’t even sure what it was he was trying to hide from her.

“Well, remember that whatever you’re going through,” she said with a peevish twist to her lips, “it’s a thousand times worse for Penelope. It’s always worse for women. Trust me.”

“For weddings or for everything?” he asked mildly.

“Everything,” she said promptly. “I know you men think you’re actually in charge, but—”

“I wouldn’t dream of thinking we’re actually in charge,” Colin said, and not entirely sarcastically.

Her face pinched into a peevish expression. “Women have far more to do than men. Especially with weddings. With all the fittings I’m sure Penelope has had for her wedding gown, she probably feels like a pincushion.”

“I suggested eloping,” Colin said conversationally, “and I think she rather hoped I was serious.”

Daphne chuckled. “I’m so glad you’re marrying her, Colin.”

He nodded, not planning to say anything, and then somehow, he was saying her name. “Daff—”

“Yes?”

He opened his mouth, and then—“Never mind.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “Now you really have my curiosity piqued.”

He drummed his fingers against the sofa. “Do you suppose the food might arrive soon?”

“Are you even hungry or are you merely trying to change the subject?”

“I’m always hungry.”

She was silent for several seconds. “Colin,” she finally asked, her voice soft and carefully gentle, “what were you going to say?”

He jumped to his feet, too restless to remain still, and began to pace. He stopped, turned to her, looked at her concerned face. “It’s nothing,” he started to say, except it wasn’t nothing, and—

“How does one know?” he blurted out, not even aware that he hadn’t completed his question until she replied, “How does one know what?”

He stopped in front of the window. It looked like it might rain. He’d have to borrow a carriage from Daphne unless he wanted to get soaked on the long walk home. Yet, he didn’t know why he was even thinking about precipitation, because what he really wanted to know was—

“How does one know what, Colin?” Daphne repeated.

He turned around and just let the words break free. “How do you know if it’s love?”

For a moment she just stared at him, her large brown eyes wide with surprise, her lips parted and utterly still.

“Forget I asked,” he muttered.

“No!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “I’m glad you asked. Very glad. I’m just . . . surprised, I must say.”

He closed his eyes, thoroughly disgusted with himself. “I can’t believe I just asked you that.”

“No, Colin, don’t be silly. It’s really rather . . . sweet that you asked. And I can’t even begin to tell you how flattered I am that you would come to me when—”

“Daphne . . .” he said warningly. She had a way of wandering off the topic, and he really wasn’t in the right frame of mind to follow her errant thoughts.

Impulsively, she reached out and hugged him; then, her hands still on his shoulders, she said, “I don’t know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She gave her head a little shake. “I don’t know how you know it’s love. I think it’s different for everyone.”

“How did you know?”

She chewed on her lower lip for several seconds before replying, “I don’t know.”

“What?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t remember. It’s been so long. I just . . . knew.”

“So what you’re saying,” he said, leaning against the windowsill and crossing his arms, “is that if one doesn’t know one’s in love, then one probably isn’t.”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “No! No, that’s not what I mean at all.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said weakly.

He stared at her. “And how long have you been married?” he muttered.

“Colin, don’t tease. I’m trying to be helpful.”

“And I appreciate the attempt, but truly, Daphne, you—”

“I know, I know,” she interrupted. “I’m useless. But listen to me. Do you like Penelope?” Then she gasped in horror. “We are talking about Penelope, aren’t we?”

“Of course we are,” he snapped.

She let out a relieved sigh. “Good, because if we weren’t, then I can assure you I would have had no advice whatsoever.”

“I’ll go,” he said abruptly.

“No, don’t,” she pleaded, placing her hand on his arm. “Stay, Colin, please.”

He looked at her, sighing, feeling defeated. “I feel like an ass.”

“Colin,” she said, guiding him to the sofa and pushing him down until he sat, “listen to me. Love grows and changes every day. And it isn’t like some thunderbolt from the sky, instantly transforming you into a different man. I know Benedict says it was that way for him, and that’s just lovely, but you know, Benedict is not normal.”

Colin very much wanted to take that bait, but he just couldn’t summon the energy.

“It wasn’t like that for me,” Daphne said, “and I don’t think it was like that for Simon, although truthfully, I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”

“You should.”

She paused while her mouth was forming a word, leaving her looking like a surprised bird. “Why?”

He shrugged. “So you can tell me.”

“What, do you think it’s different for men?”

“Everything else is.”

She grimaced. “I’m beginning to develop a fair dose of pity for Penelope.”

“Oh, absolutely you should,” he agreed. “I’ll make a dreadful husband, to be sure.”

“You will not,” she said, batting his arm. “Why on earth would you say that? You would never be unfaithful to her.”

“No,” he agreed. He was quiet for a moment, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was soft. “But I might not love her the way she deserves.”

“But you might.” She threw up her hands in a gesture of exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, Colin, just the fact that you’re sitting here asking your sister about love probably means you’re more than halfway there.”

“Do you think?”

“If I didn’t think so,” she said, “I wouldn’t have said so.” She sighed. “Stop thinking so hard, Colin. You’ll find marriage a lot easier if you simply allow it to be.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “When did you grow so philosophical?”

“When you came by to see me and forced the issue,” she said promptly. “You’re marrying the right person. Stop worrying so much.”

“I’m not worrying,” he said automatically, but of course he was worrying, so he didn’t even bother to defend himself when Daphne shot him an extremely sarcastic look. But it wasn’t as if he were worrying whether Penelope was the right woman. He was certain of that.

And he wasn’t worried about whether his marriage would be a good one. He was certain of that, as well.

No, he was worrying about stupid things. About whether or not he loved her, not because it would be the end of the world if he did (or the end of the world if he didn’t), but because he found it extremely unsettling not to know exactly what it was he was feeling.

“Colin?”

He looked over at his sister, who was regarding him with a rather bemused expression. He stood, intending to leave before he embarrassed himself beyond repair, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re serious or are teasing me for being an utter lack of help.”

“You were an utter lack of help,” he said, “but it’s an honest thank-you, nonetheless.”

“Points for effort?”

“Something like that.”

“Are you going over to Bridgerton House now?” she asked.

“Why, so I may embarrass myself with Anthony next?”

“Or Benedict,” she said. “He’s there, too.”

The thing about large families was, there was never a lack of opportunity to make a fool of oneself with a sibling. “No,” he said with a small, wry smile, “I think I’ll walk home.”

“Walk?” she echoed, gaping.

He squinted toward the window. “Do you think it might rain?”

“Take my carriage, Colin,” she insisted, “and please wait for the sandwiches. There is sure to be a mountain of them, and if you leave before they arrive, I know I’ll eat half, and then I’ll hate myself for the rest of the day.”

He nodded and sat back down, and was glad he did. He’d always been partial to smoked salmon. In fact, he took a plate with him in the carriage, staring out the window the whole way home at the pouring rain.

When the Bridgertons threw a party, they did it right.

And when the Bridgertons threw an engagement ball . . . well, had Lady Whistledown still been writing, it would have taken at least three columns to chronicle the event.

Even this engagement ball, thrown together at the last minute (due to the fact that neither Lady Bridgerton nor Mrs. Featherington were willing to allow their children the possibility of changing their minds during a long engagement), easily qualified as the party of the season.

Although part of that, Penelope thought wryly, had little to do with the party itself and everything to do with the continued speculation over why on earth Colin Bridgerton would choose a nobody like Penelope Featherington to be his wife. It hadn’t even been this bad when Anthony Bridgerton had married Kate Sheffield, who, like Penelope, had never been considered a diamond of the first water. But at least Kate hadn’t been old. Penelope couldn’t even begin to count the number of times she’d heard the word spinster whispered behind her back during the past few days.

But while the gossip was a bit tedious, it didn’t really bother her, because she was still floating along on the cloud of her own bliss. A woman couldn’t spend her entire adult life in love with one man and then not be almost stupid with happiness after he asked her to marry him.

Even if she couldn’t quite figure out how it had all happened.

It had happened. That was all that mattered.

And Colin was everything anyone could dream of in a fiancé. He stuck to her side like glue the entire evening, and Penelope didn’t even think he was doing it to protect her from gossip. In all truth, he seemed rather oblivious to the talk.

It was almost as if . . . Penelope smiled dreamily. It was almost as if Colin were remaining by her side because he wanted to be there.

“Did you see Cressida Twombley?” Eloise whispered in her ear while Colin was off dancing with his mother. “She’s green with envy.”

“That’s just her dress,” Penelope said with an impressively straight face.

Eloise laughed. “Oh, I wish Lady Whistledown were writing. She would skewer her.”

“I think Lady Whistledown is supposed to be her,” Penelope said carefully.

“Oh, pish and tosh. I don’t believe for one moment that Cressida is Lady Whistledown, and I can’t believe that you do, either.”

“Probably not,” Penelope allowed. She knew that her secret would be better protected if she claimed to believe Cressida’s story, but anyone who knew her would have found that so out of character that it would have been quite suspicious indeed.

“Cressida just wanted the money,” Eloise continued disdainfully. “Or maybe the notoriety. Probably both.”

Penelope watched her nemesis, holding court on the other side of the room. Her regular crowd of cronies milled about, but they were joined by new people, as well, most likely curious about the Whistledown gossip. “Well, she’s succeeded with the notoriety, at least.”

Eloise nodded her agreement. “I cannot even imagine why she was invited. There is certainly no love lost between the two of you, and none of us like her.”

“Colin insisted upon it.”

Eloise turned to her with gaping jaw. “Why?”

Penelope suspected that the main reason was Cressida’s recent claim to be Lady Whistledown; most of the ton wasn’t sure whether or not she was lying, but no one was willing to deny her an invitation to an event, just in case she really was telling the truth.

And Colin and Penelope shouldn’t have had any reason to know for certain otherwise.

But Penelope couldn’t reveal this to Eloise, so she told her the rest of the story, which was still the truth. “Your mother didn’t want to cause any gossip by cutting her, and Colin also said . . .”

She blushed. It was really too sweet.

“What?” Eloise demanded.

Penelope couldn’t speak without smiling. “He said he wanted Cressida to be forced to watch me in my triumph.”

“Oh. My. Word.” Eloise looked as if she might need to sit down. “My brother is in love.”

Penelope’s blush turned a furious red.

“He is,” Eloise exclaimed. “He must be. Oh, you must tell me. Has he said so?”

There was something both wonderful and horrible in listening to Eloise gush. On the one hand, it was always lovely to share life’s most perfect moments with one’s best friend, and Eloise’s joy and excitement were certainly contagious.

But on the other hand, they weren’t necessarily warranted, because Colin didn’t love her. Or at least he hadn’t said so.

But he acted like he did! Penelope clung to that thought, trying to focus on that, rather than the fact that he’d never said the words.

Actions spoke louder than words, didn’t they?

And his actions made her feel like a princess.

“Miss Featherington! Miss Featherington!”

Penelope looked to her left and beamed. That voice could belong to no one other than Lady Danbury.

“Miss Featherington,” Lady D said, poking her cane through the crowd until she was standing right in front of Penelope and Eloise.

“Lady Danbury, how nice to see you.”

“Heh heh heh.” Lady Danbury’s wrinkled face became almost young again from the force of her smile. “It’s always nice to see me, regardless of what anyone else says. And you, you little devil. Look what you did.”

“Isn’t it the best?” Eloise asked.

Penelope looked to her closest friend. For all her mixed emotions, Eloise was truly, honestly, and forever would be thrilled for her. Suddenly it didn’t matter that they were standing in the middle of a crowded ballroom, with everyone staring at her as if she were some sort of specimen on a biology plate. She turned and gave Eloise a fierce hug, whispering, “I do love you,” in her ear.

“I know you do,” Eloise whispered back.

Lady Danbury banged her cane—loudly—on the floor. “I’m still standing here, ladies!”

“Oh, sorry,” Penelope said sheepishly.

“It’s all right,” Lady D said, with an uncharacteristic level of indulgence. “It’s rather nice to see two girls who’d rather embrace than stab each other in the back, if you must know.”

“Thank you for coming over to congratulate me,” Penelope said.

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Lady Danbury said. “Heh heh heh. All these fools, trying to figure out what you did to get him to marry you, when all you really did was be yourself.”

Penelope’s lips parted, and tears pricked her eyes. “Why, Lady Danbury, that’s just about the nicest—”

“No, no,” Lady D interrupted loudly, “none of that. I haven’t the time nor the inclination for sentiment.”

But Penelope noticed that she’d pulled out her handkerchief and was discreetly dabbing her eyes.

“Ah, Lady Danbury,” Colin said, returning to the group and sliding his arm possessively through Penelope’s. “Good to see you.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said in curt greeting. “Just came over to congratulate your bride.”

“Ah, but I am surely the one who deserves the congratulations.”

“Hmmmph. Truer words, and all that,” Lady D said. “I think you might be right. She’s more of a prize than anyone realizes.”

“I realize,” he said, his voice so low and deadly serious that Penelope thought she might faint from the thrill of it.

“And if you’ll excuse us,” Colin continued smoothly, “I must take my fiancée over to meet my brother—”

“I’ve met your brother,” Penelope interrupted.

“Consider it tradition,” he said. “We need to officially welcome you to the family.”

“Oh.” She felt rather warm inside at the thought of becoming a Bridgerton. “How lovely.”

“As I was saying,” Colin said, “Anthony would like to make a toast, and then I must lead Penelope in a waltz.”

“Very romantic,” Lady Danbury said approvingly.

“Yes, well, I am a romantic sort,” Colin said airily.

Eloise let out a loud snort.

He turned to her with one arrogantly arched brow. “I am.”

“For Penelope’s sake,” she retorted, “I certainly hope so.”

“Are they always like this?” Lady Danbury asked Penelope.

“Most of the time.”

Lady D nodded. “That’s a good thing. My children rarely even speak to one another. Not out of any ill will, of course. They just have nothing in common. Sad, really.”

Colin tightened his hand on Penelope’s arm. “We really must be going.”

“Of course,” she murmured, but as she turned to walk toward Anthony, whom she could see across the room, standing near the small orchestra, she heard a loud and sudden commotion at the door.

“Attention! Attention!”

The blood drained from her face in under a second. “Oh, no,” she heard herself whisper. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not tonight, anyway.

“Attention!”

Monday, her mind screamed. She’d told her printer Monday. At the Mottram ball.

“What is going on?” Lady Danbury demanded.

Ten young boys were racing into the room, nothing more than urchins, really, holding sheaves of paper, tossing them about like large rectangles of confetti.

“Lady Whistledown’s final column!” they all yelled. “Read it now! Read the truth.”

Chapter 17

Colin Bridgerton was famous for many things.

He was famous for his good looks, which was no surprise; all the Bridgerton men were famous for their good looks.

He was famous for his slightly crooked smile, which could melt a woman’s heart across a crowded ballroom and had even once caused a young lady to faint dead away, or at least to swoon delicately, then hit her head on a table, which did produce the aforementioned dead faint.

He was famous for his mellow charm, his ability to set anyone at ease with a smooth grin and an amusing comment.

What he was not famous for, and in fact what many people would have sworn he did not even possess, was a temper.

And, in fact, due to his remarkable (and heretofore untapped) self-control, no one was going to get a glimpse of it that night, either, although his soon-to-be wife might wake up the next day with a serious bruise on her arm.

“Colin,” she gasped, looking down at where he was gripping her.

But he couldn’t let go. He knew he was hurting her, he knew it wasn’t a terribly nice thing that he was hurting her, but he was so damned furious at that moment, and it was either squeeze her arm for all he was worth or lose his temper in front of five hundred of their nearest and dearest acquaintances.

All in all, he thought he was making the right choice.

He was going to kill her. As soon as he figured out some way to remove her from this godforsaken ballroom, he was absolutely going to kill her. They had agreed that Lady Whistledown was a thing of the past, that they were going to let matters lie. This was not supposed to happen. She was inviting disaster. Ruin.

“This is fabulous!” Eloise exclaimed, snatching a newssheet from the air. “Absolutely, positively smashing. I’ll bet she came out of retirement to celebrate your engagement.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Colin drawled.

Penelope said nothing, but she looked very, very pale.

“Oh, my heavens!”

Colin turned to his sister, whose mouth was hanging open as she read the column.

“Grab one of those for me, Bridgerton!” Lady Danbury ordered, swatting him in the leg with her cane. “Can’t believe she’s publishing on a Saturday. Must be a good one.”

Colin leaned down and picked up two pieces of paper from the floor, handing one to Lady Danbury and looking down at the one in his hand, even though he was fairly certain he knew exactly what it would say.

He was right.

There is nothing I despise more than a gentleman who thinks it amusing to give a lady a condescending pat on the hand as he murmurs, “It is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.” And indeed, because I feel one should always support one’s words with one’s actions, I endeavor to keep my opinions and decisions steadfast and true.

Which is why, Gentle Reader, when I wrote my column of 19 April, I truly intended it to be my last. However, events entirely beyond my control (or indeed my approval) force me to put my pen to paper one last time.

Ladies and Gentleman, This Author is NOT Lady Cressida Twombley. She is nothing more than a scheming imposter, and it would break my heart to see my years of hard work attributed to one such as her.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 24 APRIL 1824

“This is the best thing I have ever seen,” Eloise said in a gleeful whisper. “Maybe I am a bad person at heart, because I have never before felt such happiness at another person’s downfall.”

“Balderdash!” Lady Danbury said. “I know I am not a bad person, and I find this delightful.”

Colin said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust himself.

“Where is Cressida?” Eloise asked, craning her neck. “Does anyone see her? I’ll bet she’s already fled. She must be mortified. I would be mortified if I were her.”

“You would never be her,” Lady Danbury said. “You’re much too decent a person.”

Penelope said nothing.

“Still,” Eloise continued jovially, “one almost feels sorry for her.”

“But only almost,” Lady D said.

“Oh, for certain. Barely almost, truth be told.”

Colin just stood there, grinding his teeth into powder.

“And I get to keep my thousand pounds!” cackled Lady Danbury.

“Penelope!” Eloise exclaimed, jostling her with her elbow. “You haven’t said a word. Isn’t this marvelous?”

Penelope nodded and said, “I can’t believe it.”

Colin’s grip on her arm tightened.

“Your brother’s coming,” she whispered.

He looked to his right. Anthony was striding toward him, Violet and Kate hot on his heels.

“Well, this rather upstages us,” Anthony said as he drew up alongside Colin. He nodded at the ladies present. “Eloise, Penelope, Lady Danbury.”

“I don’t think anyone is going to listen to Anthony’s toast now,” Violet said, glancing about the room. The buzz of activity was relentless. Errant newssheets still floated in the air, and all about them, people were slipping on the ones that had already landed on the floor. The hum of the whispers was constant and almost grating, and Colin felt like the top of his skull was going to blow off.

He had to get away. Now. Or at least as soon as possible.

His head was screaming and he felt too hot in his own skin. It was almost like passion, except this wasn’t passion, it was fury, and it was outrage, and it was this awful, black feeling that he’d been betrayed by the one person who should have stood by him without question.

It was strange. He knew that Penelope was the one with the secret, the one with the most to lose. This was about her, not him; he knew that, intellectually, at least. But somehow that had ceased to matter. They were a team now, and she had acted without him.

She had no right to put herself in such a precarious position without consulting him first. He was her husband, or would be, and it was his God-given duty to protect her whether she desired it or not.

“Colin?” his mother was saying. “Are you well? You look a bit odd.”

“Make the toast,” he said, turning to Anthony. “Penelope isn’t feeling well, and I need to take her home.”

“You’re not feeling well?” Eloise asked Penelope. “What’s wrong? You didn’t say anything.”

To Penelope’s credit, she managed a rather credible, “A bit of a headache, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, yes, Anthony,” Violet said, “do go ahead and make the toast now so that Colin and Penelope may have their dance. She really can’t leave until you do.”

Anthony nodded his agreement, then motioned for Colin and Penelope to follow him to the front of the ballroom. A trumpeter let out a loud squawk on his horn, signaling the partygoers to be quiet. They all obeyed, probably because they assumed the ensuing announcement would be about Lady Whistledown.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Anthony said loudly, accepting a flute of champagne from a footman. “I know that you are all intrigued by Lady Whistledown’s recent intrusion into our party, but I must entreat you all to remember our purpose for gathering here tonight.”

It should have been a perfect moment, Colin thought dispassionately. It was to have been Penelope’s night of triumph, her night to shine, to show the world how beautiful and lovely and smart she really was.

It was his night to make his intentions well and truly public, to make sure that everyone knew that he had chosen her, and just as importantly, that she had chosen him.

And all he wanted to do was take her by the shoulders and shake her until he ran out of strength. She was jeopardizing everything. She was putting her very future at risk.

“As the head of the Bridgerton family,” Anthony continued, “it gives me great joy whenever one of my siblings chooses a bride. Or groom,” he added with a smile, nodding toward Daphne and Simon.

Colin looked down at Penelope. She was standing very straight and very still in her dress of ice-blue satin. She wasn’t smiling, which must have looked odd to the hundreds of people staring at her. But maybe they would just think she was nervous. There were hundreds of people staring at her, after all. Anyone would be nervous.

Although if one was standing right next to her, as Colin was, one could see the panic in her eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her chest as her breathing grew faster and more erratic.

She was scared.

Good. She should be scared. Scared of what could happen to her if her secret came out. Scared of what would happen to her once they had a chance to talk.

“Therefore,” Anthony concluded, “it gives me great pleasure to lift my glass in a toast to my brother Colin, and his soon-to-be bride, Penelope Featherington. To Colin and Penelope!”

Colin looked down at his hand and realized that someone had placed a glass of champagne in it. He lifted his glass, started to raise it to his lips, then thought the better of it and touched it to Penelope’s mouth instead. The crowd cheered wildly, and he watched as she took a sip, and then another and another, forced to keep drinking until he removed the glass, which he did not do until she was finished.

Then he realized that his childish display of power had left him without a drink, which he badly needed, so he plucked Penelope’s glass from her hand and downed it in a single gulp.

The crowd cheered even harder.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “We’re going to dance now. We’re going to dance until the rest of the party joins us and we’re no longer the center of attention. And then you and I will slip outside. And then we will talk.”

Her chin moved in a barely perceptible nod.

He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor, placing his other hand at her waist as the orchestra began the first strains of a waltz.

“Colin,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

He affixed a smile on his face. This was supposed to be his first official dance with his intended, after all. “Not now,” he ordered.

“But—”

“In ten minutes, I will have a great deal to say to you, but for right now, we are simply going to dance.”

“I just wanted to say—”

His hand tightened around hers in a gesture of unmistakable warning. She pursed her lips and looked at his face for the briefest of moments, then looked away.

“I should be smiling,” she whispered, still not looking at him.

“Then smile.”

“You should be smiling.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I should.”

But he didn’t.

Penelope felt like frowning. She felt like crying, in all honesty, but somehow she managed to nudge her lips up at the corners. The entire world was watching her—her entire world, at least—and she knew they were examining her every move, cataloguing each expression that crossed her face.

Years she’d spent, feeling like she was invisible and hating it. And now she’d have given anything for a few brief moments of anonymity again.

No, not anything. She wouldn’t have given up Colin. If having him meant that she would spend the rest of her life under close scrutiny from the ton, it would be worth it. And if having to endure his anger and disdain at a time like this was to be a part of marriage as well, then that would be worth it, too.

She’d known that he would be furious with her for publishing one last column. Her hands had been shaking as she’d rewritten the words, and she’d been terrified the entire time she’d been at St. Bride’s Church (as well as the ride to and from), sure that he was going to jump out at her at any moment, calling off the wedding because he couldn’t bear to be married to Lady Whistledown.

But she’d done it anyway.

She knew he thought she was making a mistake, but she simply could not allow Cressida Twombley to take the credit for her life’s work. But was it so much to ask that Colin at least make the attempt to see it all from her point of view? It would have been hard enough allowing anyone to pretend to be Lady Whistledown, but Cressida was unbearable. Penelope had worked too hard and endured too much at Cressida’s hands.

Plus, she knew that Colin would never jilt her once their engagement became public. That was part of the reason she’d specifically instructed her publisher to have the papers delivered on Monday to the Mottram ball. Well, that and the fact that it seemed terribly wrong to do it at her own engagement ball, especially when Colin was so opposed to the idea.

Damn Mr. Lacey! He’d surely done this to maximize circulation and exposure. He knew enough about society from reading Whistledown to know that a Bridgerton engagement ball would be the most coveted invitation of the season. Why this should matter, she didn’t know, since increasing interest in Whistledown would not lead to more money in his pocket; Whistledown was well and truly through, and neither Penelope nor Mr. Lacey would receive another pound from its publication.

Unless . . .

Penelope frowned and sighed. Mr. Lacey must be hoping that she would change her mind.

Colin’s hand tightened at her waist, and she looked back up. His eyes were on hers, startlingly green even in the candlelight. Or maybe it was just that she knew they were so green. She probably would have thought them emerald in the dark.

He nodded toward the other dancers on the floor, which was now crowded with revelers. “Time to make our escape,” he said.

She returned his nod with one of her own. They had already told his family that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to go home, so no one would think overmuch of their departure. And if it wasn’t quite de rigeur for them to be alone in his carriage, well, sometimes rules were stretched for affianced couples, especially on such romantic evenings.

A bubble of ridiculous, panicky laughter escaped her lips. The night was turning out to be the least romantic of her life.

Colin looked at her sharply, one arrogant brow raised in question.

“It’s nothing,” Penelope said.

He squeezed her hand, although not terribly affectionately. “I want to know,” he said.

She shrugged fatalistically. She couldn’t imagine what she could do or say to make the night any worse than it already was. “I was just thinking about how this evening was supposed to be romantic.”

“It could have been,” he said cruelly.

His hand slipped from its position at her waist, but he held on to her other hand, grasping her fingers lightly to weave her through the crowd until they stepped through the French doors out onto the terrace.

“Not here,” Penelope whispered, glancing anxiously back toward the ballroom.

He didn’t even dignify her comment with a reply, instead pulling her farther into the inky night, drifting around a corner until they were quite alone.

But they didn’t stop there. With a quick glance to make sure that no one was about, Colin pushed open a small, unobtrusive side door.

“What’s this?” Penelope asked.

His answer was a little shove at the small of her back, until she was fully inside the dark hallway.

“Up,” he said, motioning to the steps.

Penelope didn’t know whether to be scared or thrilled, but she climbed the stairs anyway, ever aware of Colin’s hot presence, right at her back.

After they’d climbed several flights, Colin stepped ahead of her and pushed open a door, peeking out into the hall. It was empty, so he stepped out, pulling her along with him, dashing quietly through the hall (which Penelope now recognized as the family’s private chambers) until they reached a room she had never before entered.

Colin’s room. She’d always known where it was. Through all her years of coming here to visit with Eloise, she’d never once done more than trail her fingers along the heavy wood of the door. It had been years since he’d lived here at Number Five on a permanent basis, but his mother had insisted upon maintaining his room for him. One never knew when he might need it, she’d said, and she’d been proven right earlier that season when Colin had returned from Cyprus without a house under lease.

He pushed open the door and pulled her inside after him. But the room was dark, and she was stumbling, and when she stopped moving it was because his body was right there in front of hers.

He touched her arms to steady her, but then he didn’t let go, just held her there in the dark. It wasn’t an embrace, not really, but the length of her body was touching the length of his. She couldn’t see anything, but she could feel him, and she could smell him, and she could hear his breathing, swirling through the night air, gently caressing her cheek.

It was agony.

It was ecstasy.

His hands slid slowly down her bare arms, torturing her every nerve, and then, abruptly, he stepped away.

Followed by—silence.

Penelope wasn’t sure what she had expected. He would yell at her, he would berate her, he would order her to explain herself.

But he was doing none of those things. He was just standing there in the dark, forcing the issue, forcing her to say something.

“Could you . . . could you light a candle?” she finally asked.

“You don’t like the dark?” he drawled.

“Not now. Not like this.”

“I see,” he murmured. “So you’re saying you might like it like this?” His fingers were suddenly on her skin, trailing along the edge of her bodice.

And then they were gone.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Don’t touch you?” His voice grew mocking, and Penelope was glad that she couldn’t see his face. “But you’re mine, aren’t you?”

“Not yet,” she warned him.

“Oh, but you are. You saw to that. It was rather clever timing, actually, waiting until our engagement ball to make your final announcement. You knew I didn’t want you to publish that last column. I forbade it! We agreed—”

“We never agreed!”

He ignored her outburst. “You waited until—”

“We never agreed,” Penelope cried out again, needing to make it clear that she had not broken her word. Whatever else she had done, she had not lied to him. Well, aside from keeping Whistledown a secret for nearly a dozen years, but he certainly hadn’t been alone in that deception. “And yes,” she admitted, because it didn’t seem right to start lying now, “I knew you wouldn’t jilt me. But I hoped—”

Her voice broke, and she was unable to finish.

“You hoped what?” Colin asked after an interminable silence.

“I hoped that you would forgive me,” she whispered. “Or at least that you would understand. I always thought you were the sort of man who . . .”

“What sort of man?” he asked, this time after the barest hint of a pause.

“It’s my fault, really,” she said, sounding tired and sad. “I’ve put you on a pedestal. You’ve been so nice all these years. I suppose I thought you were incapable of anything else.”

“What the hell have I done that hasn’t been nice?” he demanded. “I’ve protected you, I’ve offered for you, I’ve—”

“You haven’t tried to see this from my point of view,” she interrupted.

“Because you’re acting like an idiot!” he nearly roared.

There was silence after that, the kind of silence that grates at ears, gnaws at souls.

“I can’t imagine what else there is to say,” Penelope finally said.

Colin looked away. He didn’t know why he did so; it wasn’t as if he could see her in the dark, anyway. But there was something about the tone of her voice that made him uneasy. She sounded vulnerable, tired. Wishful and heartbroken. She made him want to understand her, or at least to try, even though he knew she had made a terrible mistake. Every little catch in her voice put a damper on his fury. He was still angry, but somehow he’d lost the will to display it.

“You are going to be found out, you know,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “You have humiliated Cressida; she will be beyond furious, and she’s not going to rest until she unearths the real Lady Whistledown.”

Penelope moved away; he could hear her skirts rustling. “Cressida isn’t bright enough to figure me out, and besides, I’m not going to write any more columns, so there will be no opportunity for me to slip up and reveal something.” There was a beat of silence, and then she added, “You have my promise on that.”

“It’s too late,” he said.

“It’s not too late,” she protested. “No one knows! No one knows but you, and you’re so ashamed of me, I can’t bear it.”

“Oh, for the love of God, Penelope,” he snapped, “I’m not ashamed of you.”

“Would you please light a candle?” she wailed.

Colin crossed the room and fumbled in a drawer for a candle and the means with which to light it. “I’m not ashamed of you,” he reiterated, “but I do think you’re acting foolishly.”

“You may be correct,” she said, “but I have to do what I think is right.”

“You’re not thinking,” he said dismissively, turning and looking at her face as he sparked a flame. “Forget, if you will—although I cannot—what will happen to your reputation if people find out who you really are. Forget that people will cut you, that they will talk about you behind your back.”

“Those people aren’t worth worrying about,” she said, her back ramrod straight.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed, crossing his arms and staring at her. Hard. “But it will hurt. You will not like it, Penelope. And I won’t like it.”

She swallowed convulsively. Good. Maybe he was getting through to her.

“But forget all of that,” he continued. “You have spent the last decade insulting people. Offending them.”

“I have said lots of very nice things as well,” she protested, her dark eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Of course you have, but those aren’t the people you are going to have to worry about. I’m talking about the angry ones, the insulted ones.” He strode forward and grabbed her by her upper arms. “Penelope,” he said urgently, “there will be people who want to hurt you.”

His words had been meant for her, but they turned around and pierced his own heart.

He tried to picture a life without Penelope. It was impossible.

Just weeks ago she’d been . . . He stopped, thought. What had she been? A friend? An acquaintance? Someone he saw and never really noticed?

And now she was his fiancée, soon to be his bride. And maybe . . . maybe she was something more than that. Something deeper. Something even more precious.

“What I want to know,” he asked, deliberately forcing the conversation back on topic so his mind wouldn’t wander down such dangerous roads, “is why you’re not jumping on the perfect alibi if the point is to remain anonymous.”

“Because remaining anonymous isn’t the point!” she fairly yelled.

“You want to be found out?” he asked, gaping at her in the candlelight.

“No, of course not,” she replied. “But this is my work. This is my life’s work. This is all I have to show for my life, and if I can’t take the credit for it, I’ll be damned if someone else will.”

Colin opened his mouth to offer a retort, but to his surprise, he had nothing to say. Life’s work. Penelope had a life’s work.

He did not.

She might not be able to put her name on her work, but when she was alone in her room, she could look at her back issues, and point to them, and say to herself, This is it. This is what my life has been about.

“Colin?” she whispered, clearly startled by his silence.

She was amazing. He didn’t know how he hadn’t realized it before, when he’d already known that she was smart and lovely and witty and resourceful. But all those adjectives, and a whole host more he hadn’t yet thought of, did not add up to the true measure of her.

She was amazing.

And he was . . . Dear God above, he was jealous of her.

“I’ll go,” she said softly, turning and walking toward the door.

For a moment he didn’t react. His mind was still frozen, reeling with revelations. But when he saw her hand on the doorknob, he knew he could not let her go. Not this night, not ever.

“No,” he said hoarsely, closing the distance between them in three long strides. “No,” he said again, “I want you to stay.”

She looked up at him, her eyes two pools of confusion. “But you said—”

He cupped her face tenderly with his hands. “Forget what I said.”

And that was when he realized that Daphne had been right. His love hadn’t been a thunderbolt from the sky. It had started with a smile, a word, a teasing glance. Every second he had spent in her presence it had grown, until he’d reached this moment, and he suddenly knew.

He loved her.

He was still furious with her for publishing that last column, and he was bloody ashamed of himself that he was actually jealous of her for having found a life’s work and purpose, but even with all that, he loved her.

And if he let her walk out the door right now, he would never forgive himself.

Maybe this, then, was the definition of love. When you wanted someone, needed her, adored her still, even when you were utterly furious and quite ready to tie her to the bed just to keep her from going out and making more trouble.

This was the night. This was the moment. He was brimming with emotion, and he had to tell her. He had to show her.

“Stay,” he whispered, and he pulled her to him, roughly, hungrily, without apology or explanation.

“Stay,” he said again, leading her to his bed.

And when she didn’t say anything, he said it for a third time.

“Stay.”

She nodded.

He took her into his arms.

This was Penelope, and this was love.

Chapter 18

The moment Penelope nodded—the moment before she nodded, really—she knew that she had agreed to more than a kiss. She wasn’t sure what had made Colin change his mind, why he had been so angry one minute and then so loving and tender the next.

She wasn’t sure, but the truth was—she didn’t care.

One thing she knew—he wasn’t doing this, kissing her so sweetly, to punish her. Some men might use desire as a weapon, temptation as revenge, but Colin wasn’t one of them.

It just wasn’t in him.

He was, for all his rakish and mischievous ways, for all his jokes and teasing and sly humor, a good and noble man. And he would be a good and noble husband.

She knew this as well as she knew herself.

And if he was kissing her passionately, lowering her to his bed, covering her body with his own, then it was because he wanted her, cared enough to overcome his anger.

Cared for her.

Penelope kissed him back with every ounce of her emotion, every last corner of her soul. She had years and years of love for this man, and what she lacked in technique, she made up in fervor. She clutched at his hair, writhed beneath him, unmindful of her own appearance.

They weren’t in a carriage or his mother’s drawing room this time. There was no fear of discovery, no need to make sure that she looked presentable in ten minutes.

This was the night she could show him everything she felt for him. She would answer his desire with her own, and silently make her vows of love and fidelity and devotion.

When the night was through, he would know that she loved him. She might not say the words—she might not even whisper them—but he would know.

Or maybe he already knew. It was funny; it had been so easy to hide her secret life as Lady Whistledown, but so unbelievably hard to keep her heart from her eyes every time she looked at him.

“When did I start needing you so much?” he whispered, raising his head very slightly from hers until the tips of their noses touched and she could see his eyes, dark and colorless in the dim candlelight, but so very green in her mind, focusing on hers. His breath was hot, and his gaze was hot, and he was making her feel hot in areas of her body she never even allowed herself to think about.

His fingers moved to the back of her gown, moving expertly along the buttons until she felt the fabric loosening, first around her breasts, then around her ribs, then around her waist.

And then it wasn’t even there at all.

“My God,” he said, his voice a mere shadow louder than breath, “you’re so beautiful.”

And for the first time in her life, Penelope truly believed that it might be true.

There was something very wicked and titillating about being so intimately bared before another human being, but she didn’t feel shame. Colin was looking at her so warmly, touching her so reverently, that she could feel nothing but an overwhelming sense of destiny.

His fingers skimmed along the sensitive skin at the outside edge of her breast, first teasing her with his fingernails, then stroking her more gently as his fingertips returned to their original position near her collarbone.

Something tightened within her. She didn’t know if it was his touch or the way he was looking at her, but something was making her change.

She felt strange, odd.

Wonderful.

He was kneeling on the bed beside her, still fully clothed, gazing down at her with a sense of pride, of desire, of ownership. “I never dreamed you would look like this,” he whispered, moving his hand until his palm was lightly grazing her nipple. “I never dreamed I would want you this way.”

Penelope sucked in her breath as a spasm of sensation shot through her. But something in his words was unsettling, and he must have seen her reaction in her eyes, because he asked, “What is it? What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” she started to say, then checked herself. Their marriage ought to be based on honesty, and she did neither of them a service by withholding her true feelings.

“What did you think I would look like?” she asked quietly.

He just stared at her, clearly confused by her question.

“You said you never dreamed I would look this way,” she explained. “What did you think I would look like?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Until the last few weeks, honestly I don’t think I thought about it.”

“And since then?” she persisted, not quite sure why she needed him to answer, just knowing that she did.

In one swift moment he straddled her, then leaned down until the fabric of his waistcoat scraped her belly and breasts, until his nose touched hers and his hot breath swarmed across her skin.

“Since then,” he growled, “I’ve thought of this moment a thousand times, pictured a hundred different pairs of breasts, all lovely and desirable and full and begging for my attention, but nothing, and let me repeat this in case you didn’t quite hear me the first time, nothing comes close to reality.”

“Oh.” It was really all she could think to say.

He shrugged off his jacket and waistcoat until he was clad only in his fine linen shirt and breeches, then did nothing but stare at her, a wicked, wicked smile lifting one corner of his lips as she squirmed beneath him, growing hot and hungry under his relentless gaze.

And then, just when she was certain that she couldn’t take it for one more second, he reached out and covered her with both his hands, squeezing lightly as he tested the weight and shape of her. He moaned raggedly, then sucked in his breath as he adjusted his fingers so that her nipples popped up between them.

“I want to see you sitting up,” he groaned, “so I can see them full and lovely and large. And then I want to crawl behind you and cup you.” His lips found her ear and his voice dropped to a whisper. “And I want to do it in front of a mirror.”

“Now?” she squeaked.

He seemed to consider that for a moment, then shook his head. “Later,” he said, and then repeated it in a rather resolute tone. “Later.”

Penelope opened her mouth to ask him something—she had no idea what—but before she could utter a word, he murmured, “First things first,” and lowered his mouth to her breast, teasing her first with a soft rush of air, then closing his lips around her, chuckling softly as she yelped in surprise and bucked off the bed.

He continued this torture until she thought she might scream, then he moved to the other breast and repeated it all over again. But this time he’d freed up one of his hands, and it seemed to be everywhere—teasing, tempting, tickling. It was on her belly, then on her hip, then on her ankle, sliding up under her skirt.

“Colin,” Penelope gasped, squirming beneath him as his fingers stroked the delicate skin behind her knee.

“Are you trying to get away or come closer?” he murmured, his lips never once leaving her breast.

“I don’t know.”

He lifted his head and smiled down at her wolfishly. “Good.”

He climbed off of her and slowly removed the remainder of his clothing, first his fine linen shirt and then his boots and breeches. And all the while, he never once allowed his eyes to stray from hers. When he was done, he nudged her dress, already pooling about her waist, around her hips, his fingers pressing lightly against her soft bottom as he lifted her up to slide the fabric under her.

She was left before him in nothing but her sheer, whisper-soft stockings. He paused then, and smiled, too much of a man not to enjoy the view, then eased them from her legs, letting them flitter to the floor after he’d slid them over her toes.

She was shivering in the night air, and so he lay beside her, pressing his body to hers, infusing her with his warmth as he savored the silky softness of her skin.

He needed her. It was humbling how much he needed her.

He was hard, hot, and so desperately wracked with desire it was a wonder he could still see straight. And yet even as his body screamed for release, he was possessed of a strange calm, an unexpected sense of control. Somewhere along the way this had ceased to be about him. It was about her—no, it was about them, about this wondrous joining and miraculous love that he was only now beginning to appreciate.

He wanted her—God above, he wanted her—but he wanted her to tremble beneath him, to scream with desire, to thrash her head from side to side as he teased her toward completion.

He wanted her to love this, to love him, and to know, when they were lying in each other’s arms, sweaty and spent, that she belonged to him.

Because he already knew that he belonged to her.

“Tell me if I do anything you don’t like,” he said, surprised by the way his voice was shaking over his words.

“You couldn’t,” she whispered, touching his cheek.

She didn’t understand. It almost made him smile, probably would have made him smile if he weren’t so concerned with making this, her first experience, a good one. But her whispered words—you couldn’t—could mean only one thing—that she had no idea what it meant to make love with a man.

“Penelope,” he said softly, covering her hand with his own, “I need to explain something to you. I could hurt you. I would never mean to, but I could, and—”

She shook her head. “You couldn’t,” she said again. “I know you. Sometimes I think I know you better than I know myself. And you would never do anything that would hurt me.”

He gritted his teeth and tried not to groan. “Not on purpose,” he said, the barest hint of exasperation tinging his voice, “but I could, and—”

“Let me be the judge,” she said, taking his hand and bringing it to her mouth for a single, heartfelt kiss. “And as for the other . . .”

“What other?”

She smiled, and Colin had to blink, because he could swear she almost looked as if she were amused by him. “You told me to tell you if you did anything I didn’t like,” she said.

He watched her face closely, suddenly mesmerized by the way her lips were forming words.

“I promise you,” she vowed, “I will like it all.”

A strange bubble of joy began to rise within him. He didn’t know what benevolent god had chosen to bestow her upon him, but he was thinking that he needed to be a bit more attentive next time he went to church.

“I will like it all,” she said again, “because I’m with you.”

He took her face in his hands, gazing down at her as if she were the most wondrous creature ever to walk the earth.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve loved you for years.”

“I know,” he said, surprising himself with his words. He had known, he supposed, but he’d thrust it from his mind because her love made him uncomfortable. It was hard to be loved by someone decent and good when you didn’t return the emotion. He couldn’t dismiss her, because he liked her and he’d not have been able to forgive himself if he’d trampled on her emotions. And he couldn’t flirt with her, for much the same reasons.

And so he had told himself that what she felt wasn’t really love. It had been easier to try to convince himself that she was merely infatuated with him, that she didn’t understand what true love was (as if he did!), and that eventually she would find someone else and settle down into a happy and contented life.

Now that thought—that she might have married another—nearly left him paralyzed with fear.

They were side by side, and she was staring at him with her heart in her eyes, her entire face alive with happiness and contentment, as if she finally felt free now that she had spoken the words. And he realized that her expression held not one trace of expectation. She hadn’t told him she loved him simply to hear his reply. She wasn’t even waiting for his answer.

She had told him she loved him simply because she wanted to. Because that was what she felt.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, pressing an intense kiss against her lips before moving away so that he could see her reaction.

Penelope gazed at him for a very long while before responding. Finally, with an odd, convulsive swallow, she said, “You don’t have to say that just because I did.”

“I know,” he replied, smiling.

She just looked at him, her widening eyes the only movement on her face.

“And you know that, too,” he said softly. “You said you know me better than you know yourself. And you know I would never say the words if I didn’t mean them.”

And as she lay there, naked in his bed, cradled in his embrace, Penelope realized that she did know. Colin didn’t lie, not about anything important, and she couldn’t imagine anything more important than the moment they were sharing.

He loved her. It wasn’t anything she’d expected, nor anything she’d even allowed herself to hope for, and yet here it was, like a bright and shining miracle in her heart.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

He nodded, his arms drawing her closer. “I realized it this evening. When I asked you to stay.”

“How . . .” But she didn’t finish the question. Because she wasn’t even really sure what the question was. How did he know he loved her? How had it happened? How did it make him feel?

But somehow he must have known what she could not verbalize, because he answered, “I don’t know. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, and to be honest, I don’t care. But I know this much is true: I love you, and I hate myself for not seeing the real you all these years.”

“Colin, don’t,” she pleaded. “No recriminations. No regrets. Not tonight.”

But he just smiled, placing a single finger on her lips to silence her plea. “I don’t think you changed,” he said. “At least not very much. But then one day I realized I was seeing something different when I looked at you.” He shrugged. “Maybe I changed. Maybe I grew up.”

She placed her finger on his lips, quieting him in the same manner he’d done to her. “Maybe I grew up, too.”

“I love you,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her. And this time she couldn’t reply, because his mouth remained on hers, hungry, demanding, and very, very seductive.

He seemed to know exactly what to do. Each flick of his tongue, each nibble of his teeth sent shivers to the very core of her being, and she gave herself over to the pure joy of the moment, to the white-hot flame of desire. His hands were everywhere, and she felt him everywhere, his fingers on her skin, his leg nudging its way between hers.

He was pulling her closer, rolling her on top of him as he slid onto his back. His hands were on her bottom, pulling her so tightly against him that the proof of his desire seared itself into her skin.

Penelope gasped at the astounding intimacy of it all, but her breath was caught by his lips, still kissing her with fierce tenderness.

And then she was on her back, and he was on top of her, and the weight of him was pressing her into the mattress, squeezing the air from her lungs. His mouth moved to her ear, then to her throat, and Penelope felt herself arching beneath him, as if she could somehow curve her body closer to his.

She didn’t know what she was supposed to do, but she knew she had to move. Her mother had already conducted her “little talk,” as she’d put it, and she’d told Penelope that she must lie still beneath her husband and allow him his pleasures.

But there was no way she could have remained motionless, no way she could have stopped her hips from pressing up against him, nor her legs from wrapping around his. And she didn’t want to allow him his pleasures—she wanted to encourage them, to share them.

And she wanted them for herself as well. Whatever this was, building inside of her—this tension, this desire—it needed release, and Penelope couldn’t imagine that that moment, that those feelings wouldn’t be the most exquisite of her life.

“Tell me what to do,” she said, urgency making her voice hoarse.

Colin spread her legs wide, running his hands along her sides until they reached her thighs and squeezed. “Let me do everything,” he said, breathing hard.

She grabbed at his buttocks, pulling him closer. “No,” she insisted. “Tell me.”

He stopped moving for the barest of moments, looking at her in surprise. “Touch me,” he said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Her hands on his bottom relaxed slightly, and she smiled. “I am touching you.”

“Move,” he groaned. “Move them.”

She let her fingers drift to his thighs, swirling gently as she felt the soft springiness of hair. “Like this?”

He nodded jerkily.

Her hands slid forward, until they were dangerously close to his member. “Like this?”

Abruptly, he covered one of her hands with his. “Not now,” he said harshly.

She looked at him in confusion.

“You’ll understand later,” he grunted, spreading her legs even wider before sliding his hand between their bodies and touching her most intimate place.

“Colin!” she gasped.

He smiled devilishly. “Did you think I wouldn’t touch you like this?” As if to illustrate his point, one of his fingers began to dance across her sensitive flesh, causing her to arch off the bed, her hips actually lifting them both before sagging back down as she shuddered with desire.

His lips found her ear. “There’s much more,” he whispered.

Penelope didn’t dare ask what. This was already an awful lot more than her mother had mentioned.

He slid one finger inside her, causing her to gasp again (which caused him to laugh with delight), then began to stroke her slowly.

“Oh, my God,” Penelope moaned.

“You’re almost ready for me,” he said, his breath coming faster now. “So wet, but so tight.”

“Colin, what are you—”

He slid another finger inside, effectively ending any chance she had for intelligent speech.

She felt stretched wide, and yet she loved it. She must be very wicked, a wanton at heart, because all she wanted was to spread her legs wider and wider until she was completely open to him. As far as she was concerned, he could do anything to her, touch her in any way he pleased.

Just as long as he didn’t stop.

“I can’t wait much longer,” he gasped.

“Don’t wait.”

“I need you.”

She reached up and grasped his face, forcing him to look at her. “I need you, too.”

And then his fingers were gone. Penelope felt oddly hollow and empty, but only for a second, because then there was something else at her entrance, something hard and hot, and very, very demanding.

“This may hurt,” Colin said, gritting his teeth as if he expected pain himself.

“I don’t care.”

He had to make this good for her. He had to. “I’ll be gentle,” he said, although his desire was now so fierce he had no idea how he could possibly keep such a promise.

“I want you,” she said. “I want you and I need something and I don’t know what.”

He pushed forward, just an inch or so, but it felt like she was swallowing him whole.

She went silent beneath him, her only sound her breath running raggedly across her lips.

Another inch, another step closer to heaven. “Oh, Penelope,” he moaned, using his arms to hold himself above her so as not to crush her with his weight. “Please tell me this feels good. Please.”

Because if she said otherwise, it was going to kill him to pull out.

She nodded, but said, “I need a moment.”

He swallowed, forcing his breath through his nose in short bursts. It was the only way he could concentrate on holding back. She probably needed to stretch around him, to allow her muscles to relax. She’d never taken a man before, and she was so exquisitely tight.

All the same, he couldn’t wait until they’d had a chance to do this enough so that he didn’t have to hold back.

When he felt her relax slightly beneath him, he pushed forward a bit more, until he reached the undeniable proof of her innocence. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “This is going to hurt. I can’t help it, but I promise you, it’s only this one time, and it won’t hurt much.”

“How do you know?” she asked him.

He closed his eyes in agony. Trust Penelope to question him. “Trust me,” he said, weaseling out of the question.

And then he thrust forward, embedding himself to the hilt, sinking into her warmth until he knew he was home.

“Oh!” she gasped, her face showing her shock.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I think so.”

He moved slightly. “Is this all right?”

She nodded again, but her face looked surprised, maybe a little dazed.

Colin’s hips began to move of their own volition, unable to remain still when he was so obviously near to a climax. She was pure perfection around him, and when he realized that her gasps were of desire and not of pain, he finally let himself go and gave in to the overwhelming desire surging through his blood.

She was quickening beneath him, and he prayed that he could hold out until she climaxed. Her breath was fast and hot, and her fingers were pressing relentlessly into his shoulders, and her hips were squirming under him, whipping his need into a near-frenzy.

And then it came. A sound from her lips, sweeter than anything ever to touch his ears. She cried out his name as her entire body tensed in pleasure, and he thought—Someday I will watch her. I will see her face when she reaches the height of pleasure.

But not today. He was already coming, and his eyes were shut with the fierce ecstasy of it all. Her name was ripped from his lips as he thrust one last time, then slumped atop her, completely bereft of strength.

For a full minute there was silence, nothing but the rise and fall of their chests as they fought for breath, waited for the tremendous rush of their bodies to settle down into that tingly bliss one feels in the arms of one’s beloved.

Or at least that was what Colin thought this must be. He had been with women before, but he had only just realized that he had never made love until he’d laid Penelope onto his bed and begun their intimate dance with a single kiss upon her lips.

This was like nothing he’d ever felt before.

This was love.

And he was going to hold on with both hands.

Chapter 19

It was not very difficult to get the wedding date pushed forward.

It occurred to Colin as he was returning to his home in Bloomsbury (after sneaking an extremely disheveled Penelope into her own house in Mayfair), that there might be a very good reason why they should be married sooner rather than later.

Of course, it was quite unlikely that she would become pregnant after only one encounter. And, he had to admit, even if she did become pregnant, the child would be an eight-month baby, which wasn’t too terribly suspect in a world full of children born a mere six months or so following a wedding. Not to mention that first babies were usually late (Colin was uncle to enough nieces and nephews to know this to be true), which would make the baby an eight-and-a-half-month baby, which wasn’t unusual at all.

So really, there was no urgent need to move up the wedding.

Except that he wanted to.

So he had a little “talk” with the mothers, in which he conveyed a great deal without actually saying anything explicit, and they hastily agreed to his plan to rush the wedding.

Especially since he might have possibly misled them to believe that his and Penelope’s intimacies had occurred several weeks prior.

Ah, well, little white lies really weren’t such a large transgression when they were told to serve the greater good.

And a hasty wedding, Colin reflected as he lay in bed each night, reliving his time with Penelope and fervently wishing she were there beside him, definitely served the greater good.

The mothers, who had become inseparable in recent days as they planned the wedding, initially protested the change, worrying about unsavory gossip (which in this case would have been entirely true), but Lady Whistledown came, somewhat indirectly, to their rescue.

The gossip surrounding Lady Whistledown and Cressida Twombley and whether the two were actually the same person raged like nothing London had heretofore seen or heard. In fact, the talk was so ubiquitous, so utterly impossible to escape, that no one paused to consider the fact that the date of the Bridgerton-Featherington wedding had been altered.

Which suited the Bridgertons and the Featheringtons just fine.

Except, perhaps, for Colin and Penelope, neither of whom were especially comfortable when talk turned to Lady Whistledown. Penelope was used to it by now, of course; nary a month had gone by in the past ten years when someone had not made idle speculation in her presence about the identity of Lady Whistledown. But Colin was still so upset and angry over her secret life that she’d grown uncomfortable herself. She’d tried to broach the subject with him a few times, but he’d become tight-lipped and told her (in a very un-Colin-like tone) that he didn’t want to talk about it.

She could only deduce that he was ashamed of her. Or if not of her, precisely, then of her work as Lady Whistledown. Which was like a blow to her heart, because her writing was the one segment in her life that she could point to with a great sense of pride and accomplishment. She had done something. She had, even if she could not put her own name on her work, become a wild success. How many of her contemporaries, male or female, could claim the same?

She might be ready to leave Lady Whistledown behind and live her new life as Mrs. Colin Bridgerton, wife and mother, but that in no way meant that she was ashamed of what she had done.

If only Colin could take pride in her accomplishments as well.

Oh, she believed, with every fiber of her being, that he loved her. Colin would never lie about such a thing. He had enough clever words and teasing smiles to make a woman feel happy and content without actually uttering words of love he did not feel. But perhaps it was possible—indeed, after regarding Colin’s behavior, she was now sure it was possible—that someone could love another person and still feel shame and displeasure with that person.

Penelope just hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much.

They were strolling through Mayfair one afternoon, just days before the wedding, when she attempted to broach the subject once again. Why, she didn’t know, since she couldn’t imagine that his attitude would have miraculously changed since the last time she’d mentioned it, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Besides, she was hoping that their position out in public, where all the world could see them, would force Colin to keep a smile on his face and listen to what she had to say.

She gauged the distance to Number Five, where they were expected for tea. “I think,” she said, estimating that she had five minutes of conversation before he could usher her inside and change the subject, “that we have unfinished business that must be discussed.”

He raised a brow and looked at her with a curious but still very playful grin. She knew exactly what he was trying to do: use his charming and witty personality to steer the conversation where he wanted it. Any minute now, that grin would turn boyishly lopsided, and he would say something designed to change the topic without her realizing, something like—

“Rather serious for such a sunny day.”

She pursed her lips. It wasn’t precisely what she’d expected, but it certainly echoed the sentiment.

“Colin,” she said, trying to remain patient, “I wish you wouldn’t try to change the subject every time I bring up Lady Whistledown.”

His voice grew even, controlled. “I don’t believe I heard you mention her name, or I suppose I should say your name. And besides, all I did was compliment the fine weather.”

Penelope wanted more than anything to plant her feet firmly on the pavement and yank him to a startling halt, but they were in public (her own fault, she supposed, for choosing such a place to initiate the conversation) and so she kept walking, her gait smooth and sedate, even as her fingers curled into tense little fists. “The other night, when my last column was published—you were furious with me,” she continued.

He shrugged. “I’m over it.”

“I don’t think so.”

He turned to her with a rather condescending expression. “And now you’re telling me what I feel?”

Such a nasty shot could not go unreturned. “Isn’t that what a wife is supposed to do?”

“You’re not my wife yet.”

Penelope counted to three—no, better make that ten—before replying. “I am sorry if what I did upset you, but I had no other choice.”

“You had every choice in the world, but I am certainly not going to debate the issue right here on Bruton Street.”

And they were on Bruton Street. Oh, bother, Penelope had completely misjudged how quickly they were walking. She only had another minute or so at the most before they ascended the front steps to Number Five.

“I can assure you,” she said, “that you-know-who will never again emerge from retirement.”

“I can hardly express my relief.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so sarcastic.”

He turned to face her with flashing eyes. His expression was so different from the mask of bland boredom that had been there just moments earlier that Penelope nearly backed up a step. “Be careful what you wish for, Penelope,” he said. “The sarcasm is the only thing keeping my real feelings at bay, and believe me, you don’t want those in full view.”

“I think I do,” she said, her voice quite small, because in truth she wasn’t sure that she did.

“Not a day goes by when I’m not forced to stop and consider what on earth I am going to do to protect you should your secret get out. I love you, Penelope. God help me, but I do.”

Penelope could have done without the plea for God’s help, but the declaration of love was quite nice.

“In three days,” he continued, “I will be your husband. I will take a solemn vow to protect you until death do us part. Do you understand what that means?”

“You’ll save me from marauding minotaurs?” she tried to joke.

His expression told her he did not find that amusing.

“I wish you wouldn’t be so angry,” she muttered.

He turned to her with a disbelieving expression, as if he didn’t think she had the right to mutter about anything. “If I’m angry, it’s because I did not appreciate finding out about your last column at the same time as everyone else.”

She nodded, catching her bottom lip between her teeth before saying, “I apologize for that. You certainly had the right to know ahead of time, but how could I have told you? You would have tried to stop me.”

“Exactly.”

They were now just a few houses away from Number Five. If Penelope wanted to ask him anything more, she would have to do it quickly. “Are you sure—” she began, then cut herself off, not certain if she wanted to finish the question.

“Am I sure of what?”

She gave her head a little shake. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously not nothing.”

“I was just wondering . . .” She looked to the side, as if the sight of the London cityscape could somehow give her the necessary courage to continue. “I was just wondering . . .”

“Spit it out, Penelope.”

It was unlike him to be so curt, and his tone prodded her into action. “I was wondering,” she said, “if perhaps your unease with my, er . . .”

“Secret life?” he supplied in a drawl.

“If that is what you want to call it,” she acceded. “It had occurred to me that perhaps your unease does not stem entirely from your desire to protect my reputation should I be found out.”

“What, precisely,” he asked in a clipped tone, “do you mean by that?”

She’d already voiced her question; there was nothing to do now but supply complete honesty. “I think you’re ashamed of me.”

He stared at her for three full seconds before answering, “I’m not ashamed of you. I told you once already I wasn’t.”

“What, then?”

Colin’s steps faltered, and before he realized what his body was doing, he was standing still in front of Number Three, Bruton Street. His mother’s home was only two houses away, and he was fairly certain they were expected for tea about five minutes ago, and . . .

And he couldn’t quite get his feet to move.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said again, mostly because he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth—that he was jealous. Jealous of her achievements, jealous of her.

It was such a distasteful feeling, such an unpleasant emotion. It ate at him, creating a vague sense of shame every time someone mentioned Lady Whistledown, which, given the tenor of London’s current gossip, was about ten times each day. And he wasn’t quite certain what to do about it.

His sister Daphne had once commented that he always seemed to know what to say, how to set others at ease. He’d thought about that for several days after she’d said it, and he’d come to the conclusion that his ability to make others feel good about themselves must stem from his own sense of self.

He was a man who had always felt supremely comfortable in his own skin. He didn’t know why he was so blessed—perhaps it was good parents, maybe simple luck. But now he felt awkward and uncomfortable and it was spilling into every corner of his life. He snapped at Penelope, he barely spoke at parties.

And it was all due to this detestable jealousy, and its attendant shame.

Or was it?

Would he be jealous of Penelope if he hadn’t already sensed a lack in his own life?

It was an interesting psychological question. Or at least it would be if it were about anyone else but him.

“My mother will be expecting us,” he said curtly, knowing that he was avoiding the issue, and hating himself for it, but quite unable to do anything else. “And your mother will be there as well, so we had better not be late.”

“We’re already late,” she pointed out.

He took her arm and tugged her toward Number Five. “All the more reason not to dally.”

“You’re avoiding me,” she said.

“How can I be avoiding you if you’re right here on my arm?”

That made her scowl. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“We will discuss it later,” he said, “when we are not standing in the middle of Bruton Street, with heaven knows whom staring at us through their windows.”

And then, to demonstrate that he would brook no further protest, he placed his hand at her back and steered her none-too-gently up the steps to Number Five.

One week later, nothing had changed, except, Penelope reflected, her last name.

The wedding had been magical. It was a small affair, much to the dismay of London society. And the wedding night—well, that had been magical, too.

And, in fact, marriage was magical. Colin was a wonderful husband—teasing, gentle, attentive . . .

Except when the topic of Lady Whistledown arose.

Then he became . . . well, Penelope wasn’t sure what he became, except that he was not himself. Gone was his easy grace, his glib tongue, everything wonderful that made him the man she’d loved for so very long.

In a way, it was almost funny. For so long, all of her dreams had revolved around marrying this man. And at some point those dreams had come to include her telling him about her secret life. How could they not? In Penelope’s dreams, her marriage to Colin had been a perfect union, and that meant complete honesty.

In her dreams, she sat him down, shyly revealed her secret. He reacted first with disbelief, then with delight and pride. How remarkable she was, to have fooled all of London for so many years. How witty to have written such clever turns of phrase. He admired her for her resourcefulness, praised her for her success. In some of the dreams, he even suggested that he become her secret reporter.

It had seemed the sort of thing Colin would enjoy, just the sort of amusing, devious task that he would relish.

But that wasn’t the way it had turned out.

He said he wasn’t ashamed of her, and maybe he even thought that was true, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe him. She’d seen his face when he swore that all he wanted was to protect her. But protectiveness was a fierce, burning feeling, and when Colin was talking about Lady Whistledown, his eyes were shuttered and flat.

She tried not to feel so disappointed. She tried to tell herself that she had no right to expect Colin to live up to her dreams, that her vision of him had been unfairly idealized, but . . .

But she still wanted him to be the man she’d dreamed of.

And she felt so guilty for every pang of disappointment. This was Colin! Colin, for heaven’s sake. Colin, who was as close to perfect as any human being could ever hope to be. She had no right to find fault with him, and yet . . .

And yet she did.

She wanted him to be proud of her. She wanted it more than anything in the world, more even than she’d wanted him all those years when she’d watched him from afar.

But she cherished her marriage, and awkward moments aside, she cherished her husband. And so she stopped mentioning Lady Whistledown. She was tired of Colin’s hooded expression. She didn’t want to see the tight lines of displeasure around his mouth.

It wasn’t as if she could avoid the topic forever; any trip out into society seemed to bring mention of her alter ego. But she didn’t have to introduce the subject at home.

And so, as they sat at breakfast one morning, chatting amiably as they each perused that morning’s newspaper, she searched for other topics.

“Do you think we shall take a honeymoon trip?” she asked, spreading a generous portion of raspberry jam on her muffin. She probably ought not to eat so much, but the jam was really quite tasty, and besides, she always ate a lot when she was anxious.

She frowned, first at the muffin and then at nothing in particular. She hadn’t realized she was so anxious. She’d thought she’d been able to push the Lady Whistledown problem to the back of her mind.

“Perhaps later in the year,” Colin replied, reaching for the jam once she was through with it. “Pass me the toast, would you?”

She did so, silently.

He glanced up, either at her or over at the plate of kippers—she couldn’t be sure. “You look disappointed,” he said.

She supposed she should be flattered that he’d looked up from his food. Or maybe he was looking at the kippers and she just got in the way. Probably the latter. It was difficult to compete with food for Colin’s attention.

“Penelope?” he queried.

She blinked.

“You looked disappointed?” he reminded her.

“Oh. Yes, well, I am, I suppose.” She gave him a faltering smile. “I’ve never been anywhere, and you’ve been everywhere, and I guess I thought you could take me someplace you especially liked. Greece, perhaps. Or maybe Italy. I’ve always wanted to see Italy.”

“You would like it,” he murmured distractedly, his attention more on his eggs than on her. “Venice especially, I think.”

“Then why don’t you take me?”

“I will,” he said, spearing a pink piece of bacon and popping it into his mouth. “Just not now.”

Penelope licked a bit of jam off her muffin and tried not to look too crestfallen.

“If you must know,” Colin said with a sigh, “the reason I don’t want to leave is . . .” He glanced at the open door, his lips pursing with annoyance. “Well, I can’t say it here.”

Penelope’s eyes widened. “You mean . . .” She traced a large W on the tablecloth.

“Exactly.”

She stared at him in surprise, a bit startled that he had brought up the subject, and even more so that he didn’t seem terribly upset by it. “But why?” she finally asked.

“Should the secret come out,” he said cryptically, just in case there were any servants about, which there usually were, “I should like to be in town to control the damage.”

Penelope deflated in her chair. It was never pleasant to be referred to as damage. Which was what he had done. Well, indirectly, at least. She stared at her muffin, trying to decide if she was hungry. She wasn’t, not really.

But she ate it, anyway.

Chapter 20

A few days later, Penelope returned from a shopping expedition with Eloise, Hyacinth, and Felicity to find her husband seated behind his desk in his study. He was reading something, uncharacteristically hunched as he pored over some unknown book or document.

“Colin?”

His head jerked up. He must not have heard her coming, which was surprising, since she hadn’t made any effort to soften her steps. “Penelope,” he said, rising to his feet as she entered the room, “how was your, er, whatever it was you did when you went out?”

“Shopping,” she said with an amused smile. “I went shopping.”

“Right. So you did.” He rocked slightly from foot to foot. “Did you buy anything?”

“A bonnet,” she replied, tempted to add and three diamond rings, just to see if he was listening.

“Good, good,” he murmured, obviously eager to get back to whatever it was on his desk.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he replied, almost reflexively, then he added, “Well, actually it’s one of my journals.”

His face took on a strange expression, a little sheepish, a little defiant, almost as if he were embarrassed that he’d been caught, and at the same time daring her to ask more.

“May I look at it?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and, she hoped, unthreatening. It was strange to think that Colin was insecure about anything. Mention of his journals, however, seemed to bring out a vulnerability that was surprising . . . and touching.

Penelope had spent so much of her life regarding Colin as an invincible tower of happiness and good cheer. He was self-confident, handsome, well liked, and intelligent. How easy it must be to be a Bridgerton, she’d thought on more than one occasion.

There had been so many times—more than she could count—that she’d come home from tea with Eloise and her family, curled up on her bed, and wished that she’d been born a Bridgerton. Life was easy for them. They were smart and attractive and rich and everyone seemed to like them.

And you couldn’t even hate them for living such splendid existences because they were so nice.

Well, now she was a Bridgerton, by marriage if not by birth, and it was true—life was better as a Bridgerton, although that had less to do with any great change in herself than it did because she was madly in love with her husband, and by some fabulous miracle, he actually returned the emotion.

But life wasn’t perfect, not even for the Bridgertons.

Even Colin—the golden boy, the man with the easy smile and devilish humor—had raw spots of his own. He was haunted by unfulfilled dreams and secret insecurities. How unfair she had been when she’d pondered his life, not to allow him his weaknesses.

“I don’t need to see it in its entirety,” she reassured him. “Maybe just a short passage or two. Of your own choosing. Perhaps something you especially like.”

He looked down at the open book, staring blankly, as if the words were written in Chinese. “I wouldn’t know what to pick out,” he mumbled. “It’s all the same, really.”

“Of course it’s not. I understand that more than anyone. I—” She suddenly looked about, realized the door was open, and quickly went to shut it. “I’ve written countless columns,” she continued, “and I assure you, they are not all the same. Some I adored.” She smiled nostalgically, remembering the rush of contentment and pride that washed over her whenever she’d written what she thought was an especially good installment. “It was lovely, do you know what I mean?”

He shook his head.

“That feeling you get,” she tried to explain, “when you just know that the words you’ve chosen are exactly right. And you can only really appreciate it after you’ve sat there, slumped and dejected, staring at your blank sheet of paper, not having a clue what to say.”

“I know that,” he said.

Penelope tried not to smile. “I know you know the first feeling. You’re a splendid writer, Colin. I’ve read your work.”

He looked up, alarmed.

“Just the bit you know about,” she assured him. “I would never read your journals without your invitation.” She blushed, remembering that that was exactly how she’d read the passage about his trip to Cyprus. “Well, not now, anyway,” she added. “But it was good, Colin. Almost magical, and somewhere inside of you, you have to know that.”

He just stared at her, looking like he simply didn’t know what to say. It was an expression she’d seen on countless faces, but never on his face, and it was so very odd and strange. She wanted to cry, she wanted to throw her arms around him. Most of all, she was gripped by an intense need to restore a smile to his face.

“I know you must have had those days I described,” she insisted. “The ones when you know you’ve written something good.” She looked at him hopefully. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”

He made no response.

“You do,” she said. “I know you do. You can’t be a writer and not know it.”

“I’m not a writer,” he said.

“Of course you are.” She motioned to the journal. “The proof is right there.” She stepped forward. “Colin, please. Please may I read a little bit more?”

For the first time, he looked undecided, which Penelope took as a small victory. “You’ve already read almost everything I’ve ever written,” she cajoled. “It’s really only fair to—”

She stopped when she saw his face. She didn’t know how to describe it, but he looked shuttered, cut off, utterly unreachable.

“Colin?” she whispered.

“I’d rather keep this to myself,” he said curtly. “If you don’t mind.”

“No, of course I don’t mind,” she said, but they both knew she was lying.

Colin stood so still and silent that she had no choice but to excuse herself, leaving him alone in the room, staring helplessly at the door.

He’d hurt her.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t meant to. She’d reached out to him, and he’d been unable to take her hand.

And the worst part was that he knew she didn’t understand. She thought he was ashamed of her. He’d told her that he wasn’t, but since he’d not been able to bring himself to tell her the truth—that he was jealous—he couldn’t imagine that she’d believed him.

Hell, he wouldn’t have believed him, either. He’d clearly looked like he was lying, because in a way, he was lying. Or at least withholding a truth that made him uncomfortable.

But the minute she’d reminded him that he’d read everything she’d written, something had turned ugly and black inside of him.

He’d read everything she’d written because she’d published everything she’d written. Whereas his scribblings sat dull and lifeless in his journals, tucked away where no one would see them.

Did it matter what a man wrote if no one ever read it? Did words have meaning if they were never heard?

He had never considered publishing his journals until Penelope had suggested it several weeks earlier; now the thought consumed him day and night (when he wasn’t consumed with Penelope, of course). But he was gripped by a powerful fear. What if no one wanted to publish his work? What if someone did publish it, but only because his was a rich and powerful family? Colin wanted, more than anything, to be his own man, to be known for his accomplishments, not for his name or position, or even his smile or charm.

And then there was the scariest prospect of all: What if his writing was published but no one liked it?

How could he face that? How would he exist as a failure?

Or was it worse to remain as he was now: a coward?

Later that evening, after Penelope had finally pulled herself out of her chair and drunk a restorative cup of tea and puttered aimlessly about the bedchamber and finally settled against her pillows with a book that she couldn’t quite make herself read, Colin appeared.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there and smiled at her, except it wasn’t one of his usual smiles—the sort that light from within and compel their recipient to smile right back.

This was a small smile, a sheepish smile.

A smile of apology.

Penelope let her book rest, spine up, on her belly.

“May I?” Colin inquired, motioning to the empty spot beside her.

Penelope scooted over to the right. “Of course,” she murmured, moving her book to the night table next to her.

“I’ve marked a few passages,” he said, holding forward his journal as he perched on the side of the bed. “If you’d like to read them, to”—he cleared his throat—“offer an opinion, that would be—” He coughed again. “That would be acceptable.”

Penelope looked at the journal in his hand, elegantly bound in crimson leather, then she looked up at him. His face was serious, and his eyes were somber, and although he was absolutely still—no twitching or fidgeting—she could tell he was nervous.

Nervous. Colin. It seemed the strangest thing imaginable.

“I’d be honored,” she said softly, gently tugging the book from his fingers. She noticed that a few pages were marked with ribbons, and with careful fingers, she opened to one of the selected spots.

14 March 1819

The Highlands are oddly brown.

“That was when I visited Francesca in Scotland,” he interrupted.

Penelope gave him a slightly indulgent smile, meant as a gentle scolding for his interruption.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

One would think, at least one from England would think, that the hills and dales would be a rich emerald green. Scotland resides, after all, on the same isle, and by all accounts suffers from the same rain that plagues England.

I am told that these strange beige hills are called tablelands, and they are bleak and brown and desolate. And yet they stir the soul.

“That was when I was rather high up in elevation,” he explained. “When you’re lower, or near the lochs, it’s quite different.”

Penelope turned to him and gave him a look.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Maybe you’d be more comfortable if you didn’t read over my shoulder?” she suggested.

He blinked in surprise.

“I would think you’ve already read all this before.” At his blank stare, she added, “So you don’t need to read it now.” She waited for a reaction and got none. “So you don’t need to hover over my shoulder,” she finally finished.

“Oh.” He inched away. “Sorry.”

Penelope eyed him dubiously. “Off the bed, Colin.”

Looking much chastened, Colin pushed himself off the bed and flopped into a chair in the far corner of the room, crossing his arms and tapping his foot in a mad dance of impatience.

Tap tap tap. Tappity tap tap tap.

“Colin!”

He looked up in honest surprise. “What?”

“Stop tapping your foot!”

He looked down as if his foot were a foreign object. “Was I tapping it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He pulled his arms in more tightly against his chest. “Sorry.”

Penelope refocused her attention on the journal.

Tap tap.

Penelope jerked head up. “Colin!”

He planted his feet down firmly on the carpet. “I couldn’t help myself. Didn’t even realize I was doing it.” He uncrossed his arms, resting them on the upholstered side of the chair, but he didn’t look relaxed; the fingers on both of his hands were tense and arched.

She stared at him for several moments, waiting to see if he was truly going to be able to hold still.

“I won’t do it again,” he assured her. “I promise.”

She gave him one last assessing stare, then turned her attention back to the words in front of her.

As a people, the Scots despise the English, and many would say rightfully so. But individually, they are quite warm and friendly, eager to share a glass of whisky, a hot meal, or to offer a warm place to sleep. A group of Englishmen—or, in truth, any Englishman in any sort of uniform—will not find a warm welcome in a Scottish village. But should a lone Sassenach amble down their High Street—the local population will greet him with open arms and broad smiles.

Such was the case when I happened upon Inveraray, upon the banks of Loch Fyne. A neat, well-planned town that was designed by Robert Adam when the Duke of Argyll decided to move the entire village to accommodate his new castle, it sits on the edge of water, its whitewashed buildings in neat rows that meet at right angles (surely a strangely ordered existence for one such as I, brought up amid the crooked intersections of London).

I was partaking of my evening meal at the George Hotel, enjoying a fine whisky instead of the usual ale one might drink at a similar establishment in England, when I realized that I had no idea how to get to my next destination, nor any clue how long it would take to get there. I approached the proprietor (one Mr. Clark), explained my intention to visit Blair Castle, and then could do nothing but blink in wonder and confusion as the rest of the inn’s occupants chimed in with advice. “Blair Castle?” Mr. Clark boomed. (He was a booming sort of man, not given to soft speech.) “Well, now, if ye’re wanting to go to Blair Castle, ye’ll certainly be wanting to head west toward Pitlochry and then north from there.”

This was met by a chorus of approval—and an equally loud echo of disapproval.

“Och, no!” yelled another (whose name I later learned was MacBogel). “He’ll be having to cross Loch Tay, and a greater recipe for disaster has never been tasted. Better to head north now, and then move west.”

“Aye,” chimed in a third, “but then he’ll be having Ben Nevis in his way. Are you saying a mountain is a lesser obstacle than a puny loch?”

“Are you calling Loch Tay puny? I’ll be telling you I was born on the shores of Loch Tay, and no one will be calling it puny in my presence.” (I have no idea who said this, or indeed, almost everything forthwith, but it was all said with great feeling and conviction.)

“He doesn’t need to go all the way to Ben Nevis. He can turn west at Glencoe.”

“Oh, ho, ho, and a bottle of whisky. There isn’t a decent road heading west from Glencoe. Are you trying to kill the poor lad?”

And so on and so forth. If the reader has noticed that I stopped writing who said what, it is because the din of voices was so overwhelming that it was impossible to tell anyone apart, and this continued for at least ten minutes until finally, old Angus Campbell, eighty years if he was a day, spoke, and out of respect, everyone quieted down.

“What he needs to do,” Angus wheezed, “is travel south to Kintyre, turn back north and cross the Firth of Lorne to Mull so that he can scoot out to Iona, sail up to Skye, cross over to the mainland to Ullapool, back down to Inverness, pay his respects at Culloden, and from there, he can proceed south to Blair Castle, stopping in Grampian if he chooses so he can see how a proper bottle of whisky is made.”

Absolute silence met this pronouncement. Finally, one brave man pointed out, “But that’ll take months.”

“And who’s saying it won’t?” old Campbell said, with the barest trace of belligerence. “The Sassenach is here to see Scotland. Are you telling me he can say he’s done that if all he’s done is taken a straight line from here to Perthshire?”

I found myself smiling, and made my decision on the spot. I would follow his exact route, and when I returned to London, I would know in my heart that I knew Scotland.

Colin watched Penelope as she read. Every now and then she would smile, and his heart would leap, and then suddenly he realized that her smile had become permanent, and her lips were puckering as if she were suppressing a laugh.

Colin realized he was smiling, too.

He’d been so surprised by her reaction the first time she’d read his writing; her response had been so passionate, and yet she’d been so analytical and precise when she spoke to him about it. It all made sense now, of course. She was a writer, too, probably a better one than he, and of all the things she understood in this world, she understood words.

It was hard to believe it had taken him this long to ask for her advice. Fear, he supposed, had stopped him. Fear and worry and all those stupid emotions he’d pretended were beneath him.

Who would have guessed that one woman’s opinion would become so important to him? He’d worked on his journals for years, carefully recording his travels, trying to capture more than what he saw and did, trying to capture what he felt. And he’d never once showed them to anyone.

Until now.

There had been no one he’d wanted to show them to. No, that wasn’t true. Deep down, he’d wanted to show them to a number of people, but the time had never seemed right, or he thought they would lie and say something was good when it wasn’t, just to spare his feelings.

But Penelope was different. She was a writer. She was a damned good one, too. And if she said his journal entries were good, he could almost believe that it was true.

She pursed her lips slightly as she turned a page, then frowned as her fingers couldn’t find purchase. After licking her middle finger, she caught hold of the errant page and began to read again.

And smiled again.

Colin let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Finally, she laid the book down in her lap, leaving it open to the section she’d been reading. Looking up, she said, “I assume you wanted me to stop at the end of the entry?”

It wasn’t quite what he’d expected her to say, and that befuddled him. “Er, if you want to,” he stammered. “If you want to read more, that would be fine, I guess.”

It was as if the sun had suddenly taken up residence in her smile. “Of course I want to read more,” she gushed. “I can’t wait to see what happened when you went to Kintyre and Mull and”—frowning, she checked the open book—“and Skye and Ullapool and Culloden and Grampian”—she glanced back down at the book again—“oh, yes, and Blair Castle, of course, if you ever made it. I assume you were planning to visit friends.”

He nodded. “Murray,” he said, referring to a school chum whose brother was the Duke of Atholl. “But I should tell you, I didn’t end up following the exact route prescribed by old Angus Campbell. For one thing, I didn’t even find roads connecting half the places he mentioned.”

“Maybe,” she said, her eyes growing dreamy, “that is where we ought to go for our honeymoon trip.”

“Scotland?” he asked, thoroughly surprised. “Don’t you want to travel someplace warm and exotic?”

“To one who has never traveled more than one hundred miles from London,” she said pertly, “Scotland is exotic.”

“I can assure you,” he said with a smile as he walked across the room and perched on the edge of the bed, “that Italy is more exotic. And more romantic.”

She blushed, which delighted him. “Oh,” she said, looking vaguely embarrassed. (He wondered how long he’d be able to embarrass her with talk of romance and love and all the splendid activities that went with them.)

“We’ll go to Scotland another time,” he assured her. “I usually find myself heading north every few years or so to visit Francesca, anyway.”

“I was surprised that you asked for my opinion,” Penelope said after a short silence.

“Who else would I ask?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, suddenly very interested in the way her fingers were plucking at the bedcovers. “Your brothers, I suppose.”

He laid his hand on hers. “What do they know about writing?”

Her chin lifted and her eyes, clear, warm, and brown, met his. “I know you value their opinions.”

“That is true,” he acceded, “but I value yours more.”

He watched her face closely, as emotions played across her features. “But you don’t like my writing,” she said, her voice hesitant and hopeful at the same time.

He moved his hand to the curve of her cheek, holding it there gently, making sure that she was looking at him as he spoke. “Nothing could be further from the truth,” he said, a burning intensity firing his words. “I think you are a marvelous writer. You cut right into the essence of a person with a simplicity and wit that is matchless. For ten years, you have made people laugh. You’ve made them wince. You’ve made them think, Penelope. You have made people think. I don’t know what could be a higher achievement.

“Not to mention,” he continued, almost as if he couldn’t quite stop now that he’d gotten started, “that you write about society, of all things. You write about society, and you make it fun and interesting and witty, when we all know that more often than not it’s beyond dull.”

For the longest time, Penelope couldn’t say anything. She had been proud of her work for years, and had secretly smiled whenever she had heard someone reciting from one of her columns or laughing at one of her quips. But she’d had no one with whom to share her triumphs.

Being anonymous had been a lonely prospect.

But now she had Colin. And even though the world would never know that Lady Whistledown was actually plain, overlooked, spinster-until-the-last-possible-moment Penelope Featherington, Colin knew. And Penelope was coming to realize that even if that wasn’t all that mattered, it was what mattered most.

But she still didn’t understand his actions.

“Why, then,” she asked him, her words slow and carefully measured, “do you grow so distant and cold every time I bring it up?”

When he spoke, his words were close to a mumble. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“I’m a good listener,” she said softly.

His hand, which had been cradling her face so lovingly, dropped to his lap. And he said the one thing she never would have expected.

“I’m jealous.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, not intending to whisper, but lacking the voice to do anything else.

“Look at yourself, Penelope.” He took both of her hands in his and twisted so that they were facing one another. “You’re a huge success.”

“An anonymous success,” she reminded him.

“But you know, and I know, and besides, that’s not what I’m talking about.” He let go of one of her hands, raking his fingers through his hair as he searched for words. “You have done something. You have a body of work.”

“But you have—”

“What do I have, Penelope?” he interrupted, his voice growing agitated as he rose to his feet and began to pace. “What do I have?”

“Well, you have me,” she said, but her words lacked force. She knew that wasn’t what he meant.

He looked at her wearily. “I’m not talking about that, Penelope—”

“I know.”

“—I need something I can point to,” he said, right on top of her soft sentence. “I need a purpose. Anthony has one, and Benedict has one, but I’m at odds and ends.”

“Colin, you’re not. You’re—”

“I’m tired of being thought of as nothing but an—” He stopped short.

“What, Colin?” she asked, a bit startled by the disgusted expression that suddenly crossed his face.

“Christ above,” he swore, his voice low, the S hissing from his lips.

Her eyes widened. Colin was not one for frequent profanity.

“I can’t believe it,” he muttered, his head moving jerkily to the left, almost as if he was flinching.

“What?” she pleaded.

“I complained to you,” he said incredulously. “I complained to you about Lady Whistledown.”

She grimaced. “A lot of people have done that, Colin. I’m used to it.”

“I can’t believe it. I complained to you about how Lady Whistledown called me charming.”

“She called me an overripe citrus fruit,” Penelope said, attempting levity.

He stopped his pacing for just long enough to shoot her an annoyed look. “Were you laughing at me the whole time I was moaning about how the only way I would be remembered by future generations was in Whistledown columns?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “I would hope you know me better than that.”

He shook his head in a disbelieving manner. “I can’t believe I sat there, complaining to you that I had no accomplishments, when you had all of Whistledown.”

She got off the bed and stood. It was impossible just to sit there while he was pacing like a caged tiger. “Colin, you couldn’t have known.”

“Still.” He let out a disgusted exhale. “The irony would be beautiful, if it weren’t directed at me.”

Penelope parted her lips to speak, but she didn’t know how to say everything that was in her heart. Colin had so many achievements, she couldn’t even begin to count them all. They weren’t something you could pick up, like an edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, but they were just as special.

Perhaps even more so.

Penelope remembered all the moments he had made people smile, all the times he had walked past all of the popular girls at balls and asked a wallflower to dance. She thought of the strong, almost magical bond he shared with his siblings. If those weren’t achievements, she didn’t know what was.

But she knew that those weren’t the sorts of milestones he was talking about. She knew what he needed: a purpose, a calling.

Something to show the world that he was more than they thought he was.

“Publish your travel memoirs,” she said.

“I’m not—”

“Publish them,” she said again. “Take a chance and see if you soar.”

His eyes met hers for a moment, then they slid back down to his journal, still clutched in her hands. “They need editing,” he mumbled.

Penelope laughed, because she knew she had won. And he had won, too. He didn’t know it yet, but he had.

“Everyone needs editing,” she said, her smile broadening with each word. “Well, except me, I guess,” she teased. “Or maybe I did need it,” she added with a shrug. “We’ll never know, because I had no one to edit me.”

He looked up quite suddenly. “How did you do it?”

“How did I do what?”

His lips pursed impatiently. “You know what I mean. How did you do the column? There was more to it than the writing. You had to print and distribute. Someone had to have known who you were.”

She let out a long breath. She’d held these secrets so long it felt strange to share them, even with her husband. “It’s a long story,” she told him. “Perhaps we should sit.”

He led her back to the bed, and they both made themselves comfortable, propped up against the pillows, their legs stretched out before them.

“I was very young when it started,” Penelope began. “Only seventeen. And it happened quite by accident.”

He smiled. “How does something like that happen by accident?”

“I wrote it as a joke. I was so miserable that first season.” She looked up at him earnestly. “I don’t know if you recall, but I weighed over a stone more back then, and it’s not as if I’m fashionably slender now.”

“I think you’re perfect,” he said loyally.

Which was, Penelope thought, part of the reason she thought he was perfect as well.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I wasn’t terribly happy, and so I wrote a rather scathing report of the party I’d been to the night before. And then I did another, and another. I didn’t sign them Lady Whistledown; I just wrote them for fun and hid them in my desk. Except one day, I forgot to hide them.”

He leaned forward, utterly rapt. “What happened?”

“My family were all out, and I knew they’d be gone for some time, because that was when Mama still thought she could turn Prudence into a diamond of the first water, and their shopping trips took all day.”

Colin rolled his hand through the air, signaling that she should get to the point.

“Anyway,” Penelope continued, “I decided to work in the drawing room because my room was damp and musty because someone—well, I suppose it was me—left the window open during a rainstorm. But then I had to . . . well, you know.”

“No,” Colin said abruptly. “I don’t know.”

“Attend to my business,” Penelope whispered, blushing.

“Oh. Right,” he said dismissively, clearly not interested in that part of the story, either. “Go on.”

“When I got back, my father’s solicitor was there. And he was reading what I wrote. I was horrified!”

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t even speak for the first minute. But then I realized he was laughing, and it wasn’t because he thought I was foolish, it was because he thought I was good.”

“Well, you are good.”

“I know that now,” she said with a wry smile, “but you have to remember, I was seventeen. And I’d said some pretty horrid things in there.”

“About horrid people, I’m sure,” he said.

“Well, yes, but still . . .” She closed her eyes as all the memories swam through her head. “They were popular people. Influential people. People who didn’t like me very much. It didn’t really matter that they were horrid if what I said got out. In fact, it would have been worse because they were horrid. I would have been ruined, and I would have ruined my entire family along with me.”

“What happened then? I assume it was his idea to publish.”

Penelope nodded. “Yes. He made all the arrangements with the printer, who in turn found the boys to deliver. And it was his idea to give it away for free for the first two weeks. He said we needed to addict the ton.”

“I was out of the country when the column began,” Colin said, “but I remember my mother and sisters telling me all about it.”

“People grumbled when the newsboys demanded payment after two weeks for free,” Penelope said. “But they all paid.”

“A bright idea on the part of your solicitor,” Colin murmured.

“Yes, he was quite savvy.”

He picked up on her use of the past tense. “Was?”

She nodded sadly. “He passed on a few years ago. But he knew he was ill and so before he died he asked me if I wanted to continue. I suppose I could have stopped then, but I had nothing else in my life, and certainly no marriage prospects.” She looked up quickly. “I don’t mean to—That is to say—”

His lips curved into a self-deprecating smile. “You may scold me all you wish for not having proposed years ago.”

Penelope returned his smile with one of her own. Was it any wonder she loved this man?

“But,” he said rather firmly, “only if you finish the story.”

“Right,” she said, forcing her mind back to the matter at hand. “After Mr—” She looked up hesitantly. “I’m not certain I should say his name.”

Colin knew she was torn between her love and trust for him, and her loyalty to a man who had, in all probability, been a father to her once her own had departed this earth. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “He’s gone. His name doesn’t matter.”

She let out a soft breath. “Thank you,” she said, chewing on her lower lip. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I—”

“I know,” he said reassuringly, squeezing her fingers with his. “If you want to tell me later, that’s fine. And if you don’t, that will be fine as well.”

She nodded, her lips tight at the corners, in that strained expression people get when they are trying hard not to cry. “After he died, I worked directly with the publisher. We set up a system for delivery of the columns, and the payments continued the way they had always been made—into a discreet account in my name.”

Colin sucked in his breath as he thought about how much money she must have made over the years. But how could she have spent it without incurring suspicion? “Did you make any withdrawals?” he asked.

She nodded. “After I’d been working about four years, my great-aunt passed away and left her estate to my mother. My father’s solicitor wrote the will. She didn’t have very much, so we took my money and pretended it was hers.” Penelope’s face brightened slightly as she shook her head in bewilderment. “My mother was surprised. She’d never dreamed Aunt Georgette had been so wealthy. She smiled for months. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It was very kind of you,” Colin said.

Penelope shrugged. “It was the only way I could actually use my money.”

“But you gave it to your mother,” he pointed out.

“She’s my mother,” she said, as if that ought to explain everything. “She supported me. It all trickled down.”

He wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Portia Featherington was Penelope’s mother, and if Penelope wanted to love her, he wasn’t going to stop her.

“Since then,” Penelope said, “I haven’t touched it. Well, not for myself. I’ve given some money to charities.” Her face took on a wry expression. “Anonymously.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just took the time to think about everything she had done in the last decade, all on her own, all in secret. “If you want the money now,” he finally said, “you should use it. No one will question your suddenly having more funds. You’re a Bridgerton, after all.” He shrugged modestly. “It’s well known that Anthony settled ample livings upon all of his brothers.”

“I wouldn’t even know what to do with it all.”

“Buy something new,” he suggested. Didn’t all women like to shop?

She looked at him with an odd, almost inscrutable expression. “I’m not sure you understand how much money I have,” she said hedgingly. “I don’t think I could spend it all.”

“Put it aside for our children, then,” he said. “I’ve been fortunate that my father and brother saw fit to provide for me, but not all younger sons are so lucky.”

“And daughters,” Penelope reminded him. “Our daughters should have money of their own. Separate from their dowries.”

Colin had to smile. Such arrangements were rare, but trust Penelope to insist upon it. “Whatever you wish,” he said fondly.

She smiled and sighed, settling back against the pillows. Her fingers idly danced across the skin on the back of his hand, but her eyes were far away, and he doubted she was even aware of her movements.

“I have a confession to make,” she said, her voice quiet and even just a touch shy.

He looked at her doubtfully. “Bigger than Whistledown?”

“Different.”

“What is it?”

She dragged her eyes off of the random spot on the wall she seemed to be focused upon and gave him her full attention. “I’ve been feeling a bit”—she chewed on her lip as she paused, searching for the right words—“impatient with you lately. No, that’s not right,” she said. “Disappointed, really.”

An odd feeling began to prickle in his chest. “Disappointed how?” he asked carefully.

Her shoulders gave a little shrug. “You seemed so upset with me. About Whistledown.”

“I already told you that was because—”

“No, please,” she said, placing a gently restraining hand on his chest. “Please let me finish. I told you I thought it was because you were ashamed of me, and I tried to ignore it, but it hurt so much, really. I thought I knew who you were, and I couldn’t believe that person would think himself so far above me that he would feel such shame at my achievements.”

He stared at her silently, waiting for her to continue.

“But the funny thing is . . .” She turned to him with a wise smile. “The funny thing is that it wasn’t because you were ashamed at all. It was all because you wanted something like that for your own. Something like Whistledown. It seems silly now, but I was so worried because you weren’t the perfect man of my dreams.”

“No one is perfect,” he said quietly.

“I know.” She leaned over and planted an impulsive kiss on his cheek. “You’re the imperfect man of my heart, and that’s even better. I’d always thought you infallible, that your life was charmed, that you had no worries or fears or unfulfilled dreams. But that wasn’t really fair of me.”

“I was never ashamed of you, Penelope,” he whispered. “Never.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, and then Penelope said, “Do you remember when I asked you if we might take a belated honeymoon trip?”

He nodded.

“Why don’t we use some of my Whistledown money for that?”

“I will pay for the honeymoon trip.”

“Fine,” she said with a lofty expression. “You may take it out of your quarterly allowance.”

He stared at her in shock, then hooted with laughter. “You’re going to give me pin money?” he asked, unable to control the grin that spread across his face.

“Pen money,” she corrected. “So you can work on your journals.”

“Pen money,” he mused. “I like that.”

She smiled and placed her hand on his. “I like you.”

He squeezed her fingers. “I like you, too.”

Penelope sighed as she settled her head on his shoulder. “Is life supposed to be this wonderful?”

“I think so,” he murmured. “I really do.”

Chapter 21

One week later, Penelope was sitting at the desk in her drawing room, reading Colin’s journals and making notes on a separate piece of paper whenever she had a question or comment. He had asked her to help him edit his writing, a task she found thrilling.

She was, of course, overjoyed that he had entrusted this critical job to her. It meant he trusted her judgment, thought she was smart and clever, felt that she could take what he had written and make it even better.

But there was more to her happiness than that. She’d needed a project, something to do. In the first days after giving up Whistledown, she’d reveled in her newfound free time. It was like having a holiday for the first time in ten years. She’d read like mad—all those novels and books she’d purchased but never gotten around to reading. And she’d taken long walks, ridden her horse in the park, sat in the small courtyard behind her house on Mount Street, enjoying the fine spring weather and tipping her face up toward the sun for a minute or so at a time—long enough to bask in the warmth, but not so long as to turn her cheeks brown.

Then, of course, the wedding and its myriad details had consumed all of her time. So she really hadn’t had much opportunity to realize what might be missing in her life.

When she had been doing the column, the actual writing of it hadn’t taken too terribly long, but she always had to be on the alert, watching and listening. And when she wasn’t writing the column she was thinking about writing the column or desperately trying to remember some clever turn of phrase until she could get home and jot it down.

It had been mentally engaging, and she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed having her mind challenged until now, when she’d finally been given the opportunity again.

She was jotting down a question about Colin’s description of a Tuscan villa on page 143 in volume two of his journals when the butler knocked discreetly on the open door to alert her to his presence.

Penelope smiled sheepishly. She tended to absorb herself entirely in her work, and Dunwoody had learned through trial and error that if he wanted to get her attention, he had to make some noise.

“A visitor to see you, Mrs. Bridgerton,” he said.

Penelope looked up with a smile. It was probably one of her sisters, or maybe one of the Bridgerton siblings. “Really? Who is it?”

He stepped forward and handed her a card. Penelope looked down and gasped, first in shock, and then in misery. Engraved in classic, stately black on a creamy white background were two simple words: Lady Twombley.

Cressida Twombley? Why on earth would she come calling?

Penelope began to feel uneasy. Cressida would never call unless it was for some unpleasant purpose. Cressida never did anything unless it was for an unpleasant purpose.

“Would you like me to turn her away?” Dunwoody asked.

“No,” Penelope said with a sigh. She wasn’t a coward, and Cressida Twombley wasn’t going to turn her into one. “I’ll see her. Just give me a moment to put my papers away. But . . .”

Dunwoody stopped in his tracks and cocked his head slightly to the side, waiting for her to go on.

“Oh, never mind,” Penelope muttered.

“Are you certain, Mrs. Bridgerton?”

“Yes. No.” She groaned. She was dithering and it was one more transgression to add to Cressida’s already long list of them—she was turning Penelope into a stammering fool. “What I mean is—if she’s still here after ten minutes, would you devise some sort of emergency that requires my presence? My immediate presence?”

“I believe that can be arranged.”

“Excellent, Dunwoody,” Penelope said with a weak smile. It was, perhaps, the easy way out, but she didn’t trust herself to be able to find the perfect point in the conversation to insist that Cressida leave, and the last thing she wanted was to be trapped in the drawing room with her all afternoon.

The butler nodded and left, and Penelope shuffled her papers into a neat stack, closing Colin’s journal and setting it on top so that the breeze from the open window couldn’t blow the papers off the desk. She stood and walked over to the sofa, sitting down in the center, hoping that she looked relaxed and composed.

As if a visit from Cressida Twombley could ever be called relaxing.

A moment later, Cressida arrived, stepping through the open doorway as Dunwoody intoned her name. As always, she looked beautiful, every golden hair on her head in its perfect place. Her skin was flawless, her eyes sparkled, her clothing was of the latest style, and her reticule matched her attire to perfection.

“Cressida,” Penelope said, “how surprising to see you.” Surprising being the most polite adjective she could come up with under the circumstances.

Cressida’s lips curved into a mysterious, almost feline smile. “I’m sure it is,” she murmured.

“Won’t you sit down?” Penelope asked, mostly because she had to. She’d spent a lifetime being polite; it was difficult to stop now. She motioned to a nearby chair, the most uncomfortable one in the room.

Cressida sat on the edge of the chair, and if she found it less than pleasing, Penelope could not tell from her mien. Her posture was elegant, her smile never faltered, and she looked as cool and composed as anyone had a right to be.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here,” Cressida said.

There seemed little reason to deny it, so Penelope nodded.

And then, abruptly, Cressida asked, “How are you finding married life?”

Penelope blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“It must be an amazing change of pace,” Cressida said.

“Yes,” Penelope said carefully, “but a welcome one.”

“Mmmm, yes. You must have a dreadful amount of free time now. I’m sure you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

A prickling feeling began to spread along Penelope’s skin. “I don’t understand your meaning,” she said.

“Don’t you?”

When it became apparent that Cressida required an answer, Penelope replied, somewhat testily, “No, I don’t.”

Cressida was silent for a moment, but her cat-with-cream expression spoke volumes. She glanced about the room until her eyes fell on the writing desk where Penelope had so recently been sitting. “What are those papers?” she inquired.

Penelope’s eyes flew to the papers on the desk, stacked neatly under Colin’s journal. There was no way that Cressida could have known that they were anything special. Penelope had already been seated on the sofa when Cressida had entered the room. “I fail to see how my personal papers could be of your concern,” she said.

“Oh, do not take offense,” Cressida said with a little tinkle of laughter that Penelope found rather frightening. “I was merely making polite conversation. Inquiring about your interests.”

“I see,” Penelope said, trying to fill the ensuing silence.

“I’m very observant,” Cressida said.

Penelope raised her brows in question.

“In fact, my keen powers of observation are quite well known among the very best circles of society.”

“I must not be a link in those impressive circles, then,” Penelope murmured.

Cressida, however, was far too involved in her own speech to acknowledge Penelope’s. “It’s why,” she said in a thoughtful tone of voice, “I thought I might be able to convince the ton that I was really Lady Whistledown.”

Penelope’s heart thundered in her chest. “Then you admit that you’re not?” she asked carefully.

“Oh, I think you know I’m not.”

Penelope’s throat began to close. Somehow—she’d never know how—she managed to keep her composure and say, “I beg your pardon?”

Cressida smiled, but she managed to take that happy expression and turn it into something sly and cruel. “When I came up with this ruse, I thought: I can’t lose. Either I convince everyone I’m Lady Whistledown or they won’t believe me and I look very cunning when I say that I was just pretending to be Lady Whistledown in order to ferret out the true culprit.”

Penelope held very silent, very still.

“But it didn’t quite play out the way I had planned. Lady Whistledown turned out to be far more devious and mean-spirited than I would have guessed.” Cressida’s eyes narrowed, then narrowed some more until her face, normally so lovely, took on a sinister air. “Her last little column turned me into a laughingstock.”

Penelope said nothing, barely daring to breathe.

“And then . . .” Cressida continued, her voice dropping into lower registers. “And then you—you!—had the effrontery to insult me in front of the entire ton.”

Penelope breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Maybe Cressida didn’t know her secret. Maybe this was all about Penelope’s public insult, when she’d accused Cressida of lying, and she’d said—dear God, what had she said? Something terribly cruel, she was sure, but certainly well deserved.

“I might have been able to tolerate the insult if it had come from someone else,” Cressida continued. “But from someone such as you—well, that could not go unanswered.”

“You should think twice before insulting me in my own home,” Penelope said in a low voice. And then she added, even though she hated to hide behind her husband’s name, “I am a Bridgerton now. I carry the weight of their protection.”

Penelope’s warning made no dent in the satisfied mask that molded Cressida’s beautiful face. “I think you had better listen to what I have to say before you make threats.”

Penelope knew she had to listen. It was better to know what Cressida knew than to close her eyes and pretend all was well. “Go on,” she said, her voice deliberately curt.

“You made a critical mistake,” Cressida said, pointing her index finger at Penelope and wagging it back and forth in short tick-tocky motions. “It didn’t occur to you that I never forget an insult, did it?”

“What are you trying to say, Cressida?” Penelope had wanted her words to seem strong and forceful, but they came out as a whisper.

Cressida stood and walked slowly away from Penelope, her hips swaying slightly as she moved, the motion almost like a swagger. “Let me see if I can remember your exact words,” she said, tapping one finger against her cheek. “Oh, no, no, don’t remind me. I’m sure it will come to me. Oh, yes, I recall now.” She turned around to face Penelope. “I believe you said you’d always liked Lady Whistledown. And then—and to give you credit, it was an evocative, memorable turn of phrase—you said that it would break your heart if she turned out to be someone like Lady Twombley.” Cressida smiled. “Which would be me.”

Penelope’s mouth went dry. Her fingers shook. And her skin turned to ice.

Because while she hadn’t remembered exactly what she’d said in her insult to Cressida, she did remember what she’d written in that last, final, column, the one which had been mistakenly distributed at her engagement ball. The one which—

The one which Cressida was now slapping down onto the table in front of her.

Ladies and Gentleman, This Author is NOT Lady Cressida Twombley. She is nothing more than a scheming imposter, and it would break my heart to see my years of hard work attributed to one such as her.

Penelope stared down at the words even though she knew each one by heart. “What do you mean?” she asked, even though she knew her attempt to pretend that she didn’t know exactly what Cressida meant was futile.

“You’re smarter than that, Penelope Featherington,” Cressida said. “You know I know.”

Penelope kept staring at the single, incriminating sheet of paper, unable to tear her eyes from those fateful words—

It would break my heart.

Break my heart.

Break my heart.

Break my—

“Nothing to say?” Cressida asked, and even though Penelope could not see her face, she felt her hard, supercilious smile.

“No one will believe you,” Penelope whispered.

“I can barely believe it myself,” Cressida said with a harsh laugh. “You, of all people. But apparently you had hidden depths and were a bit more clever than you let on. Clever enough,” she added with noticeable emphasis, “to know that once I light the spark of this particular piece of gossip, the news will spread like wildfire.”

Penelope’s mind whirled in dizzying, unpleasant circles. Oh, God, what was she going to tell Colin? How would she tell him? She knew she had to, but where would she find the words?

“No one will believe it at first,” Cressida continued. “You were right about that. But then they’ll start to think, and slowly but surely, the pieces of the puzzle will fall into place. Someone will remember that they said something to you that ended up in a column. Or that you were at a particular house party. Or that they’d seen Eloise Bridgerton snooping about, and doesn’t everyone know that the two of you tell each other everything?”

“What do you want?” Penelope asked, her voice low and haunted as she finally lifted her head to face her enemy.

“Ah, now, there’s the question I’ve been waiting for.” Cressida clasped her hands together behind her back and began to pace. “I’ve been giving the matter a great deal of thought. In fact, I put off coming here to see you for almost a full week until I could decide upon the matter.”

Penelope swallowed, uncomfortable with the notion that Cressida had known her deepest secret for nearly a week, and she’d been blithely living her life, unaware that the sky was about to come crashing down.

“I knew from the outset, of course,” Cressida said, “that I wanted money. But the question was—how much? Your husband is a Bridgerton, of course, and so he has ample funds, but then again, he’s a younger son, and not as plump in the pocket as the viscount.”

“How much, Cressida?” Penelope ground out. She knew that Cressida was drawing this out just to torture her, and she held little hope that she would actually name a figure before she was good and ready.

“Then I realized,” Cressida continued, ignoring Penelope’s question (and proving her point), “that you must be quite wealthy, too. Unless you’re an utter fool—and considering your success at hiding your little secret for so long, I’ve revised my initial opinion of you, so I don’t think you are—you’d have to have made a fortune after writing the column for all those years. And from all outward appearances”—she gave a scornful glance to Penelope’s afternoon dress—“you haven’t been spending it. So I can only deduce that it is all sitting in a discreet little bank account somewhere, just waiting for a withdrawal.”

“How much, Cressida?”

“Ten thousand pounds.”

Penelope gasped. “You’re mad!”

“No.” Cressida smiled. “Just very, very clever.”

“I don’t have ten thousand pounds.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“I can assure you I’m not!” And she wasn’t. The last time Penelope had checked her account balance, she’d had £8246, although she supposed that with interest, it had grown by a few pounds since then. It was an enormous sum of money, to be sure, enough to keep any reasonable person happy for several lifetimes, but it wasn’t ten thousand, and it wasn’t anything she wished to hand over to Cressida Twombley.

Cressida smiled serenely. “I’m sure you’ll figure out what to do. Between your savings and your husband’s money, ten thousand pounds is a paltry sum.”

“Ten thousand pounds is never a paltry sum.”

“How long will you need to gather your funds?” Cressida asked, completely ignoring Penelope’s outburst. “A day? Two days?”

“Two days?” Penelope echoed, gaping. “I couldn’t do it in two weeks!”

“Aha, so then you do have the money.”

“I don’t!”

“One week,” Cressida said, her voice turning sharp. “I want the money in one week.”

“I won’t give it to you,” Penelope whispered, more for her own benefit than Cressida’s.

“You will,” Cressida replied confidently. “If you don’t, I’ll ruin you.”

“Mrs. Bridgerton?”

Penelope looked up to see Dunwoody standing in the doorway.

“There is an urgent matter which requires your attention,” he said. “Immediately.”

“Just as well,” Cressida said, walking toward the door. “I’m done here.” She walked through the doorway, then turned around once she reached the hall, so that Penelope was forced to look at her, perfectly framed in the portal. “I’ll hear from you soon?” she inquired, her voice mild and innocent, as if she were talking about nothing more weighty than an invitation to a party, or perhaps the agenda for a charity meeting.

Penelope gave her a little nod, just to be rid of her.

But it didn’t matter. The front door may have thunked shut, and Cressida might be gone, but Penelope’s troubles weren’t going anywhere.

Chapter 22

Three hours later, Penelope was still in the drawing room, still sitting on the sofa, still staring into space, still trying to figure out how she was going to solve her problems.

Correction: problem, singular.

She had only one problem, but for the size of it, she might as well have had a thousand.

She wasn’t an aggressive person, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had a violent thought, but at that moment, she could have gladly wrung Cressida Twombley’s neck.

She watched the door with a morose sense of fatalism, waiting for her husband to come home, knowing that each ticking second brought her closer to her moment of truth, when she would have to confess everything to him.

He wouldn’t say, I told you so. He would never say such a thing.

But he would be thinking it.

It never occurred to her, not even for a minute, that she might keep this from him. Cressida’s threats weren’t the sort of thing one hid from one’s husband, and besides, she was going to need his help.

She wasn’t certain what she needed to do, but whatever it was, she didn’t know how to do it alone.

But there was one thing she knew for sure—she didn’t want to pay Cressida. There was no way Cressida would be satisfied with ten thousand pounds, not when she thought she could get more. If Penelope capitulated now, she’d be handing money over to Cressida for the rest of her life.

Which meant that in one week’s time, Cressida Twombley would tell all the world that Penelope Featherington Bridgerton was the infamous Lady Whistledown.

Penelope reckoned she had two choices. She could lie, and call Cressida a fool, and hope that everyone believed her; or she could try to find some way to twist Cressida’s revelation to her advantage.

But for the life of her, she didn’t know how.

“Penelope?”

Colin’s voice. She wanted to fling herself into his arms, and at the same time, she could barely bring herself to turn around.

“Penelope?” He sounded concerned now, his footsteps increasing in speed as he crossed the room. “Dunwoody said that Cressida was here.”

He sat next to her and touched her cheek. She turned and saw his face, the corners of his eyes crinkled with worry, his lips, slightly parted as they murmured her name.

And that was when she finally allowed herself to cry.

Funny how she could hold herself together, keep it all inside until she saw him. But now that he was here, all she could do was bury her face in the warmth of his chest, snuggle closer as his arms wrapped around her.

As if somehow he could make all her problems go away by his presence alone.

“Penelope?” he asked, his voice soft and worried. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Penelope just shook her head, the motion having to suffice until she could think of the words, summon the courage, stop the tears.

“What did she do to you?”

“Oh, Colin,” she said, somehow summoning the energy to pull herself far enough back so that she could see his face. “She knows.”

His skin went white. “How?”

Penelope sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “It’s my fault,” she whispered.

He handed her a handkerchief without ever taking his eyes off of her face. “It’s not your fault,” he said sharply.

Her lips slid into a sad smile. She knew that his harsh tone was meant for Cressida, but she deserved it as well. “No,” she said, her voice laced with resignation, “it is. It happened exactly as you said it would. I wasn’t paying attention to what I wrote. I slipped up.”

“What did you do?” he asked.

She told him everything, starting with Cressida’s entrance and ending with her demands for money. She confessed that her poor choice of words was going to be her ruin, but wasn’t it ironic, because it really did feel like her heart was breaking.

But the whole time she spoke, she felt him slipping away. He was listening to her, but he wasn’t there with her. His eyes took on a strange, faraway look, and yet they were narrowed, intense.

He was plotting something. She was sure of it.

It terrified her.

And thrilled her.

Whatever he was planning, whatever he was thinking, it was all for her. She hated that it had been her stupidity that had forced him into this dilemma, but she couldn’t stem the tingle of excitement that swept across her skin as she watched him.

“Colin?” she asked hesitantly. She’d been done speaking for a full minute, and still he hadn’t said anything.

“I’ll take care of everything,” he said. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing.”

“I assure you that that is impossible,” she said with shaking voice.

“I take my wedding vows quite seriously,” he replied, his tone almost frighteningly even. “I believe I promised to honor and keep you.”

“Let me help you,” she said impulsively. “Together we can solve this.”

One corner of his mouth lifted into a hint of a smile. “Have you a solution?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve been thinking all day, and I don’t know . . . although . . .”

“Although what?” he asked, his brows rising.

Her lips parted, then pursed, then parted again as she said, “What if I enlisted the aid of Lady Danbury?”

“You’re planning to ask her to pay off Cressida?”

“No,” she said, even though the tone of his voice told her that his had not been a serious question. “I’m going to ask her to be me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Everyone thinks she’s Lady Whistledown, anyway,” Penelope explained. “At least, quite a lot of people do. If she were to make an announcement—”

“Cressida would refute it instantly,” Colin interrupted.

“Who would believe Cressida over Lady Danbury?” Penelope turned to him with wide, earnest eyes. “I wouldn’t dare cross Lady Danbury in any matter. If she were to say she was Lady Whistledown, I’d probably believe her myself.”

“What makes you think you can convince Lady Danbury to lie for you?”

“Well,” Penelope replied, chewing on her lower lip, “she likes me.”

“She likes you?” Colin echoed.

“She does, rather. I think she might like to help me, especially since she detests Cressida almost as much as I do.”

“You think her fondness for you will lead her to lie to the entire ton?” he asked doubtfully.

She sagged in her seat. “It’s worth asking.”

He stood, his movements abrupt, and walked to the window. “Promise me you won’t go to her.”

“But—”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” she said, “but—”

“No buts,” he said. “If we need to, we’ll contact Lady Danbury, but not until I have a chance to think of something else.” He raked his hand through his hair. “There must be something else.”

“We have a week,” she said softly, but she didn’t find her words reassuring, and it was difficult to imagine that Colin did, either.

He turned around, his about-face so precise he might have been in the military. “I’ll be back,” he said, heading for the door.

“But where are you going?” Penelope cried out, jumping to her feet.

“I have to think,” he said, pausing with his hand on the doorknob.

“You can’t think here with me?” she whispered.

His face softened, and he crossed back to her side. He murmured her name, tenderly taking her face in his hands. “I love you,” he said, his voice low and fervent. “I love you with everything I am, everything I’ve been, and everything I hope to be.”

“Colin . . .”

“I love you with my past, and I love you for my future.” He bent forward and kissed her, once, softly, on the lips. “I love you for the children we’ll have and for the years we’ll have together. I love you for every one of my smiles, and even more, for every one of your smiles.”

Penelope sagged against the back of a nearby chair.

“I love you,” he repeated. “You know that, don’t you?”

She nodded, closing her eyes as her cheeks rubbed against his hands.

“I have things to do,” he said, “and I won’t be able to concentrate if I’m thinking about you, worrying if you’re crying, wondering if you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” she whispered. “I’m fine now that I’ve told you.”

“I will make this right,” he vowed. “I just need you to trust me.”

She opened her eyes. “With my life.”

He smiled, and suddenly she knew that his words were true. Everything would be all right. Maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but soon. Tragedy couldn’t coexist in a world with one of Colin’s smiles.

“I don’t think it will come to that,” he said fondly, giving her cheek one affectionate stroke before returning his arms to his sides. He walked back to the door, turning the moment his hand touched the knob. “Don’t forget about my sister’s party tonight.”

Penelope let out a short groan. “Do we have to? The last thing I want to do is go out in public.”

“We have to,” Colin said. “Daphne doesn’t host balls very often, and she’d be crushed if we did not attend.”

“I know,” Penelope said with a sigh. “I know. I knew it even as I complained. I’m sorry.”

He smiled wryly. “It’s all right. You’re entitled to a bit of a bad mood today.”

“Yes,” she said, trying to return the smile. “I am, aren’t I?”

“I’ll be back later,” he promised.

“Where are you—” she started to ask, then caught herself. He obviously didn’t want questions just then, even from her.

But to her surprise, he answered, “To see my brother.”

“Anthony?”

“Yes.”

She nodded encouragingly, murmuring, “Go. I will be fine.” The Bridgertons had always found strength in other Bridgertons. If Colin felt he needed his brother’s counsel, then he should go without delay.

“Don’t forget to prepare for Daphne’s ball,” he reminded her.

She gave him a halfhearted salute and watched as he left the room.

Then she moved to the window to watch him walk by, but he never appeared. He must have headed straight out the back to the mews. She sighed, allowing her bottom to rest against the windowsill for support. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d wanted to catch one last glimpse of him.

She wished she knew what he was planning.

She wished she could be sure he even had a plan.

But at the same time, she felt oddly at ease. Colin would make this right. He’d said he would, and he never lied.

She knew that her idea to enlist the aid of Lady Danbury wasn’t a perfect solution, but unless Colin came up with a better idea, what else could they do?

For now, she would try to push it all from her mind. She was so weary, and so very tired, and right now what she needed was to close her eyes and think of nothing but the green of her husband’s eyes, the shining light of his smile.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow she would help Colin solve their problems.

Today she would rest. She would take a nap and pray for sleep and try to figure out how she would face all of society this evening, knowing that Cressida would be there, watching and waiting for her to make a false move.

One would think that after nearly a dozen years of pretending she was nothing more than the wallflowerish Penelope Featherington, she’d be used to playing roles and hiding her true self.

But that was when her secret had been safe. Everything was different now.

Penelope curled up on the sofa and closed her eyes.

Everything was different now, but that didn’t mean that it had to be worse, did it?

Everything would be fine. It would. It had to.

Didn’t it?

Colin was starting to regret his decision to take a carriage over to his brother’s house.

He’d wanted to walk—the vigorous use of his legs and feet and muscles seemed the only socially acceptable outlet for his fury. But he’d recognized that time was of the essence, and even with traffic, a carriage could convey him to Mayfair faster than could his own two feet.

But now the walls seemed too close and the air too thick, and goddamn it, was that an overturned milkwagon blocking the street?

Colin poked his head out the door, hanging out of the carriage even as they were still rolling to a halt. “God above,” he muttered, taking in the scene. Broken glass littered the street, milk was flowing everywhere, and he couldn’t tell who was screeching louder—the horses, which were still tangled in the reins, or the ladies on the pavement, whose dresses had been completely splattered with milk.

Colin jumped down from his carriage, intending to help clear the scene, but it quickly became apparent that Oxford Street would be a snarl for at least an hour, with or without his help. He checked to make sure that the milkwagon horses were being properly cared for, informed his driver that he would be continuing on foot, and took off walking.

He stared defiantly in the faces of each person he passed, perversely enjoying the way they averted their gaze when faced with his obvious hostility. He almost wished one of them would make a comment, just so he could have someone to lash out at. It didn’t matter that the only person he really wanted to throttle was Cressida Twombley; by this point anyone would have made a fine target.

His anger was making him unbalanced, unreasonable. Unlike himself.

He still wasn’t certain what had happened to him when Penelope had told him of Cressida’s threats. This was more than anger, greater than fury. This was physical; it coursed through his veins, pulsed beneath his skin.

He wanted to hit someone.

He wanted to kick things, put his fist through a wall.

He’d been furious when Penelope had published her last column. In fact, he’d thought he couldn’t possibly experience a greater anger.

He was wrong.

Or perhaps it was just that this was a different sort of anger. Someone was trying to hurt the one person he loved above all others.

How could he tolerate that? How could he allow it to happen?

The answer was simple. He couldn’t.

He had to stop this. He had to do something.

After so many years of ambling through life, laughing at the antics of others, it was time to take action himself.

He looked up, somewhat surprised that he was already at Bridgerton House. Funny how it no longer seemed like home. He’d grown up here, but now it was so obviously his brother’s house.

Home was in Bloomsbury. Home was with Penelope.

Home was anywhere with Penelope.

“Colin?”

He turned around. Anthony was on the pavement, obviously returning from an errand or appointment.

Anthony nodded toward the door. “Were you planning to knock?”

Colin looked blankly at his brother, just then realizing that he’d been standing perfectly still on the steps for God only knew how long.

“Colin?” Anthony asked again, his brow furrowing with concern.

“I need your help,” Colin said. It was all he needed to say.

Penelope was already dressed for the ball when her maid brought in a note from Colin.

“Dunwoody got it from the messenger,” the maid explained before bobbing a quick curtsy and leaving Penelope to read the note in privacy.

Penelope slid her gloved finger under the envelope flap and nudged it open, pulling out the single sheet of paper on which she saw the fine, neat handwriting that had become so familiar to her since she’d started editing Colin’s journals.

I will make my own way over to the ball this evening. Please proceed to Number Five. Mother, Eloise, and Hyacinth are waiting to accompany you to Hastings House.

All my love,

Colin

For someone who wrote so well in his journals, he wasn’t much of a correspondent, Penelope thought with a wry smile.

She stood, smoothing out the fine silk of her skirts. She’d chosen a dress of her favorite color—sage green—in hopes that it might lend her courage. Her mother had always said that when a woman looked good, she felt good, and she rather thought her mother was right. Heaven knows, she’d spent a good eight years of her life feeling rather bad in the dresses her mother had insisted looked good.

Her hair had been dressed in a loosely upswept fashion that flattered her face, and her maid had even combed something through the strands (Penelope was afraid to ask what) that seemed to bring out the red highlights.

Red hair wasn’t very fashionable, of course, but Colin had once said he liked the way the candlelight made her hair more colorful, so Penelope had decided that this was one case upon which she and fashion would have to disagree.

By the time she made her way downstairs, her carriage was waiting for her, and the driver had already been instructed to take her to Number Five.

Colin had clearly taken care of everything. Penelope wasn’t sure why this surprised her; he wasn’t the sort of man who forgot details. But he was preoccupied today. It seemed odd that he would have taken the time to send instructions to the staff about her delivery to his mother’s house when she could have conveyed the order just as well herself.

He had to be planning something. But what? Was he going to intercept Cressida Twombley and have her shipped off to a penal colony?

No, too melodramatic.

Maybe he’d found a secret about her, and was planning to cross-blackmail her. Silence for silence.

Penelope nodded approvingly as her carriage rolled along Oxford Street. That had to be the answer. It was just like Colin to come up with something so diabolically fitting and clever. But what could he possibly have unearthed about Cressida in so short a time? In all her years as Lady Whistledown, she’d never heard even a whisper of anything truly scandalous attached to Cressida’s name.

Cressida was mean, and Cressida was petty, but she’d never stepped outside the rules of society. The only truly daring thing she’d ever done was claim to be Lady Whistledown.

The carriage turned south into Mayfair, and a few minutes later, they came to a stop in front of Number Five. Eloise must have been watching at the window, because she virtually flew down the steps and would have crashed into the carriage had the driver not stepped down at that precise moment and blocked her path.

Eloise jumped from foot to foot as she waited for the driver to open the carriage door; in fact, she looked so impatient that Penelope was surprised she didn’t brush past him and wrench the door open herself. Finally, ignoring the driver’s offer of help, she climbed into the carriage, nearly tripping on her skirts and tumbling to the floor in the process. As soon as she’d righted herself, she looked both ways, her face pursed into an extremely furtive expression, and yanked the door shut, nearly taking off the driver’s nose in the process.

“What,” Eloise demanded, “is going on?”

Penelope just stared at her. “I could ask the same of you.”

“You could? Why?”

“Because you nearly knocked over the carriage in your haste to climb inside!”

“Oh,” Eloise sniffed dismissively. “You have only yourself to blame for that.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you! I want to know what’s going on. And I need to know tonight.”

Penelope was quite certain that Colin would not have told his sister about Cressida’s blackmail demands, not unless his plan was to have Eloise harangue Cressida to death. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“You have to know what I mean!” Eloise insisted, glancing back up toward the house. The front door was opening. “Oh, bother. Mother and Hyacinth are coming already. Tell me!”

“Tell you what?”

“Why Colin sent us that abominably cryptic note instructing us to stick to you like glue all evening.”

“He did?”

“Yes, and may I point out that he underlined the word glue?”

“And here I thought the emphasis was yours,” Penelope said dryly.

Eloise scowled. “Penelope, this is not the time to poke fun at me.”

“When is the time?”

“Penelope!”

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“Do you know what the note was about?”

Penelope shook her head. Which wasn’t a complete lie, she told herself. She really didn’t know what Colin had planned for this evening.

Just then the door opened, and Hyacinth bounded in. “Penelope!” she said with great enthusiasm. “What is going on?”

“She doesn’t know,” Eloise said.

Hyacinth shot her sister an annoyed look. “It figures you’d sneak out here early.”

Violet poked her head in. “Are they quarreling?” she asked Penelope.

“Just a little,” Penelope replied.

Violet sat next to Hyacinth across from Penelope and Eloise. “Very well, it’s not as if I could stop them, anyway. But do tell, what did Colin mean when he instructed us to stick to you like glue?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

Violet’s eyes narrowed, as if assessing Penelope’s honesty. “He was quite emphatic. He underlined the word glue, you know.”

“I know,” Penelope replied, just as Eloise said, “I told her.”

“He underlined it twice,” Hyacinth added. “If his ink had been any darker, I’m sure I would have had to go out and slaughter a horse myself.”

“Hyacinth!” Violet exclaimed.

Hyacinth just shrugged. “It’s all very intriguing.”

“Actually,” Penelope said, eager to change the subject, or at least to twist it slightly, “what I’m wondering is, what will Colin wear?”

That got everyone’s attention.

“He left home in his afternoon clothes,” Penelope explained, “and didn’t come back. I can’t imagine your sister would accept anything less than full evening kit for her ball.”

“He’ll have borrowed something from Anthony,” Eloise said dismissively. “They’re precisely the same size. Same as Gregory, actually. Only Benedict is different.”

“Two inches taller,” Hyacinth said.

Penelope nodded, feigning interest as she glanced out the window. They’d just slowed down, the driver presumably trying to navigate through the crush of carriages that were choking Grosvenor Square.

“How many people are expected tonight?” Penelope asked.

“I believe five hundred were invited,” Violet replied. “Daphne doesn’t host parties very often, but what she lacks in frequency she makes up for in size.”

“I’ll say,” Hyacinth muttered. “I hate crowds. I’m not going to be able to get a decent breath tonight.”

“I’m lucky you were my last,” Violet told her with weary affection. “I’d not have had the energy for any more after you, I’m sure.”

“Pity I wasn’t first, then,” Hyacinth said with a cheeky smile. “Think of all the attention I could have had. Not to mention the fortune.”

“You’re already quite the heiress as it is,” Violet said.

“And you always manage to find your way to the center of attention,” Eloise teased.

Hyacinth just grinned.

“Did you know,” Violet said, turning to Penelope, “that all of my children are going to be in attendance tonight? I can’t remember the last time we were all together.”

“What about your birthday party?” Eloise asked.

Violet shook her head. “Gregory wasn’t able to get away from university.”

“We’re not expected to line up according to height and sing a festive tune, are we?” Hyacinth asked, only half joking. “I can see us now: The Singing Bridgertons. We’d make a fortune on the stage.”

“You’re in a punchy mood tonight,” Penelope said to her.

Hyacinth shrugged. “Just getting myself ready for my upcoming transformation into glue. It seems to require a certain mental preparedness.”

“A gluey frame of mind?” Penelope inquired mildly.

“Precisely.”

“We must get her married off soon,” Eloise said to her mother.

“You first,” Hyacinth shot back.

“I’m working on it,” Eloise said cryptically.

“What?” The word’s volume was rather amplified by the fact that it exploded from three mouths at once.

“That’s all I’m going to say,” Eloise said, and in such a tone of voice that they all knew she meant it.

“I will get to the bottom of this,” Hyacinth assured her mother and Penelope.

“I’m sure you will,” Violet replied.

Penelope turned to Eloise and said, “You don’t stand a chance.”

Eloise just lifted her chin in the air and looked out the window. “We’re here,” she announced.

The four ladies waited until the driver had opened the door, and then one by one they alighted.

“My goodness,” Violet said approvingly, “Daphne has truly outdone herself.”

It was difficult not to stop and look. All of Hastings House was ablaze with light. Every window had been adorned with candles, and outdoor sconces held torches, as did a fleet of footmen who were greeting the carriages.

“It’s too bad Lady Whistledown isn’t here,” Hyacinth said, her voice for once losing its cheeky edge. “She would have loved this.”

“Maybe she is here,” Eloise said. “In fact, she probably is.”

“Did Daphne invite Cressida Twombley?” Violet asked.

“I’m sure she did,” Eloise said. “Not that I think she’s Lady Whistledown.”

“I don’t think anyone thinks that any longer,” Violet replied as she lifted her foot onto the first step. “Come along, girls, our night awaits.”

Hyacinth stepped forward to accompany her mother, while Eloise fell into line beside Penelope.

“There’s magic in the air,” Eloise said, looking around as if she’d never seen a London ball before. “Do you feel it?”

Penelope just looked at her, afraid that if she opened her mouth, she’d blurt out all of her secrets. Eloise was right. There was something strange and electric about the night, a crackling sort of energy—the kind one felt just before a thunderstorm.

“It almost feels like a turning point,” Eloise mused, “as if one’s life could change completely, all in one night.”

“What are you saying, Eloise?” Penelope asked, alarmed by the look in her friend’s eyes.

“Nothing,” Eloise said with a shrug. But a mysterious smile remained upon her lips as she hooked her arm through Penelope’s and murmured, “Let’s be off. The night awaits.”

Chapter 23

Penelope had been to Hastings House a number of times, both for formal parties and more casual visits, but never had she seen the stately old building look more lovely—or more magical—than it did that evening.

She and the Bridgerton ladies were among the first to arrive; Lady Bridgerton had always said that it was rude for family members even to consider fashionably late entrances. It was nice to be so early, though; Penelope was actually able to see the decorations without having to push through crushing crowds.

Daphne had decided not to use a theme for her ball, unlike the Egyptian ball last week and the Grecian one the week before. Rather, she had decorated the house with the same simple elegance with which she lived her everyday life. Hundreds of candles adorned the walls and tables, flickering in the night, reflecting off the enormous chandeliers that hung from the ceilings. The windows were swathed in a shimmery, silvery fabric, the sort of thing one might imagine a fairy to wear. Even the servants had changed their livery. Penelope knew that the Hastings servants usually wore red and gold, but tonight their red was adorned with silver.

It could almost make a woman feel like a princess in a fairy tale.

“I wonder how much this cost,” Hyacinth said, eyes wide.

“Hyacinth!” Violet scolded, batting her daughter on the arm. “You know that it’s impolite to ask about such things.”

“I didn’t ask,” Hyacinth pointed out, “I wondered. And besides, it’s only Daphne.”

“Your sister is the Duchess of Hastings,” Violet said, “and as such she has certain responsibilities to her station. You would do well to remember that fact.”

“But wouldn’t you agree,” Hyacinth said, linking her arm around her mother’s and giving her hand a little squeeze, “that it’s more important simply to remember that she’s my sister?”

“She has you there,” Eloise said with a smile.

Violet sighed. “Hyacinth, I declare that you will be the death of me.”

“No, I won’t,” Hyacinth replied. “Gregory will.”

Penelope found herself stifling a laugh.

“I don’t see Colin here yet,” Eloise said, craning her neck.

“No?” Penelope scanned the room. “That’s surprising.”

“Did he tell you that he would be here before you arrived?”

“No,” Penelope replied, “but for some reason I rather thought he would.”

Violet patted her arm. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon, Penelope. And then we’ll all know what this big secret is that has him insisting we remain by your side. Not,” she added hastily, her eyes widening with alarm, “that we view it as any sort of chore. You know we adore your company.”

Penelope gave her a reassuring smile. “I know. The feeling is mutual.”

There were only a few people ahead of them in the receiving line, so it wasn’t very long before they were able to greet Daphne and her husband Simon.

“What,” Daphne asked without preamble, just as soon as she was sure her other guests were out of earshot, “is going on with Colin?”

Since the question appeared to be directed mostly at her, Penelope felt compelled to say, “I don’t know.”

“Did he send you a note as well?” Eloise asked.

Daphne nodded. “Yes, we’re to keep an eye on her, he said.”

“It could be worse,” Hyacinth said. “We’re to stick to her like glue.” She leaned forward. “He underlined glue.”

“And here I thought I wasn’t a chore,” Penelope quipped.

“Oh, you’re not,” Hyacinth said breezily, “but there’s something rather enjoyable about the word glue. Slides off the tongue rather pleasingly, don’t you think? Glue. Glooooooo.”

“Is it me,” Eloise asked, “or has she gone mad in the head?”

Hyacinth ignored her with a shrug. “Not to mention the drama of it. I feel as if I’m a part of some grand espionage plot.”

“Espionage,” Violet groaned. “Heaven help us all.”

Daphne leaned forward with great drama. “Well, he told us—”

“It’s not a competition, wife,” Simon put in.

She shot him an annoyed look before turning back to her mother and sisters and saying, “He told us to make sure she stays away from Lady Danbury.”

“Lady Danbury!” they all exclaimed.

Except for Penelope, who had a very good idea why Colin might want her to stay away from the elderly countess. He must have come up with something better than her plan to convince Lady Danbury to lie and tell everyone that she was Lady Whistledown.

It had to be the double-blackmail theory. What else could it be? He must have uncovered some horrible secret about Cressida.

Penelope was almost giddy with delight.

“I thought you were rather good friends with Lady Danbury,” Violet said to her.

“I am,” Penelope replied, trying to act perplexed.

“This is very curious,” Hyacinth said, tapping her index finger against her cheek. “Very curious indeed.”

“Eloise,” Daphne suddenly put in, “you’re very quiet tonight.”

“Except for when she called me mad,” Hyacinth pointed out.

“Hmmm?” Eloise had been staring off into space—or perhaps at something behind Daphne and Simon—and hadn’t been paying attention. “Oh, well, nothing to say, I suppose.”

“You?” Daphne asked doubtfully.

“Precisely what I was thinking,” Hyacinth said.

Penelope agreed with Hyacinth, but she decided to keep that to herself. It wasn’t like Eloise not to weigh in with an opinion, especially not on a night like this, which was growing more and more shrouded with mystery as each second passed.

“You all were saying everything so well,” Eloise said. “What could I have possibly added to the conversation?”

Which struck Penelope as very odd. The sly sarcasm was in character, but Eloise always thought she had something to add to a conversation.

Eloise just shrugged.

“We should be moving along,” Violet said. “We’re beginning to hold up your other guests.”

“I shall see you later,” Daphne promised. “And—Oh!”

Everyone leaned in.

“You will probably want to know,” she whispered, “that Lady Danbury is not here yet.”

“Simplifies my job,” Simon said, looking a bit weary of all the intrigue.

“Not mine,” Hyacinth said. “I still have to stick to her—”

“—like glue,” they all—including Penelope—finished for her.

“Well, I do,” Hyacinth said.

“Speaking of glue,” Eloise said as they stepped away from Daphne and Simon, “Penelope, do you think you can make do with only two batches for a bit? I should like to step out for a moment.”

“I will go with you,” Hyacinth announced.

“You can’t both go,” Violet said. “I’m certain Colin didn’t want Penelope left with only me.”

“May I go when she’s back, then?” Hyacinth grimaced. “It’s not something I can avoid.”

Violet turned to Eloise expectantly.

“What?” Eloise demanded.

“I was waiting for you to say the same thing.”

“I’m far too dignified,” Eloise sniffed.

“Oh, please,” Hyacinth muttered.

Violet groaned. “Are you certain you wish us to remain by your side?” she asked Penelope.

“I didn’t think I had a choice,” Penelope replied, amused by the interchange.

“Go,” Violet said to Eloise. “Just hurry back.”

Eloise gave her mother a nod, and then, much to everyone’s surprise, she reached forward and gave Penelope a quick hug.

“What was that for?” Penelope asked with an affectionate smile.

“No reason,” Eloise replied, her returning grin rather like one of Colin’s. “I just think this is going to be a special night for you.”

“You do?” Penelope asked carefully, unsure of what Eloise might have figured out.

“Well, it’s obvious something is afoot,” Eloise said. “It’s not like Colin to act with such secrecy. And I wanted to offer my support.”

“You’ll be back in just a few minutes,” Penelope said. “Whatever is going to happen—if indeed anything is going to happen—you’re not likely to miss it.”

Eloise shrugged. “It was an impulse. An impulse born from a dozen years of friendship.”

“Eloise Bridgerton, are you growing sentimental on me?”

“At this late date?” Eloise said with a look of mock outrage. “I think not.”

“Eloise,” Hyacinth interrupted, “will you leave? I can’t wait all night.”

And with a quick wave, Eloise was off.

For the next hour, they just milled about, mingling with the other guests, and moving—Penelope, Violet, and Hyacinth—as one giant being.

“Three heads and six legs have we,” Penelope remarked as she walked toward the window, the two Bridgerton women bustling right alongside her.

“I beg your pardon?” Violet asked.

“Did you really want to look out the window,” Hyacinth muttered, “or were you just testing us? And where is Eloise?”

“Mostly just testing you,” Penelope admitted. “And I’m sure Eloise was detained by some other guest. You know as well as I that there are many people here from whom it is rather difficult to extract oneself from conversation.”

“Hmmph,” was Hyacinth’s reply. “Someone needs to recheck her definition of glue.”

“Hyacinth,” Penelope said, “if you need to excuse yourself for a few minutes, please do go ahead. I shall be just fine.” She turned to Violet. “You as well. If you need to leave, I promise I shall remain right here in the corner until you return.”

Violet looked at her in horror. “And break our word to Colin?”

“Er, did you actually give him your word?” Penelope asked.

“No, but it was implied in his request, I’m sure. Oh, look!” she suddenly exclaimed. “There he is!”

Penelope tried to signal discreetly at her husband, but all her attempts at circumspection were drowned out by Hyacinth’s vigorous wave and holler of, “Colin!”

Violet groaned.

“I know, I know,” Hyacinth said unrepentantly, “I must be more ladylike.”

“If you know it,” Violet said, sounding every inch the mother she was, “then why don’t you do it?”

“What would be the fun in that?”

“Good evening, ladies,” Colin said, kissing his mother’s hand before smoothly taking his place beside Penelope and sliding his arm around her waist.

“Well?” Hyacinth demanded.

Colin merely quirked a brow.

“Are you going to tell us?” she persisted.

“All in good time, dear sister.”

“You’re a wretched, wretched man,” Hyacinth grumbled.

“I say,” Colin murmured, looking about, “what happened to Eloise?”

“That’s a very good question,” Hyacinth muttered, just as Penelope said, “I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

He nodded, not looking terribly interested. “Mother,” he said, turning toward Violet, “how have you been?”

“You’ve been sending cryptic notes all over town,” Violet demanded, “and you want to know how I’ve been?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

Violet actually started wagging her finger at him, something she’d forbidden her own children from ever doing in public. “Oh, no, you don’t, Colin Bridgerton. You are not going to get out of explaining yourself. I am your mother. Your mother!”

“I am aware of the relation,” he murmured.

“You are not going to waltz in here and distract me with a clever phrase and a beguiling smile.”

“You think my smile is beguiling?”

“Colin!”

“But,” he acceded, “you did make an excellent point.”

Violet blinked. “I did?”

“Yes. About the waltz.” He cocked his head slightly to the side. “I believe I hear one beginning.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Hyacinth said.

“Don’t you? Pity.” He grabbed Penelope’s hand. “Come along, wife. I do believe this is our dance.”

“But no one is dancing,” Hyacinth ground out.

He flashed her a satisfied smile. “They will be.”

And then, before anyone had a chance to comment, he’d yanked on Penelope’s hand, and they were weaving through the crowds.

“Didn’t you want to waltz?” Penelope asked breathlessly, right after they’d passed the small orchestra, the members of whom appeared to be taking an extended break.

“No, just to escape,” he explained, slipping through a side door and pulling her along with him.

A few moments later they had ascended a narrow staircase and were secreted in some small parlor, their only light the flickering torches that blazed outside the window.

“Where are we?” Penelope asked, looking around.

Colin shrugged. “I don’t know. It seemed as good a place as any.”

“Are you going to tell me what is going on?”

“No, first I’m going to kiss you.”

And before she had a chance to respond to that (not that she would have protested!) his lips found hers in a kiss that was hungry and urgent and tender all in one.

“Colin!” she gasped, in that split second when he took a breath.

“Not now,” he murmured, kissing her again.

“But—” this was muffled, lost against his lips.

It was the sort of kiss that enveloped her, from her head to her toes, from the way his teeth nibbled her lips, to his hands, squeezing her bottom and sliding across her back. It was the sort of kiss that could easily have turned her knees to water and led her to swoon on the sofa and allow him to do anything to her, the more wicked the better, even though they were mere yards away from over five hundred members of the ton, except—

“Colin!” she exclaimed, somehow breaking her mouth free of his.

“Shush.”

“Colin, you have to stop!”

He looked like a lost puppy. “Must I?”

“Yes, you must.”

“I suppose you’re going to say it’s because of all the people just next door.”

“No, although that’s a very good reason to consider restraint.”

“To consider and then reject, perhaps?” he asked hopefully.

“No! Colin—” She pulled herself from his arms and moved several feet away, lest his nearness tempt her into forgetting herself. “Colin, you need to tell me what is going on.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I was kissing you. . . .”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Very well.” He walked away, his footsteps echoing loudly in her ears. When he turned back around, his expression had turned deadly serious. “I have decided what to do about Cressida.”

“You have? What? Tell me.”

His face took on a slightly pained expression. “Actually, I think it might be best if I didn’t tell you until the plan is under way.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You’re not serious.”

“Well . . .” He was looking longingly at the door, clearly hoping for an escape.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

“Very well.” He sighed, then sighed again.

“Colin!”

“I’m going to make an announcement,” he said, as if that would explain everything.

At first she said nothing, thinking that maybe it would all become clear if she just waited a moment and thought about it. But that didn’t work, and so she asked, her words slow and careful, “What sort of announcement?”

His face turned resolute. “I’m going to tell the truth.”

She gasped. “About me?”

He nodded.

“But you can’t!”

“Penelope, I think it’s best.”

Panic began to rise within her, and her lungs felt impossibly tight. “No, Colin, you can’t! You can’t do that! It’s not your secret to reveal!”

“Do you want to pay Cressida for the rest of your life?”

“No, of course not, but I can ask Lady Danbury—”

“You’re not going to ask Lady Danbury to lie on your behalf,” he snapped. “That’s beneath you and you know it.”

Penelope gasped at his sharp tone. But deep down, she knew he was right.

“If you were so willing to allow someone else to usurp your identity,” he said, “then you should have just allowed Cressida to do it.”

“I couldn’t,” she whispered. “Not her.”

“Fine. Then it’s time we both stood up and faced the music.”

“Colin,” she whispered, “I’ll be ruined.”

He shrugged. “We’ll move to the country.”

She shook her head, desperately trying to find the right words.

He took her hands in his. “Does it really matter so much?” he said softly. “Penelope, I love you. As long as we’re together, we’ll be happy.”

“It’s not that,” she said, trying to tug her hand from his so that she could wipe the tears from her eyes.

But he wouldn’t let go. “What, then?” he asked.

“Colin, you’ll be ruined, too,” she whispered.

“I don’t mind.”

She stared at him in disbelief. He sounded so flip, so casual about something that would change his entire life, alter it in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine.

“Penelope,” he said, his voice so reasonable she could barely stand it, “it’s the only solution. Either we tell the world, or Cressida does.”

“We could pay her,” she whispered.

“Is that what you really want to do?” he asked. “Give her all the money you’ve worked so hard to earn? You might as well have just let her tell the world she was Lady Whistledown.”

“I can’t let you do this,” she said. “I don’t think you understand what it means to be outside of society.”

“And you do?” he countered.

“Better than you!”

“Penelope—”

“You’re trying to act as if it doesn’t matter, but I know you don’t feel that way. You were so angry with me when I published that last column, all because you thought I shouldn’t have risked the secret getting out.”

“As it turns out,” he remarked, “I was right.”

“See?” she said urgently. “Do you see? You’re still upset with me over that!”

Colin let out a long breath. The conversation was not moving in the direction he’d hoped. He certainly hadn’t intended for her to throw his earlier insistence that she not tell anyone about her secret life back in his face. “If you hadn’t published that last column,” he said, “we wouldn’t be in this position, that is true, but the point is now moot, don’t you think?”

“Colin,” she whispered. “If you tell the world I’m Lady Whistledown, and they react the way we think they will, you’ll never see your journals published.”

His heart stood still.

Because that was when he finally understood her.

She had told him before that she loved him, and she had shown her love as well, in all the ways he’d taught her. But never before had it been so clear, so frank, so raw.

All this time she’d been begging him not to make the announcement—it had all been for him.

He swallowed against the lump that was forming in his throat, fought for words, fought even for breath.

She reached out and touched his hand, her eyes pleading, her cheeks still wet with tears. “I could never forgive myself,” she said. “I don’t want to destroy your dreams.”

“They were never my dreams until I met you,” he whispered.

“You don’t want to publish your journals?” she asked, blinking in confusion. “You were just doing it for me?”

“No,” he said, because she deserved nothing less than complete honesty. “I do want it. It is my dream. But it’s a dream you gave me.”

“That doesn’t mean I can take it away.”

“You’re not.”

“Yes, I—”

“No,” he said forcefully, “you’re not. And getting my work published . . . well, it doesn’t hold a candle to my real dream, which is spending the rest of my life with you.”

“You’ll always have that,” she said softly.

“I know.” He smiled, and then it turned rather cocky. “So what do we have to lose?”

“Possibly more than we could ever guess.”

“And possibly less,” he reminded her. “Don’t forget that I’m a Bridgerton. And you are now, too. We wield a bit of power in this town.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged modestly. “Anthony is prepared to give you his full support.”

“You told Anthony?” she gasped.

“I had to tell Anthony. He’s the head of the family. And there are very few people on this earth who would dare to cross him.”

“Oh.” Penelope chewed on her lower lip, considering all this. And then, because she had to know: “What did he say?”

“He was surprised.”

“I expected as much.”

“And rather pleased.”

Her face lit up. “Really?”

“And amused. He said he had to admire someone who could keep a secret like that for so many years. He said he couldn’t wait to tell Kate.”

She nodded. “I suppose you’ll have to make an announcement now. The secret is out.”

“Anthony will hold his counsel if I ask him to,” Colin said. “That has nothing to do with why I want to tell the world the truth.”

She looked at him expectantly, warily.

“The truth is,” Colin said, tugging on her hand and pulling her close, “I’m rather proud of you.”

She felt herself smiling, and it was so strange, because just a few moments earlier, she couldn’t imagine ever smiling again.

He leaned down until his nose touched hers. “I want everyone to know how proud I am of you. By the time I’m through, there won’t be a single person in London who doesn’t recognize how clever you are.”

“They may still hate me,” she said.

“They may,” he agreed, “but that will be their problem, not ours.”

“Oh, Colin,” she sighed. “I do love you. It’s an excellent thing, really.”

He grinned. “I know.”

“No, I really do. I thought I loved you before, and I’m sure I did, but it’s nothing like what I feel now.”

“Good,” he said, a rather possessive gleam appearing in his eyes, “that’s the way I like it. Now come with me.”

“Where?”

“Here,” he said, pushing open a door.

To Penelope’s amazement, she found herself on a small balcony, overlooking the entire ballroom. “Oh. Dear. God,” she gulped, trying to yank him back into the darkened room behind them. No one had seen them yet; they could still make their escape.

“Tsk tsk,” he scolded. “Bravery, my sweet.”

“Couldn’t you post something in the paper?” she whispered urgently. “Or just tell someone and allow the rumor to spread?”

“There’s nothing like a grand gesture to get the point across.”

She swallowed convulsively. As gestures went, this was going to be grand. “I’m not very good at being the center of attention,” she said, trying to remember how to breathe in a normal rhythm.

He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. I am.” He looked out over the crowd until his eyes found those of their host, his brother-in-law, the Duke of Hastings. At Colin’s nod, the duke began to move toward the orchestra.

“Simon knows?” Penelope gasped.

“I told him when I arrived,” Colin murmured absently. “How do you think I knew how to find the room with the balcony?”

And then the most remarkable thing happened. A veritable fleet of footmen appeared as if from nowhere and began handing tall flutes of champagne to every guest.

“Here’s ours,” Colin said approvingly, picking up two glasses that were waiting in the corner. “Just as I asked.”

Penelope took hers silently, still unable to comprehend all that was unfolding around her.

“It’s probably a little flat by now,” Colin said in a conspiratorial sort of whisper that she knew was meant to set her at ease. “But it’s the best I could do under the circumstances.”

As Penelope clutched Colin’s hand in terror, she watched helplessly as Simon quieted the orchestra and directed the throng of partygoers to turn their attention to his brother and sister on the balcony.

His brother and sister, she thought in wonder. The Bridgertons really did inspire a bond. She never thought she’d see the day when a duke referred to her as his sister.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Colin announced, his strong, confident voice booming throughout the hall, “I would like to propose a toast to the most remarkable woman in the world.”

A low murmur spread across the room, and Penelope stood frozen, watching everyone watching her.

“I am a newlywed,” Colin continued, beguiling the partygoers with his lopsided smile, “and therefore you are all required to indulge me in my lovesick ways.”

Friendly laughter rippled through the crowd.

“I know that many of you were surprised when I asked Penelope Featherington to be my wife. I was surprised myself.”

A few unkind titters wafted through the air, but Penelope held herself perfectly still, completely proud. Colin would say the right thing. She knew he would. Colin always said the right thing.

“I wasn’t surprised that I had fallen in love with her,” he said pointedly, giving the crowd a look that dared them to comment, “but rather that it had taken so long.

“I’ve known her for so many years, you see,” he continued, his voice softening, “and somehow I’d never taken the time to look inside, to see the beautiful, brilliant, witty woman she’d become.”

Penelope could feel the tears trickling down her face, but she couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. She had expected him to reveal her secret, and instead he was giving her this incredible gift, this spectacular declaration of love.

“Therefore,” Colin said, “with all of you here as my witnesses, I would like to say—Penelope—” He turned to her, taking her free hand in his, and said:

“I love you. I adore you. I worship the ground you walk upon.”

He turned back out to the crowd, lifted his glass, and said, “To my wife!”

“To your wife!” they all boomed, caught up in the magic of the moment.

Colin drank, and Penelope drank, even though she couldn’t help but wonder when he was going to tell them all the real reason for this announcement.

“Put down your glass, dear,” he murmured, plucking it from her fingers and setting it aside.

“But—”

“You interrupt far too much,” he scolded, and then he swept her into a passionate kiss, right there on the balcony in front of the entire ton.

“Colin!” she gasped, once he gave her a chance to breathe.

He grinned wolfishly as their audience roared its approval.

“Oh, and one last thing!” he called to the crowd.

They were now stamping their feet, hanging on his every word.

“I’m leaving the party early. Right now, as a matter of fact.” He shot a wicked, sideways grin at Penelope. “I’m sure you’ll understand.”

The men in the crowd hooted and hollered as Penelope turned beet red.

“But before I do, I have one last thing to say. One last little thing, in case you still don’t believe me when I tell you that my wife is the wittiest, cleverest, most enchanting woman in all of London.”

“Nooooo!” came a voice from the back, and Penelope knew it was Cressida.

But even Cressida was no match for the crowd, none of whom would let her pass, or even listen to her cries of distress.

“You might say that my wife has two maiden names,” he said thoughtfully. “Of course you all knew her as Penelope Featherington, as did I. But what you didn’t know, and what even I was not clever enough to figure out until she told me herself . . .”

He paused, waiting for silence to fall over the room.

“. . . is that she is also the brilliant, the witty, the breathtakingly magnificent—Oh, you all know who I am talking about,” he said, his arm sweeping out toward the crowd.

“I give you my wife!” he said, his love and pride flowing across the room. “Lady Whistledown!”

For a moment there was nothing but silence. It was almost as if no one even dared to breathe.

And then it came. Clap. Clap. Clap. Slow and methodical, but with such force and determination that everyone had to turn and look to see who had dared to break the shocked silence.

It was Lady Danbury.

She had shoved her cane into someone else’s arms and was holding her arms high, clapping loud and proud, beaming with pride and delight.

And then someone else began to clap. Penelope jerked her head to the side to see who . . .

Anthony Bridgerton.

And then Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings.

And then the Bridgerton women, and then the Featherington women, and then another and another and more and more until the entire room was cheering.

Penelope couldn’t believe it.

Tomorrow they might remember to be angry with her, to feel irritated at having been fooled for so many years, but tonight . . .

Tonight all they could do was admire and cheer.

For a woman who had had to carry out all of her accomplishments in secret, it was everything she’d ever dreamed of.

Well, almost everything.

Everything she’d truly ever dreamed of was standing next to her, his arm around her waist. And when she looked up at him, at his beloved face, he was smiling down at her with such love and pride that her breath caught in her throat.

“Congratulations, Lady Whistledown,” he murmured.

“I prefer Mrs. Bridgerton,” she replied.

He grinned. “Excellent choice.”

“Can we leave?” she whispered.

“Right now?”

She nodded.

“Oh, yes,” he said enthusiastically.

And no one saw them for several days.

Epilogue

Bedford Square, Bloomsbury

London, 1825

“It’s here! It’s here!”

Penelope looked up from the papers spread over her desk. Colin was standing in the doorway of her small office, jumping from foot to foot like a schoolboy.

“Your book!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet as quickly as her rather ungainly body would allow. “Oh, Colin, let me see. Let me see. I can’t wait!”

He couldn’t contain his grin as he handed her his book.

“Ohhhh,” she said reverently, holding the slim, leather-bound volume in her hands. “Oh, my.” She held the book up to her face and inhaled deeply. “Don’t you just love the smell of new books?”

“Look at this, look at this,” he said impatiently, pointing to his name on the front cover.

Penelope beamed. “Look at that. And so elegant, too.” She ran her finger over the words as she read, “An Englishman in Italy, by Colin Bridgerton.”

He looked ready to burst with pride. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”

“It looks better than good, it looks perfect! When will An Englishman in Cyprus be available?”

“The publisher says every six months. They want to release An Englishman in Scotland after that.”

“Oh, Colin, I’m so proud of you.”

He drew her into his arms, letting his chin rest on top of her head. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could,” she replied loyally.

“Just be quiet and accept the praise.”

“Very well,” she said, grinning even though he couldn’t see her face, “you couldn’t. Clearly, you could never have been published without such a talented editor.”

“You won’t hear any disagreement from me,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head before he let her go. “Sit down,” he added. “You shouldn’t be on your feet for so long.”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, but she sat down, anyway. Colin had been overly protective since the first moment she’d told him she was pregnant; now that she was only a month from her due date, he was insufferable.

“What are these papers?” he asked, glancing down at her scribblings.

“This? Oh, it’s nothing.” She started to gather them into piles. “Just a little project I was working on.”

“Really?” He sat down across from her. “What is it?”

“It’s . . . well . . . actually . . .”

“What is it, Penelope?” he asked, looking exceedingly amused by her stammers.

“I’ve been at loose ends since I finished editing your journals,” she explained, “and I found I rather missed writing.”

He was smiling as he leaned forward. “What are you working on?”

She blushed; she wasn’t sure why. “A novel.”

“A novel? Why, that’s brilliant, Penelope!”

“You think so?”

“Of course I think so. What is it called?”

“Well, I’ve only written a few dozen pages,” she said, “and there’s much work to be done, but I think, if I don’t decide to change it overmuch, that I will call it The Wallflower.”

His eyes grew warm, almost misty. “Really?”

“It’s a little bit autobiographical,” she admitted.

“Just a little bit?” he returned.

“Just a little.”

“But it has a happy ending?”

“Oh, yes,” she said fervently. “It has to.”

“It has to?”

She reached her hand across the table and rested it atop his. “Happy endings are all I can do,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t know how to write anything else.”

Dear Reader,

Have you ever wondered what happened to your favorite characters after you closed the final page? Wanted just a little bit more of a favorite novel? I have, and if the questions from my readers are any indication, I’m not the only one. So after countless requests from Bridgerton fans, I decided to try something a little different, and I wrote a “2nd Epilogue” for each of the novels. These are the stories that come after the stories.

At first, the Bridgerton 2nd Epilogues were available exclusively online; later they were published (along with a novella about Violet Bridgerton) in a collection called The Bridgertons: Happily Ever After. Now, for the first time, each 2nd Epilogue is being included with the novel it follows. I hope you enjoy Penelope and Colin as they continue their journey.

Warmly,

Julia Quinn

Romancing Mister Bridgerton: The 2nd Epilogue

“You didn’t tell her?”

Penelope Bridgerton would have said more, and in fact would have liked to say more, but words were difficult, what with her mouth hanging slack. Her husband had just returned from a mad dash across the south of England with his three brothers, in pursuit of his sister Eloise, who had, by all accounts, run off to elope with—

Oh, dear God.

“Is she married?” Penelope asked frantically.

Colin tossed his hat on a chair with a clever little twist of his wrist, one corner of his mouth lifting in a satisfied smile as it spun through the air on a perfect horizontal axis. “Not yet,” he replied.

So she hadn’t eloped. But she had run away. And she’d done it in secret. Eloise, who was Penelope’s closest friend. Eloise, who told Penelope everything. Eloise, who apparently didn’t tell Penelope everything, had run off to the home of a man none of them knew, leaving a note assuring her family that all would be well and not to worry.

Not to worry????

Good heavens, one would think Eloise Bridgerton knew her family better than that. They had been frantic, every last one of them. Penelope had stayed with her new mother-in-law while the men were searching for Eloise. Violet Bridgerton had put up a good front, but her skin was positively ashen, and Penelope could not help but notice the way her hands shook with every movement.

And now Colin was back, acting as if nothing was amiss, answering none of her questions to her satisfaction, and beyond all that—

“How could you not have told her?” she said again, dogging his heels.

He sprawled into a chair and shrugged. “There really wasn’t an appropriate time.”

“You were gone five days!”

“Yes, well, not all of them were with Eloise. A day’s travel on either end, after all.”

“But—but—”

Colin summoned just enough energy to glance about the room. “Don’t suppose you ordered tea?”

“Yes, of course,” Penelope said reflexively, since it had not taken more than a week of marriage to learn that when it came to her new husband, it was best to always have food at the ready. “But Colin—”

“I did hurry back, you know.”

“I can see that,” she said, taking in his dampened, windblown hair. “Did you ride?”

He nodded.

“From Gloucestershire?”

“Wiltshire, actually. We retired to Benedict’s.”

“But—”

He smiled disarmingly. “I missed you.”

And Penelope was not so accustomed to his affection that she did not blush. “I missed you, too, but—”

“Come sit with me.”

Where? Penelope almost demanded. Because the only flat surface was his lap.

His smile, which had been charm personified, grew more heated. “I’m missing you right now,” he murmured.

Much to her extreme embarrassment, her gaze moved instantly to the front of his breeches. Colin let out a bark of laughter, and Penelope crossed her arms. “Don’t, Colin,” she warned.

“Don’t what?” he asked, all innocence.

“Even if we weren’t in the sitting room, and even if the draperies weren’t open—”

“An easily remedied nuisance,” he commented with a glance to the windows.

“And even,” she ground out, her voice growing in depth, if not quite in volume, “were we not expecting a maid to enter at any moment, the poor thing staggering under the weight of your tea tray, the fact of the matter is—”

Colin let out a sigh.

“—you have not answered my question!”

He blinked. “I’ve quite forgotten what it was.”

A full ten seconds elapsed before she spoke. And then: “I’m going to kill you.”

“Of that, I’m certain,” he said offhandedly. “Truly, the only question is when.”

“Colin!”

“Might be sooner rather than later,” he murmured. “But in truth, I thought I’d go in an apoplexy, brought on by bad behavior.”

She stared at him.

“Your bad behavior,” he clarified.

“I didn’t have bad behavior before I met you,” she retorted.

“Oh, ho, ho,” he chortled. “Now that is rich.”

And Penelope was forced to shut her mouth. Because, blast it all, he was right. And that was what all of this was about, as it happened. Her husband, after entering the hall, shrugging off his coat, and kissing her rather soundly on the lips (in front of the butler!), had blithely informed her, “Oh, and by the by, I never did tell her you were Whistledown.”

And if there was anything that might count as bad behavior, it had to be ten years as the author of the now infamous Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers. Over the past decade, Penelope had, in her pseudonymous guise, managed to insult just about everyone in society, even herself. (Surely, the ton would have grown suspicious if she had never poked fun at herself, and besides, she really did look like an overripe citrus fruit in the dreadful yellows and oranges her mother had always forced her to wear.)

Penelope had “retired” just before her marriage, but a blackmail attempt had convinced Colin that the best course of action was to reveal her secret in a grand gesture, and so he had announced her identity at his sister Daphne’s ball. It had all been very romantic and very, well, grand, but by the end of the night it had become apparent that Eloise had disappeared.

Eloise had been Penelope’s closest friend for years, but even she had not known Penelope’s big secret. And now she still didn’t. She’d left the party before Colin had announced it, and he apparently had not seen fit to say anything once he’d found her.

“Frankly,” Colin said, his voice holding an uncharacteristic strain of irritability, “it’s less than she deserved, after what she put us through.”

“Well, yes,” Penelope murmured, feeling rather disloyal even as she said it. But the entire Bridgerton clan had been mad with worry. Eloise had left a note, it was true, but it had somehow got mixed into her mother’s correspondence, and an entire day had passed before the family was reassured that Eloise had not been abducted. And even then, no one’s mind was set at ease; Eloise may have left of her own accord, but it had taken another day of tearing her bedchamber to bits before they found a letter from Sir Phillip Crane that indicated where she might have run off to.

Considering all that, Colin did have something of a point.

“We have to go back in a few days for the wedding,” he said. “We’ll tell her then.”

“Oh, but we can’t!”

He paused. Then he smiled. “And why is that?” he asked, his eyes resting on her with great appreciation.

“It will be her wedding day,” Penelope explained, aware that he’d been hoping for a far more diabolical reason. “She must be the center of all attention. I cannot tell her something such as this.”

“A bit more altruistic than I’d like,” he mused, “but the end result is the same, so you have my approval—”

“I don’t need your approval,” Penelope cut in.

“But nonetheless, you have it,” he said smoothly. “We shall keep Eloise in the dark.” He tapped his fingertips together and sighed with audible pleasure. “It will be a most excellent wedding.”

The maid arrived just then, carrying a heavily laden tea tray. Penelope tried not to notice that she let out a little grunt when she was finally able to set it down.

“You may close the door behind you,” Colin said, once the maid had straightened.

Penelope’s eyes darted to the door, then to her husband, who had risen and was shutting the draperies.

“Colin!” she yelped, because his arms had stolen around her, and his lips were on her neck, and she could feel herself going quite liquid in his embrace. “I thought you wanted food,” she gasped.

“I do,” he murmured, tugging on the bodice of her dress. “But I want you more.”

And as Penelope sank to the cushions that had somehow found their way to the plush carpet below, she felt very loved indeed.

Several days later, Penelope was seated in a carriage, gazing out the window and scolding herself.

Colin was asleep.

She was a widgeon for feeling so nervous about seeing Eloise again. Eloise, for heaven’s sake. They had been as close as sisters for over a decade. Closer. Except, maybe . . . not quite as close as either had thought. They had kept secrets, both of them. Penelope wanted to wring Eloise’s neck for not telling her about her suitor, but really, she hadn’t a leg to stand on. When Eloise found out that Penelope was Lady Whistledown . . .

Penelope shuddered. Colin might be looking forward to the moment—he was positively devilish in his glee—but she felt rather ill, quite frankly. She hadn’t eaten all day, and she was not the sort to skip breakfast.

She wrung her hands, craned her neck to get a better view out the window—she thought they might have turned onto the drive for Romney Hall, but she wasn’t precisely certain—then looked back to Colin.

He was still asleep.

She kicked him. Gently, of course, because she did not think herself overly violent, but really, it wasn’t fair that he had slept like a baby from the moment the carriage had started rolling. He had settled into his seat, inquired after her comfort, and then, before she’d even managed the you in “Very well, thank you,” his eyes were closed.

Thirty seconds later he was snoring.

It really wasn’t fair. He always fell asleep before she did at night as well.

She kicked him again, harder this time.

He mumbled something in his sleep, shifted positions ever so slightly, and slumped into the corner.

Penelope scooted over. Closer, closer . . .

Then she organized her elbow in a sharp point and jabbed him in the ribs.

“Wha . . . ?” Colin shot straight awake, blinking and coughing. “What? What? What?”

“I think we’re here,” Penelope said.

He looked out the window, then back at her. “And you needed to inform of this by taking a weapon to my body?”

“It was my elbow.”

He glanced down at her arm. “You, my dear, are in possession of exceedingly bony elbows.”

Penelope was quite sure her elbows—or any part of her, for that matter—were not the least bit bony, but there seemed little to gain by contradicting him, so she said, again, “I think we’re here.”

Colin leaned toward the glass with a couple of sleepy blinks. “I think you’re right.”

“It’s lovely,” Penelope said, taking in the exquisitely maintained grounds. “Why did you tell me it was run-down?”

“It is,” Colin replied, handing her her shawl. “Here,” he said with a gruff smile, as if he weren’t yet used to caring for another person’s welfare in quite the way he did hers. “It will be chilly yet.”

It was still fairly early in the morning; the inn at which they had slept was only an hour’s ride away. Most of the family had stayed with Benedict and Sophie, but their home was not large enough to accommodate all of the Bridgertons. Besides, Colin had explained, they were newlyweds. They needed their privacy.

Penelope hugged the soft wool to her body and leaned against him to get a better look out the window. And, to be honest, just because she liked to lean against him. “I think it looks lovely,” she said. “I have never seen such roses.”

“It’s nicer on the outside than in,” Colin explained as the carriage drew to a halt. “But I expect Eloise will change that.”

He opened the door himself and hopped out, then offered his arm to assist her down. “Come along, Lady Whistledown—”

“Mrs. Bridgerton,” she corrected.

“Whatever you wish to call yourself,” he said with a grand smile, “you’re still mine. And this is your swan song.”

As Colin stepped across the threshold of what was to be his sister’s new home, he was struck by an unexpected sense of relief. For all his irritation with her, he loved his sister. They had not been particularly intimate while growing up; he had been much closer in age to Daphne, and Eloise had often seemed nothing so much as a pesky afterthought. But the previous year had brought them closer, and if it hadn’t been for Eloise, he might never have discovered Penelope.

And without Penelope, he’d be . . .

It was funny. He couldn’t imagine what he’d be without her.

He looked down at his new wife. She was glancing around the entry hall, trying not to be too obvious about it. Her face was impassive, but he knew she was taking everything in. And tomorrow, when they were musing about the events of the day, she would have remembered every last detail.

Mind like an elephant, she had. He loved it.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” the butler said, greeting them with a little nod of his head. “Welcome back to Romney Hall.”

“A pleasure, Gunning,” Colin murmured. “So sorry about the last time.”

Penelope looked to him in askance.

“We entered rather . . . suddenly,” Colin explained.

The butler must have seen Penelope’s expression of alarm, because he quickly added, “I stepped out of the way.”

“Oh,” she started to say, “I’m so—”

“Sir Phillip did not,” Gunning cut in.

“Oh.” Penelope coughed awkwardly. “Is he going to be all right?”

“Bit of swelling around the throat,” Colin said, unconcerned. “I expect he’s improved by now.” He caught her glancing down at his hands and let out a chuckle. “Oh, it wasn’t me,” he said, taking her arm to lead her down the hall. “I just watched.”

She grimaced. “I think that might be worse.”

“Quite possibly,” he said with great cheer. “But it all turned out well in the end. I quite like the fellow now, and I rather—Ah, Mother, there you are.”

And sure enough, Violet Bridgerton was bustling down the hall. “You’re late,” she said, even though Colin was fairly certain they were not. He bent down to kiss her proffered cheek, then stepped to the side as his mother came forward to take both of Penelope’s hands in hers. “My dear, we need you in back. You are the matron of honor, after all.”

Colin had a sudden vision of the scene—a gaggle of chatty females, all talking over one another about minutiae he couldn’t begin to care about, much less understand. They told each other everything, and—

He turned sharply. “Don’t,” he warned, “say a word.”

“I beg your pardon.” Penelope let out a little huff of righteous indignation. “I’m the one who said we couldn’t tell her on her wedding day.”

“I was talking to my mother,” he said.

Violet shook her head. “Eloise is going to kill us.”

“She nearly killed us already, running off like an idiot,” Colin said, with uncharacteristic shortness of temper. “I’ve already instructed the others to keep their mouths shut.”

“Even Hyacinth?” Penelope asked doubtfully.

“Especially Hyacinth.”

“Did you bribe her?” Violet asked. “Because it won’t work unless you bribe her.”

“Good Lord,” Colin muttered. “One would think I’d joined this family yesterday. Of course I bribed her.” He turned to Penelope. “No offense to recent additions.”

“Oh, none taken,” she said. “What did you give her?”

He thought about his bargaining session with his youngest sister and nearly shuddered. “Twenty pounds.”

“Twenty pounds!” Violet exclaimed. “Are you mad?”

“I suppose you could have done better,” he retorted. “And I’ve only given her half. I wouldn’t trust that girl as far as I could throw her. But if she keeps her mouth shut, I’ll be another ten pounds poorer.”

“I wonder how far you could throw her,” Penelope mused.

Colin turned to his mother. “I tried for ten, but she wouldn’t budge.” And then to Penelope: “Not nearly far enough.”

Violet sighed. “I ought to scold you for that.”

“But you won’t.” Colin flashed her a grin.

“Heaven help me,” was her only reply.

“Heaven help whatever chap is mad enough to marry her,” he remarked.

“I think there is more to Hyacinth than the two of you allow,” Penelope put in. “You ought not to underestimate her.”

“Good Lord,” Colin replied, “we don’t do that.”

“You’re so sweet,” Violet said, leaning forward to give Penelope an impromptu hug.

“It’s only through sheer force of luck she hasn’t taken over the world,” Colin muttered.

“Ignore him,” Violet said to Penelope. “And you,” she added, turning to Colin, “must head immediately to the church. The rest of the men have already gone down. It’s only a five-minute walk.”

“You’re planning to walk?” he asked doubtfully.

“Of course not,” his mother replied dismissively. “And we certainly cannot spare a carriage for you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking for one,” Colin replied, deciding that a solitary stroll through the fresh morning air was decidedly preferable to a closed carriage with his female relations.

He leaned down to kiss his wife’s cheek. Right near her ear. “Remember,” he whispered, “no telling.”

“I can keep a secret,” she replied.

“It’s far easier to keep a secret from a thousand people than it is from just one,” he said. “Far less guilt involved.”

Her cheeks flushed, and he kissed her again near her ear. “I know you so well,” he murmured.

He could practically hear her teeth gnashing as he left.

“Penelope!”

Eloise started to jump from her seat to greet her, but Hyacinth, who was supervising the dressing of her hair, jammed her hand on her shoulder with a low, almost menacing, “Down.”

And Eloise, who normally would have slain Hyacinth with a glare, meekly resumed her seat.

Penelope looked to Daphne, who appeared to be supervising Hyacinth.

“It has been a long morning,” Daphne said.

Penelope walked forward, pushed gently past Hyacinth, and carefully embraced Eloise so as not to muss her coiffure. “You look beautiful,” she said.

“Thank you,” Eloise replied, but her lips were trembling, and her eyes were wet and threatening to spill over at any moment.

More than anything, Penelope wanted to take her aside and tell her that everything was going to be all right, and she didn’t have to marry Sir Phillip if she didn’t want to, but when all was said and done, Penelope didn’t know that everything was going to be all right, and she rather suspected that Eloise did have to marry her Sir Phillip.

She’d heard bits and pieces. Eloise had been in residence at Romney Hall for over a week without a chaperone. Her reputation would be in tatters if it got out, which it surely would. Penelope knew better than anyone the power and tenacity of gossip. Plus, Penelope had heard that Eloise and Anthony had had A Talk.

The matter of the wedding, it seemed, was final.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Eloise said.

“Goodness, you know I would never miss your wedding.”

“I know.” Eloise’s lips trembled, and then her face took on that expression one makes when one is trying to appear brave and actually thinks one might be succeeding. “I know,” she said again, a little more evenly. “Of course you wouldn’t. But that does not lessen my pleasure in seeing you.”

It was an oddly stiff sentence for Eloise, and for a moment Penelope forgot her own secrets, her own fears and worries. Eloise was her dearest friend. Colin was her love, her passion, and her soul, but it was Eloise, more than anyone, who had shaped Penelope’s adult life. Penelope could not imagine what the last decade would have been like without Eloise’s smile, her laughter, and her indefatigable good cheer.

Even more than her own family, Eloise had loved her.

“Eloise,” Penelope said, crouching down beside her so that she might put her arm around her shoulders. She cleared her throat, mostly because she was about to ask a question for which the answer probably did not matter. “Eloise,” she said again, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Do you want this?”

“Of course,” Eloise replied.

But Penelope wasn’t sure she believed her. “Do you lo—” She caught herself. And she did that little thing with her mouth that tried to be a smile. And she asked, “Do you like him? Your Sir Phillip?”

Eloise nodded. “He’s . . . complicated.”

Which made Penelope sit down. “You’re joking.”

“At a time like this?”

“Aren’t you the one who always said that men were simple creatures?”

Eloise looked at her with an oddly helpless expression. “I thought they were.”

Penelope leaned in, aware that Hyacinth’s auditory skills were positively canine. “Does he like you?”

“He thinks I talk too much.”

“You do talk too much,” Penelope replied.

Eloise shot her a look. “You could at least smile.”

“It’s the truth. But I find it endearing.”

“I think he does as well.” Eloise grimaced. “Some of the time.”

“Eloise!” called Violet from the doorway. “We really must be on our way.”

“We wouldn’t want the groom to think you’ve run off,” Hyacinth quipped.

Eloise stood and straightened her shoulders. “I’ve done quite enough running off recently, wouldn’t you say?” She turned to Penelope with a wise, wistful smile. “It’s time I began running to and stopped running from.”

Penelope looked at her curiously. “What did you say?”

But Eloise only shook her head. “It’s just something I heard recently.”

It was a curious statement, but this wasn’t the time to delve further, so Penelope moved to follow the rest of the family. After she’d taken a few steps, however, she was halted by the sound of Eloise’s voice.

“Penelope!”

Penelope turned. Eloise was still in the doorway, a good ten feet behind her. She had an odd look on her face, one that Penelope could not quite interpret. Penelope waited, but Eloise did not speak.

“Eloise?” Penelope said quietly, because it looked as if Eloise wished to say something, just wasn’t sure how. Or possibly what.

And then—

“I’m sorry.” Eloise blurted it out, the words rushing across her lips with a speed that was remarkable, even for her.

“You’re sorry,” Penelope echoed, mostly out of surprise. She hadn’t really considered what Eloise might say in that moment, but an apology would not have topped the list. “For what?”

“For keeping secrets. That wasn’t well-done of me.”

Penelope swallowed. Good Lord.

“Forgive me?” Eloise’s voice was soft, but her eyes were urgent, and Penelope felt like the worst sort of fraud.

“Of course,” she stammered. “It is nothing.” And it was nothing, at least when compared to her own secrets.

“I should have told you about my correspondence with Sir Phillip. I don’t know why I didn’t at the outset,” Eloise continued. “But then, later, when you and Colin were falling in love . . . I think it was . . . I think it was just because it was mine.”

Penelope nodded. She knew a great deal about wanting something of one’s own.

Eloise let out a nervous laugh. “And now look at me.”

Penelope did. “You look beautiful.” It was the truth. Eloise was not a serene bride, but she was a glowing one, and Penelope felt her worries lift and lighten and finally disappear. All would be well. Penelope did not know if Eloise would experience the same bliss in her marriage as she’d found, but she would at least be happy and content.

And who was she to say that the new married couple wouldn’t fall madly in love? Stranger things had happened.

She linked her arm through Eloise’s and steered her out into the hall, where Violet had raised her voice to heretofore unimagined volumes.

“I think your mother wants us to make haste,” Penelope whispered.

“Eloeeeeeeeeeeeese!” Violet positively bellowed. “NOW!”

Eloise’s brows rose as she gave Penelope a sideways glance. “Whatever makes you think so?”

But they didn’t hurry. Arm in arm they glided down the hall, as if it were the church aisle.

“Who would have thought we’d both marry within months of each other?” Penelope mused. “Weren’t we meant to be old crones together?”

“We can still be old crones,” Eloise replied gaily. “We shall simply be married old crones.”

“It will be grand.”

“Magnificent!”

“Stupendous!”

“We shall be leaders of crone fashion!”

“Arbiters of cronish taste.”

“What,” Hyacinth demanded, hands on hips, “are the two of you talking about?”

Eloise lifted her chin and looked down her nose at her. “You’re far too young to understand.”

And she and Penelope practically collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“They’ve gone mad, Mother,” Hyacinth announced.

Violet gazed lovingly at her daughter and daughter-in-law, both of whom had reached the unfashionable age of twenty-eight before becoming brides. “Leave them alone, Hyacinth,” she said, steering her toward the waiting carriage. “They’ll be along shortly.” And then she added, almost as an afterthought: “You’re too young to understand.”

After the ceremony, after the reception, and after Colin was able to assure himself once and for all that Sir Phillip Crane would indeed make an acceptable husband to his sister, he managed to find a quiet corner into which he could yank his wife and speak with her privately.

“Does she suspect?” he asked, grinning.

“You’re terrible,” Penelope replied. “It’s her wedding.”

Which was not one of the two customary answers to a yes-or-no question. Colin resisted the urge to let out an impatient breath, and instead offered a rather smooth and urbane “By this you mean . . . ?”

Penelope stared at him for a full ten seconds, and then she muttered, “I don’t know what Eloise was talking about. Men are abysmally simple creatures.”

“Well . . . yes,” Colin agreed, since it had long been obvious to him that the female mind was an utter and complete mystery. “But what has that got to do with anything?”

Penelope glanced over both shoulders before dropping her voice to a harsh whisper. “Why would she even be thinking about Whistledown at a time like this?”

She had a point there, loath as Colin was to admit it. In his mind, this had all played out with Eloise somehow being aware that she was the only person who didn’t know the secret of Lady Whistledown’s identity.

Which was ridiculous to be sure, but still, a satisfying daydream.

“Hmmmm,” he said.

Penelope looked at him suspiciously. “What are you thinking?”

“Are you certain we cannot tell her on her wedding day?”

“Colin . . .”

“Because if we don’t, she’s sure to find out from someone, and it doesn’t seem fair that we not be present to see her face.”

“Colin, no.”

“After all you’ve been through, wouldn’t you say you deserve to see her reaction?”

“No,” Penelope said slowly. “No. No, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, you sell yourself too cheaply, my darling,” he said, smiling benevolently at her. “And besides that, think of Eloise.”

“I fail to see what else it is I have been doing all morning.”

He shook his head. “She would be devastated. Hearing the awful truth from a complete stranger.”

“It’s not awful,” Penelope shot back, “and how do you know it would be a stranger?”

“We’ve sworn my entire family to secrecy. Who else does she know out in this godforsaken county?”

“I rather like Gloucestershire,” Penelope said, her teeth now charmingly clenched. “I find it delightful.”

“Yes,” he said equably, taking in her furrowed brow, pinched mouth, and narrowed eyes. “You look delighted.”

“Weren’t you the one who insisted we keep her in the dark for as long as humanly possible?”

“Humanly possible being the phrase of note,” Colin replied. “This human”—he gestured rather unnecessarily to himself—“finding it quite impossible to maintain his silence.”

“I can’t believe you’ve changed your mind.”

He shrugged. “Isn’t it a man’s prerogative?”

At that her lips parted, and Colin found himself wishing he’d found a corner as private as it was quiet, because she was practically begging to be kissed, whether she knew it or not.

But he was a patient man, and they did still have that comfortable room reserved at the inn, and there was still much mischief to be made right here at the wedding. “Oh, Penelope,” he said huskily, leaning in more than was proper, even with one’s wife, “don’t you want to have some fun?”

She flushed scarlet. “Not here.”

He laughed aloud at that.

“I wasn’t talking about that,” she muttered.

“Neither was I, as a matter of fact,” he returned, completely unable to keep the humor off his face, “but I am pleased that it comes to mind so readily.” He pretended to glance about the room. “When do you think it would be polite to leave?”

“Definitely not yet.”

He pretended to ponder. “Mmmm, yes, you’re probably correct at that. Pity. But”—at that he pretended to brighten—“it does leave us time to make mischief.”

Again, she was speechless. He liked that. “Shall we?” he murmured.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

“We need to work on this,” he said, giving his head a shake. “I’m not sure you fully understand the mechanics of a yes-or-no question.”

“I think you should sit down,” she said, her eyes now taking on that glint of cautious exhaustion usually reserved for small children.

Or adult fools.

“And then,” she continued, “I think you should remain in your seat.”

“Indefinitely?”

“Yes.”

Just to torture her, he sat. And then—

“Nooooo, I think I’d rather make mischief.”

Back to his feet he was, and striding off to find Eloise before Penelope could even attempt to lunge for him.

“Colin, don’t!” she called out, her voice echoing off the walls of the reception room. She managed to yell—of course—at the precise moment when every other wedding guest paused to take a breath.

A roomful of Bridgertons. What were the odds?

Penelope jammed a smile on her face as she watched two dozen heads swivel in her direction. “Nothing about it,” she said, her voice coming out strangled and chirpy. “So sorry to disturb.”

And apparently Colin’s family was well used to his embarking on something requiring the rejoinder “Colin, don’t!” because they all resumed their conversations with barely another glance in her direction.

Except Hyacinth.

“Oh, blast,” Penelope muttered under her breath, and she raced forward.

But Hyacinth was quick. “What’s going on?” she asked, falling into stride beside Penelope with remarkable agility.

“Nothing,” Penelope replied, because the last thing she wanted was Hyacinth adding to the disaster.

“He’s going to tell her, isn’t he?” Hyacinth persisted, let out an “Euf” and an “Excuse me,” when she pushed past one of her brothers.

“No,” Penelope said firmly, darting around Daphne’s children, “he’s not.”

“He is.”

Penelope actually stopped for a moment and turned. “Do any of you ever listen to anyone?”

“Not me,” Hyacinth said cheerfully.

Penelope shook her head and moved forward, Hyacinth hot on her heels. When she reached Colin, he was standing next to the newlyweds and had his arms linked through Eloise’s and was smiling down at her as if he had never once considered:

a. Teaching her to swim by tossing her in a lake.

b. Cutting off three inches of her hair while she slept.

or

c. Tying her to a tree so that she did not follow him to a local public inn.

Which of course he had, all three of them, and two he’d actually done. (Even Colin wouldn’t have dared something so permanent as a shearing.)

“Eloise,” Penelope said, somewhat breathless from trying to shake off Hyacinth.

“Penelope.” But Eloise’s voice sounded curious. Which did not surprise Penelope; Eloise was no fool, and she was well aware that her brother’s normal modes of behavior did not include beatific smiles in her direction.

“Eloise,” Hyacinth said, for no reason Penelope could deduce.

“Hyacinth.”

Penelope turned to her husband. “Colin.”

He looked amused. “Penelope. Hyacinth.”

Hyacinth grinned. “Colin.” And then: “Sir Phillip.”

“Ladies.” Sir Phillip, it seemed, favored brevity.

“Stop!” Eloise burst out. “What is going on?”

“A recitation of our Christian names, apparently,” Hyacinth said.

“Penelope has something to say to you,” Colin said.

“I don’t.”

“She does.”

“I do,” Penelope said, thinking quickly. She rushed forward, taking Eloise’s hands in her own. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”

“That’s what you needed to say?” Eloise asked.

“Yes.”

“No.”

And from Hyacinth: “I am enjoying myself immensely.”

“Er, it’s very kind of you to say so,” Sir Phillip said, looking a bit perplexed at her sudden need to compliment the host. Penelope closed her eyes for a brief moment and let out a weary sigh; she was going to need to take the poor man aside and instruct him on the finer points of marrying into the Bridgerton family.

And because she did know her new relations so well, and she knew that there was no way she was going to avoid revealing her secret, she turned to Eloise and said, “Might I have a moment alone?”

“With me?”

It was enough to make Penelope wish to strangle someone. Anyone. “Yes,” she said patiently, “with you.”

“And me,” Colin put in.

“And me,” Hyacinth added.

“Not you,” Penelope said, not bothering to look at her.

“But still me,” Colin added, looping his free arm through Penelope’s.

“Can this wait?” Sir Phillip asked politely. “This is her wedding day, and I expect that she does not wish to miss it.”

“I know,” Penelope said wearily. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Eloise said, breaking free of Colin’s grasp and turning to her new husband. She murmured a few words to him that Penelope could not hear, then said, “There is a small salon just through that door. Shall we?”

She led the way, which suited Penelope because it gave her time to say to Colin, “You will say nothing.”

He surprised her by nodding, and then, maintaining his silence, he held open the door for her as she entered the room behind Eloise.

“This won’t take long,” Penelope said apologetically. “At least, I hope it won’t.”

Eloise said nothing, just looked at her with an expression that was, Penelope had just enough presence of mind to notice, uncharacteristically serene.

Marriage must agree with her, Penelope thought, because the Eloise she knew would have been chomping at the bit at such a moment. A big secret, a mystery to be revealed—Eloise loved that sort of thing.

But she was just standing there, calmly waiting, a light smile touching her features. Penelope looked to Colin in confusion, but he was apparently taking her instructions to heart, and his mouth was clamped firmly shut.

“Eloise,” Penelope began.

Eloise smiled. A bit. Just at the corners, as if she wanted to smile more. “Yes?”

Penelope cleared her throat. “Eloise,” she said again, “there is something I must tell you.”

“Really?”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed. Surely the moment did not call for sarcasm. She took a breath, tamping down the urge to fire off an equally dry rejoinder, and said, “I did not wish to tell you on your wedding day”—at this she speared her husband with a glare—“but it seems I have no choice.”

Eloise blinked a few times, but other than that, her placid demeanor did not change.

“I can think of no other way to say it,” Penelope plodded on, feeling positively sick, “but while you were gone . . . That is to say, the night you left, as a matter of fact . . .”

Eloise leaned forward. The movement was slight, but Penelope caught it, and for a moment she thought— Well, she didn’t think anything clearly, certainly nothing that she could have expressed in a proper sentence. But she did get a feeling of unease—a different sort of unease than the one she was already feeling. It was a suspicious sort of unease, and—

“I am Whistledown,” she blurted out, because if she waited any longer she thought her brain might explode.

And Eloise said, “I know.”

Penelope sat down on the nearest solid object, which happened to be a table. “You know.”

Eloise shrugged. “I know.”

“How?”

“Hyacinth told me.”

“What?” This from Colin, looking fit to be tied. Or perhaps more accurately, fit to tie Hyacinth.

“I’m sure she’s at the door,” Eloise murmured, with a nod. “In case you want to—”

But Colin was one step ahead of her, wrenching open the door to the small salon. Sure enough, Hyacinth tumbled in.

“Hyacinth!” Penelope said disapprovingly.

“Oh, please,” Hyacinth retorted, smoothing her skirts. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t eavesdrop, did you? You know me better than that.”

“I’m going to wring your neck,” Colin ground out. “We had an agreement.”

Hyacinth shrugged. “I don’t really need twenty pounds, as it happens.”

“I already gave you ten.”

“I know,” Hyacinth said with a cheerful smile.

“Hyacinth!” Eloise exclaimed.

“Which isn’t to say,” Hyacinth continued modestly, “that I don’t want the other ten.”

“She told me last night,” Eloise explained, her eyes narrowing dangerously, “but only after informing me that she knew who Lady Whistledown was, and in fact the whole of society knew, but that the knowledge would cost me twenty-five pounds.”

“Did it not occur to you,” Penelope asked, “that if the whole of society knew, that you could simply have asked someone else?”

“The whole of society wasn’t in my bedchamber at two in the morning,” Eloise snapped.

“I am thinking of buying a hat,” Hyacinth mused. “Or maybe a pony.”

Eloise shot her a nasty look, then turned to Penelope. “Are you really Whistledown?”

“I am,” Penelope admitted. “Or rather—” She looked over at Colin, not exactly certain why she was doing so except that she loved him so much, and he knew her so well, and when he saw her helpless little wobbly smile, he would smile in return, no matter how irate he was with Hyacinth.

And he did. Somehow, amidst everything, he knew what she needed. He always did.

Penelope turned back to Eloise. “I was,” she amended. “No longer. I’ve retired.”

But of course Eloise already knew that. Lady W’s letter of retirement had circulated long before Eloise had left town.

“For good,” Penelope added. “People have asked, but I shan’t be induced to pick up my quill again.” She paused, thinking of the scribblings she’d embarked upon at home. “At least not as Whistledown.” She looked at Eloise, who had sat down next to her on the table. Her face was somewhat blank, and she hadn’t said anything in ages—well, ages for Eloise, at least.

Penelope tried to smile. “I am thinking of writing a novel, actually.”

Still nothing from Eloise, although she was blinking quite rapidly, and her brow was scrunched up as if she were thinking quite hard.

And so Penelope took one of her hands and said the one thing she was really feeling. “I’m sorry, Eloise.”

Eloise had been staring rather blankly at an end table, but at that, she turned, her eyes finding Penelope’s. “You’re sorry?” she echoed, and she sounded dubious, as if sorry couldn’t possibly be the correct emotion, or at least, not enough of it.

Penelope’s heart sank. “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I should have told you. I should have—”

“Are you mad?” Eloise asked, finally seeming to snap to attention. “Of course you should not have told me. I could never have kept this a secret.”

Penelope thought it rather remarkable of her to admit it.

“I am so proud of you,” Eloise continued. “Forget the writing for a moment—I cannot even fathom the logistics of it all, and someday—when it is not my wedding day—I shall insist upon hearing every last detail.”

“You were surprised, then?” Penelope murmured.

Eloise gave her a rather dry look. “To put it mildly.”

“I had to get her a chair,” Hyacinth supplied.

“I was already sitting down,” Eloise ground out.

Hyacinth waved her hand in the air. “Nevertheless.”

“Ignore her,” Eloise said, focusing firmly on Penelope. “Truly, I cannot begin to tell you how impressed I am—now that I’ve got over the shock, that is.”

“Really?” It hadn’t occurred to Penelope until that very moment just how much she’d wished for Eloise’s approval.

“Keeping us all in the dark for so long,” Eloise said, shaking her head with slow admiration. “From me. From her.” She jabbed a finger in Hyacinth’s direction. “It’s really very well-done of you.” At that she leaned forward and enveloped Penelope in a warm hug.

“You’re not angry with me?”

Eloise moved back and opened her mouth, and Penelope could see that she’d been about to say, “No,” probably to be followed by “Of course not.”

But the words remained in Eloise’s mouth, and she just sat there, looking slightly thoughtful and surprised until she finally said . . . “No.”

Penelope felt her brows lift. “Are you certain?” Because Eloise didn’t sound certain. She didn’t much sound like Eloise, to be honest.

“It would be different if I were still in London,” Eloise said quietly, “with nothing else to do. But this—” She glanced around the room, gesturing rather vaguely toward the window. “Here. It’s just not the same. It’s a different life,” she said quietly. “I’m a different person. A little bit, at least.”

“Lady Crane,” Penelope reminded her.

Eloise smiled. “Good of you to remind me of that, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

Penelope almost laughed. “Can you believe it?”

“Of you, or me?” Eloise asked.

“Both.”

Colin, who had been keeping a respectful distance—one hand firmly clamped around Hyacinth’s arm to keep her at a respectful distance—stepped forward. “We should probably return,” he said quietly. He held out his hand, and helped first Penelope, then Eloise, to her feet. “You,” he said, leaning forward to kiss his sister on the cheek, “should certainly return.”

Eloise smiled wistfully, the blushing bride once again, and nodded. With one last squeeze of Penelope’s hands, she brushed past Hyacinth (rolling her eyes as she did so) and made her way back to her wedding party.

Penelope watched her go, linking her arm in Colin’s and leaned gently into him. They both stood there in contented silence, idly watching the now empty doorway, listening to the sounds of the party wafting through the air.

“Do you think it would be polite if we left?” he murmured.

“Probably not.”

“Do you think Eloise would mind?”

Penelope shook her head.

Colin’s arms tightened around her, and she felt his lips gently brush her ear. “Let’s go,” he said.

She did not argue.

On the twenty-fifth of May, in the year 1824, precisely one day after the wedding of Eloise Bridgerton to Sir Phillip Crane, three missives were delivered to the room of Mr. and Mrs. Colin Bridgerton, guests at the Rose and Bramble Inn, near Tetbury, Gloucestershire. They arrived together; all were from Romney Hall.

“Which shall we open first?” Penelope asked, spreading them before her on the bed.

Colin yanked off the shirt he’d donned to answer the knock. “I defer to your good judgment as always.”

“As always?”

He crawled back into bed beside her. She was remarkably adorable when she was being sarcastic. He couldn’t think of another soul who could carry that off. “As whenever it suits me,” he amended.

“Your mother, then,” Penelope said, plucking one of the letters off the sheet. She broke open the seal and carefully unfolded the paper.

Colin watched as she read. Her eyes widened, then her brows rose, then her lips pinched slightly at the corners, as if she were smiling despite herself. “What does she have to say?” he asked.

“She forgives us.”

“I don’t suppose it would make any sense for me to ask for what.”

Penelope gave him a stern look. “For leaving the wedding early.”

“You told me Eloise wouldn’t mind.”

“And I’m sure she did not. But this is your mother.”

“Write back and assure her that should she ever remarry, I will stay to the bitter end.”

“I will do no such thing,” Penelope replied, rolling her eyes. “I don’t think she expects a reply, in any case.”

“Really?” Now he was curious, because his mother always expected replies. “What did we do to earn her forgiveness, then?”

“Er, she mentioned something about the timely delivery of grandchildren.”

Colin grinned. “Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

She elbowed him in the ribs. “I’m not. Here, read it yourself if you are so inclined. I shall read Hyacinth’s.”

“I don’t suppose she returned my ten pounds,” Colin grumbled.

Penelope unfolded the paper and shook it out. Nothing fluttered down.

“That minx is lucky she’s my sister,” he muttered.

“What a bad sport you are,” Penelope chided. “She bested you, and rather brilliantly, too.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “I did not see you praising her cunning yesterday afternoon.”

She waved off his protests. “Yes, well, some things are more easily seen in hindsight.”

“What does she have to say?” Colin asked, leaning over her shoulder. Knowing Hyacinth, it was probably some scheme to extort more money from his pockets.

“It’s rather sweet, actually,” Penelope said. “Nothing nefarious at all.”

“Did you read both sides?” Colin asked dubiously.

“She only wrote on one side.”

“Uncharacteristically uneconomical of her,” he added, with suspicion.

“Oh, heavens, Colin, it is just an account of the wedding after we left. And I must say, she has a superior eye for humor and detail. She would have made a fine Whistledown.”

“God help us all.”

The last letter was from Eloise, and unlike the other two, it was addressed to Penelope alone. Colin was curious, of course—who wouldn’t be? But he moved away to allow Penelope her privacy. Her friendship with his sister was something he held in both awe and respect. He was close to his brothers—extremely so. But he had never seen a bond of friendship quite so deep as that between Penelope and Eloise.

“Oh!” Penelope let out, as she turned a page. Eloise’s missive was a good deal longer than the previous two, and she’d managed to fill two sheets, front and back. “That minx.”

“What did she do?” Colin asked.

“Oh, it was nothing,” Penelope replied, even though her expression was rather peeved. “You weren’t there, but the morning of the wedding she kept apologizing for keeping secrets, and it never even occurred to me that she was trying to get me to admit to keeping secrets of my own. Made me feel wretched, she did.”

Her voice trailed off as she read through another page. Colin leaned back against the fluffy pillows, his eyes resting on his wife’s face. He liked watching her eyes move from left to right, following the words. He liked watching her lips move as she smiled or frowned. It was rather amazing, actually, how contented he felt, simply watching his wife read.

Until she gasped, that was, and turned utterly white.

He shoved himself up on his elbows. “What is it?”

Penelope shook her head and groaned. “Oh, she is devious.”

Privacy be damned. He grabbed the letter. “What did she say?”

“Down there,” Penelope said, pointing miserably at the bottom. “At the end.”

Colin brushed her finger away and began to read. “Good Lord, she’s wordy,” he muttered. “I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“Revenge,” Penelope said. “She says my secret was bigger than hers.”

“It was.”

“She says she’s owed a boon.”

Colin pondered that. “She probably is.”

“To even the score.”

He patted her hand. “I’m afraid that’s how we Bridgertons think. You’ve never played a sporting game with us, have you?”

Penelope moaned. “She said she is going to consult Hyacinth.”

Colin felt the blood leave his face.

“I know,” Penelope said, shaking her head. “We’ll never be safe again.”

Colin slid his arm around her and pulled her close. “Didn’t we say we wanted to visit Italy?”

“Or India.”

He smiled and kissed her on the nose. “Or we could just stay here.”

“At the Rose and Bramble?”

“We’re supposed to depart tomorrow morning. It’s the last place Hyacinth would look.”

Penelope glanced up at him, her eyes growing warm and perhaps just a little bit mischievous. “I have no pressing engagements in London for at least a fortnight.”

He rolled atop her, tugging her down until she was flat on her back. “My mother did say she would not forgive us unless we produced a grandchild.”

“She did not put it in quite so uncompromising terms.”

He kissed her, right on the sensitive spot behind her earlobe that always made her squirm. “Pretend she did.”

“Well, in that case—oh!”

His lips slid down her belly. “Oh?” he murmured.

“We had best get to—oh!”

He looked up. “You were saying?”

“To work,” she just barely managed to get out.

He smiled against her skin. “Your servant, Mrs. Bridgerton. Always.”

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“Romancing Mister Bridgerton: The 2nd Epilogue” was originally published as an e-book.

“Romancing Mister Bridgerton: The 2nd Epilogue” copyright © 2007 by Julie Cotler Pottinger.

Meet the Bridgerton family teaser excerpts copyright © 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 by Julie Cotler Pottinger.

ROMANCING MISTER BRIDGERTON. Copyright © 2002 by Julie Cotler Pottinger. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Digital Edition MARCH 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-242410-5

Version 02262021

Print Edition ISBN 978-0-06-235368-9

Dedication

For Stefanie and Randall Hargreaves—

You opened your home,

you showed us your town,

you stored our stuff,

and when we arrived,

you had a care package waiting on the porch.

And when I really needed someone,

I knew exactly who to call.

And also for Paul,

this time Because.

It’s really always Because.

Contents

1. Cover

2. Title Page

3. Dedication

4. Prologue

5. Chapter 1

6. Chapter 2

7. Chapter 3

8. Chapter 4

9. Chapter 5

10. Chapter 6

11. Chapter 7

12. Chapter 8

13. Chapter 9

14. Chapter 10

15. Chapter 11

16. Chapter 12

17. Chapter 13

18. Chapter 14

19. Chapter 15

20. Chapter 16

21. Chapter 17

22. Chapter 18

23. Chapter 19

24. Epilogue

25. To Sir Phillip, With Love: The 2nd Epilogue

26. Copyright

Prologue

February 1823

Gloucestershire, England

It was ironic, really, that it had happened on such a sunny day.

The first sunny day in, what had it been—six straight weeks of gray skies, accompanied by the occasional sprinkling of light snow or rain? Even Phillip, who’d thought himself impervious to the vagaries of the weather, had felt his spirits lighten, his smile widen. He’d gone outside—he’d had to. No one could remain indoors during such a splendid display of sunshine.

Especially in the middle of such a gray winter.

Even now, more than a month after it had happened, he couldn’t quite believe that the sun had had the temerity to tease him so.

And how was it that he’d been so blind that he’d not expected it? He’d lived with Marina since the day of their marriage. Eight long years to know the woman. He should have expected it. And in truth . . .

Well, in truth, he had expected it. He just hadn’t wanted to admit to the expectation. Perhaps he was just trying to delude himself, protect himself, even. To hide from the obvious, hoping that if he didn’t think about it, it would never happen.

But it did. And on a sunny day, to boot. God certainly had a sick sense of humor.

He looked down at his glass of whiskey, which was, quite inexplicably, empty. He must have drunk the damned thing, and yet he had no memory of doing so. He didn’t feel woozy, at least not as woozy as he should have been. Or even as woozy as he wanted to be.

He stared out the window at the sun, which was slipping low on the horizon. It had been another sunny day today. That probably explained his exceptional melancholy. At least he hoped it did. He wanted an explanation, needed one, for this awful tiredness that seemed to be taking over.

Melancholy terrified him.

More than anything. More than fire, more than war, more than hell itself. The thought of sinking into sadness, of being like her . . .

Marina had been melancholy. Marina had spent her entire life, or at least the entire life he’d known, melancholy. He couldn’t remember the sound of her laughter, and in truth, he wasn’t sure that he’d ever known it.

It had been a sunny day, and—

He squeezed his eyes shut, not certain whether the motion was meant to urge the memory or dispel it.

It had been a sunny day, and . . .

“Never thought you’d feel the likes of that on your skin again, eh, Sir Phillip?”

Phillip Crane turned his face to the sun, closing his eyes as he let the warmth spread over his skin. “It’s perfect,” he murmured. “Or it would be, if it weren’t so bloody cold.”

Miles Carter, his secretary, chuckled. “It’s not as cold as that. The lake hasn’t frozen this year. Just a few patchy spots.”

Reluctantly, Phillip turned away from the sun and opened his eyes. “It isn’t spring, though.”

“If you were wishing for spring, sir, perhaps you should have consulted a calendar.”

Phillip regarded him with a sideways glance. “Do I pay you for such impertinence?”

“Indeed. And rather handsomely, too.”

Phillip smiled to himself as both men paused to enjoy the sun for a few moments longer.

“I thought you didn’t mind the gray,” Miles said conversationally, once they’d resumed their trek to Phillip’s greenhouse.

“I don’t,” Phillip said, striding along with the confidence of a natural athlete. “But just because I don’t mind an overcast sky doesn’t mean I don’t prefer the sun.” He paused, thought for a moment. “Be sure to tell Nurse Millsby to take the children outside today. They’ll need warm coats, of course, and hats and mittens and the like, but they ought to get a little sun on their faces. They’ve been cooped up far too long.”

“As have we all,” Miles murmured.

Phillip chuckled. “Indeed.” He glanced over his shoulder at his greenhouse. He probably ought to take care of his correspondence now, but he had some seeds he needed to sort through, and truly, there was no reason he couldn’t conduct his business with Miles in an hour or so. “Go on,” he said to Miles. “Find Nurse Millsby. You and I can deal later. You know you hate the greenhouse, anyway.”

“Not this time of year,” Miles said. “The heat is rather welcome.”

Phillip arched a brow as he inclined his head toward Romney Hall. “Are you calling my ancestral home drafty?”

“All ancestral homes are drafty.”

“True enough,” Phillip said with a grin. He rather liked Miles. He’d hired him six months earlier to help with the mountains of paperwork and details that seemed to accumulate from the running of his small property. Miles was quite good. Young, but good. And his dry sense of humor was certainly welcome in a house where laughter was never in abundance. The servants would never dare joke with Phillip, and Marina . . . well, it went without saying that Marina did not laugh or tease.

The children sometimes made Phillip laugh, but that was a different sort of humor, and besides, most of the time he did not know what to say to them. He tried, but then he felt too awkward, too big, too strong, if such a thing were possible. And then he just found himself shooing them off, telling them to go back to their nurse.

It was easier that way.

“Go on, then,” Phillip said, sending Miles off on a task he probably should have done himself. He hadn’t seen his children yet today, and he supposed he ought to, but he didn’t want to spoil the day by saying something stern, which he inevitably seemed to do.

He’d find them while they were off on their nature walk with Nurse Millsby. That would be a good idea. Then he could point out some sort of plant and tell them about it, and everything would remain perfectly simple and benign.

Phillip entered his greenhouse and shut the door behind him, taking a welcome breath of the moist air. He’d studied botany at Cambridge, taken a first, even, and in truth, he’d probably have taken up an academic life if his older brother had not died at Waterloo, thrusting the second-born Phillip into the role of landowner and country gentleman.

He supposed it could have been worse. He could have been landowner and city gentleman, after all. At least here he was able to pursue his botanical pursuits in relative serenity.

He bent over his workbench, examining his latest project—a strain of peas that he was trying to breed to grow fatter and plumper in the pod. No luck yet, though. This latest batch was not just shriveled but had even turned yellow, which had not been the expected result at all.

Phillip frowned, then allowed himself a small smile as he moved to the back of the greenhouse to gather his supplies. He never minded too terribly when his experiments did not produce the expected outcome. In his opinion, necessity had never been the mother of invention.

Accidents. It was all about accidents. No scientist would admit to it, of course, but most great invention occurred while one was attempting to solve some other problem entirely.

He chuckled as he swept the shriveled peas aside. At this rate, he’d cure gout by the end of the year.

Back to work. Back to work. He bent over his seed collection, smoothing them out so that he could examine them all. He needed just the right one for—

He looked up and out the freshly washed glass. A movement across the field caught his eye. A flash of red.

Red. Phillip smiled to himself as he shook his head. It must be Marina. Red was her favorite color, something that he’d always found odd. Anyone who spent any time with her would have surely thought she’d prefer something darker, more somber.

He watched as she disappeared into the wooded copse, then got back to work. It was rare for Marina to venture outside. These days she didn’t often leave the confines of her bedchamber. Phillip was happy to see her out in the sun. Maybe it would restore her spirits. Not completely, of course. Phillip didn’t think even the sun had the ability to do that. But maybe a bright, warm day would be enough to draw her out for a few hours, bring a small smile to her face.

Heaven knew the children could use that. They visited their mother in her room almost every evening, but it wasn’t enough.

And Phillip knew that this lack was not made up for by him.

He sighed, a wave of guilt washing over him. He was not the sort of father they needed, he knew that. He tried to tell himself that he was doing his best, that he was succeeding in what was his only goal when it came to parenthood—that he not behave in the manner of his own father.

But still he knew it wasn’t enough.

With resolute motions, he pushed himself away from his workbench. The seeds could wait. His children could probably wait, too, but that didn’t mean they should. And he ought to take them on their nature walk, not Nurse Millsby, who didn’t know a deciduous tree from a coniferous and would most likely tell them that a rose was a daisy and . . .

He glanced out the window again, reminding himself that it was February. Nurse Millsby wasn’t likely to locate any sort of flower in this weather, but still, it didn’t excuse the fact that he ought to take the children on their nature walk. It was the one sort of children’s activity at which he truly excelled, and he ought not shirk the responsibility.

He strode out of the greenhouse but then stopped, not even a third of the way back to Romney Hall. If he was going to fetch the children, he ought to take them out to see their mother. They craved her company, even when she did nothing more than pat them on the head. Yes, they should find Marina. That would be even more beneficial than a nature walk.

But he knew from experience that he ought not make assumptions about Marina’s state of mind. Just because she’d ventured outside did not mean that she was feeling well. And he hated when the children saw her in one of her moods.

Phillip turned around and headed out toward the copse where he’d seen Marina disappear just a few moments earlier. He walked with nearly twice the speed of Marina; it wouldn’t take very long to catch up to her and ascertain her mood. He could be back at the nursery before the children set out with Nurse Millsby.

He walked through the woods, easily following Marina’s path. The ground was moist, and Marina must have been wearing heavy boots, because her prints had sunk into the earth with clear definition. They led down the slight incline and out of the woods, then onto a grassy patch.

“Damn,” Phillip muttered, the word barely audible as the wind picked up around him. It was impossible to see her footprints on the grass. He used his hand to shade his eyes from the sun and scanned the horizon, looking for a telltale scrap of red.

Not near the abandoned cottage, nor at Phillip’s field of experimental grains, nor at the large boulder that Phillip had spent so many hours clambering upon when he was a child. He turned north, his eyes narrowing when he finally saw her. She was heading toward the lake.

The lake.

Phillip’s lips parted as he stared down at her form, moving slowly toward the water’s edge. He wasn’t quite frozen; it was more that he was . . . suspended . . . as his mind took in the strange sight. Marina didn’t swim. He didn’t even know if she could. He supposed she was aware that there was a lake on the grounds, but in truth, he’d never known her to go there, not in the eight years they’d been married. He started walking toward her, his feet somehow recognizing what his mind refused to accept. As she stepped into the shallows, he picked up speed, still too far to do anything but call out her name.

But if she heard him, she made no indication, just continued her slow and steady progress into the depths.

“Marina!” he screamed, now breaking into a run. He was still a good minute away, even moving at top speed. “Marina!”

She reached the point where the bottom dropped off, and then she dropped off, too, disappearing under the gunmetal gray of the surface, her red cloak floating along the top for a few seconds before being sucked under after her.

He yelled her name again, even though she couldn’t possibly hear. He skidded and stumbled down the hill leading to the lake, then had just enough presence of mind to yank off his coat and boots before diving into the freezing-cold water. She’d been under barely a minute; his mind recognized that that was probably not enough time to drown, but every second it took him to find her was one second toward her death.

He’d swum in the lake countless times, knew exactly where the bottom dropped off, and he reached that critical point with swift, even strokes, barely noticing the drag of the water against his heavy clothes.

He could find her. He had to find her.

Before it was too late.

He dove down, his eyes scanning the murky water. Marina must have kicked up some of the sand from the bottom, and he had surely done the same, because the fine silt was swirling around him, the puffy opaque clouds making it difficult to see.

But in the end, Marina was saved by her one colorful quirk, and Phillip pumped through the water, down to the bottom where he saw the red of her cloak floating through the water like a languorous kite. She did not fight him as he pulled her to the surface; indeed, she had already lost consciousness and was nothing more than a dead weight in his arms.

They broke out into the air, and he took great, big gasps to fill his burning lungs. For a moment he could do nothing but breathe, his body recognizing that it had to save itself before he could save anyone else. Then he pulled her along to the shore, careful to keep her face above water, even though she didn’t seem to be breathing.

Finally, they reached the water’s edge, and he dragged her upon the narrow strip of dirt and pebbles that separated the water from the grass. With frantic movements he felt in front of her face for air, but there was none emerging from her lips.

He didn’t know what to do, hadn’t thought he’d ever have to save someone from drowning, so he just did what seemed most sensible and heaved her over his lap, face down, whacking her on the back. Nothing happened at first, but after the fourth violent thrust, she coughed, and a stream of murky water erupted from her mouth.

He turned her over quickly. “Marina?” he asked urgently, lightly slapping her face. “Marina?”

She coughed again, her body wracked by spasmodic tremors. Then she began to suck in air, her lungs forcing her to live, even when her soul desired something else.

“Marina,” Phillip said, his voice shaking with relief. “Thank God.” He didn’t love her, had never really loved her, but she was his wife, and she was the mother of his children, and she was, deep down, beneath her unshakable cloak of sorrow and despair, a good and fine person. He may not have loved her, but he did not want her death.

She blinked, her eyes unfocused. And then, finally, she seemed to realize where she was, who he was, and she whispered, “No.”

“I’ve got to get you back to the house,” he said gruffly, startled by how angry he was over that single word.

No.

How dare she refuse his rescue? Would she give up on life just because she was sad? Did her melancholy amount to more than their two children? In the balance of life, did a bad mood weigh more than their need for a mother?

“I’m taking you home,” he bit out, heaving her none too gently into his arms. She was breathing now, and clearly in possession of her faculties, misguided though they may be. There was no need to treat her like a delicate flower.

“No,” she sobbed quietly. “Please don’t. I don’t want . . . I don’t . . .”

“You’re going home,” he stated, trudging up the hill, oblivious to the chill wind turning his sodden clothes to ice; oblivious, even, to the rocky soil pressing into his unshod feet.

“I can’t,” she whispered, with what seemed like her last ounce of energy.

And as Phillip carried his burden home, all he could think was how apt those words were.

I can’t.

In a way, it seemed to sum up her entire life.

By nightfall, it became apparent that fever might succeed where the lake had failed.

Phillip had carried Marina home as quickly as he was able, and, with the aid of Mrs. Hurley, his housekeeper, had stripped her of her icy garments and tried to warm her beneath the goose-down quilt that had been the centerpiece of her trousseau eight years earlier.

“What happened?” Mrs. Hurley had gasped when he staggered through the kitchen door. He hadn’t wanted to use the main entrance, where he might be seen by his children, and besides, the kitchen door was closer by a good twenty yards.

“She fell in the lake,” he said gruffly.

Mrs. Hurley gave him a look that was somehow dubious and sympathetic all at the same time, and he knew that she knew the truth. She had worked for the Cranes since their marriage; she knew Marina’s moods.

She had shooed him out of the room once they had Marina in bed, insisting that he change his own clothing before he caught his death as well. He had returned, though, to Marina’s side. That was his place as her husband, he thought guiltily, a place he had avoided in recent years.

It was depressing to be with Marina. It was hard.

But now wasn’t the time to shirk his duties, and so he sat at her bedside throughout the day and into the night. He mopped her brow when she began to perspire, tried to pour lukewarm broth down her throat when she was calm.

He told her to fight, even though he knew his words fell on deaf ears.

Three days later she was dead.

It was what she’d wanted, but that was little comfort as Phillip faced his children, twins, just turned seven years old, and tried to explain that their mother was gone. He sat in their nursery, his large frame too big for any of their tot-sized chairs. But he sat, anyway, twisted like a pretzel, and forced himself to meet their gazes as he wrenched out the words.

They said little, which was unlike them. But they didn’t look surprised, which Phillip found disturbing.

“I—I’m sorry,” he choked out, once he reached the end of his speech. He loved them so much, and he failed them in so many ways. He barely knew how to be a father to them; how in hell was he meant to take on the role of mother as well?

“It’s not your fault,” Oliver said, his brown eyes capturing his father’s with an intensity that was unsettling. “She fell in the lake, didn’t she? You didn’t push her.”

Phillip only nodded, unsure of how to respond.

“Is she happy now?” Amanda asked softly.

“I think so,” Phillip said. “She gets to watch you all the time now from heaven, so she must be happy.”

The twins seemed to consider that for quite some time. “I hope she’s happy,” Oliver finally said, his voice more resolute than his expression. “Maybe she won’t cry anymore.”

Phillip felt his breath catch in his throat. He hadn’t realized that they had heard Marina’s sobs. She only seemed to sink so low late at night; their room was directly above hers, but he’d always assumed they’d already fallen asleep when their mother started to cry.

Amanda nodded her agreement, her little blond head bobbing up and down. “If she’s happy now,” she said, “then I’m glad she’s gone.”

“She’s not gone,” Oliver cut in. “She’s dead.”

“No, she’s gone,” Amanda persisted.

“It’s the same thing,” Phillip said flatly, wishing he had something to tell them other than the truth. “But I think she’s happy now.”

And in a way, that was the truth, too. It was what Marina had wanted, after all. Maybe it was all she had wanted all along.

Amanda and Oliver were quiet for a long while, both keeping their eyes on the floor as their legs swung from their perch on Oliver’s bed. They looked so small, sitting there on a bed that was clearly too high for them. Phillip frowned. How was it that he’d never noticed this before? Shouldn’t they be on lower beds? What if they fell off in the night?

Or maybe they were too big for all that. Maybe they didn’t fall out of bed any longer. Maybe they never had.

Maybe he truly was an abominable father. Maybe he should know these things.

Maybe . . . maybe . . . He closed his eyes and sighed. Maybe he should stop thinking quite so much and simply try his best and be happy with that.

“Are you going to go away?” Amanda asked, raising her head.

He looked into her eyes, so blue, so like her mother’s. “No,” he whispered fiercely, kneeling before her and taking her tiny hands in his own. They looked so small in his grasp, so fragile.

“No,” he repeated. “I’m not going away. I’m not ever going away. . . .”

Phillip looked down at his whiskey glass. It was empty again. Funny how a whiskey glass could go empty even after one filled it four times.

He hated remembering. He wasn’t sure what was the worst. Was it the dive underwater or the moment Mrs. Hurley had turned to him and said, “She’s gone”?

Or was it his children, the sorrow on their faces, the fear in their eyes?

He lifted the glass to his lips, letting the final drops slide into his mouth. The worst part was definitely his children. He’d told them he wouldn’t ever leave them, and he hadn’t—he wouldn’t—but his simple presence wasn’t enough. They needed more. They needed someone who knew how to be a parent, who knew how to speak to them and understand them and get them to mind and behave.

And since he couldn’t very well get them another father, he supposed he ought to think about finding them a mother. It was too soon, of course. He couldn’t marry anyone until his prescribed period of mourning was completed, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look.

He sighed, slumping in his seat. He needed a wife. Almost any wife would do. He didn’t care what she looked like. He didn’t care if she had money. He didn’t care if she could do sums in her head or speak French or even ride a horse.

She just had to be happy.

Was that so much to want in a wife? A smile, at least once a day. Maybe even the sound of her laughter?

And she had to love his children. Or at least pretend so well that they never knew the difference.

It wasn’t so much to ask for, was it?

“Sir Phillip?”

Phillip looked up, cursing himself for having left his study door slightly ajar. Miles Carter, his secretary, was poking his head in.

“What is it?”

“A letter, sir,” Miles said, walking forward to hand him an envelope. “From London.”

Phillip looked down at the envelope in his hand, his brows rising at the obviously feminine slant to the handwriting. He dismissed Miles with a nod, then picked up his letter opener and slid it under the wax. A single sheet of paper slipped out. Phillip rubbed it between his fingers. High quality. Expensive. Heavy, too, a clear sign that the sender need not economize to reduce franking costs.

Then he turned it over and read:

No. 5, Bruton Street

London

Sir Phillip Crane—

I am writing to express my condolences on the loss of your wife, my dear cousin Marina. Although it has been many years since I last saw Marina, I remember her fondly and was deeply saddened to hear of her passing.

Please do not hesitate to write if there is anything I can do to ease your pain at this difficult time.

Yrs,

Miss Eloise Bridgerton

Phillip rubbed his eyes. Bridgerton . . . Bridgerton. Did Marina have Bridgerton cousins? She must have done, if one of them was sending him a letter.

He sighed, then surprised himself by reaching for his own stationery and quill. He’d received precious few condolence notes since Marina had died. It seemed most of her friends and family had forgotten her since her marriage. He supposed he shouldn’t be upset, or even surprised. She’d rarely left her bedchamber; it was easy to forget about someone one never saw.

Miss Bridgerton deserved a reply. It was common courtesy, or even if it wasn’t (and Phillip was quite certain he didn’t know the full etiquette of one’s wife dying), it still somehow seemed like the right thing to do.

And so, with a weary breath, he put his quill to paper.

Chapter 1

May 1824

Somewhere on the road from

London to Gloucestershire

The middle of the night

Dear Miss Bridgerton—

Thank you for your kind note at the loss of my wife. It was thoughtful of you to take the time to write to a gentleman you have never met. I offer you this pressed flower as thanks. It is naught but the simple red campion (Silene dioica), but it brightens the fields here in Gloucestershire, and indeed seems to have arrived early this year.

It was Marina’s favorite wildflower.

Sincerely,

Sir Phillip Crane

Eloise Bridgerton smoothed the well-read sheet of paper across her lap. There was little light by which to see the words, even with the full moon shining through the windows of the coach, but that didn’t really matter. She had the entire letter memorized, and the delicate pressed flower, which was actually more pink than red, was safely protected between the pages of a book she’d nipped from her brother’s library.

She hadn’t been too terribly surprised when she’d received a reply from Sir Phillip. Good manners dictated as much, although even Eloise’s mother, surely the supreme arbiter of good behavior, said that Eloise took her correspondence a bit too seriously.

It was common, of course, for ladies of Eloise’s station to spend several hours each week writing letters, but Eloise had long since fallen into the habit of taking that amount of time each day. She enjoyed writing notes, especially to people she hadn’t seen in years (she’d always liked to imagine their surprise when they opened her envelope), and so she pulled out her pen and paper for most any occasion—births, deaths, any sort of achievement that deserved congratulations or condolences.

She wasn’t sure why she kept sending her missives, just that she spent so much time writing letters to whichever of her siblings were not in residence in London at the time, and it seemed easy enough to pen a short note to some far-off relative while she was seated at her escritoire.

And although everyone penned a short note in reply—she was a Bridgerton, of course, and no one wanted to offend a Bridgerton—never had anyone enclosed a gift, even something so humble as a pressed flower.

Eloise closed her eyes, picturing the delicate pink petals. It was hard to imagine a man handling such a fragile bloom. Her four brothers were all big, strong men, with broad shoulders and large hands that would surely mangle the poor thing in a heartbeat.

She had been intrigued by Sir Phillip’s reply, especially his use of the Latin, and she had immediately penned her own response.

Dear Sir Phillip—

Thank you so very much for the charming pressed flower. It was such a lovely surprise when it floated out of the envelope. And such a precious memento of dear Marina, as well.

I could not help but notice your facility with the flower’s scientific name. Are you a botanist?

Yours,

Miss Eloise Bridgerton

It was sneaky of her to end her letter with a question. Now the poor man would be forced to respond again.

He did not disappoint her. It had taken only ten days for Eloise to receive his reply.

Dear Miss Bridgerton—

Indeed I am a botanist, trained at Cambridge, although I am not currently connected with any university or scientific board. I conduct experiments here at Romney Hall, in my own greenhouse.

Are you of a scientific bent as well?

Yours,

Sir Phillip Crane

Something about the correspondence was thrilling; perhaps it was simply the excitement of finding someone not related to her who actually seemed eager to conduct a written dialogue. Whatever it was, Eloise wrote back immediately.

Dear Sir Phillip—

Heavens, no, I have not the scientific mind, I’m afraid, although I do have a fair head for sums. My interests lie more in the humanities; you may have noticed that I enjoy penning letters.

Yours in friendship,

Eloise Bridgerton

Eloise hadn’t been certain about signing with such an informal salutation, but she decided to err on the side of daring. Sir Phillip was obviously enjoying the correspondence as much as she; surely he wouldn’t have finished his missive with a question, otherwise?

Her answer came a fortnight later.

My dear Miss Bridgerton—

Ah, but it is a sort of friendship, isn’t it? I confess to a certain measure of isolation here in the country, and if one cannot have a smiling face across one’s breakfast table, then one might at least have an amiable letter, don’t you agree?

I have enclosed another flower for you. This one is Geranium pratense, more commonly known as the meadow cranesbill.

With great regard,

Phillip Crane

Eloise remembered that day well. She had sat in her chair, the one by the window in her bedchamber, and stared at the carefully pressed purple flower for what seemed like an eternity. Was he attempting to court her? Through the post?

And then one day she received a note that was quite different from the rest.

My dear Miss Bridgerton—

We have been corresponding now for quite some time, and although we have never formally met, I feel as if I know you. I hope you feel the same.

Forgive me if I am too bold, but I am writing to invite you to visit me here at Romney Hall. It is my hope that after a suitable period of time, we might decide that we will suit, and you will consent to be my wife.

You will, of course, be properly chaperoned. If you accept my invitation, I will make immediate plans to bring my widowed aunt to Romney Hall.

I do hope you will consider my proposal.

Yours, as always,

Phillip Crane

Eloise had immediately tucked the letter away in a drawer, unable to even fathom his request. He wanted to marry someone he didn’t even know?

No, to be fair, that wasn’t entirely true. They did know one another. They’d said more in the course of a year’s correspondence than many husbands and wives did during the entire course of a marriage.

But still, they’d never met.

Eloise thought about all of the marriage proposals she’d refused over the years. How many had there been? At least six. Now she couldn’t even remember why she’d refused some of them. No reason, really, except that they weren’t . . .

Perfect.

Was that so much to expect?

She shook her head, aware that she sounded silly and spoiled. No, she didn’t need someone perfect. She just needed someone perfect for her.

She knew what the society matrons said about her. She was too demanding, worse than foolish. She’d end up a spinster—no, they didn’t say that anymore. They said she already was a spinster, which was true. One didn’t reach the age of eight and twenty without hearing that whispered behind one’s back.

Or thrown in one’s face.

But the funny truth was, Eloise didn’t mind her situation. Or at least she hadn’t, not until recently.

It had never occurred to her that she’d always be a spinster, and besides, she enjoyed her life quite well. She had the most marvelous family one could imagine—seven brothers and sisters in all, named alphabetically, which put her right in the middle at E, with four older and three younger. Her mother was a delight, and she’d even stopped nagging Eloise about getting married. Eloise still held a prominent place in society; the Bridgertons were universally adored and respected (and occasionally feared), and Eloise’s sunny and irrepressible personality was such that everyone sought out her company, spinsterish age or no.

But lately . . .

She sighed, suddenly feeling quite a bit older than her twenty-eight years. Lately she hadn’t been feeling so sunny. Lately she’d been starting to think that maybe those crotchety old matrons were right, and she wasn’t going to find herself a husband. Maybe she had been too picky, too determined to follow the example of her older brothers and sister, all of whom had found a deep and passionate love with their spouses (even if it hadn’t necessarily been there at the outset).

Maybe a marriage based on mutual respect and companionship was better than none at all.

But it was difficult to talk about these feelings with anyone. Her mother had spent so many years urging her to find a husband; as much as Eloise adored her, it would be difficult to eat crow and say that she should have listened. Her brothers would have been no help whatsoever. Anthony, the eldest, would probably have taken it upon himself to personally select a suitable mate and then browbeat the poor man into submission. Benedict was too much of a dreamer, and besides, he almost never came down to London anymore, preferring the quiet of the country. As for Colin—well, that was another story entirely, quite worthy of its own paragraph.

She supposed she should have talked to Daphne, but every time she went to see her, her elder sister was so bloody happy, so blissfully in love with her husband and her life as mother to her brood of four. How could someone like that possibly offer useful advice to one in Eloise’s position? And Francesca seemed half a world away, off in Scotland. Besides, Eloise didn’t think it fair to bother her with her silly woes. Francesca had been widowed at the age of twenty-three, for heaven’s sake. Eloise’s fears and worries seemed terribly inconsequential by comparison.

And maybe all this was why her correspondence with Sir Phillip had become such a guilty pleasure. The Bridgertons were a large family, loud and boisterous. It was nearly impossible to keep anything a secret, especially from her sisters, the youngest of whom—Hyacinth—could probably have won the war against Napoleon in half the time if His Majesty had only thought to draft her into the espionage service.

Sir Phillip was, in his own strange way, hers. The one thing she’d never had to share with anyone. His letters were bundled and tied with a purple ribbon, hidden at the bottom of her middle desk drawer, tucked underneath the piles of stationery she used for her many letters.

He was her secret. Hers.

And because she’d never actually met him, she’d been able to create him in her mind, using his letters as the bones and then fleshing him out as she saw fit. If ever there was a perfect man, surely it had to be the Sir Phillip Crane of her imagination.

And now he wanted to meet? Meet? Was he mad? And ruin what had to be the perfect courtship?

But then the impossible had occurred. Penelope Featherington, Eloise’s closest friend for nearly a dozen years, had married. And what’s more, she’d married Colin. Eloise’s brother!

If the moon had suddenly dropped from the sky and landed in her back garden, Eloise could not have been more surprised.

Eloise was happy for Penelope. Truly, she was. And she was happy for Colin, too. They were quite possibly her two most favorite people in the entire world, and she was thrilled that they had found happiness. No one deserved it more.

But that didn’t mean that their marriage hadn’t left a hollow spot in her life.

She supposed that when she’d been considering her life as a spinster, and trying to convince herself that it was what she really wanted, Penelope had always been there in the image, spinster right beside her. It was acceptable—almost daring, even—to be twenty-eight and unmarried as long as Penelope was twenty-eight and unmarried, as well. It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted Penelope to find a husband; it was just that it had never seemed even the least bit likely. Eloise knew that Penelope was wonderful and kind and smart and witty, but the gentlemen of the ton had never seemed to notice. In all her years in society—eleven in all—Penelope had not received one proposal of marriage. Nor even a whiff of interest.

In a way, Eloise had counted on her to remain where she was, what she was—first and foremost, Eloise’s friend. Her companion in spinsterhood.

And the worst part—the part that left Eloise wracked with guilt—was that she’d never given a thought to how Penelope might feel if she married first, which, in truth, she’d always supposed she would do.

But now Penelope had Colin, and Eloise could see that the match was a splendid thing. And she was alone. Alone in the middle of crowded London, in the middle of a large and loving family.

It was hard to imagine a lonelier spot.

Suddenly Sir Phillip’s bold proposal—tucked away at the very bottom of her bundle, at the bottom of the middle drawer, locked away in a newly purchased safebox, just so that Eloise wouldn’t be tempted to look at it six times a day—well, it seemed a bit more intriguing.

More intriguing by the day, frankly, as she grew more and more restless, more dissatisfied with the lot in life that she had to admit she’d chosen.

And so one day, after she’d gone to visit Penelope, only to be informed by the butler that Mr. and Mrs. Bridgerton were not able to receive visitors (uttered in such a way that even Eloise knew what it meant), she made a decision. It was time to take her life into her own hands, time to control her destiny, rather than attending ball after ball in the vain hope that the perfect man would suddenly materialize before her, never mind that there was never anybody new in London, and after a full decade out in society, she’d already met everyone of the appropriate age and gender to marry.

She told herself that this did not mean she had to marry Sir Phillip; she was merely investigating what seemed like it might be an excellent possibility. If they did not suit, they would not have to marry; she’d made no promises to him, after all.

But if there was one thing about Eloise, it was that when she made a decision, she acted upon it quickly. No, she reflected with a rather impressive (in her opinion, at least) display of self-honesty, there were two things about her that colored her every action—she liked to act quickly and she was tenacious. Penelope had once described her as akin to a dog with a bone.

And Penelope had not been joking.

Once Eloise got her claws into an idea, not even the full force of the Bridgerton family could sway her from her intended goal. (And the Bridgertons constituted a mighty force, indeed.) It was probably just dumb luck that her goals and those of her family had never crossed purposes before, at least not over anything important.

Eloise knew that they would never countenance her going off blindly to meet a man she’d never met. Anthony would have probably demanded that Sir Phillip come to London to meet the entire family en masse, and Eloise couldn’t imagine a single scenario more likely to scare off a prospective suitor. The men who’d previously sought her favor were at least familiar with the London scene and knew what they were getting into; poor Sir Phillip, who had—by his own admission in his letters—not set foot in London since his school days, and never participated in the social season, would be ambushed.

So the only option was for her to travel to Gloucestershire, and, as she came to realize after pondering the problem for a few days, she had to do it in secret. If her family knew of her plans, they might very well forbid her to go. Eloise was a worthy opponent, and she might prevail in the end, but it would be a long and painful battle. Not to mention that if they did allow her to go, whether after a protracted battle over the subject or not, they would insist upon sending at least two of their ranks to accompany her.

Eloise shuddered. Those two would most probably be her mother and Hyacinth.

Good gad, no one could fall in love with those two around. No one could even form a mild but lasting attachment, which Eloise thought she might actually be willing to settle for this go-around.

She decided that she would make her escape during her sister Daphne’s ball. It was to be a grand affair, with hordes of guests, and just the right amount of noise and confusion to allow her absence to go unnoticed for a good six hours, maybe more. Her mother had always insisted that they be punctual—early, even—when a family member was hosting a social event, so they would surely arrive at Daphne’s no later than eight. If she slipped away early on, and the ball did not wind down until the wee hours of the morning . . . well, it would be nearly dawn before anyone realized she was gone, and she could be halfway to Gloucestershire.

And if not halfway, then far enough to ensure that they wouldn’t find it too terribly easy to follow her trail.

In the end, it had all proven almost frighteningly easy. Her entire family had been distracted by some grand announcement Colin planned to make, and so all she’d had to do was excuse herself to the ladies’ retiring room, slip out the back, and walk the short distance to her own home, where she’d hidden her bags in the back garden. From there, she needed only to walk to the corner, where she’d arranged to have a hired coach waiting.

Goodness, if she’d known it would be this easy to make her own way in the world, she would have done so years ago.

And now here she was, rolling toward Gloucestershire, rolling toward destiny, she supposed—or hoped, she wasn’t sure which—with nothing but a few changes of clothing and a pile of letters written to her by a man she’d never met.

A man she hoped she could love.

It was thrilling.

No, it was terrifying.

It was, she reflected, quite possibly the most foolhardy thing she’d done in her life, and she had to admit that she’d made a few foolish decisions in her day.

Or it might just be her only chance at happiness.

Eloise grimaced. She was growing fanciful. That was a bad sign. She needed to approach this adventure with all the practicality and pragmatism with which she always tried to make her decisions. There was still time to turn around. What did she know about this man, really? He’d said quite a lot over the course of a year’s correspondence—

He was thirty years of age, two years her elder.

He had attended Cambridge and studied botany.

He had been married to her fourth cousin Marina for eight years, which meant that he’d been twenty-one at his wedding.

He had brown hair.

He had all of his teeth.

He was a baronet.

He lived at Romney Hall, a stone structure built in the eighteenth century near Tetbury, Gloucestershire.

He liked to read scientific treatises and poetry but not novels and definitely not works of philosophy.

He liked the rain.

His favorite color was green.

He had never traveled outside of England.

He did not like fish.

Eloise fought a bubble of nervous laughter. He didn’t like fish? That was what she knew about him?

“Surely a sound basis for marriage,” she muttered to herself, trying to ignore the panic in her voice.

And what did he know about her? What could have possibly led him to propose marriage to a total stranger?

She tried to recall what she had included in her many letters—

She was twenty-eight.

She had brown hair (chestnut, really) and all of her teeth.

She had gray eyes.

She came from a large and loving family.

Her brother was a viscount.

Her father had died when she was but a child, incomprehensibly brought down by a humble bee sting.

She had a tendency to talk too much. (Good God, had she really put that into writing?)

She liked to read poetry and novels but certainly not scientific treatises or works of philosophy.

She had traveled to Scotland, but that was all.

Her favorite color was purple.

She did not like mutton and positively detested blood pudding.

Another little burst of panicked laughter passed over her lips. Put that way, she thought with no small bit of sarcasm, she seemed a fine catch indeed.

She glanced out the window, as if that might possibly give her an indication as to where they were on the road from London to Tetbury.

Rolling green hills looked like rolling green hills looked like rolling green hills, and she could be in Wales, for all she knew.

Frowning, she looked down at the paper in her lap and refolded Sir Phillip’s letter. Fitting it back into the ribbon-tied bundle she kept in her valise, she then tapped her fingers against her thighs in a nervous gesture.

She had reason to be nervous.

She had left home and all that was familiar, after all.

She was traveling halfway across England, and no one knew.

No one.

Not even Sir Phillip.

Because in her haste to leave London, she’d neglected to tell him she was coming. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten; rather, she’d sort of . . . pushed the task aside until it was too late.

If she told him, then she was committed to the plan. This way, she still had the chance to back out at any moment. She told herself it was because she liked to have choices and options, but the truth was, she was quite simply terrified, and she had feared a total loss of her courage.

Besides, he was the one who had requested the meeting. He would be happy to see her.

Wouldn’t he?

Phillip rose from bed and pulled open the draperies in his bedchamber, revealing another perfect, sunny day.

Perfect.

He padded over to his dressing room to find some clothes, having long since dismissed the servants who used to perform these duties. He couldn’t explain it, but after Marina had died, he hadn’t wanted anyone bustling into his bedroom in the morning, yanking open his curtains, and selecting his garments.

He’d even dismissed Miles Carter, who had tried so hard to be a friend after Marina’s passing. But somehow the young secretary just made him feel worse, and so he’d sent him on his way, along with six months’ pay and a superb letter of reference.

He’d spent his marriage with Marina looking for someone to talk to, since she was so often absent, but now that she was gone, all he wanted was his own company.

He supposed he must have alluded to this in one of his many letters to the mysterious Eloise Bridgerton, because he had sent off his proposal of not-quite-marriage-but-maybe-something-leading-up-to-it over a month ago, and the silence on her part had been deafening, especially since she usually responded to his letters with charming alacrity.

He frowned. The mysterious Eloise Bridgerton wasn’t really so mysterious. In her letters she seemed quite open and honest and possessed of a positively sunny disposition, which, when it all came down to it, was all he really insisted upon in a wife this time around.

He yanked on a work shirt; he planned to spend most of the day in the greenhouse, up to his elbows in dirt. He was rather disappointed that Miss Bridgerton had obviously decided he was some sort of deranged lunatic to be avoided at all costs. She had seemed the perfect solution to his problems. He desperately needed a mother for Amanda and Oliver, but they’d grown so unmanageable that he couldn’t imagine any woman willingly agreeing to cleave unto him in marriage and thus bind herself to those two little devils for life (or at least until they reached majority).

Miss Bridgerton was eight and twenty, however; quite obviously a spinster. And she’d been corresponding with a complete stranger for over a year; surely she was a little desperate? Wouldn’t she appreciate the chance to find a husband? He had a home, a respectable fortune, and was only thirty years of age. What more could she want?

He muttered several annoyed phrases as he thrust his legs into his rough woolen trousers. Obviously she wanted something more, else she would have had the courtesy to at least write back and decline.

THUMP!

Phillip glanced up at the ceiling and grimaced. Romney Hall was old and solid and very well built, and if his ceiling was thumping, then his children had dropped (pushed? hurled?) something very large indeed.

THUMP!

He winced. That one sounded even worse. Still, their nurse was up there with them, and she always managed them better than he did. If he could just get his boots on in under a minute, he could be out of the house before they inflicted too much more damage, and thus he could pretend none of it was happening.

He reached for his boots. Yes, excellent idea. Out of earshot, out of mind.

He donned the rest of his ensemble with impressive speed and dashed out into the hall, making quick strides toward the stairs.

“Sir Phillip! Sir Phillip!”

Damn. His butler was after him now.

Phillip pretended he didn’t hear.

“Sir Phillip!”

“Curse it,” he muttered. There was no way he could ignore that bellow unless he was willing to suffer the torture of his servants hovering over him, concerned about his apparent hearing loss.

“Yes,” he said, turning around slowly, “Gunning?”

“Sir Phillip,” Gunning said, clearing his throat. “We have a caller.”

“A caller?” Phillip echoed. “Was that the source of the, ah . . .”

“Noise?” Gunning supplied helpfully.

“Yes.”

“No.” The butler cleared his throat. “That would have been your children.”

“I see,” Phillip murmured. “How silly of me to have hoped otherwise.”

“I don’t believe they broke anything, sir.”

“That’s a relief and a change.”

“Indeed, sir, but there is the caller to consider.”

Phillip groaned. Who on earth was visiting at this time of the morning? It wasn’t like they were used to receiving callers even during reasonable hours.

Gunning attempted a smile, but one could see that he was out of practice. “We used to have callers, do you recall?”

That was the problem with butlers who’d worked for the family since before one was born. They tended to think highly of sarcasm.

“Who is this caller?”

“I’m not entirely certain, sir.”

“You’re not certain?” Phillip asked disbelievingly.

“I didn’t inquire.”

“Isn’t that what butlers are meant to do?”

“Inquire, sir?”

“Yes,” Phillip ground out, wondering if Gunning was trying to see how red in the face his employer could get without actually collapsing to the floor in an apoplectic fit.

“I thought I’d let you inquire, sir.”

“You thought you’d let me inquire.” This one came out as a statement, Phillip having realized the futility of asking questions.

“Yes, sir. She’s here to see you, after all.”

“So are all of our callers, and that has never stopped you from ascertaining their identities before.”

“Well, actually, sir—”

“I’m quite certain—” Phillip tried to interrupt.

“We don’t have callers, sir,” Gunning finished, quite clearly winning the conversational battle.

Phillip opened his mouth to point out that they did have callers, there was one downstairs that very moment; but really, what was the point? “Fine,” he said, thoroughly irritated. “I’ll go downstairs.”

Gunning beamed. “Excellent, sir.”

Phillip stared at his butler in shock. “Are you unwell, Gunning?”

“No, sir. Why do you ask, sir?”

It didn’t seem quite polite to point out that the broad smile made Gunning look a bit like a horse, so Phillip just muttered, “It’s nothing,” and headed down the stairs.

A caller? Who would be calling? No one had come to visit in nearly a year, since the neighbors had finished making their obligatory condolence calls. He supposed he couldn’t really blame them for staying away; the last time one of them had come to visit, Oliver and Amanda had smeared strawberry jam on the chairs.

Lady Winslet had left in a fit of temper quite beyond anything Phillip would have thought healthy for a woman of her years.

Phillip frowned as he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the entry hall. It was a she, wasn’t it? Hadn’t Gunning said his visitor was a she?

Who the devil—

He stopped short; stumbled, even.

Because the woman standing in his entry hall was young, and quite pretty, and when she looked up to meet his gaze, he saw that she had the largest, most achingly beautiful gray eyes he’d ever seen.

He could drown in those eyes.

And Phillip did not, as one might imagine, even think the word drown lightly.

Chapter 2

. . . and then, I’m sure you will not be surprised to hear, I talked far too much. I simply couldn’t stop talking, but I suppose that is what I do when I am nervous. One can only hope I have less cause for nerves as the rest of my life unfolds.

—from Eloise Bridgerton

to her brother Colin,

upon the occasion of

Eloise’s debut into London society

Then she opened her mouth.

“Sir Phillip?” she asked, and before he even had a chance to nod in the affirmative, she said, at quite the speed of lightning, “I’m so terribly sorry to arrive unannounced, but I really had no other option, and to be honest, if I’d sent notice, it probably would have arrived behind me, making the notice really quite moot, as I’m sure you’ll agree, and . . .”

Phillip blinked, certain he was supposed to be following what she was saying but no longer able to make out where one word ended and the next began.

“. . . a long journey, and I’m afraid I didn’t sleep, and so I must beg you to forgive my appearance and . . .”

She was making him dizzy. Would it be rude if he sat down?

“. . . didn’t bring very much, but I had no choice, and . . .”

This had clearly gone on far too long, with no sign, in truth, that it would ever end. If he allowed her to speak for one moment longer, he was quite certain that he would suffer an inner ear imbalance, or perhaps she would swoon from lack of breath and hit her head on the floor. Either way, one of them would be injured and in debilitating pain.

“Madam,” he said, clearing his throat.

If she heard him, she gave no indication, instead saying something about the coach that had apparently conveyed her to his doorstep.

“Madam,” he said, a little louder this time.

“. . . but then I—” She looked up, blinking those devastating gray eyes at him, and for a moment he felt frighteningly off balance. “Yes?” she asked.

Now that he had her attention, he seemed to have forgotten why he’d sought it. “Er,” he asked, “who are you?”

She stared at him for a good five seconds, her lips parting with surprise, and then she finally answered, “Eloise Bridgerton, of course.”

Eloise was fairly certain she was talking too much, and she knew she was talking too fast, but she tended to do that when she was nervous, and while she prided herself on the fact that she was rarely nervous, now seemed like a rather deserving time to explore that emotion, and besides, Sir Phillip—if indeed he was the large bear of a man standing before her—was not at all what she had expected.

“You’re Eloise Bridgerton?”

She looked up into his gaping face and felt the first stirrings of annoyance. “Well, of course I am. Who else would I be?”

“I could not possibly imagine.”

“You did invite me,” she pointed out.

“And you did not respond to my invitation,” he returned.

She swallowed. He had a point there. A rather large one, if one wanted to be fair, which she didn’t. Not just then, anyway.

“I didn’t really have the opportunity,” she hedged, and then, when it seemed from his expression that that wasn’t enough explanation, she added, “as I mentioned when I spoke earlier.”

He stared at her for longer than made her comfortable, his dark eyes inscrutable, and then he said, “I didn’t understand a word you said.”

She felt her mouth form an oval of . . . surprise? No, annoyance. “Weren’t you listening?” she asked.

“I tried.”

Eloise pursed her lips. “Very well, then,” she said, counting to five in her head—in Latin—before adding, “My apologies. I am sorry to have arrived unannounced. It was dreadfully ill-bred of me.”

He was silent for a full three seconds—Eloise counted that as well—before saying, “I accept your apology.”

She cleared her throat.

“And of course”—he coughed, glancing around as if in search of someone who might save him from her—“I am delighted that you are here.”

It would probably be impolite to point out that he sounded anything but delighted, so Eloise just stood there, staring at his right cheekbone as she tried to decide what she could say without insulting him.

Eloise considered it a sad state of affairs that she—who generally had something to say for any occasion—couldn’t think of a thing.

Luckily, he saved their awkward silence from growing to monumental proportions by asking, “Is this all of your luggage?”

Eloise straightened her shoulders, delighted to move on to a comparatively trivial topic. “Yes. I didn’t really—” She broke herself off. Did she really need to tell him that she’d stolen away from home in the middle of the night? It didn’t seem to speak well of her, or of her family, for that matter. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want him to know that she had, for all intents and purposes, run away. She wasn’t certain why she thought so, but she had a distinct feeling that if he knew the truth, he’d pack her up and send her back to London posthaste. And while her meeting with Sir Phillip had not thus far proven to be the stuff of romance and bliss she’d imagined it to be, she was not yet prepared to give up.

Especially when that meant running back to her family with her tail between her legs.

“This is all I have,” she said firmly.

“Good. I, er . . .” He looked around again, this time a little desperately, which Eloise did not find flattering in the least. “Gunning!” he bellowed.

The butler appeared so quickly that he must have been eavesdropping. “Yes, sir?”

“We . . . ah . . . need to prepare a room for Miss Bridgerton.”

“I have already done so,” Gunning assured him.

Sir Phillip’s cheeks colored slightly. “Good,” he grunted. “She will be staying here for . . .” He looked to her in askance.

“A fortnight,” she supplied, hoping that was about the right amount of time.

“A fortnight,” Sir Phillip reiterated as if the butler wouldn’t have heard her reply. “We will do everything in our power to make her comfortable, of course.”

“Of course,” the butler agreed.

“Good,” Sir Phillip said, still looking somewhat uncomfortable with the entire situation. Or if not uncomfortable, precisely, then perhaps weary, which might have been even worse.

Eloise was disappointed. She’d pictured him as a man of easy charm, rather like her brother Colin, who possessed a dashing smile and always knew what to say in any situation, awkward or otherwise.

Sir Phillip, on the other hand, looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else but where he was, which Eloise did not find encouraging, as his present surroundings included her. And what’s more, he was supposed to be making at least some effort to make her acquaintance and determine if she would make him an acceptable wife.

And his efforts had better be good ones indeed, because if it was true that first impressions were the most accurate, she rather doubted that she would determine that he would make an acceptable husband.

She smiled at him through gritted teeth.

“Would you like to sit down?” he blurted out.

“That would be quite pleasing, thank you.”

He looked around with a blank expression on his face, giving Eloise the impression he barely knew his way around his own house. “Here,” he mumbled, motioning to a door at the end of the hall, “the drawing room.”

Gunning coughed.

Sir Phillip looked at him and scowled.

“Perhaps you intended to order refreshments, sir?” the butler asked solicitously.

“Er, yes, of course,” Sir Phillip replied, clearing his throat. “Of course. Er, perhaps . . .”

“A tea tray, perhaps?” Gunning suggested. “With muffins?”

“Excellent,” Sir Phillip muttered.

“Or perhaps if Miss Bridgerton is hungry,” the butler continued, “I could have a more extensive breakfast prepared.”

Sir Phillip swung his gaze over to Eloise.

“Muffins will be lovely,” she said, even though she was hungry.

Eloise allowed Sir Phillip to take her arm and lead her to the drawing room, where she sat on a sofa covered in striped blue satin. The room was neat and clean, but the furnishings were shabby. The entire house had a vague neglected quality to it, as if the owner had run out of money, or perhaps just didn’t care.

Eloise tended to think that it was the latter. She supposed it was possible that Sir Phillip was short of funds, but the grounds had been magnificent, and she had seen enough of his greenhouse as she was driving in to realize that it was in excellent condition. Given that Sir Phillip was a botanist, that might explain the great care given to the exterior while the interior was left to fade.

Clearly, he needed a wife.

She folded her hands in her lap, then watched as he took a seat across from her, folding his large frame into a chair that had obviously been designed for one much smaller than he.

He looked most uncomfortable and (and Eloise had enough brothers to recognize the signs) rather like he wanted desperately to curse, but Eloise decided it was his own fault for choosing that chair, and so she smiled at him in what she hoped was a polite and encouraging manner, waiting for him to begin the conversation.

He cleared his throat.

She leaned forward.

He cleared his throat again.

She coughed.

He cleared his throat once more.

“Do you need some tea?” she finally asked, unable to bear even the thought of one more ahem.

He looked up gratefully, although Eloise wasn’t certain whether that was due to her offer of tea or her merciful breaking of the silence. “Yes,” he said, “that would be lovely.”

Eloise opened her mouth to reply, then remembered she was in his house and had no business offering tea. Not to mention that he ought to have remembered that fact as well. “Right,” she said. “Well, I’m sure it will be here soon.”

“Right,” he agreed, shifting in his seat.

“I’m sorry to have come by unannounced,” she murmured, even though she’d already said as much. But something had to be said; Sir Phillip might be well used to awkward pauses, but Eloise was the sort who liked to fill any silence.

“It’s quite all right,” he said.

“It’s not, actually,” she replied. “It was terribly ill-mannered of me to do so, and I apologize.”

He looked startled at her frankness. “Thank you,” he murmured. “It is no problem, I assure you. I was merely . . .”

“Surprised?” she offered.

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Yes, well, anyone would have been. I should have thought of that, and I truly am sorry for the inconvenience.”

He opened his mouth, but then closed it, instead glancing out the window. “It’s a sunny day,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” Eloise agreed, thinking that quite obvious.

He shrugged. “I imagine it will still rain by nightfall.”

She wasn’t quite certain how to respond to that, so she just nodded, surreptitiously studying him while his gaze was still fixed on the window. He was bigger than she’d imagined him, rougher-looking, less urbane. His letters had been so charming and well written; she’d pictured him to be more . . . smooth. More slender, perhaps, certainly not given to fat, but still, less muscled. He looked as if he worked outside like a laborer, especially in those rough trousers and shirt with no cravat. And even though he’d written that his hair was brown, she’d always imagined him as a dark blond, looking rather like a poet (why she always pictured poets with blond hair she did not know). But his hair was exactly as he’d described it—brown, a rather dark shade, actually, bordering on black, with an unruly wave to it. His eyes were brown, much the same shade as his hair, so dark they were utterly unreadable.

She frowned. She hated people she couldn’t figure out in a heartbeat.

“Did you travel all night?” he inquired politely.

“I did.”

“You must be tired.”

She nodded. “I am, quite.”

He stood, motioning gallantly to the door. “Would you prefer to rest? I don’t wish to keep you here if you’d rather sleep.”

Eloise was exhausted, but she was also ferociously hungry. “I’ll have just a bite to eat first,” she said, “and then I would be grateful to accept your hospitality and rest.”

He nodded and started to sit down, trying to fold himself back into the ridiculously small chair, then finally muttering something under his breath, turning to her with a slightly more intelligible, “Excuse me,” and moving to another, larger chair.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, once he was settled.

Eloise just nodded at him, wondering when she had ever found herself in a more awkward situation.

He cleared his throat. “Er, was your journey a pleasant one?”

“Indeed,” she replied, mentally giving him credit for at least trying to keep up a conversation. One good turn deserved another, so she made her contribution with, “You have a lovely home.”

He raised a brow at that, giving her a look that said he didn’t believe her false flattery for a second.

“The grounds are magnificent,” she added hastily. Who would have thought that he’d actually know his furnishings were faded? Men never noticed such things.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am a botanist, as you know, and so I spend a great deal of my time out-of-doors.”

“Were you planning to work outside today?”

He answered in the affirmative.

Eloise offered him a tentative smile. “I’m sorry to have disrupted your schedule.”

“It is nothing, I assure you.”

“But—”

“You really needn’t apologize again,” he cut in. “For anything.”

And then there was that awful silence again, with both of them looking longingly at the door, waiting for Gunning to return with salvation in the form of a tea tray.

Eloise tapped her hands against the cushion of the sofa in a manner that her mother would have deemed horribly ill-bred. She looked over at Sir Phillip and was somewhat gratified to see that he was doing the same. Then he caught her looking and quirked an irritating half-smile as his gaze dropped down to her restless hand.

She stilled herself immediately.

She looked over at him, silently daring—imploring?—him to say something. Anything.

He didn’t.

This was killing her. She had to break the silence. This was not natural. It was too awful. People were meant to talk. This was—

She opened her mouth, driven by a desperation she didn’t quite understand. “I—”

But before she could continue on with a sentence she fully intended to make up as she went along, a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the air.

Eloise jumped to her feet. “What was—”

“My children,” Sir Phillip said, letting out a haggard sigh.

“You have children?”

He noticed that she was standing and rose wearily to his feet. “Of course.”

She gaped at him. “You never said you had children.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that a problem?” he asked, quite sharply.

“Of course it isn’t!” she said, bristling. “I adore children. I have more nieces and nephews than I can count, and I can assure you that I am their favorite aunt. But that does not excuse the fact that you did not mention their existence.”

“That is impossible,” he said, shaking his head. “You must have overlooked it.”

Her chin jerked back so suddenly it was a wonder she didn’t snap her neck. “That is not,” she said haughtily, “the sort of thing I would overlook.”

He shrugged, clearly dismissing her protest.

“You never mentioned them,” she said, “and I can prove it.”

He crossed his arms, giving her a patently disbelieving look.

She marched to the door. “Where is my valise?”

“Right where you left it, I imagine,” he said, watching her with a condescending expression. “Or more likely already up in your room. My servants are not that inattentive.”

She turned to him with a scowl. “I have every single one of your letters with me, and I can assure you, not one of them contains the words, ‘my children.’”

Phillip’s lips parted in surprise. “You saved my letters?”

“Of course. Didn’t you save mine?”

He blinked. “Uh . . .”

She gasped. “You didn’t save them?”

Phillip had never understood women and half the time was quite willing to put aside all current medical thought and declare them a separate species altogether. He fully accepted that he rarely knew what one was supposed to say to them, but this time even he knew he had blundered badly. “I’m sure I have some of them,” he tried.

Her jaw clamped into a straight angry line.

“Most of them, I’m sure,” he added hastily.

She looked mutinous. Eloise Bridgerton, he was coming to realize, had a formidable will.

“It’s not that I would have disposed of them,” he said, trying to dig his way out of his bottomless pit. “It is just that I’m not certain precisely where I put them.”

He watched with interest as she gained control of her anger, then let out a short breath. Her eyes, however, remained a stormy gray. “Very well,” she said. “It hardly signifies, anyway.”

Exactly his opinion, Phillip thought, but even he was smart enough not to say so.

Besides, her tone made it quite clear that in her opinion, it did signify. A great deal.

Another scream rent the air, followed by a resounding crash. Phillip winced. It sounded like furniture.

Eloise glanced toward the ceiling, as if expecting plaster to start spinning down at any moment. “Shouldn’t you go to them?” she asked.

He should, but by all that was holy, he didn’t want to. When the twins were out of control, no one could manage them, which, Phillip supposed, was the definition of “out of control.” It was his opinion that it was generally easier to let them run wild until they dropped from exhaustion (which usually didn’t take too long) and deal with them then. It probably wasn’t the most beneficial course of action, and certainly nothing that any other parent would have recommended, but a man only had so much energy to deal with two eight-year-olds, and he feared he’d run out of his a good six months ago.

“Sir Phillip?” Eloise prodded.

He let out a breath. “You’re right, of course.” It certainly wouldn’t do to appear a disinterested parent in front of Miss Bridgerton, whom he was trying to woo, however clumsily, into the position of mother to the two hellions presently attempting the complete destruction of his home. “If you will excuse me,” he said, giving her a nod as he stepped into the hall.

“Oliver!” he bellowed. “Amanda!”

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Miss Bridgerton stifle a horrified laugh.

A wave of irritation washed over him, and he glared at her, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He supposed she thought she could do a better job with those two hellions.

He strode to the stairs and yelled the twins’ names again. On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t be so uncharitable. He rather hoped—no, fervently prayed—that Eloise Bridgerton could do a better job with the twins than he could.

Good God, if she could teach them to mind, he would bloody well kiss the ground she walked upon on a thrice-daily schedule.

Oliver and Amanda rounded the corner in the staircase and descended the rest of the way down to the hall, looking not a bit sheepish.

“What,” Phillip demanded, “was that all about?”

“What was what all about?” Oliver replied cheekily.

“The screaming,” Phillip ground out.

“That was Amanda,” Oliver said.

“It certainly was,” she agreed.

Phillip waited for further elucidation, and when it appeared that none was forthcoming, he added, “And why was Amanda screaming?”

“It was a frog,” she explained.

“A frog.”

She nodded. “Indeed. In my bed.”

“I see,” Phillip said. “Do you have any idea how it got there?”

“I put it there,” she replied.

He swung his gaze off of Oliver, to whom he’d addressed his question, and back to Amanda. “You put a frog in your own bed?”

She nodded.

Why why why? He cleared his throat. “Why?”

She shrugged. “I wanted to.”

Phillip felt his chin thrust forward in disbelief. “You wanted to?”

“Yes.”

“Put a frog in your bed?”

“I was trying to grow tadpoles,” she explained.

“In your bed?”

“It seemed warm and cozy.”

“I helped,” Oliver put in.

“Of that I had no doubt,” Phillip said in a tight voice. “But why did you scream?”

“I didn’t scream,” Oliver said indignantly. “Amanda did.”

“I was asking Amanda!” Phillip said, just barely resisting the urge to throw his arms up in defeat and retire to his greenhouse.

“You were looking at me, sir,” Oliver said. And then, as if his father were too dim to understand what he meant, he added, “When you asked the question.”

Phillip took a deep breath before schooling his features into what he hoped was a patient expression and turned back to Amanda. “Why, Amanda, did you scream?”

She shrugged. “I forgot I put the frog there.”

“I thought she was going to die!” Oliver put in, most dramatically.

Phillip decided not to pursue that statement. “I thought,” he said, crossing his arms and leveling his sternest gaze at his children, “that we had said no frogs in the house.”

“No,” Oliver said (with vehement nodding from Amanda), “you said no toads.”

“No amphibians of any kind,” Phillip ground out.

“But what if one of them is dying?” Amanda asked, her pretty blue eyes filling with tears.

“Not even then.”

“But—”

“You may tend to it outside.”

“What if it’s cold and freezing and only needs my care and a warm bed inside the house?”

“Frogs are supposed to be cold and freezing,” Phillip shot back. “It’s why they are amphibians.”

“But what if—”

“No!” he bellowed. “No frogs, toads, crickets, grasshoppers, or animals of any kind in the house!”

Amanda started gulping for air. “But but but—”

Phillip let out a long sigh. He never knew what to say to his children, and now his daughter looked as if she might dissolve into a pool of tears. “For the love of—” He caught himself just in time and softened his voice. “What is it, Amanda?”

She gasped, then sobbed, “What about Bessie?”

Phillip felt around unsuccessfully for a wall to sag against. “Naturally,” he ground out, “I did not intend to include our beloved spaniel in that statement.”

“Well, I wish you’d said so,” Amanda sniffed, looking surprisingly—and suspiciously—recovered. “You made me extremely sad.”

Phillip gritted his teeth. “I am sorry I made you feel sad.”

She nodded at him like a queen.

Phillip groaned. When had the twins gained the upper hand in the conversation? Surely a man of his size and (he’d like to think, anyway) intellect, ought to be able to manage two eight-year-olds.

But no, once again, despite his best intentions, he’d lost all control of the conversation and now he was actually apologizing to them.

Nothing made him feel more like a failure.

“Right, then,” he said, eager to be done. “Run along. I’m very busy.”

They stood there for a moment, just looking up at him with wide, blinking eyes. “All day?” Oliver finally asked.

“All day?” Phillip echoed. What the devil was he talking about?

“Are you going to be busy all day?” Oliver amended.

“Yes,” he said sharply, “I am.”

“What if we went on a nature walk?” Amanda suggested.

“I can’t,” he said, even though part of him wanted to. But the twins were so vexing, and they were sure to force him to lose his temper, and nothing terrified him more.

“We could help you in the greenhouse,” Oliver said.

Destroy it was more like it. “No,” Phillip said. He honestly didn’t think he could answer to his temper if they ruined his work.

“But—”

“I can’t,” he snapped, hating the tone of his voice.

“But—”

“And who is this?” came a voice from behind him.

He turned around. It was Eloise Bridgerton, sticking her nose into what was assuredly not her business, and this after arriving on his doorstep without even so much as a hint of warning.

“I beg your pardon,” he said to her, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

She ignored him and faced the twins. “And who might you be?” she asked.

“Who are you?” Oliver demanded.

Amanda’s eyes narrowed into slits.

Phillip allowed himself his first true grin of the morning and crossed his arms. Yes, let’s see how Miss Bridgerton handled this.

“I am Miss Bridgerton,” she said.

“You’re not our new governess, are you?” Oliver asked, with suspicion bordering on venom.

“Heavens, no,” she replied. “What happened to your last governess?”

Phillip coughed. Loudly.

The twins took the hint. “Er, nothing,” Oliver said.

Miss Bridgerton didn’t look the least bit fooled by the air of innocence the twins were trying to convey, but she wisely did not choose to pursue the subject, and instead just said, “I am your guest.”

The twins pondered that for a moment, and then Amanda said, “We don’t want any guests.”

Followed by Oliver’s, “We don’t need any guests.”

“Children!” Phillip interjected, not really wanting to take Miss Bridgerton’s side after she’d been so meddlesome, but really having no other choice. He couldn’t let his children be so rude.

The twins crossed their arms in unison and gave Miss Bridgerton the cut direct.

“That’s it,” Phillip boomed. “You will apologize to Miss Bridgerton at once.”

They stared at her mutinously.

“Now!” he roared.

“Sorry,” they mumbled, but no one could ever have mistaken them for meaning it.

“Back to your room, the both of you,” Phillip said sharply.

They marched off like a pair of proud soldiers, noses in the air. It would have been quite an impressive sight, if Amanda hadn’t turned around at the bottom of the stairs and stuck out her tongue.

“Amanda!” he bellowed, striding toward her.

She tore up the stairs with the speed of a fox.

Phillip held himself very still for several moments, his hands fisted and shaking at his sides. Just once—once!—he would like his children to behave and mind and not answer a question with a question and be polite to guests and not stick out their tongues, and—

Just once, he’d like to feel that he was a good father, that he knew what he was doing.

And not raise his voice. He hated when he raised his voice, hated the flash of terror he thought he saw in their eyes.

Hated the memories it brought back for him.

“Sir Phillip?”

Miss Bridgerton. Damn, he’d almost forgotten she was there. He turned around. “Yes?” he asked, mortified that she’d witnessed his humiliation. Which of course made him irritated with her.

“Your butler brought the tea tray,” she said, motioning to the drawing room.

He gave her a curt nod. He needed to get outside. Away from his children, away from the woman who’d seen what a terrible father he was to them. It had started to rain, but he didn’t care.

“I hope you enjoy your breakfast,” he said. “I will see you after you have rested.”

And then he made haste out the door, making his way to his greenhouse, where he could be alone with his nonspeaking, nonmisbehaving, nonmeddlesome plants.

Chapter 3

. . . you will see why I could not accept his suit. He was too churlish by half and positively possessed of a foul temper. I should like to marry someone gracious and considerate, who treats me like a queen. Or at the very least, a princess. Surely that is not too much to ask.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her

dear friend Penelope Featherington,

sent by messenger after Eloise

received her first proposal of marriage

By afternoon, Eloise was almost convinced that she had made a terrible mistake.

And in truth, the sole reason she was only almost convinced was that the only thing she hated more than making mistakes was the admission thereof. So she was trying to maintain a proverbial stiff upper lip and forcing herself to pretend that this ghastly situation might all work itself out in the end.

She had been left stunned—openmouthed, even—when Sir Phillip had departed with barely more than an “Enjoy your food” and then stalked out the door. She had traveled halfway across England, answering his invitation to come and visit, and he left her alone in the drawing room a mere half hour after she arrived?

She hadn’t expected him to fall in love at first sight and drop to his knees, professing his undying devotion, but she’d hoped for a little bit more than a curt “Who are you?” and “Enjoy your food.”

Or maybe she had expected him to fall in love at the first sight of her. She’d built an elaborate dream around her image of this man—an image which she now knew to be untrue. She’d let herself mold him into the perfect man, and it hurt so much to learn that he wasn’t just imperfect, he was quite close to abysmal.

And the worst was—she had only herself to blame. Sir Phillip had never misrepresented himself in his letters (although she did think he ought to have mentioned that he was a father, especially before he’d proposed marriage).

Her dreams had been just that—dreams. Wishful illusions, all of her own making. If he wasn’t what she’d expected, that was her fault. She’d been expecting something that didn’t even exist.

And she should have known better.

What’s more, he didn’t seem to be a very good father, which was as black a mark as anyone could get in her book.

No, she wasn’t being fair. She shouldn’t judge him so quickly on that score. The children didn’t look ill-treated or malnourished or anything so dire, but Sir Phillip clearly had no idea how to manage them. He had handled them all wrong this morning, and it was clear from the way they behaved that his relationship with them was distant at best.

Good heavens, they had practically begged him to spend the day with them. Any child who actually received enough attention from his parents would never act in such a way. Eloise and her siblings had spent half their childhood trying to avoid their parents—lack of supervision being, of course, more conducive for mischief.

Her own father had been splendid. She had been only seven when he’d died, but she remembered him well, from the stories he wove at bedtime to the hikes they had taken across the fields of Kent, sometimes with all the Bridgertons in tow, sometimes just with one lucky child, chosen for some special alone time with Father.

It was clear to her that if she hadn’t suggested to Sir Phillip that he find out why his children were screaming and knocking over the furniture, he would have left them to their own devices. Or, more to the point, left them to be someone else’s problem. And by the end of their conversation, it was apparent that Sir Phillip’s main aim in life was to avoid his children.

Which Eloise did not approve of at all.

She pushed herself off of her bed, forcing herself upright even though she was bone-tired. But every time she laid down, something began to quicken in her lungs, and she felt herself gasping in that awful precursor to not just tears, but true, body-shaking sobs. If she didn’t get up and do something, she wasn’t going to be able to control herself.

And she didn’t think she could bear herself if she cried.

She wrenched the window open, even though it was still gray and drizzling outside. There was no wind, so the rain ought not to blow in, and what she really needed right now was a bit of fresh air. A slap of cold on her face might not make her feel better, but it certainly wasn’t going to make her feel worse.

From her window she could see Sir Phillip’s greenhouse. She assumed that was where he was, since she hadn’t heard him here in the house, stomping about and bellowing at his children. The glass was fogged up and the only thing she could see was a blurry curtain of green—his beloved plants, she supposed. What sort of man was he, that he preferred plants to people? Certainly not anyone who appreciated a fine conversation.

She felt her shoulders sag. Eloise had spent half her life in search of a fine conversation.

And if he was such a hermit, why had he bothered to write her back? He had worked just as hard as she had to perpetuate their correspondence. Not to mention his proposal. If he hadn’t wanted company, he had no business inviting her here.

She took a few deep breaths of the misty air and then forced herself to stand up straight. She wasn’t certain what she was expected to do with herself all day. She’d taken a nap already; exhaustion had quickly won out over misery. But no one had come by to inform her of lunch or of any other plans that might extend to her as a houseguest.

If she stayed here, in this slightly drab and drafty room, she was going to go mad. Or at the very least cry herself into oblivion, which was something she did not tolerate in others, so the thought of doing it herself was horrifying.

There was no reason she couldn’t explore the house a bit, was there? And maybe she could find herself some food along the way. She’d eaten all four muffins on the tea tray this morning, all with as much butter and marmalade as she could politely slather on, but she was still famished. At this point she thought she might be willing to commit violence for a ham sandwich.

She changed her clothing, donning a dress of peach muslin that was pretty and feminine without being too frilly. And most importantly, it was easy to get on and off, surely a critical factor when one had run from home without a lady’s maid.

A quick glance in the mirror told her that she looked presentable, if no picture of ravishing beauty, and so she stepped out into the hall.

Only to be immediately confronted by the eight-year-old Crane twins, looking very much as if they’d been lying in wait for hours.

“Good afternoon,” Eloise said, waiting for them to come to their feet. “How nice of you to greet me.”

“We’re not here to greet you,” Amanda blurted out, grunting when Oliver elbowed her in the ribs.

“You’re not?” Eloise asked, trying to sound surprised. “Are you here, then, to show me to the dining room? I’m quite hungry, I must say.”

“No,” Oliver said, crossing his arms.

“Not even that?” Eloise mused. “Let me guess. You’re here to take me to your room and show me your toys.”

“No,” they said, in unison.

“Then it must be to take me on a tour of the house. It’s quite large and I might lose my way.”

“No.”

“No? You wouldn’t want me to lose my way, would you?”

“No,” Amanda said. “I mean yes!”

Eloise feigned incomprehension. “You want me to lose my way?”

Amanda nodded. Oliver just tightened his arms across his chest and speared her with a sullen stare.

“Hmmm. That’s interesting, but it hardly explains your presence right here outside my door, does it? I’m not likely to get lost in the company of you two.”

Their lips parted in befuddled surprise.

“You do know your way around the house, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Oliver grunted, followed by Amanda’s, “We’re not babies.”

“No, I can see that,” Eloise said with a thoughtful nod. “Babies wouldn’t be allowed to wait by themselves outside my door, after all. They’d be quite busy with nappies and bottles and the like.”

They had nothing to add to that.

“Does your father know you’re here?”

“He’s busy.”

“Very busy.”

“He’s a very busy man.”

“Much too busy for you.”

Eloise watched and listened with interest as the twins shot off their lightning-fast statements, falling all over themselves to demonstrate how busy Sir Phillip was.

“So what you’re telling me,” Eloise said, “is that your father is busy.”

They stared at her, momentarily dumbfounded by her calm retelling of the facts, then nodded.

“But that still doesn’t explain your presence,” Eloise mused. “Because I don’t think your father sent you here in his stead. . . .” She waited until they shook their heads in the negative, then added, “Unless . . . I know!” she said in an excited voice, allowing herself a mental smile over her cleverness. She had nine nephews and nieces. She knew exactly how to talk to children. “You’re here to tell me you have magical powers and can predict the weather.”

“No,” they said, but Eloise heard a giggle.

“No? That’s a shame, because this constant drizzle is miserable, don’t you think?”

“No,” Amanda said, quite forcefully. “Father likes the rain, and so do we.”

“He likes the rain?” Eloise asked in surprise. “How very odd.”

“No, it’s not,” Oliver replied, his stance defensive. “My father isn’t odd. He’s perfect. Don’t say mean things about him.”

“I didn’t,” Eloise replied, wondering what on earth was going on now. At first she’d merely thought the twins were here to frighten her away. Presumably, they had heard that their father was thinking of marrying her and wanted no part of a stepmother, especially given the stories Eloise had been told by the housemaid of the succession of poor, abused governesses who had come and gone.

But if that were the simple truth, wouldn’t they want her to think there was something wrong with Sir Phillip? If they wanted her gone, wouldn’t they be trying to convince her that he would be a terrible candidate for marriage?

“I assure you, I harbor no ill will toward any of you,” Eloise said. “In fact, I barely know your father.”

“If you make Father sad, I will . . . I will . . .”

Eloise watched the poor little boy’s face grow red with frustration as he fought for words and bravado. Carefully, gently, she crouched next to him until her face was on a level with his and said, “Oliver, I promise you, I am not here to make your father sad.” He said nothing, so she turned to his twin and asked, “Amanda?”

“You need to go,” Amanda blurted out, her arms crossed so tightly that her face was turning red. “We don’t want you here.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere for at least a week,” Eloise told them, keeping her voice firm. The children needed sympathy, and probably a great deal of love as well, but they also needed a bit of discipline and a clear idea of who was in charge.

And then, out of nowhere, Oliver hurled himself forward and pushed her hard, with both hands against her chest.

Her balance was precarious, crouching as she was on the balls of her feet. Eloise toppled over backward, landing most inelegantly on her bottom and rolling back until she was quite certain the twins had received a nice look at her petticoats.

“Well,” she declared, rising to her feet and crossing her arms as she stared sternly down at them. They had both taken several steps back and were staring at her with a mixture of glee and horror, as if they couldn’t quite believe that one of them had had the nerve to push her over. “That,” Eloise continued, “was inadvisable.”

“Are you going to hit us?” Oliver asked. His voice was defiant, but there was a hint of fright there, as if someone had hit them before.

“Of course not,” Eloise said quickly. “I don’t believe in striking children. I don’t believe in striking anyone.” Except people who strike children, she added to herself.

They looked somewhat relieved to hear it.

“I might remind you, however,” Eloise continued, “that you struck me first.”

“I pushed you,” he corrected.

She allowed herself a tiny groan. She ought to have anticipated that one. “If you do not want people striking you, you ought to practice the same philosophy.”

“The Golden Rule,” Amanda piped up.

“Exactly,” Eloise said with a wide smile. She rather doubted she’d changed the course of their lives with one little lesson, but nonetheless it was nice to hope that something she’d said provoked some consideration.

“But doesn’t that mean,” Amanda said thoughtfully, “that you should go home?”

Eloise felt her small moment of elation crumbling to dust, as she tried to imagine what leap of logic Amanda was about to embark upon to explain why Eloise should be banished to the Amazon.

“We’re home,” Amanda said, sounding exceedingly supercilious for an eight-year-old. Or maybe she was supercilious as only an eight-year-old could be. “So you should go home.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Eloise said sharply.

“Yes, it does,” Amanda replied with a smug little nod. “Do unto others as you would like done to you. We haven’t gone to your house, so you shouldn’t come to ours.”

“You’re very clever, did you know that?” Eloise asked.

Amanda looked as if she wanted to nod, but she was clearly too suspicious of Eloise’s compliment to accept it.

Eloise bent down so that they were face-to-face, all three of them. “But I,” she said to them in a very serious—and slightly defiant—voice, “am very clever, too.”

They stared at her with wide eyes, their mouths hanging slack as they regarded this person who was clearly so different from any other adult they’d ever met.

“Do we understand each other?” Eloise asked, straightening her spine and smoothing her hands along her skirts in a deceptively casual manner.

They said nothing, so she decided to answer for them. “Good,” she said. “Now, then, would you like to show me where the dining room is? I’m famished.”

“We have lessons,” Oliver said.

“You do?” Eloise asked, arching her brows. “How interesting. Then you must return to them at once. I imagine you’ve fallen behind after spending so long waiting outside my door.”

“How did you know—” Amanda’s question was cut short by Oliver’s elbow in her ribs.

“I have seven brothers and sisters,” Eloise answered, deciding that Amanda’s question deserved an answer, even if her brother hadn’t allowed her to finish her sentence. “There isn’t much about this sort of warfare that I don’t already know.”

But as the twins scurried down the hall, Eloise was left chewing her lower lip in apprehension. She had a feeling she shouldn’t have ended their encounter with such a challenge. She had practically dared Oliver and Amanda to find a way to evict her from the premises.

And while she was quite certain they wouldn’t succeed—she was a Bridgerton, after all, and made of sterner stuff than those two even knew existed—she had a feeling that they would throw every fiber of their being into the task.

Eloise shuddered. Eels in the bed, hair dipped in ink, jam on chairs. It had all been done to her at one point or another, and she didn’t particularly relish a repeat performance—and certainly not by a pair of children twenty years her junior.

She sighed, wondering what it was she had gotten herself into. She had better find Sir Phillip and get to the task of deciding whether they would suit. Because if she really was leaving in a week or two, never to see any of the Cranes again, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to put herself through the trouble of mice and spiders and salt in the sugar bowl.

Her stomach rumbled. Whether it was the thought of salt or sugar that did it, Eloise didn’t know. But it was definitely time to find something to eat. And better sooner than later, before the twins had a chance to figure out how to poison her food.

Phillip knew that he’d blundered badly. But deuce it, the bloody woman had given him no warning. If she’d only alerted him of her arrival, he could have prepared himself, thought of a few poetic things to say. Did she really think he’d scribbled all those letters without laboring over every word? He’d never sent out the first draft of any of his missives (although he always wrote it on his best paper, each time hoping that this would be the time he’d get it right on the first try).

Hell, if she’d given him warning, he might have even summoned a romantic gesture or two. Flowers would have been nice, and heaven knew, if there was one thing he was good at, it was flowers.

But instead, she’d simply appeared before him as if conjured from a dream, and he’d mucked everything up.

And it hadn’t helped that Miss Eloise Bridgerton was not what he had expected.

She was a twenty-eight-year-old spinster, for heaven’s sake. She was supposed to be unattractive. Horse-faced, even. Instead she was—

Well, he wasn’t exactly certain how one could describe her. Not beautiful, precisely, but still somehow stunning, with thick chestnut hair and eyes of the clearest, crispest gray. She was the sort of woman whose expressions made her beautiful. There was intelligence in her eyes, curiosity in the way she cocked her head to the side. Her features were unique, almost exotic, with her heart-shaped face and wide smile.

Not that he’d seen much of that smile. His less-than-legendary charm had seen to that.

He jammed his hands into a pile of moist soil and scooped some into a small clay pot, leaving it loosely packed for optimal root growth. What the devil was he going to do now? He’d pinned his hopes on his mirage of Miss Eloise Bridgerton, based upon the letters she’d sent to him over the past year. He didn’t have time (nor, in truth, the inclination) to court a prospective mother for the twins, so it had seemed perfect (not to mention almost easy) to woo her through letters.

Surely an unmarried woman rapidly approaching the age of thirty would be gratified to receive a proposal of marriage. He hadn’t expected her to accept his offer without meeting with him, of course, and he wasn’t prepared to formally commit to the idea without making her acquaintance, either. But he had expected that she would be someone who was at least a little bit desperate for a husband.

Instead, she’d arrived looking young and pretty and smart and self-confident, and good God, but why would a woman like that want to marry someone she didn’t even know? Not to mention tie herself to a decidedly rural estate in the farthest corner of Gloucestershire. Phillip might know less than nothing about fashion, but even he could tell that her garments had been well made and most probably of the latest style. She was going to expect trips to London, an active social life, friends.

None of which she was likely to find here at Romney Hall.

It seemed almost useless to even try to make her acquaintance. She wasn’t going to stay, and he’d be foolish to get his hopes up.

He groaned, then cursed for good measure. Now he was going to have to court some other woman. Curse it, now he was going to have to find some other woman to court, which was going to be nearly as difficult. No one in the district would even look at him. All of the unmarried ladies knew about the twins, and there wasn’t a one of them willing to take on the responsibility of his little devils.

He’d pinned all of his hopes on Miss Bridgerton, and now it seemed that he was going to have to give up on her as well.

He set his pot down too hard on a shelf, wincing as the clatter of it rang through the greenhouse.

With a loud sigh, he dunked his muddy hands into a bucket of already dirtied water to wash them off. He’d been rude this morning. He was still rather irritated that she’d come out here and wasted his time—or if she hadn’t wasted it yet, she was almost certainly going to waste it, since she wasn’t likely to turn around and leave this evening.

But that didn’t excuse his behavior. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t manage his own children, and it certainly wasn’t her fault that this failing always put him in a foul mood.

Wiping his hands on a towel he kept by the door, he strode out into the drizzle and made his way to the house. It was probably time for luncheon, and it wouldn’t hurt anyone to sit down with her at the table and make polite conversation.

Plus, she was here. After all his effort with the letters, it seemed foolish not to at least see if they might get on well enough for marriage. Only an idiot would send her packing—or allow her to leave—without even ascertaining her suitability.

It was unlikely that she would stay, but not, he reckoned, impossible, and he might at least give it a try.

He made his way through the misty drizzle and into the house, wiping his feet on the mat that the housekeeper always left out for him near the side entrance. He was a mess, as he always was after working in the greenhouse, and the servants were used to him in such a state, but he supposed he ought to clean up before finding Miss Bridgerton and inviting her to eat with him. She was from London and would surely object to sitting at table with a man who was less than perfectly groomed.

He cut through the kitchen, nodding genially at a maid washing carrots in a tub of water. The servants’ stairs were just outside the other kitchen door and—

“Miss Bridgerton!” he said in surprise. She was sitting at a table in the kitchen, halfway through a very large ham sandwich and looking remarkably at home on her perch on a stool. “What are you doing here?”

“Sir Phillip,” she said, nodding at him.

“You don’t have to eat in the kitchen,” he said, scowling at her for no reason other than that she was not where he’d expected her to be.

That and the fact that he’d actually intended to change his clothes for lunch—something with which he did not ordinarily bother—for her benefit, and here she’d caught him a mess, anyway.

“I know,” she replied, cocking her head and blinking those devastating gray eyes at him. “But I was looking for food and company, and this seemed the best place to find both.”

Was that an insult? He couldn’t be certain, and her eyes looked innocent, so he decided to ignore it and said, “I was just on my way to change into cleaner attire and invite you to share my lunch with me.”

“I would be happy to remove myself to the breakfast room and finish my sandwich there, if you wish to join me,” Eloise said. “I’m sure Mrs. Smith wouldn’t mind making another sandwich for you. This one is delicious.” She looked over at the cook. “Mrs. Smith?”

“It’s no trouble at all, Miss Bridgerton,” the cook said, leaving Phillip nearly gaping at her. It was quite the friendliest tone of voice he had ever heard emerge from her lips.

Eloise edged herself off of her stool and picked up her plate. “Shall we?” she said to Phillip. “I have no objection to your attire.”

Before he even realized that he had not agreed to her plan, Phillip found himself in the breakfast room, seated across from her at the small round table he used far more often than the long, lonely one in the formal dining room. A maid had carried Miss Bridgerton’s tea service, and after inquiring if he wanted some, Miss Bridgerton herself had expertly prepared him a cup.

It was an unsettling feeling, this. She had maneuvered him quite neatly to serve her purposes, and somehow it didn’t quite matter that he’d intended to ask her to lunch with him in this very manner. He liked to think he was at least nominally in charge in his own home.

“I met your children earlier,” Miss Bridgerton said, lifting her teacup to her lips.

“Yes, I was there,” he replied, pleased that she had initiated the conversation. Now he didn’t have to.

“No,” she corrected, “after that.”

He looked up in question.

“They were waiting for me,” she explained, “outside my bedchamber door.”

An awful feeling began to churn and roll in his stomach. Waiting for her with what? A bag of live frogs? A bag of dead frogs? His children had not been kind to their governesses, and he did not imagine they’d be much more charitable to a female guest who was obviously there in the role of prospective stepmother.

He coughed. “I trust you survived the encounter?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “We have reached an understanding of sorts.”

“An understanding?” He eyed her warily. “Of sorts?”

She waved away his question as she chewed on her food. “You needn’t worry about me.”

“Need I worry about my children?”

She looked up at him with an inscrutable smile. “Of course not.”

“Very well.” He looked down at the sandwich that had been placed in front of him and took a healthy bite. Once he’d swallowed, he looked her straight in the eye and said, “I must apologize for my greeting this morning. I was less than gracious.”

She nodded regally. “And I apologize for arriving unheralded. It was quite ill-bred of me.”

He nodded back. “You, however, apologized for that this morning, while I did not.”

She offered him a smile, a genuine one, and he felt his heart lurch. Good God, when she smiled it transformed her entire face. In all the time he’d been corresponding with her, he’d never dreamed that she would take his breath away.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing with the barest hint of pink. “That was very gracious of you.”

Phillip cleared his throat and shifted uneasily in his seat. What was wrong with him, that he was less comfortable with her smiles than he was with her frowns? “Right,” he said, coughing one more time to cover the gruffness in his voice. “Now that we have that out of the way, perhaps we should address your reason for being here.”

Eloise set her sandwich down and regarded him with obvious surprise. Clearly, she hadn’t expected him to be so direct. “You were interested in marriage,” she said.

“Are you?” he countered.

“I’m here,” she said simply.

He looked at her assessingly, his eyes searching hers until she squirmed in her seat. “You are not what I expected, Miss Bridgerton.”

“Under the circumstances, I would not think it inappropriate for you to use my given name,” she said, “and you are not what I expected, either.”

He sat back in his seat, looking at her with the vaguest hint of a smile. “And what did you expect?”

“What did you expect?” Eloise countered.

He gave her a look that told her he’d noticed she’d avoided his question, then said, quite bluntly, “I didn’t expect you to be so pretty.”

Eloise felt herself lurch back slightly at the unexpected compliment. She hadn’t been looking her best that morning, and even if she had—well, she’d never been considered one of the beauties of the ton. Bridgerton women were generally thought to be attractive, vivacious, and personable. She and her sisters were popular, and they’d all received more than one offer of marriage, but men seemed to like them because they liked them, not because they were struck dumb by their beauty.

“I . . . ah . . .” She felt herself flushing, which mortified her, which of course caused her cheeks to redden even more. “Thank you.”

He nodded graciously.

“I am not certain why my appearance would have come as a surprise to you,” she said, thoroughly annoyed with herself for reacting so strongly to his flattery. Heavens, one would think she had never been paid a compliment before. But he was just sitting there, looking at her. Looking, and staring, and . . .

She shivered.

And it wasn’t the least bit drafty. Could one shiver from feeling too . . . hot?

“You yourself wrote that you are a spinster,” he said. “There must be some reason you have never married.”

“It was not because I received no offers,” she felt compelled to inform him.

“Obviously not,” he said, tilting his head in her direction as a gesture of compliment. “But I cannot help but be curious as to why a woman like you would feel the need to resort to . . . well . . . me.”

She looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since she’d arrived. He was quite handsome in a rough, slightly unkempt sort of way. His dark hair looked in dire need of a good trim, and his skin showed signs of a faint tan, which was impressive considering how little sunshine they’d enjoyed lately. He was large and muscular, and sat in his chair with a careless, athletic sort of grace, legs sprawled in a manner that would not have been acceptable in a London drawing room.

And the look on his face told her that he didn’t much care that his manners were not de rigeur. It wasn’t the same sort of defiant attitude she saw so often among young men of the ton. She’d met so many men of that kind—the ones who made such a point of defying convention, and then spoiled the effect by going out of their way to make sure that everyone knew how daring and scandalous they were.

But with Sir Phillip it was different. Eloise would have bet good money that it would simply never have occurred to him to care that he wasn’t sitting in a properly formal manner, and it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to him to make sure that other people knew he didn’t care.

It made Eloise wonder if that was the mark of a truly self-confident person, and if so, why did he need to resort to her? Because from what she’d seen of him, curt manners this morning aside, he shouldn’t have had too much trouble finding himself a wife.

“I am here,” she said, finally remembering that he had asked her a question, “because after refusing several offers of marriage”—she knew that a better person would have been more modest and not taken such pains to emphasize the word “several,” but she just couldn’t help herself—“I find that I still desire a husband. Your letters seemed to indicate that you might be a good candidate. It seemed shortsighted not to meet with you and find out if that was indeed true.”

He nodded. “Very practical of you.”

“What about you?” she countered. “You were the one who initially brought up the topic of marriage. Why couldn’t you simply find yourself a wife among the women here?”

For a moment he did nothing but blink, looking at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t figured it out for herself. Finally, he said, “You’ve met my children.”

Eloise nearly choked on the bite of sandwich she’d just started to chew. “I beg your pardon?”

“My children,” he said flatly. “You’ve met them. Twice, I think. You told me so.”

“Yes, but what . . .” She felt her eyes grow wide. “Oh, no, don’t tell me they’ve scared away every prospective wife in the district?”

The look he leveled at her was grim. “Most of the women in the area refuse to even enter the ranks of the prospectives.”

She scoffed. “They’re not that bad.”

“They need a mother,” he said baldly.

She raised her brows. “Surely you can find a more romantic way to convince me to be your wife.”

Phillip sighed wearily, running a hand through his already ruffled hair. “Miss Bridgerton,” he said, then corrected himself with, “Eloise. I’m going to be honest with you, because, to be frank, I have neither the energy nor the patience for fancy romantic words or cleverly constructed stories. I need a wife. My children need a mother. I invited you here to see if you would be willing to assume such a role, and indeed, if you and I would suit.”

“Which one?” she whispered.

He clenched his hands, his knuckles brushing the tablecloth. What was it about women? Did they speak in some sort of code? “Which one . . . what?” he asked, impatience coloring his voice.

“Which one do you want,” she clarified, her voice still soft. “A wife or a mother?”

“Both,” he said. “I should think that was obvious.”

“Which one do you want more?”

Phillip stared at her for a long while, aware that this was an important question, quite possibly one that could signal the end of his unusual courtship. Finally, he just offered her a helpless shrug and said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to separate the two.”

She nodded, her eyes serious. “I see,” she murmured. “I expect you are right.”

Phillip let out a long breath he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. Somehow—God Himself only knew how—he’d answered correctly. Or at the very least, not incorrectly.

Eloise fidgeted slightly in her seat, then motioned to the half-eaten sandwich on his plate. “Shall we continue with our meal?” she suggested. “You’ve been in your greenhouse all morning. I’m sure you must be quite famished.”

Phillip nodded and took a bite of his food, all of a sudden feeling quite pleased with life. He still wasn’t certain that Miss Bridgerton was going to consent to become Lady Crane, but if she did . . .

Well, he didn’t think he would have any objections.

But wooing her wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d anticipated. It was clear to him that he needed her more than the other way around. He’d been counting on her being a desperate spinster, which was clearly not the case, despite her advanced years. Miss Bridgerton, he suspected, had a number of options in her life, of which he was only one.

But still, something must have compelled her to leave her home and travel all the way out to Gloucestershire. If her life in London was so perfect, why, then, had she left?

But as he watched her across the table, watched her face transform with a mere smile, it occurred to him—he didn’t much care why she’d left.

He just needed to make sure that she stayed.

Chapter 4

. . . so sorry to hear that Caroline is colicky and giving you fits. And of course it is too bad that neither Amelia nor Belinda is amenable to her arrival. But you must look upon the bright side, dear Daphne. It would all have been so much more difficult had you birthed twins.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her

sister the Duchess of Hastings,

one month after the birth

of Daphne’s third child

Phillip whistled to himself as he walked through the main hall toward the staircase, inordinately pleased with his life. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon in the company of Miss Bridgerton—no, Eloise, he reminded himself—and he was now convinced she’d make an excellent wife. She was quite clearly intelligent, and with all those brothers and sisters (not to mention nephews and nieces) she’d told him about, surely she’d know how to manage Oliver and Amanda.

And, he thought with a wolfish smile, she was rather pretty, and more than once this afternoon he’d caught himself looking at her, wondering how she’d feel in his arms, whether she’d respond to his kiss.

His body tightened at the thought. It had been so long since he’d been with a woman. More years than he cared to count.

More years, quite honestly, than any man would care to admit to.

He’d not availed himself of any of the services offered by the barmaids at the local public inn, preferring his women more freshly washed and, in truth, not quite so anonymous.

Or maybe more anonymous. None of those barmaids were likely to leave the village during their lifetime, and Phillip enjoyed his time at the public inn too much to ruin it by constantly having to run into women with whom he’d once lain and no longer cared to.

And before Marina’s death—well, he’d never even considered being unfaithful to her, despite the fact that they’d not shared a bed since the twins were quite young.

She’d been so melancholy following their birth. Marina had always seemed fragile and overly pensive, but it was only after Oliver and Amanda had arrived that she’d sunk into her own world of sorrow and despair. It had been horrifying for Phillip, watching the life behind her eyes slip away, day by day, until all that was left was an eerie flatness, the barest shadow of the woman who had once existed.

He knew that women couldn’t have relations immediately following childbirth, but even once she was physically healed he couldn’t have even imagined forcing himself upon her. How was one supposed to lust after a woman who always looked as if she might cry?

When the twins were a bit older, and Phillip had thought—hoped, really—that Marina was getting better, he had visited her in her bedchamber.

Once.

She had not refused him, but nor had she taken part in his lovemaking. She’d just lain there, doing nothing, her head turned to the side, her eyes open, barely blinking.

It was almost as if she hadn’t been there at all.

He’d left feeling soiled, morally corrupt, as if he’d somehow violated her, even though she had never uttered the word no.

And he had never touched her again.

His needs weren’t so great that he needed to slake them upon a woman who lay beneath him like a corpse.

And he never wanted to feel again as he had that final night. Once he’d returned to his own room, he’d promptly emptied the contents of his stomach, shaking and trembling, disgusted with himself. He had behaved like an animal, desperately trying to rouse in her some sort—any sort—of response. When that had proven impossible, he’d grown angry with her, wanted to punish her.

And that had terrified him.

He’d been too rough. He didn’t think he’d hurt her, but he hadn’t been gentle. And he never wanted to see that side of himself again.

But Marina was gone.

Gone.

And Eloise was different. She wasn’t going to cry at the drop of a hat or shut herself in her room, picking at her food and crying into her pillow.

Eloise had spirit. Backbone.

Eloise was happy.

And if that wasn’t a good criterion for a wife, he didn’t know what was.

He paused at the base of the stairs to check his pocket watch. He had told Eloise that supper would be at seven and that he would meet her outside her door to take her down to the dining room. He didn’t want to be early and appear too eager.

On the other hand, it wouldn’t do to be late. There was little to be gained in making her think he was disinterested.

He snapped his watch shut and rolled his eyes. He was behaving no better than a green boy. This was ridiculous. He was master of his own house and an accomplished scientist. He ought not to be counting minutes just so he could best win a woman’s favor.

But even as he thought that, he opened his watch for one more check. Three minutes prior to seven. Excellent. That would give him just enough time to ascend the stairs and meet her outside her door with precisely one minute to spare.

He grinned, enjoying his warm flush of desire at the thought of her in an evening gown. He hoped it was blue. She would look lovely in blue.

His smile deepened. She would look lovely in nothing at all.

Except when he found her, upstairs in the hall outside her bedchamber, her hair had gone white.

As, it seemed, had the rest of her.

Bloody hell. “Oliver!” he bellowed. “Amanda!”

“Oh, they’re long gone,” Eloise bit off. She looked up at him with fuming eyes. Fuming eyes which, he couldn’t help but note, were the only part of her not covered with a remarkably thick coating of flour.

Well, good for her for closing them in time. He’d always admired quick reflexes in a woman.

“Miss Bridgerton,” he said, his hand moving forward to help her, then retracting as he realized there was no helping her. “I cannot begin to express—”

“Don’t apologize for them,” she snapped.

“Right,” he said. “Of course. But I promise you . . . I will . . .”

His words trailed off. Truly, the look in her eyes would have been enough to silence Napoleon himself.

“Sir Phillip,” she said . . . slowly, tightly, looking very much as if she might launch herself at him in a furious frenzy. “As you can see, I’m not quite ready for supper.”

He took a self-preservational step back. “I gather the twins paid you a visit,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, with no small measure of sarcasm. “And then scampered away. The little cowards themselves are nowhere to be found.”

“Well, they wouldn’t be far,” he mused, allowing her the well-deserved insult to his children while he tried to carry on a conversation as if she didn’t look like some sort of hideous ghostly apparition.

Somehow it seemed the best course of action. Or at the very least, the one least likely to result in her wrapping her fingers around his throat.

“They’d want to see the results, of course,” he said, taking another discreet step back as she coughed, sending up a swirling cloud of flour. “I don’t suppose you heard any laughter when the flour came down? Cackling, perhaps?”

She glared at him.

“Right.” He winced. “Sorry for that. Stupid joke.”

“It was difficult,” she said, so tightly he wondered if her jaw might snap, “to hear anything but the sound of the bucket hitting my head.”

“Damn,” he muttered, following her line of sight until his eyes fell on a large metal bucket lying on its side on the carpet, with a small amount of flour still inside. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.

He reached out and took her head in his hands, trying to inspect her skin for bumps or bruises.

“Sir Phillip!” she yelped, attempting to squirm out of his grasp. “I must ask you to—”

“Be still,” he ordered, smoothing his thumbs over her temples, feeling for welts. It was an intimate gesture, and one he found oddly satisfying. She seemed just the right height next to him, and had she been clean, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stop himself from leaning down and dropping a soft kiss on her brow.

“I’m fine,” she practically grunted, wrenching herself free. “The flour weighed more than the bucket.”

Phillip leaned down and righted the bucket, testing its weight in his hand. It was fairly light and shouldn’t have caused too much damage, but still, it wasn’t the sort of thing with which one wanted to be struck on the head.

“I shall survive, I assure you,” she bit out.

He cleared his throat. “I imagine you will want a bath?”

He thought she said, “I imagine I will want those two little wretches on the end of a rope,” but the words came out under her breath, and just because that was what he would have said—well, it didn’t mean she was as uncharitably inclined.

“I’ll have one drawn for you,” he said quickly.

“Don’t bother. The water from my last bath is still in the tub.”

He winced. His children’s timing couldn’t have been more on the spot. “Nonetheless,” he said hastily, “I shall see that it is warmed with a few fresh buckets.”

He winced again at her glare. Bad choice of words.

“I’ll just see to that now,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied tautly. “Do that.”

He strode down the hall to give the order to a maid, except that the minute he turned the corner, he saw that a half dozen servants were already gaping at them, and had in fact set up a betting pool on how long the twins would last before Phillip tanned their hides.

After sending them on their way with instructions to draw a new bath immediately, he returned to Eloise’s side. He was already dusted with flour, so he saw no harm in taking her hand. “I’m terribly sorry,” he murmured, now trying not to laugh. His immediate reaction had been fury, but now . . . well, she did look rather ridiculous.

She glared at him, clearly sensing his change of mood.

He quickly assumed a sober mien. “Perhaps you should return to your room?” he suggested.

“And sit where?” she snapped.

She had a point. She was likely to ruin anything she touched, or at the very least necessitate a thorough cleaning.

“I’ll just keep you company, then,” he said, trying to sound jovial.

She gave him a look that was decidedly unamused.

“Right,” he said, in an attempt to fill the silence with something other than flour. He glanced up over the door, impressed with the twins’ handiwork, despite the unfortunate results. “I wonder how they did it,” he mused.

Her mouth fell open. “Does it matter?”

“Well,” he said, seeing from her face that this was not the most advisable avenue of conversation, but continuing nonetheless with, “I certainly can’t condone their actions, but it was obviously quite cleverly done. I don’t see where they attached the bucket, and—”

“They rested it on the top of the door.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have seven brothers and sisters,” she said dismissively. “Do you think I’ve never seen this prank before? They opened the door—just a crack—and then carefully placed the bucket.”

“And you didn’t hear them?”

She glared at him.

“Right,” he said hastily. “You were in the bath.”

“I don’t suppose,” she said in a haughty voice, “that you intend to imply that this was my fault for not having heard them.”

“Of course not,” he said—very quickly. Judging from the murderous look in Miss Bridgerton’s eyes, he was fairly certain that his health and welfare were directly dependent upon the speed with which he agreed with her. “Why don’t I leave you to your . . .”

Was there really a good way to describe the process of cleaning several pounds of flour off one’s person?

“Will I see you at supper?” he asked, deciding that a change of subject was most definitely in order.

She nodded, once, briefly. There wasn’t a great deal of warmth in that nod, but Phillip reckoned he should be happy that she wasn’t planning to leave the county that night.

“I will instruct the cook to keep supper warm,” he said. “And I will see to punishing the twins.”

“No,” she said, halting him in his tracks. “Leave them to me.”

He turned around slowly, a bit unnerved by the tone of her voice. “What, precisely, do you plan to do with them?”

“With them, or to them?”

Phillip had never thought the day would come when he’d be frightened by a woman, but as God was his witness, Eloise Bridgerton scared the living wits out of him.

The look in her eyes was positively diabolical.

“Miss Bridgerton,” he said, crossing his arms, “I must ask. What do you intend to do to my children?”

“I’m pondering my options.”

He considered that. “May I depend upon their still being alive tomorrow morning?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Alive, and with every limb intact, I assure you.”

Phillip stared at her for several moments, then let his lips spread into a slow, satisfied smile. He had a feeling that Eloise Bridgerton’s vengeance—whatever it might be—would be exactly what his children needed. Surely anyone with seven brothers and sisters would know how to wreak havoc in the most cunning, underhanded, and ingenious manner.

“Very well, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, almost glad they’d dumped a bucket of flour on her. “They are all yours.”

An hour later, just after he and Eloise sat down for supper, the screaming began.

Phillip actually dropped his spoon; Amanda’s shrieks had a more terrified tenor than usual.

Eloise didn’t even pause as she placed a spoonful of turtle soup between her lips. “She’s fine,” she murmured, delicately wiping her mouth with her serviette.

The rapid patter of little feet thundered overhead, signaling that Amanda was racing toward the steps.

Phillip half rose in his seat. “Perhaps I should—”

“I put a fish in her bed,” Miss Bridgerton said, not quite smiling, but nonetheless looking rather pleased with herself.

“A fish?” he echoed.

“Very well, it was a rather big fish.”

The tadpole in his mind quickly grew into a toothy shark, and he found himself choking on air. “Er,” he couldn’t help but ask, “where did you find a fish?”

“Mrs. Smith,” she said, as if his cook handed out large trout every day of the week.

He forced himself to sit back down. He wasn’t going to run to save Amanda. He wanted to; he did possess the odd paternal instinct, after all, and she was shrieking as if the fires of hell were licking at her toes.

But his daughter had made her bed; now it was time to lie in the one Miss Bridgerton had stunk up for her. He dipped his spoon in his soup, lifted it a few inches, then paused. “And what did you place in Oliver’s bed?”

“Nothing.”

He quirked a brow in question.

“It will keep him in suspense,” she explained coolly.

Phillip cocked his head toward her in salute. She was good. “They’ll retaliate, of course,” he felt honor-bound to warn her.

“I’ll be ready.” She sounded unconcerned. Then she looked up at him, straight in the eye, momentarily startling him with her direct gaze. “I suppose they know that you invited me here for the purpose of asking me to be your wife.”

“I never said anything to them.”

“No,” she murmured, “you wouldn’t.”

He looked over at her sharply, unable to discern if she meant that as an insult. “I don’t feel the need to keep my children apprised of my personal matters.”

She shrugged, a delicate little motion that he found infuriating.

“Miss Bridgerton,” he said, “I don’t need your advice on how to raise my children.”

“I didn’t say a word on the subject,” she returned, “although I might point out that you do appear rather desperate to find them a mother, which would seem to indicate that you do want help.”

“Until you agree to take on that role,” he bit off, “you may keep your opinions to yourself.”

She speared him with a frosty stare, then turned her attention back to her soup. After only two spoonfuls, however, she looked back up at him defiantly, and said, “They need discipline.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“They also need love.”

“They get love,” he muttered.

“And attention.”

“They get that, too.”

“From you.”

Phillip might have been aware that he was far from being a perfect father, but he was damned if he would allow someone else to say so. “And I suppose you have deduced their state of shameful neglect during the twelve hours since your arrival.”

She snorted her disdain. “It hardly required twelve hours to listen to them this morning, begging you to spend a paltry few minutes in their company.”

“They did nothing of the sort,” he retorted, but he could feel the tips of his ears growing hot, as they always did when he was lying. He didn’t spend enough time with them, and he was mortified that she’d managed to figure that out in such a short amount of time.

“They practically begged you not to be busy all day,” she shot back. “If you spent a bit more time with them—”

“You don’t know anything about my children,” he hissed. “And you don’t know anything about me.”

She stood abruptly. “Clearly,” she said, heading for the door.

“Wait!” he called, jumping to his feet. Damn. How had this happened? Barely an hour ago he’d been convinced that she would become his wife, and now she was practically on her way back to London.

He let out a frustrated breath. Nothing had the ability to turn his temper like his children, or the discussion thereof. Or, to be more precise, the discussion of his failings as their father.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it, too. Or at least meaning it enough not to want her to leave. “Please.” He held out his hand. “Don’t go.”

“I’ll not be treated like an imbecile.”

“If there is one thing I’ve learned in the twelve hours since your arrival,” he said, purposefully repeating his earlier words, “it’s that you’re no imbecile.”

She regarded him for a few more seconds, then placed her hand in his.

“At the very least,” he said, not even caring that he sounded as if he were pleading with her, “you must stay until Amanda arrives.”

Her brows rose in question.

“Surely you’ll want to savor your victory,” he murmured, then added under his breath, “I know I would.”

She allowed him to reseat her, but they had only one more minute together before Amanda came shrieking into the room, her nursemaid hot on her heels.

“Father!” Amanda wailed, throwing herself onto his lap.

Phillip embraced her awkwardly. It was some time since he’d done so, and he’d forgotten how it felt. “Whatever can be the problem?” he asked, giving her a pat on the back for good measure.

Amanda pulled her face out of its burrowed position in his neck and pointed one furious, shaking finger at Eloise. “It’s her,” she said, as if referring to the devil himself.

“Miss Bridgerton?” Phillip asked.

“She put a fish in my bed!”

“And you dumped flour on her head,” he said sternly, “so I’d say you’re even.”

Amanda’s little mouth fell open. “But you’re my father!”

“Indeed.”

“You’re supposed to take my side!”

“When you’re in the right.”

“It was a fish,” she sobbed.

“So I smell. You’ll want a bath, I imagine.”

“I don’t want a bath!” she wailed. “I want you to punish her!”

Phillip smiled at that. “She’s rather big for punishing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Amanda stared at him with horrified disbelief, and then finally, her lower lip shaking, she gasped, “You need to tell her to leave. Right now!”

Phillip set Amanda down, rather pleased with how the entire encounter was progressing. Maybe it was Miss Bridgerton’s calm presence, but he seemed to have more patience than usual. He felt no urge to snap at Amanda, or to avoid the issue altogether by banishing her to her room. “I beg your pardon, Amanda,” he said, “but Miss Bridgerton is my guest, not yours, and she will remain here as long as I wish.”

Eloise cleared her throat. Loudly.

“Or,” Phillip amended, “as long as she wishes to remain.”

Amanda’s entire face scrunched in thought.

“Which doesn’t mean,” he said quickly, “that you may torture her in an attempt to force her away.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

“But—”

“What did I just say?”

“But she’s mean!”

“I think she’s very clever,” Phillip said, “and I wish I’d put a fish in your bed months ago.”

Amanda stepped back in horror.

“Go to your room, Amanda.”

“But it smells bad.”

“You have only yourself to blame.”

“But my bed—”

“You’ll have to sleep on the floor,” he replied.

Face quivering—entire body quivering, truth be told—she dragged herself toward the door. “But . . . but . . .”

“Yes, Amanda?” he asked, in what he thought to be an impressively patient voice.

“But she didn’t punish Oliver,” the little girl whispered. “That wasn’t very fair of her. The flour was his idea.”

Phillip raised his brows.

“Well, it wasn’t only my idea,” Amanda insisted. “We thought it up together.”

Phillip actually chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about Oliver if I were you, Amanda. Or rather,” he said, giving his chin a thoughtful stroke with his fingers, “I would worry. I suspect Miss Bridgerton has plans for him yet.”

That seemed to satisfy Amanda, and she mumbled a barely articulate “Good night, Father,” before allowing her nursemaid to lead her from the room.

Phillip turned back to his soup, feeling very pleased with himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d emerged from a run-in with one of the twins in which he’d felt he’d handled everything just right. He took a sip, then, still holding his spoon, looked over at Eloise and said, “Poor Oliver will be quaking in his boots.”

She appeared to be trying hard not to grin. “He won’t be able to sleep.”

Phillip shook his head. “Not a wink, I should think. And you should watch your step. I’d wager he’ll set some sort of trap at his door.”

“Oh, I have no plans to torture Oliver this evening,” she said with a blithe wave of her hand. “That would be far too easy to predict. I prefer the element of surprise.”

“Yes,” he said with a chuckle. “I can see that you would.”

Eloise answered him with a smug expression. “I would almost consider leaving him in perpetual agony, except that it really wouldn’t be fair to Amanda.”

Phillip shuddered. “I hate fish.”

“I know. You wrote me as much.”

“I did?”

She nodded. “Odd that Mrs. Smith even had any in the house, but I suppose the servants like it.”

They descended into silence, but it was a comfortable, companionable sort of quietude. And as they ate, moving through the courses of the supper as they chatted about nothing in particular, it occurred to Phillip that perhaps marriage wasn’t supposed to be so hard.

With Marina he’d always felt like he was tiptoeing around the house, always fearful that she was going to descend into one of her bouts with melancholia, always disappointed when she seemed to withdraw from life, and indeed, almost disappear.

But maybe marriage was supposed to be easier than that. Maybe it was supposed to be like this. Companionable. Comfortable.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken with anyone about his children, or the raising thereof. His burdens had always been his alone, even when Marina had been alive. Marina herself had been a burden, and he was still wrestling with the guilt he felt at his relief that she was gone.

But Eloise . . .

He looked across the table at the woman who had so unexpectedly fallen into his life. Her hair glowed almost red in the flickering candlelight, and her eyes, when she caught him staring at her, sparkled with vitality and just a hint of mischief.

She was, he was coming to realize, exactly what he needed. Smart, opinionated, bossy—they weren’t the sort of things men usually looked for in a wife, but Phillip so desperately needed someone to come to Romney Hall and fix things. Nothing was quite right, from the house to his children to the slightly hushed pall that had hung over the place when Marina had been alive, and sadly had not lifted even after her death.

Phillip would gladly cede some of his husbandly power to a wife if she would only make everything right again. He’d be more than happy to disappear into his greenhouse and let her be in charge of everything else.

Would Eloise Bridgerton be willing to take on such a role?

Dear God, he hoped so.

Chapter 5

. . . implore you, Mother, you MUST punish Daphne. It is NOT FAIR that I am the only one sent to bed without pudding. And for a week. A week is far too long. Especially since it was all mostly Daphne’s idea.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her mother,

left upon Violet Bridgerton’s night table

during Eloise’s tenth year

It was strange, Eloise thought, how much could change in a single day.

Because now, as Sir Phillip was escorting her through his home, ostensibly viewing the portrait gallery but really just prolonging their time together, she was thinking—

He might make a perfectly fine husband after all.

Not the most poetic way to phrase a concept that ought to have been full of romance and passion, but theirs wasn’t a typical courtship, and with only two years remaining until her thirtieth birthday, Eloise couldn’t really afford to be fanciful.

But still, there was something . . .

In the candlelight, Sir Phillip was somehow more handsome, perhaps even a little dangerous-looking. The rugged planes of his face seemed to angle and shadow in the flickering light, lending him a more sculptured look, almost like the statues she’d visited at the British Museum. And as he stood next to her, his large hand possessively at her elbow, his entire presence seemed to envelop her.

It was odd, and thrilling, and just a little bit terrifying.

But gratifying, too. She’d done a crazy thing, running off in the middle of the night, hoping to find happiness with a man she’d never met. It was a relief to think that maybe it hadn’t all been a complete mistake, that maybe she’d gambled with her future and won.

Nothing would have been worse than slinking back to London, admitting failure and having to explain to her entire family what she’d done.

She didn’t want to have to admit that she’d been wrong, to herself or anyone else.

But mostly to herself.

Sir Phillip had proven to be an enjoyable supper companion, even if he wasn’t quite so glib or conversational as she was used to.

But he obviously possessed a sense of fair play, which Eloise deemed essential in any spouse. He had accepted—even admired—her fish-in-the-bed technique with Amanda. Many of the men Eloise had met in London would have been horrified that a gently bred lady would even think of resorting to such underhanded tactics.

And maybe, just maybe, this would work. Marriage to Sir Phillip did seem a harebrained scheme when she allowed herself to think about it in a logical manner, but it wasn’t as if he were a complete stranger—they had been corresponding for over a year, after all.

“My grandfather,” Phillip said mildly, gesturing to a large portrait.

“He was quite handsome,” Eloise said, even though she could barely see him in the dim light. She motioned to the picture to the right. “Is that your father?”

Phillip nodded once, curtly, the corners of his lips tightening.

“And where are you?” she asked, sensing that he didn’t wish to talk about his father.

“Over here, I’m afraid.”

Eloise followed his direction to a portrait of Phillip as a young boy of perhaps twelve years, posing with someone who could only have been his brother.

His older brother.

“What happened to him?” she asked, since he had to be dead. If he lived, Phillip could not have inherited his house or baronetcy.

“Waterloo,” he answered succinctly.

Impulsively, she placed her hand over his. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment she didn’t think he was going to say anything, but eventually he let out a quiet, “No one was sorrier than I.”

“What was his name?”

“George.”

“You must have been quite young,” she said, counting back to 1815 and doing the math in her head.

“Twenty-one. My father died two weeks following.”

She thought about that. At twenty-one, she was supposed to have been married. All young ladies of her station were expected to have been married by then. One would think that would confer a measure of adulthood, but now twenty-one seemed impossibly young and green, and far too innocent to have inherited a burden one had never thought to receive.

“Marina was his fiancée,” he said.

Her breath rushed over her lips, and she turned to him, her hand falling away from his. “I didn’t know,” she said.

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Here, would you like to see her portrait?”

“Yes,” Eloise replied, discovering that she did indeed wish to see Marina. They had been cousins, but distant ones, and it had been years since they’d visited with one another. Eloise remembered dark hair and light eyes—blue, maybe—but that was all. She and Marina had been of an age, and so they had been thrust together at family gatherings, but Eloise didn’t recall their ever having very much in common. Even when they were barely older than Amanda and Oliver, their differences had been clear. Eloise had been a boisterous child, climbing trees and sliding down banisters, always following her older siblings, begging them to allow her to take part in whatever they were doing.

Marina had been quieter, almost contemplative. Eloise remembered tugging on her hand, trying to get her to come outside and play. But Marina had just wanted to sit with a book.

Eloise had taken note of the pages, however, and she was quite convinced that Marina never moved beyond page thirty-two.

It was a strange thing to remember, she supposed, except that her nine-year-old self had found it so astounding—why would someone choose to stay inside with a book when the sun was shining, and then not even read it? She’d spent the rest of the visit whispering with her sister Francesca, trying to figure out just what it was that Marina was doing with that book.

“Do you remember her?” Phillip asked.

“Just a little,” Eloise replied, not sure why she didn’t wish to share her memory with him. And anyway, it was the truth. That was the sum of her recollections of Marina—that one week in April over twenty years earlier, whispering with Francesca as Marina stared at a book.

Eloise allowed Phillip to lead her over to Marina’s portrait. She had been painted seated, on some sort of ottoman, with her dark red skirts artfully arranged about her. A younger version of Amanda was on her lap, and Oliver stood at her side, in one of those poses young boys were always forced to assume—serious and stern, as if they were miniature adults.

“She was lovely,” Eloise said.

Phillip just stared at the image of his dead wife, then, almost as if it required a force of will, turned his head and walked away.

Had he loved her? Did he love her still?

Marina should have been his brother’s bride; everything seemed to suggest that Phillip had been given her by default.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t love her. Maybe he had been secretly in love with her while she had been engaged to his brother. Or maybe he had fallen in love after the wedding.

Eloise stole a look at his profile as he stared sightlessly at a painting on the wall. There had been emotion on his face when he had looked at Marina’s portrait. She wasn’t sure what he had felt for her, but it was definitely still something. It had only been a year, she reminded herself. A year might make up the official period of mourning, but it wasn’t very long to get past the death of a loved one.

Then he turned. His eyes hit hers, and she realized she’d been staring at him, mesmerized by the planes of his face. Her lips parted with surprise, and she wanted to look away, felt as if she ought to blush and stammer at having been caught, but somehow she could not. She just stood there, transfixed, breathless, as a strange heat spread across her skin.

He was ten feet away, at the very least, and it felt as if they were touching.

“Eloise?” he whispered, or at least she thought he did. She saw his lips form the word more than she actually heard his voice.

And then somehow the moment was broken. Maybe it was his whisper, maybe the creak of a windblown tree outside. But Eloise was finally able to move—to think—and she quickly turned back to Marina’s portrait, firmly affixing her gaze on her late cousin’s serene face. “The children must miss her,” Eloise said, needing to say something, anything that would restart the conversation—and restore her composure.

For a moment Phillip said nothing. And then, finally: “Yes, they’ve missed her for a long time.”

It seemed to Eloise a rather odd way to phrase it. “I know how they feel,” she said. “I was quite young when my father died.”

He looked over at her. “I didn’t realize.”

She shrugged. “It’s not something I talk about a great deal. It was a long time ago.”

He crossed back to her side, his steps slow and methodical. “Did it take you very long to get over it?”

“I’m not certain it’s something you ever do get over,” she said. “Completely, that is. But no, I don’t think about him every day, if that’s what you want to know.”

She turned away from Marina’s portrait; she’d been focusing on it for too long and was beginning to feel oddly intrusive. “I think it was more difficult for my older brothers,” she said. “Anthony—he is the eldest and was already a young man when it happened—had a particularly difficult time with it. They were very close. And my mother, of course.” She looked over at him. “My parents loved each other very much.”

“How did she react to his passing?”

“Well, she cried a great deal at first,” Eloise said. “I’m sure we weren’t meant to know. She always did it in her room at night, after she thought we were all asleep. But she missed him dreadfully, and it couldn’t have been easy with seven children.”

“I thought there were eight of you.”

“Hyacinth was not yet born. I believe my mother was eight months along.”

“Good God,” she thought she heard him murmur.

Good God was right. Eloise had no idea how her mother had managed.

“It was unexpected,” she told him. “He was stung by a bee. A bee. Can you imagine that? He was stung by a bee, and then— Well, I don’t need to bore you with the details. Here,” she said briskly, “let us leave. It’s too dark in here to see the portraits properly, anyway.”

It was a lie, of course. It was too dark, but Eloise couldn’t have cared less about that. Talking about her father’s death always made her feel a bit strange, and she just didn’t feel like standing there surrounded by paintings of dead people.

“I should like to see your greenhouse,” she said.

“Now?”

Put that way, it did seem an odd request. “Tomorrow, then,” she said, “when it’s light.”

His lips curved into a hint of a smile. “We can go now.”

“But we won’t be able to see anything.”

“We won’t be able to see everything,” he corrected. “But the moon is out, and we’ll take a lantern.”

She glanced doubtfully out the window. “It’s cold.”

“You can take a coat.” He leaned down with a gleam in his eye. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

“Of course not!” she retorted, knowing he was baiting her but falling for it, anyway.

He quirked a brow in a most provoking manner.

“I’ll have you know I’m the least cowardly woman you’re ever likely to encounter.”

“I’m sure you are,” he murmured.

“Now you’re being patronizing.”

He did nothing but chuckle.

“Very well,” she said gamely, “lead the way.”

“It’s so warm!” Eloise exclaimed as Phillip shut the greenhouse door behind her.

“It’s actually usually warmer than this,” he told her. “The glass allows the sun to warm the air, but except for this morning, it’s been quite overcast for the past few days.”

Phillip often visited his greenhouse at night, toiling by the light of a lantern when he could not sleep. Or, before he’d been widowed, to keep him busy so that he would not consider entering Marina’s bedchamber.

But he had never asked anyone to accompany him in the dark; even during the day, he almost always worked alone. Now he was seeing it all through Eloise’s eyes—the magic in the way the pearlescent moonlight threw shadows across the leaves and fronds. During the day, a walk through the greenhouse wasn’t so very different from a walk through any wooded area in England, with the exception of the odd rare fern or imported bromeliad.

But now, with the cloak of night playing tricks on the eyes, it was as if they were in some secret, hidden jungle, with magic and surprise lurking around every corner.

“What is this?” Eloise asked, peering down at eight small clay pots, arranged in a line across his workbench.

Phillip walked to her side, absurdly pleased that she seemed truly curious. Most people just feigned interest, or didn’t even bother to pretend and made a quick escape. “It’s an experiment I’ve been working on,” he said, “with peas.”

“The kind we eat?”

“Yes. I’m trying to develop a strain that will grow fatter in the pod.”

She peered down at the pots. Nothing was sprouting yet; he’d only planted the seeds a week ago. “How curious,” she murmured. “I had no idea one could do that.”

“I have no idea if one can,” he admitted. “I’ve been trying for a year.”

“With no success? How very frustrating.”

“I’ve had some success,” he admitted, “just not as much as I’d like.”

“I tried to grow roses one year,” she told him. “They all died.”

“Roses are more difficult than most people think,” he said.

Her lips twisted slightly. “I noticed you have them in abundance.”

“I have a gardener.”

“A botanist with a gardener?”

He’d heard that question before, many times. “It’s no different than a dressmaker with a seamstress.”

She considered that for a moment, then moved farther into the greenhouse, stopping to peer at various plants and scold him for not keeping up with her with the lantern.

“You’re a bit bossy this evening,” he said.

She turned, caught that he was smiling—half-smiling, at least—and offered him a wicked grin. “I prefer to be called ‘managing.’”

“A managing sort of female, eh?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t deduce as much from my letters.”

“Why do you think I invited you?” he countered.

“You want someone to manage your life?” she asked, tossing the words over her shoulder as she moved flirtatiously away from him.

He wanted someone to manage his children, but now didn’t seem like the best time to bring them up. Not when she was looking at him as if . . .

As if she wanted to be kissed.

Phillip had taken two slow, predatory steps in her direction before he even realized what he was doing.

“What is this?” she asked, pointing to something.

“A plant.”

“I know it’s a plant,” she said with a laugh. “If I’d—” But then she looked up, caught the gleam in his eyes, and quieted.

“May I kiss you?” he asked. He would have stopped if she’d said no, he supposed, but he didn’t allow her much opportunity, closing the distance between them before she could reply.

“May I?” he repeated, so close that his words were whispered across her lips.

She nodded, the motion tiny but sure, and brushed his mouth against hers, gently, softly, as one was supposed to kiss a woman one thought one might marry.

But then her hands stole around and touched his neck, and God help him, but he wanted more.

Much more.

He deepened the kiss, ignoring her gasp of surprise as he parted her lips with his tongue. But even that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to feel her, her warmth, her vitality, up and down the length of him, around him, through him, infusing him.

He slid his hands around her, settling one against her upper back, even as another daringly found the lush curve of her bottom. He pressed her against him, hard, not caring that she would feel the evidence of his desire. It had been so long. So damned long, and she was so soft and sweet in his arms.

He wanted her.

He wanted all of her, but even his passion-hazed mind knew that that was impossible this evening, and so he was determined to have the next best thing, which was just the feel of her, the sensation of her in his arms, the heat of her running along the entire length of his body.

And she was responding. Hesitantly, at first, as if she wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, but then with greater ardor, making innocently seductive little sounds from the back of her throat.

It drove him wild. She drove him wild.

“Eloise, Eloise,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and raspy with need. He sank one hand into her hair, tugging at it until her coiffure loosened and one thick chestnut lock slid out to form a seductive curlicue on her breastbone. His lips moved to her neck, tasting her skin, exulting when she arched back and offered him greater access. And then, just when he’d started to sink down, his knees bending as his lips trailed over her collarbone, she wrenched herself away.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, her hands flying up to the neckline of her dress even though it wasn’t the least bit out of place.

“I’m not,” he said baldly.

Her eyes widened at his bluntness. He didn’t care. He’d never been particularly fancy with words, and it was probably best that she learned that now, before they did anything permanent.

And then she surprised him.

“It was a figure of speech,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said I was sorry. I wasn’t, really. It was a figure of speech.”

She sounded remarkably composed and almost schoolteacherish, for a woman who had just been so soundly kissed.

“People say things like that all the time,” she continued, “just to fill the silence.”

Phillip was coming to realize that she wasn’t the sort of woman who liked silence.

“It’s rather like when one—”

He kissed her again.

“Sir Phillip!”

“Sometimes,” he said with a satisfied smile, “silence is a good thing.”

Her mouth fell open. “Are you saying I talk too much?”

He shrugged, having too much fun teasing her to do anything else.

“I’ll have you know that I have been much quieter here than I am at home.”

“That’s difficult to imagine.”

“Sir Phillip!”

“Shhh,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand, then taking it again, more firmly this time, when she snatched it away. “We need a bit of noise around here.”

Eloise woke the following morning as if she were still wrapped in a dream. She hadn’t expected him to kiss her.

And she hadn’t expected to like it quite so much.

Her stomach let out an angry growl, and she decided to make her way down to the breakfast room. She had no idea if Sir Phillip would be there. Was he an early riser? Or did he like to remain abed until noon? It seemed silly that she didn’t know these things about him when she was seriously contemplating marriage.

And if he was there, waiting for her over a plate of coddled eggs, what would she say to him? What did one say to a man after he’d had his tongue in one’s ear?

Never mind that it had been a very nice tongue, indeed. It was still quite beyond scandalous.

What if she got there and could barely manage “Good morning?” He’d surely find that amusing, after teasing her about her loquaciousness the night before.

It almost made her laugh. She, who could carry on a conversation about nothing in particular and frequently did, wasn’t sure what she was going to say when she next saw Sir Phillip Crane.

Of course, he had kissed her. That changed everything.

Crossing the room, she checked to make sure that her door was firmly shut before she opened it. She didn’t think that Oliver and Amanda would try the same trick twice, but one never knew. She didn’t particularly relish the thought of another flour bath. Or worse. After the fish incident, they were probably thinking more along the lines of something liquid. Something liquid and smelly.

Humming softly to herself, she stepped out into the hall and turned to the right to make her way to the staircase. The day seemed filled with promise; the sun had actually been peeking out through the clouds this morning when she’d looked out the window, and—

“Oh!”

The shriek ripped itself right out of her throat as she plunged forward, her foot caught behind something that had been strung out across the hall. She didn’t even have a chance to try to regain her balance; she had been walking quickly, as was her habit, and when she fell, she fell hard.

And without even the time to use her hands to break her fall.

Tears burned her eyes. Her chin—dear God, her chin felt like it was on fire. The side of it, at least. She had just managed to twist her head ever so slightly to the side before she fell.

She moaned something incoherent, the sort of noise one makes when one hurts so badly that one simply cannot keep it all inside. And she kept waiting for the pain to subside, thinking that this would be like a stubbed toe, which throbs mercilessly for a few seconds and then, once the surprise of it is over, slides into nothing more than a dull ache.

But the pain kept burning. On her chin, on the side of her head, on her knee, and on her hip.

She felt beaten.

Slowly, with great effort, she forced herself up onto her hands and knees, and then into a sitting position. She allowed herself to lean against the wall and lifted her hand to cradle her cheek, taking quick bursts of breath through her nose to try to control the pain.

“Eloise!”

Phillip. She didn’t bother to look up, didn’t want to move from her curled-up position.

“Eloise, my God,” he said, triple-stepping the last few stairs as he rushed to her side. “What happened?”

“I fell.” She hadn’t meant to whimper, but it came out that way, anyway.

With a tenderness that seemed out of place on a man of his size, he took her hand in his and pulled it from her cheek.

The next words he said were not ones that were often uttered in Eloise’s presence.

“You need a piece of meat on that,” he said.

She looked up at him with watery eyes. “Am I bruised?”

He nodded grimly. “You may have a blackened eye. It’s still too soon to tell.”

She tried to smile, tried to put a game face on it, but she just couldn’t manage it.

“Does it hurt very badly?” he asked softly.

She nodded, wondering why the sound of his voice made her want to cry even more. It reminded her of when she was small and she’d fallen from a tree. She’d sprained her ankle, quite badly, but somehow she’d managed not to cry until she’d made it back home.

One look from her mother and she’d begun to sob.

Phillip touched her cheek gingerly, his features pulling into a scowl when she winced.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. And she would. In a few days.

“What happened?”

And of course she knew exactly what had happened. Something had been strung across the hall, put in place to make her trip and fall. It didn’t require very much intelligence to guess who had done it.

But Eloise didn’t want to get the twins in trouble. At least not the sort of trouble they were likely to find themselves in once Sir Phillip got hold of them. She didn’t think they’d intended to cause quite so much harm.

But Phillip had already spied the thin length of twine, tightly drawn across the hall and tied around the legs of two tables, both of which had been tugged toward the center of the hall when Eloise had tripped.

Eloise watched as he knelt down, touching the string and twisting it around his fingers. He looked over at her, not with question in his eyes, but rather grim statement of fact.

“I didn’t see it,” she said, even though that was quite obvious.

Phillip didn’t take his eyes off of hers, but his fingers kept twisting the string until it tautened and snapped.

Eloise sucked in her breath. There was something almost terrifying in the moment. Phillip didn’t seem aware that he’d broken the string, barely cognizant of his strength.

Or the strength of his anger.

“Sir Phillip,” she whispered, but he never heard her.

“Oliver!” he bellowed. “Amanda!”

“I’m sure they didn’t mean to injure me,” Eloise began, not certain why she was defending them. They’d hurt her, that was true, but she had a feeling her punishment would be considerably less painful than anything coming from their father.

“I don’t care what they meant,” Phillip snapped. “Look how close you landed to the stairs. What if you’d fallen?”

Eloise eyed the stairs. They were close, but not close enough for her to have taken a tumble. “I don’t think . . .”

“They must answer for this,” he said, his voice deadly low and shaking with rage.

“I’ll be fine,” Eloise said. Already the stinging pain was giving way to a duller ache. But it still hurt, enough so that when Sir Phillip lifted her into his arms, she let out a little cry.

And his fury grew.

“I’m putting you in bed,” he said, his voice rough and curt.

Eloise offered no disagreement.

A maid appeared on the landing, gasping when she saw the darkening bruise on Eloise’s face.

“Get me something for this,” Sir Phillip ordered. “A piece of meat. Anything.”

The maid nodded and ran off as Phillip carried Eloise into her room. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked.

“My hip,” Eloise admitted as he settled her on top of her covers. “And my elbow.”

He nodded grimly. “Do you think you’ve broken anything?”

“No!” she said quickly. “No, I—”

“I’ll need to check, anyway,” he said, brushing aside her protests as he lightly examined her arm.

“Sir Phillip, I—”

“My children just nearly killed you,” he said, without a trace of humor in his eyes. “I should think you could dispense with the sir.”

Eloise swallowed as she watched him cross the room to the door, his strides long and powerful. “Get me the twins immediately,” he said, presumably to some servant hovering outside in the hall. Eloise couldn’t imagine that the children hadn’t heard his earlier bellow, but she also couldn’t blame them for attempting to delay judgment day at the hands of their father.

“Phillip,” she said, trying to coax him back into the room with the sound of her voice, “leave them to me. I was the injured party, and—”

“They are my children,” he said, his voice harsh, “and I will punish them. God knows it’s long past due.”

Eloise stared at him with growing horror. He was nearly shaking with rage, and while she could have happily swatted the children on their bottoms herself, she didn’t think he ought to be meting out punishment in his state.

“They hurt you,” Phillip said in a low voice. “That is not acceptable.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him again. “In a few days I won’t even—”

“That is not the point,” he said sharply. “If I had . . .” He stopped, tried again with, “If I hadn’t . . .” He stopped, beyond words, and leaned against the wall, his head hanging back as his eyes searched the ceiling—for what, she didn’t know. Answers, she supposed. As if one could find answers with the simple upward sweep of the eyes.

He turned, looked at her, his eyes grim, and Eloise saw something on his face she hadn’t expected to see there.

And that was when she realized it—all that rage in his voice, in the shaking of his body—it wasn’t directed at the children. Not really, and certainly not entirely.

The look on his face, the bleakness in his eyes—it was self-loathing.

He didn’t blame his children.

He blamed himself.

Chapter 6

. . . should not have let him kiss you. Who knows what liberties he will attempt to take the next time you meet? But what’s done is done, I suppose, so all there is left is to ask: Was it lovely?

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her sister Francesca,

slid under the door of her bedroom

the night Francesca met the Earl of Kilmartin,

whom she would marry two months later

When the children entered the room, half dragged and half pushed by their nursemaid, Phillip forced himself to remain rigidly in his position against the wall, afraid that if he went to them he’d beat them both within an inch of their lives.

And even more afraid that when he was through, he wouldn’t regret his actions.

So instead he just crossed his arms and stared, letting them squirm under the heat of his fury, while he tried to figure out what the hell he meant to say.

Finally, Oliver spoke up, his voice trembling as he said, “Father?”

Phillip said the only thing that came to mind, the only thing that seemed to matter. “Do you see Miss Bridgerton?”

The twins nodded, but they didn’t quite look at her. At least not at her face, which was beginning to purple around the eye.

“Do you notice anything amiss about her?”

They said nothing, forcing a silence until a maid appeared in the doorway with a “Sir?”

Phillip acknowledged her arrival with a nod, then strode to take hold of the piece of meat she’d brought for Eloise’s eye.

“Hungry?” he snapped at his children. When they didn’t reply, he said, “Good. Because sadly, none of us will be eating this, will we?”

He crossed the room to the bed, then sat down gently at Eloise’s side. “Here,” he said, still too angry for his voice to be anything but gruff. Brushing aside her efforts to help, he set the meat against her eye, then arranged a piece of cloth over it so that she would not have to dirty her fingers while keeping it in place.

Then, when he was done, he walked over to where the twins were cowering, and stood in front of them, arms crossed. And waited.

“Look at me,” he ordered, when neither removed their gaze from the floor.

When they did, he saw terror in their eyes, and it sickened him, but he didn’t know how else he was supposed to act.

“We didn’t mean to hurt her,” Amanda whispered.

“Oh, you didn’t?” he bit off, turning on them both with palpable fury. His voice was icy, but his face clearly showed his anger, and even Eloise shrank back in her bed.

“You didn’t think she might possibly be hurt when she tripped over the string?” Phillip continued, his sarcasm lending him a controlled air that was even more frightening. “Or perhaps you realized correctly that the string itself wasn’t likely to cause injury, but it didn’t occur to you that she might be hurt when she actually fell.”

They said nothing.

He looked at Eloise, who had lifted the meat from her face and was gingerly touching her cheekbone. The bruise under her eye seemed to be worsening by the minute.

The twins had to learn that they couldn’t continue like this. They needed to learn that they had to treat people with more respect. They needed to learn . . .

Phillip swore under his breath. They needed to learn something.

He jerked his head toward the door. “You will come with me.” He walked into the hall, turned back at them, and snapped, “Now.”

And as he led them from the room, he prayed that he could control himself.

Eloise tried not to listen, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from straining her ears. She didn’t know where Phillip was taking the children—it could be the next room, it could be the nursery, it could be outside. But one thing was certain. They were going to be punished.

And while she thought they should be punished—what they had done was inexcusable and they were certainly old enough to have realized that—she still found herself oddly worried for them. They had looked terrified when Phillip had led them away, and there was that niggling memory from the day before, when Oliver had blurted out the question, “Are you going to hit us?”

He had recoiled when he’d said it, as if he were expecting to be hit.

Surely Sir Phillip didn’t . . . No, that was impossible, Eloise thought. It was one thing to give children a spanking at a time like this, but surely he didn’t strike his children habitually.

She couldn’t have made such a misjudgment about a person. She had let the man kiss her the night before, kissed him in return, even. Surely she would have felt that something was wrong, sensed an inner cruelty if Phillip were the sort who beat his children.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Oliver and Amanda filed in, looking somber and red-eyed, followed by a grim-faced Sir Phillip, whose job at the rear was clearly to keep the children walking at a pace that exceeded that of a snail.

The children shuffled over to her bedside, and Eloise turned her head so that she could see them. She couldn’t see out of her left eye with the meat covering it, and of course that was the side the children had chosen.

“We’re sorry, Miss Bridgerton,” they mumbled.

“Louder,” came their father’s sharply worded directive.

“We’re sorry.”

Eloise gave them a nod.

“It won’t happen again,” Amanda added.

“That’s certainly a relief to hear,” Eloise said.

Phillip cleared his throat.

“Father says we must make it up to you,” Oliver said.

“Er . . .” Eloise wasn’t exactly certain how they meant to do that.

“Do you like sweets?” Amanda blurted out.

Eloise looked at her, blinking her good eye in confusion. “Sweets?”

Amanda’s chin shook up and down.

“Well, yes, I suppose I do. Doesn’t everyone?”

“I have a box of lemon drops. I’ve saved them for months. You can have them.”

Eloise swallowed against the lump in her throat as she watched Amanda’s tortured expression. There was something wrong with these children. Or if not with them, then for them. Something wasn’t right in their lives. With all of her nieces and nephews, Eloise had seen enough happy children to know this. “That will be all right, Amanda,” she said, her heart wrenching. “You may keep your lemon drops.”

“But we have to give you something,” Amanda said, casting a fearful glance at her father.

Eloise was about to tell her that that wasn’t necessary, but then, as she watched Amanda’s face, she realized that it was. In part, of course, because Sir Phillip had obviously insisted upon it, and Eloise wasn’t about to undermine his authority by saying otherwise. But also because the twins needed to understand the concept of making amends. “Very well,” Eloise said. “You may give me an afternoon.”

“An afternoon?”

“Yes. Once I’m feeling better, you and your brother may give me an afternoon. There is much here at Romney Hall with which I’m unfamiliar, and I imagine you two know every last corner of the house and grounds. You may take me on a tour. Provided, of course,” she added, because she did value her health and well-being, “that you promise there will be no pranks.”

“None,” Amanda said quickly, her chin bobbing in an earnest nod. “I promise.”

“Oliver,” Phillip growled, when his son did not speak quickly enough.

“There will be no pranks that afternoon,” Oliver muttered.

Phillip strode across the room and grabbed his son by the collar.

“Ever!” Oliver said in a strangled voice. “I promise! We shall leave Miss Bridgerton completely alone.”

“Not completely, I hope,” Eloise said, glancing up at Phillip and hoping he correctly interpreted that to mean, You may now put down the child. “After all, you do owe me an afternoon.”

Amanda offered her a tentative smile, but Oliver’s scowl remained firmly in place.

“You may leave now,” Phillip said, and the children fled through the open doorway.

The two adults remained in silence for a full minute after they left, both staring at the door with hollow, weary expressions. Eloise felt drained, and wary, almost as if she’d been dropped into a situation she didn’t quite understand.

A burst of nervous laughter almost escaped her lips. What was she thinking? Of course she had been dropped into a situation she didn’t understand, and she was lying to herself if she thought she knew what to do.

Phillip walked over to the bed, but when he got there, he stood rather stiffly. “How are you?” he asked Eloise.

“If I don’t remove this meat soon,” she said quite frankly, “I think I might be sick.”

He picked up the platter the meat had arrived upon and held it out. Eloise put the steak down, grimacing at the wet, slopping sound it made. “I believe I would like to wash my face,” she said. “The smell is rather overwhelming.”

He nodded. “First let me look at your eye.”

“Do you have very much experience with this sort of thing?” she asked, glancing at the ceiling when he asked her to look up.

“A bit.” He pressed gently against the ridge of her cheekbone with his thumb. “Look right.”

She did. “A bit?”

“I boxed at university.”

“Were you good?”

He turned her head to the side. “Look left. Good enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“Close your eye.”

“What does that mean?” she persisted.

“You’re not closing your eye.”

She did, shutting them both, because whenever she winked only one eye she ended up squeezing it far too tightly. “What does it mean?”

She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him pause. “Has anyone ever told you you can be a bit stubborn?”

“All the time. It’s my only flaw.”

She heard his smile in the tenor of his breath. “The only one, eh?”

“The only one worth commenting upon.”

She opened her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ve quite forgotten what it was.”

She opened her mouth to repeat it, then realized he was teasing her, so she scowled instead.

“Close your eye again,” he said. “I’m not yet finished.” When she obeyed his command, he added, “Good enough meant I never had to fight if I didn’t want to.”

“But you weren’t the champion,” she surmised.

“You can open your eye now.”

She did, then blinked when she realized how close he still was.

He stepped back. “I wasn’t the champion.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t care about it enough.”

“How does it look?” she asked.

“Your eye?”

She nodded.

“I don’t think there is anything to be done to stop the bruising.”

“I didn’t think I hit my eye,” she said, letting out a frustrated sigh. “When I fell. I thought I hit my cheek.”

“You don’t have to hit your eye to bruise there. I can see from your face that you landed right here”—he touched her cheekbone, right where she’d hit, but he was so gentle that she felt no pain—“and that’s close enough for the bleeding to spread to the eye area.”

She groaned. “I’m going to look a fright for weeks.”

“It might not take weeks.”

“I have brothers,” she said, giving him a look that said she knew what she was talking about. “I’ve seen blackened eyes. Benedict had one that didn’t completely fade away for two months.”

“What happened to him?” Phillip asked.

“My other brother,” she said wryly.

“Say no more,” he said. “I had a brother of my own.”

“Beastly creatures,” she muttered, “the lot of them.” But there was love in her voice as she said it.

“Yours probably won’t take that long,” he said, helping her to stand so that she could make her way to the washbasin.

“But it might.”

Phillip nodded, then, once she was splashing the smell of the meat off her skin, said, “We need to get you a chaperone.”

She froze. “I’d quite forgotten.”

He let several seconds go by before replying, “I hadn’t.”

She picked up a towel and patted herself dry. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault, of course. You had written that you would arrange for a chaperone. In my haste to leave London, I quite forgot that you would need time to make the arrangements.”

Phillip watched her closely, wondering if she realized that she had slipped and said more than she’d probably meant to. It was difficult to imagine a woman such as Eloise—open, bright, and extremely talkative—as having secrets, but she had been quite close-lipped about her reasons for coming to Gloucestershire.

She’d said that she was looking for a husband, but he suspected that her reasons had as much to do with what she’d left behind in London as they did with what she hoped to find here in the country.

And then she’d said—in my haste.

Why had she left in a hurry? What had happened there?

“I have already contacted my great-aunt,” he said, helping her back into her bed even though she quite clearly wanted to do it herself. “I sent her a letter the morning you arrived. But I doubt she could be here any earlier than Thursday. She only lives in Dorset, but she’s not the sort to leave her home at the drop of a hat. She will want time to pack, I’m sure, and do all those things”—he waved his hand about in a slightly dismissive manner—“that women need to do.”

Eloise nodded, her expression serious. “It’s only four days. And you’ve a great many servants. It’s not as if we’re alone together at some remote hunting box.”

“Nonetheless, your reputation could be seriously compromised should people learn of your visit.”

She let out a long exhale, then lifted her shoulders in a fatalistic gesture. “Well, there isn’t much I can do about it now.” She motioned to her eye. “If I returned, my current appearance would cause more comment than the fact that I left in the first place.”

He nodded slowly, signaling his agreement even as his mind flew off in other directions. Was there a reason she was so unconcerned for her reputation? He’d not spent much time in society, but it was his experience that unmarried ladies, regardless of their age, were always concerned for their reputations.

Was it possible that Eloise’s reputation had been ruined before she’d arrived on his doorstep?

And more to the point, did he care?

He frowned, unable to answer the latter question just yet. He knew what he wanted—no, make that what he needed—in a wife, and it had little to do with purity and chastity and all those other ideals that proper young ladies were meant to embody.

He needed someone who could step in and make his life easy and uncomplicated. Someone who would run his house and mother his children. He was quite frankly pleased to have found in Eloise a woman for whom he felt a great deal of desire as well, but even if she’d been ugly as a crone—well, he’d have been happy to marry a crone as long as she was practical, efficient, and good with his children.

But if all that were true, why did he feel rather annoyed by the possibility that Eloise had had a lover?

No, not annoyed, precisely. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the correct word for his feelings. Irritated, he supposed, the way one was irritated by a pebble in one’s shoe or a mild sunburn.

It was that feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Not dreadfully, catastrophically wrong, but just not . . . right.

He watched her settle herself against the pillows. “Do you want me to leave you to your rest?” he asked.

She sighed. “I suppose, although I’m not tired. Bruised, perhaps, but not tired. It’s barely eight in the morning.”

He glanced at a clock on a shelf. “Nine.”

“Eight, nine,” she said, shrugging off the difference. “Whichever, it’s still morning.” She looked longingly out the window. “And it’s finally not raining.”

“Would you prefer to sit in the garden?” he inquired.

“I’d prefer to walk in the garden,” she replied pertly, “but my hip does ache a bit. I suppose I should try to rest for a day.”

“More than a day,” he said gruffly.

“You’re most probably right, but I can assure you I won’t be able to manage it.”

He smiled. She wasn’t the sort of woman who would ever choose to spend her days sitting quietly in a drawing room, working on her embroidery or sewing, or whatever it was women were supposed to do with needles and thread.

He looked over at her as she fidgeted. She wasn’t the sort of woman who would ever choose to sit still, period.

“Would you like to take a book with you?” he asked.

Her eyes clouded with disappointment. He knew that she’d expected him to accompany her to the garden, and heaven knew, part of him wanted to, but somehow he felt he had to get away, almost as a measure of self-preservation. He still felt off balance, desperately ill-at-ease from having had to spank the children.

It seemed that every fortnight they did something that required punishment, and he didn’t know what else to do. But he drew no pleasure from the act. He hated it, absolutely hated it, felt almost as if he might retch every time, and yet what was he supposed to do when they misbehaved that badly? The little things he tried to brush aside, but when they glued their governess’s hair to her bedsheets while she slept, how was he supposed to brush aside that? Or what about the time they had broken an entire shelf of terra-cotta pots in his greenhouse? They had claimed it was an accident, but Phillip knew better. And the look in their eyes as they protested their innocence told him that even they hadn’t thought he’d actually believe them.

And so he disciplined them in the only way he knew how, although thus far he’d been able to avoid using anything other than his hand. When, that is, he did anything at all. Half the time—more than half, really—he was so overcome by memories of his own father’s brand of discipline that he just stumbled away, shaking and sweating, horrified by the way his hand itched to swat them on their behinds.

He worried that he was too lenient. He probably was, since the children didn’t seem to be getting any better. He told himself he needed to be more stern, and once he’d even strode out to the stables and grabbed the whip . . .

He shuddered at the memory. It was after the glue incident, and they’d had to cut away Miss Lockhart’s hair just to free her, and he’d been so angry—so unbelievably, overpoweringly angry. His vision had gone red, and all he’d wanted to do was punish them, and make them behave, and teach them how to be good people, and he’d snatched the whip . . .

But it had burned in his hands, and he’d dropped it in horror, afraid of what he would become if he actually used it.

The children had gone unpunished for an entire day. Phillip had fled to his greenhouse, shaking with disgust, hating himself for what he’d almost done.

And for what he was unable to do.

Make his children better people.

He didn’t know how to be a father to them. That much was clear. He didn’t know how, and maybe he simply wasn’t suited to the task. Maybe some men were born knowing what to say and how to act, and some of them simply couldn’t do a good job of it no matter how hard they tried.

Maybe one needed a good father oneself to know how to be the same.

Which had left him doomed from birth.

And now here he was, trying to make up for his deficiencies with Eloise Bridgerton. Perhaps he could finally stop feeling so guilty about being such a bad father if he could only provide them with a good mother.

But nothing was ever as simple as one wanted it to be, and Eloise, in the single day she’d been in residence, had managed to turn his life upside down. He’d never expected to want her, at least not with the intensity he felt every time he stole a glance at her. And when he’d seen her on the floor—why was it that his first thought had been terror?

Terror for her well-being, and, if he was honest, terror that the twins might have convinced her to leave.

When poor Miss Lockhart had been glued to the bed, Phillip’s first emotion had been rage at his children. With Eloise, he’d spared only the merest of thoughts for them until he’d assured himself that she was not seriously injured.

He hadn’t wanted to care about her, hadn’t wanted anything other than a good mother for his children. And now he didn’t know what to do about it.

And so even though a morning in the garden with Miss Bridgerton sounded like heaven, somehow he couldn’t quite allow himself the pleasure.

He needed some time alone. He needed to think. Or rather, to not think, since the thinking just left him angry and confused. He needed to bury his hands in some dirt and prune some plants, and shut himself away until his mind was no longer screaming with all of his problems.

He needed to escape.

And if he was a coward, so be it.

Chapter 7

. . . have never been so bored in all of my life. Colin, you must come home. It is interminably boring without you, and I don’t think I can bear such boredom another moment. Please do return, for I have clearly begun to repeat myself, and nothing could be more of a bore.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her brother Colin,

during her fifth season as a debutante,

sent (but never received)

while Colin was traveling in Denmark

Eloise spent the entire day in the garden, lounging on an exceedingly comfortable chaise that she was quite convinced had been imported from Italy, since it was her experience that neither the English nor the French had any clue as to how to fashion comfortable furniture.

Not that she normally spent a great deal of time pondering the construction of chairs and sofas, but stuck outside by herself in the Romney Hall garden, it wasn’t as if she had anything else to ponder.

No, not a thing. Not a single thing to think about other than the comfortable chaise beneath her, and maybe the fact that Sir Phillip was an ill-mannered beast for leaving her alone for the entire day after his two little monsters—whose existence, she added into her thoughts with a mental flourish, he had never seen fit to reveal in his correspondence—had given her a blackened eye.

It was a perfect day, with a blue sky and a light breeze, and Eloise didn’t have a single thing in the world to think about.

She had never been so bored in her life.

It wasn’t in her nature to sit still and watch the clouds float by. She would much rather be out doing something—taking a walk, inspecting a hedgerow, anything other than just sitting like a lump on the chaise, staring aimlessly at the horizon.

Or if she had to sit here, at least she could have done so in the company of another person. She supposed the clouds might have been more interesting if she weren’t quite so alone, if someone were here to whom she might say, Goodness, but that one looks rather like a rabbit, don’t you think?

But no, she’d been left quite on her own. Sir Phillip was off in his greenhouse—she could see it from here, even see him moving about from time to time—and while she really wanted to get up and join him, if for no other reason than the fact that his plants had to be more interesting than the blasted clouds, she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeking him out.

Not after he’d rejected her so abruptly this afternoon. Good heavens, the man had practically fled from her company. It had been the oddest thing. She’d thought they were dealing with each other rather well, and then he’d grown quite abrupt, making up some sort of excuse about how he needed to work and fleeing the room as if she were plagued.

Odious man.

She picked up the book she’d selected from the library and held it resolutely in front of her face. She was going to read the blasted thing this time if it killed her.

Of course, that was what she’d told herself the last four times she’d picked it up. She never managed to get past a single sentence—a paragraph if she was really disciplined—before her mind wandered and the text on the page grew unfocused and, it went without saying, unread.

Served her right, she supposed, for being so irritated with Sir Phillip that she hadn’t paid any attention in the library and she’d snatched up the first book she’d seen.

The Botany of Ferns? What had she been thinking?

Even worse, if he saw her with it, he’d surely think she’d chosen it because she wanted to learn more about his interests.

Eloise blinked with surprise when she realized that she had reached the end of her page. She didn’t recall a single sentence, and in fact wondered if perhaps her eyes had only slid along the words without actually reading the letters.

This was ridiculous. She thrust the book aside and stood up, taking a few steps to test out the tenderness of her hip. Allowing herself a satisfied smile when she realized that the pain wasn’t bad at all, and in fact couldn’t even be called anything beyond mild discomfort, she walked all the way to the riotous mass of rosebushes off to the north, leaning forward to sniff the buds. They were still tightly closed—it was early in the season, after all—but maybe they’d have a scent, and—

“What the devil are you doing?”

Eloise just managed to avoid falling into the rosebush as she turned around. “Sir Phillip,” she said, as if that weren’t completely obvious.

He looked irate. “You’re supposed to be sitting down.”

“I was sitting down.”

“You were supposed to stay sitting down.”

She decided the truth would make an excellent explanation. “I was bored.”

He glanced over at the chaise in the distance. “Didn’t you get a book from the library?”

She shrugged. “I finished it.”

He quirked a brow in patent disbelief.

She returned his expression with an arch look of her own.

“Well, you need to sit down,” he said gruffly.

“I’m perfectly fine.” She patted her hip gently. “It hardly hurts at all now.”

He stared at her for some time, his expression irritable, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what. He must have left the greenhouse in a hurry, because he was quite filthy, with dirt along his arms, under every fingernail, and streaked quite liberally on his shirt. He looked a fright, at least by the standards Eloise had grown used to in London, but there was something almost appealing about him, something rather primitive and elemental as he stood there scowling at her.

“I can’t work if I have to worry about you,” he grumbled.

“Then don’t work,” she replied, thinking the solution quite obvious.

“I’m in the middle of something,” he muttered, sounding, in Eloise’s opinion, at least, rather like a sullen child.

“Then I’ll accompany you,” she said, brushing past him on the way to the greenhouse. Really, how did he expect them to decide if they would suit if they didn’t spend any time together?

He reached out to grab her, then remembered that his hand was covered with dirt. “Miss Bridgerton,” he said sharply, “you can’t—”

“Couldn’t you use the help?” she interrupted.

“No,” he said, and in such a tone that she really couldn’t continue the argument along those lines.

“Sir Phillip,” she ground out, completely losing patience with him, “may I ask you a question?”

Visibly startled by her sudden turn of conversation, he just nodded—once, curtly, the way men liked to do when they were annoyed and wanted to pretend they were in charge.

“Are you the same man you were last night?”

He looked at her as if she were a lunatic. “I beg your pardon.”

“The man I spent the evening with last night,” she said, just barely resisting the urge to cross her arms as she spoke, “the one with whom I shared a meal and then toured the house and greenhouse, actually spoke to me, and in fact, seemed to enjoy my company, astonishing as it might seem.”

He did nothing but stare at her for several seconds, then muttered, “I enjoy your company.”

“Then why,” she asked, “have I been sitting alone in the garden for three hours?”

“It hasn’t been three hours.”

“It doesn’t matter how long—”

“It’s been forty-five minutes,” he said.

“Be that as it may—”

“Be that as it is.”

“Well,” she declared, mostly because she suspected he might have been correct, which put her in something of an awkward position, and well, seemed all she could say without embarrassing herself further.

“Miss Bridgerton,” he said, his clipped voice a reminder that just the night before he’d been calling her Eloise.

And kissing her. “As you might have guessed,” he continued sharply, “this morning’s episode with my children has left me in a foul mood. I thought merely to spare you my company, such as it is.”

“I see,” she said, rather impressed with the supercilious edge to her voice.

“Good.”

Except that she was quite certain she did see. That he was lying, to be precise. Oh, his children had put him in a foul mood, that much was true, but there was something else at work as well.

“I will leave you to your work, then,” she said, motioning to the greenhouse with a gesture that was meant to seem as if she were waving him away.

He eyed her suspiciously. “And what do you plan to do?”

“I suppose I shall write some letters and then go for a walk,” she replied.

“You will not go for a walk,” he growled.

Almost, Eloise thought, as if he actually cared about her.

“Sir Phillip,” she replied, “I assure you that I am perfectly fine. I’m quite certain I look a great deal worse than I feel.”

“You had better look worse than you feel,” he muttered.

Eloise scowled at him. It was a blackened eye, after all, and thus only a temporary blight on her appearance, but truly, he didn’t need to remind her that she looked a fright.

“I shall remain out of your way,” she told him, “which is all that really matters, correct?”

A vein began to twitch in his temple. Eloise took great pleasure in that.

“Go,” she said. And when he didn’t, she turned and began to walk through a gate to another segment of the garden.

“Stop this instant,” Sir Phillip ordered, closing the distance between them with a single step. “You may not go for a walk.”

Eloise wanted to ask him if he intended to tie her down, but she held her tongue, fearing that he might actually approve of the suggestion.

“Sir Phillip,” she said, “I fail to see how— Oh!”

Grumbling something about foolish women (and using another adjective which Eloise considered considerably less complimentary), Sir Phillip scooped her into his arms and strode over to the chaise, where he dumped her quite unceremoniously back onto the cushion.

“Stay there,” he ordered.

She sputtered, trying to find her voice after his unbelievable display of arrogance. “You can’t—”

“Good God, woman, you could try the patience of a saint.”

She glared at him.

“What,” he asked with weary impatience, “would it take to keep you from moving from this spot?”

“I can’t think of a thing,” she answered, quite honestly.

“Fine,” he said, his chin jutting out in a furiously stubborn manner. “Hike the entire countryside. Swim to France.”

“From Gloucestershire?” she asked, her lips twitching.

“If anyone could figure out a way to do it,” he said, “it would be you. Good day, Miss Bridgerton.”

And then he stalked off, leaving Eloise exactly where she’d been ten minutes earlier. Sitting on the chaise, so surprised by his sudden departure that she quite forgot that she’d meant to get up and leave.

If Phillip hadn’t already been convinced that he had made an ass of himself earlier that day, Eloise’s short missive informing him that she intended to take supper in her room that evening made it quite clear.

Considering she’d spent the afternoon complaining that she had no company, her decision to pass the evening by herself was a pointed insult, indeed.

He ate alone, in silence, as he had for so many months. Years, really, since Marina had rarely left her room to dine when she’d been alive. One would have thought he’d have grown used to it, but now he was restless and uncomfortable, ever aware of the servants, who all knew that Miss Bridgerton had rejected his company.

He grumbled to himself as he chewed his beefsteak. He knew that one was supposed to ignore the servants and go about daily life as if they didn’t exist, or if they did, as if they were an entirely different species altogether. And while he had to admit he didn’t have much interest in their lives outside of Romney Hall, the fact remained that they had interest in his, and he rather detested being the subject of gossip.

Which he surely would be tonight, as they gathered for supper in the alcove off the kitchen.

He took a vicious bite of his roll. He hoped they had to eat that damned fish from Amanda’s bed.

He made his way through the salad and the poultry and the pudding, even though the soup and the meat had proven quite enough. But there was always the chance that Eloise would change her mind and join him for supper. It didn’t seem likely, given her stubborn streak, but if she decided to bend her will, he wanted to be present when it happened.

When it became apparent that this was nothing but wishful thinking on his part, he considered going up to her, but even out here in the country, that was quite inappropriate, and besides, he doubted she wanted to see him.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. He rather thought that she did want to see him, but she wanted him humbled and apologetic. And even if he didn’t utter a single word resembling either I’m or sorry, his very appearance would be tantamount to eating crow.

Which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, considering that he’d already decided he’d be willing to wrap himself around her feet and beg her piteously to marry him if she would only consent to stay and mother his children. This, even though he had botched it up completely this afternoon—and morning, really, if one were to be honest about it.

But wanting to woo a woman didn’t mean one actually knew how to go about it.

His brother had been the one born with all the charm and flair, always knowing what to say and how to act. George would never have even noticed that the servants were eyeing him as if they were going to gossip about him ten minutes later, and in truth, the point was moot, because all that the servants had ever had to say was along the lines of, “That Master George is such a rascal.” All said with a smile and a blush, of course.

Phillip, on the other hand, had been quieter, more thoughtful, and certainly less suited to the role of father and lord of the manor. He’d always planned to leave Romney Hall and never look back, at least while his father was still alive. George was to marry Marina and have a half dozen perfect children, and Phillip would be the gruff and slightly eccentric uncle who lived over in Cambridge, spending all his time in his greenhouse, conducting experiments that no one else understood or in truth even cared about.

That was how it was supposed to be, but it had all changed on a battlefield in Belgium.

England had won the war, but that had been little comfort to Phillip when his father had dragged him back to Gloucestershire, determined to mold him into a proper heir.

Determined to change him into George, who had always been his favorite.

And then his father had died. Right there, right in front of Phillip, his heart gave out in a screaming rage, surely exaggerated by the fact that his son was now too large to be hauled over his knee and beaten with a paddle.

And Phillip became Sir Phillip, with all the rights and responsibilities of a baronet.

Rights and responsibilities he had never, ever wanted.

He loved his children, loved them more than life itself, so he supposed he was glad for the way it had all turned out, but he still felt as if he were failing. Romney Hall was doing well—Phillip had introduced several new agricultural techniques he’d learned at university, and the fields were turning a profit for the first time since . . . well, Phillip didn’t know since when. They certainly hadn’t earned any money while his father had been alive.

But the fields were only fields. His children were human beings, flesh and blood, and every day he grew more convinced that he was failing them. Every day seemed to bring worse trouble (which terrified him; he couldn’t imagine what could possibly be worse than Miss Lockhart’s glued hair or Eloise’s blackened eye) and he had no idea what to do. Whenever he tried to talk to them, he seemed to say the wrong thing. Or do the wrong thing. Or not do anything, all because he was so scared that he’d lose his temper.

Except for that one time. Supper last night with Eloise and Amanda. For the first time in recent memory, he’d handled his daughter exactly right. Something about Eloise’s presence had calmed him, lent him a clarity of thought he usually lacked when it came to his children. He was able to see the humor in the situation, where he usually saw nothing but his own frustration.

Which was all the more reason he needed to make sure Eloise stayed and married him. And all the more reason he wasn’t going to go to her tonight and try to make amends.

He didn’t mind eating crow. Hell, he would have eaten an entire flock if that was what it took.

He just didn’t want to muck up the situation any worse than it already was.

Eloise rose quite early the following morning, which wasn’t surprising, since she’d crawled into bed at only half eight the night before. She’d regretted her self-imposed exile almost the moment after she’d sent the note down to Sir Phillip informing him of her decision to take supper in her room.

She’d been thoroughly annoyed with him earlier in the day, and she’d allowed her irritation to rule her thinking. The truth was, she hated eating by herself, hated sitting alone at a table with nothing to do but stare at her food and guess how many bites it might take to finish one’s potatoes. Even Sir Phillip in his most obstinate and uncommunicative of moods would have been better than nothing.

Besides, she still wasn’t convinced that they wouldn’t suit, and dining apart wasn’t going to offer her any further insight into his personality and temperament.

He could be a bear—and a grumpy one, at that—but when he smiled . . . Eloise suddenly understood what all those young ladies were talking about when they’d waxed rhapsodic over her brother Colin’s smile (which Eloise found rather ordinary; it was Colin, after all.)

But when Sir Phillip smiled, he was transformed. His dark eyes assumed a devilish twinkle, full of humor and mischief, as if he knew something she didn’t. But that wasn’t what sent her heart fluttering. Eloise was a Bridgerton, after all. She’d seen plenty of devilish twinkles and prided herself on being quite immune to them.

When Sir Phillip looked at her and smiled, there was an air of shyness to it, as if he weren’t quite used to smiling at women. And she was left with the feeling that he was a man who, if all the pieces of their puzzle fell together in just the right way, might someday come to treasure her. Even if he never loved her, he would value her and not take her for granted.

And it was for that reason that Eloise was not yet prepared to pack her bags and leave, despite his rather gruff behavior of the previous day.

Stomach growling, she made her way down to the breakfast room, only to be informed that Sir Phillip had already come and gone. Eloise tried not to be discouraged. It didn’t mean he was trying to avoid her; it was entirely possible, after all, that he had assumed she was not an early riser and had elected not to wait for her.

But when she peeked into his greenhouse and found it empty, she declared herself stymied and went looking for other company.

Oliver and Amanda owed her an afternoon, didn’t they? Eloise marched resolutely up the stairs. There was no reason they couldn’t make it a morning, instead.

“You want to go swimming?”

Oliver was looking at her as if she were mad.

“I do,” Eloise replied with a nod. “Don’t you?”

“No,” he said.

“I do,” Amanda piped up, sticking her tongue out at her brother when he shot her a ferocious glare. “I love to swim, and so does Oliver. He’s just too cross with you to admit it.”

“I don’t think they should go,” replied their nursemaid, a rather stern-looking woman of indeterminate years.

“Nonsense,” Eloise said breezily, disliking the woman immediately. She looked the sort to tug on ears and rap hands. “It is unseasonably warm and a bit of exercise will be quite healthful.”

“Nevertheless—” the nursemaid said, her testy voice demonstrating her irritation at having her authority challenged.

“I shall give them lessons while we go about it,” Eloise continued, using the tone of voice her mother used when it was clear she would brook no argument. “They are currently without a governess, aren’t they?”

“Indeed,” the nurse said, “the two little monsters glued—”

“Whatever the reason for her departure,” Eloise interrupted, quite certain she didn’t want to know what they had done to their last governess, “I’m sure it has been a monstrous burden upon you to assume both roles these last few weeks.”

“Months,” the nursemaid bit off.

“Even worse,” Eloise agreed. “One would think you deserve a free morning, wouldn’t one?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a brief trip into town. . . .”

“Then it’s settled.” Eloise glanced down at the children and allowed herself a small moment of self-congratulation. They were staring at her in awe. “Off you go,” she said to the nurse, bustling her out the door. “Enjoy your morning.”

She shut the door behind the still-bewildered nurse and turned to face the children.

“You are very clever,” Amanda said breathlessly.

Even Oliver couldn’t help but nod his agreement.

“I hate Nurse Edwards,” Amanda said.

“Of course you don’t,” Eloise said, but her heart wasn’t into the statement; she hadn’t much liked Nurse Edwards, either.

“Yes, we do,” Oliver said. “She’s horrid.”

Amanda nodded. “I wish we could have Nurse Millsby back, but she had to leave to care for her mother. She’s sick,” she explained.

“Her mother,” Oliver said, “not Nurse Millsby.”

“How long has Nurse Edwards been here?” Eloise asked.

“Five months,” Amanda said glumly. “Five very long months.”

“Well, I’m sure she’s not as bad as all that,” Eloise said, intending to say more, but closing her mouth when Oliver interrupted with—

“Oh, she is.”

Eloise wasn’t about to disparage another adult, especially one who was meant to have some authority over them, so instead she decided to sidestep the issue by saying, “It doesn’t matter this morning, does it, because you have me instead.”

Amanda reached out shyly and took her hand. “I like you,” she said.

“I like you, too,” Eloise replied, surprised by the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

Oliver said nothing. Eloise wasn’t insulted. It took some people longer to warm up to a person than others. Besides, these children had a right to be wary. Their mother had left them, after all. Granted, it was through death, but they were young; all they would know was that they had loved her and she was gone.

Eloise remembered well the months following the death of her father. She had clung to her mother at every opportunity, telling herself that if she just kept her nearby (or even better, holding her hand), then her mother couldn’t leave, either.

Was it any wonder that these children resented their new nursemaid? They had probably been cared for by Nurse Millsby since birth. Losing her so soon after Marina’s death must have been doubly difficult.

“I’m sorry we blackened your eye,” Amanda said.

Eloise squeezed her hand. “It looks much worse than it actually is.”

“It looks dreadful,” Oliver admitted, his little face beginning to show signs of remorse.

“Yes, it does,” Eloise agreed, “but it’s starting to grow on me. I think I look rather like a soldier who’s been to battle—and won!”

“You don’t look like you’ve won,” Oliver said, one corner of his mouth twisting in a dubious expression.

“Nonsense. Of course I do. Anyone who actually comes home from battle wins.”

“Does that mean Uncle George lost?” Amanda asked.

“You father’s brother?”

Amanda nodded. “He died before we were born.”

Eloise wondered if they knew that their mother was originally to have married him. Probably not. “Your uncle was a hero,” she said with quiet respect.

“But not Father,” Oliver said.

“Your father couldn’t go to war because he had too many responsibilities here,” Eloise explained. “But this is a very serious conversation for such a fine morning, don’t you think? We should be out swimming and having a grand time.”

The twins quickly caught her enthusiasm, and in no time they were changed into their bathing costumes and headed across the fields to the lake.

“We must practice our arithmetic!” Eloise called out as they skipped ahead.

And much to her surprise, they actually did. Who would have known that sixes and eights could be so much fun?

Chapter 8

. . . how fortunate you are to be at school. We girls have been presented with a new governess, and she is misery personified. She drones on about sums from dawn until dusk. Poor Hyacinth now breaks into tears every time she hears the word “seven.” (Although I must confess that I don’t understand why one through six do not elicit similar reactions.) I don’t know what we shall do. Dip her hair in ink, I suppose. (Miss Haversham’s, that is, not Hyacinth’s, although I would never rule out the latter.)

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her brother Gregory,

during his first term as a student at Eton

When Phillip returned from the rose garden, he was surprised to find his home quiet and empty. It was a rare day when the air wasn’t exploding with the sound of some overturned table or shriek of outrage.

The children, he thought, pausing to savor the silence. Clearly, they had been vacated from the premises. Nurse Edwards must have taken them out for a walk.

And, he supposed, Eloise would still be abed, although in truth it was already nearly ten, and she did not seem the sort to laze the day away under her covers.

Phillip stared down at the roses in his hand. He’d spent an hour choosing exactly the right ones; Romney Hall boasted three rose gardens, and he’d had to go to the far one to find the early-blooming varieties. He’d then painstakingly picked them, careful to snip at the exact right spot so as to encourage further blooming, and then meticulously sliced away each thorn.

Flowers he could do. Green plants he could do even better, but somehow he didn’t think Eloise would find much romance in a fistful of ivy.

He wandered over to the breakfast room, expecting to see food laid out, awaiting Eloise’s arrival, but the sideboard was tidy and spotless, signaling that the morning meal had come to an end. Phillip frowned and stood in the middle of the room for a moment, trying to figure out what he ought to do next. Eloise had obviously already arisen and eaten breakfast, but deuced if he knew where she was.

Just then a maid came through, holding a feather duster and a rag. She bobbed a quick curtsy when she saw him.

“I’ll need a vase for these,” he said, holding up the flowers. He’d hoped to hand them to Eloise directly, but he didn’t feel like clutching them all morning while he hunted her down.

The maid nodded and started to leave, but he stopped her with, “Oh, and do you happen to know where Miss Bridgerton might have gone off to? I noticed that breakfast has been cleared.”

“Out, Sir Phillip,” the maid said. “With the children.”

Phillip blinked in surprise. “She went out with Oliver and Amanda? Willingly?”

The maid nodded.

“That’s interesting.” He sighed, trying not to envision the scene. “I hope they don’t kill her.”

The maid looked alarmed. “Sir Phillip?”

“It was a joke . . . ah . . . Mary?” He didn’t mean to finish his sentence on a questioning note, but the truth was, he wasn’t quite certain of her name.

She nodded in such a way that he couldn’t be sure whether he’d gotten it right or she was just being polite.

“Do you happen to know where they went?” he asked.

“Down to the lake, I believe. To go swimming.”

Phillip’s skin went cold. “Swimming?” he asked, his voice sounding disembodied and hollow to his ears.

“Yes. The children were wearing their bathing costumes.”

Swimming. Dear God.

For a year now, he’d avoided the lake, always taken the long route around, just to spare himself the sight of it. And he had forbidden the children from ever visiting the site.

Or had he?

He’d told Nurse Millsby not to allow them near the water, but had he remembered to do the same with Nurse Edwards?

He took off at a run, leaving the floor littered with roses.

“Last one in is a hermit crab!” Oliver shrieked, tearing into the water at top speed, only to laugh when it reached his waist and he was forced to slow down.

“I’m not a hermit crab. You’re a hermit crab!” Amanda yelled back as she splashed around in the shallower depths.

“You’re a rotten hermit crab!”

“Well, you’re a dead hermit crab!”

Eloise laughed as she waded through the water a few yards away from Amanda. She hadn’t brought a bathing costume—indeed, who would have thought she might need one?—so she had tied her skirt and petticoat up, baring her legs to just above her knees. It was an awful lot of leg to be showing, but that hardly mattered in the company of two eight-year-olds.

Besides, they were having far too much fun tormenting each other to give her legs even a passing glance.

The twins had warmed up to her during their walk down to the lake, laughing and chattering the entire way, and Eloise wondered if all they truly needed was a bit of attention. They’d lost their mother, their relationship with their father was distant at best, and then their beloved nurse had left them. Thank heavens they had each other.

And maybe, perhaps, her.

Eloise bit her lip, not sure whether she ought even to be allowing her thoughts to veer in that direction. She hadn’t yet decided whether she wanted to marry Sir Phillip, and much as these two children seemed to need her—and they did need her, she just knew they did—she couldn’t make her decision based on Oliver and Amanda.

She wasn’t going to be marrying them.

“Don’t go any deeper!” she called out, mindful that Oliver had been inching away.

He pulled the sort of face boys do when they think they are being mollycoddled, but she noticed that he took two large steps back toward the shore.

“You should come in further, Miss Bridgerton,” Amanda said, sitting down on the lake bottom and then squealing, “Oh! It’s cold!”

“Why did you sit down, then?” Oliver said. “You knew how cold it was.”

“Yes, but my feet were used to it,” she replied, hugging her arms to her body. “It didn’t feel so cold anymore.”

“Don’t worry,” he told her with a supercilious grin, “your bottom will get used to it soon, too.”

“Oliver,” Eloise said sternly, but she was fairly certain she’d ruined the effect by smiling.

“He’s right!” Amanda exclaimed, turning to Eloise with an expression of surprise. “I can’t feel my bottom at all anymore.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good thing,” Eloise said.

“You should swim,” Oliver prodded. “Or at least go as far as Amanda. You’ve barely got your feet wet.”

“I don’t have a bathing costume,” Eloise said, even though she’d explained this to them at least six times already.

“I think you don’t know how to swim,” he said.

“I assure you I know very well how to swim,” she returned, “and that you’re not likely to provoke a demonstration while I’m wearing my third-best morning dress.”

Amanda looked over at her and blinked a few times. “I should like to see your first- and second-best. That’s a very pretty frock.”

“Why, thank you, Amanda,” Eloise said, wondering who picked out the young girl’s clothing. The crotchety Nurse Edwards, probably. There was nothing wrong with what Amanda was wearing, but Eloise would wager that no one had ever thought to offer her the fun of choosing her own garments. She smiled at Amanda and said, “If you would like to go shopping sometime, I would be happy to take you.”

“Oh, I should adore that,” Amanda said breathlessly. “Above all else. Thank you!”

“Girls,” Oliver said disdainfully.

“You’ll be glad for us someday,” Eloise remarked.

“Eh?”

She just shook her head with a smile. It would be some time before he thought girls were good for anything other than tying their plaits together.

Oliver just shrugged and went back to hitting the surface of the water with the heel of his hand at just the right angle so as to splash the maximum amount of water on his sister.

“Stop it!” Amanda hollered.

He cackled and splashed some more.

“Oliver!” Amanda stood up and advanced menacingly toward him. Then, when walking proved too slow, she dove in and began to swim. He shrieked with laughter and swam away, coming up for air only long enough to taunt her.

“I’ll get you yet!” Amanda growled, stopping for a moment to tread water.

“Don’t go too far out!” Eloise called, but it really wasn’t very important. It was clear that both children were excellent swimmers. If they were like Eloise and her siblings, they’d probably been swimming since age four. The Bridgerton children had spent countless summer hours splashing around in the pond near their home in Kent, although, in truth, the swimming had been curtailed after the death of their father. When Edmund Bridgerton had been alive, the family had spent most of their time in the country, but once he was gone, they had found themselves in town more often than not. Eloise had never known if it was because her mother preferred town or simply that their home in the country held too many memories.

Eloise adored London and had certainly enjoyed her time there, but now that she was here in Gloucestershire, splashing in a pond with two boisterous young children, she realized how much she’d missed the country way of living.

Not that she was prepared to give up London and all the friends and amusements it offered, but still, she was beginning to think she didn’t need to spend quite so much time in the capital.

Amanda finally caught up with her brother and launched herself on top of him, causing them both to go under. Eloise watched carefully; she could see a hand or foot break the surface every few seconds until they both came up for air, laughing and gasping and vowing to beat each other in what was clearly extremely important warfare.

“Be careful!” Eloise called out, mostly because she felt she should. It was strange to find herself in the position of authoritative adult; with her nieces and nephews she got to be the fun and permissive aunt. “Oliver! Do not pull your sister’s hair!”

He stopped but then immediately moved to the collar of her bathing costume, which could not have been comfortable for Amanda, and indeed, she began to sputter and cough.

“Oliver!” Eloise yelled. “Stop that at once!”

He did, which surprised and pleased her, but Amanda used the momentary reprieve to jump on top of him, sending him under while she sat on his back.

“Amanda!” Eloise yelled.

Amanda pretended not to hear.

Oh, blast, now she was going to have to wade out there to put an end to it herself, and she was going to be completely soaked in the process. “Amanda, stop that this instant!” she called out, making one last attempt to save her dress and her dignity.

Amanda did, and Oliver came up gasping, “Amanda Crane, I’m going to—”

“No, you’re not,” Eloise said sternly. “Neither one of you is going to kill, maim, attack, or even hug the other for at least thirty minutes.”

They were clearly appalled that Eloise had even mentioned the possibility of a hug.

“Well?” Eloise demanded.

They were completely silent, then Amanda asked, “Then what will we do?”

Good question. Most of Eloise’s own memories of swimming involved the same sort of war games. “Maybe we’ll dry off and rest for a spell,” she said.

They both looked horrified by the suggestion.

“We certainly ought to work on lessons,” Eloise added. “Perhaps a bit more arithmetic. I did promise Nurse Edwards that we would do something constructive with our time.”

That suggestion went over about as well as the first.

“Very well,” Eloise said. “What do you suggest we do?”

“I don’t know,” came Oliver’s muttered reply, punctuated by Amanda’s shoulder shrug.

“Well, there is certainly no point in standing here doing nothing,” Eloise said, planting her hands on her hips. “Aside from the fact that it’s exceedingly boring, we’re likely to fr—”

“Get out of the lake!”

Eloise whirled around, so surprised by the furious roar that she slipped and fell in the water. Drat and blast, there went her dry intentions and her dress. “Sir Phillip,” she gasped, thankful that she’d broken her fall with her hands and had not landed on her bottom. Still, the front of her dress was completely soaked.

“Get out of the water,” Phillip growled, striding into the lake with astonishing force and speed.

“Sir Phillip,” Eloise said, her voice cracking with surprise as she staggered to her feet, “what—”

But he had already grabbed both of his children, his arms wrapped around each of their rib cages, and was hauling them to shore. Eloise watched with fascinated horror as he set them none-too-gently down on the grass.

“I told you never, ever to go near the lake,” he yelled, shaking each by a shoulder. “You know you’re supposed to stay away. You—”

He stopped, clearly shaken by something, and by the need to catch his breath.

“But that was last year,” Oliver whimpered.

“Did you hear me rescind the order?”

“No, but I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Phillip snapped. “Now get back to the house. Both of you.”

The two children recognized the deadly serious intent in their father’s eyes and quickly fled up the hill. Phillip did nothing as they left, just watched them run, and then, as soon as they were out of earshot, he turned to Eloise with an expression that caused her to take a step back and said, “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

For a moment she could say nothing; his question seemed too ludicrous for a reply. “Having a spot of fun,” she finally said, probably with a bit more insolence than she ought.

“I do not want my children near the lake,” he bit off. “I have made those wishes clear—”

“Not to me.”

“Well, you should have—”

“How was I meant to know that you wanted them to stay away from the water?” she asked, interrupting him before he could accuse her of irresponsibility or whatever it was he was going to say. “I told their nurse where we intended to go, and what we intended to do, and she gave no indication that it was forbidden.”

She could see from his face that he knew he had no valid argument, and it was making him all the more furious. Men. The day they learned to admit to a mistake was the day they became women.

“It’s a hot day,” she continued, her voice clipping along in the way it always did when she was determined not to lose an argument.

Which, for Eloise, generally meant any argument.

“I was trying to mend the breach,” she added, “since I don’t particularly relish the thought of another blackened eye.”

She said it to make it him feel guilty, and it must have worked, since his cheeks turned ruddy and he muttered something that might have been an assurance under his breath.

Eloise paused for a few seconds to see if he would say more, or, even better, say something with a tone that approached intelligible speech, but when he did nothing but glare at her, she continued with, “I thought that doing something fun might go a long way. Heaven knows,” she muttered, “the children could use a spot of fun.”

“What are you saying?” he asked, his voice angry and low.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Just that I didn’t see any harm in going swimming.”

“You put them in danger.”

“Danger?” she sputtered. “From swimming?”

Phillip said nothing, just glared at her.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said dismissively. “It would only have been dangerous if I couldn’t swim.”

“I don’t care if you can swim,” he bit off. “I only care that my children can’t.”

She blinked. Several times. “Yes, they can,” she said. “In fact, they’re both quite proficient. I’d assumed you’d taught them.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her head tilted slightly, perhaps out of concern, perhaps out of curiosity. “Didn’t you know they could swim?”

For a moment, Phillip felt as if he couldn’t breathe. His lungs tightened and his skin prickled, and his body seemed to freeze into a hard, cold statue.

It was awful.

He was awful.

Somehow this moment seemed to crystallize all of his failings. It wasn’t that his children could swim, it was that he hadn’t known they could swim. How could a father not know such a thing about his own children?

A father ought to know if his children could ride a horse. He ought to know if they could read and count to one hundred.

And for the love of God, he ought to know if they could swim.

“I—” he said, his voice giving out after a single word. “I—”

She took a step forward, whispering, “Are you all right?”

He nodded, or at least he thought he nodded. Her voice was ringing in his head—Yes they can yes they can they can they can—and it didn’t even matter what she was saying. It had been the tone. Surprise, and maybe even a hint of disdain.

And he hadn’t known.

His children were growing and changing and he didn’t know them. He saw them, he recognized them, but he didn’t know who they were.

He felt himself take a gasp of air. He didn’t know what their favorite colors were.

Pink? Blue? Green?

Did it matter, or did it only matter that he didn’t know?

He was, in his own way, every bit as awful a father as his own had been. Thomas Crane may have beaten his children to within an inch of their lives, but at least he knew what they were up to. Phillip ignored and avoided and pretended—anything to keep his distance and avoid losing his temper. Anything to stop him from becoming his father all over again.

Except maybe distance wasn’t always such a good thing.

“Phillip?” Eloise whispered, laying a hand on his arm. “Is something the matter?”

He stared at her, but he still felt blinded, and his eyes couldn’t seem to focus.

“I think you should go home,” she said, slowly and carefully. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m—” He meant to say I’m fine, but the words didn’t quite come out. Because he wasn’t fine, and he wasn’t good, and these days he wasn’t even sure what he was.

Eloise chewed on her lower lip, then hugged her arms to her chest and glanced up at the sky as a shadow passed over her.

Phillip followed her gaze, watched as a cloud slid over the sun, dropping the temperature of the air at least ten degrees. He looked at Eloise, his breath catching in his throat as she shivered.

Phillip felt colder than he ever had in his life. “You need to get inside,” he said, grabbing her arm and attempting to haul her up the hill.

“Phillip!” she yelped, stumbling along behind him. “I’m fine. Just a little chilled.”

He touched her skin. “You’re not just a little chilled, you’re bloody well freezing.” He yanked off his coat. “Put this on.”

Eloise didn’t argue, but she did say, “Truly, I’m fine. There is no need to run.”

The last word came out halfway strangled as he yanked her forward, nearly off her feet. “Phillip, stop,” she yelped. “Please, just let me walk.”

He halted so quickly that she stumbled, whirling around and hissing, “I will not be responsible for your freezing yourself into a lung fever.”

“But it’s May.”

“I don’t care if it’s bloody July. You will not remain in those wet clothes.”

“Of course not,” Eloise replied, trying to sound reasonable, since it was quite clear that argument was simply going to make him dig his heels in even further. “But there is no reason I cannot walk. It’s only ten minutes back to the house. I’m not going to die.”

She hadn’t thought that blood could literally drain from a person’s face, but she had no idea how else to describe the sudden blanching of his skin.

“Phillip?” she asked, growing alarmed. “What is wrong?”

For a moment she didn’t think he was going to answer, and then, almost as if he weren’t aware that he was making a noise, he whispered, “I don’t know.”

She touched his arm and gazed up at his face. He looked confused, almost dazed, as if he’d been dropped into a theatrical play and didn’t know his lines. His eyes were open, and they were on her, but she didn’t think he saw anything, just a memory of something that must have been very awful indeed.

Her heart broke for him. She knew bad memories, knew how they could squeeze a heart and haunt one’s dreams until one was afraid to blow out the candle.

Eloise had, at the age of seven, watched her father die, shrieked and sobbed as he’d gasped for air and collapsed to the ground, then beaten against his chest when he could no longer speak, begging him to wake up and say something.

It was obvious now that he’d already been dead by that point, but somehow that made the memory even worse.

But Eloise had managed to put that behind her. She didn’t know how—it was probably all due to her mother, who had come to her side every night and held her hand and told her it was all right to talk about her father. And it was all right to miss him.

Eloise still remembered, but it no longer haunted her, and she hadn’t had a nightmare in over a decade.

But Phillip . . . his was a different story. Whatever had happened to him in the past, it was still very much with him.

And unlike Eloise, he was facing it alone.

“Phillip,” she said, touching his cheek. He didn’t move, and if she hadn’t felt his breath on her fingers, she would have sworn he was a statue. She said his name again, stepping even closer.

She wanted to erase that shattered look from his eyes; she wanted to heal him.

She wanted to make him the person she knew he was, deep down in his heart.

She whispered his name one last time, offering him compassion and understanding and the promise of help, all in one single word. She hoped he heard; she hoped he listened.

And then, slowly, his hand covered hers. His skin was warm and rough, and he pressed her hand against his cheek, as if he were trying to sear her touch into his memory. Then he moved her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm, intensely, almost reverently, before sliding it down to his chest.

Across his beating heart.

“Phillip?” she whispered, question in her voice even though she knew what he intended to do.

His free hand found the small of her back, and he pulled her to him, slowly but surely, with a firmness she could not deny. And then he touched her chin and tilted her face to his, stopping only to whisper her name before capturing her mouth in a kiss that was blinding in its intensity. He was hungry, needy, and he kissed her as if he would die without her, as if she were his very food, his air, his body and soul.

It was the type of kiss a woman could never forget, the sort Eloise had never even dreamed possible.

He pulled her even closer, until the entire length of her body was pressed up against his. One of his hands traveled down her back to her bottom, cupping her, pulling her against him until she gasped at the intimacy of it.

“I need you,” he groaned, the words sounding as if they were ripped from his throat. His lips slid off her mouth to her cheek, then down her neck, teasing and tickling as they went.

She was melting. He was melting her, until she didn’t know who she was or what she was doing.

All she wanted was him. More of him. All of him.

Except . . .

Except not like this. Not when he was using her like some sort of succor to heal his wounds.

“Phillip,” she said, somehow finding the strength to pull back. “We can’t. Not like this.”

For a moment she didn’t think he would let her go, but then, abruptly, he did. “I’m sorry,” he said, breathing hard. He looked dazed, and she didn’t know if that was from the kiss or simply from the tumultuous events of the morning.

“Don’t apologize,” she said, instinctively smoothing her skirts, only to find them wet and unsmoothable. But she ran her hands along them anyway, feeling nervous and uncomfortable in her own body. If she didn’t move, didn’t force herself into some sort of meaningless motion, she was afraid she would launch herself back into his arms.

“You should go back to the house,” he said, his voice still low and hoarse.

She felt her eyes widen with surprise. “Aren’t you coming as well?”

He shook his head and said in an oddly flat voice, “You won’t freeze. It’s May, after all.”

“Well, yes, but . . .” She let her words trail off, since she didn’t really know what to say. She supposed she’d been hoping he’d interrupt her.

She turned to walk up the hill, then stopped when she heard his voice, quiet and intent behind her.

“I need to think,” he said.

“About what?” She shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have intruded, but she’d never been able to mind her own business.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged helplessly. “Everything, I suppose.”

Eloise nodded and continued back to the house.

But the bleak look in his eyes haunted her all day.

Chapter 9

. . . we all miss Father, especially this time of year. But think how lucky you were to have had eighteen years with him. I remember so little, and I do wish he could have known me, and all that I’ve grown up to be.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her

brother Viscount Bridgerton,

upon the occasion of the tenth

anniversary of their father’s death

Eloise was purposefully late for supper that evening. Not by much—it was not in her nature to be tardy, especially since it was a trait she didn’t care to tolerate in others. But after the events of that afternoon, she had no idea if Sir Phillip was even going to show up for supper, and she couldn’t bear the thought of waiting in the drawing room, trying not to twiddle her thumbs as she wondered if she was to dine alone.

At precisely ten minutes past seven, she reckoned she could assume that if he wasn’t waiting for her, he wasn’t joining her, and she could then proceed to the dining room on her own and act as if she’d planned to eat by herself all the while.

But much to her surprise and, if she was honest, her great relief as well, Phillip was standing by the window when she entered the drawing room, elegantly dressed in evening kit that was, if not the very latest in style, obviously well made and tailored to perfection. Eloise noticed that his attire was strictly black and white, and she wondered if he was still in partial mourning for Marina, or if perhaps that was simply his preference. Her brothers rarely wore the peacock colors that were so popular among a certain set of the ton, and Sir Phillip didn’t seem the type, either.

Eloise stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at his profile, wondering if he’d even seen her. And then he turned, murmured her name, and crossed the room.

“I hope you will accept my apologies for this afternoon,” he said, and although his voice was reserved, she could see the entreaty in his eyes, sense that her forgiveness was very much desired.

“No apology is necessary,” she said quickly, and it was the truth, she supposed. How could she know if he should apologize when she didn’t even understand what had transpired?

“It is,” he said haltingly. “I overreacted. I—”

She said nothing, just watched his face as he cleared his throat.

He opened his mouth, but it was several seconds before he said, “Marina nearly drowned in that lake.”

Eloise gasped, not realizing that her hand had flown up to cover her mouth until she felt her fingers on her lips.

“She wasn’t a strong swimmer,” he explained.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Were you—” How to ask it without appearing morbidly curious? There was no way to avoid it, and she couldn’t help herself; she had to know. “Were you there?”

He nodded grimly. “I pulled her out.”

“How lucky for her,” Eloise murmured. “She must have been terrified.”

Phillip said nothing. He didn’t even nod.

She thought about her father, thought about how helpless she had felt when he’d collapsed to the ground in front of her. Even as a child, she’d been the sort who needed to do things. She’d never been one of life’s observers; she’d always wanted to take action, to fix things, to fix people, even. And the one time it had all truly mattered, she’d been impotent.

“I’m glad you were able to save her,” she murmured. “It would have been horrible for you if you hadn’t.”

He looked at her oddly, and she realized how strange her words had been, so she added, “It’s . . . very difficult . . . when someone dies, and you can only watch, and you can’t do anything to stop it.” And then, because the moment seemed to call for it, and she felt oddly connected to this man standing so quiet and stiff in front of her, she said softly, and perhaps a bit mournfully as well, “I know.”

He looked up at her, the question clearly in his eyes.

“My father,” she said simply.

It wasn’t something she shared with many people; in fact, her good friend Penelope was probably the only person outside her immediate family who knew that Eloise had been the sole witness to her father’s strange and untimely death.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she said wistfully. “So am I.”

And then he said the oddest thing. “I didn’t know my children could swim.”

It was so unexpected, such a complete non sequitur, that it was all she could do to blink and say, “I beg your pardon?”

He held out his arm to lead her to the dining room. “I didn’t know they could swim,” he repeated, his voice bleak. “I don’t even know who taught them.”

“Does it matter?” Eloise asked softly.

“It does,” he said bitterly, “because I should have done so.”

It was difficult to look at his face. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a man so pained, and yet in an odd way it warmed her heart. Anyone who cared so much for his children—even if he didn’t quite know how to act around them—well, he had to be a good man. Eloise knew that she tended to see the world in blacks and whites, that she sometimes leapt to judgment because she didn’t stop to analyze the gradations of gray, but of this she was certain.

Sir Phillip Crane was a good man. He might not be perfect, but he was good, and his heart was true.

“Well,” she said briskly, since that was her manner, and she preferred to deal with problems by charging ahead and fixing them rather than stopping to lament, “there’s nothing to be done about it now. They can’t very well unlearn what they already know.”

He stopped, looked at her. “You’re right, of course.” And then, more softly, “But no matter who did the teaching, I should have known they were able.”

Eloise agreed with him, but he was so obviously distressed, a scolding seemed inappropriate, not to mention unfeeling. “You still have time, you know,” she said softly.

“What,” he said, his mocking tone turned upon himself, “to teach them the backstroke so that they might expand their repertoire?”

“Well, yes,” she said, her tone slightly sharp, since she’d never had much patience for self-pity, “but also to learn other things about them. They’re charming children.”

He looked at her dubiously.

She cleared her throat. “They do misbehave on occasion—”

One of his brows shot up.

“Very well, they misbehave quite often, but truly, all they want is a little attention from you.”

“They told you this?”

“Of course not,” she said, smiling at his naïveté. “They’re only eight. They’re not going to say it in so many words. But it’s quite clear to me.”

They reached the dining room, so Eloise took the seat held out for her by a footman. Phillip sat across from her, put his hand on his wineglass, then drew it back. His lips moved, but very slightly, as if he had something to say but wasn’t quite certain how to phrase it. Finally, after Eloise had taken a sip of her own wine, he asked, “Did they enjoy it? Swimming, I mean.”

She smiled. “Very much. You should take them.”

He closed his eyes and held them that way, not for very long, but still, more than a blink. “I don’t think I’d be able,” he said.

She nodded. She knew the power of memories. “Perhaps somewhere else,” she suggested. “Surely there must be another lake nearby. Or even a mere pond.”

He waited for her to pick up her spoon, then dipped his own in his soup. “That’s a fine idea. I think . . .” He stopped, cleared his throat. “I think I could do that. I shall ponder where we might go.”

There was something so heartbreaking about his expression—the uncertainty, the vulnerability. The awareness that even though he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing, he was going to try to do it anyway. Eloise felt her heart lurch, skip a beat, even, and she wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand. But of course she couldn’t. Even if the table weren’t a foot longer than the length of her arm, she couldn’t. So in the end, she just smiled and hoped that her manner was reassuring.

Phillip ate a bit of his soup, then dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and said, “I hope that you will join us.”

“Of course,” Eloise said, delighted. “I would be desolate if I weren’t invited.”

“I’m quite certain you overstate,” he said with a wry twist to his lips, “but nonetheless, we would be honored, and to be quite honest, I would be relieved to have you there.” At her curious expression, he added, “The outing is certain to be a successful one with your presence.”

“I’m sure you—”

He stopped her midsentence. “We will all enjoy ourselves much better with your accompaniment,” he said quite emphatically, and Eloise decided to stop arguing and graciously accept the compliment. He was, in all likelihood, correct. He and his children were so unused to spending time together that they would probably benefit from having Eloise along to smooth the way.

Eloise found she didn’t mind the idea one bit. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she suggested, “if the fine weather holds out.”

“I think it will,” Phillip said conversationally. “The air didn’t feel changeable.”

Eloise glanced at him as she sipped her soup, a chicken broth with bits of vegetables that needed a touch more salt. “Do you predict the weather, then?” she asked, quite certain her skepticism showed on her face. She had a cousin who was convinced he could predict the weather, and every time she listened to him, she ended up soaked to the skin or freezing her toes off.

“Not at all,” he replied, “but one can—” He stopped, craned his neck a bit. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Eloise answered, but as the words left her lips, she heard what Phillip must have heard. Argumentative voices, growing louder by the second. Heavy footfall.

A forceful stream of invective was followed by a yelp of terror that could only have come from the butler . . .

And then Eloise knew.

“Oh, dear God,” she said, her grip on her spoon growing slack until the soup dribbled off, splashing back into her bowl.

“What the devil?” Phillip asked, standing up, obviously preparing to defend his home against invasion.

Except that he had no idea what sort of invaders he was about to face. What sort of annoying, meddlesome, and diabolical invaders he was going to have to meet in, oh, approximately ten seconds.

But Eloise did. And she knew that annoying, meddlesome, and diabolical meant nothing compared to furious, unreasonable, and downright large when it came to Phillip’s imminent safety.

“Eloise?” Phillip asked, his brows shooting up when they both heard someone bellow her name.

She felt the blood drain from her body. Positively felt it, knew it had happened, even though she couldn’t see it pooling about her feet. There was no way she could survive a moment such as this, no way she could make it through without killing someone, preferably someone to whom she was quite closely related.

She stood, her fingers gripping the table. The footsteps (which, to be honest, sounded rather like a rabid horde) grew closer.

“Someone you know?” Phillip asked, quite mildly for someone who was about to face his demise.

She nodded, and somehow managed to eke out the words: “My brothers.”

It occurred to Phillip (as he was pinned up against the wall with two sets of hands around his throat) that Eloise might have given him a bit more warning.

He didn’t need days, although that would have been nice, if still insufficient against the collective strength of four very large, very angry, and, from the looks of them, rather closely related men.

Brothers. He should have considered that. It was probably best to avoid courting a woman with brothers.

Four of them, to be precise.

Four. It was a wonder he wasn’t dead already.

“Anthony!” Eloise shrieked. “Stop!”

Anthony, or at least Phillip presumed he was Anthony—they hadn’t exactly bothered to go through the necessary introductions—tightened his grip on Phillip’s neck.

“Benedict,” Eloise pleaded, turning her attention to the largest of the lot. “Be reasonable.”

The other one—well, the other one squeezing his throat; there were two others, but they were just standing around glowering—loosened his grip slightly to turn around and look at Eloise.

Which was a huge mistake, since, in their haste to rip every limb from his body, none of them had yet looked at her long enough to see that she sported a nasty blackened eye.

Which of course they would think he was responsible for.

Benedict let out an unholy growl and jammed Phillip against the wall so tightly that his feet came off the ground.

Wonderful, Phillip thought. Now I really am going to die. The first squeeze was merely uncomfortable, but this . . .

“Stop!” Eloise yelled, hurling herself onto Benedict’s back and yanking his hair. Benedict howled as his head jerked backward, but unfortunately Anthony’s strangulatory grip held firm, even as Benedict was forced to let go to fight off Eloise.

Who was, Phillip noted as well as he could, given his lack of oxygen, fighting like a fury crossed with a banshee, crossed with Medusa herself. Her right hand was still pulling out Benedict’s hair, even as her left arm wrapped around his throat, with her forearm lodged quite neatly up under his chin.

“Good Christ,” Benedict cursed, whirling around as he tried to dislodge his sister. “Someone get her off of me!”

Not surprisingly, none of the other Bridgertons rushed to his aid. In fact, the one back against the wall looked rather amused by the whole thing.

Phillip’s vision began to curl and turn black at the edges, but he couldn’t help but admire Eloise’s fortitude. It was a rare woman who knew how to fight to win.

Anthony’s face suddenly appeared very close to his. “Did . . . you . . . hit her?” he growled.

As if he could speak, Phillip thought woozily.

“No!” Eloise cried out, momentarily taking her attention off tearing Benedict’s hair out. “Of course he didn’t hit me.”

Anthony looked over at her with a sharp expression as she resumed pummeling Benedict. “There’s no of course about it.”

“It was an accident,” she insisted. “He had nothing to do with it.” And then, when none of her brothers made any indication that they believed her, she added, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do you really think that I would defend someone who’d struck me?”

That seemed to do the trick, and Anthony abruptly let go of Phillip, who promptly sagged to the floor, gasping for breath.

Four of them. Had she told him she had four brothers? Surely not. He would never have considered marriage to a woman with four brothers. Only a fool would shackle himself to such a family.

“What did you do to him?” Eloise demanded, jumping off Benedict and hurrying to Phillip’s side.

“What did he do to you?” one of the other brothers demanded. The one who, Phillip realized, had punched him in the chin right before the others had decided to strangle him instead.

She shot him a scathing look. “What are you doing here?”

“Protecting my sister’s honor,” he shot back.

“As if I need protection from you. You’re not even twenty!”

Ah, thought Phillip, he must be the one whose name began with G. George? No, that wasn’t right. Gavin? No . . .

“I’m twenty-three,” the young one bit off, with all the irritability of a younger sibling.

“And I’m twenty-eight,” she snapped. “I didn’t need your help when you were in nappies, and I don’t need it now.”

Gregory. That’s right. Gregory. She’d said as much in one of her letters. Ah, damn. If he knew that, then he must have known about the flock of brothers. He really had no one to blame but himself.

“He wanted to come along,” said the one in the corner, the only one who hadn’t yet tried to kill Phillip. Phillip decided he liked this one best, especially when he wrapped his hand around Gregory’s forearm to prevent the younger man from launching himself at Eloise.

Which, Phillip thought, feeling rather ironically-minded there on the floor, was nothing more than she deserved. Nappies, indeed.

“Well, you should have stopped him,” Eloise said, oblivious to Phillip’s mental defection. “Do you have any idea how mortifying this is?”

Her brothers stared at her, quite rightly, in Phillip’s opinion, as if she’d gone mad.

“You lost the right,” Anthony bit off, “to feel mortified, embarrassed, chagrined, or in fact any emotion other than blindingly stupid when you ran off without a word.”

Eloise looked a bit mollified but still muttered, “It’s not as if I would listen to anything he has to say.”

“As opposed to us,” the one who had to be Colin murmured, “with whom you are the soul of meekness and obeisance.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Eloise said under her breath, sounding rather fetchingly unladylike to Phillip’s stinging ears.

Stinging? Had someone boxed his ears? It was difficult to recall. Four-to-one odds against did tend to muddle one’s memory.

“You,” snapped the one Phillip was almost certain was Anthony, with a finger jabbed in Phillip’s direction, “don’t go anywhere.”

As if that were even worth contemplating.

“And you,” Anthony said to Eloise, his voice even deadlier, although Phillip wouldn’t have thought it possible, “what the hell did you think you were doing?”

Eloise tried to sidestep the question with one of her own. “What are you doing here?”

And succeeded, because her brother actually answered her. “Saving you from ruin,” he yelled. “For the love of God, Eloise, do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?”

“And here I’d thought you hadn’t even noticed my departure,” she tried to joke.

“Eloise,” he said, “Mother is beside herself.”

That sobered her in an instant. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “I didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t,” Anthony replied, his stern tone exactly what one would expect from a man who’d been the head of his family for twenty years. “I ought to take a whip to you.”

Phillip started to intervene, because, really, he couldn’t countenance a whipping, but then Anthony added, “Or at the very least, a muzzle,” and Phillip decided that brother knew sister very well, indeed.

“Where do you think you’re going?” demanded Benedict, and Phillip realized that he must have started to stand before plopping back to his rather impotent position on the floor.

Phillip looked to Eloise. “Perhaps introductions are in order?”

“Oh,” Eloise said, gulping. “Yes, of course. These are my brothers.”

“I’d gathered,” he said, his voice as dry as dust.

She shot him an apologetic look, which, Phillip thought, was really the least she could do after nearly getting him tortured and killed, then turned to her brothers and motioned to each in turn, saying, “Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Gregory. These three,” she added, motioning to A, B, and C, “are my elders. This one”—she waved dismissively at Gregory—“is an infant.”

Gregory looked near ready to throttle her, which suited Phillip just fine, since it deflected the murderous intentions off of him.

And then Eloise finally turned back to Phillip and said to her brothers, “Sir Phillip Crane, but I expect you know that already.”

“You left a letter in your desk,” said Colin.

Eloise closed her eyes in agony. Phillip thought he saw her lips form the words, Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Colin smiled grimly. “You ought to be more careful in the future, should you decide to run off again.”

“I’ll remember that,” Eloise shot back, but she was losing her fire.

“Would now be a good time to stand?” Phillip inquired, directing his question to no one in particular.

“No.”

It was difficult to discern which Bridgerton brother spoke the loudest.

Phillip remained on the floor. He didn’t tend to think himself a coward, and he was, if he did say so himself, quite proficient with his fists, but hell, there were four of them.

Boxer he might be. Suicidal fool he was not.

“How did you get that eye?” Colin asked quietly.

Eloise paused before answering, “It was an accident.”

He considered her words for a moment. “Would you care to expand upon that?”

Eloise swallowed uncomfortably and glanced down at Phillip, which he really wished she wouldn’t do. It only made them (as he was coming to think of the quartet) even more convinced that he was the one responsible for her injury.

A misapprehension that could only lead to his death and dismemberment. They didn’t seem the sorts to allow anyone to lay a hand on their sisters, much less blacken an eye.

“Just tell them the truth, Eloise,” Phillip said wearily.

“It was his children,” she said, wincing on the words. But Phillip didn’t worry. As close as they’d come to strangling him, they didn’t seem the sort to harm innocent children. And certainly Eloise would not have said anything if she’d thought it might place Oliver and Amanda in peril.

“He has children?” Anthony asked, eyeing him with a slightly less derogatory expression.

Anthony, Phillip decided, must be a father as well.

“Two,” Eloise replied. “Twins, actually. A boy and a girl. They’re eight.”

“My felicitations,” Anthony murmured.

“Thank you,” Phillip answered, feeling rather old and weary in that moment. “Sympathies are probably more to the point.”

Anthony looked at him curiously, almost—but not quite—smiling.

“They weren’t especially keen on my presence here,” Eloise said.

“Smart children,” Anthony said.

She shot him a decidedly unamused look. “They set a trip wire,” she said. “Rather like the one Colin”—she turned to spear him with a hostile glare—“set for me in 1804.”

Colin’s lips twisted into a disbelieving expression. “You remember the date?”

“She remembers everything,” Benedict commented.

Eloise turned to glare at him.

Aching throat notwithstanding, Phillip was actually beginning to enjoy the interaction.

Eloise turned back to Anthony, regal as a queen. “I fell,” she said simply.

“On your eye?”

“On my hip, actually, but I didn’t have time to break my fall, and I hit my cheek. I imagine the bruising spread to the eye area.”

Anthony looked down at Phillip with a ferocious expression. “Is she telling the truth?”

Phillip nodded. “On my brother’s grave. The children will own up to it as well, should you feel the need to interrogate them.”

“Of course not,” Anthony said gruffly. “I would never—” He cleared his throat, then ordered, “Stand up.” But he tempered his tone by offering Phillip his hand.

Phillip took it, having already decided that Eloise’s brother would make a far finer ally than enemy. He eyed the four male Bridgertons warily, though, and his stance was defensive. He stood no chance if all four decided to charge at him at once, and he wasn’t convinced that that was not still a likely possibility.

At the end of the day, he was going to find himself either dead or married, and he wasn’t quite prepared to let the Bridgerton brothers take the matter to a vote.

And then, after Anthony silenced his four younger siblings with nothing more than a stare, he turned to Phillip and said, “Perhaps you should tell me what happened.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Phillip saw Eloise open her mouth to interrupt, then close it again, sitting down on a chair with an expression that, if it wasn’t meek, was at least meeker than anything he’d ever expected to see gracing her face.

Phillip decided that he needed to learn how to glare like Anthony Bridgerton. He’d have his children in line in no time.

“I don’t think Eloise will be interrupting us now,” Anthony said mildly. “Please, go on.”

Phillip glanced over at Eloise. She looked about ready to explode. But still, she held her tongue, which seemed a remarkable feat indeed, for one such as her.

Phillip briefly recounted the events that had led to Eloise’s arrival at Romney Hall. He told Anthony about the letters, beginning with Eloise’s letter of condolence, and how they had begun a friendly correspondence, pausing in his story only when Colin shook his head and murmured, “I always wondered what she was writing up in her room.”

When Phillip looked at him quizzically, he held up his hands and added, “Her fingers. They were always ink-stained, and I never knew why.”

Phillip finished his tale, concluding with, “So, as you see, I was looking for a wife. From the tone of her letters, she seemed intelligent and reasonable. My children, as you will come to realize should you remain long enough to meet them, can be rather, er”—he searched for the least unflattering adjective—“rambunctious,” he said, satisfied with his word choice. “I’d been hoping she would be a calming influence on them.”

“Eloise?” Benedict snorted, and Phillip could see from their expressions that the other three brothers agreed with his assessment.

And while Phillip might smile at Benedict’s comment about Eloise remembering everything, and even agree with Anthony about the muzzle, it was becoming apparent that the Bridgerton males did not hold their sister in the regard she deserved. “Your sister,” he said, his voice coming off sharp, “has been a marvelous influence upon my children. You would do well not to disparage her in my presence.”

He’d probably just issued his own death warrant. There were four of them, after all, and it wasn’t in his best interest to be insulting. But even if they had charged halfway across the country to protect Eloise’s virtue, there was no way he was going to stand here and listen to them snort and snuff and make a mockery of her.

Not Eloise. Not in front of him.

But to his great surprise, not a one of them had a retort, and in fact Anthony, who was still clearly the one in charge, held him with a level stare, assessing him as if he were peeling the layers back until he could see what lay hidden in his core.

“We have a great deal to talk about, you and I,” Anthony said quietly.

Phillip nodded. “I expect you will need to speak with your sister as well.”

Eloise shot him a grateful look. He wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t imagine she would take well to being left out of any decisions pertaining to her life. Hell, she wasn’t the sort to take well to being left out of anything.

“Yes,” Anthony said, “I do. In fact, I think we shall conduct our interview first, if you don’t mind.”

As if Phillip was stupid enough to argue with one Bridgerton while three more were glaring at him. “Please use my study,” he offered. “Eloise can show you the way.”

It was the wrong thing to say. None of the brothers cared to be reminded that Eloise had been in residence long enough to know her way around.

Anthony and Eloise left the room without another word, leaving Phillip alone with the remaining Bridgerton brothers.

“Mind if I sit?” Phillip asked, since he suspected he was going to be stuck here in the dining room for some time.

“Go right ahead,” Colin said expansively. Benedict and Gregory just continued to glare. Colin, Phillip noted, didn’t look particularly eager to strike up a friendship, either. He might have been marginally more amiable than his brothers, but his eyes showed a sharp shrewdness that Phillip rather thought he ought not underestimate.

“Please,” Phillip said, motioning to the food still on the table, “eat.”

Benedict and Gregory scowled at him as if he’d offered poison, but Colin sat across from him and plucked a crusty roll off a plate.

“They’re quite good,” Phillip said, even though he’d not had the opportunity to partake that evening.

“Good,” Colin muttered, taking a bite. “I’m famished.”

“How can you think of food?” Gregory said angrily.

“I always think of food,” Colin replied, his eyes searching the table until he located the 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 grateful he’d been pretending to examine his fingernails.

She took a step back. Anyone would have when faced with Anthony Bridgerton in such a fury.

But when he spoke, his voice was even and controlled. “You’ve made yourself a rather messy little bed here,” he said, his cadence slow and precise. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to lie in it.”

“You would have me marry a man I don’t know?” she whispered.

“Is that even the truth?” Anthony responded. “Because you seemed to know him very well indeed in the dining room. You certainly leapt to his defense at every conceivable opportunity.”

Anthony was talking her into a corner, and it was driving her mad. “It’s not enough for marriage,” she insisted. “At least not yet.”

But Anthony wasn’t the sort to let up. “If not now, then when? One week? Two?”

“Stop!” she burst out, wanting to throw her hands over her ears. “I can’t think.”

“You don’t think,” he corrected. “If you’d taken one moment to think, to use that tiny portion of your brain reserved for common sense, you would never have run off.”

She crossed her arms, looking away. She had no argument, and it was killing her.

“What are you going to do, Eloise?” Anthony asked.

“I don’t know,” she muttered, hating how stupid she sounded.

“Well,” he said, still continuing in that awful, reasonable voice, “that puts us in a bit of a bind, doesn’t it?”

“Can’t you just say it?” she asked, her fists clenching against her rib cage. “Do you have to end everything with a question?”

He smiled humorlessly. “And here I thought you’d appreciate my soliciting your opinion.”

“You’re being condescending and you know it.”

He leaned forward, thunder in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how much effort it requires to keep my temper in check?”

Eloise thought it best not to hazard a guess.

“You ran off in the middle of the night,” he said, rising to his feet, “without a word, without even a note—”

“I left a note!” she burst out.

He looked at her with patent disbelief.

“I did!” she insisted. “I left it on the side table in the front hall. Right next to the Chinese vase.”

“And this mysterious note said . . .”

“It said not to worry, that I was fine and would contact you all within a month.”

“Ah,” Anthony said mockingly. “That would have set my mind at ease.”

“I don’t know why you didn’t get it,” Eloise muttered. “It probably got mixed up with a pile of invitations.”

“For all we knew,” Anthony continued, taking a step toward her, “you’d been kidnapped.”

Eloise paled. She’d never even considered that her family might think such a thing. It had never occurred to her that her note might go astray.

“Do you know what Mother did?” Anthony asked, his voice deathly serious. “After nearly collapsing with worry?”

Eloise shook her head, dreading the answer.

“She went to the bank,” Anthony continued. “Do you know why?”

“Could you just tell me?” Eloise asked wearily. She hated the questions.

“She went there,” he said, walking toward her in a terrifying manner, “to make sure that all her funds were in the proper order so that she could withdraw them should she need to ransom you!”

Eloise shrank back at the fury in her older brother’s voice. I left a note, she wanted to say again, but she knew it would come out the wrong way. She’d been wrong, and she’d been foolish, and she didn’t want to compound her stupidity by trying to excuse it.

“Penelope was the one who finally figured out what you’d done,” Anthony said. “We asked her to search your room, since she’s probably spent more time there than any of the rest of us.”

Eloise nodded. Penelope had been her closest friend—still was, in fact, even though she’d married Colin. They’d spent countless hours up in her room, talking about anything and everything. Phillip’s letters were the only secret Eloise had ever kept from her.

“Where did she find the letter?” Eloise asked. Not that it mattered, but she couldn’t help her curiosity.

“It had fallen behind your desk.” Anthony crossed his arms. “Along with a pressed flower.”

Somehow that seemed fitting. “He’s a botanist,” she whispered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A botanist,” she said, more loudly this time. “Sir Phillip. He took a first at Cambridge. He would have been an academic if his brother hadn’t died at Waterloo.”

Anthony nodded, digesting that fact, and the fact that she knew it. “If you tell me that he’s a cruel man, that he will beat you, that he will insult you and demean you, I will not force your hand. But before you speak, I want you to consider my words. You are a Bridgerton. I don’t care who you marry or what your name becomes when you stand up before a priest and say your vows. You will always be a Bridgerton, and we behave with honor and honesty, not because it is expected of us, but because that is what we are.”

Eloise nodded, swallowing as she fought the tears that were stinging in her eyes.

“So I will ask you right now,” he said. “Is there any reason you cannot marry Sir Phillip Crane?”

“No,” she whispered. She didn’t even hesitate. She wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t yet ready for the marriage, but she wouldn’t sully the truth by hesitating on her answer.

“I thought not.”

She stood still, almost deflated, not certain what to do or say next. She turned, aware that Anthony had to know she was crying, but not wanting him to see her tears, nonetheless. “I’ll marry him,” she said, choking on the words. “It’s just that I—I’d wanted—”

He held silent for a moment, respecting her distress, but then, when she did not continue, he asked, “What did you want, Eloise?”

“I’d hoped for a love match,” she said, so softly she barely heard herself.

“I see,” he said, his hearing superb as always. “You should have thought of that before you ran off, shouldn’t you?”

She hated him in that moment. “You have a love match. You should understand.”

“I,” he said, the tone of his voice indicating that he did not appreciate her trying to make the conversation about him, “married my wife after we were caught in a compromising position by the biggest bloody gossip in England.”

Eloise let out a long breath, feeling stupid. It had been so many years since Anthony had married. She’d forgotten the circumstances.

“I didn’t love my wife when I married her,” he continued, “or,” he added, his voice growing a bit softer, more gruff and nostalgic, “if I did, I did not yet realize it.”

Eloise nodded. “You were very lucky,” she said, wishing she knew if she could be that lucky with Phillip.

And then Anthony surprised her, because he didn’t scold, and he didn’t reprimand. All he said was, “I know.”

“I felt lost,” she whispered. “When Penelope and Colin married . . .” She sank into a chair, letting her head drop into her hands. “I’m a terrible person. I must be a terrible person, horrible and shallow, because when they married, all I could think about was myself.”

Anthony sighed, and he crouched beside her. “You’re not a terrible person, Eloise. You know that.”

She looked up at him, wondering when it was that this man, her brother, had become so wise. If he’d yelled one more word, spent one more minute speaking to her in that mocking voice, she would have broke. She would have broke, or she would have hardened, but either way, something between them would have been ruined.

But here he was, Anthony of all people, who was arrogant and proud and every inch the arch nobleman he’d been born to be, kneeling at her side, placing his hand on hers, and speaking with a kindness that nearly broke her heart.

“I was happy for them,” she said. “I am happy for them.”

“I know you are.”

“I should have felt nothing but joy.”

“If you had, you wouldn’t be human.”

“Penelope became my sister,” she said. “I should have been happy.”

“Didn’t you say that you were?”

She nodded. “I am. I am. I know that I am. I’m not just saying it.”

He smiled benignly and waited for her to continue.

“It’s just that I suddenly felt so lonely, and so old.” She looked up at him, wondering if he could possibly understand. “I never thought I would be left behind.”

He chuckled. “Eloise Bridgerton, I don’t think anyone would ever make the mistake of leaving you behind.”

She felt her lips curve into a wobbly smile, marveling that her brother of all people could actually say the exact right thing. “I suppose I never really thought I’d always be a spinster,” she said. “Or, if I was, then at least that Penelope would always be one, too. It wasn’t very kind of me, and I don’t even think I really thought about it much, but—”

“But that’s just how it was,” he said, doing her the kindness of finishing the sentiment. “I don’t think even Penelope ever thought she’d marry. And to be honest, I doubt Colin did, either. Love can rather creep up on a person, you know.”

She nodded, wondering if it could creep up on her. Probably not. She was the sort of person who would need it whacked over the head.

“I’m glad they’re married,” Eloise said.

“I know you are. I am, too.”

“Sir Phillip,” she said, motioning toward the door, even though he was actually down the hall and around two corners in the dining room. “We had been corresponding for over a year. And then he mentioned marriage. And he did it in such a sensible manner. He didn’t propose, he just inquired if I might like to visit, to see if we would suit. I told myself he was mad, that I couldn’t even consider such an offer. Who would marry someone she didn’t know?” She let out a shaky little laugh. “And then Colin and Penelope announced their engagement. It was as if my entire world flipped sideways. And that was when I started thinking about it. Every time I looked at my desk, at the drawer where I kept his letters, it was as if they were burning a hole right through the wood.”

Anthony said nothing, just squeezed her hand, as if he understood.

“I had to do something,” she said. “I couldn’t just sit and wait for life to happen to me any longer.”

A chuckle burst from her brother’s throat. “Eloise,” he said, “that is the last thing I would ever worry about on your behalf.”

“Anth—”

“No, let me finish,” he said. “You’re one of the special ones, Eloise. Life never happens to you. Trust me on this. I’ve watched you grow up, had to be your father at times when I wanted only to be your brother.”

Her lips parted as something squeezed around her heart. He was right. He had been a father to her. It was a role neither of them had wanted for him, but he had done it for years, without complaint.

And this time she squeezed his hand, not because she loved him, but because it was only now that she realized how very much she did.

“You happen to life, Eloise,” Anthony said. “You’ve always made your own decisions, always been in control. It might not always feel that way, but it’s true.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head as she said, “Well, I was trying to make my own decisions when I came here. It seemed a good plan.”

“And maybe,” Anthony said quietly, “you’ll find that it was indeed a good plan. Sir Phillip seems an honorable sort.”

Eloise couldn’t hide her peevish expression. “You were able to deduce this while you had your hands wrapped around his throat?”

He shot her a superior look. “You’d be surprised what men can deduce about one another while fighting.”

“You call that fighting? It was four against one!”

He shrugged. “I never said it was fair fighting.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“An interesting adjective considering your recent activities.”

Eloise felt herself flush.

“Very well,” Anthony said, his brisk tone signaling a change of topic. “Here is what we are going to do.”

And Eloise knew that whatever he said, it was what she’d be doing. His voice was that resolute.

“You will pack your bags immediately,” Anthony said, “and we will all travel to My Cottage and remain there for a week.”

Eloise nodded. My Cottage was the rather odd name of Benedict’s home, situated not too far from Romney Hall in Wiltshire. He lived there with his wife Sophie and their three sons. It wasn’t a particularly large home, but it was comfortable, and there was certainly enough room for a few extra Bridgertons.

“Your Sir Phillip may come visit each day,” Anthony continued, and Eloise understood his words perfectly to mean, Your Sir Phillip will come visit each day.

She nodded again.

“If, at the end of the week, I determine that he is good enough to marry my sister, you will do so. Immediately.”

“You’re certain you can judge the measure of a man’s character in one week?”

“It rarely takes longer,” Anthony stated. “And if I’m unsure, we’ll merely wait another sennight.”

“Sir Phillip might not care to marry me,” Eloise felt compelled to point out.

Anthony leveled a hard stare at her face. “He hasn’t that option.”

Eloise gulped.

One of Anthony’s brows rose into an arrogant arch. “Do we understand each other?”

She nodded. His plan seemed reasonable—more reasonable, in fact, than most older brothers would have allowed—and if something went horribly wrong, if she decided that she couldn’t possibly marry Sir Phillip Crane, well then, she had a week to figure out how to get out of it. A lot could happen in a week.

Just look at the last one.

“Shall we return to the dining room?” Anthony queried. “I imagine you’re hungry, and if we tarry much longer, Colin is sure to have eaten our host out of house and home.”

Eloise nodded. “Either that, or they’ve all killed him by now.”

Anthony paused to consider that. “It would save me the expense of a wedding.”

“Anthony!”

“It’s a joke, Eloise,” he said, giving his head a weary shake. “Come along, now. Let’s make sure your Sir Phillip still resides among the ranks of the living.”

“And then,” Benedict was saying as Anthony and Eloise reentered the dining room, “the tavern wench arrived and she had the biggest—”

“Benedict!” Eloise exclaimed.

Benedict looked over at his sister with a supremely guilty expression, yanked back his hands, which were demonstrating the size of what was clearly an impossibly endowed female, and muttered, “Sorry.”

“You’re married,” Eloise scolded.

“But not blind,” Colin said with a grin.

“You’re married, too!” she accused.

“But not blind,” he said again.

“Eloise,” Gregory said with what was quite possibly the most annoying use of condescension she’d ever had cause to hear, “there are some things that are impossible not to see. Especially,” he added, “when you’re a man.”

“It’s true,” admitted Anthony. “I saw it myself.”

Eloise gasped as she looked from brother to brother, looking for some sane spot in this cesspool of madness. Her eyes fell on Phillip, who, by the looks of him, not to mention his slightly inebriated state, had formed a lifelong bond with her brothers during the short time she’d been closeted away with Anthony.

“Sir Phillip?” she asked, waiting for him to say something acceptable.

But he just offered her a loopy grin. “I know who they’re talking about,” he said. “Been to that inn any number of times. Lucy’s quite famous in these parts.”

“Even I’ve heard of her,” Benedict said, with a knowing nod. “I’m only an hour away on horseback. Less, if you push hard.”

Gregory leaned toward Phillip, his blue eyes gleaming with interest as he asked, “So, did you? Ever?”

“Gregory!” Eloise practically yelled. This was really too much. Her brothers should never have been talking about such things in front of her, but even more, the last thing she wanted to know was whether Sir Phillip had tupped a tavern wench with bosoms the size of soup tureens.

But Phillip just shook his head. “She’s married,” he said. “As was I.”

Anthony turned to Eloise and whispered in her ear, “He’ll do.”

“I’m glad you have such high standards for your beloved sister,” she muttered.

“I told you,” Anthony remarked, “I’ve seen Lucy. This is a man with restraint.”

She planted her hands on her hips and looked her older brother squarely in the eye. “Were you tempted?”

“Of course not! Kate would slit my throat.”

“I’m not talking about what Kate would do to you if you strayed, although I’m of the opinion that she would not start at your throat—”

Anthony winced. He knew it was true.

“—I want to know if you were tempted.”

“No,” he admitted, shaking his head. “But don’t tell anyone. I used to be considered something of a rake, after all. Wouldn’t want people to think I was completely tamed.”

“You’re appalling.”

He grinned. “And yet, my wife still loves me to distraction, which is all that really matters, isn’t it?”

Eloise supposed he was right. She sighed. “What are we going to do about them?” She motioned to the quartet of men sitting around the dining room table, which was littered with empty dishes. Phillip, Benedict, and Gregory were sitting back and relaxing, looking quite sated. Colin was still eating.

Anthony shrugged. “I don’t know what you want to do, but I’m going to join them.”

Eloise just stood in the doorway, watching as he sat down and poured himself a glass of wine. The conversation had thankfully moved on from Lucy and her tremendous bosoms, and now they were talking about boxing. Or at least that’s what she assumed they were talking about. Phillip was demonstrating some sort of hand maneuver to Gregory.

Then he punched him in the face.

“So sorry,” Phillip said, patting Gregory on the back. But Eloise noticed that the right corner of his mouth was curving ever so slightly into a smile. “Won’t hurt for long, I’m sure. My chin’s feeling better already.”

Gregory grunted something that was clearly meant to mean that it didn’t hurt, but he rubbed his chin nonetheless.

“Sir Phillip?” Eloise said loudly. “Might I have a word?”

“Of course,” he said, standing up immediately, although in all truth, all of the men should have been 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 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, 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 made her feel strange, and itchy, as if she needed to jump out of her skin.

She had spent her adult life making her own choices, had considered herself the luckiest of females because her family had allowed her to do so. Maybe that was why it now felt so unbearable to be forced onto a path before she was ready.

Or maybe it was unbearable because she was the one who had set this entire farce into motion. She was furious with herself, and it was making her snippy with everyone.

“I’ll do my best to make you happy,” he said gruffly. “And the children need a mother.”

She smiled weakly. She’d wanted her marriage to be about more than just children.

“I’m sure you’ll be a great help,” he said.

“A great help,” she echoed, hating the way it sounded.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

She nodded, mostly because she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she might scream.

“Good,” he said. “Then it’s all settled.”

It’s all settled. For the rest of her life, that would be her grand proposal of marriage. It’s all settled. And the worst part of it was—she had no right to complain. She was the one who’d run off without giving Phillip enough time to arrange for a chaperone. She was the one who’d been so eager to make her own destiny. She was the one who’d acted without thinking, and now all she had to show for it was—

It’s all settled.

She swallowed. “Wonderful.”

He looked at her, blinking in confusion. “Aren’t you happy?”

“Of course,” she said hollowly.

“You don’t sound happy.”

“I’m happy,” she snapped.

Phillip muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“You said something.”

He gave her an impatient look. “If I’d meant for you to hear it, I would have said it out loud.”

She sucked in her breath. “Then you shouldn’t have said it at all.”

“Some things,” Phillip muttered, “are impossible to keep inside.”

“What did you say?” she demanded.

Phillip raked his hand through his hair. “Eloise—”

“Did you insult me?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Since it appears we are to be wed,” she bit off, “yes.”

“I don’t recall my exact words,” Phillip shot back, “but I believe I may have uttered the words women and lack of sense in the same breath.”

He shouldn’t have said it. He knew he shouldn’t have said it; it would have been rude under any circumstances, and it was especially wrong right now. But she had pushed and pushed and pushed and wouldn’t back down. It was like she’d sliced a needle under his skin, and then decided to jab just for the fun of it.

And besides, why was she in such a terrible mood, anyway? All he’d done was state the facts. They would have to marry, and frankly, she should have been glad that if she’d been compromised, at least it had been with a man who was willing to do the right thing and wed her.

He didn’t expect gratitude. Hell, this was as much his fault as it was hers; he was the one who’d issued the initial invitation, after all. But was it too much to expect a smile and a pleasant mood?

“I’m glad we had this conversation,” Eloise said quite suddenly. “This has been good.”

He looked up, instantly suspicious. “I beg your pardon.”

“Very beneficial,” she said. “One should always understand one’s spouse before one marries, and—”

He groaned. This was not going to end well.

“And,” she added sharply, glaring at his groan, “it is certainly provident that I now know how you feel about my gender.”

He was the sort who usually walked away from conflict, but really, this was too much. “If I recall correctly,” he shot back, “I never did tell you exactly what I thought of women.”

“I inferred it,” she retorted. “The phrase ‘lack of sense’ pointed me in the correct direction.”

“Did it?” he drawled. “Well, I’m thinking differently now.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided I don’t have difficulties with women in general, after all. It’s you I find insufferable.”

She drew back, clearly affronted.

“Has no one called you insufferable before?” He found that difficult to believe.

“No one who wasn’t related to me,” she grumbled.

“You must live in a very polite society.” He squirmed in his seat again; really, did no one make chairs for large men anymore? “Either that,” he muttered, “or you’ve simply terrified everyone into bending to your every whim.”

She flushed, and he couldn’t tell if it was because she was embarrassed by his spot-on assessment of her personality or just because she was angry beyond words.

Probably both.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

He turned to her in surprise. “I beg your pardon?” He couldn’t have heard correctly.

“I said I’m sorry,” she repeated, making it clear that she was not going to say the words a third time, so he’d better be listening well.

“Oh,” he said, too stunned to say much of anything else. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Her tone was less than gracious, but she seemed to be trying hard, nonetheless.

For a moment he said nothing. Then he had to ask. “What for?”

She looked up, obviously irritated that that hadn’t been the end of it. “Did you have to ask?” she grumbled.

“Well, yes.”

“I am sorry,” she ground out, “because I am in a horrid mood and have been behaving badly. And if you ask how I have been behaving badly, I swear I will get up and walk away and you will never see me again, because I assure you, this apology is difficult enough without my having to explain it further.”

Phillip decided he couldn’t possibly hope for more. “Thank you,” he said softly. He held his tongue for a minute, quite possibly the longest minute of his life, then he decided he might as well just go ahead and say it.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he told her, “I had decided we would suit before your brothers arrived. I was already planning to ask you to be my wife. Properly, with a ring and whatever else it is I’m supposed to do. I don’t know. It’s been a long while since I’ve proposed marriage to anyone, and last time wasn’t under normal circumstances in any case.”

She looked up at him, surprise in her eyes . . . and perhaps a little bit of gratitude as well.

“I’m sorry that your brothers came along and made it all happen faster than you are ready for,” he added, “but I’m not sorry that it’s happening.”

“You’re not?” she whispered. “Really?”

“I’ll give you as long as you need,” he said, “within reason, of course. But I cannot—” He glanced up the hill; Anthony and Colin were ambling down toward them, followed by a footman carrying a tray of food. “I cannot speak for your brothers. I daresay they won’t care to wait as long you might prefer. And quite frankly, if you were my sister, I’d have marched you to a church last night.”

She looked up the hill at her brothers; they were still at least a half a minute away. She opened her mouth, then closed it in obvious thought. Finally, after several seconds, during which he could practically see the wheels of her mind churning and turning, she blurted out, “Why did you decide we would suit?”

“I beg your pardon?” It was a stalling tactic, of course. He hadn’t expected such a direct question.

Although heaven knew why not. This was Eloise, after all.

“Why did you decide we would suit?” she repeated, her voice pointed and undeniable.

But of course that would be how she would ask it. There was nothing subtle or deniable about Eloise Bridgerton. She would never skirt around an issue when she could just walk right in and stick her nose directly into the heart of the matter.

“I . . . ah . . .” He coughed, cleared his throat.

“You don’t know,” she stated, sounding disappointed.

“Of course I know,” he protested. No man liked to be told he didn’t know his own mind.

“No, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t be sitting there choking on air.”

“Good God, woman, do you have a charitable bone in your body? A man needs time to formulate an answer.”

“Ah,” came Colin Bridgerton’s ever-genial voice. “Here’s the happy couple.”

Phillip had never been so glad to see another human being in all his life. “Good morning,” he said to the two Bridgerton men, inordinately pleased to have escaped Eloise’s interrogation.

“Hungry?” Colin inquired as he sat in the chair next to Phillip. “I took the liberty of having the kitchen prepare breakfast alfresco.”

Phillip looked over at the footman and wondered if he ought to offer to help. The poor man looked nearly ready to collapse under the weight of the food.

“How are you this morning?” Anthony asked as he sat down on the cushioned bench next to Eloise.

“Fine,” she replied.

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“Cheerful?”

“Not for you.”

Anthony turned to Phillip. “She’s usually more conversational.”

Phillip wondered if Eloise would hit him. It wouldn’t be more than he deserved.

The tray of food came down on the table with a loud clatter, followed by the footman’s abject apology for being so clumsy, followed by Anthony’s assurance that it was no trouble at all, that Hercules himself could not carry enough food to suit Colin.

The two Bridgerton brothers served themselves, then Anthony turned to Eloise and Phillip and said, “The two of you certainly seem well suited this morning.”

Eloise looked at him with open hostility. “When did you reach that conclusion?”

“It only took a moment,” he said with a shrug. He looked at Phillip. “It was the bickering, actually. All the best couples do it.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Phillip murmured.

“My wife and I often have similar conversations before she comes around to my way of thinking,” Anthony said affably.

Eloise shot him a peevish expression.

“Of course, my wife might offer a different interpretation,” he added with a shrug. “I allow her to think that I’m coming ’round to her way of thinking.” He turned back to Phillip and smiled. “It’s easier that way.”

Phillip stole a glance at Eloise. She appeared to be working very hard to hold her tongue.

“When did you arrive?” Anthony asked him.

“Just a few minutes ago,” he replied.

“Yes,” Eloise said. “He proposed marriage, I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear.”

Phillip coughed with surprise at her sudden announcement. “I beg your pardon?”

Eloise turned to Anthony. “He said, ‘We’ll have to marry.’”

“Well, he’s right,” Anthony replied, settling a level stare directly on her face. “You do have to marry. And my compliments to him for not beating around the bush about it. I’d think you of all people would appreciate direct conversation.”

“Scone, anyone?” Colin asked. “No? More for me, then.”

Anthony turned to Phillip and said, “She’s just a bit irritated because she hates being ordered about. She’ll be fine in a few days.”

“I’m fine right now,” Eloise ground out.

“Yes,” Anthony murmured, “you look fine.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Eloise asked. Through her teeth.

“An interesting question,” her brother replied. “One might say that I ought to be in London, with my wife and children. In fact, if I did have somewhere else to be, I imagine that would be it. But strangely enough, I seem to be here. In Wiltshire. Where, when I woke in my comfortable bed in London three days ago, I would never have guessed I would be.” He smiled blandly. “Any other questions?”

She was quiet at that.

Anthony handed an envelope to Eloise. “This arrived for you.”

She looked down, and Phillip could see that she instantly recognized the handwriting.

“It’s from Mother,” Anthony said, even though it was clear she already knew that.

“Do you want to read it?” Phillip asked.

She shook her head. “Not now.”

Which meant, he realized, not in front of her brothers.

And then suddenly he knew what he had to do.

“Lord Bridgerton,” he said to Anthony, standing up, “might I request a moment alone with your sister?”

“You just had a moment alone with her,” Colin said between bites of bacon.

Phillip ignored him. “My lord?”

“Of course,” Anthony said, “if she’s agreeable.”

Phillip grabbed Eloise’s hand and yanked her to her feet. “She’s agreeable,” he said.

“Mmmm,” Colin remarked. “She looks very agreeable.”

Phillip decided then and there that all the Bridgertons ought to be fitted with muzzles. “Come with me,” he said to Eloise, before she had a chance to argue.

Which of course she would, since she was Eloise, and she would never smile politely and follow when an argument was a possibility.

“Where are we going?” she gasped, once he had pulled her away from her family and was striding across the lawn, unmindful of how she had to run to keep up.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

He stopped so quickly that she crashed into him. It was rather nice, actually. He could feel every last bit of her, from her breasts to her thighs, although she recovered all too quickly and stepped away before he could savor the moment.

“I’ve never been here before,” he said, explaining it to her as if she were a small child. “I’d have to be a bloody clairvoyant to know where I’m going.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well then, lead the way.”

He pulled her back to the house, making his way to a side door. “Where does this go?” he asked.

“Inside,” she replied.

He gave her a sarcastic look.

“Through Sophie’s writing room to the hall,” Eloise expounded.

“Is Sophie in her writing room?”

“I doubt it. Didn’t she go to fetch you lemonade?”

“Good.” He pulled the door open, muttering a quick thanks that it was unlocked, and poked his head inside. The room was empty, but the door to the hall was open, so he strode across and pulled it shut. When he turned back around, Eloise was still standing in the open doorway to the outside, watching him with a blend of curiosity and amusement.

“Shut the door,” he ordered.

Her brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

“Shut it.” It wasn’t a tone of voice he used often, but after a year of floating along, of feeling lost amid the currents of his life, he was finally taking control.

And he knew exactly what he wanted.

“Shut the door, Eloise,” he said in a low voice, moving slowly across the room toward her.

Her eyes widened. “Phillip?” she whispered. “I—”

“Don’t talk,” he said. “Just shut the door.”

But she was frozen in place, staring at him as if she didn’t know him. Which, in truth, she didn’t. Hell, he wasn’t so sure he knew himself any longer.

“Phillip, you—”

He reached behind her and shut the door for her, turning the lock with a loud and ominous click.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“You were worried,” he said, “that we might not suit.”

Her lips parted.

He stepped forward. “I think it’s time I showed you that we do.”

Chapter 12

. . . and how did you know that you and Simon were well-suited for marriage? For I vow I have not met a man about which I might say the same, and this after three long seasons on the Marriage Mart.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her

sister the Duchess of Hastings,

upon refusing her third proposal of marriage

Eloise had time to breathe—barely—before his mouth came down on hers. And it was a good thing she did, because it didn’t feel as if he had any plans to release her until, oh, the next millennium.

But then, abruptly, he drew back, his large hands cradling her face. And he looked at her.

Just looked at her.

“What?” she asked, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. She knew she was considered to be attractive, but she was no legendary beauty, and he was examining her as if he wanted to catalogue her every feature.

“I wanted to see you,” he whispered. He touched her cheek, then smoothed his thumb down the line of her jaw. “You’re always in motion. I don’t get to just see you.”

Her legs turned wobbly, and her lips parted, but she couldn’t seem to make them work, couldn’t seem to do anything other than stare up into his dark eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “Do you know what I thought when I saw you the first time?”

She shook her head, desperate for his words.

“I thought I could drown in your eyes. I thought”—he moved in closer, his words now as much breath as sound—“I could drown in you.”

She felt herself swaying toward him.

He touched her lips, tickling the tender skin with his forefinger. The motion sent ripples of pleasure throughout her, right down to the center of her being, to places forbidden even to her.

And she realized that she had never really understood the power of desire until that very moment. Never really understood what it was at all.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

He smiled. “You always order me about.”

“Kiss me.”

“Are you sure?” he murmured, his mouth curved into a teasing smile. “Because once I do, I might not be able to—”

She grabbed the back of his head and yanked him down.

He chuckled against her lips, his arms tightening around her with uncompromising strength. She opened her mouth, welcoming his invasion, moaning with pleasure as his tongue swept in, exploring her warmth. He nibbled and licked, slowly stirring a fire within her, all the while pressing her closer and closer against him until his heat poured through her clothing, wrapping her in a haze of desire.

His hands stole around her back, then down to her derriere, squeezing and kneading, then tilting her up until—

She gasped. She was twenty-eight years old, old enough to have heard indiscreet whispers. She knew what his hardness meant. She’d just never expected it to feel quite so hot, so insistent.

She jerked back, the motion more instinct than anything else, but he wouldn’t let her go, pulled her closer and groaned, rubbing her against him. “I want to be inside you,” he groaned in her ear.

Her legs completely gave out.

It didn’t matter, of course; he just held her even tighter, then sank her onto the sofa, coming down atop her until the full length of him pressed her into the soft, cream-colored cushions. He was heavy, but his weight was thrilling, and she could do nothing but loll her head back as his lips left hers to travel down the column of her throat.

“Phillip,” she moaned, and then again, as if his name were the only word left to her.

“Yes,” he grunted, “yes.” His words seemed torn from his throat, and she had no idea what he was talking about, only that whatever he was saying yes to, she wanted it, too. She wanted everything. Anything he wanted, anything possible.

She wanted everything that was possible and everything impossible, too. There was no more reason, only sensation. Only need and desire and this overwhelming sense of now.

This wasn’t about yesterday and it wasn’t about tomorrow. This was now, and she wanted it all.

She felt his hand on her ankle, rough and callused as it moved up her leg until it reached the edge of her stocking. He didn’t pause, did nothing to implicitly ask her permission, but she gave it anyway, urging her legs apart until he settled more firmly between them, giving him more room to caress, more space to tickle her skin.

He moved up and up and up, pausing every now and then to squeeze, and she thought she might die from the waiting. She was on fire, burning for him, feeling strange and wet and so completely unlike herself she thought she might dissolve into a pool of nothingness.

Or evaporate completely. Or maybe even explode.

And then, just when she was quite convinced that nothing could be stranger, nothing could wind her even tighter than she was, he touched her.

Touched her.

Touched her where no one had ever touched her, where she didn’t dare touch herself. Touched her so intimately, so tenderly that she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming his name.

And as his finger slid inside, she knew that in that moment she no longer belonged to herself.

She was his.

Sometime later, much later, she’d be herself again, back in control, with all her powers and faculties, but for now she was his. In this moment, for this second, she lived for him, for all he could make her feel, for every last whisper of pleasure, each moan of desire.

“Oh, Phillip,” she gasped, his name a plea, a promise, a question. It was whatever she needed to say to make sure he didn’t stop. She had no idea where this was all heading, whether she’d even be the same person when it was done, but it had to go somewhere. She couldn’t possibly continue in this state forever. She was wound so tight, so tense that she’d surely shatter.

She was near the end. She had to be.

She needed something. She needed release, and she knew that only he could give it to her.

She arched to him, pressed up with a power she would never have imagined she possessed, actually lifting them both off the sofa with her need. Her hands found his shoulders, biting into his muscles, then moved down to the small of his back in an effort to pull him even closer against her.

“Eloise,” he groaned, sliding his other hand up her skirt until it found her backside. “Do you have any idea—”

And then she had no idea what he did—he probably didn’t know, either—but her entire body went impossibly tense. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe as her mouth opened into a silent scream of surprise and delight and a hundred other things all rolled into one. And then, just when she thought she couldn’t possibly survive even a second longer, she shuddered and collapsed beneath him, panting with exhaustion, so limp and spent she couldn’t have moved even her littlest finger.

“Oh, my God,” she finally said, the blasphemy the only words coursing through her mind. “Oh, my God.”

His hands tightened on her backside.

“Oh, my God.”

His hand moved, came up to stroke her hair. He was gentle, achingly gentle, even though his body was rigid and tense.

Eloise just lay there, wondering if she’d ever be able to move again, breathing against him as she felt his breath on her temple. Eventually he shifted and moved, mumbling something about being too heavy for her, and then there was nothing but air, and when she looked to the side, he was kneeling next to the sofa, smoothing her skirts back down.

It seemed a rather tender and gentlemanly gesture, given her recent wantonness.

She looked into his face, knowing she must have the silliest smile on hers. “Oh, Phillip,” she sighed.

“Is there a washroom?” he asked hoarsely.

She blinked, noticing for the first time that he looked rather strained. “A washroom?” she echoed.

He nodded stiffly.

She pointed to the door leading to the hall. “Out and to the right,” she said. It was hard to believe he needed to relieve himself right after such a thrilling encounter, but who was she to attempt to understand the workings of the male body?

He walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, then turned around. “Do you believe me now?” he asked, one of his brows rising into an impossibly arrogant arch.

Her lips parted in confusion. “About what?”

He smiled. Slowly. And all he said was, “We’ll suit.”

Phillip had no idea how long it would take Eloise to regain her composure and restore her appearance. She’d looked quite delectably disheveled when he’d left her on the sofa in Sophie Bridgerton’s little office. He never could understand the intricacies of a woman’s toilette, and was quite certain he never would, but he was fairly sure she was going to need to redress her hair at the very least.

As for him, he required less than a minute in the washroom to find his release; he was wound that tight from his encounter with Eloise.

Dear God, she was magnificent.

It had been so long since he’d been with a woman. He’d known that when he finally found one he wanted to bed that his body would react strongly. He’d had more years than he’d cared to count with only his hand to satisfy his needs; a female body seemed like pure bliss.

And heaven knew he had imagined one often enough.

But this had been different, not at all what he’d pictured in his mind. He’d been mad for her. For her. For the sounds that escaped her throat, for the scent of her skin, for the way his body seemed to fit perfectly in the crook of hers. Even though he’d had to finish off himself, he’d still felt more, and more intensely, than he’d ever thought possible.

He’d thought almost any female body would do, but it was now quite clear to him that there was a reason he’d never availed himself of the services of the whores and barmaids who’d expressed their willingness. There was a reason he’d never found himself a discreet widow.

He’d needed more.

He’d needed Eloise.

He wanted to sink himself into her and never come out.

He wanted to own her, to possess her, and then to lay back and let her torture him until he screamed.

He’d had fantasies before. Hell, every man did. But now his fantasy had a face, and he feared he was going to find himself walking around with a constant erection if he didn’t learn how to control his thoughts.

He needed a wedding. Fast.

He groaned, giving his hands a quick wash in the basin. She didn’t know she’d left him in such a state. She didn’t even realize. She’d just looked at him with that blissful smile, too caught in her own passion to notice that he was ready to explode.

He pushed open the door, his feet moving quickly along the marble floor as he made his way back to the lawn. He’d have plenty of time to explode soon enough. And when he did, she’d be right there along with him.

The thought brought a smile to his lips, and very nearly sent him back into the washroom.

“Ah, there he is,” Benedict Bridgerton said as Phillip walked toward him across the lawn. Phillip saw the gun in his hand and stopped in his tracks, wondering if he ought to be worried. Benedict couldn’t possibly know what had just happened in his wife’s office, could he?

Phillip swallowed, thinking hard. No, there was no way. And besides, Benedict was smiling.

Of course, he could be the sort who would enjoy picking off the spoiler of his sister’s innocence . . .

“Er, good morning,” Phillip said, glancing at everyone else in an attempt to gauge the situation.

Benedict nodded his greeting, then said, “Do you shoot?”

“Of course,” Phillip replied.

“Good.” He jerked his head toward a target. “Join us.”

Phillip noted with relief that the target seemed to be firmly in place, indicating that he would not have to play that role. “I didn’t bring a pistol,” he said.

“Of course not,” Benedict replied. “Why would you? We’re all friends here.” His brows rose. “Aren’t we?”

“One would hope.”

Benedict’s lips curved, but it wasn’t the sort of smile that inspired confidence in one’s well-being. “Don’t worry about the pistol,” he said. “We’ll provide one.”

Phillip nodded. If this was to be how he was to prove his manhood to Eloise’s brothers, so be it. He could shoot as well as the best of them. It had been one of those manly pursuits his father had been so insistent he learn. He’d spent countless hours outside Romney Hall, his arm outstretched until his muscles burned, holding his breath as he aimed for whatever it was his father was out to destroy. Every shot was accompanied by a fervent prayer that his aim would be true.

If he hit the target, his father wouldn’t hit him. It was as simple—and desperate—as that.

He walked over to a table with several pistols on it, murmuring his hellos to Anthony, Colin, and Gregory. Sophie was sitting about ten or so yards away, her nose in a book.

“Let’s get on with this,” Anthony said, “before Eloise returns.” He looked over at Phillip. “Where is Eloise?”

“She went off to read the letter from your mother,” Phillip lied.

“I see. Well, that won’t take long,” Anthony said with a frown. “We’d better hurry, then.”

“Maybe she’ll want to reply,” Colin said, picking up a gun and examining it. “That’ll buy us a few extra minutes. You know Eloise. She’s always writing someone a letter.”

“Indeed,” Anthony replied. “Got us into this mess, didn’t it?”

Phillip just looked at him with an inscrutable smile. He was far too pleased with himself this morning to rise to any bait Anthony Bridgerton cared to offer.

Gregory chose a gun. “Even if she replies, she’ll be back soon. She’s fiendishly fast.”

“At writing?” Phillip queried.

“At everything,” Gregory said grimly. “Let’s shoot.”

“Why are you all so eager to get started without Eloise?” Phillip asked.

“Er, no reason,” Benedict said, at precisely the same moment Anthony mumbled, “Who said anything about that?”

They all had, of course, but Phillip didn’t remind them of it.

“Age before beauty, old chap,” Colin said, slapping Anthony on the back.

“You’re too kind,” Anthony murmured, stepping up to a chalk line someone had drawn in the grass. He lifted his arm, took aim, and fired.

“Well done,” Phillip said, once the footman had brought forth the bull’s-eye. Anthony had not hit dead center, but he was only an inch off.

“Thank you.” He set his pistol down. “How old are you?”

Phillip blinked at the unexpected question, then replied, “Thirty.”

Anthony jerked his head toward Colin. “You’re after Colin, then. We always do these things by age. It’s the only way to keep track.”

“By all means,” Phillip said, watching as Benedict and Colin took their turns. They were both good shots, neither dead center, but certainly close enough to kill a man, had that been their goal.

Which, thankfully, it didn’t seem to be, at least not that morning.

Phillip selected a pistol, tested its weight in his hand, then stepped up to the chalk line. It had only been recently that he’d stopped thinking of his father every time he took aim at a target. It had taken years, but he’d finally allowed himself to realize that he actually liked shooting, that it didn’t have to be a chore. And then suddenly his father’s voice, so often at the back of his mind, always yelling, always criticizing, was gone.

He lifted his arm, his muscles rock steady, and fired.

He squinted toward the target. It looked good. The footman brought it forward. One-half inch, at most, off the center. Closer than anyone else thus far.

The target went back, and Gregory took his turn, proving himself to be Phillip’s equal.

“We do five rounds,” Anthony told Phillip. “Best out, and if there’s a tie, the leaders face off.”

“I see,” Phillip said. “Any particular reason?”

“No,” Anthony said, picking up his gun. “Just that we’ve always done it this way.”

Colin looked at Phillip with deadly serious eyes. “We take our games seriously.”

“I’m gathering.”

“Do you fence?”

“Not well,” Phillip said.

One corner of Colin’s mouth turned up. “Excellent.”

“Be quiet,” Anthony barked, looking testily over at them. “I’m trying to aim.”

“Such need for silence will not serve you well at a time of crisis,” Colin remarked.

“Shut up,” Anthony bit off.

“If we were attacked,” Colin continued, one of his hands moving expressively as he wove his tale, “it would be quite noisy, and frankly, I find it disturbing to think—”

“Colin!” Anthony bellowed.

“Don’t mind me,” Colin said.

“I’m going to kill him,” Anthony announced. “Does anyone mind if I kill him?”

No one did, although Sophie did look up and mention something about blood and messes and not wanting to have to clean up.

“It’s an excellent fertilizer,” Phillip said helpfully, since, after all, that was his area of expertise.

“Ah.” Sophie nodded and turned back to her book. “Kill him, then.”

“How’s that book, darling?” Benedict called out to her.

“It’s quite good, actually.”

“Will you all shut up?” Anthony ground out. Then, his cheeks coloring slightly, he turned to his sister-in-law and mumbled, “Not you, of course, Sophie.”

“Glad to be exempted,” she said cheerfully.

“Do try not to threaten my wife,” Benedict said mildly.

Anthony turned to his brother and skewered him with a glare. “The lot of you should be drawn and quartered,” he grunted.

“Except for Sophie,” Colin reminded him.

Anthony turned to him with a deadly expression. “You do realize this gun is loaded, don’t you?”

“Lucky for me fratricide is considered quite beyond the pale.”

Anthony clamped his mouth shut and turned back toward the target. “Round two,” he called out, taking aim.

“Waaaaaaait!”

All four Bridgerton men sagged and turned around, groaning as they saw Eloise careening down the hill.

“Are you shooting?” she demanded, stumbling to a halt.

No one answered. No one really needed to. It was quite obvious.

“Without me?”

“We’re not shooting,” Gregory said. “Just standing about with guns.”

“Near a target,” Colin added helpfully.

“You’re shooting.”

“Of course we’re shooting,” Anthony snapped. He flicked his head off to the right. “Sophie is by herself. You should keep her company.”

Eloise planted her hands on her hips. “Sophie is reading a book.”

“A good one, too,” Sophie put in, returning her attention to the pages.

“You should read a book, too, Eloise,” Benedict suggested. “They’re very improving.”

“I don’t need any improving,” she shot back. “Give me a gun.”

“I’m not giving you a gun,” Benedict retorted. “We don’t have enough to go around.”

“We can share,” Eloise ground out. “Have you ever tried sharing? It’s very improving.”

Benedict scowled at her in a manner that wasn’t particularly fitting for a man of his years.

“I think,” Colin said, “that what Benedict was trying to say is that he’s as improved as he’s ever going to be.”

“For certain,” Sophie said, not even raising her eyes from her book.

“Here,” Phillip said magnanimously, handing his gun to Eloise, “have mine.” The four Bridgerton men groaned, but he decided he rather enjoyed annoying them.

“Thank you,” Eloise said graciously. “From Anthony’s bark of ‘Round two’ I deduce that you’ve each taken one shot?”

“Indeed,” Phillip replied. He looked over at her brothers, all of whom wore dejected expressions. “What’s wrong?”

Anthony just shook his head.

Phillip looked to Benedict.

“She’s a freak of nature,” Benedict muttered.

Phillip looked back at Eloise with renewed interest. She didn’t look particularly freakish to him.

“I’m dropping out,” Gregory muttered. “I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”

“You’ll have to ring for more,” Colin told him. “I already finished it all.”

Gregory let out an annoyed sigh. “It’s a wonder I haven’t starved,” he grumbled, “younger brother that I am.”

Colin shrugged. “You’ve got to be quick if you want to eat.”

Anthony looked at the two of them with disgust. “Did the two of you grow up in an orphanage?” he asked.

Phillip bit his lip to contain his smile.

“Are we going to shoot?” Eloise demanded.

“You certainly are,” Gregory said, slumping against a tree. “I’m leaving to eat.”

He stayed, though, watching his sister with a bored expression as she lifted her arm and, without even appearing to aim, fired.

Phillip blinked in surprise as the footman brought forth the target.

Dead center.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked, trying not to gape.

She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. I’ve always been able to do it.”

“Freak of nature,” Colin muttered. “Clearly.”

“I think it’s splendid,” Phillip said.

Eloise looked at him with glowing eyes. “Do you really?”

“Of course. Should I ever need to defend my home, I shall know who to send out to the front line.”

She beamed. “Where’s the next target?”

Gregory threw his arms up in disgust. “I forfeit. I’m getting something to eat.”

“Get something for me, too,” Colin called out.

“Of course,” Gregory muttered.

Eloise turned to Anthony. “Is it your turn now?”

He took the gun from her hands and set it on the table to be reloaded. “As if it matters.”

“We have to do all five rounds,” she said officiously. “You were the one who made the rules.”

“I know,” he said glumly. He lifted his arm and fired off a shot, but his heart clearly was not into it, and he was off by five inches.

“You’re not even trying!” Eloise accused.

Anthony just turned to Benedict and said, “I hate shooting with her.”

“Your turn,” Eloise said to Benedict.

He took his turn, as did Colin, both men putting in a bit more effort than Anthony had, but still coming up off the mark.

Phillip stepped up to the chalk line, pausing only to listen as Eloise said, “Don’t you decide to give up.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured.

“Good. It’s no fun to play with bad sports.” She directed the last two words quite vehemently toward her brothers.

“That’s the point,” Benedict said.

“They do this every time,” Eloise said to Phillip. “They shoot badly until I decide the match isn’t worth it, and then they all have fun.”

“Be quiet,” Phillip told her, lips twitching. “I’m aiming.”

“Oh.” She shut her mouth with alacrity, watching with interest as he focused on the target.

Phillip took his shot, allowing himself a slow, satisfied smile as the target was brought forward.

“Perfect!” Eloise exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Oh, Phillip, that was wonderful!”

Anthony muttered something under his breath that he probably ought not to have said in his sister’s presence, then added, directing his words to Phillip, “You are going to marry her, aren’t you? Because frankly, if you get her off of our hands and allow her to shoot with you so that she doesn’t pester us, I’ll gladly double her dowry.”

Phillip was quite certain at that point that he’d wed her for nothing, but he just grinned and said, “It’s a deal.”

Chapter 13

. . . and as I’m sure you can imagine, they were all possessed of a most foul temper. Is it my fault I am so superior? I think not. No more, I suppose, than it is their fault they were born men and thus without the barest hint of common sense or innate good manners.

—from Eloise Bridgerton

to Penelope Featherington,

after trouncing six men (three not

related to her) in a shooting match

The following day Eloise traveled to Romney Hall for lunch, along with Anthony, Benedict, and Sophie. Colin and Gregory had declared that the rest of the family had the situation well enough in hand and decided to return to London, Colin back to his new wife, and Gregory back to whatever it was the young unmarried men of the ton did to fill their daily lives.

Eloise was happy to see them go; she loved her brothers, but truly, the four of them at once was more than any woman ought to be expected to bear.

She was feeling optimistic as she stepped down from the carriage; the previous day had gone far better than she could ever have hoped. Even if Phillip hadn’t taken her into Sophie’s office to prove to her that they “would suit” (Eloise could now think of those words only as if they were in quotations), the day would have been a success. Phillip had more than held his own against the collective force of the Bridgerton brothers, which had left her feeling quite pleased and more than a little proud.

Funny how it hadn’t occurred to her until then that she could never marry a man who couldn’t square off with each and any of her brothers and emerge unscathed.

And in Phillip’s case, he’d taken on all four at once. Most impressive.

Eloise still had reservations about the marriage, of course. How could she not? She and Phillip had developed a sense of mutual respect and hopefully even affection, but they were not in love, and Eloise had no way of knowing if they ever would be.

Still, she was convinced that she was doing the right thing by marrying him. She had little choice in the matter, of course; it was either marry Phillip or face complete ruin and a life alone. But even so, she thought he would make a fine husband. He was honest and honorable, and if he was at times too quiet, at least he seemed to have a sense of humor, which Eloise felt was essential for any prospective spouse.

And when he kissed her . . .

Well, it was quite obvious that he knew exactly how to turn her knees to butter.

And the rest of her as well.

Eloise was, of course, a pragmatic. She always had been, and she knew that passion was not enough to sustain a marriage.

But, she thought with a wicked smile, surely it couldn’t hurt.

Phillip checked the clock on the mantel for about the fifteenth time in as many minutes. The Bridgertons were due to arrive at half noon, and it was already thirty-five past the hour. Not that five minutes was anything to worry about when one had to travel over country roads, but still, it was deuced hard to keep Oliver and Amanda neat and tidy and, above all, well behaved as they waited with him in the drawing room.

“I hate this jacket,” Oliver said, tugging on his little coat.

“It’s too small,” Amanda told him.

“I know,” he replied, with clear disdain. “If it weren’t too small, I wouldn’t have complained.”

Phillip rather thought he’d have found something else to complain about, but there seemed little reason to express this opinion.

“And anyway,” Oliver continued, “your dress is too small, too. I can see your ankles.”

“You’re supposed to be able to see my ankles,” Amanda said, frowning down at her lower legs.

“Not so much of them.”

She looked down again, this time with an expression of alarm.

“You’re only eight years old,” Phillip said in a weary voice. “The dress is perfectly suitable.” Or at least he hoped it was, little that he knew of such things.

Eloise, he thought, her name echoing through his head like the answer to his prayers. Eloise would know these things. She would know if a child’s dress was too short and when a girl should start wearing her hair up and even whether a boy should attend Eton or Harrow.

Eloise would know all these things.

Thank God.

“I think they’re late,” Oliver announced.

“They’re not late,” Phillip said automatically.

“I think they are late,” Oliver said. “I can read the clock now, you know.”

Phillip didn’t know, which depressed him. It was rather like the swimming thing. Too much like it, really.

Eloise, he reminded himself. Whatever his failings as a father, he was making up for all of that by marrying the perfect mother for them. He was, for the first time since their birth, doing the exact right thing for his children, and the sense of relief was almost overwhelming.

Eloise. She couldn’t get here soon enough.

Hell, he couldn’t marry her soon enough. How did one procure a special license, anyway? It hadn’t been the sort of thing he’d ever thought he’d need to know, but the last thing he wanted to do was wait several weeks to have banns read.

Weren’t weddings meant to be held on Saturday mornings? Could they manage it by this Saturday? It was only two days away, but if they could get that special license . . .

Phillip caught Oliver by the collar as he tried to race out the door. “No,” he said firmly. “You will wait here for Miss Bridgerton. And you will do so quietly, without incident, and with a smile on your face.”

Oliver made at least some attempt to settle down at the mention of Eloise’s name, but his “smile” (performed obediently at his father’s order) was a ghastly stretch of the lips that left Phillip feeling like he’d just had an audience with an anemic gorgon.

“That wasn’t a smile,” Amanda immediately said.

“It was, too.”

“No. Your lips didn’t even curve up. . . .”

Phillip sighed as he attempted to block his ears from the inside out. He’d talk to Anthony Bridgerton about the special license this afternoon. It seemed like the sort of thing the viscount would know about.

Saturday couldn’t come soon enough. He could turn the twins over to Eloise during the day, and . . .

He smiled to himself. She could turn herself over to him at night.

“Why are you smiling?” Amanda demanded.

“I’m not smiling,” Phillip said, feeling himself begin to—dear God—blush.

“You are smiling,” she accused. “And now your cheeks are turning pink.”

“Don’t be silly,” he muttered.

“I’m not silly,” she insisted. “Oliver, look at Father. Don’t his cheeks look pink?”

“One more word about my cheeks,” Phillip threatened, “and I’m going to . . .”

Hell, he’d been about to say horsewhip, but they all knew he would never do that.

“. . . do something,” he finished, in a lame attempt at a threat.

Amazingly, it worked, and they held still and silent for a moment. Then Amanda swung her legs from her perch on the sofa and knocked over a footstool.

Phillip looked at the clock.

“Oops,” she said, jumping down and then bending over to right it. “Oliver!” she howled.

Phillip tore his eyes away from the minute hand, which was, inexplicably, not even to the eight. Amanda was sprawled on the floor, glaring at her brother.

“He pushed me,” Amanda said.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did—”

“Oliver,” Phillip cut in. “Someone pushed her, and I’m fairly certain it was not I.”

Oliver chewed on his lower lip, having forgotten to consider the fact that his culpability would be quite obvious. “Maybe she fell over on her own,” he suggested.

Phillip just stared at him, hoping that the ferocious expression would be enough to nip that idea in the bud.

“Very well,” Oliver admitted. “I pushed her. I’m sorry.”

Phillip blinked with surprise. Maybe he was getting better at fatherhood. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard an unsolicited apology.

“You can push me back,” Oliver said to Amanda.

“Oh, no,” Phillip said quickly. Bad idea. Very, very bad idea.

“All right,” Amanda said brightly.

“No, Amanda,” Phillip said, jumping to his feet. “Do not—”

But she’d already pressed both of her little hands to her brother’s chest and heaved.

Oliver went tumbling back with a loud burst of laughter. “Now I get to push you!” he yelled with glee.

“You will not push your sister!” Phillip roared, jumping over an ottoman.

“She pushed me!” Oliver hollered.

“Because you asked her to, you miserable little wretch.” Phillip swung his hand out to grab Oliver’s sleeve before he slithered away, but the sneaky little bugger was slippery as an eel.

“Push me!” Amanda squealed. “Push me!”

“Do not push her!” Phillip yelled. Visions of his drawing room floated ominously in his brain, the image strewn with broken furniture and overturned lamps.

Good God, and with the Bridgertons due at any moment.

He reached Oliver just as Oliver reached Amanda, and the three of them went tumbling down, taking two cushions off the sofa with them. Phillip thanked the Lord for small favors. At least the cushions were not breakable.

Crash.

“What the devil?”

“I think it was the clock,” Oliver gulped.

How on earth they’d managed to topple the clock off the mantel, Phillip would never know. “The two of you are hereby banished to your rooms until you’re sixty-eight,” he hissed.

“Oliver did it,” Amanda said quickly.

“I don’t give a—care who did it,” Phillip bit off. “You know that Miss Bridgerton is expected at any—”

“Ahem.”

Phillip turned slowly to the doorway, horrified—but not surprised—to see Anthony Bridgerton standing there, Benedict, Sophie, and Eloise right behind him.

“My lord,” Phillip said, his voice too curt. Really, he should have been more gracious—it wasn’t the viscount’s fault that his children were just one transgression short of being complete monsters—but Phillip just couldn’t manage good cheer at the moment.

“Perhaps we’re interrupting?” Anthony said mildly.

“Not at all,” Phillip replied. “As you can see, we’re merely . . . ah . . . rearranging the furniture.”

“And doing an excellent job of it,” Sophie said brightly.

Phillip shot her a grateful smile. She seemed like the type of woman who always went out of her way to make others feel more comfortable, and at the moment he could have kissed her for it.

He rose, stopping to right the overturned ottoman as he did so, then grabbed both of his children by the arms and hauled them to their feet. Oliver’s little cravat was now completely undone, and Amanda’s hair clip hung limply near her ear. “May I present my children,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster, “Oliver and Amanda Crane.”

Oliver and Amanda mumbled their greetings, both looking rather uncomfortable at being paraded before so many adults. Either that, or maybe they were actually shamefaced for their abominable behavior, unlikely as that seemed.

“Very well,” Phillip said, once the twins had done their duty. “You can run along now.”

They looked at him with woeful expressions.

“What now?”

“Can we stay?” Amanda asked in a small voice.

“No,” Phillip answered. He’d invited the Bridgertons over for lunch and a tour of his greenhouse, and he needed the children to disappear back to the nursery if either endeavor was to be successful.

“Please?” Amanda pleaded.

Phillip studiously avoided looking at his guests, aware that they were all witnessing his supreme lack of command over his children. “Nurse Edwards is waiting for you in the hall,” he said.

“We don’t like Nurse Edwards,” Oliver said. Amanda nodded beside him.

“Of course you like Nurse Edwards,” Phillip said impatiently. “She’s been your nurse for months.”

“But we don’t like her.”

Phillip looked over at the Bridgertons. “Excuse me,” he said in a clipped voice. “I apologize for the interruption.”

“It’s no bother,” Sophie said quickly, her face taking on a maternal air as she assessed the situation.

Phillip guided the twins to the far corner of the room, then crossed his arms and stared down at them. “Children,” he said sternly, “I have asked Miss Bridgerton to be my wife.”

Their eyes lit up.

“Good,” he grunted. “I see that you agree with me that this is a superior idea.”

“Will she—”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Phillip interrupted, too impatient by now to deal with any of their questions. “I want you to listen to me. I still need to gain approval from her family, and for that I need to entertain them and offer them lunch, and all this without children underfoot.” It was almost the truth, at least. The twins didn’t need to know that Anthony had practically ordered the wedding and that approval was no longer an issue.

But Amanda’s lower lip started wobbling, and even Oliver looked upset. “What now?” Phillip asked wearily.

“Are you ashamed of us?” Amanda asked.

Phillip sighed, feeling utterly sick of himself. Dear God, how had it come to this? “I’m not—”

“May I be of assistance?”

He looked over at Eloise as if she were his savior. He watched in silence as she knelt down near his children, telling them something in a voice so soft that he couldn’t understand the words, only the gentle quality of the tone.

The twins said something which was obviously in protest, but Eloise cut them off, gesticulating with her hands as she spoke. Then, to his complete and utter amazement, the twins said their farewells and walked out into the hall. They didn’t look especially happy to go, but they did it all the same.

“Thank God I’m marrying you,” Phillip said under his breath.

“Indeed,” she murmured, brushing past him with a secretive smile as she walked back to her family.

Phillip followed her and immediately apologized to Anthony, Benedict, and Sophie for his children’s behavior. “They have been difficult to manage since their mother passed,” he explained, trying to put it in the most excusable terms possible.

“There is nothing more difficult than the death of a parent,” Anthony said quietly. “Please, do not feel any need to apologize on their behalf.”

Phillip nodded his thanks, grateful for the older man’s understanding. “Come,” he said to the group, “let’s go on to lunch.”

But as he led them to the dining room, Oliver’s and Amanda’s faces loomed large in his mind. Their eyes had been sad as they’d walked away.

He’d seen his children obstinate, insufferable, even in full-fledged tantrums, but he’d not seen them sad since their mother had died.

It was very troubling.

After lunch and a tour through the greenhouse, the quintet broke into two groups. Benedict had brought along an artist’s pad, so he and Sophie remained near the house, chattering contentedly as he sketched the exterior. Anthony, Eloise, and Phillip decided to take a walk around the grounds, but Anthony very discreetly allowed Eloise and Phillip to tarry a good many yards behind, affording the affianced couple the opportunity to speak with some privacy.

“What did you say to the children?” Phillip immediately asked.

“I don’t know,” Eloise said quite honestly. “I just tried to act like my mother.” She shrugged. “It seemed to work.”

He thought about that. “It must be nice to have parents one can emulate.”

She looked at him curiously. “Didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She hoped he would say more, gave him time, even, but he did not speak. Finally, she decided to press the matter and asked, “Was it your mother or your father?”

“What do you mean?”

“Which of your parents was so difficult?”

He looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes inscrutable as his brows ever-so-slightly came together. Then he said, “My mother died at my birth.”

She nodded. “I see.”

“I doubt you do,” he said in a tight, hollow voice, “but I appreciate your trying.”

They walked along, keeping their pace slow, not wanting to come within earshot of Anthony, even though neither broke the silence for several minutes. Finally, as they turned along the path toward the back side of the house, Eloise uttered the question she’d been dying to ask all day—

“Why did you take me into Sophie’s study yesterday?”

He spluttered and stumbled. “I should think that would be obvious,” he mumbled, his cheeks turning pink.

“Well, yes,” Eloise said, blushing as she realized exactly what it was she had asked. “But surely you didn’t think that was going to happen.”

“A man can always hope,” he muttered.

“You don’t mean that!”

“Of course I do. But,” he added, looking rather like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation, “as it happens, no, it never crossed my mind that matters would get quite so out of hand.” He gave her a sly, sideways sort of look. “I’m not sorry, however, that they did.”

She felt her cheeks turn hot. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I haven’t?”

“No.” She knew she was being persistent to the point of unseemliness, but as matters went, this seemed an important one to press. “Why did you take me in there?”

He stared at her for a full ten seconds, presumably to ascertain if she was daft, then shot a quick look at Anthony to make sure he was out of earshot before answering, “Well, if you must know, yes, I did intend to kiss you. You were yapping on about the marriage and asking me all sorts of ridiculous questions.” He planted his hands on his hips and shrugged. “It seemed a good way to prove once and for all that we are well suited.”

She decided to let his description of her as a yapping female pass. “But passion is surely not enough to sustain a marriage,” she persisted.

“It’s certainly a good start,” he muttered. “May we talk of something else?”

“No. What I’m trying to say—”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “You are always trying to say something.”

“It’s what makes me charming,” she said peevishly.

He looked at her with exaggerated patience. “Eloise. We are well suited and will enjoy a perfectly pleasant and amiable marriage. I don’t know what else to say or do to prove it.”

“But you don’t love me,” she said, her voice soft.

That seemed to knock the wind out of him, and he just stopped and stared at her for the longest moment. “Why do you say things like that?” he asked.

She shrugged helplessly. “Because it’s important.”

For a moment he did nothing but stare. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that every thought and feeling doesn’t need to be given voice?”

“Yes,” she said, a lifetime of regrets wrapped into that single syllable. “All the time.” She looked away, discomforted by the odd, hollow sensation rumbling in her throat. “I can’t seem to help myself, though.”

He shook his head, obviously perplexed, which didn’t surprise her. Half the time she perplexed herself. Why had she forced the issue? Why couldn’t she ever be subtle, coy? Her mother had once told her that she could catch more flies with honey than a sledgehammer, but Eloise never could learn to keep her thoughts to herself.

She had practically asked Sir Phillip if he loved her, and his silence was as much of an answer as no would have been. Her heart twisted. She hadn’t really thought he would contradict her, but her disappointment was proof that some tiny part of her had been hoping that he’d drop to his knees and cry out that he did love her, that he cherished her, and was in fact quite certain that he would die without her.

Which was all nothing but rot, and she didn’t know why she’d even wished for it, when she didn’t love him, either.

But she could. She had this feeling that if she gave it enough time, she could love this man. And maybe she’d just wanted him to say the same.

“Did you love Marina?” she asked, the words crossing her lips before she’d even had a chance to ponder the wisdom of asking. She winced. There she went again, asking questions that were far too personal.

It was a wonder he hadn’t thrown up his arms and run screaming in the opposite direction already.

He didn’t answer for the longest moment. They just stood there, watching one another, trying to ignore Anthony, who was studiously examining a tree some thirty yards away. Finally, in a low voice, Phillip said, “No.”

Eloise didn’t feel elated; she didn’t feel sorrow. She didn’t feel anything at all at his pronouncement, which surprised her. But she did let out a long breath, one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. And she did feel rather glad that she now knew.

She hated the not knowing. About anything.

And so she really shouldn’t have been surprised when she whispered, “Why did you marry her?”

A rather blank expression washed over his eyes, and finally he just shrugged and said, “I don’t know. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

She nodded. It all made so much sense. It was exactly the sort of thing he would do. Phillip was always doing the right thing, the honorable thing, apologizing for his transgressions, shouldering everyone’s burdens . . .

Honoring his brother’s promises.

And then she had one more question. “Did you . . .” she whispered, almost losing her nerve. “Did you feel passion for her?” She knew she shouldn’t ask, but after that afternoon, she had to know. The answer didn’t matter—or at least she told herself it didn’t.

But she had to know.

“No.” He turned away, began to walk, his long stride forcing her to jump to attention and follow. But then, just when she’d gathered enough speed to catch up, he stopped, causing her to stumble and put her hands out against his arm just to keep her balance.

“I have a question for you,” he said, his voice abrupt.

“Of course,” she murmured, surprised by his sudden change of demeanor. Still, it was only fair. She’d practically interrogated the poor man.

“Why did you leave London?” he asked.

She blinked in surprise. She hadn’t been expecting something with such an easy answer. “To meet you, of course.”

“Balderdash.”

Her mouth fell open at his palpable disdain.

“That’s why you came,” he said, “not why you left.”

It hadn’t occurred to her until that very minute that there was a difference, but he was right. He’d had nothing to do with why she’d left London. He’d just provided an easy means of escape, a way to leave without feeling she was running away.

He’d given her something to run to, which was so much easier to justify than running from.

“Did you have a lover?” he asked, his voice low.

“No!” she answered, loud enough so that Anthony actually turned around, forcing her to smile and wave at him, assuring him that all was well. “Just a bee,” she called out.

Anthony’s eyes widened, and he started to stride in their direction.

“It’s gone now!” Eloise called quickly, shooing him away. “Nothing about it!” She turned to Phillip and explained, “He’s rather morbidly afraid of bees.” She grimaced. “I forgot. I should have said it was a mouse.”

Phillip looked over at Anthony, curiosity on his face. Eloise wasn’t surprised; it was difficult to imagine that a man such as her brother was afraid of bees, but it did make sense, seeing as how their father had died after being stung by one.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Damn. She’d thought she’d got him off the subject. “How could you even ask it?” she asked.

Phillip shrugged. “How could I not? You ran away from home, not bothering to tell your family where you were going—”

“I left a note,” she interrupted.

“Yes, of course, the note.”

Her mouth fell open. “Don’t you believe me?”

He nodded. “I do, actually. You’re much too organized and officious to leave without making sure all of your loose ends were tied up.”

“It’s not my fault it got shuffled into Mother’s invitations,” she muttered.

“The note is not the issue,” he stated, crossing his arms.

Crossing his arms? She clenched her teeth together. It made her feel a child, and there was nothing she could do or say about it, because she had a feeling that whatever he was about to say concerning her recent behavior, he was right.

Much as it pained her to admit it.

“The fact of the matter,” he continued, “is that you fled London like a criminal in the middle of the night. It simply occurred to me that something might have happened to . . . ah . . . stain your reputation.” At her peevish expression, he added, “It’s not an unreasonable conclusion to reach.”

He was right, of course. Not about her reputation—that was still as pure and clean as snow. But it did look odd, and frankly, it was a wonder he hadn’t inquired after it already.

“If you had a lover,” he said quietly, “it won’t change my intentions.”

“It’s not that at all,” she said quickly, mostly just to make him stop talking about it. “It was . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she sighed. “It was . . .”

And then she told him everything. All about the marriage proposals she’d received, and the ones Penelope hadn’t, and the plans they’d jokingly made to grow old and spinsterish together. And she told him how guilty she’d felt when Penelope and Colin had married, and she couldn’t stop thinking about herself and how alone she was.

She told him all that and more. She told him what was in her mind and what was in her heart, and she told him things she’d never told another soul. And it occurred to her that for a woman who opened her mouth every other second, there was an awful lot inside of her that she’d never shared.

And then, when she was done (and, in truth, she didn’t even realize she’d finished; she just kind of ran out of energy and dwindled off into silence), he reached out and took her hand.

“It’s all right,” he said.

And it was, she realized. It actually was.

Chapter 14

. . . I grant that Mr. Wilson’s face does have a certain amphibious quality, but I do wish you would learn to be a bit more circumspect in your speech. While I would never consider him an acceptable candidate for marriage, he is certainly not a toad, and it ill-behooved me to have my younger sister call him thus, and in his presence.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her sister Hyacinth,

upon refusing her fourth offer of marriage

Four days later, they were married. Phillip had no idea how Anthony Bridgerton had managed it, but he’d procured a special license, allowing them to be wed without banns and on a Monday, which, Eloise assured him, was no worse than Tuesday or Wednesday, just that it wasn’t Saturday, as was proper.

Eloise’s entire family, minus her widowed sister in Scotland, who hadn’t had time to make the journey, had trooped out to the country for the wedding. Normally, the ceremony would have taken place in Kent, at the Bridgerton family seat, or at the very least in London, where the family attended church regularly at St. George’s in Hanover Square, but such arrangements were not possible on such a hastened schedule, and this wasn’t an ordinary sort of wedding in any case. Benedict and Sophie had offered their home for the reception, but Eloise had felt that the twins would be more comfortable at Romney Hall, so they’d held the ceremony at the parish church down the lane, followed by a small, intimate reception on the lawn outside Phillip’s greenhouse.

Later in the day, just as the sun was beginning to dip in the sky, Eloise found herself in her new bedchamber with her mother, who was busying herself by pretending to tuck away items in Eloise’s hastily gathered trousseau. It all, of course, had been taken care of by Eloise’s lady’s maid (brought up from London with the family) earlier that morning, but Eloise didn’t comment upon her mother’s idle busy-work. It seemed like Violet Bridgerton simply needed something to do while she talked.

Eloise, of all people, understood that need perfectly.

“I should complain that I’m being denied my proper moment of glory as the mother of the bride,” Violet said to her daughter as she folded her lacy veil and placed it gently on top of a bureau, “but in truth I’m just happy to see you a bride.”

Eloise smiled gently at her mother. “You’d quite despaired of it, hadn’t you?”

“Quite.” But then she cocked her head to the side and added, “Actually, no. I always thought you might surprise us in the end. You frequently do.”

Eloise thought of all those years since her debut, all those rejected marriage proposals. All those weddings they’d attended, with Violet watching another of her friends marrying off another of their daughters to another fabulously eligible gentleman.

Another gentleman, of course, who could now no longer marry Eloise, Lady Bridgerton’s famously on-the-shelf spinster daughter.

“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you,” Eloise whispered.

Violet gazed at her with a wise expression. “My children never disappoint me,” she said softly. “They merely . . . astonish me. I believe I like it that way.”

Eloise found herself lurching forward to hug her mother. She felt awkward doing so; she didn’t know why, since hers was a family that had never discouraged such displays of affection in the privacy of their own home. Maybe it was because she was so perilously close to tears; maybe it was because she sensed her mother was the same. But she felt an awkward girl again, all gangly arms and legs and bony elbows and a mouth that always opened when it should be closed.

And she wanted her mother.

“There, there,” Violet said, sounding very much as she had years ago, when fussing over a skinned knee or bruised feelings. “Now,” she said, her face turning pink. “Now, then.”

“Mother?” Eloise murmured. She looked very strange indeed, as if she’d eaten bad fish.

“I dread this,” Violet muttered.

“Mother?” Surely she couldn’t have heard correctly.

Violet took a deep, fortifying breath. “We have to have a little talk.” She leaned back, looked her daughter in the eye, then added, “Do we have to have a little talk?”

Eloise wasn’t certain whether her mother was asking her if she knew of the details of intimacy or if she actually knew them . . . intimately. “Uhhh . . . I haven’t . . . ah . . . If you mean . . . That is to say, I’m still . . .”

“Excellent,” Violet said with a heartfelt sigh. “But do you—that is to say, are you aware . . . ?”

“Yes,” Eloise said quickly, eager to spare both of them undue embarrassment. “I don’t believe I need anything explained.”

“Excellent,” Violet said again, her sigh even more heartfelt. “I must say, I do detest this part of motherhood. I can’t even recall what I said to Daphne, just that I spent the entire time blushing and stammering, and honestly, I have no idea if she left the encounter any better informed than when she arrived.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “Probably not, I’m afraid.”

“She seems to have adapted to married life quite well,” Eloise murmured.

“Yes, she has. Hasn’t she?” Violet said brightly. “Four little children and a husband who dotes upon her. One certainly can’t hope for more.”

“What did you say to Francesca?” Eloise asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Francesca,” Eloise repeated, referring to her younger sister who had married six years earlier—and was tragically widowed two years after that. “What did you say to her when she married? You mentioned Daphne, but not Francesca.”

Violet’s blue eyes clouded, as they always did when she thought of her third daughter, widowed so young. “You know Francesca. I expect she could have told me a thing or two.”

Eloise gasped.

“I don’t mean it that way, of course,” Violet hastened to add. “Francesca was as innocent as . . . well, as innocent as you are, I imagine.”

Eloise felt her cheeks grow hot and thanked her maker for the cloudy day, which left the room somewhat darkened. That and the fact that her mother was busy inspecting a torn hem on her dress. She was technically untouched, of course, and she’d certainly pass inspection if examined by a physician, but she didn’t feel quite so innocent any longer.

“But you know Francesca,” Violet continued, shrugging and looking back up when she realized that there was nothing she could do about the hem. “She’s so sly and knowing. I expect she bribed some poor housemaid into explaining it all to her years earlier.”

Eloise nodded. She didn’t want to tell her mother that she and Francesca had in fact pooled their pin money to bribe the housemaid. It had been worth every penny, however. Annie Mavel’s explanation had been detailed and, Francesca had later informed her, absolutely correct.

Violet smiled wistfully, then reached up and touched her daughter’s cheekbone, right near the corner of her eye. The skin was still slightly discolored, but the purple had faded through blue and green to a rather sickly (but certainly less unsightly) shade of yellow. “Are you certain you’ll be happy?” she asked.

Eloise smiled ruefully. “It’s a little late to wonder, don’t you think?”

“It might be too late to do anything about it, but it’s never too late to wonder.”

“I think I’ll be happy,” Eloise said. I hope so, she added, but just in her mind.

“He seems a nice man.”

“He’s a very nice man.”

“Honorable.”

“He is that.”

Violet nodded. “I think you’ll be happy. It might take time until you realize it, and you might doubt yourself at first, but you’ll be happy. Just remember—” She stopped, chewing on her lip.

“What, Mother?”

“Just remember,” she said slowly, as if she were choosing each word with great care, “that it takes time. That’s all.”

What takes time? Eloise wanted to scream.

But her mother had already stood up and was briskly smoothing her skirts. “I expect I shall have to usher the family out, or they will never leave.” She fiddled with a bow on her dress as she turned slightly away. One of her hands reached up to her face, and Eloise tried not to notice that she was brushing aside a tear.

“You’re very impatient,” Violet said, facing the door. “You always have been.”

“I know,” Eloise said, wondering if this was a scolding, and if so, why was her mother choosing to do it now?

“I always loved that about you,” Violet said. “I always loved everything about you, of course, but for some reason I always found your impatience especially charming. It was never because you wanted more, it was because you wanted everything.”

Eloise wasn’t so sure that sounded like such a good trait.

“You wanted everything for everyone, and you wanted to know it all and learn it all, and . . .”

For a moment Eloise thought her mother might be done, but then Violet turned around and added, “You’ve never been satisfied with second-best, and that’s good, Eloise. I’m glad you never married any of those men who proposed in London. None of them would have made you happy. Content, maybe, but not happy.”

Eloise felt her eyes widen with surprise.

“But don’t let your impatience become all that you are,” Violet said softly. “Because it isn’t, you know. There’s a great deal more to you, but I think sometimes you forget that.” She smiled, the gentle, wise smile of a mother saying goodbye to her daughter. “Give it time, Eloise. Be gentle. Don’t push too hard.”

Eloise opened her mouth but found herself entirely incapable of speech.

“Be patient,” Violet said. “Don’t push.”

“I . . .” Eloise had meant to say I won’t, but her words fell away, and all she could do was stare at her mother’s face, only now realizing what it truly meant that she was married. She’d been thinking so much about Phillip that she hadn’t thought of her family.

She was leaving them. She would always have them in all the ways that mattered, but still, she was leaving.

And she hadn’t realized until that very moment how often she sat down with her mother and just talked. Or how very precious those moments were. Violet always seemed to know just what her children needed, which was remarkable, really, since there were eight of them—eight very different souls, each with unique hopes and dreams.

Even Violet’s letter—the one she’d written and asked Anthony to give to her at Romney Hall—it was exactly right, precisely what Eloise had needed to hear. Violet could have scolded, she could have hurled accusations; she would have been perfectly within her rights to do either—or more.

But all she’d written was, “I hope you are well. Please remember that you are my daughter and you will always be my daughter. I love you.”

Eloise had bawled. Thank goodness she’d forgotten to read it until late in the night, when she was able to do so in the privacy of her room at Benedict’s house.

Violet Bridgerton had never wanted for anything, but her true wealth lay in her wisdom and her love, and it occurred to Eloise, as she watched Violet turn back to the door, that she was more than just her mother—she was everything that Eloise aspired to be.

And Eloise couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to realize it.

“I imagine you and Sir Phillip will want some privacy,” Violet said, placing her hand on the doorknob.

Eloise nodded even though her mother couldn’t see the gesture. “I shall miss you all.”

“Of course you will,” Violet said, her brisk tone obviously her way of recovering her composure. “And we shall miss you. But you won’t be far. And you’ll live so close to Benedict and Sophie. And Posy, too. I expect I shall be coming out this way more often for visits now that I have two more grandchildren to spoil.”

Eloise brushed away tears of her own. Her family had accepted Phillip’s children instantly and unconditionally. She had expected no less, but still, it warmed her heart more than she would ever have imagined. Already the twins were playing raucously with the Bridgerton grandchildren, and Violet had insisted that they call her Grandmama. They had agreed with alacrity, especially after Violet had produced an entire bag of peppermint drops that she claimed must have fallen into her valise back in London.

Eloise had already said her goodbyes to her family, so when her mother departed, she felt well and truly Lady Crane. Miss Bridgerton would have returned to London with the rest of the family, but Lady Crane, wife of a Gloucestershire landowner and baronet, remained here at Romney Hall. She felt strange and different and chided herself for it. One would think, at twenty-eight, that marriage would not seem such a momentous step. After all, she wasn’t a green girl, and hadn’t been for some time.

Still, she told herself, she had every right to feel that her life had changed forever. She was married, for heaven’s sake, and the mistress of her own home. Not to mention mother to two children. None of her siblings had had to take on the responsibilities of parenthood so suddenly.

But she was up to the task. She had to be. She squared her shoulders, looking determinedly at her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her hair. She was a Bridgerton, even if it was no longer her legal surname, and she was up to anything. And as she wasn’t the sort to tolerate an unhappy life, then she would simply have to make certain that hers was anything but.

A knock sounded at the door, and when Eloise turned around, Phillip had entered the room. He closed the door behind him but remained where he was, presumably to offer her a bit of time to collect herself.

“Wouldn’t you like your maid for that?” he asked, nodding toward her hairbrush.

“I told her to take a free evening,” Eloise said. She shrugged. “It seemed odd to have her here, almost an intrusion, I think.”

He cleared his throat as he tugged at his cravat, a motion that had become endearingly familiar. He was never quite at home in formal attire, she realized, always tugging or shifting and quite obviously wishing he was in his more comfortable work clothes.

How strange to have a husband with an actual vocation. Eloise had never thought to marry a man like that. Not that Phillip was in trade, but still, his work in the greenhouse was certainly something more than what most of the idle young men of her acquaintance had to fill their lives.

She liked it, she realized. She liked that he had a purpose and a calling, liked that his mind was sharp and engaged in intellectual inquiry rather than horses and gambling.

She liked him.

It was a relief, that. What a bind she would have been in if she didn’t.

“Would you like a few more minutes?” he asked.

She shook her head. She was ready.

A rush of air blew past his lips. Eloise thought she might have heard the words “Thank God,” and then she was in his arms, and he was kissing her, and whatever else she’d been thinking, it was gone.

Phillip supposed that he should have devoted a bit more of his mental energy to his wedding, but the truth was, he couldn’t keep his mind on the events of the day, not when the events of the night loomed tantalizingly close. Every time he looked at Eloise, every time he even sniffed her scent, which seemed to be everywhere, standing out among all the delicate perfumes of the Bridgerton women, he felt a telltale tightening in his body, a shiver of anticipation as he recalled what it felt like to have her in his arms.

Soon, he told himself, forcing his body to relax, then thanking God that he was actually successful in the endeavor. Soon.

And then soon became now, and they were alone, and he couldn’t quite believe how lovely she was with her long, chestnut hair cascading in soft waves down her back. He had never seen it down, he realized, never imagined the length of it when it had been tucked away in a tidy little bun at the nape of her neck.

“I always wondered why women kept their hair up,” he murmured, once he’d finished with his seventh kiss.

“It’s expected, of course,” Eloise said, looking puzzled at the comment.

“That’s not why,” he said. He touched her hair, ran his fingers through it, then lifted it to his face and breathed in the scent. “It’s for the protection of other men.”

Her eyes flew to his with surprise and confusion. “Surely you mean the protection from.”

He shook his head slowly. “I’d have to kill anyone who saw you thus.”

“Phillip.” Her tone was meant to be scolding, he was quite sure of that, but she was blushing and looking rather absurdly pleased by his statement.

“No one who saw this could resist you,” he said, winding a length of her silky hair around his fingers. “I’m quite sure of it.”

“Many men have found me quite resistible,” she said, offering him a self-deprecating smile as she looked up at him. “Quite a lot, actually.”

“They’re fools,” he said simply. “And besides, it only proves my point, does it not? This”—he held one long thick lock up between their faces, then tickled it against his lips, breathing in its heady scent—“has been hidden away in a bun for years.”

“Since I was sixteen,” she said.

He tugged her toward him, gently but inexorably. “I’m glad. You’d never have been mine if you’d tugged out your hairpins. Someone else would have snatched you up years ago.”

“It’s just hair,” she whispered, her voice a little trembly.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “You must be, because on anyone else, I don’t think it would be nearly so intoxicating. It must be you,” he whispered, letting the strands drop from his fingers. “Only you.”

He cradled her face in his hands, tilting it slightly to the side so that he might more easily kiss her. He knew what her lips tasted like, had kissed them, in fact, just minutes earlier. But even with that, he was startled by her sweetness, by the warmth of her breath and her mouth, and the way his body turned to fire from one simple kiss.

Except that it would never be just a simple kiss. Not with her.

His fingers found the fastenings of her gown, small fabric-covered buttons marching down her back. “Turn around,” he ordered, breaking the kiss. He wasn’t so experienced at seduction that he could slip them from their loops without the advantage of sight.

Besides, he rather enjoyed this—this slow disrobing, each button revealing another half inch of creamy skin.

She was his, he realized, sliding one finger down her spine before attending to the third-to-last button. His for eternity. It was hard to imagine how he had been so lucky, but he resolved not to wonder at his good fortune, just to enjoy it.

Another button. This one revealed a square of flesh near the base of her spine.

He touched her. She shivered.

His fingers went to the last button. He didn’t really need to attend to it; her dress was more than loose enough to slip from her shoulders. But somehow he needed to do this right, to disrobe her properly, to savor the moment.

Besides, this last one revealed the curve of her buttocks.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her right there. Right at the top of her cleft while she stood facing the other way, shivering not from cold but from excitement.

He leaned toward her, pressed his lips to the back of her neck as both of his hands found her shoulders. There were some things that were too wicked for an innocent like Eloise.

But she was his. His wife. And she was fire and passion and energy all wrapped into one. She wasn’t Marina, he reminded himself, delicate and breakable, unable to express emotion other than sorrow.

She wasn’t Marina. It seemed necessary to remind himself of this, not just now, but continually, throughout the day, each time he looked at her. She wasn’t Marina, and he didn’t need to hold his breath around her, afraid of his own words, afraid of his facial expressions, afraid of anything that might cause her to sink into herself, into her own despair.

This was Eloise. Eloise. Strong, magnificent Eloise.

Unable to stop himself, he sank to his knees, holding Eloise’s hips firmly between his hands when she let out a soft murmur of surprise and tried to turn around.

And he kissed her. Right there, at the base of her spine, in the spot that had tempted him so, he kissed her. And then—he didn’t know why; his experience with women had been limited, but his imagination was clearly making up for that lack—he ran his tongue along that central line, down her spine to the beginning of her cleft, tasting the sweet saltiness of her skin, stopping—but not removing his lips—when she moaned, putting her hands out against the wall to support herself when she could no longer stand.

“Phillip,” she gasped.

He rose and turned her around, leaning down until they were nearly nose to nose. “It was there,” he said helplessly, as if that would explain everything. And in truth, that was all the explanation there was. It was there, that tantalizing little patch of skin, pink and peachy and waiting for a kiss.

She was there, and he had to have her.

He kissed her mouth again as he let her gown slide from her body. She’d been married in blue, a pale version of the color that made her eyes look deeper and more tempestuous than ever, rather like a cloudy sky just before a rainstorm.

It was a heavenly dress—he’d heard her sister Daphne say that to her earlier that day. But it was even more heavenly to rid her of it.

She wasn’t wearing a chemise, and he knew that she was bared to him, heard her suck in her breath as the tips of her breasts grazed the fine linen of his shirt. But instead of looking, he ran his hand along the side of her breast, his knuckles lightly nuzzling the side of the swell. Then, as he continued to kiss her, his hand curved around until he was cupping her, feeling the exquisite weight of her in his fingers.

“Phillip,” she moaned, the word sinking into his mouth like a benediction.

He moved his hand again until he covered her, her pert nipple sliding between his fingers. And as he squeezed—gently, reverently—he could, after all, hardly believe this had all come to pass.

And then he couldn’t wait any longer. He had to see her, to see every bit of her and watch her face as he did so. He pulled back, breaking their kiss with a whispered promise that he’d be back.

He sucked in his breath as he gazed down at her. It was not yet dark, and the last vestiges of sunlight still filtered in through the windows, bathing her skin in a red-gold glow. Her breasts were larger than he’d imagined, full and round and plump, and it was all he could do not to sweep her into bed that very moment. He could feast forever on those breasts, love them and worship them until . . .

Dear God, who was he trying to fool? Until his own need grew too intense, and he had to have her, to plunge into her, devour her.

With shaking fingers, he went to work on his own buttons, watching her watching him as he tore the shirt from his body. And then he forgot, and he turned . . .

And she gasped.

He froze.

“What happened?” she whispered.

He didn’t know why he was so surprised by the moment, by the fact that he would have to explain. She was his wife, and she was going to see him naked every day for the rest of his life, and if anyone was going to know the nature of his scars, it would be her.

He was able to avoid them, as they were quite out of his sight on his back, but Eloise would not be so lucky.

“I was whipped,” he said, not turning around. He should probably spare her the sight, but she was going to have to get used to it sometime.

“Who did this to you?” Her voice was low and angry, and her outrage warmed his heart.

“My father.” Phillip well remembered the day. He had been twelve, home from school, and his father had forced him to accompany him on a hunt. Phillip was a good horseman, but not good enough for the jump his father had taken ahead of him. He’d tried it, though, knowing he’d be branded a coward if he did not make the attempt.

He’d fallen, of course. Been thrown, really. Miraculously, he’d walked away without injury, but his father had been livid. Thomas Crane possessed a very narrow vision of English manhood, and it did not include tumbles off horseback. His sons would ride and shoot and fence and box and excel and excel and excel.

And God help them if they did not.

George had made the jump, of course. George was always a hair better at all things sporting. And George was also two years his elder, two years bigger, two years stronger. He’d tried to intercede, to save Phillip from punishment, but then Thomas had just whipped him as well, berating him for meddling. Phillip needed to learn how to be a man, and Thomas would not tolerate anyone interfering, even George.

Phillip wasn’t sure what had been different about the punishment that day; usually his father used a belt, which, over a shirt, left no marks. But they’d already been out by the stables, and the whip was handy, and his father had been so damned angry, even angrier than normal.

When the whip sliced through Phillip’s shirt, Thomas didn’t stop.

It was the only time his father’s beatings had left visible scars.

And Phillip was stuck with the reminder for the rest of his life.

He glanced over at Eloise, who was watching him with an oddly intense look in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, even though he wasn’t. There was nothing to be sorry for, save for having forced her into the horror of his childhood.

“I’m not sorry,” she growled, her eyes narrow and fierce.

His eyes widened with surprise.

“I’m furious.”

And then he couldn’t help it. He laughed. He threw his head back and laughed. She was absolutely perfect, naked and angry, ready to march down to hell itself to drag his father out for a tongue-lashing.

She looked slightly alarmed at his oddly timed laughter, but then she smiled, too, as if recognizing the importance of the moment.

He took her hand and, desperate for her to touch him, brought it to his heart, pressing it flat until her fingers spread out, sinking into the soft, springy hair on his chest.

“So strong,” she whispered, her hand sliding gently along his skin. “I had no idea it was such difficult work, toiling away in the greenhouse.”

He felt like a boy of sixteen, so pleased was he by her compliment. And the memory of his father quietly slipped away. “I do work outside, too,” he said gruffly, unable to simply say thank you.

“With the laborers?” she murmured.

He looked at her with amusement. “Eloise Bridgerton—”

“Crane,” she corrected.

A burst of pleasure shot through him at her words. “Crane,” he repeated. “Don’t tell me you’ve been harboring secret fantasies about the farm laborers.”

“Of course not,” she said, “although . . .”

There was no way he was going to let those words trail off into oblivion. “Although?” he prompted.

She looked a little sheepish. “Well, they do look terribly . . . elemental . . . out there in the sun, toiling away.”

He smiled. Slowly, like a man about to feast upon his dream come true. “Oh, Eloise,” he said, bringing his lips to her neck and moving down, down, down. “You have no idea of elemental. No idea at all.”

And then he did what he’d been dreaming of for days—well, one of the things he’d been dreaming of—and he took her nipple into his mouth, running his tongue around the edge before closing around to suck.

“Phillip!” she nearly shrieked, sinking into him.

He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed, already turned down and waiting for the newlyweds. He laid her atop the sheets, stopping to enjoy the sight of her before attending to her stockings, which were all that was left on her body. Her hands went instinctively to cover her sex, and he allowed her her modesty, knowing that his turn would come soon.

He looped his fingers under the edge of one stocking, caressing her through the whisper-fine silk before sliding it down her leg. She moaned as he passed her knee, and he couldn’t help looking up and asking, “Ticklish?”

She nodded. “And more.”

And more. He loved that. He loved that she felt more, that she wanted more.

The other stocking was disposed of more quickly, and then he stood beside her, his fingers moving to the fastenings on his trousers. He paused for a moment and looked at her, waiting for her to tell him with her eyes that she was ready.

And then, with a speed and agility he’d never dreamed he possessed, he’d stripped himself of his remaining garments and laid down beside her. She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed as he stroked her, his lips making shushing sounds as they moved to her temple, and then to her lips.

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured.

“I’m not afraid,” she said.

He drew back, looked her in the face. “You’re not?”

“Nervous, but not afraid.”

He shook his head in wonder. “You are magnificent.”

“I keep telling everyone that,” she said with a nonchalant shrug, “but you seem to be the only one to believe me.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head in wonder, barely able to believe that here he was, on his wedding night, and he was laughing. Twice now, she had made him laugh, and he was beginning to realize that this was a gift. An amazing, priceless gift, one that he was truly blessed to receive.

Intercourse had always been about need, about his body and his lust and whatever it was that made him a man. It had never been about this joy, this wonder at discovering another person.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her again, this time with all the feeling and emotion coursing through him. He kissed her mouth, then he kissed her cheek, then her neck. And he moved down, exploring her body, from her shoulders to her belly to the side of her hip.

He skipped only one place, one place he would have very much liked to explore, but he decided that would come later, when she was ready.

When he was ready. Marina had never let him kiss her there—no, that wasn’t fair; in truth, he’d never even asked. It had just seemed so wrong as she lay beneath him, still and silent, as if she were performing a duty. There had been women before his marriage, but they’d been of the experienced sort, and he’d never wanted to be quite so intimate with them.

Later, he promised himself as he stopped, briefly, to nuzzle her curls.

Soon. Definitely soon.

He wrapped his large hands around her calves, then slid them up, nudging her legs apart so that he could settle between them. He was hard, really hard, afraid he was going to embarrass himself, and so he took deep breaths as he touched her opening, trying to calm his blood so that he would be able to make this last long enough for her to enjoy herself.

“Oh, Eloise,” he said, although in truth it was more of a grunt. He wanted her more than anything, more than life itself, and he had no idea how he was going to last.

“Phillip?” she asked, her voice sounding vaguely alarmed.

He pulled back so that he could see her face.

“You’re very big,” she whispered.

He smiled. “Don’t you know that’s exactly what a man wishes to hear?”

“I’m sure,” she said, nibbling on her lower lip. “It does seem the sort of thing you’d brag about while you’re racing horses and playing cards and being competitive for no particular reason.”

He wasn’t sure whether he was shaking with laughter or dismay. “Eloise,” he managed to say, “I assure you—”

“How much is it going to hurt?” she blurted out.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’ve never been in your position. A little, I imagine. I hope not too much.”

She nodded, seeming to appreciate his candor. “I keep . . .” Her words trailed off.

“Tell me,” he urged.

For several seconds she did nothing but blink, then she said, “I keep getting swept away, like the other day, but then I see you, or I feel you, and I can’t imagine how this will work, and I worry I’ll be torn apart, and I lose it. The magic,” she explained. “I lose the magic.”

And then he decided—to hell with it. Why should he wait? Why should she wait? He leaned down, kissed her quickly on the mouth. “Wait right here,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Before she could ask questions—and she was Eloise, so of course she had questions—he slithered down, and spread her legs wide, the way he’d lain awake imagining at night, and kissed her.

She screamed.

“Good,” he murmured, his words disappearing into the very heart of her. His hands held her firm; he had no choice, she was squirming and bucking like a wild woman. He licked and kissed, and he tasted every inch, every tantalizing crevice. He was voracious, and he devoured her, thinking that this had to be quite simply the best thing he’d ever done in his entire life, and dear God, he was thankful he was a married man now and could do it as often as he liked.

He’d heard other men talk about it, of course, but never ever had he dreamed it would be this good. He was a hairbreadth away from losing himself completely, and she hadn’t even touched him. Not that he would have wanted her to at that moment—the way she was gripping the sheets, her knuckles white and straining, hell, she would have ripped him in two.

He should have let her finish, should have kissed her until she exploded into his mouth, but at that point his own needs took over, and he simply had no choice. This was his wedding night, and when he spilled himself, it was going to be into her, not the sheets, and dear God, but if he didn’t feel her squeezing around him soon, he was quite certain he was going to burst into flame.

And so he lifted himself, ignoring her cry of distress as he removed his lips, and he moved up, settling his member against her one more time, then using his fingers to part her even more as he pushed forward.

She was wet—very, very wet, a mix of her and him, and it was nothing like he’d ever felt before. He slid right in, her passage somehow easy and tight at the same time.

She gasped his name, and he gasped hers, and then, unable to keep his pace slow, he plunged forward, breaking through her last barrier until he was embedded to the hilt. And maybe he should have stopped, maybe he should have asked if she was all right, if she felt any pain, but he just couldn’t. It had been so damned long, and he needed her so damned much, and once his body began to move there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it.

He was fast and he was rough, but she must have liked it because she was fast and rough beneath him, her hips grinding against his with needy force as her fingers bit into his back.

And when she moaned, it wasn’t his name. It was, “More!”

He slid his fingers beneath her, grabbing on to her buttocks, squeezing hard as he tilted her up to allow him even easier entry, and the change of position must have done something to change the way he was rubbing her, or maybe she had just reached her limit, because she arched beneath him, going so stiff she shook, and then a cry was ripped from her throat as he felt her muscles convulse around him.

He could take no more. With one final shout he plunged forward, shuddering and shaking as he emptied himself, claiming her finally and indelibly as his own.

Chapter 15

. . . I cannot believe that you will not tell me more. As your elder sister (by a full year, I should not have to remind you) I am owed a certain measure of respect, and while I appreciate your informing me that Annie Mavel’s account of married love was correct, I should have liked a few details beyond that brief account. Surely you are not so wrapped in your own bliss that you cannot spare a few words (adjectives, in particular, would be helpful) for your beloved sister.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her

sister the Countess of Kilmartin,

two weeks after Francesca’s wedding

One week later, Eloise was sitting in the small parlor that had recently been converted into an office for her, chewing on the end of her pencil as she attempted to go over the household accounts. She was supposed to be counting funds, and bags of flour, and the servants’ wages, and the like, but in truth all she could count was the number of times she and Phillip had made love.

Thirteen, she thought. No, fourteen. Well, fifteen, actually, if she counted that time when he hadn’t actually gone inside of her, but they’d both . . .

She blushed, even though there wasn’t a soul in the room besides her, and it wasn’t as if anyone would have known what she was thinking, anyway.

But good God, had she really done that? Kissed him there?

She hadn’t even known such a thing was possible. Annie Mavel certainly hadn’t described anything like that when she’d delivered her little lesson to Eloise and Francesca all those years ago.

Eloise scrunched her face as she thought back. She wondered if Annie Mavel had even known such things were possible. It was difficult to imagine Annie doing it, but then, it was difficult to imagine anyone doing it, most especially herself.

It was amazing, she thought, utterly amazing and beyond wonderful to have a husband who was so mad for her. They didn’t see one another too terribly often during the day—he had his work, after all, and she had hers, of a sort—but at night, after he’d given her five minutes for her toilette (it had started at twenty, but it seemed to be getting progressively shorter, and she could even hear his footsteps pacing outside the door during the scant minutes he now allowed her) . . .

At night, he pounced upon her like a man possessed. A starving man, really. His energy seemed endless, and he was always trying new things, positioning her in new ways, teasing and tormenting until she was screaming and begging, never sure whether it was for him to stop or keep going.

He’d said that he hadn’t felt passion for Marina, but Eloise found that hard to believe. He was a man of hearty appetites (it was a silly word, but she could not think of any other way to describe it), and the things he did with his hands . . .

And his mouth . . .

And his teeth . . .

And his tongue . . .

She blushed again. The things he did—well, a woman would have to be half dead not to respond.

She looked back down at the columns in her ledger. The numbers hadn’t miraculously added themselves up while she daydreamed, and every time Eloise tried to concentrate they began swimming around before her eyes. She glanced out the window; she couldn’t see Phillip’s greenhouse from her position, but she knew it was just around the corner, and that he was in it, toiling away, snipping leaves and planting seeds and whatever else it was that he did there all day.

All day.

She frowned. It was actually a very apt phrase. Phillip did spend the entire day in the greenhouse, often even having his midday meal brought in on a tray. She knew it wasn’t terribly abnormal for man and wife to lead separate lives during the day (and, for many couples, at night as well), but they had only been married one week.

And in truth, she was in many ways still learning who her new husband was. The marriage had come about so precipitously; she really knew very little about him. Oh, she knew he was honest and honorable and would treat her well, and now she knew that he possessed a carnal side that she would never have dreamed lurked beneath his reserved exterior.

But aside from what she had learned about his father, she didn’t know his experiences, his opinions, what had happened in his life to make him the man he now was. She tried, sometimes, to draw him out in conversation, and she sometimes succeeded, but more often than not, her attempts melted away.

Because he never seemed to want to talk when he could kiss. And that, inevitably, led to his nudging her into the bedroom, where words were forgotten.

And on the few occasions when she did manage to engage him in conversation, it proved to be nothing more than an exercise in frustration. She would ask his opinion on anything relating to the household, for example, and he would just shrug and tell her that she should handle it how she saw fit. Sometimes she wondered if he’d married her just to gain a housekeeper.

And, of course, a warm body in his bed.

But there could be more. Eloise knew there could be more to a marriage, knew there could be more in a marriage. She couldn’t recall much of her parents’ union, but she’d seen her siblings with their spouses, and she thought she and Phillip might find the same bliss if they would only spend a little time together outside the bedroom.

She stood abruptly and walked to the door. She should talk to him. There was no reason she couldn’t go to the greenhouse and talk to him. Maybe he’d even appreciate it if she asked about his work.

She wasn’t going to interrogate him, exactly, but surely there could be no harm in a question or two, peppered into the conversation. And if he even hinted that she was bothering him or making it difficult to work, she’d leave immediately.

But then she heard her mother’s voice echoing in her head.

Don’t push, Eloise. Don’t push.

It took willpower she’d never thought she possessed, since it went against her every last natural inclination, but she stopped, turned around, and sat back down.

She’d never known her mother to be wrong about anything truly important, and if Violet had seen fit to give advice on her wedding night, Eloise rather suspected she ought to pay it careful attention.

This, she thought with a grumpy frown, must have been what her mother had meant when she’d said to give it time.

She jammed her hands under her bottom, as if to keep them from reaching forward and leading her back toward the door. She glanced out the window, then had to avert her gaze because even though she couldn’t see the greenhouse, she knew it was right there, just around the corner.

This was not, she thought through clenched teeth, her natural state. She’d never been the sort who could sit still and smile while she did so. She was meant to be moving, doing, exploring, questioning. And if she were to be honest—bothering, pestering, and stating her opinions to anyone who would listen as well.

She frowned, sighing. Put that way, she didn’t sound a terribly attractive person.

She tried to remember her mother’s wedding-night speech. Surely there was something positive in there as well. Her mother loved her, after all. She must have said something good. Hadn’t there been something about her being charming?

She sighed. If she recalled correctly, her mother had said she found her impatience charming, which wasn’t really the same as finding someone’s good temperament charming.

How awful this was. She was eight and twenty, for heaven’s sake. She’d sailed through her entire life feeling perfectly happy with who she was and how she conducted herself.

Well, almost perfectly happy. She knew she talked too much and was perhaps a little too direct at times, and very well, not everybody liked her, but most people did, and she’d long since decided that that was fine with her.

So why now? Why was she suddenly so unsure of herself, so fearful of doing or saying the wrong thing?

She stood. She couldn’t stand this—the indecision, the lack of action. She’d heed her mother’s advice and give Phillip a bit of privacy, but by God, she couldn’t sit here doing nothing one moment longer.

She looked down at the incomplete ledgers. Oh, dear. If she’d been doing what she was supposed to be doing, she wouldn’t have been doing nothing, would she?

With a little huff of irritation, she slammed the ledgers shut. It didn’t really matter if she could be adding her sums, because she knew herself well enough to know that she wouldn’t be adding them, even if she sat here, so she might as well go off and do something else.

The children. That was it. She’d become a wife a week ago, but she’d also become a mother. And if anyone needed interfering in their lives, it was Oliver and Amanda.

Buoyed by her newfound sense of purpose, she strode out the door, feeling once again like her old self. She needed to oversee their lessons, make sure they were learning properly. Oliver was going to need to prepare himself for Eton, where he really ought to enroll in the fall term.

And then there was their clothing. They’d quite outgrown everything in their wardrobes, and Amanda deserved something prettier, and . . .

She sighed with contentment as she hurried up the stairs. Already she was ticking off her projects on her fingers, mentally planning for the dressmaker and the tailor, not to mention devising the wording for the advertisement she intended to place to secure the services of a few more tutors, because they desperately needed to learn French and the pianoforte, and, of course, sums—and were they too young for long division?

Feeling rather jaunty, she pushed open the door to the nursery, and then . . .

She stopped short, trying to figure out what was going on.

Oliver’s eyes were red, as if he’d been crying, and Amanda was sniffling, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Both were taking those hiccuppy gasps of breath that one does when one is upset.

“Is something wrong?” Eloise asked, looking first at the children and then at their nurse.

The twins said nothing, but they looked at her with wide, imploring eyes.

“Nurse Edwards?” Eloise asked.

The nurse’s lips were twisted into an unpleasant frown. “They are merely sulking because they were punished.”

Eloise nodded slowly. It wasn’t the least bit surprising that Oliver and Amanda might do something requiring punishment, but nonetheless, there was something wrong about what she was seeing. Maybe it was the broken look in their eyes, as if they’d tried defiance and had given up on it.

Not that she wanted to encourage defiance, especially not against their nurse, who needed to maintain her position of authority in the schoolroom, but nor did she ever want to see this expression in their eyes—so totally humbled, so meek and sorrowful.

“Why were they punished?” Eloise asked.

“Disrespectful speech,” came their nurse’s immediate reply.

“I see.” Eloise sighed. The twins probably had deserved punishment; they did often speak with disrespect and it was something she herself had scolded them about on several occasions. “And what punishment was meted out?”

“They were rapped on the knuckles,” Nurse Edwards said, her back ramrod stiff.

Eloise forced herself to unclench her jaw. She didn’t like corporal punishment, but at the same time, rapped knuckles were a staple in all the best schools. She was quite certain all of her brothers had had their knuckles rapped on numerous occasions at Eton; she couldn’t imagine they had made it through all those years without a number of disciplinary transgressions.

Still, she didn’t like the look in the children’s eyes, so she took Nurse Edwards aside and said softly, “I understand their need for discipline, but if you must do this again, I must ask that you do it more softly.”

“If I do it softly,” the nurse said quite sharply, “they won’t learn their lesson.”

“I will be the judge of their learned lessons,” Eloise said, bristling at the nurse’s tone. “And I am no longer asking. I am telling you, they are children, and you must be more gentle.”

Nurse Edwards’s lips pursed, but she nodded. Once, sharply, to show that she would do as asked, but that she disagreed—and disapproved of Eloise’s interference.

Eloise turned back to the children and said in a loud voice, “I am quite certain they have learned their lesson for today. Perhaps they might take a short break with me.”

“We are practicing our penmanship,” Nurse Edwards said. “We can’t afford to take any time off. Especially not if I am meant to act as both nurse and governess.”

“I assure you that I plan to address that problem with all possible haste,” Eloise said. “And as for today, I will be happy to practice penmanship with the children. You may be assured that they will not fall behind.”

“I do not think—”

Eloise speared her with a glare. She was not a Bridgerton for nothing, and by God, she knew how to deal with recalcitrant servants. “You need only to inform me of your lesson plans.”

The nurse looked exceedingly grumpy, but she informed Eloise that today they were practicing M, N, and O. “Both uppercase and lowercase,” she added sharply.

“I see,” Eloise said, giving her voice a supercilious lilt. “I am fairly certain that I am qualified in that particular area of scholarly pursuit.”

Nurse Edwards’s face turned red at the sarcasm. “Will that be all?” she bit off.

Eloise nodded. “Indeed. You are dismissed. Do enjoy your free time—surely you don’t get enough of it, serving double duty as you do, as both nurse and governess—and please return to see to their lunch.”

Head held high, Nurse Edwards left the room.

“Well then,” Eloise announced, turning her attention to the two children, who were still sitting at their little table, gazing up at her as if she were a minor deity, come down to earth for the sole purpose of saving children from evil witches. “Shall we—”

But she couldn’t finish her question, because Amanda had launched herself at her, throwing her arms around her midsection with enough force to knock her back against the wall. And Oliver soon followed.

“There, there,” Eloise said, patting their hair in confusion. “Whatever could be wrong?”

“Nothing,” came Amanda’s muffled reply.

Oliver pulled back and stood straight like the little man people were always telling him to be. Then he ruined the effect by wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

Eloise handed him a handkerchief.

He used it, nodded his thanks, and said, “We like you better than Nurse Edwards.”

Eloise couldn’t imagine liking anyone worse than Nurse Edwards, and she privately vowed to look into finding a replacement as soon as possible. But she wasn’t going to say anything to the children about this; they would almost certainly relate the information to the nurse, who would either give her notice immediately, leaving them all in a terrible bind, or take her frustration and ire out on the children, which wouldn’t do at all.

“Let’s sit down,” she said, steering them toward the table. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t want to have to face her if we haven’t practiced our Ms, Ns, and Os.”

And she thought to herself—I really must speak with Phillip about this.

She looked down at Oliver’s hands. They didn’t look abused, but one of the knuckles looked a little bit red. It might have been her imagination, but still . . .

She needed to talk to Phillip. As soon as she was able.

Phillip hummed to himself as he carefully transplanted a seedling, well aware that prior to his marriage, he had always labored in complete and utter silence.

He had never felt like whistling before, he realized, never once wanted to sing softly to himself or hum. But now . . . well, now it seemed as if music were simply in the air, all around him. He felt more relaxed, too, and the constant knots of tension in his shoulders had started to dissolve.

Marrying Eloise was, quite simply, the best thing he could have done. Hell, he’d even go so far as to say it was the best thing he’d ever done.

He was, for the first time in recent memory, happy.

It seemed such a simple thing now, to be happy. And he wasn’t even sure that he’d realized he wasn’t happy before. He had certainly laughed on occasion, and enjoyed himself from time to time—it wasn’t, as it had been for Marina, that he’d been completely and constantly unhappy.

But he hadn’t been happy. Not in the way he was now, waking up each day with the feeling that the world was indeed a wonderful place and that it would still be a wonderful place when he went to bed that night and still yet again when he got up the following morning.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like that. Probably not since his university days, when he’d had his first taste of the thrill of intellectual discovery—and he was far enough away from his father that he didn’t have to worry about the constant threat of the rod.

It was difficult to count the ways that Eloise had improved his life. There was, of course, their time in the bedroom, which was quite beyond anything he might have imagined. If he’d even dreamed that sexual intercourse could be so splendid, there was no way he would have remained celibate for so long. No way he could have, quite frankly, if his current appetite was any indication.

But he simply hadn’t known. Lovemaking certainly hadn’t been like that with Marina. Or with any of the women he’d fumbled with as a university lad, before his marriage.

But if he were honest with himself—and that was a difficult task, considering how completely besotted his body was with Eloise’s—the intercourse wasn’t the main reason for his current sense of contentment.

It was this feeling—this knowledge, really—that he had finally, and truly, for the first time since he’d become a father, done the absolute right thing for the twins.

He’d never be a perfect father. He knew that, and even if he hated it, he accepted it. But he had finally done the next best thing, and gotten them the perfect mother.

It was as if a thousand pounds of guilt had been lifted from his shoulders.

No wonder his muscles finally felt unknotted and relaxed.

He could go into his greenhouse in the morning and not worry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that, simply gone in and worked without cringing every time he heard a loud noise or shriek. Or been able to concentrate on his work without his mind wandering into guilt, unable to focus on anything other than his lacks as a father.

But now he walked in and forgot all his cares. Hell, he had no cares.

It was splendid. Magical.

A relief.

And if sometimes his wife looked at him as if she wanted him to say something different or do something different—well, he chalked that up to the simple fact that he was a man and she was a woman, and his sort would never understand her sort, and truly, he ought just to be grateful that Eloise almost always said exactly what she meant, which was a very good thing, since he wasn’t constantly left guessing what was expected of him.

What was that thing his brother had always said—Beware a woman asking questions. You will never answer correctly.

Phillip smiled to himself, enjoying the memory. Put that way, there was no reason to worry if occasionally their conversations dwindled off into nothingness. Most of the time they dwindled right into bed, which was perfectly fine by him.

He looked down at the bulge forming in his breeches. Damn. He was going to have to stop thinking about his wife in the middle of the day. Or at the very least, find a way to get discreetly back to the house in his condition and find her quickly.

But then, almost as if she’d known he was standing there thinking how perfect she was, and she wanted to prove it one more time, she opened the door to the greenhouse and poked her head in.

Phillip looked around and wondered why he’d built the structure entirely of glass. He might need to install some sort of privacy screen if she was going to come visiting on a regular basis.

“Am I intruding?”

He thought about that. She was, actually; he was quite in the middle of something, but he realized he didn’t mind. Which was odd and rather pleasing at the same time. He’d always been irritated by interruptions before. Even when it was someone whose company he enjoyed, after a few minutes he found himself wishing they would just leave so that he could get back to whatever project he’d had to put aside for their benefit. “Not at all,” he said, “if you are not offended by my appearance.”

She looked at him, taking in the dirt and mud, including the smudge he was rather certain he sported on his left cheek, and she shook her head. “It’s no problem at all.”

“What is troubling you?”

“It’s the children’s nurse,” she said without preamble. “I don’t like her.”

That was not what he expected. He set down his spade. “You don’t? What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know exactly. I just don’t like her.”

“Well, that’s hardly a reason to terminate her employment.”

Eloise’s lips thinned slightly, a sure sign, he was coming to realize, that she was irritated. She said, “She rapped the children across the knuckles.”

He sighed. He didn’t like the thought of someone striking his children, but then again, it was just a knuckle rap. Nothing that didn’t occur in every schoolroom across the country. And, he thought resignedly, his children were not exactly models of good behavior. And so, wanting to groan, he asked, “Did they deserve it?”

“I don’t know,” Eloise admitted. “I wasn’t there. She said they spoke to her disrespectfully.”

Phillip felt his shoulders sag a bit. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I do not find that difficult to believe.”

“No, of course not,” Eloise said. “I’m sure they were little beasts. But still, something didn’t seem right.”

He leaned back against his workbench, tugging her hand until she tumbled against him. “Then look into it.”

Her lips parted with surprise. “Don’t you want to look into it?”

He shrugged. “I’m not the one with concerns. I’ve never had cause to doubt Nurse Edwards before, but if you feel uncomfortable, by all means, you should investigate. Besides, you’re better at this sort of thing than I am.”

“But”—she squirmed slightly as he pulled her against him and nuzzled her neck—“you’re their father.”

“And you’re their mother,” he said, his words coming out thick and hot against her skin. She was intoxicating, and he was aching with desire, and if he could only get her to stop talking, he could probably maneuver her to the bedroom, where they could have considerably more fun. “I trust your judgment,” he said, thinking that would placate her—and besides, it was the truth. “It’s why I married you.”

Clearly, his answer surprised her. “It’s why you . . . what?”

“Well, this, too,” he murmured, trying to figure out just how much he could fondle her with so many clothes between them.

“Phillip, stop!” she cried out, wrenching herself away.

What the devil? “Eloise,” he asked—cautiously, since it was his experience, limited though it was, that one should always tread carefully with a woman in a temper—“what is wrong?”

“What is wrong?” she demanded, her eyes flashing dangerously. “How can you even ask that?”

“Well,” he said slowly, and with just a touch of sarcasm, “it might be because I don’t know what is wrong.”

“Phillip, this is not the time.”

“To ask you what is wrong?”

“No!” she nearly shrieked.

Phillip took a step back. Self-preservation, he thought wryly. Surely that had to be what the male side of marital spats was all about. Self-preservation and nothing else.

She began waving her arms in a bizarre fashion. “To do this.”

He looked around. She was waving at the workbench, at the pea plants, at the sky above, winking in through the panes of glass. “Eloise,” he said, his voice deliberately even, “I am not an unintelligent man, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Her mouth fell open, and he knew he was in trouble. “You don’t know?” she asked.

He probably should have heeded his own warnings about self-preservation, but some little devil—some annoyed male devil, he was sure—forced him to say, “I don’t read minds, Eloise.”

“It is not the time,” she finally ground out, “to be intimate.”

“Well, of course not,” he agreed. “We haven’t a bit of privacy. But”—he smiled just thinking about it—“we could always go back to the house. I know it’s the middle of the day, but—”

“That is not what I meant at all!”

“Very well,” he said, crossing his arms. “I give up. What do you mean, Eloise? Because I assure you, I haven’t a clue.”

“Men,” she muttered.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Her glare could have frozen the Thames. It quite froze off his desire, which irritated him no end, since he’d been looking forward to getting rid of it in another fashion altogether.

“It wasn’t meant as such,” she said.

He leaned back against the workbench, his casual posture meant to irritate her. “Eloise,” he said calmly, “try to afford a small measure of respect for my intelligence.”

“It is difficult,” she shot back, “when you display so little.”

That was it. “I don’t even know why we are arguing!” he exploded. “One minute you were willing in my arms, and the next you’re shrieking like a banshee.”

She shook her head. “I was never willing in your arms.”

It was as if the bottom dropped out of his world.

She must have seen the shock on his face, because she quickly added, “Today. I meant just today. Just now, actually.”

His body sagged with relief, even as the rest of him seethed with anger.

“I was trying to talk with you,” she explained.

“You’re always trying to talk with me,” he pointed out. “That’s all you ever do. Talk talk talk.”

She drew back. “If you didn’t like it,” she said in a snippy voice, “you shouldn’t have married me.”

“It wasn’t as if I had a choice in the matter,” he bit off. “Your brothers were ready to castrate me. And just so you don’t paint me completely black, I don’t mind your talking. Just not, for the love of God, all of the time.”

She looked like she was trying to say something utterly clever and cutting, but all she could do was gape like a fish and make sounds like, “Unh! Unh!”

“Every now and then,” he said, feeling quite superior, “you might consider shutting your mouth and using it for some other purpose.”

“You,” she fumed, “are insufferable.”

He raised his brows, knowing it would irritate her.

“I’m sorry you find my propensity for speech so 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 weren’t enough, she couldn’t get her mother’s voice out of her head. Don’t push, Eloise. Don’t push.

And all she could think was— She hadn’t pushed. Good heavens, what had she done but come to him with a concern about his children? Was it so very wrong to actually want to speak rather than race off to the bedroom? She supposed it might be wrong, if the couple in question never spent any intimate time together, but they had . . . they were . . .

It had just been that morning!

No one could say that they had any problems in the bedroom. No one.

She sighed and slumped. She’d never felt so alone in all her life. Funny, that. Who’d have thought she’d have to go and get married—join her life for eternity with another person—in order to feel alone?

She wanted her mother.

No, she didn’t want her mother. She definitely didn’t want her mother. Her mother would be kind and understanding and everything a mother should be, but a talk with her mother would just leave her feeling like a small child, not like the adult she was supposed to be.

She wanted her sisters. Not Hyacinth, who was barely one and twenty and knew nothing of men, but one of her married sisters. She wanted Daphne, who always knew what to say, or Francesca, who never said what one wanted to hear but always managed to eke out a smile nonetheless.

But they were too far away, in London and Scotland respectively, and Eloise was not going to run off. She’d made her bed when she’d married, and she was quite contentedly lying in it every night with Phillip. It was just the days that were a bit off.

She wasn’t going to play the coward and leave, even if only for a few days.

But Sophie was near, just an hour away. And if they weren’t sisters by birth—well, they were sisters of the heart.

Eloise looked out the door. It was too cloudy to see the sun, but she was fairly sure it wasn’t much past noon. Even with the travel time, she could spend most of the day with Sophie and be back by supper.

Her pride didn’t want anyone to know she was miserable, but her heart wanted a shoulder to cry on.

Her heart won out.

Phillip spent the next several hours stomping across his fields, viciously yanking weeds from the ground.

Which kept him fairly busy, since he wasn’t in a cultivated area, which meant that pretty much every bit of growth could be classified as a weed, if one was so inclined.

And he was so inclined. He was more than inclined. If he had his way, he’d yank every damned plant from the earth.

And he, a botanist.

But he didn’t want to plant things right now, didn’t want to watch anything bloom or grow. He wanted to kick and maim and destroy. He was angry and frustrated and cross with himself and cross with Eloise and he was quite prepared to be upset with anyone who happened across his path.

But after an afternoon of this, of kicking and stomping, and yanking the heads off wildflowers and tearing blades of grass down the middle, he sat on a rock and let his head hang in his hands.

Hell.

What a muck.

What a bloody muck, and the really ironic bit of it was—he’d thought they were happy.

He’d thought his marriage perfect, and all this time—oh, very well, it had only been a week, but it had been a week of, in his opinion, perfection. And she’d been miserable.

Or if not miserable, then not happy.

Or maybe a little bit happy, but certainly not caught up in blissful rapture, as he had been.

And now he had to go and do something about it, which was the last thing he wanted to do. Talking with Eloise, actually asking questions and trying to deduce what was wrong, not to mention figuring out what to do to fix it—it was just the sort of thing he always bungled.

But he didn’t have much of a choice, did he? He’d married Eloise in part—well, more than in part; almost in whole, in truth—because he’d wanted her to take charge, to take over all the annoying little tasks in his life, to free him up for the things that really mattered. The fact that he was growing to care for her had been an unexpected bonus.

He suspected, however, that one’s marriage didn’t count as an annoying little task, and he couldn’t just leave it to Eloise. And as painful as a heart-to-heart discussion was, he was going to have to bite the bullet and give it a go.

He was quite certain he’d botch it up but good, but at least he could say he’d tried.

He groaned. She was probably going to ask him about his feelings. Was there no woman alive who understood that men did not talk about feelings? Hell, half of them didn’t even have feelings.

Or maybe he could take the easy way out and simply apologize. He wasn’t certain what he’d be apologizing for, but it would appease her and make her happy, and that was all that mattered.

He didn’t want Eloise to be unhappy. He didn’t want her to regret her marriage, even for one moment. He wanted his marriage back to the way he’d thought it was—easy and comfortable by day, fiery and passionate by night.

He trudged up the hill back to Romney Hall, rehearsing what he’d say in his mind and scowling over how asinine it all sounded.

But his efforts were moot, anyway, because when he arrived at the house and found Gunning, all the butler had to say was, “She’s not here.”

“What do you mean, she’s not here?” Phillip demanded.

“She’s not here, sir. She went to her brother’s house.”

Phillip’s stomach clenched. “Which brother?”

“I believe the one who lives close by.”

“You believe?”

“I’m rather certain,” Gunning corrected.

“Did she say when she planned to return?”

“No, sir.”

Phillip swore viciously under his breath. Surely Eloise hadn’t left him. She wasn’t the sort to bail out on a sinking ship, at least not without making sure every last passenger had left safely before her.

“She did not bring a bag, sir,” Gunning said.

Oh, now, that made him feel good. His butler felt the need to reassure him that he’d not been abandoned by his wife. “That will be all, Gunning,” Phillip said through gritted teeth.

“Very good, sir,” Gunning said. He inclined his head, as he always did when he excused himself, and left the room.

Phillip stood in the hall for several minutes, stock-still, his hands fisted angrily at his sides. What the devil was he supposed to do now? He wasn’t about to go running after Eloise. If she so desperately wanted to be out of his company, then by God that’s what he would give her.

He started to walk to his office, where he could stew and fume in private, but then, when he was just a few steps away from the door, he stopped, glancing at the large grandfather clock at the end of the hall. It was a bit past three, just about the time the twins usually took their afternoon snack. Before they’d married, Eloise had accused him of not taking enough interest in their welfare.

He planted his hands on his hips, his foot pivoting slightly, as if unsure which way to turn. He might as well go up to the nursery and spend a few unexpected minutes with his children. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do with his time, stuck here waiting for his errant wife to return. And when she did get back—well, she wouldn’t have anything to complain about, not after he’d twisted himself into one of those tiny chairs and eaten milk and biscuits with the twins.

With a decisive turn, he headed up the stairs to the nursery, located on the top floor of Romney Hall, tucked neatly away under the eaves. It was the same set of rooms in which he’d grown up, with the same furniture and toys, and presumably the same crack in the ceiling over the small beds, the one that looked like a duck.

Phillip frowned as he stepped off the final stair onto the third-floor hallway. He probably ought to see if that crack was still there, and if it was, inquire what his children thought it looked like. George, his brother, had always sworn it resembled a pig, but Phillip had never understood how he’d mistaken the bill for a snout.

Phillip shook his head. Good heavens, how anyone could mistake a duck for a pig, he’d never know. Even the—

He stopped short, just two doors down from the nursery. He’d heard something, and he wasn’t quite certain what it was, except that he didn’t like it. It was . . .

He listened again.

It was a whimper.

His first inclination was to storm forward and burst through the nursery door, but he held himself back when he realized that the door was ajar by two inches, and so he crept forward instead, peeking through the crack as unobtrusively as he could.

It required only half a second to realize what was happening.

Oliver was curled up in a ball on the floor, shaking with silent sobs, and Amanda was standing in front of a wall, bracing herself with her tiny little hands, whimpering as her nurse beat her across the back with a large, heavy book.

Phillip slammed through the door with a force that nearly took it off its hinges. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he nearly roared.

Nurse Edwards turned around in surprise, but before she could open her mouth to speak, Phillip snatched the book away and hurled it behind him against the wall.

“Sir Phillip!” Nurse Edwards cried out in shock.

“How dare you strike these children,” he said, his voice shaking with fury. “And with a book.”

“I was told—”

“And you did it where no one would see.” He felt himself growing hot, agitated, itching to lash out. “How many children have you beaten, making sure to leave the bruises where no one would see?”

“They spoke disrespectfully,” Nurse Edwards said stiffly. “They had to be punished.”

Phillip stepped forward, close enough so that the nurse was forced to retreat. “I want you out of my house,” he said.

“You told me to discipline the children as I see fit,” Nurse Edwards protested.

“Is this how you see fit?” he hissed, using every ounce of his restraint to hold his arms at his sides. He wanted to swing them wildly, to lash out, to grab a book and beat this woman just as she had done to his children.

But he held on to his temper. He had no idea how, but he did it.

“You beat them with a book?” he continued furiously. He looked over at his children; they were cowering in a corner, presumably as scared of their father in such a mood as they were of their nurse. It sickened him that they were seeing him this way, so close to a total loss of control, but there was nothing more he could do to rein himself in.

“There was no switch,” Nurse Edwards said haughtily.

Wrong thing to say. Phillip felt his skin grow even hotter, fought against the red haze that had begun to cloud his vision. There had been a switch in the nursery; the hook it had hung upon was still there, right by the window.

Phillip had burned it the day of his father’s funeral, had stood in front of the fire and watched it turn to ash. He hadn’t been satisfied with just tossing it in; he’d needed to see it destroyed, completely and forever.

And he thought of that switch, thought of the hundreds of times it had been used upon him, thought of the pain, of the indignity, of all the effort he had used, trying to keep himself from crying out.

His father had hated crybabies. Tears only resulted in another round with the switch. Or with the belt. Or the riding crop. Or, when there was nothing else available, his father’s hand.

But never, Phillip thought with a strange sort of detachment, a book. Probably his father had never thought of it.

“Get out,” Phillip said, his voice barely audible. And then, when Nurse Edwards did not immediately respond, he roared it. “Get out! Get out of this house!”

“Sir Phillip,” she protested, scooting away from him, out of reach of his long, strong arms.

“Get out! Get out! Get out!”

He didn’t know where it was all coming from anymore. From somewhere deep inside, never tamed, but held down by sheer force of will.

“I need to gather my things!” she cried out.

“You have one half hour,” Phillip said, his voice low but still quavering with the exertion of his outburst. “Thirty minutes. If you have not departed by then, I will throw you out myself.”

Nurse Edwards hesitated at the door, started to walk through, then turned around. “You are ruining those children,” she hissed.

“They are mine to ruin.”

“Have it your way, then. They are nothing but little monsters, anyway, ill-tempered, misbehaved—”

Had she no care for her own safety? Phillip’s control was dangling by one very thin thread, and he was this close to grabbing the damned woman by the arm and hurling her out the door himself.

“Get out,” he growled, for what he prayed was the last time. He couldn’t hold on much longer. He stepped forward, punctuating his words with movement, and finally—finally—she ran from the room.

For a moment Phillip simply held still, trying to calm himself, to calm his breathing and wait for his rushing blood to settle down. His back was to the twins, and he dreaded turning around. He was dying inside, ravaged by guilt that he’d hired that woman, that monster, to care for his children. And he’d been too busy trying avoid them to see that they were suffering.

Suffering in the same way he had.

Slowly, he turned around, terrified of what he’d see in their eyes.

But when he raised his gaze off the floor and looked into their faces, they hurled into motion, launching themselves at him with almost enough force to knock him over.

“Oh, Daddy!” Amanda cried out, using an endearment she hadn’t uttered for ages. He’d been “Father” for years now, and he’d forgotten how sweet the other sounded.

And Oliver—he was hugging him, too, his small, thin arms wrapped tightly around Phillip’s waist, his face buried against his shirt so that his father would not see him cry.

But Phillip could feel it. The tears soaked through his shirt, and every sniffle rumbled against his belly.

His arms went around his children, tightly, protectively. “Shhhh,” he crooned. “It’s all right. I’m here now.” They were words he’d never said, words he’d never imagined saying; he’d never thought that his presence might be the one to make everything all right. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry.”

They had told him they didn’t like their nurse; he hadn’t listened.

“It’s not your fault, Father,” Amanda said.

It was, but there seemed little point in belaboring the fact. Not now, not when the time was ripe for a fresh start.

“We’ll find you a new nurse,” he assured them.

“Someone like Nurse Millsby?” Oliver asked, sniffling as his tears finally subsided.

Phillip nodded. “Someone just like her.”

Oliver looked at him with great sincerity. “Can Miss—Mother help to choose?”

“Of course,” Phillip replied, tousling his hair. “I expect she’ll want a say. She is a woman of a great many opinions, after all.”

The children giggled.

Phillip allowed himself a smile. “I see you two know her well.”

“She does like to talk,” Oliver said hesitantly.

“But she is terribly clever!” Amanda put in.

“Indeed she is,” Phillip murmured.

“I rather like her,” Oliver said.

“As do I,” his sister added.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Phillip told them. “Because I do believe she is here to stay.”

And so am I, he added silently. He’d spent years avoiding his children, fearing that he’d make a mistake, terrified that he’d lose his temper. He’d thought he was doing the best thing for them, keeping them at arm’s length, but he’d been wrong. So very wrong.

“I love you,” he said to them, hoarsely, with great emotion. “You know that, don’t you?”

They nodded, their eyes bright.

“I will always love you,” he whispered, crouching down until they were all of a level. He drew them close, savoring their warmth. “I will always love you.”

Chapter 17

. . . regardless, Daphne, I do not think you should have run off.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her

sister the Duchess of Hastings,

during Daphne’s brief separation

from her husband,

mere weeks into their marriage

The ride to Benedict’s was rutted and bumpy, and by the time Eloise stepped down at her brother’s front steps, her mood had gone from bad to foul. To make matters worse, when the butler opened the door he looked at her as if she were a madwoman.

“Graves?” Eloise finally asked, when it became clear that he was beyond speech.

“Are they expecting you?” he asked, still gaping.

“Well, no,” Eloise said, looking quite pointedly beyond him into the house, since that, after all, was where she wanted to be.

It had started to drizzle, and she was not dressed for the rain.

“But I hardly think . . .” she began.

Graves stepped aside, belatedly remembering himself and allowing her entrance. “It’s Master Charles,” he said, referring to Benedict and Sophie’s eldest son, just five and a half years old. “He’s quite ill. He—”

Eloise felt something awful and acidic rise in her throat. “What is wrong?” she asked, not even bothering to temper her urgency. “Is he . . .” Good heavens, how did one ask if a young child was dying?

“I’ll get Mrs. Bridgerton,” Graves said, swallowing convulsively. He turned and scurried up the stairs.

“Wait!” Eloise called out, wanting to ask him more, but he was already gone.

She slumped into a chair, feeling sick with worry, and then, as if that weren’t enough, rather disgusted with herself for having been even the least bit dissatisfied with her own lot in life. Her troubles with Phillip, which in truth weren’t even troubles at all but nothing more than small irritants—well, they seemed very small and insignificant next to this.

“Eloise!”

It was Benedict, not Sophie, who came down the stairs. He looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, his skin pale and pasty. Eloise knew better than to ask him how long it had been since he’d slept; the question would be beyond annoying, and besides, the answer was right there on his face—he hadn’t closed his eyes for days.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I came for a visit,” she said. “Just to say hello. I had no idea. What is wrong? How is Charles? I saw him just last week. He looked fine. He— What is wrong?”

Benedict required several seconds to muster the energy to speak. “He has a fever. I don’t know why. On Saturday, he woke up fine, but by luncheon he was—” He sagged against the wall, closing his eyes in agony. “He was burning up,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”

“What did the doctor say?” Eloise asked.

“Nothing,” Benedict said in a hollow voice. “Nothing of use, anyway.”

“May I see him?”

Benedict nodded, his eyes still closed.

“You need to rest,” Eloise said.

“I can’t,” he said.

“You must. You’re no good to anyone like this, and I’d wager Sophie is no better.”

“I made her sleep an hour ago,” he said. “She looked like death.”

“Well, you don’t look any better,” Eloise told him, keeping her tone purposefully brisk and businesslike. Sometimes that was what people needed at times like this—to be ordered about, told what to do. Compassion would only make her brother cry, and neither of them wanted to be witness to that.

“You must go to bed,” Eloise ordered. “Now. I’ll care for Charles. Even if you sleep only an hour, you’ll feel so much better.”

He didn’t reply; he’d fallen asleep standing up.

Eloise quickly took charge. She directed Graves to put Benedict to bed, and she took over the sickroom, trying not to gasp when she first stepped in and saw her small nephew.

He looked tiny and frail in the large bed; Benedict and Sophie had had him moved to their bedchamber, where there was more room for people to tend to him. His skin was flushed, but his eyes, when he opened them, were glassy and unfocused, and when he wasn’t lying unnaturally still, he was thrashing about, mumbling incoherently about ponies and treehouses and marzipan candy.

It made Eloise wonder what she would mumble incoherently about, were she ever to be gripped by a fever.

She mopped his brow, and she turned him and helped the maids change his sheets, and she didn’t notice as the sun slipped below the horizon. She just thanked the heavens that Charles did not worsen under her care, because according to the servants, Benedict and Sophie had been at his side for two days straight, and Eloise did not want to have to wake either of them up with bad news.

She sat in the chair by the bed, and she read to him from his favorite book of children’s tales, and she told him stories of when his father was young. And she doubted that he heard a word, but it all made her feel better, because she couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.

And it wasn’t until eight in the evening, when Sophie finally rose from her stupor and asked after Phillip, that it occurred to her that she ought to send a note, that he might be growing worried.

So she scrawled something short and hasty and resumed her vigil. Phillip would understand.

By eight in the evening, Phillip realized that one of two things had happened to his wife. She had either perished in a carriage accident, or she had left him.

Neither prospect was terribly appealing.

He didn’t think she would have left him; she seemed mostly happy in their marriage, despite their quarrel that afternoon. And besides, she hadn’t taken any of her belongings with her, although that didn’t mean much; most of her belongings had yet to arrive from her home in London. It wasn’t as if she’d be leaving much behind here at Romney Hall.

Just a husband and two children.

Good God, and he’d just said to them this afternoon— I do believe she’s here to stay.

No, he thought savagely, Eloise would not leave him. She would never do such a thing. She didn’t have a cowardly bone in her body, and she would never slink off and abandon their marriage. If she was displeased in some way, she’d tell him so, right to his face and without mincing words.

Which, he realized, yanking on his coat as he practically hurled himself out the front door, meant that she was dead in some ditch on the Wiltshire road. It had been raining steadily all evening, and the roads between his house and Benedict’s were not well tended to begin with.

Hell, it would almost be better if she’d left him.

But as he rode up the drive to My Cottage, Benedict Bridgerton’s absurdly named house, soaking wet and in a terrible temper, it was starting to look more like Eloise had decided to abandon her marriage.

Because she hadn’t been lying in a ditch by the side of the road, and there hadn’t been any sign of any sort of carriage accident, and furthermore, she hadn’t been holed up at either of the two inns along the way.

And as there was only one route between his home and Benedict’s, it wasn’t as if she were in some other inn on some other road, and this entire farce could be chalked up to nothing more than a big misunderstanding.

“Temper,” he said under his breath as he stomped up the front steps. “Temper.”

Because he had never been so close to losing his.

Maybe there was a logical explanation. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to drive home in the rain. It wasn’t that bad, but it was more than a drizzle, and he supposed she might not have cared to travel.

He lifted up the knocker on the door and slammed it down. Hard.

Maybe the carriage had broken a wheel.

He banged the knocker again.

No, that couldn’t explain it. Benedict could easily have sent her home in his carriage.

Maybe . . .

Maybe . . .

His mind searched fruitlessly for some other reason why she would be here with her brother and not at home with her husband. He couldn’t think of one.

The curse that hissed out of his mouth was one he had not uttered in years.

He reached up for the knocker again, this time prepared to yank the damned thing off the door and hurl it through the window, but just then the door opened, and Phillip found himself staring at Graves, whom he had met less than a fortnight earlier, during his farce of a courtship.

“My wife?” Phillip practically growled.

“Sir Phillip!” the butler gasped.

Phillip didn’t move, even though the rain was streaming down his face. Damned house didn’t have a portico. Whoever heard of such a thing, in England, of all places?

“My wife,” he bit off again.

“She’s here,” Graves assured him. “Come in.”

Phillip stepped in. “I want my wife,” he said again. “Now.”

“Let me get your coat,” Graves said.

“I don’t give a damn about my coat,” Phillip snapped. “I want my wife.”

Graves froze, his hands still poised to take Phillip’s coat. “Did you not receive Lady Crane’s note?”

“No, I did not receive a note.”

“I thought you’d arrived rather quickly,” Graves murmured. “You must have crossed with the messenger. You’d better come in.”

“I am in,” Phillip reminded him testily.

Graves let out a long breath, almost a sigh, which was remarkable for a butler bred not to show even a hint of emotion. “I think you will be here for some time,” he said softly. “Take off your coat. Get dry. You will want to be comfortable.”

Phillip’s anger suddenly slid into bone-deep terror. Had something happened to Eloise? Good God, if anything— “What is going on?” he whispered.

He’d just found his children. He wasn’t ready to lose his wife.

The butler just turned to the stairs with sad eyes. “Come with me,” he said softly.

Phillip followed, each step filling him with dread.

Eloise had, of course, attended church nearly every Sunday of her life. It was what was expected of her, and it was what good, honest people did, but in truth she’d never been a particularly God-fearing or religious sort. Her mind tended to wander during the sermons, and she sang along with the hymns not out of any great sense of spiritual uplifting but rather because she very much liked the music, and church was the only acceptable place for a tin ear like herself to raise her voice in song.

But now, tonight, as she looked down upon her small nephew, she prayed.

Charles hadn’t worsened, but he hadn’t improved, and the doctor, who had come and gone for the second time that day, had pronounced it “in God’s hands.”

Eloise hated that phrase, hated how doctors resorted to it when faced with illness beyond their skills, but if the physician was correct, and it was indeed in God’s hands, then by the heavens above, that was to whom she would appeal.

When she wasn’t placing a cooling cloth on Charles’s forehead or spooning lukewarm broth down his throat, that was. But there was only so much to be done, and most of her time in the sickroom was spent rather helplessly in vigil.

And so she just sat there, her hands folded tightly in her lap, whispering, “Please. Please.”

And then, as if the wrong prayer had been answered, she heard a noise in the doorway, and somehow it was Phillip, even though she’d only sent the messenger an hour earlier. He was soaked from the rain, his hair plastered inelegantly against his forehead, but he was the dearest sight she’d ever seen, and before she had a clue what she was doing, she’d run across the room and thrown herself into his arms.

“Oh, Phillip,” she sobbed, finally allowing herself to cry. She’d been so strong all day, forcing herself to be the rock that her brother and sister-in-law needed. But now Phillip was here, and as his arms came around her, he felt so solid and good, and for once she could allow someone else to be strong for her.

“I thought it was you,” Phillip whispered.

“What?” she asked, confused.

“The butler—he didn’t explain until we were up the stairs. I thought it was—” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

Eloise said nothing, just looked up at him, a tiny, sad smile on her face.

“How is he?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not good.”

He looked over at Benedict and Sophie, who had risen to greet him. They looked rather “not good” as well.

“How long has he been this way?” Phillip asked.

“Two days,” Benedict replied.

“Two and a half,” Sophie corrected. “Since Saturday morning.”

“You need to get dry,” Eloise said, pulling away from him. “And now I do, too.” She looked ruefully down at her dress, now soaked through the front from Phillip’s wet clothing. “You’ll end up in no better a state than Charles.”

“I’m fine,” Phillip said, brushing past her as he came to the little boy’s bedside. He touched his forehead, then shook his head and glanced back at his parents. “I can’t tell,” he said. “I’m too cold from the rain.”

“He’s feverish,” Benedict confirmed grimly.

“What have you done for him?” Phillip asked.

“Do you know something of medicine?” Sophie asked, her eyes filling with desperate hope.

“The doctor bled him,” Benedict answered. “It didn’t seem to help.”

“We’ve been giving him broth,” Sophie said, “and cooling him when he grows too hot.”

“And warming him when he grows too cold,” Eloise finished miserably.

“Nothing seems to work,” Sophie whispered. And then, in front of everyone, she simply crumpled. Collapsed against the side of the bed and sobbed.

“Sophie,” Benedict choked out. He dropped to his knees beside her and held her as she wept, and Phillip and Eloise both looked away as they realized that he was crying, too.

“Willow bark tea,” Phillip said to Eloise. “Has he had any?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“It’s something I learned at Cambridge. It used to be given for pain, before laudanum became so popular. One of my professors insisted that it also helped to reduce fever.”

“Did you give the tea to Marina?” Eloise asked.

Phillip looked at her in surprise, then remembered that she still thought Marina had died of lung fever, which, he supposed, was mostly true. “I tried,” he answered, “but I couldn’t get much down her throat. And besides, she was much sicker than Charles.” He swallowed, remembering. “In many ways.”

Eloise looked up into his face for a long moment, then turned briskly to Benedict and Sophie, who were quiet now, but still kneeling on the floor together, lost in their private moment.

Eloise, however, being Eloise, had little reverence for private moments at such a time, and so grabbed her brother’s shoulder and turned him around. “Do you have any willow bark tea?” she asked him.

Benedict just looked at her, blinking, and then finally said, “I don’t know.”

“Mrs. Crabtree might,” Sophie said, referring to one half of the old couple who had cared for My Cottage before Benedict had married, when it had been nothing more than an occasional place for him to lay his head. “She always has things like that. But she and Mr. Crabtree went to visit their daughter. They won’t be home for several days.”

“Can you get into their house?” Phillip asked. “I will recognize it if she has it. It won’t be a tea. Just the bark, which we’ll soak in hot water. It might help to bring down the fever.”

“Willow bark?” Sophie asked doubtfully. “You mean to cure my son with the bark of a tree?”

“It certainly can’t hurt him now,” Benedict said gruffly, striding toward the door. “Come along, Crane. We have a key to their cottage. I will take you there myself.” But as he reached the doorway, he turned to Phillip and asked, “Do you know what you are about?”

Phillip answered the only way he knew how. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

Benedict stared him in the face, and Phillip knew that the older man was taking his measure. It was one thing for Benedict to allow him to marry his sister. It was quite another to let him force strange potions down his son’s throat.

But Phillip understood. He had children, too.

“Very well,” Benedict said. “Let’s go.”

And as Phillip hurried out of the house, all he could do was pray that Benedict Bridgerton’s trust in him had not been misplaced.

In the end it was difficult to say whether it was the willow bark or Eloise’s whispered prayers or just dumb luck, but by the following morning Charles’s fever had broken, and although the boy was still weak and listless, he was indubitably on the mend. By noontime, it was clear that Eloise and Phillip were no longer needed and in fact were getting in the way, and so they climbed into their carriage and headed home, both eager to collapse into their large, sturdy bed and, for once, do nothing but sleep.

The first ten minutes of the ride home were spent in silence. Eloise, astonishingly, found herself too tired to speak. But even in her exhaustion, she was too restless, too tightly wound from the stress and worry of the previous night to sleep. And so she contented herself with staring out the window at the dampened countryside. It had stopped raining right about the time Charles’s fever broke, suggesting a divine intervention that might have pointed to Eloise’s prayers as the young boy’s savior, but as Eloise stole a glance at her husband, sitting beside her in the carriage with his eyes closed (although not, she was quite certain, asleep), she knew it was the willow bark.

She didn’t know how she knew, and she was quite cognizant of the fact that she could never prove it, but her nephew’s life had been saved by a cup of tea.

And to think how unlikely it was that Phillip had even been at her brother’s house that evening. It had been quite a singular chain of events. If she hadn’t gone in to see the twins, if she hadn’t gone to tell Phillip that she didn’t like their nurse, if they hadn’t quarreled . . .

Put that way, little Charles Bridgerton was quite the luckiest little boy in Britain.

“Thank you,” she said, not realizing that she’d intended to speak until the words left her lips.

“For what?” Phillip murmured sleepily, without opening his eyes.

“Charles,” she said simply.

Phillip did open his eyes at that, and he turned to her. “It might not have been my doing. We’ll never know if it was the willow bark.”

“I know,” she said firmly.

His lips curved into the barest of smiles. “You always do.”

And she thought to herself— Was this what she’d been waiting for her entire life? Not the passion, not the gasps of pleasure she felt when he joined her in bed, but this.

This sense of comfort, of easy companionship, of sitting next to someone in a carriage and knowing with every fiber of your being that it was where you belonged.

She placed her hand on his. “It was so awful,” she said, surprised that she had tears in her eyes. “I don’t think I have ever been so scared in my life. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Benedict and Sophie.”

“Nor I,” Phillip said softly.

“If it had been one of our children . . .” she said, and she realized it was the first time she’d said that. Our children.

Phillip was silent for a long time. When he spoke, he was looking out the window. “The entire time I was watching Charles,” he said, his voice suspiciously hoarse, “all I kept thinking was, thank God it’s not Oliver or Amanda.” And then he turned back to her, his face pinched with guilt. “But it shouldn’t be anyone’s child.”

Eloise squeezed his hand. “I don’t think there is anything wrong with such feelings. You’re not a saint, you know. You’re just a father. A very good one, I think.”

He looked at her with an odd expression, and then he shook his head. “No,” he said gravely, “I’m not. But I hope to be.”

She cocked her head. “Phillip?”

“You were right,” he said, his mouth tightening into a grim line. “About their nurse. I didn’t want anything to be wrong, and so I paid no attention, but you were right. She was beating them.”

“What?”

“With a book,” he continued, his voice almost dispassionate, as if he’d already used up all of his emotions. “I walked in and she was beating Amanda with a book. She had already finished with Oliver.”

“Oh, no,” Eloise said, as tears—of sorrow and anger—filled her eyes. “I never dreamed. I didn’t like her, of course. And she’d rapped them on the knuckles, but . . . I’ve been rapped on the knuckles. Everyone has been rapped on the knuckles.” She slumped in her seat, guilt weighing her shoulders down. “I should have realized. I should have seen.”

Phillip snorted. “You’ve barely been in residence a fortnight. I’ve been living with that bloody woman for months. If I didn’t see, why should you have done?”

Eloise had nothing to say to this, nothing at least that would not make her already guilt-ridden husband feel worse. “I assume you dismissed her,” she finally said.

He nodded. “I told the children you would help to find a replacement.”

“Of course,” she said quickly.

“And I—” He stopped, cleared his throat, and looked out the window before continuing. “I—”

“What is it, Phillip?” she asked softly.

He didn’t turn back to her when he said, “I’m going to be a better father. I’ve pushed them away for too long. I was so afraid of becoming my father, of being like him, that I—”

“Phillip,” Eloise murmured, laying her hand on his, “you’re not like your father. You could never be.”

“No,” he said, his voice hollow, “but I thought I could. I got a whip once. I went to the stables and I grabbed the whip.” His head fell into his hands. “I was so angry. So bloody angry.”

“But you didn’t use it,” she whispered, knowing that her words were true. They had to be.

He shook his head. “But I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t,” she said again, keeping her voice as firm as she was able.

“I was so angry,” he said again, and she wasn’t even sure he’d heard her, so lost was he in his own memory. But then he turned to her, and his eyes pierced hers. “Do you understand what it is to be terrified by your own anger?”

She shook her head.

“I’m not a small man, Eloise,” he said. “I could hurt someone.”

“So could I,” she replied. And then, at his dry look, she added, “Well, maybe not you, but I’m certainly big enough to hurt a child.”

“You would never do that,” he grunted, turning away.

“Neither would you,” she repeated.

He was silent.

And then, suddenly, she understood. “Phillip,” she said softly, “you said you were angry, but . . . with whom were you angry?”

He looked at her uncomprehendingly. “They glued their governess’s hair to the sheets, Eloise.”

“I know,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m quite certain I would have wanted to throttle them both, had I been present. But that’s not what I asked.” She waited for him to make some sort of response. When he did not, she added, “Were you angry with them because of the glue, or were you angry with yourself, because you didn’t know how to make them mind?”

He didn’t say anything but they both knew the answer.

Eloise reached out and touched his hand. “You’re nothing like your father, Phillip,” she repeated. “Nothing.”

“I know that now,” Phillip said softly. “You have no idea how badly I wanted to tear that bloody Nurse Edwards from limb to limb.”

“I can imagine,” Eloise said, snorting as she settled back in her seat.

Phillip felt his lips twitch. He had no idea why, but there was something almost funny in his wife’s tone, something comforting, even. Somehow they had found humor in a situation where there ought not to be any. And it felt good.

“She deserved nothing less,” Eloise added with a shrug. And then she turned and looked at him. “But you didn’t touch her, did you?”

He shook his head. “No. And if I managed to keep my temper with her, then I’m damn well not ever going to lose it with my children.”

“Of course not,” Eloise said, as if it had never been an issue. She patted his hand, then glanced out the window, clearly unconcerned.

Such faith in him, Phillip realized. Such faith in his inner goodness, in the quality of his soul, when he’d been wracked by doubt for so many years.

And then he felt he had to be honest, had to come clean, and before he knew what he was about, he blurted out, “I thought you’d left me.”

“Last night?” She turned to him in shock. “Whyever would you think that?”

He shrugged self-deprecatingly. “Oh, I don’t know. It might be because you left for your brother’s house and never came back.”

She hmmphed at that. “It’s clear now why I was detained, and besides, I would never leave you. You should know that.”

He quirked a brow. “Should I?”

“Of course you should,” she said, looking rather cross with him. “I made a vow in that church, and I assure you I do not take such things lightly. Besides, I made a commitment to Oliver and Amanda to be their mother, and I would never turn my back on that.”

Phillip regarded her steadily, then murmured, “No. No, you wouldn’t. Silly of me not to have thought of that.”

She sat back and crossed her arms. “Well, you should have done. You know me better than that.” And then, when he did not say anything more, she added, “Those poor children. They have already lost one mother through no fault of their own. I’m certainly not going to run off and make them go through all that again.”

She turned to him with a supremely irritated expression. “I cannot believe you even thought that of me.”

Phillip was beginning to wonder the same thing himself. He’d only known Eloise—Dear God, could it possibly have been only two weeks? It felt, in many ways, like a lifetime. Because he did feel he knew her, inside and out. She’d always have her secrets, of course, as all people did, and he was quite certain he’d never understand her, since he couldn’t imagine ever understanding anyone female.

But he knew her. He was quite certain he knew her. And he should have known better than to have worried that she’d abandoned their marriage.

It must have been panic, pure and simple. And, he supposed, because it was better to think she’d left him than to imagine her dead in a ditch by the side of the road. With the former he could at least storm her brother’s house and drag her home.

If she’d died . . .

He was unprepared for the pain he felt in his gut at the mere thought.

When had she come to mean so much to him? And what was he going to do to keep her happy?

Because he needed her happy. Not just, as he’d been telling himself, because a happy Eloise meant that his life would continue to run smoothly. He needed her happy because the mere thought of her unhappy was like a knife in his heart.

The irony was well aimed, indeed. He’d told himself, over and over, that he’d married her to be a mother to his children, but just now, when she’d declared that she would never leave their marriage, that her commitment to the twins was too strong—

He’d felt jealous.

He’d actually felt jealous of his own children. He’d wanted her to mention the word wife, and all he’d heard was mother.

He wanted her to want him. Him. Not just because she’d made a vow in a church, but because she was quite convinced she could not live without him. Maybe even because she loved him.

Loved him.

Dear God, when had this happened? When had he come to want so much from marriage? He’d married her to mother his children; they both knew that.

And then there was the passion. He was a man, for God’s sake, and he’d not lain with a woman for eight years. How could he not be drunk on the feel of Eloise’s skin next to his, on the sound of her whimpers and moans when she exploded around him?

On the pure force of his own pleasure every time he entered her?

He’d found everything he’d ever wanted in a marriage. Eloise ran his life to perfection by day and warmed his bed with the skill of a courtesan by night. She fulfilled his every desire so well that he hadn’t noticed that she’d done something more.

She’d found his heart. She’d touched it, changed it. Changed him.

He loved her. He hadn’t been looking for love, hadn’t even given a thought to it, but there it was, and it was the most precious thing imaginable.

He was at the dawn of a new day, the first page of a new chapter of his life. It was thrilling. And terrifying. Because he did not want to fail. Not now, not when he’d finally found everything he needed. Eloise. His children. Himself.

It had been years since he’d felt comfortable in his own skin, since he’d trusted his instincts. Since he’d looked in the mirror without avoiding his own gaze.

He glanced out the window. The carriage was slowing down, pulling up alongside Romney Hall. Everything looked gray—the skies, the stone of the house, the windows, which reflected the clouds. Even the grass seemed a little less green without the sun to brighten its hue.

It suited his contemplative mood perfectly.

A footman appeared to help Eloise down, and once Phillip had hopped down beside her, she turned to him and said, “I’m exhausted, and you look the same. Shall we go take a nap?”

He was just about to agree, since he was exhausted, but then, just before the words could leave his lips, he shook his head and said, “You go along without me.”

She opened her mouth to question him, but he silenced her with a gentle squeeze on her shoulder. “I’ll be up shortly,” he said. “But right now, I think I want to hug my children.”

Chapter 18

. . . I do not tell you often enough, dear Mother, how very grateful I am that I am yours. It is a rare parent who would offer a child such latitude and understanding. It is an even rarer one who calls a daughter friend. I do love you, dear Mama.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her mother,

upon refusing her sixth offer of marriage

When Eloise awoke from her nap, she was surprised to see that the sheets on the other side of the bed were neat and unrumpled. Phillip had been just as tired as she had been, probably more so, since he had ridden all the way to Benedict’s house the night before, in the wind and rain, no less.

After she’d tidied herself, she set about to locate him, but he was nowhere to be found. She told herself not to worry, that they’d had a difficult few days, that he probably just needed some time to himself, to think.

Just because she tended not to prefer solitude didn’t mean everyone else agreed with her.

She laughed humorlessly to herself. That was a lesson she’d been trying—unsuccessfully—to learn her entire life.

And so she forced herself to stop looking for him. She was married now, and suddenly she understood what it was her mother had been trying so hard to tell her on her wedding night. Marriage was about compromise, and she and Phillip were very different people. They might be perfect for one another, but that didn’t mean they were the same. And if she wanted him to change some of his ways for her, well then, she was going to have to do the same for him.

She didn’t see him for the rest of the day, not when she took tea in the afternoon, not when she bade the twins good night, and not at supper, which she was forced to take by herself, feeling very small and very alone at the large mahogany table. She dined in silence, ever aware of the watchful eyes of the footmen, both of whom smiled at her sympathetically as they brought forth her food.

Eloise smiled back, because she did believe in being polite in all things, but inside she was sighing with resignation. It was a sad state of affairs when the footmen (men, for goodness’ sakes, who were normally oblivious to another’s distress) felt sorry for you.

But then again, here she was, only one week into her marriage and dining alone. Who wouldn’t have pitied her?

Besides, the last the servants knew, Sir Phillip had raged out the door to fetch his wife, who had presumably fled to her brother’s house after a horrible row.

Put that way, Eloise thought with a sigh, it wasn’t quite so surprising that Phillip might have thought she’d left him.

She ate sparingly, not wanting to prolong the meal any longer than was necessary, and when she finished her obligatory two bites of pudding, she rose, fully intending to take herself off to bed, where, she presumed, she would pass her time as she had all day—alone.

But as she stepped into the hall, she found herself restless, not quite ready to retire. And so she began to walk, somewhat aimlessly, through the house. It was a chilly night for late May, and she was glad she’d brought a shawl. Eloise had spent time in many grand country homes, where all the fireplaces were lit at night, leaving the house in a blaze of light and warmth, but Romney Hall, while snug and comfortable, held no such delusions of self-importance, and so most of the rooms were kept closed off for the night, with the fireplaces only lit when needed.

And blast it, it was cold.

She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders as she walked along, rather enjoying finding her way with only the dim moonlight to guide her. But then, as she approached the portrait gallery, she saw the unmistakable light of a lantern.

Someone was there, and she knew, even before she’d taken another step forward, that it was Phillip.

She approached quietly, glad that she’d worn her soft-soled slippers, and peered through the doorway.

The sight she saw nearly broke her heart.

Phillip was standing there, stock-still, in front of Marina’s portrait. He moved not at all, save for the occasional blink of his eyes. He just stood there, looking at her, looking at his dead wife, and the expression on his face was so bleak and sorrowful that Eloise almost gasped.

Had he lied to her when he’d said that he hadn’t loved Marina? When he’d said he hadn’t felt passion?

And did it matter? Marina was dead. It wasn’t as if she was a true competitor for Phillip’s affections. And even if she was, did it matter? Because he didn’t love Eloise, either, and she didn’t—

Or maybe, she realized, in one of those flashes that knock the very breath from one’s lungs, she did.

It was hard to imagine when it had happened, or even how it had happened, but this feeling she had for him, this affection and respect, had grown into something deeper.

And oh, how she wanted him to feel the same way.

He needed her. Of that she was quite sure. He needed her maybe even more than she needed him, but that wasn’t it. She loved being needed, being wanted, being indispensable, even, but there was more to her feelings.

She loved the way he smiled, slightly lopsided, a little boyish, and with a little lilt of surprise, as if he couldn’t quite believe in his own happiness.

She loved the way he looked at her, as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world, when she knew, quite patently, that she was not.

She loved the way he actually listened to what she had to say, and the way he didn’t allow her to cow him. She even loved the way he told her she talked too much, because he almost always did it with a smile, and because, of course, it was true.

And she loved the way he still listened to her, even after he told her she talked too much.

She loved the way he loved his children.

She loved his honor, his honesty, and his sly sense of humor.

And she loved the way she fit into his life, and the way he fit into hers.

It was comfortable. It was right.

And this, she finally realized, was where she belonged.

But he was standing there, staring at a portrait of his dead wife, and from the way he was so still and unmoving . . . well, God only knew how long he’d been doing that. And if he still loved her . . .

She choked back a wave of guilt. Who was she to feel anything but sorrow on behalf of Marina? She had died so young, so unexpectedly. And she’d lost what Eloise considered every mother’s God-given right—to watch her children grow up.

To feel jealous of a woman like that was unconscionable.

And yet . . .

And yet Eloise must not be as good a person as she ought, because she couldn’t watch this scene, couldn’t watch Phillip staring at the portrait of his first wife without envy squeezing around her heart. She’d just realized she loved this man, and would, to the very last of her days. She needed him, not a dead woman.

No, she thought fiercely. He didn’t still love Marina. Maybe he’d never loved Marina. He’d said the morning before that he hadn’t been with a woman for eight years.

Eight years?

It sank in, finally.

Good God.

She’d spent the past two days in such a flurry of emotion that she hadn’t really stopped and thought—really thought—about what he’d said.

Eight years.

It was not what she would have expected. Not from a man such as Phillip, who clearly enjoyed—no, clearly needed—the physical aspects of married love.

Marina had only been dead for fifteen months. If Phillip had gone without a woman for eight years, that meant they hadn’t shared a bedroom since the twins had been conceived.

No . . .

Eloise did some mental arithmetic. No, it would have been after the twins had been born. A little bit after.

Of course, Phillip could have been off in his dates, or perhaps exaggerating, but somehow Eloise didn’t think so. She rather thought he knew exactly when he and Marina had last slept together, and she feared, especially now that she had pinpointed the date of it, that it had been a terrible occasion indeed.

But he had not betrayed her. He had remained faithful to a woman from whose bed he’d been banned. Eloise wasn’t surprised, given his innate sense of honor and dignity, but she didn’t think she would have thought less of him if he had sought comfort elsewhere.

And the fact that he hadn’t—

It made her love him all the more.

But if his time with Marina had been so difficult and disturbing, why had he come here tonight? Why was he staring at her portrait, standing there as if he couldn’t move from the spot? Gazing upon her as if he were pleading with her, begging her for something.

Begging the favor of a dead woman.

Eloise couldn’t stand it any longer. She stepped forward and cleared her throat.

Phillip surprised her by turning instantly; she’d thought that he was so completely lost in his own world that he would not hear her. He didn’t say anything, not even her name, but then . . .

He held out his hand.

She walked forward and took it, not knowing what else to do, not even knowing—as strange as it seemed—what to say. So she just stood beside him and stared up at Marina’s portrait.

“Did you love her?” she asked, even though she’d asked him before.

“No,” he said, and she realized that a small part of her must have still been very worried, because the rush of relief she felt at his denial was surprising in its force.

“Do you miss her?”

His voice was softer, but it was sure. “No.”

“Did you hate her?” she whispered.

He shook his head, and he sounded very sad when he said, “No.”

She didn’t know what else to ask, wasn’t sure what she should ask, so she just waited, hoping he would speak.

And after a very long while, he did.

“She was sad,” he said. “She was always sad.”

Eloise looked up at him, but he did not return the glance. His eyes were on Marina’s portrait, as if he had to look at her while he spoke about her. As if maybe he owed her that.

“She was always somber,” he continued, “always a bit too serene, if that makes any sense, but it was worse after the twins were born. I don’t know what happened. The midwife said it was normal for women to cry after childbirth but that I shouldn’t worry, that it would clear away in a few weeks.”

“But it didn’t,” Eloise said softly.

He shook his head, then harshly brushed one dark lock of hair aside when it fell onto his brow. “It just got worse. I don’t know how to explain it. It was almost as if . . .” He shrugged helplessly as he searched for words, and when he continued, he was whispering. “It was almost as if she’d disappeared. . . . She rarely left her bed. . . . I never saw her smile. . . . She cried a lot. A great deal.”

The sentences came forth, not in a rush, but one at a time, as if each piece of information were being brought forth from his memory in slow succession. Eloise didn’t say anything, didn’t feel it her place to interrupt him or to try to inject her feelings on a matter she knew nothing about.

And then, finally, he turned away from Marina to Eloise, and looked her squarely in the eye.

“I tried everything to make her happy. Everything in my power. Everything I knew. But it wasn’t enough.”

Eloise opened her mouth, made a small sound, the beginnings of a murmur meant to assure him that he’d done his best, but he cut her off.

“Do you understand, Eloise?” he asked, his voice growing louder, more urgent. “It wasn’t enough.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly, because even though she hadn’t known Marina as an adult, she knew Phillip, and she knew that had to be the truth.

“Eventually I just gave up,” he said, his voice flat. “I stopped trying to help her at all. I was so sick and tired of beating my head against a wall where she was concerned. And all I tried to do was protect the children, and keep them away when she was in a really bad spell. Because they loved her so much.” He looked at her pleadingly, maybe for understanding, maybe for something else Eloise didn’t understand. “She was their mother.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“She was their mother, and she didn’t . . . she couldn’t . . .”

“But you were there,” Eloise said fervently. “You were there.”

He laughed harshly. “Yes, and a fat lot of good that did them. It’s one thing to be born with one dreadful parent, but to have two? I would never have wished that on my children, and yet . . . here we are.”

“You are not a bad father,” Eloise said, unable to keep the scolding tone out of her voice.

He just shrugged and turned back to the portrait, clearly unable to consider her words.

“Do you know how much it hurt?” he whispered. “Do you have any idea?”

She shook her head, even though he’d turned away.

“To try so hard, so damned hard, and never succeed? Hell—” He laughed, a short, bitter sound, full of self-loathing. “Hell,” he said again, “I didn’t even like her and it hurt so much.”

“You didn’t like her?” Eloise asked, her surprise pitching her words into a different register.

His lips quirked ironically. “Can you like someone you don’t even know?” He turned back to her. “I didn’t know her, Eloise. I was married to her for eight years, and I never knew her.”

“Maybe she didn’t let you know her.”

“Maybe I should have tried harder.”

“Maybe,” Eloise said, infusing her voice with all the surety and conviction she could, “there was nothing more you could have done. Some people are born melancholy, Phillip. I don’t know why, and I doubt anyone knows why, but that’s just the way they are.”

He looked at her sardonically, his dark eyes clearly dismissing her opinion, and so she leapt back in with, “Don’t forget, I knew her, too. As a child, long before you even knew she existed.”

Phillip’s expression changed then, and his gaze grew so intense upon her face that she nearly squirmed under the pressure of it.

“I never heard her laugh,” Eloise said softly. “Not even once. I’ve been trying to remember her better since I met you, trying to recall why my memories of her always seemed so strange and odd, and I think that’s it. She never laughed. Whoever heard of a child who doesn’t laugh?”

Phillip was silent for a few moments, then he said, “I don’t think I ever heard her laugh, either. Sometimes she would smile, usually when the children came to see her, but she never laughed.”

Eloise nodded. And then she said, “I’m not Marina, Phillip.”

“I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know. It’s why I married you, you know.”

It wasn’t quite what she wanted to hear, but she stifled her disappointment and allowed him to continue.

The creases in his forehead deepened, and he rubbed them hard. He looked so burdened, so tired of his responsibilities. “I just wanted someone who wasn’t going to be sad,” he said. “Someone who would be present for the children, someone who wouldn’t—”

He cut himself off, turned away.

“Someone who wouldn’t what?” she asked urgently, sensing that this was important.

For the longest time she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then, just when she’d quite given up on him, he said, “She died of influenza. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, since his back was to her and he wouldn’t see her nod.

“She died of influenza,” he repeated. “That’s what we told everyone—”

Eloise suddenly felt very sick, because she knew, absolutely knew what he was going to say.

“Well, it was the truth,” he said bitterly, surprising her with his words. She’d been so sure he was going to say that they’d been lying all the while.

“It’s the truth,” he said again. “But it wasn’t all of the truth. She did die of influenza, but we never told anyone why she fell ill.”

“The lake,” Eloise whispered, her words coming forth unbidden. She hadn’t even realized she’d been thinking them until she spoke.

He nodded grimly. “She didn’t fall in by accident.”

Her hand flew to cover her mouth. No wonder he’d been so upset that she’d taken the children there. She felt awful. Of course she didn’t know, couldn’t have known, but still . . .

“I got her just in time,” he said. “Just in time to save her from drowning, that is. Not in time to save her from lung fever three days later.” He choked back bitter laughter. “Not even my famed willow bark tea could do the job for her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Eloise whispered, and she was, even though Marina’s death had, in so many ways, made her own happiness possible.

“You don’t understand,” he said, not looking at her. “You couldn’t possibly.”

“I have never known someone who took their own life,” she said cautiously, not certain if these were the words one was meant to say in such a situation.

“That’s not what I mean,” he said, almost snapped, really. “You don’t know what it’s like to feel trapped, stuck, hopeless. To try so hard and never, ever”—he turned to her then, and his eyes were flashing fire—“break through. I tried. Every day I tried. I tried for me and I tried for Marina, and most of all for Oliver and Amanda. I did everything I knew how, everything everyone told me to do, and nothing, not one thing made it work. I tried, and she cried, and then I tried again and again and again, and all she ever did was dig herself deeper into her damned bed and pull up the covers over her head. She lived in darkness with her curtains drawn and the lights dimmed and then she picked the one goddamned sunny day to go and kill herself.”

Eloise’s eyes widened.

“A sunny day,” he said. “We’d had a bloody month of overcast skies, and then finally the sun came out, and she had to kill herself.” He laughed, but the sound was short and bitter. “After everything she’d done, she had to go and ruin sunny days for me.”

“Phillip,” Eloise said, placing her hand on his arm.

But he just shook her off. “And if that weren’t enough, she couldn’t even kill herself properly. Well, no,” he said harshly, “I suppose that was my fault. She would have been quite good and dead if I hadn’t come along and forced her to torture us all for three more days, wondering if she might live or die.” He crossed his arms and snorted in disgust. “But of course she died. I don’t know why we even held out hope. She didn’t fight it at all, didn’t use even an ounce of energy to fight the illness. She just laid there and let it claim her, and I kept waiting for her to smile, as if she were finally happy because now she’d succeeded in the one thing she wanted to do.”

“Oh, my God,” Eloise whispered, sickened by the image. “Did she?”

He shook his head. “No. She didn’t have even the energy for that. She just died with the same expression on her face she always had. Empty.”

“I’m so sorry,” Eloise said, even though she knew her words could never be enough. “No one should have to go through something like that.”

He stared at her for the longest time, his eyes searching hers, looking for something, searching for an answer that she wasn’t sure she had. Then he turned abruptly away and walked to the window, staring out at the inky night sky. “I tried so hard,” he said, his voice quiet with resignation and regret, “and still, every day I wished I were married to someone else.” His head tipped forward, until his forehead was leaning against the glass. “Anyone else.”

He was silent for a very long time. Too long, in Eloise’s estimation, and so she stepped forward, murmuring his name, just to hear his response. Just to know that he was all right.

“Yesterday,” he said, his voice abrupt, “you said we have a problem—”

“No,” she cut in, as quickly as she was able. “I didn’t mean—”

“You said we have a problem,” he repeated, his voice so low and forceful she didn’t think he’d hear another interruption even if she tried. “But until you live through what I lived through,” he continued, “until you’ve been trapped in a hopeless marriage, to a hopeless spouse, until you’ve gone to bed alone for years wishing for nothing more than the touch of another human being . . .”

He turned around, stepped toward her, his eyes alight with a fire that humbled her. “Until you’ve lived through all that,” he said, “don’t you ever complain about what we have. Because to me . . . to me . . .” He choked on the words, but he barely paused before he continued. “This—us—is heaven. And I can’t bear to hear you say otherwise.”

“Oh, Phillip,” she said, and then she did the only thing she knew to do. She closed the distance between them and threw her arms around him and held on for all she was worth. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her tears soaking into his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want to fail again,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “I can’t—I couldn’t—”

“You won’t,” she vowed. “We won’t.”

“You’ve got to be happy,” he said, his words sounding as if they’d been ripped from his throat. “You have to be. Please say—”

“I am,” she assured him. “I am. I promise you.”

He pulled back and took her face in his hands, forcing her to look deeply into his eyes. He seemed to be searching for something in her expression, desperately seeking confirmation, or maybe absolution, or maybe just a simple promise.

“I am happy,” she whispered, covering his hands with her own. “More than I ever dreamed possible. And I am proud to be your wife.”

His face seemed to tighten, and his lower lip began to quiver. Eloise caught her breath. She’d never seen a man cry, never really even thought it possible, but then a tear rolled slowly down his cheek, settling into the dimple at the corner of his mouth until she reached out and brushed it away.

“I love you,” he said, choking on the words. “I don’t even care if you don’t feel the same way. I love you and . . . and . . .”

“Oh, Phillip,” she whispered, reaching up and touching the tears on his face. “I love you, too.”

His lips moved as if trying to form words, and then he gave up on speech, and he reached out for her, crushing her to him with a strength and intensity that humbled her. He buried his face in her neck, murmuring her name over and over again, and then his words became kisses, and he moved along her skin until he found her mouth.

How long they stood there, kissing as if the world were to end that very night, Eloise would never know. Then he swept her into his arms and carried her out of the portrait gallery and up the stairs, and before she knew it, she was on her bed, and he was on top of her.

And his lips had never left hers.

“I need you,” he said hoarsely, pulling her dress from her body with shaking fingers. “I need you like I need breath. I need you like food, like water.”

She tried to say she needed him, too, but she couldn’t, not when his mouth had closed around her nipple, not when he was sucking in such a way that made her feel it down in her belly, a warm, slow heat that curled and grew, taking her hostage until she could do nothing but reach for this man, her husband, and give herself to him with everything that she had.

He lifted himself away from her, just long enough to yank off his own clothing, and then he rejoined her, this time lying beside her. He pulled her to him until they were belly to belly, and then he stroked her hair, softly, gently, and his other hand splayed at the small of her back.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I want nothing more than to grab you and—” He swallowed. “You have no idea how much I want you right now.”

Her lips curved. “I think I have some idea.”

That made him smile. “My body is dying. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, and yet . . .” He leaned in closer and brushed his lips across hers. “I had to stop. I had to tell you.”

She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. And she felt the tears coming, burning in her eyes until they spilled out, flowing over his hands.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered.

“I can’t help it,” she said, her voice shaking. “I love you so much. I didn’t think—I’d always hoped, but I guess I never really thought—”

“I never thought, either,” he said, and they both knew what they were thinking—

I never thought it would happen to me.

“I’m so lucky,” he said, and his hands moved, sliding down her rib cage, over her belly, and then around to her backside. “I think I’ve waited my entire life for you.”

“I know I’ve been waiting for you,” Eloise said.

He squeezed and pulled her against him, nearly burning her with his touch. “I’m not going to be able to go slowly,” he said, his voice shaking. “I think I used up my entire allotment of willpower just now.”

“Don’t go slowly,” she said, sliding onto her back and pulling him atop her. She spread her legs, opening until he settled between them, his sex coming to rest right at the opening of her womanhood. Her hands found his hair and sank in, pulling his head down until his mouth was right at hers. “I don’t want it slow,” she said.

And then, in a single fluid motion, so fast that it took her breath away, he was inside her, embedded to the hilt, knocking against her womb with enough force to jolt a surprised little “Oh!” from her lips.

He smiled wickedly. “You said you wanted it fast.”

She responded by curling her legs around his, locking him to her. She tilted her hips, which pulled him in even deeper, and smiled back. “You’re not doing anything,” she said to him.

And then he did.

All words were lost as they moved. They weren’t graceful, and they didn’t move as one. Their bodies weren’t in tune, and the sounds they made were not musical or lovely.

They just moved, with need and fire and total abandon, reaching for each other, reaching for the summit. The wait was not long. Eloise tried to make it last, tried to hold out, but there was no way. With every stroke, Phillip unleashed a fire within her that could not be denied. And then finally, when she couldn’t contain herself one moment longer, Eloise cried out and arched beneath him, lifting them both from the bed with the force of her fulfillment. Her body quivered and shook, and she gasped for breath, and all she could do was clutch his back, her fingers surely leaving bruises on his skin as she clung to him.

And then, before she could even fall back down to earth, Phillip cried out, and he slammed forward over and over again, emptying himself within her until he collapsed, the full weight of him pinning her into the mattress.

But she didn’t mind. She loved the feel of him atop her, loved the heaviness, loved the smell and the taste of the sweat on his skin.

She loved him.

It was that simple.

She loved him, and he loved her, and if there was anything more, anything else important in her world, it just didn’t matter. Not right there, not right then.

“I love you,” he whispered, finally rolling off of her and allowing her lungs to fill with air.

I love you.

It was all she needed.

Chapter 19

. . . days are filled with endless amusements. I shop and attend luncheons and pay calls (and have calls paid upon me). In the evenings I usually attend a ball or musicale, or perhaps a smaller party. Sometimes I remain at home with my own company and read a book. Truly, it is a full and lively existence; I have no cause for complaint. What more, I often ask, could a lady want?

—from Eloise Bridgerton to Sir Phillip Crane,

six months into their unusual correspondence

For the rest of her days, Eloise would remember the following week as one of the most magical of her life. There were no stupendous events, no bursts of fine weather, no birthdays, no extravagant gifts or unexpected visitors.

But still, even though it all seemed, on the outside at least, very ordinary . . .

Everything changed.

It wasn’t the sort of thing that hit one like a thunderbolt, or even, Eloise thought with a wry smile, like a slammed door or high C at the opera. It was a slow, creeping kind of change, the sort of thing that begins without one realizing it, and ends before one even knows it has begun.

It started a few mornings after she’d come across Phillip in the portrait gallery. When she woke, he was sitting fully dressed at the foot of the bed, staring at her with an indulgent smile on his face.

“What are you doing there?” Eloise asked, tucking the sheets under her arms as she scooted into a sitting position.

“Watching you.”

Her lips parted with surprise, and then she couldn’t help but smile. “It can’t be very interesting.”

“To the contrary. I can’t think of anything that could keep my attention for so long.”

She blushed, mumbling something about his being silly, but in truth, his words made her want to yank him right back into bed. She had a feeling he wouldn’t resist—he never did—but she put a hold on her desire, since he had, after all, got himself completely dressed, and she rather thought he’d done so for a reason.

“I brought you a muffin,” he said, holding out a plate.

Eloise thanked him and took his proffered dish. While she was munching away (and wishing he’d thought to bring something to drink as well), he said, “I thought we might go on an outing today.”

“You and I?”

“Actually,” he said, “I thought the four of us might go.”

Eloise froze, her teeth lodged in the muffin, and looked at him. This was, she realized, the first time he’d suggested such a thing. The first time, to her knowledge, at least, that he’d reached out to his children rather than setting them aside, hoping that someone else would see to them.

“I think that’s a fine idea,” she said softly.

“Good,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ll leave you to your morning routine and inform that poor housemaid you bullied into acting as their nurse that we will be taking them for the day.”

“I’m sure she’ll be relieved,” Eloise said. Mary hadn’t really wanted to take the position as nursemaid, even on a temporary basis. None of the servants had; they all knew the twins too well. And poor long-haired Mary vividly recalled having to burn the bedsheets after they’d been unable to remove the last governess’s glued-on hair.

But there was nothing else to be done, and Eloise had extracted a promise from both children that they would treat Mary with the respect due to, say, the queen, and so far they had been living up to their word. Eloise even had her fingers crossed that Mary might relent and agree to the position on a permanent basis. It did pay better than cleaning, after all.

Eloise looked over at the door and was surprised to see Phillip standing quite still, frowning. “What is wrong?” she asked.

He blinked, then looked in her direction, his brows still pulled down in thought. “I’m not sure what to do.”

“I believe the doorknob will turn in either direction,” she teased.

He shot her a look, then said, “There are no fairs or events occurring in the village. What should we do with them?”

“Anything,” Eloise said, smiling at him with all the love in her heart. “Or nothing at all. It doesn’t matter, really. All they want is you, Phillip. All they want is you.”

Two hours later Phillip and Oliver were standing outside the Larkin’s Fine Tailor and Dressmaker in the village of Tetbury, waiting somewhat impatiently while Eloise and Amanda completed their purchases inside.

“Did we have to go shopping?” Oliver groaned, as if he’d been asked to wear pigtails and a frock.

Phillip shrugged. “It is what your mother wished to do.”

“Next time, it’s the men’s turn to pick,” Oliver grumbled. “If I’d known having a mother would mean this . . .”

Phillip had to force himself not to laugh. “Men must make sacrifices for the women we love,” he said in serious tones, patting his son on the shoulder. “It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”

Oliver let out a long-suffering sigh, as if he’d been making such sacrifices on a daily basis.

Phillip looked through the window. Eloise and Amanda showed no signs of wrapping up their business. “But as pertains to the issue of shopping, and who gets to decide upon the next joint activity,” he said, “I agree wholeheartedly.”

Just then, Eloise poked her head outside. “Oliver?” she asked. “Would you care to come in?”

“No,” Oliver replied, shaking his head emphatically.

Eloise pursed her lips. “Allow me to rephrase,” she said. “Oliver, I would like you to come in.”

Oliver looked up to his father, his eyes pleading.

“I’m afraid you must do as she says,” Phillip said.

“So many sacrifices,” Oliver grumbled, shaking his head as he hauled himself up the steps.

Phillip coughed to cover a laugh.

“Are you coming, too?” Oliver asked.

Hell, no, Phillip almost said, but managed to catch himself in time to change it to, “I need to remain outside to watch the carriage.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Why does the carriage need watching?”

“Er, strain on the wheels,” Phillip mumbled. “All our packages, you know.”

He was unable to hear what Eloise said under her breath, but the tone was not complimentary.

“Run along, Oliver,” he said, patting his son on the back. “Your mother needs you.”

“And you, too,” Eloise said sweetly, just to torture him, he was sure. “You need new shirts.”

Phillip groaned. “Can’t we have the tailor come out to the house?”

“Don’t you want to choose the fabric?”

He shook his head and said, quite grandly, “I trust you implicitly.”

“I think he needs to watch the carriage,” Oliver said, still hovering in the threshold.

“He’s going to need to watch his back,” Eloise muttered, “if he doesn’t—”

“Oh, very well,” Phillip said. “I’ll come in. But only for a moment.” He found himself standing in the women’s half of the shop, a frilly, feminine place if ever there was one, and shuddered. “Anything more, and I’m likely to perish of claustrophobia.”

“A big, strong man like you?” Eloise said in a mild voice. “Nonsense.” And then she looked up at him and motioned to him with her chin to come close.

“Yes?” he asked, wondering what this was all about.

“Amanda,” she whispered, nodding toward a door at the back of the room. “When she comes out, make a fuss.”

He looked about the store doubtfully. He might as well have been in China, so out of place did he feel. “I’m not very good at fussing.”

“Learn,” she ordered, then turned her attention to Oliver with a: “Now it’s your turn, Master Crane. Mrs. Larkin—”

Oliver’s groan would have done a dying man justice. “I want Mr. Larkin,” he protested. “Like Father.”

“You would like to see the tailor?” Eloise asked.

Oliver nodded vigorously.

“Really?”

He nodded again, although without quite as much conviction.

“Even though,” Eloise continued, with enough inflection to put her on the Drury Lane stage, “not an hour ago you vowed that wild horses could not drag you inside a storefront unless there were guns or toy soldiers in the window?”

Oliver’s mouth went slack, but he nodded. Barely.

“You’re good,” Phillip murmured in her ear as he watched Oliver drag himself through the doorway that separated Mr. Larkin’s half of the store from Mrs. Larkin’s.

“It’s all a matter of showing them how much worse the alternative is,” Eloise said. “Getting fitted by Mr. Larkin is tedious, but Mrs. Larkin—now, that would be wretched.”

An indignant howl rent the air, and Oliver came running back in—straight to Eloise, which left Phillip feeling a little bereft. He wanted his children to run to him, he realized.

“He stuck me with a pin!” Oliver declared.

“Were you squirming?” Eloise asked, without even batting an eyelash.

“No!”

“Not even a little bit?”

“Only the tiniest bit.”

“Right, then,” Eloise said. “Don’t move next time. I assure you that Mr. Larkin is very good at his job. If you don’t move, you won’t get jabbed. It’s as simple as that.”

Oliver digested that, then turned to Phillip with a pleading look in his eyes. It was rather nice to be perceived as an ally, but Phillip wasn’t going to contradict Eloise and undermine her authority. Especially not when he agreed with her wholeheartedly.

But then Oliver surprised him. He didn’t beg to be set free from Mr. Larkin’s clutches, and he didn’t say something horrid about Eloise, which, Phillip was sure, he would have done just a few weeks earlier, about any adult who thwarted his wishes.

Oliver just looked up at him and asked, “Will you come with me, Father? Please.”

Phillip opened his mouth to reply, but then, inexplicably, had to stop. His eyes began to sting with unshed tears, and he realized that he was, quite simply, overcome.

It wasn’t just the moment, the fact that his son wanted his company for a male rite of passage. Oliver had begged his company before.

But this was the first time that Phillip felt truly able to say yes, confident that if he went, he would do the right thing and say the right words.

And even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t his father, would never be—could never be like him. He couldn’t afford to be a coward, to keep pushing his children toward other people, all because he was worried he’d make a mistake.

He would make mistakes. It was inevitable. But they wouldn’t be huge ones, and with Eloise at his side, he was quite confident he could do anything.

Even manage the twins.

He placed his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “I would be delighted to accompany you, son.” He cleared his throat, which had gone hoarse on the final word. Then he bent down and whispered, “The last thing we want is women over on the men’s side.”

Oliver nodded his vigorous agreement.

Phillip straightened, preparing to follow his son back to Mr. Larkin’s side of the establishment. Then he heard Eloise, clearing her throat behind him. He turned, and she was gesturing with her head toward the back of the room.

Amanda.

Looking very grown up in her new lavender frock, showing just a hint of the woman she would one day become.

For the second time in as many minutes, Phillip’s eyes began to burn.

This was what he’d been missing. In his fear, in his self-doubt, he’d been missing this.

They’d been growing up without him.

Phillip patted his son on the shoulder to signal that he’d be right back, and then crossed the room to his daughter’s side. Without a word, he picked up her hand and kissed it. “You, Miss Amanda Crane,” he said, his heart in his eyes, his voice, his smile, “are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

Her eyes grew wide and her lips formed a tiny little O of sheer delight. “What about Miss—Mother?” she whispered frantically.

Phillip looked over at his wife, who appeared close to tears herself, and then turned back to Amanda, leaning over to whisper in her ear, “Let’s make a deal, you and I. You can think your mother is the most beautiful woman alive. But I get to think it’s you.”

And later that night, after he’d tucked them into bed, kissed each on the forehead, and headed for the door, he heard his daughter whisper, “Father?”

He turned. “Amanda?”

“This was the best day ever, Father,” she whispered.

“Ever,” Oliver agreed.

Phillip nodded. “For me as well,” he said softly. “For me as well.”

It started with a note.

Later that night, as Eloise finished her supper and her plate was cleared away, she realized that there had been a piece of paper tucked underneath, folded twice until it formed a small rectangle.

Her husband had excused himself, claiming that he needed to find a book that contained a poem they had been discussing over pudding, and so, with no one watching her, not even the footman, who was busy transporting the dishes to the kitchen, Eloise unfolded the paper.

I have never been good with words,

it said, in Phillip’s unmistakable handwriting. And then, smaller, in the corner:

Proceed to your office.

Intrigued, she stood and exited the dining room. A minute later she entered her office.

And there, in the middle of her desk, was another piece of paper.

But it all started with a letter, did it not?

Followed by instructions to take herself to the sitting room. She did, this time having to concentrate quite hard on keeping her half walk, half skip from turning into a full-fledged run.

A small piece of paper, again folded twice, sat on a red cushion positioned at the very center of the sofa.

And so if it started with words, it ought to continue with them, too.

This time she was directed to the front hall.

But there are no words to thank you for all you have given me, so I will use the only ones at my disposal, and I will tell you the only way I know how.

And at the bottom corner of the note, she was directed to her bedroom.

Eloise headed up the stairs slowly, her heart beating with anticipation. This was her final destination, she was sure of it. Phillip would be waiting for her, waiting to take her hand, to lead her into their future together.

It had, she realized, all started with a note. Something so innocent, so innocuous, and it had grown into this, a love so full and rich she could barely contain it.

She reached the upstairs hall and on quiet feet made her way to the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, just an inch or so, and with shaking hand she pushed it open, all the way—

And she gasped.

For there, on the bed, were flowers. Hundreds and hundred of blooms, some clearly out of season, picked from Phillip’s special collection in his greenhouse. And written in blossoms of red, against the backdrop of white and pink petals:

I LOVE YOU.

“Words aren’t enough,” Phillip said softly, stepping out of the shadows behind her.

She turned to him, barely cognizant of the tears trickling down her cheeks. “When did you do this?”

He smiled. “Surely you’ll allow me a few secrets.”

“I—I—”

He took her hand, pulled her close. “Speechless?” he murmured. “You? I must be better at this than I thought.”

“I love you,” she said, choking on the words. “I love you so much.”

His arms came around her, and as she laid her cheek against his chest, his chin came down to rest gently on her head. “Today,” he said softly, “the twins told me it was the best day ever. And I realized they were right.”

Eloise nodded, beyond words.

“But then,” he continued, “I realized they were wrong.”

She looked up at him, question in her eyes.

“I couldn’t choose a day,” he confessed. “Any day with you, Eloise. Any day with you.”

He touched her chin, brought his lips to hers. “Any week,” he murmured, “any month, any hour.”

He kissed her then, softly, but with all the love in his soul. “Any moment,” he whispered, “as long as I’m with you.”

Epilogue

There is so much I hope to teach you, little one. I hope that I may do so by example, but I feel the need to put the words to paper as well. It is a quirk of mine, one which I expect you will recognize and find amusing by the time you read this letter.

Be strong.

Be diligent.

Be conscientious. There is never anything to be gained by taking the easy road. (Unless, of course, the road is an easy one to begin with. Roads sometimes are. If that should be the case, do not forge a new, more difficult one. Only martyrs go out looking for trouble.)

Love your siblings. You have two already, and God willing, there will be more. Love them well, for they are your blood, and when you are unsure, or times are difficult, they will be the ones to stand by your side.

Laugh. Laugh out loud, and laugh often. And when circumstances call for silence, turn your laugh into a smile.

Don’t settle. Know what you want and reach for it. And if you don’t know what you want, be patient. The answers will come to you in time, and you may find that your heart’s desire has been right under your nose all the while.

And remember, always remember that you have a mother and a father who love each other and love you.

I feel you growing restless. Your father is making strange gasping sounds and will surely lose his temper altogether if I do not move from my escritoire to my bed.

Welcome to the world, little one. We are all so delighted to make your acquaintance.

—from Eloise, Lady Crane,

to her daughter Penelope,

upon the occasion of her birth

Dear Reader,

Have you ever wondered what happened to your favorite characters after you closed the final page? Wanted just a little bit more of a favorite novel? I have, and if the questions from my readers are any indication, I’m not the only one. So after countless requests from Bridgerton fans, I decided to try something a little different, and I wrote a “2nd Epilogue” for each of the novels. These are the stories that come after the stories.

At first, the Bridgerton 2nd Epilogues were available exclusively online; later they were published (along with a novella about Violet Bridgerton) in a collection called The Bridgertons: Happily Ever After. Now, for the first time, each 2nd Epilogue is being included with the novel it follows. I hope you enjoy Phillip and Eloise as they continue their journey.

Warmly,

Julia Quinn

To Sir Phillip, With Love: The 2nd Epilogue

I am not the most patient of individuals. And I have almost no tolerance for stupidity. Which was why I was proud of myself for holding my tongue this afternoon, while having tea with the Brougham family.

The Broughams are our neighbors, and have been for the past six years, since Mr. Brougham inherited the property from his uncle, also named Mr. Brougham. They have four daughters and one extremely spoiled son. Luckily for me the son is five years younger than I am, which means I shall not have to entertain notions of marrying him. (Although my sisters Penelope and Georgiana, nine and ten years my junior, will not be so lucky.) The Brougham daughters are all one year apart, beginning two years ahead of me and ending two behind. They are perfectly pleasant, if perhaps a touch too sweet and gentle for my taste. But lately they have been too much to bear.

This is because I, too, have a brother, and he is not five years younger than they are. In fact, he is my twin, which makes him a matrimonial possibility for any of them.

Unsurprisingly, Oliver did not elect to accompany my mother, Penelope, and me to tea.

But here is what happened, and here is why I am pleased with myself for not saying what I wished to say, which was: Surely you must be an idiot.

I was sipping my tea, trying to keep the cup at my lips for as long as possible so as to avoid questions about Oliver, when Mrs. Brougham said, “It must be so very intriguing to be a twin. Tell me, dear Amanda, how is it different than not being one?”

I should hope that I do not have to explain why this question was so asinine. I could hardly tell her what the difference was, as I have spent approximately one hundred percent of my life as a twin and thus have precisely zero experience at not being one.

I must have worn my disdain on my face because my mother shot me one of her legendary warning looks the moment my lips parted to reply. Because I did not wish to embarrass my mother (and not because I felt any need to make Mrs. Brougham feel cleverer than she actually was), I said, “I suppose one always has a companion.”

“But your brother is not here now,” one of the Brougham girls said.

“My father is not always with my mother, and I would imagine that she considers him to be her companion,” I replied.

“A brother is hardly the same as a husband,” Mrs. Brougham trilled.

“One would hope,” I retorted. Truly, this was one of the more ridiculous conversations in which I had taken part. And Penelope looked as if she would have questions when we returned home.

My mother gave me another look, one that said she knew exactly what sort of questions Penelope would have, and she did not wish to answer them. But as my mother had always said she valued curiosity in females . . .

Well, she’d be hoisted by her own petard.

I should mention that, petard hoistings aside, I am convinced that I have the finest mother in England. And unlike being a non-twin, about which I have no knowledge, I do know what it’s like to have a different mother, so I am fully qualified, in my opinion, to make the judgment.

My mother, Eloise Crane, is actually my stepmother, although I only refer to her as such when required to for purposes of clarification. She married my father when Oliver and I were eight years old, and I am quite certain she saved us all. It is difficult to explain what our lives were like before she entered them. I could certainly describe events, but the tone of it all, the feeling in our house . . .

I don’t really know how to convey it.

My mother—my original mother—killed herself. For most of my life I did not know this. I thought she died of a fever, which I suppose is true. What no one told me was that the fever was brought on because she tried to drown herself in a lake in the dead of winter.

I have no intention of taking my own life, but I must say, this would not be my chosen method.

I know I should feel compassion and sympathy for her. My current mother was a distant cousin of hers and tells me that she was sad her entire life. She tells me that some people are like that, just as others are unnaturally cheerful all the time. But I can’t help but think that if she was going to kill herself, she might as well have done it earlier. Perhaps when I was a toddler. Or better yet, an infant. It certainly would have made my life easier.

I asked my uncle Hugh (who is not really my uncle, but he is married to the stepsister of my current mother’s brother’s wife and he lives quite close and he’s a vicar) if I would be going to hell for such a thought. He said no, that frankly, it made a lot of sense to him.

I do think I prefer his parish to my own.

But the thing is, now I have memories of her. Marina, my first mother. I don’t want memories of her. The ones I have are hazy and muddled. I can’t recall the sound of her voice. Oliver says that might be because she hardly spoke. I can’t remember whether she spoke or not. I can’t remember the exact shape of her face, and I can’t remember her smell.

Instead I remember standing outside her door, feeling very small and frightened. And I remember tiptoeing a great deal, because we knew we mustn’t make noise. I remember always feeling rather nervous, as if I knew something bad were about to happen.

And indeed it did.

Shouldn’t a memory be specific? I would not mind a memory of a moment, or of a face, or a sound. Instead I have vague feelings, and not even happy ones at that.

I once asked Oliver if he had the same memories, and he just shrugged and said he didn’t really think about her. I am not sure if I believe him. I suppose I probably do; he does not often think deeply about such things. Or perhaps more accurately, he does not think deeply about anything. One can only hope that when he marries (which surely will not come soon enough for the sisters Brougham) that he will choose a bride with a similar lack of thoughtfulness and sensibility. Otherwise, she shall be miserable. He won’t be, of course; he wouldn’t even notice her misery.

Men are like that, I’m told.

My father, for example, is remarkably unobservant. Unless, of course, you happen to be a plant, and then he notices everything. He is a botanist and could happily toddle about in his greenhouse all day. He seems to me a most unlikely match for my mother, who is vivacious and outgoing and never at a loss for words, but when they are together it is obvious that they love each other very much. Last week I caught them kissing in the garden. I was aghast. Mother is nearly forty, and Father older than that.

But I have digressed. I was speaking of the Brougham family, more specifically of Mrs. Brougham’s foolish query about not being a twin. I was, as previously mentioned, feeling rather pleased with myself for not having been rude, when Mrs. Brougham said something that was of interest.

“My nephew comes to visit this afternoon.”

Every one of the Brougham girls popped straighter in her seat. I swear, it was like some children’s game with snaps. Bing bing bing bing . . . Up they went, from perfect posture to preternaturally erect.

From this I immediately deduced that Mrs. Brougham’s nephew must be of marriageable age, probably of good fortune, and perhaps of pleasing features.

“You did not mention that Ian was coming to visit,” one of the daughters said.

“He’s not,” replied Mrs. Brougham. “He is still at Oxford, as you well know. Charles is coming.”

Poof. The daughters Brougham deflated, all at once.

“Oh,” said one of them. “Charlie.”

“Today, you say,” said another, with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm.

And then the third said, “I shall have to hide my dolls.”

The fourth said nothing. She just resumed drinking her tea, looking rather bored by the whole thing.

“Why do you have to hide your dolls?” Penelope asked. In all truth, I was wondering the same thing, but it seemed too childish a question for a lady of nineteen years.

“That was twelve years ago, Dulcie,” Mrs. Brougham said. “Good heavens, you’ve a memory of an elephant.”

“One does not forget what he did to my dolls,” Dulcie said darkly.

“What did he do?” Penelope asked.

Dulcie made a slashing motion across her throat. Penelope gasped, and I must confess, there was something rather gruesome in Dulcie’s expression.

“He is a beast,” said one of Dulcie’s sisters.

“He is not a beast,” Mrs. Brougham insisted.

The Brougham girls all looked at us, shaking their heads in silent agreement, as if to say, Do not listen to her.

“How old is your nephew now?” my mother asked.

“Two and twenty,” Mrs. Brougham replied, looking rather grateful for the question. “He was graduated from Oxford last month.”

“He is a year older than Ian,” explained one of the girls.

I nodded, even though I could hardly use Ian—whom I had never met—as a reference point.

“He’s not as handsome.”

“Or as nice.”

I looked at the last Brougham daughter, awaiting her contribution. But all she did was yawn.

“How long will he be staying?” my mother asked politely.

“Two weeks,” Mrs. Brougham answered, but she really only got out “Two wee” before one of her daughters howled with dismay.

“Two weeks! An entire fortnight!”

“I was hoping he could accompany us to the local assembly,” Mrs. Brougham said.

This was met by more groans. I must say, I was beginning to grow curious about this Charles fellow. Anyone who could inspire such dread among the Brougham daughters must have something to recommend him.

Not, I hasten to add, that I dislike the Brougham daughters. Unlike their brother, none of them was granted every wish and whim, and thus they are not at all unbearable. But they are—how shall I say it—placid and biddable, and therefore not a natural sort of companion for me (about whom such adjectives have never been applied). Truthfully, I don’t think I had ever known any of them to express a strong opinion about anything. If all four of them detested someone that much—well, if nothing else, he would be interesting.

“Does your nephew like to ride?” my mother asked.

Mrs. Brougham got a crafty look in her eye. “I believe so.”

“Perhaps Amanda would consent to showing him the area.” With that, my mother smiled a most uncharacteristically innocent and sweet smile.

Perhaps I should add that one of the reasons I am convinced that mine is the finest mother in England is that she is rarely innocent and sweet. Oh, do not misunderstand—she has a heart of gold and would do anything for her family. But she grew up the fifth in a family of eight, and she can be marvelously devious and underhanded.

Also, she cannot be bested in conversation. Trust me, I have tried.

So when she offered me up as a guide, I could do nothing but say yes, even as three out of four Brougham sisters began to snicker. (The fourth still looked bored. I was beginning to wonder if there might be something wrong with her.)

“Tomorrow,” Mrs. Brougham said delightedly. She clapped her hands together and beamed. “I shall send him over tomorrow afternoon. Will that do?”

Again, I could say nothing but yes, and so I did, wondering what exactly I had just consented to.

The following afternoon I was dressed in my best riding habit and was lolling about the drawing room, wondering if the mysterious Charles Brougham would actually make an appearance. If he didn’t, I thought, he’d be entirely within his rights. It would be rude, of course, as he was breaking a commitment made on his behalf by his aunt, but all the same, it wasn’t as if he’d asked to be saddled with the local gentry.

Pun unintended.

My mother had not even tried to deny that she was playing matchmaker. This surprised me; I would have thought she’d put up at least a feeble protest. But instead she reminded me that I had refused a season in London and then began to expound upon the lack of appropriately aged, eligible gentlemen here in our corner of Gloucestershire.

I reminded her that she had not found her husband in London.

She then said something that began with “Be that as it may” and then veered off so quickly and with such twists and turns that I could not follow a thing she said.

Which I am fairly certain was her intention.

My mother wasn’t precisely upset that I had said no to a season; she was rather fond of our life in the country, and heaven knows my father would not survive in town for more than a week. Mother called me unkind for saying so, but I believe that she secretly agreed with me—Father would get distracted by a plant in the park, and we’d never find him again. (He’s a bit distractable, my father.)

Or, and I confess this is more likely, he would say something utterly inappropriate at a party. Unlike my mother, my father does not have the gift of polite conversation, and he certainly does not see the need for double entendre or cunning twists of phrase. As far as he is concerned, a body ought to say what a body means.

I do love my father, but it is clear that he should be kept away from town.

I could have had a season in London, if I wished. My mother’s family is extremely well connected. Her brother is a viscount, and her sisters married a duke, an earl, and a baron. I should be admitted to all of the most exclusive gatherings. But I really didn’t wish to go. I should have no freedom whatsoever. Here I may take walks or go for a ride by myself so long as I tell someone where I am going. In London a young lady may not so much as touch her toe to her front steps without a chaperone.

I think it sounds dreadful.

But back to my mother. She did not mind that I had refused the season because this meant that she would not have to be apart from my father for several months. (Since, as we have determined, he would have to be left at home.) But at the same time, she was genuinely concerned for my future. To that end, she had launched into a bit of a crusade. If I would not go to the eligible gentlemen, she would bring them to me.

Hence Charles Brougham.

At two o’clock he had still not arrived, and I must confess, I was growing irritable. It was a hot day, or at least as hot as it gets in Gloucestershire, and my dark green habit, which had felt so stylish and jaunty when I had donned it, was beginning to itch.

I was beginning to wilt.

Somehow my mother and Mrs. Brougham had forgotten to set a time for the nephew’s arrival, so I had been obligated to be dressed and ready at noon precisely.

“What time would you say marks the end of the afternoon?” I asked, fanning myself with a folded-up newspaper.

“Hmmm?” My mother was writing a letter—presumably to one of her many siblings—and wasn’t really listening. She looked quite lovely sitting there by the window. I have no idea what my original mother would have looked like as an older woman, since she did not deign to live that long, but Eloise had not lost any of her beauty. Her hair was still a rich, chestnut color and her skin unlined. Her eyes are difficult to describe—rather changeable in color, actually.

She tells me that she was never considered a beauty when she was young. No one thought she was unattractive, and she was in fact quite popular, but she was never designated a diamond of the first water. She tells me that women of intelligence age better.

I find this interesting, and I do hope it bodes well for my own future.

But at present I was not concerned for any future outside that of the next ten minutes, after which I was convinced I would perish from the heat. “The afternoon,” I repeated. “When would you say it ends? Four o’clock? Five? Please say it isn’t six.”

She finally glanced up. “What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Brougham. We did say the afternoon, did we not?”

She looked at me blankly.

“I may stop waiting for him once the afternoon passes into evening, may I not?”

Mother paused for a moment, her quill suspended in air. “You should not be so impatient, Amanda.”

“I’m not,” I insisted. “I’m hot.”

She considered that. “It is warm in here, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “My habit is made of wool.”

She grimaced, but I noticed she did not suggest that I change. She was not going to sacrifice a potential suitor for anything as inconsequential as the weather. I resumed fanning myself.

“I don’t think his name is Brougham,” Mother said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I believe he is related to Mrs. Brougham, not mister. I don’t know what her family name is.”

I shrugged.

She went back to her letter. My mother writes an inordinate number of letters. About what, I cannot imagine. I would not call our family dull, but we are certainly ordinary. Surely her sisters have grown bored of Georgiana has mastered French conjugation and Frederick has skinned his knee.

But Mother likes to receive letters, and she says that one must send to receive, so there she is at her desk, nearly every day, recounting the boring details of our lives.

“Someone is coming,” she said, just as I was beginning to nod off on the sofa. I sat up and turned toward the window. Sure enough, a carriage was rolling up the drive.

“I thought we were meant to go for a ride,” I said, somewhat irritably. Had I sweltered in my riding habit for nothing?

“You were,” Mother murmured, her brow knitting together as she watched the carriage draw near.

I did not think that Mr. Brougham—or whoever was in the carriage—could see into the drawing room through the open window, but just in case, I maintained my dignified position on the sofa, tilting my head ever so slightly so that I could observe the events in the front drive.

The carriage came to a halt and a gentleman hopped down, but his back was to the house and I could see nothing of him other than his height (average) and his hair (dark). He then reached up and assisted a lady down.

Dulcie Brougham!

“What is she doing here?” I said indignantly.

And then, once Dulcie had both feet safely on the ground, the gentleman aided another young lady, and then another. And then another.

“Did he bring all of the Brougham girls?” my mother asked.

“Apparently so.”

“I thought they hated him.”

I shook my head. “Apparently not.”

The reason for the sisters’ about-face became clear a few moments later, when Gunning announced their arrival.

I do not know what Cousin Charles used to look like, but now . . . well, let us just say that any young lady would find him pleasing. His hair was thick and with a bit of wave, and even from across the room I could see that his eyelashes were ridiculously long. His mouth was the sort that always looks as if it is about to smile, which in my opinion is the best sort of mouth to have.

I am not saying that I felt anything other than polite interest, but the Brougham sisters were falling all over themselves to be the one on his arm.

“Dulcie,” my mother said, walking forth with a welcoming smile. “And Antonia. And Sarah.” She took a breath. “And Cordelia, too. What a pleasant surprise to see all of you.”

It is a testament to my mother’s skills as a hostess that she did indeed sound pleased.

“We could not let dear Cousin Charles come over by himself,” Dulcie explained.

“He does not know the way,” added Antonia.

It could not have been a simpler journey—one had only to ride into the village, turn right at the church, and it was only another mile until our drive.

But I did not say this. I did, however, look over at Cousin Charles with some sympathy. It could not have been an entertaining drive.

“Charles, dear,” Dulcie was saying, “this is Lady Crane, and Miss Amanda Crane.”

I bobbed a curtsy, wondering if I was going to have to climb into that carriage with all five of them. I hoped not. If it was hot in here, it would be beastly in the carriage.

“Lady Crane, Amanda,” Dulcie continued, “my dear cousin Charles, Mr. Farraday.”

I cocked my head at that. My mother was correct—his name was not Brougham. Oh dear, did that mean he was related to Mrs. Brougham? I found Mr. Brougham the more sensible of the two.

Mr. Farraday bowed politely, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes caught mine.

I should say at this point that I am not a romantic. Or at least I do not think I am a romantic. If I were, I would have gone to London for that season. I would have spent my days reading poetry and my nights dancing and flirting and making merry.

I certainly do not believe in love at first sight. Even my parents, who are as much in love as anyone I know, tell me that they did not love each other instantly.

But when my eyes met Mr. Farraday’s . . .

As I said, it was not love at first sight, since I do not believe in such things. It was not anything at first sight, really, but there was something . . . a shared recognition . . . a sense of humor. I’m not certain how to describe it.

I suppose, if pressed, that I would say it was a sense of knowing. That somehow I already knew him. Which was of course ridiculous.

But not as ridiculous as his cousins, who were trilling and frilling and fluttering about. Clearly they had decided that Cousin Charles was no longer a beast, and if anyone was going to marry him, it was going to be one of them.

“Mr. Farraday,” I said, and I could feel the corners of my mouth pinching in an attempt to hold back a smile.

“Miss Crane,” he said, wearing much the same expression. He bent over my hand and kissed it, much to the consternation of Dulcie, who was standing right next to me.

Again, I must stress that I am not a romantic. But my insides did a little flip when his lips touched my skin.

“I am afraid that I am dressed for a ride,” I told him, motioning to my riding habit.

“So you are.”

I glanced ruefully at his cousins, who were most assuredly not dressed for any sort of athletic endeavor. “It’s such a lovely day,” I murmured.

“Girls,” my mother said, looking squarely at the Brougham sisters, “why don’t you join me while Amanda and your cousin go for a ride? I did promise your mother that she would show him the area.”

Antonia opened her mouth to protest, but she was no match for Eloise Crane, and indeed she did not make even a sound before my mother added, “Oliver will be down shortly.”

That settled it. They sat, all four of them, in a neat row on the sofa, descending as one, with identically placid smiles on their faces.

I almost felt sorry for Oliver.

“I did not bring my mount,” Mr. Farraday said regretfully.

“That is no matter,” I replied. “We have an excellent stable. I’m certain we can find something suitable.”

And off we went, out the drawing room door, then out of the house, then around the corner to the back lawn, and then—

Mr. Farraday sagged against the wall, laughing. “Oh, thank you,” he said, with great feeling. “Thank you. Thank you.”

I was not sure if I should feign ignorance. I could hardly acknowledge the sentiment without insulting his cousins, which I did not wish to do. As I have mentioned, I do not dislike the Brougham sisters, even if I found them a bit ridiculous that afternoon.

“Tell me you can ride,” he said.

“Of course.”

He motioned to the house. “None of them can.”

“That’s not true,” I replied, puzzled. I knew I had seen them on horseback at some point.

“They can sit in a saddle,” he said, his eyes flashing with what could only be a dare, “but they cannot ride.”

“I see,” I murmured. I considered my options and said, “I can.”

He looked at me, one corner of his mouth tilted up. His eyes were a rather nice shade of green, mossy with little brown flecks. And again, I got that odd sense of being in accord.

I hope I am not being immodest when I say that there are a few things I do quite well. I can shoot with a pistol (although not with a rifle, and not as well as my mother, who is freakishly good). I can add up sums twice as quickly as Oliver, provided I have pen and paper. I can fish, and I can swim, and above all, I can ride.

“Come with me,” I said, motioning toward the stables.

He did, falling into step beside me. “Tell me, Miss Crane,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “with what were you bribed for your presence this afternoon?”

“You think your company was not enough reward?”

“You did not know me,” he pointed out.

“True.” We turned onto the path toward the stables, and I was happy to feel that the breeze was picking up. “As it happens, I was outmaneuvered by my mother.”

“You admit to being outmaneuvered,” he murmured. “Interesting.”

“You don’t know my mother.”

“No,” he assured me, “I am impressed. Most people would not confess to it.”

“As I said, you don’t know my mother.” I turned to him and smiled. “She is one of eight siblings. Besting her in any sort of devious matter is nothing short of a triumph.”

We reached the stables, but I paused before entering. “And what about you, Mr. Farraday?” I asked. “With what were you bribed for your presence this afternoon?”

“I, too, was thwarted,” he said. “I was told I’d escape my cousins.”

I let out a snort of laughter at that. Inappropriate, yes, but unavoidable.

“They attacked just as I was departing,” he told me grimly.

“They are a fierce lot,” I said, utterly deadpan.

“I was outnumbered.”

“I thought they didn’t like you,” I said.

“So did I.” He planted his hands on his hips. “It was the only reason I consented to the visit.”

“What exactly did you do to them when you were children?” I asked.

“The better question would be—what did they do to me?”

I knew better than to claim that he held the upper hand because of his gender. Four girls could easily trounce one boy. I had gone up against Oliver countless times as a child, and although he would never admit it, I bested him more often than not.

“Frogs?” I asked, thinking of my own childhood pranks.

“That was me,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Dead fish?”

He didn’t speak, but his expression was clearly one of guilt.

“Which one?” I asked, trying to imagine Dulcie’s horror.

“All of them.”

I sucked in my breath. “At the same time?”

He nodded.

I was impressed. I suppose most ladies would not find such things attractive, but I have always had an unusual sense of humor. “Have you ever done a flour ghosting?” I asked.

His eyebrows rose, and he actually leaned forward. “Tell me more.”

And so I told him about my mother, and how Oliver and I had tried to scare her off before she’d married my father. We’d been utter beasts. Truly. Not just mischievous children, but utter and complete blights on the face of humanity. It’s a wonder my father hadn’t shipped us off to a workhouse. The most memorable of our stunts was when we’d rigged a bucket of flour above her door so that it would dust her when she stepped out into the hall.

Except that we’d filled the bucket quite high, so it was more of a coating than a dusting, and in fact more of a deluge than anything else.

We also hadn’t counted on the bucket hitting her on the head.

When I said that my current mother’s entry into our lives had saved us all, I meant it quite literally. Oliver and I were so desperate for attention, and our father, as lovely as he is now, had no idea how to manage us.

I told all this to Mr. Farraday. It was the strangest thing. I have no idea why I spoke so long and said so much. I thought it must be that he was an extraordinary listener, except that he later told me that he is not, that in fact he is a dreadful listener and usually interrupts too often.

But he didn’t with me. He listened, and I spoke, and then I listened and he spoke, and he told me of his brother Ian, with his angelic good looks and courtly manners. How everyone fawns over him, even though Charles is the elder. How Charles never could manage to hate him, though, because when all was said and done, Ian was a rather fine fellow.

“Do you still want to go for a ride?” I asked, when I noticed that the sun had already begun to dip in the sky. I could not imagine how long we had been standing there, talking and listening, listening and talking.

To my great surprise Charles said no, let’s walk instead.

And we did.

It was still warm later that night, and so after supper was done I took myself outside. The sun had sunk below the horizon, but it was not yet completely dark. I sat on the steps of the back patio, facing west so I could watch the last hints of daylight turn from lavender to purple to black.

I love this time of the night.

I sat there for quite some time, long enough so that the stars began to appear, long enough so that I had to hug my arms to my body to ward off the chill. I hadn’t brought a shawl. I suppose I hadn’t thought I’d be sitting outside for so long. I was just about to head back inside when I heard someone approaching.

It was my father, on his way home from his greenhouse. He was holding a lantern and his hands were dirty. Something about the sight of him made me feel like a child again. He was a big bear of a man, and even before he’d married Eloise, back when he didn’t seem to know what to say to his own children, he’d always made me feel safe. He was my father, and he would protect me. He didn’t need to say it, I just knew.

“You’re out late,” he said, sitting beside me. He set his lantern down and brushed his hands against his work trousers, shaking off the loose dirt.

“Just thinking,” I replied.

He nodded, then leaned his elbows on his thighs and looked out at the sky. “Any shooting stars tonight?”

I shook my head even though he wasn’t facing me. “No.”

“Do you need one?”

I smiled to myself. He was asking if I had any wishes to be made. We used to wish on stars together all the time when I was small, but somehow we’d got out of the habit.

“No,” I said. I was feeling introspective, thinking about Charles and wondering what it meant that I’d spent the whole of the afternoon with him and now could not wait to see him again tomorrow. But I didn’t feel as if I needed any wishes granted. At least, not yet.

“I always have wishes,” he remarked.

“You do?” I turned to him, my head tilting to the side as I took in his profile. I know that he’d been terribly unhappy before he’d met my current mother, but that was all well behind him. If ever a man had a happy and fulfilled life, it was he.

“What do you wish for?” I asked.

“The health and happiness of my children, first and foremost.”

“That doesn’t count,” I said, feeling myself smile.

“Oh, you don’t think so?” He looked at me, and there was more than a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I assure you, it’s the first thing I think about in the morning, and the last before I lay myself down to sleep.”

“Really?”

“I have five children, Amanda, and every one of them is healthy and strong. And as far as I know, you’re all happy. It’s probably dumb luck that you’ve all turned out so well, but I’m not going to tempt any fates by wishing for something else.”

I thought about that for a moment. It had never occurred to me to wish for something I already had. “Is it scary being a parent?” I asked.

“The most terrifying thing in the world.”

I don’t know what I thought he might say, but it wasn’t that. But then I realized—he was speaking to me as an adult. I don’t know if he’d ever really done so before. He was still my father, and I was still his daughter, but I’d crossed some mysterious threshold.

It was thrilling and sad at the same time.

We sat together for a few minutes more, pointing out constellations and not saying anything of import. And then, just when I was about to head back inside he said, “Your mother said that you had a gentleman caller this afternoon.”

“And four of his female cousins,” I quipped.

He looked over at me with arched brows, a silent scolding for making light of the topic.

“Yes,” I said. “I did.”

“Did you like him?”

“Yes.” I felt myself grow a bit light, as if my insides had gone fizzy. “I did.”

He digested that, then said, “I’m going to have to get a very large stick.”

“What?”

“I used to say to your mother that when you were old enough to be courted, I was going to have to beat away the gentlemen.”

There was something almost sweet about that. “Really?”

“Well, not when you were very small. Then you were such a nightmare I despaired of anyone ever wanting you.”

“Father!”

He chuckled. “Don’t say you don’t know it’s true.”

I couldn’t contradict.

“But when you were a bit older, and I started to see the first hints of the woman you would become . . .” He sighed. “Good Lord, if ever being a parent is terrifying . . .”

“And now?”

He thought about that for a moment. “I suppose now I can only hope I raised you well enough to make sensible decisions.” He paused. “And of course, if anyone even thinks about mistreating you, I shall still have that stick.”

I smiled, then scooted over slightly, so that I could rest my head on his shoulder. “I love you, Father.”

“I love you, too, Amanda.” He turned and kissed me on the top of my head. “I love you, too.”

I did marry Charles, by the way, and my father never once had to brandish a stick. The wedding occurred six months later, after a proper courtship and slightly improper engagement. But I am certainly not going to put into writing any of the events that made the engagement improper.

My mother insisted upon a premarital chat, but this was conducted the night before the wedding, by which time the information was no longer exactly timely, but I did not let on. I did, however, get the impression that she and my father might also have anticipated their marriage vows. I was shocked. Shocked. It seems most unlike them. Now that I have experienced the physical aspects of love, the mere thought of my parents . . .

It is too much to bear.

Charles’s family home is in Dorset, rather close to the sea, but as his father is very much alive, we have let a home in Somerset, halfway between his family and mine. He dislikes town as much as I do. He is thinking of beginning a breeding program for horses, and it’s the oddest thing, but apparently the breeding of plants and the breeding of animals are not entirely dissimilar. He and my father have become great friends, which is lovely, except that now my father visits quite often.

Our new home is not large and all of the bedrooms are quite near to one another. Charles has devised a new game he calls “See how quiet Amanda can be.”

Then he proceeds to do all measure of wicked things to me—all whilst my father sleeps across the hall!

He is a devil, but I adore him. I can’t help it. Especially when he . . .

Oh, wait, I wasn’t going to put any such things in writing, was I?

Just know that I am smiling very broadly as I remember it.

And that it was not covered in my mother’s premarital chat.

I suppose I should admit that last night I lost the game. I was not quiet at all.

My father did not say a word. But he departed rather unexpectedly that afternoon, citing some sort of botanical emergency.

I don’t know that plants have emergencies, but as soon as he left, Charles insisted upon inspecting our roses for whatever it was my father said was wrong with his.

Except that for some reason he wanted to inspect the roses that were already cut and arranged in a vase in our bedroom.

“We’re going to play a new game,” he whispered in my ear. “See how noisy Amanda can be.”

“How do I win?” I asked. “And what is the prize?”

I can be quite competitive, and so can he, but I think it is safe to say that we both won that time.

And the prize was lovely, indeed.

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“To Sir Phillip, With Love: The 2nd Epilogue” was originally published as an e-book.

“To Sir Phillip, With Love: The 2nd Epilogue” copyright © 2009 by Julie Cotler Pottinger

Meet the Bridgerton family teaser excerpts copyright © 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 by Julie Cotler Pottinger

TO SIR PHILLIP, WITH LOVE. Copyright © 2003 by Julie Cotler Pottinger. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Digital Edition MARCH 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-242411-2

Version 02252021

Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-235373-3

Avon, Avon Books, and the Avon logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers.

HarperCollins® is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.

Dedication

For B.B.,

who kept me company throughout the writing of this book.

The best things come to those who wait!

And also for Paul,

even though he wanted to call it

Love in the Time of Malaria.

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to thank Paul Pottinger, MD, and Philip Yarnell, MD, for their expertise in the fields of, respectively, infectious diseases and neurology.

Contents

1. Cover

2. Title Page

3. Dedication

4. Acknowledgments

5. Part One

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

6. Part Two

1. Chapter 5

2. Chapter 6

3. Chapter 7

4. Chapter 8

5. Chapter 9

6. Chapter 10

7. Chapter 11

8. Chapter 12

9. Chapter 13

10. Chapter 14

11. Chapter 15

12. Chapter 16

13. Chapter 17

14. Chapter 18

15. Chapter 19

16. Chapter 20

17. Chapter 21

18. Chapter 22

19. Chapter 23

20. Chapter 24

7. Epilogue

8. Author’s Note

9. When He Was Wicked: The 2nd Epilogue

10. Copyright

Part One

March, 1820

London, England

Chapter 1

. . . I wouldn’t call it a jolly good time, but it’s not as bad as that. There are women, after all, and where there are women, I’m bound to make merry.

—from Michael Stirling to his cousin

John, the Earl of Kilmartin,

posted from the 52nd Foot Guards

during the Napoleonic Wars

In every life there is a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and clear that one feels as if one’s been hit in the chest, all the breath knocked out, and one knows, absolutely knows without the merest hint of a shadow of a doubt that one’s life will never be the same.

For Michael Stirling, that moment came the first time he laid eyes on Francesca Bridgerton.

After a lifetime of chasing women, of smiling slyly as they chased him, of allowing himself to be caught and then turning the tables until he was the victor, of caressing and kissing and making love to them but never actually allowing his heart to become engaged, he took one look at Francesca Bridgerton and fell so fast and so hard into love it was a wonder he managed to remain standing.

Unfortunately for Michael, however, Francesca’s surname was to remain Bridgerton a mere thirty-six hours longer; the occasion of their meeting was, lamentably, a supper celebrating her imminent wedding to his cousin.

Life was ironic that way, Michael liked to think in his more polite moods.

In his less polite moods, he used a different adjective entirely.

And his moods, since falling in love with his first cousin’s wife, were not often polite.

Oh, he hid it well. It wouldn’t do to be visibly out of sorts. Then some annoyingly perceptive soul might actually take notice, and—God forbid—inquire as to his welfare. And while Michael Stirling held a not unsubstantiated pride in his ability to dissemble and deceive (he had, after all, seduced more women than anyone cared to count, and had somehow managed to do it all without ever once being challenged to a duel)—Well, the sodding truth of it was that he’d never been in love before, and if ever there was a time that a man might lose his ability to maintain a façade under direct questioning, this was probably it.

And so he laughed, and was very merry, and he continued to seduce women, trying not to notice that he tended to close his eyes when he had them in bed, and he stopped going to church entirely, because there seemed no point now in even contemplating prayer for his soul. Besides, the parish church near Kilmartin dated to 1432, and the crumbling stones certainly couldn’t take a direct strike of lightning.

And if God ever wanted to smite a sinner, he couldn’t do better than Michael Stirling.

Michael Stirling, Sinner.

He could see it on a calling card. He’d have had it printed up, even—his was just that sort of black sense of humor—if he weren’t convinced it would kill his mother on the spot.

Rake he might be, but there was no need to torture the woman who’d borne him.

Funny how he’d never seen all those other women as a sin. He still didn’t. They’d all been willing, of course; you couldn’t seduce an unwilling woman, at least not if you took seduction at the true sense of the word and took care not to confuse it with rape. They had to actually want it, and if they didn’t—if Michael sensed even a hint of unease, he turned and walked away. His passions were never so out of control that he couldn’t manage a quick and decisive departure.

And besides, he’d never seduced a virgin, and he’d never slept with a married woman. Oh very well, one ought to remain true to oneself, even while living a lie—he’d slept with married women, plenty of them, but only the ones whose husbands were rotters, and even then, not unless she’d already produced two male offspring; three, if one of the boys seemed a little sickly.

A man had to have rules of conduct, after all.

But this . . . This was beyond the pale. Entirely unacceptable. This was the one transgression (and he’d had many) that was finally going to blacken his soul, or at the very least—and this was assuming he maintained the strength never to act upon his desires—make it a rather deep shade of charcoal. Because this . . . this—

He coveted his cousin’s wife.

He coveted John’s wife.

John.

John, who, damn it all, was more of a brother to him than one of his own could ever have been. John, whose family had taken him in when his father had died. John, whose father had raised him and taught him to be a man. John, with whom—

Ah, bloody hell. Did he really need to do this to himself? He could spend a sennight cataloguing all the reasons why he was going straight to hell for having chosen John’s wife with whom to fall in love. And none of it was ever going to change one simple fact.

He couldn’t have her.

He could never have Francesca Bridgerton Stirling.

But, he thought with a snort as he slouched into the sofa and propped his ankle over his knee, watching them across their drawing room, laughing and smiling, and making nauseating eyes at each other, he could have another drink.

“I think I will,” he announced, downing it in one gulp.

“What was that, Michael?” John asked, his hearing superb, as always, damn it.

Michael produced an excellent forgery of a smile and lifted his glass aloft. “Just thirsty,” he said, maintaining the perfect picture of a bon vivant.

They were at Kilmartin House, in London, as opposed to Kilmartin (no House, no Castle, just Kilmartin), up in Scotland, where the boys had grown up, or the other Kilmartin House, in Edinburgh—not a creative soul among his forbearers, Michael had often reflected; there was also a Kilmartin Cottage (if one could call twenty-two rooms a cottage), Kilmartin Abbey, and, of course, Kilmartin Hall. Michael had no idea why no one had thought to offer their surname to one of the residences; “Stirling House” had a perfectly respectful ring to it, in his opinion. He supposed that the ambitious—and unimaginative—Stirlings of old had been so damned besotted with their newfound earldom that they couldn’t think to put any other name on anything.

He snorted into his glass of whisky. It was a wonder he didn’t drink Kilmartin Tea and sit on a Kilmartin-style chair. In fact, he probably would be doing just that if his grandmother had found a way to manage it without actually taking the family into trade. The old martinet had been so proud one would have thought she’d been born a Stirling rather than simply married into the name. As far as she’d been concerned, the Countess of Kilmartin (herself) was just as important as any loftier personage, and she’d more than once sniffed her displeasure when being led into supper after an upstart marchioness or duchess.

The Queen, Michael thought dispassionately. He supposed his grandmother had knelt before the Queen, but he certainly couldn’t imagine her offering deference to any other female.

She would have approved of Francesca Bridgerton. Grandmother Stirling would surely have turned her nose up upon learning that Francesca’s father was a mere viscount, but the Bridgertons were an old and immensely popular—and, when the fancy took them, powerful—family. Plus, Francesca’s spine was straight and her manner was proud, and her sense of humor was sly and subversive. If she’d been fifty years older and not nearly so attractive, she would have made quite a fine companion for Grandmother Stirling.

And now Francesca was the Countess of Kilmartin, married to his cousin John, who was one year his junior but in the Stirling household always treated with the deference due the elder; he was the heir, after all. Their fathers had been twins, but John’s had entered the world seven minutes before Michael’s.

The most critical seven minutes in Michael Stirling’s life, and he hadn’t even been alive for them.

“What shall we do for our second anniversary?” Francesca asked as she crossed the room and seated herself at the pianoforte.

“Whatever you want,” John answered.

Francesca turned to Michael, her eyes startlingly blue, even in the candlelight. Or maybe it was just that he knew how blue they were. He seemed to dream in blue these days. Francesca blue, the color ought to be called.

“Michael?” she said, her tone indicating that the word was a repetition.

“Sorry,” he said, offering her the lopsided smile he so frequently affixed to his face. No one ever took him seriously when he smiled like that, which was, of course, the point. “Wasn’t listening.”

“Do you have any ideas?” she asked.

“For what?”

“For our anniversary.”

If she’d had an arrow, she couldn’t have jammed it into his heart any harder. But he just shrugged, since he was appallingly good at faking it. “It’s not my anniversary,” he reminded her.

“I know,” she said. He wasn’t looking at her, but she sounded like she rolled her eyes.

But she hadn’t. Michael was certain of that. He’d come to know Francesca agonizingly well in the past two years, and he knew she didn’t roll her eyes. When she was feeling sarcastic, or ironic, or sly, it was all there in her voice and the curious tip of her mouth. She didn’t need to roll her eyes. She just looked at you with that direct stare, her lips curving ever so slightly, and—

Michael swallowed reflexively, then covered it with a sip of his drink. It didn’t really speak well of him that he’d spent so much time analyzing the curve of his cousin’s wife’s lips.

“I assure you,” Francesca continued, idly trailing the pads of her fingertips along the surface of the piano keys without actually pressing any into sound, “I’m well aware of whom I married.”

“I’m sure you are,” he muttered.

“Beg pardon?”

“Continue,” he said.

Her lips pursed in a peevish crease. He’d seen her with that expression quite frequently, usually in her dealings with her brothers. “I was asking your advice,” she said, “because you are so often merry.”

“I’m so often merry?” he repeated, knowing that was how the world saw him—they called him the Merry Rake, after all—but hating the word on her lips. It made him feel frivolous, without substance.

And then he felt even worse, because it was probably true.

“You disagree?” she inquired.

“Of course not,” he murmured. “I’m simply unused to being asked for advice regarding anniversary celebrations, as it is clear I have no talent for marriage.”

“That’s not clear at all,” she said.

“You’re in for it now,” John said with a chuckle, settling back in his seat with that morning’s copy of the Times.

“You have never tried marriage,” Francesca pointed out. “How could you possibly know you have no talent for it?”

Michael managed a smirk. “I think it’s fairly clear to all who know me. Besides, what need have I? I have no title, no property—”

“You have property,” John interjected, demonstrating that he was still listening from behind his newspaper.

“Only a small bit of property,” Michael corrected, “which I am more than happy to leave for your children, since it was given to me by John, anyway.”

Francesca looked at her husband, and Michael knew exactly what she was thinking—that John had given him the property because John wanted him to feel he had something, a purpose, really. Michael had been at loose ends since decommissioning from the army several years back. And although John had never said so, Michael knew that he felt guilty for having not fought for England on the Continent, for remaining behind while Michael faced danger alone.

But John had been heir to an earldom. He had a duty to marry, be fruitful and multiply. No one had expected him to go to war.

Michael had often wondered if the property—a rather lovely and comfortable manor house with twenty acres—was John’s form of penance. And he rather suspected that Francesca wondered the same.

But she would never ask. Francesca understood men with remarkable clarity—probably from growing up with all of those brothers. Francesca knew exactly what not to ask a man.

Which always left Michael a little worried. He thought he hid his feelings well, but what if she knew? She would never speak of it, of course, never even allude to it. He rather suspected they were, ironically, alike that way; if Francesca suspected he was in love with her, she would never alter her manner in any way.

“I think you should go to Kilmartin,” Michael said abruptly.

“To Scotland?” Francesca asked, pressing gently against B-flat on the pianoforte. “With the season so close?”

Michael stood, suddenly rather eager to depart. He shouldn’t have come over in any case. “Why not?” he asked, his tone careless. “You love it there. John loves it there. It’s not such a long journey if your carriage is well sprung.”

“Will you come?” John asked.

“I think not,” Michael said sharply. As if he cared to witness their anniversary celebration. Truly, all it would do was remind him of what he could never have. Which would then remind him of the guilt. Or amplify it. Reminders were rather unnecessary; he lived with it every day.

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Cousin’s Wife.

Moses must have forgotten to write that one down.

“I have much to do here,” Michael said.

“You do?” Francesca asked, her eyes lighting with interest. “What?”

“Oh, you know,” he said wryly, “all those things I have to do to prepare for a life of dissolution and aimlessness.”

Francesca stood.

Oh God, she stood, and she was walking to him. This was the worst—when she actually touched him.

She laid her hand on his upper arm. Michael did his best not to flinch.

“I wish you wouldn’t speak that way,” she said.

Michael looked past her shoulder to John, who had raised his newspaper just high enough so that he could pretend he wasn’t listening.

“Am I to become your project, then?” Michael asked, a bit unkindly.

She drew back. “We care about you.”

We. We. Not I, not John. We. A subtle reminder that they were a unit. John and Francesca. Lord and Lady Kilmartin. She hadn’t meant it that way, of course, but it was how he heard it all the same.

“And I care for you,” Michael said, waiting for a plague of locusts to stream through the room.

“I know,” she said, oblivious to his distress. “I could never ask for a better cousin. But I want you to be happy.”

Michael glanced over at John, giving him a look that clearly said: Save me.

John gave up his pretense of reading and set the paper down. “Francesca, darling, Michael is a grown man. He’ll find his happiness as he sees fit. When he sees fit.”

Francesca’s lips pursed, and Michael could tell she was irritated. She didn’t like to be thwarted, and she certainly did not enjoy admitting that she might not be able to arrange her world—and the people inhabiting it—to her satisfaction.

“I should introduce you to my sister,” she said.

Good God. “I’ve met your sister,” Michael said quickly. “All of them, in fact. Even the one still in leading strings.”

“She’s not in—” She cut herself off, grinding her teeth together. “I grant you that Hyacinth is not suitable, but Eloise is—”

“I’m not marrying Eloise,” Michael said sharply.

“I didn’t say you had to marry her,” Francesca said. “Just dance with her once or twice.”

“I’ve done so,” he reminded her. “And that is all I am going to do.”

“But—”

“Francesca,” John said. His voice was gentle, but his meaning was clear. Stop.

Michael could have kissed him for his interference. John of course just thought that he was saving his cousin from needless feminine nagging; there was no way he could know the truth—that Michael was trying to compute the level of guilt one might feel for being in love with one’s cousin’s wife and one’s wife’s sister.

Good God, married to Eloise Bridgerton. Was Francesca trying to kill him?

“We should all go for a walk,” Francesca said suddenly.

Michael glanced out the window. All vestiges of daylight had left the sky. “Isn’t it a bit late for that?” he asked.

“Not with two strong men as escorts,” she said, “and besides, the streets in Mayfair are well lit. We shall be perfectly safe.” She turned to her husband. “What do you say, darling?”

“I have an appointment this evening,” John said, consulting his pocket watch, “but you should go with Michael.”

More proof that John had no idea of Michael’s feelings.

“The two of you always have such a fine time together,” John added.

Francesca turned to Michael and smiled, worming her way another inch into his heart. “Will you?” she asked. “I’m desperate for a spot of fresh air now that the rain has stopped. And I’ve been feeling rather odd all day, I must say.”

“Of course,” Michael replied, since they all knew that he had no appointments. His was a life of carefully cultivated dissolution.

Besides, he couldn’t resist her. He knew he should stay away, knew he should never allow himself to be alone in her company. He would never act upon his desires, but truly, did he really need to subject himself to this sort of agony? He’d just end the day alone in bed, wracked by guilt and desire, in almost equal measures.

But when she smiled at him he couldn’t say no. And he certainly wasn’t strong enough to deny himself an hour in her presence.

Because her presence was all he was ever going to get. There would never be a kiss, never a meaningful glance or touch. There would be no whispered words of love, no moans of passion.

All he could have was her smile and her company, and pathetic idiot that he was, he was willing to take it.

“Just give me a moment,” she said, pausing in the doorway. “I need to get my coat.”

“Be quick about it,” John said. “It’s already after seven.”

“I’ll be safe enough with Michael to protect me,” she said with a jaunty smile, “but don’t worry, I’ll be quick.” And then she offered her husband a wicked smile. “I’m always quick.”

Michael averted his eyes as his cousin actually blushed. Lord above, but he truly did not want to know the meaning behind I’ll be quick. Unfortunately, it could have been any number of things, all of them deliciously sexual. And he was likely to spend the next hour cataloguing them all in his mind, imagining them being done to him.

He tugged at his cravat. Maybe he could get out of this jaunt with Francesca. Maybe he could go home and draw a cold bath. Or better yet, find himself a willing woman with long chestnut hair. And if he was lucky, blue eyes as well.

“I’m sorry about that,” John said, once Francesca had left.

Michael’s eyes flew to his face. Surely John would never mention Francesca’s innuendo.

“Her nagging,” John added. “You’re young enough. You don’t need to be married yet.”

“You’re younger than I,” Michael said, mostly to be contrary.

“Yes, but I met Francesca.” John shrugged helplessly, as if that ought to be explanation enough. And of course it was.

“I don’t mind her nagging,” Michael said.

“Of course you do. I can see it in your eyes.”

And that was the problem. John could see it in his eyes. There was no one in the world who knew him better. If something was bothering him, John would always be able to tell. The miracle was that John didn’t realize why Michael was distressed.

“I will tell her to leave you alone,” John said, “although you should know that she only nags because she loves you.”

Michael managed a tight smile. He certainly couldn’t manage words.

“Thank you for taking her for a walk,” John said, standing up. “She’s been a bit peckish all day, with the rain. Said she’s been feeling uncommonly closed in.”

“When is your appointment?” Michael asked.

“Nine o’clock,” John replied as they walked out into the hall. “I’m meeting Lord Liverpool.”

“Parliamentary business?”

John nodded. He took his position in the House of Lords very seriously. Michael had often wondered if he’d have approached the duty with as much gravity, had he been born a lord.

Probably not. But then again, it didn’t much matter, did it?

Michael watched as John rubbed his left temple. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a little . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, since he wasn’t quite certain how John looked. Not right. That was all he knew.

And he knew John. Inside and out. Probably better than Francesca did.

“Devil of a headache,” John muttered. “I’ve had it all day.”

“Do you want me to call for some laudanum?”

John shook his head. “Hate the stuff. It makes my mind fuzzy, and I need my wits about me for the meeting with Liverpool.”

Michael nodded. “You look pale,” he said. Why, he didn’t know. It wasn’t as if it was going to change John’s mind about the laudanum.

“Do I?” John asked, wincing as he pressed his fingers harder into the skin of his temple. “I think I’ll lie down, if you don’t mind. I don’t need to leave for an hour.”

“Right,” Michael murmured. “Do you want me to have someone wake you?”

John shook his head. “I’ll ask my valet myself.”

Just then, Francesca descended the stairs, wrapped in a long velvet cloak of midnight blue. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, clearly basking in the undivided male attention. But as she reached the bottom, she frowned. “Is something wrong, darling?” she asked John.

“Just a headache,” John said. “It’s nothing.”

“You should lie down,” she said.

John managed a smile. “I’d just finished telling Michael that I was planning to do that very thing. I’ll have Simons wake me in time for my meeting.”

“With Lord Liverpool?” Francesca queried.

“Yes. At nine.”

“Is it about the Six Acts?”

John nodded. “Yes, and the return to the gold standard. I told you about it at breakfast, if you recall.”

“Make sure you—” She stopped, smiling as she shook her head. “Well, you know how I feel.”

John smiled, then leaned down and dropped a tender kiss on her lips. “I always know how you feel, darling.”

Michael pretended to look the other way.

“Not always,” she said, her voice warm and teasing.

“Always when it matters,” John said.

“Well, that is true,” she admitted. “So much for my attempts to be a lady of mystery.”

He kissed her again. “I prefer you as an open book, myself.”

Michael cleared his throat. This shouldn’t be so difficult; it wasn’t as if John and Francesca were acting any differently than was normal. They were, as so much of society had commented, like two peas in a pod, marvelously in accord, and splendidly in love.

“It’s growing late,” Francesca said. “I should go if I want that spot of fresh air.”

John nodded, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Are you sure you’re well?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just a headache.”

Francesca looped her hand into the crook of Michael’s elbow. “Be sure to take some laudanum when you return from your meeting,” she said over her shoulder, once they’d reached the door, “since I know you won’t do it now.”

John nodded, his expression weary, then headed up the stairs.

“Poor John,” Francesca said, stepping outside into the brisk night air. She took a deep inhale, then let out a sigh. “I detest headaches. They always seem to lay me especially low.”

“Never get them myself,” Michael admitted, leading her down the steps to the pavement.

“Really?” She looked up at him, one corner of her mouth quirking in that achingly familiar way. “Lucky you.”

It almost made Michael laugh. Here he was, strolling through the night with the woman he loved.

Lucky him.

Chapter 2

. . . and if it were as bad as that, I suspect you would not tell me. As for the women, do at least try to make sure they are clean and free of disease. Beyond that, do what you must to make your time bearable. And please, try not to get yourself killed. At the risk of sounding maudlin, I don’t know what I would do without you.

—from the Earl of Kilmartin

to his cousin Michael Stirling,

sent in care of the 52nd Foot Guards

during the Napoleonic Wars

For all his faults—and Francesca was willing to allow that Michael Stirling had many—he really was the dearest man.

He was a horrible flirt (she’d seen him in action, and even she had to admit that otherwise intelligent women lost all measure of sense when he chose to be charming), and he certainly didn’t approach his life with the gravity that she and John would have liked him to, but even with all that, she couldn’t help but love him.

He was the best friend John had ever had—until he’d married her, of course—and over the last two years, he’d become her close confidant as well.

It was a funny thing, that. Who would have thought she’d have counted a man as one of her closest friends? She was not uncomfortable around men; four brothers tended to wring the delicacy out of even the most feminine of creatures. But she was not like her sisters. Daphne and Eloise—and Hyacinth, too, she supposed, although she was still a bit young to know for sure—were so open and sunny. They were the sorts of females who excelled at hunting and shooting—the kinds of pursuits that tended to get them labeled as “jolly good sports.” Men always felt comfortable in their presence, and the feeling was, Francesca had observed, entirely mutual.

But she was different. She’d always felt a little different from the rest of her family. She loved them fiercely, and would have laid down her life for any one of them, but even though she looked like a Bridgerton, on the inside she always felt like a bit of a changeling.

Where the rest of her family was outgoing, she was . . . not shy, precisely, but a bit more reserved, more careful with her words. She’d developed a reputation for irony and wit, and she had to admit, she could rarely resist the opportunity to needle her siblings with a dry remark. It was done out of love, of course, and perhaps a touch of the desperation that comes from having spent far too much time with one’s family, but they teased Francesca right back, so all was fair.

It was the way of her family. They laughed, they teased, they bickered. Francesca’s contributions to the din were simply a touch quieter than the rest, a bit more sly and subversive.

She often wondered if part of her attraction to John had been the simple fact that he removed her from the chaos that was so often the Bridgerton household. Not that she didn’t love him; she did. She adored him with every last breath in her body. He was her kindred spirit, so like her in so many ways. But it had, in a strange sort of fashion, been a relief to exit her mother’s home, to escape to a more serene existence with John, whose sense of humor was precisely like hers.

He understood her, he anticipated her.

He completed her.

It had been the oddest sensation when she’d met him, almost as if she were a jagged puzzle piece finally finding its mate. Their first meeting hadn’t been one of over-whelming love or passion, but rather filled with the most bizarre sense that she’d finally found the one person with whom she could completely be herself.

It had been instant. It had been sudden. She couldn’t remember just what it was he’d said to her, but from the moment words first left his lips, she had felt at home.

And with him had come Michael, his cousin—although truth be told, the two men were much more like brothers. They’d been raised together, and they were so close in age that they’d shared everything.

Well, almost everything. John was the heir to an earldom, and Michael was just his cousin, and so it was only natural that the two boys would not be treated quite the same. But from what Francesca had heard, and from what she knew of the Stirling family now, they had been loved in equal measure, and she rather thought that was the key to Michael’s good humor.

Because even though John had inherited the title and the wealth, and well, everything, Michael didn’t seem to envy him.

He didn’t envy him. It was amazing to her. He’d been raised as John’s brother—John’s older brother, even—and yet he’d never once begrudged John any of his blessings.

And it was for that reason that Francesca loved him best. Michael would surely scoff if she tried to praise him for it, and she was quite certain that he would point to his many misdeeds (none of which, she feared, were exaggerated) to prove that his soul was black and he was a scoundrel through and through—but the truth of the matter was that Michael Stirling possessed a generosity of spirit and a capability for love that was unmatched among men.

And if she didn’t find a wife for him soon, she was going to go mad.

“What,” she said, aware that her voice was quite suddenly piercing the silence of the night, “is wrong with my sister?”

“Francesca,” he said, and she could hear irritation—and, thankfully, a bit of amusement as well—in his voice, “I’m not going to marry your sister.”

“I didn’t say you had to marry her.”

“You didn’t have to. Your face is an open book.”

She looked up at him, twisting her lips. “You weren’t even looking at me.”

“Of course I was, and anyway, it wouldn’t matter if I weren’t. I know what you’re about.”

He was right, and it scared her. Sometimes she worried that he understood her as well as John did.

“You need a wife,” she said.

“Didn’t you just promise your husband that you would stop pestering me about this?”

“I did not, actually,” she said, giving him a rather superior glance. “He asked, of course—”

“Of course,” Michael muttered.

She laughed. He could always make her laugh.

“I thought wives were supposed to accede to their husbands’ wishes,” Michael said, quirking his right brow. “In fact, I’m quite certain it’s right there in the marriage vows.”

“I’d be doing you a grave disservice if I found you a wife like that,” she said, punctuating the sentiment with a well-timed and extremely disdainful snort.

He turned and gazed down at her with a vaguely paternalistic expression. He should have been a nobleman, Francesca thought. He was far too irresponsible for the duties of a title, but when he looked at a person like that, all superciliousness and certitude, he might as well have been a royal duke.

“Your responsibilities as Countess of Kilmartin do not include finding me a wife,” he said.

“They should.”

He laughed, which delighted her. She could always make him laugh.

“Very well,” she said, giving up for now. “Tell me about something wicked, then. Something John would not approve of.”

It was a game they played, even in John’s presence, although John always made at least the pretense of discouraging them. But Francesca suspected that John enjoyed Michael’s tales as much as she did. Once he’d finished with his obligatory admonitions, he was always all ears.

Not that Michael ever told them much. He was far too discreet for that. But he dropped hints and innuendo, and Francesca and John were always thoroughly entertained. They wouldn’t trade their wedded bliss for anything, but who didn’t like to be regaled with tales of debauchery and spice?

“I’m afraid I’ve done nothing wicked this week,” Michael said, steering her around the corner to King Street.

“You? Impossible.”

“It’s only Tuesday,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but not counting Sunday, which I’m sure you would not desecrate”—she shot him a look that said she was quite certain he’d already sinned in every way possible, Sunday or no—“that does leave you Monday, and a man can do quite a bit on a Monday.”

“Not this man. Not this Monday.”

“What did you do, then?”

He thought about that, then said, “Nothing, really.”

“That’s impossible,” she teased. “I’m quite certain I saw you awake for at least an hour.”

He didn’t say anything, and then he shrugged in a way she found oddly disturbing and said, “I did nothing. I walked, I spoke, I ate, but at the end of the day, there was nothing.”

Francesca impulsively squeezed his arm. “We shall have to find you something,” she said softly.

He turned and looked at her, his strange, silvery eyes catching hers with an intensity she knew he didn’t often allow to rise to the fore.

And then it was gone, and he was himself again, except she suspected that Michael Stirling wasn’t at all the man he wished people to believe him to be.

Even, sometimes, her.

“We should return home,” he said. “It’s growing late, and John will have my head if I let you catch a chill.”

“John would blame me for my foolishness, and well you know it,” Francesca said. “This is just your way of telling me you have a woman waiting for you, probably draped in nothing but the sheets on her bed.”

He turned to her and grinned. It was wicked and devilish, and she understood why half the ton—the female half, that was—fancied themselves in love with him, even with no title or fortune to his name.

“You said you wanted something wicked, didn’t you?” he asked. “Did you want more detail? The color of the sheets, perhaps?”

She blushed, drat it all. She hated that she blushed, but at least the reaction was covered by the night. “Not yellow, I hope,” she said, because she couldn’t bear to let the conversation end on her embarrassment. “It makes you look sallow.”

“I won’t be wearing the sheets,” he drawled.

“Nevertheless.”

He chuckled, and she knew that he knew that she’d said it just to have the last word. And she thought he was going to allow her the small victory, but then, just when she was beginning to find relief in the silence, he said, “Red.”

“I beg your pardon?” But of course she knew what he meant.

“Red sheets, I think.”

“I can’t believe you told me that.”

“You asked, Francesca Stirling.” He looked down at her, and one lock of midnight black hair fell onto his forehead. “You’re just lucky I don’t tell your husband on you.”

“John would never worry over me,” she said.

For a moment she didn’t think he would reply, but then he said, “I know,” and his voice was oddly grave and serious. “It’s the only reason I tease you.”

She’d been watching the pavement, looking for rough spots, but his tone was so serious she had to look up.

“You’re the only woman I know who would never stray,” he said, touching her chin. “You have no idea how much I admire you for that.”

“I love your cousin,” she whispered. “I would never betray him.”

He brought his hand back to his side. “I know.”

He looked so handsome in the moonlight, and so unbearably in need of love, that her heart nearly broke. Surely there was no woman who could resist him, not with that perfect face and tall, muscular body. And anyone who took the time to explore what was underneath would come to know him as she did—as a kindhearted man, loyal and true.

With a hint of the devil, of course, but Francesca supposed that was what would attract the ladies in the first place.

“Shall we?” Michael said, suddenly all charm. He tilted his head back in the direction of home, and she sighed and turned around.

“Thank you for taking me out,” she said, after a few minutes of companionable silence. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I was going mad with the rain.”

“You didn’t say that,” he said, immediately giving himself a mental kick. She’d said that she’d been feeling a bit odd, not that she’d been going mad, but only an idiot savant or a lovesick fool would have noticed the difference.

“Didn’t I?” She scrunched her brow together. “Well, I was certainly thinking it. I’ve been rather sluggish, if you must know. The fresh air did me a great deal of good.”

“Then I’m happy to have helped,” he said gallantly.

She smiled as they ascended the front steps to Kilmartin House. The door opened as their feet touched the top stair—the butler must have been watching for them—and then Michael waited as Francesca was divested of her cloak in the front hall.

“Will you stay for another drink, or must you leave immediately for your appointment?” she inquired, her eyes glinting with the devil.

He glanced at the clock at the end of the hall. It was half eight, and while he had no place to be—there was no lady waiting for him, although he could certainly find one at the drop of a hat, and he rather thought he would—he didn’t much feel like remaining here at Kilmartin House.

“I must go,” he said. “I’ve much to do.”

“You’ve nothing to do, and you know it,” she said. “You just wish to be wicked.”

“It’s an admirable pastime,” he murmured.

She opened her mouth to offer a retort, but just then Simons, John’s recently hired valet, came down the stairs.

“My lady?” he inquired.

Francesca turned to him and inclined her head, indicating that he should proceed.

“I’ve rapped on his lordship’s door and called his name—twice—but he seems to be sleeping quite soundly. Do you still wish me to wake him?”

Francesca nodded. “Yes. I’d love to let him sleep. He’s been working so hard lately”—she directed this last bit at Michael—“but I know that this meeting with Lord Liverpool is very important. You should—No, wait, I’ll rouse him myself. It will be better that way.”

She turned to Michael. “I shall see you tomorrow?”

“Actually, if John hasn’t yet left, I’ll wait,” he replied. “I came on foot, so I might as well avail myself of his carriage once he’s done with it.”

She nodded and hurried up the stairs, leaving Michael with nothing to do but hum under his breath as he idly examined the paintings in the hall.

And then she screamed.

Michael had no recollection of running up the stairs, but somehow there he was, in John’s and Francesca’s bed-chamber, the one room in the house he never invaded.

“Francesca?” he gasped. “Frannie, Frannie, what is—”

She was sitting next to the bed, clutching John’s forearm, which was dangling over the side. “Wake him up, Michael,” she cried. “Wake him up. Do it for me. Wake him up!”

Michael felt his world slip away. The bed was across the room, a good twelve feet away, but he knew.

No one knew John as well as he did. No one.

And John wasn’t there in the room. He was gone. What was on the bed—

It wasn’t John.

“Francesca,” he whispered, moving slowly toward her. His limbs felt strange and funny and gruesomely sluggish. “Francesca.”

She looked up at him with huge, stricken eyes. “Wake him up, Michael.”

“Francesca, I—”

“Now!” she screamed, launching herself at him. “Wake him up! You can do it. Wake him up! Wake him up!”

And all he could do was stand there as she beat her fists against his chest, stand there as she grabbed his cravat and shook and yanked until he was gasping for breath. He couldn’t even embrace her, couldn’t offer her comfort, because he was every bit as devastated and confused.

And then suddenly the fire left her, and she collapsed in his arms, her tears soaking his shirt. “He had a headache,” she whimpered. “That’s all. He just had a headache. It was just a headache.” She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face, looking for answers he’d never be able to give her. “It was just a headache,” she said again.

And she looked broken.

“I know,” he said, even though he knew it wasn’t enough.

“Oh, Michael,” she sobbed. “What am I to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said, because he didn’t. Between Eton, Cambridge, and the army, he’d been trained for everything that the life of an English gentleman was supposed to offer. But he hadn’t been trained for this.

“I don’t understand,” she was saying, and he supposed she was saying a lot of things, but none of it made any sense to his ears. He didn’t even have the strength to stand, and together the two of them sank to the carpet, leaning against the side of the bed.

He stared sightlessly at the far wall, wondering why he wasn’t crying. He was numb, and his body felt heavy, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that his very soul had been ripped from his body.

Not John.

Why?

Why?

And as he sat there, dimly aware of the servants gathering just outside the open door, it occurred to him that Francesca was whimpering those very same words.

“Not John.

“Why?

“Why?”

“Do you think she might be with child?”

Michael stared at Lord Winston, a new and apparently overeager appointee to the Committee for Privileges of the House of Lords, trying to make sense of his words. John had been dead barely a day. It was still hard to make sense of anything. And now here was this puffy little man, demanding an audience, prattling on about some sacred duty to the crown.

“Her ladyship,” Lord Winston said. “If she’s carrying, it will complicate everything.”

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “I didn’t ask her.”

“You need to. I’m sure you’re eager to assume control of your new holdings, but we really must determine if she’s carrying. Furthermore, if she is pregnant, a member of our committee will need to be present at the birth.”

Michael felt his face go slack. “I beg your pardon?” he somehow managed to say.

“Baby switching,” Lord Winston said grimly. “There have been instances—”

“For God’s sake—”

“It’s for your protection as much as anyone’s,” Lord Winston cut in. “If her ladyship gives birth to a girl, and there is no one present to witness it, what is to stop her from switching the babe with a boy?”

Michael couldn’t even bring himself to dignify this with an answer.

“You need to find out if she is carrying,” Lord Winston pressed. “Arrangements will need to be made.”

“She was widowed yesterday,” Michael said sharply. “I will not burden her with such intrusive questions.”

“There is more at stake here than her ladyship’s feelings,” Lord Winston returned. “We cannot properly transfer the earldom while there is doubt as to the succession.”

“The devil take the earldom,” Michael snapped.

Lord Winston gasped, drawing back in visible horror. “You forget yourself, my lord.”

“I’m not your lord,” Michael bit off. “I’m not anyone’s—” He halted his words, sinking into a chair, trying very hard to get past the fact that he was perilously close to tears. Right here, in John’s study, with this damnable little man who didn’t seem to understand that a man had died, not just an earl, but a man, Michael wanted to cry.

And he would, he suspected. As soon as Lord Winston left, and Michael could lock the door and make sure that no one could see him, he would probably bury his face in his hands and cry.

“Someone has to ask her,” Lord Winston said.

“It won’t be me,” Michael said in a low voice.

“I will do it, then.”

Michael leapt from his seat and pinned Lord Winston against the wall. “You will not approach Lady Kilmartin,” he growled. “You will not even breathe the same air. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite,” the smaller man gurgled.

Michael let go, dimly aware that Lord Winston’s face was beginning to turn purple. “Get out,” he said.

“You will need—”

“Get out!” he roared.

“I will come back tomorrow,” Lord Winston said, skittering out the door. “We will speak when you are in a calmer frame of mind.”

Michael leaned against the wall, staring at the open doorway. Good God, how had it all come to this? John hadn’t even been thirty. He was the picture of health. Michael might have been second in line for the earldom as long as John and Francesca’s marriage remained childless, but no one had truly thought he’d ever inherit.

Already he’d heard that men in the clubs were calling him the luckiest man in Britain. Overnight, he’d gone from the fringe of aristocracy to its very epicenter. No one seemed to understand that Michael had never wanted this. Never.

He didn’t want an earldom. He wanted his cousin back. And no one seemed to understand that.

Except, perhaps, Francesca, but she was so wrapped in her own grief that she could not quite comprehend the pain in Michael’s heart.

And he would never ask her to. Not when she was so wrecked by her own.

Michael wrapped his arms against his chest as he thought of her. For the rest of his life, he would not forget the sight of Francesca’s face once the truth had finally sunk in. John was not sleeping. He was not going to wake up.

And Francesca Bridgerton Stirling was, at the tender age of two and twenty, the saddest thing imaginable.

Alone.

Michael understood her despair better than anyone could ever imagine.

They’d put her to bed that night, he and her mother, who had hurried over at Michael’s urgent summons. And she’d slept like a baby, with nary even a whimper, her body worn out from the shock of it all.

But when she’d awakened the next morning, she’d acquired the proverbial stiff upper lip, determined to remain strong and steadfast, handling the myriad details that had showered down upon the house at John’s death.

The problem was, neither one of them had a clue what those details were. They were young; they had been carefree. They had never thought to deal with death.

Who knew, for example, that the Committee for Privileges would get involved? And demand a box seat at what ought to be a private moment for Francesca?

If indeed she was even carrying.

But bloody hell, he wasn’t going to ask her.

“We need to tell his mother,” Francesca had said earlier that morning. It was the first thing she’d said, actually. There was no preamble, no greeting, just, “We need to tell his mother.”

Michael had nodded, since of course she was right.

“We need to tell your mother, too. They’re both in Scotland; they won’t know yet.”

He nodded again. It was all he could manage.

“I’ll write the notes.”

And he nodded a third time, wondering what he was supposed to do.

That question had been answered when Lord Winston had come to call, but Michael couldn’t bear to think about all that now. It seemed so distasteful. He didn’t want to think of all he would gain at John’s death. How could anyone possibly speak as if something good had come of all this?

Michael felt himself sinking down, down, sliding against the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his legs bent in front of him, his head resting on his knees. He hadn’t wanted this. Had he?

He’d wanted Francesca. That was all. But not like this. Not at this cost.

He’d never begrudged John his good fortune. He’d never coveted the title, the money, or the power.

He’d merely coveted his wife.

Now he was meant to assume John’s title, step into his shoes. And guilt was squeezing its merciless fist right around his heart.

Had he somehow wished for this? No, he couldn’t have. He hadn’t.

Had he?

“Michael?”

He looked up. It was Francesca, still wearing that hollow look, her face a blank mask that tore at his heart far more than her wailing sorrow ever could have done.

“I sent for Janet.”

He nodded. John’s mother. She would be devastated.

“And your mother as well.”

She would be equally bereft.

“Is there anyone else you think—”

He shook his head, aware that he should get up, aware that propriety dictated that he rise, but he just couldn’t find the strength. He didn’t want Francesca to see him so weak, but he couldn’t help it.

“You should sit down,” he finally said. “You need to rest.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I need to . . . If I stop, even for a moment, I will . . .”

Her words trailed off, but it didn’t matter. He understood.

He looked up at her. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a simple queue, and her face was pale. She looked young, barely out of the schoolroom, certainly too young for this sort of heartbreak. “Francesca,” he said, his word not quite a question, more of a sigh, really.

And then she said it. She said it without his having to ask.

“I’m pregnant.”

Chapter 3

. . . I love him madly. Madly! Truly, I would die without him.

—from the Countess of Kilmartin

to her sister Eloise Bridgerton,

one week after Francesca’s wedding

“I declare, Francesca, you are the healthiest expectant mother I have ever laid eyes upon.”

Francesca smiled at her mother-in-law, who had just entered the garden of the St. James’s mansion they now shared. Overnight, it seemed, Kilmartin House had become a household of women. First Janet had taken up residence, and then Helen, Michael’s mother. It was a house full of Stirling females, or at least those who had acquired the name in marriage.

And it all felt so different.

It was strange. She would have thought that she’d sense John’s presence, feel him in the air, see him in the surroundings they’d shared for two years. But instead, he was simply gone, and the influx of women had changed the tone of the house entirely. Francesca supposed that was a good thing; she needed the support of women right now.

But it was odd, living among women. There were more flowers now—vases everywhere, it seemed. And there was no longer any lingering smell of John’s cheroot, or the sandalwood soap he’d favored.

Kilmartin House now smelled of lavender and rosewater, and every whiff of it broke Francesca’s heart.

Even Michael had been strangely distant. Oh, he came to call—several times a week, if one cared to count, which Francesca had to admit she did. But he wasn’t there, not in the way he had been before John’s death. He wasn’t the same, and she supposed she ought not to castigate him for that, even if only in her mind.

He was hurting, too.

She knew that. She reminded herself of it when she saw him, and his eyes were distant. She reminded herself of it when she didn’t know what to say to him, and when he didn’t tease her.

And she reminded herself of it when they sat together in the drawing room and had nothing to say.

She’d lost John, and now it seemed she’d lost Michael, too. And even with two mother hens fussing over her—three, if she counted her own, who came to call every single day—she was so lonely.

And sad.

No one had ever told her how sad she’d be. Who would have thought to tell her? And even if someone had, even if her mother, who had also been widowed young, had explained the pain, how could she have understood?

It was one of those things that had to be experienced to be understood. And oh, how Francesca wished she didn’t belong to this melancholy club.

And where was Michael? Why couldn’t he comfort her? Why didn’t he realize how very much she needed him? Him, not his mother. Not anyone’s mother.

She needed Michael, the one person who had known John the way she had, the only person who had loved him as fully. Michael was her one link to the husband she had lost, and she hated him for staying away.

Even when he was here at Kilmartin House, in the same dashed room as her, it wasn’t the same. They didn’t joke, and they didn’t tease. They just sat there and looked sad and grief stricken, and when they spoke, there was an awkwardness that had never been there before.

Couldn’t anything remain as it was before John had died? It had never occurred to her that her friendship with Michael might be killed off as well.

“How are you feeling, dear?”

Francesca looked up at Janet, belatedly realizing that her mother-in-law had asked her a question. Several, probably, and she’d forgotten to answer, lost in her own thoughts. She did that a lot lately.

“Fine,” she said. “No different than I ever have done.”

Janet shook her head in wonder. “It’s remarkable. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Francesca shrugged. “If it weren’t for the loss of my courses, I’d never know anything was different.”

And it was true. She wasn’t sick, she wasn’t hungry, she wasn’t anything. A trifle more tired than usual, she supposed, but that could be the grief as well. Her mother told her that she’d been tired for a year after her father had died.

Of course her mother had had eight children to look after. Francesca just had herself, with a small army of servants treating her like an invalid queen.

“You’re very fortunate,” Janet said, sitting down on the chair opposite Francesca’s. “When I was carrying John, I was sick every single morning. And most afternoons as well.”

Francesca nodded and smiled. Janet had told this to her before, several times. John’s death had turned his mother into a magpie, constantly chattering on, trying to fill the silence that was Francesca’s grief. Francesca adored her for it, for trying, but she suspected the only thing that would assuage her pain was time.

“I’m so pleased you’re carrying,” Janet said, leaning forward and impulsively squeezing Francesca’s hand. “It makes it all a bit more bearable. Or I suppose a bit less unbearable,” she added, not really smiling, but looking like she was trying to.

Francesca just nodded, afraid that speaking would loosen the tears in her eyes.

“I’d always wanted more children,” Janet confessed. “But it wasn’t to be. And when John died, I—Well, let’s just say that no grandchild shall ever be loved more than the one you’re carrying.” She stopped, pretending to dab her handkerchief against her nose but really aiming for her eyes. “Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl. It’s a piece of him. That’s all that matters.”

“I know,” Francesca said softly, placing her hand on her belly. She wished there was some sign of the baby within. She knew it was too soon to feel movement; she wasn’t even three months along, by her carefully calculated estimation. But all her dresses still fit perfectly, and her food still tasted just as it always had, and she simply wasn’t experiencing any of the quirks and illnesses that other women had told her about.

She’d have been happy to have been casting up her accounts each morning, if only so that she could imagine the baby was waving its hand with a cheerful, “I’m here!”

“Have you seen Michael recently?” Janet asked.

“Not since Monday,” Francesca said. “He doesn’t come to call very often anymore.”

“He misses John,” Janet said softly.

“So do I,” Francesca replied, and she was horrified by the sharp edge to her voice.

“It must be very difficult for him,” Janet mused.

Francesca just stared at her, her lips parting with surprise.

“I do not mean to say it is not difficult for you, too,” Janet said quickly, “but think of the tenuousness of his position. He won’t know if he’s to be the earl for six more months.”

“There is nothing I can do about that.”

“No, of course not,” Janet assured her, “but it does put him in awkward straits. I’ve heard more than one matron say that they simply can’t consider him as a potential suitor for their daughters until and unless you give birth to a girl. It’s one thing to marry the Earl of Kilmartin. It’s quite another when it’s his impoverished cousin. And no one knows which he will be.”

“Michael isn’t impoverished,” Francesca said peevishly, “and besides, he would never marry while in mourning for John.”

“No, I suppose not, but I do hope he starts looking,” Janet said. “I do so want him to be happy. And of course if he is to be the earl, he shall have to beget an heir. Otherwise the title shall go to that awful Debenham side of the family.” Janet shuddered at the thought.

“Michael will do what he must,” Francesca said, although she wasn’t so sure. It was difficult to imagine him marrying. It had always been difficult—Michael wasn’t the sort to stay true to any woman for very long—but now it just seemed strange. For years, she had had John, and Michael had been their companion. Could she bear it if he married, and then she was the third wheel? Was her heart big enough to be happy for him while she was alone?

She rubbed her eyes. She felt very tired, and in truth a bit weak. A good sign, she supposed; she’d heard that pregnant women were supposed to be more tired than she usually was. She looked over at Janet. “I think I shall go upstairs and take a nap.”

“An excellent idea,” Janet said approvingly. “You need your rest.”

Francesca nodded and stood, then grabbed the arm of the chair to steady herself when she swayed. “I don’t know what is wrong with me,” she said, attempting a wobbly smile. “I feel very unsteady. I—”

Janet’s gasp cut her off.

“Janet?” Francesca looked at her mother-in-law with concern. She’d gone quite pale, and one shaking hand rose to meet her lips.

“What is it?” Francesca asked, and then she realized that Janet wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at her chair.

With slowly dawning horror, Francesca looked down, forcing herself to look at the seat she’d just vacated.

There, in the middle of the cushion, was a small patch of red.

Blood.

Life would have been easier, Michael thought wryly, if he’d been given to drink. If ever there was a time to overindulge, to drown one’s sorrows in the bottle, this was it.

But no, he’d been cursed with a robust constitution and a marvelous ability to hold his liquor with dignity and flair. Which meant that if he wanted to reach any sort of mind-numbing oblivion, he’d have to down the entire bottle of whisky sitting on his desk, and maybe even then some.

He looked out the window. It wasn’t yet dark. Even he, dissolute rake that he tried to be, couldn’t bring himself to drink an entire bottle of whisky before the sun went down.

Michael tapped his fingers against his desk, wishing he knew what to do with himself. John had been dead for six weeks now, but he was still living in his modest apartments in the Albany. He couldn’t quite bring himself to take up residence in Kilmartin House. It was the residence of the earl, and that wouldn’t be him for at least another six months.

Or maybe not ever.

According to Lord Winston, whose lectures Michael had eventually been forced to tolerate, the title would go into abeyance until Francesca delivered. And if she gave birth to a boy, Michael would remain in the same position he’d always been in—cousin to the earl.

But it wasn’t Michael’s peculiar situation that was keeping him away. He’d have been reticent to move into Kilmartin House even if Francesca hadn’t been pregnant. She was still there.

She was still there, and she was still the Countess of Kilmartin, and even if he was the earl, with no questions attached to the title, she wouldn’t be his countess, and he just didn’t know if he could take the irony of it.

He’d thought that his grief might finally overtake his longing for her, that he might finally be with her and not want her, but no, his breath still caught every time she walked into the room, and his body tightened when she brushed past him, and his heart still ached with the pain of loving her.

Except now it was all wrapped in an extra layer of guilt—as if he hadn’t had enough of that while John was alive. She was in pain, and she was grieving, and he ought to be comforting her, not lusting after her. Good God, John wasn’t even cold in his grave. What kind of monster would lust after his wife?

His pregnant wife.

He was already stepping into John’s shoes in so many ways. He would not complete the betrayal by taking his place with Francesca as well.

And so he stayed away. Not completely; that would have been too obvious, and besides, he couldn’t do that, not with his mother and John’s in residence at Kilmartin House. Plus, everyone was looking to him to manage the affairs of the earl, even though the title wasn’t potentially to be his for another six months.

He did it, though. He didn’t mind the details, didn’t care that he was spending several hours per day looking after a fortune that might go to another. It was the least he could do for John.

And for Francesca. He couldn’t bring himself to be a friend to her, not the way he ought, but he could make sure that her financial affairs were in order.

But he knew she didn’t understand. She often came to visit him while he was working in John’s study at Kilmartin House, poring over reports from various land stewards and solicitors. And he could tell that she was looking for their old camaraderie, but he just couldn’t do it.

Call him weak, call him shallow. But he just couldn’t be her friend. Not just yet, anyway.

“Mr. Stirling?”

Michael looked up. His valet was at the door, accompanied by a footman dressed in the unmistakable green and gold livery of Kilmartin House.

“A message for you,” the footman said. “From your mother.”

Michael held out his hand as the footman crossed the room, wondering what it was this time. His mother summoned him to Kilmartin House every other day, it seemed.

“She said it was urgent,” the footman added as he placed the envelope in Michael’s hand.

Urgent, eh? That was new. Michael glanced up at the footman and valet, his steady gaze a clear dismissal, and then, once the room had been emptied, slid his letter-opener under the flap.

Come quickly, was all it said. Francesca has lost the baby.

Michael nearly killed himself rushing to Kilmartin House, racing on horseback at a breakneck pace, ignoring the shouts from the angry pedestrians he’d nearly decapitated in his haste.

But now that he was here, standing in the hall, he had no idea what to do with himself.

Miscarriage? It seemed such a womanly thing. What was he meant to do? It was a tragedy, and he felt horrible for Francesca, but what did they think he could say? Why did they want him here?

And then it hit him. He was the earl now. It was done. Slowly but surely, he was assuming John’s life, filling every corner of the world that had once belonged to his cousin.

“Oh, Michael,” his mother said, rushing into the hall. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He embraced her, his arms awkwardly coming around her. And he said something utterly meaningless like, “Such a tragedy,” but mostly he just stood there, feeling foolish and out of place.

“How is she?” he finally asked, once his mother stepped back.

“In shock,” she replied. “She’s been crying.”

He swallowed, wanting desperately to loosen his cravat. “Well, that’s to be expected,” he said. “I—I—”

“She can’t seem to stop,” Helen interrupted.

“Crying?” Michael asked.

Helen nodded. “I don’t know what to do.”

Michael measured his breaths. Even. Slow. In and out.

“Michael?” His mother was looking up to him for a response. Maybe for guidance.

As if he would know what to do.

“Her mother came by,” Helen said, when it became apparent that Michael was not going to speak. “She wants Francesca to go back to Bridgerton House.”

“Does Francesca want to?”

Helen shrugged sadly. “I don’t think she knows. It’s all such a shock.”

“Yes,” Michael said, swallowing again. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to get out.

“The doctor said we’re not to move her for several days, in any case,” Helen added.

He nodded.

“Naturally, we called for you.”

Naturally? There was nothing natural about it. He’d never felt so out of place, so completely at a loss for words or action.

“You’re Kilmartin now,” his mother said quietly.

He nodded again. Just once. It was as much of an acknowledgment as he could muster.

“I must say I—” Helen stopped, her lips pursing in an odd, jerky manner. “Well, a mother wants the world for her children, but I didn’t—I never would have—”

“Don’t say it,” Michael said hoarsely. He wasn’t ready for anyone to say this was a good thing. And by God, if anyone offered his congratulations . . .

Well, he wouldn’t be responsible for the violence.

“She asked for you,” his mother said.

“Francesca?” he asked, his eyes flying open with surprise.

Helen nodded. “She said she wanted you.”

“I can’t,” he said.

“You have to.”

“I can’t.” He shook his head, panic making his movements too quick. “I can’t go in there.”

“You can’t abandon her,” his mother said.

“She was never mine to abandon.”

“Michael!” Helen gasped. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Mother,” he said, desperately trying to redirect the conversation, “she needs a woman. What can I do?”

“You can be her friend,” Helen said softly, and he felt eight again, scolded for a thoughtless transgression.

“No,” he said, and his voice horrified him. He sounded like a wounded animal, pained and confused. But there was one thing he knew for certain. He couldn’t see her. Not now. Not yet.

“Michael,” his mother said.

“No,” he said again. “I will . . . Tomorrow, I’ll . . .” And he strode for the door with nothing more than a “Give her my best.”

And then he fled, coward that he was.

Chapter 4

. . . I am sure it is not worth such high drama. I do not profess to know or understand romantic love between husband and wife, but surely it is not so all-encompassing that the loss of one would destroy the other. You are stronger than you think, dear sister. You would survive quite handily without him, moot point though it may be.

—from Eloise Bridgerton

to her sister, the Countess of Kilmartin,

three weeks after Francesca’s wedding

The following month was, Michael was certain, the best approximation of hell on earth that any human being was likely to experience.

With every new ceremony, each and every document he found himself signing as Kilmartin, or “my lord” he was forced to endure, it was as if John’s spirit was being pushed farther away.

Soon, Michael thought dispassionately, it would be as if he’d never existed. Even the baby—who was to have been the last piece of John Stirling left on earth—was gone.

And everything that had been John’s was now Michael’s.

Except Francesca.

And Michael intended to keep it that way. He would not—no, he could not offer his cousin that last insult.

He’d had to see her, of course, and he’d offered his best words of comfort, but whatever he’d said, it wasn’t the right thing, and she’d just turned her head and looked at the wall.

He didn’t know what to say. Frankly, he was more relieved that she was not injured than he was upset that the baby had been lost. The mothers—his, John’s, and Francesca’s—had felt compelled to describe the gore to him in appalling detail, and one of the maids had even trotted out the bloody sheets, which someone had saved to offer as proof that Francesca had miscarried.

Lord Winston had nodded approvingly but had then added that he would have to keep an eye on the countess, just to be sure that the sheets were truly hers, and that she wasn’t actually increasing. This wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to circumvent the sacred laws of primogeniture, he’d added.

Michael had wanted to hurl the yappy little man out the window, but instead he’d merely shown him the door. He no longer had energy for that kind of anger, it seemed.

He still hadn’t moved into Kilmartin House. He wasn’t quite ready for it, and the thought of living there with all those women was suffocating. He’d have to do so soon, he knew; it was expected of the earl. But for now, he was content enough in his small suite of apartments.

And that was where he was, avoiding his duties, when Francesca finally sought him out.

“Michael?” she said, once his valet had shown her to his small sitting room.

“Francesca,” he replied, shocked at her appearance. She’d never come here before. Not when John had been alive, and certainly not after. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” she said.

The unspoken message being: You’re avoiding me.

It was the truth, of course, but all he said was, “Sit down.” And then belatedly: “Please.”

Was this improper? Her being here in his apartments? He wasn’t sure. The circumstances of their position were so odd, so completely out of order that he had no idea which rules of etiquette were currently governing them.

She sat, and did nothing but fiddle her fingers against her skirts for a full minute, and then she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his with heartbreaking intensity, and said, “I miss you.”

The walls began to close in around him. “Francesca, I—”

“You were my friend,” she said accusingly. “Besides John, you were my closest friend, and I don’t know who you are any longer.”

“I—” Oh, he felt like a fool, utterly impotent and brought down by a pair of blue eyes and a mountain of guilt.

Guilt for what, he wasn’t even certain any longer. It seemed to come from so many sources, from such a variety of directions, that he couldn’t quite keep track of it.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked. “Why do you avoid me?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, since he couldn’t lie to her and say that he wasn’t. She was too smart for that. But neither could he tell her the truth.

Her lips quivered, and then the lower one caught between her teeth. He stared at it, unable to take his eyes off her mouth, hating himself for the rush of longing that swept over him.

“You were supposed to be my friend, too,” she whispered.

“Francesca, don’t.”

“I needed you,” she said softly. “I still do.”

“No you don’t,” he replied. “You have the mothers, and all your sisters as well.”

“I don’t want to talk to my sisters,” she said, her voice growing impassioned. “They don’t understand.”

“Well, I certainly don’t understand,” he shot back, desperation lending an unpleasant edge to his voice.

She just stared at him, condemnation coloring her eyes.

“Francesca, you—” He wanted to throw up his arms but instead he just crossed them. “You—you miscarried.”

“I am aware of that,” she said tightly.

“What do I know of such things? You need to talk to a woman.”

“Can’t you say you’re sorry?”

“I did say I was sorry!”

“Can’t you mean it?”

What did she want from him? “Francesca, I did mean it.”

“I’m just so angry,” she said, her voice rising in intensity, “and I’m sad, and I’m upset, and I look at you and I don’t understand why you’re not.”

For a moment he didn’t move. “Don’t you ever say that,” he whispered.

Her eyes flashed with anger. “Well, you’ve a funny way of showing it. You never call, and you never speak to me, and you don’t understand—”

“What do you want me to understand?” he burst out. “What can I understand? For the love of—” He stopped himself before he blasphemed and turned away from her, leaning heavily on the windowsill.

Behind him Francesca just sat quietly, still as death. And then, finally, she said, “I don’t know why I came. I’ll go.”

“Don’t go,” he said hoarsely. But he didn’t turn around.

She said nothing; she wasn’t sure what he meant.

“You only just arrived,” he said, his voice halting and awkward. “You should have a cup of tea, at least.”

Francesca nodded, even though he still wasn’t looking at her.

And they remained thus for several minutes, for far too long, until she could not bear the silence any longer. The clock ticked in the corner, and her only company was Michael’s back, and all she could do was sit there and think and think and wonder why she’d come here.

What did she want from him?

And wouldn’t her life be easier if she actually knew.

“Michael,” she said, his name leaving her lips before she realized it.

He turned around. He didn’t speak, but he acknowledged her with his eyes.

“I . . .” Why had she called out to him? What did she want? “I . . .”

Still, he didn’t speak. Just stood there and waited for her to collect her thoughts, which made everything so much harder.

And then, to her horror, it spilled out. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” she said, hearing her voice break. “And I’m so angry, and . . .” She stopped, gasped—anything to halt the tears.

Across from her, Michael opened his mouth, but only barely, and even then, nothing came out.

“I don’t know why this is happening,” she whimpered. “What did I do? What did I ever do?”

“Nothing,” he assured her.

“He’s gone, and he isn’t coming back, and I’m so. . . so. . .” She looked up at him, feeling the grief and the anger etching themselves into her face. “It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that it’s me and not someone else, and it isn’t fair that it should be anyone, and it isn’t fair that I lost the—” And then she choked, and the gasps became sobs, and all she could do was cry.

“Francesca,” Michael said, kneeling at her feet. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” she sobbed, “but it doesn’t make it better.”

“No,” he murmured.

“And it doesn’t make it fair.”

“No,” he said again.

“And it doesn’t—It doesn’t—”

He didn’t try to finish the sentence for her. She wished he had; for years she wished he had, because maybe then he would have said the wrong thing, and maybe then she wouldn’t have leaned into him, and maybe then she wouldn’t have allowed him to hold her.

But oh, God, how she missed being held.

“Why did you go?” she cried. “Why can’t you help me?”

“I want to—You don’t—” And then finally he just said, “I don’t know what to say.”

She was asking too much of him. She knew it, but she didn’t care. She was just so sick of being alone.

But right then, at least for a moment, she wasn’t alone. Michael was there, and he was holding her, and she felt warm and safe for the first time in weeks. And she just cried. She cried weeks of tears. She cried for John and she cried for the baby she’d never know.

But most of all she cried for herself.

“Michael,” she said, once she’d recovered enough to speak. Her voice was still shaky, but she managed his name, and she knew she was going to have to manage more.

“Yes?”

“We can’t go on like this.”

She felt something change in him. His embrace tightened, or maybe it loosened, but something was not quite the same. “Like what?” he asked, his voice hoarse and hesitant.

She drew back so she could see him, relieved when his arms fell away, and she didn’t have to wriggle free. “Like this,” she said, even though she knew he didn’t understand. Or if he did, that he was going to pretend otherwise. “With you ignoring me,” she continued.

“Francesca, I—”

“The baby was to have been yours in a way, too,” she blurted out.

He went pale, deathly pale. So much so that for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

“What do you mean?” he whispered.

“It would have needed a father,” she said, shrugging helplessly. “I—You—It would have had to be you.”

“You have brothers,” he choked out.

“They didn’t know John. Not the way you did.”

He moved away, stood, and then, as if that weren’t enough, backed up as far as he could, all the way to the window. His eyes flared slightly, and for a moment she could have sworn that he resembled a trapped animal, cornered and terrified, waiting for the finality of the kill.

“Why are you telling me this?” he said, his voice flat and low.

“I don’t know,” she said, swallowing uncomfortably. But she did know. She wanted him to grieve as she grieved. She wanted him to hurt in every way she hurt. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t nice, but she couldn’t help it and she didn’t feel like apologizing for it, either.

“Francesca,” he said, and his tone was strange, hollow and sharp, and like nothing she’d ever heard.

She looked at him, but she moved her head slowly, scared by what she might see in his face.

“I’m not John,” he said.

“I know that.”

“I’m not John,” he said again, louder, and she wondered if he’d even heard her.

“I know.”

His eyes narrowed and focused on her with dangerous intensity. “It wasn’t my baby, and I can’t be what you need.”

And inside of her, something started to die. “Michael, I—”

“I won’t take his place,” he said, and he wasn’t shouting, but it sounded like maybe he wanted to.

“No, you couldn’t. You—”

And then, in a startling flash of motion, he was at her side, and he’d grabbed her shoulders and hauled her to her feet. “I won’t do it,” he yelled, and he was shaking her, and then holding her still, and then shaking her again. “I can’t be him. I won’t be him.”

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t form words, didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t know who he was.

He stopped shaking her, but his fingers bit into her shoulders as he stared down at her, his quicksilver eyes afire with something terrifying and sad. “You can’t ask this of me,” he gasped. “I can’t do it.”

“Michael?” she whispered, hearing something awful in her voice. Fear. “Michael, please let me go.”

He didn’t, but she wasn’t even sure he’d heard her. His eyes were lost, and he seemed beyond her, unreachable.

“Michael!” she said again, and her voice was louder, panicked.

And then, abruptly, he did as she asked, and he stumbled back, his face a portrait of self-loathing. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring at his hands as if they were foreign bodies. “I’m so sorry.”

Francesca edged toward the door. “I’d better go,” she said.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I think—” She stopped, choking on the word as she grasped the doorknob, clutching it like her salvation. “I think we had better not see each other for a while.”

He nodded jerkily.

“Maybe . . .” But she didn’t say anything more. She didn’t know what to say. If she’d known what had just happened between them she might have found some words, but for now she was too bewildered and scared to figure it all out.

Scared, but why? She certainly wasn’t scared of him. Michael would never hurt her. He’d lay down his life for her if the opportunity forced itself; she was quite sure of that.

Maybe she was just scared of tomorrow. And the day after that. She’d lost everything, and now it appeared she’d lost Michael as well, and she just wasn’t sure how she was supposed to bear it all.

“I’m going to go,” she said, giving him one last chance to stop her, to say something, to say anything that might make it all go away.

But he didn’t. He didn’t even nod. He just looked at her, his eyes silent in their agreement.

And Francesca left. She walked out the door and out of his house. And then she climbed into her carriage and went home.

And she didn’t say a word. She climbed up her stairs and she climbed into her bed.

But she didn’t cry. She kept thinking she should, kept feeling like she might like to.

But all she did was stare at the ceiling.

The ceiling, at least, didn’t mind her regard.

Back in his apartments in the Albany, Michael grabbed his bottle of whisky and poured himself a tall glass, even though a glance at the clock revealed the day to be still younger than noon.

He’d sunk to a new low, that much was clear.

But try as he might, he couldn’t figure out what else he could have done. It wasn’t as if he’d meant to hurt her, and he certainly hadn’t stopped, pondered, and decided Oh, yes, I do believe I shall act like an ass, but even though his reactions had been swift and unconsidered, he didn’t see how he might have behaved any other way.

He knew himself. He didn’t always—or these days even often—like himself, but he knew himself. And when Francesca had turned to him with those bottomless blue eyes and said, “The baby was to have been yours in a way, too,” she’d shattered him to his very soul.

She didn’t know.

She had no idea.

And as long as she remained in the dark about his feelings for her, as long as she couldn’t understand why he had no choice but to hate himself for every step he took in John’s shoes, he couldn’t be near her. Because she was going to keep saying things like that.

And he simply didn’t know how much he could take.

And so, as he stood in his study, his body taut with misery and guilt, he realized two things.

The first was easy. The whisky was doing nothing to ease his pain, and if twenty-five-year-old whisky, straight from Speyside, didn’t make him feel any better, nothing in the British Isles was going to do so.

Which led him to the second, which wasn’t easy at all. But he had to do it. Rarely had the choices in his life been so clear. Painful, but painfully clear.

And so he set down his glass, two fingers of the amber liquid remaining, and he walked down the hall to his bedchamber.

“Reivers,” he said, upon finding his valet standing at the wardrobe, carefully folding a cravat, “what do you think of India?”

Part Two

March, 1824

Four years later

Chapter 5

. . . you would enjoy it here. Not the heat, I should think; no one seems to enjoy the heat. But the rest would enchant you. The colors, the spices, the scent of the air—they can place one in a strange, sensuous haze that is at turns unsettling and intoxicating. Most of all, I think you would enjoy the pleasure gardens. They are rather like our London parks, except far more green and lush, and full of the most remarkable flowers you have ever seen. You have always loved to be out among nature; this you would adore, I am quite sure of it.

—from Michael Stirling

(the new Earl of Kilmartin)

to the Countess of Kilmartin,

one month after his arrival in India

Francesca wanted a baby.

She had for quite some time, but it was only in recent months that she’d been able to admit as much to herself, to finally put words to the sense of longing that seemed to accompany her wherever she went.

It had started innocently enough, with a little pang in her heart upon reading a letter from her brother’s wife Kate, the missive filled with news of their little girl Charlotte, soon to turn two and already incorrigible.

But the pang had grown worse, into something more akin to an ache, when her sister Daphne had arrived in Scotland for a visit, all four of her children in tow. It hadn’t occurred to Francesca just how completely a gaggle of children could transform a home. The Hastings children had altered the very essence of Kilmartin, brought to it life and laughter that Francesca realized had been sadly lacking for years.

And then they left, and all was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful.

Just empty.

From that moment on, Francesca was different. She saw a nursemaid pushing a pram, and her heart ached. She spied a rabbit hopping across a field and couldn’t help but think that she ought to be pointing it out to someone else, someone small. She traveled to Kent to spend Christmas with her family, but when night fell, and all of her nieces and nephews were tucked into bed, she felt too alone.

And all she could think was that her life was passing her by, and if she didn’t do something soon, she’d die this way.

Alone.

Not unhappy—she wasn’t that. Strangely enough, she’d grown into her widowhood and found a comfortable and contented pattern to her life. It was something she never would have believed possible during the awful months immediately following John’s death, but she had, a bit through trial and error, found a place for herself in the world. And with it, a small measure of peace.

She enjoyed her life as Countess of Kilmartin—Michael had never married, so she retained the duties as well as the title. She loved Kilmartin, and she ran it with no interference from Michael; his instructions upon leaving the country four years earlier had been that she should manage the earldom as she saw fit, and once the shock of his departure had worn off, she’d realized that that had been the most precious gift he could have bestowed upon her.

It had given her something to do, something to work toward.

A reason to stop staring at the ceiling.

She had friends, and she had family, both Stirling and Bridgerton, and she had a full life, in Scotland and London, where she spent several months of each year.

So she should have been happy. And she was, mostly.

She just wanted a baby.

It had taken some time to admit this to herself. It was a desire that seemed somewhat disloyal to John; it wouldn’t be his baby, after all, and even now, with him gone four years, it was difficult to imagine a child without his features woven across its face.

And it meant, first and foremost, that she’d have to remarry. She’d have to change her name and pledge her troth to another man, to vow to make him first in her heart and her loyalties, and while the thought of that no longer struck pain in her heart, it seemed . . . well . . . strange.

But she supposed there were some things a woman simply had to get past, and one cold February day, as she was staring out a window at Kilmartin, watching the snow slowly wrap a shroud around the tree branches, she realized that this was one of them.

There were a lot of things in life to be afraid of, but strangeness ought not be among them.

And so she decided to pack her things and head down to London a bit early this year. She generally spent the season in town, enjoying time with her family, shopping and attending musicales, taking in plays and doing all the things that simply weren’t available in the Scottish countryside. But this season would be different. She needed a new wardrobe, for one. She’d been out of mourning for some time, but she hadn’t completely shrugged off the grays and lavenders of half-mourning, and she certainly hadn’t paid the attention to fashion that a woman in her new position ought.

It was time to wear blue. Bright, beautiful, cornflower blue. It had been her favorite color years ago, and she’d been vain enough that she’d worn it fully expecting people to comment on how it matched her eyes.

She’d buy blue, and yes, pink and yellow as well, and maybe even—something in her heart shivered with anticipation at the thought—crimson.

She wasn’t an unmarried miss this time around. She was an eligible widow, and the rules were different.

But the aspirations were the same.

She was going to London to find herself a husband.

It had been too long.

Michael knew that his return to Britain was well overdue, but it had been one of those things that was appallingly easy to put off. According to his mother’s letters, which had found him with remarkable regularity, the earldom was thriving under Francesca’s stewardship. He had no dependents who might accuse him of neglect, and by all accounts, everyone he’d left behind was faring rather better in his absence than they had when he’d been around to cheer them on.

So there was nothing to feel guilty about.

But a man could only run from his destiny for so long, and as he marked his third year in the tropics, he had to admit that the novelty of an exotic life had worn off, and to be completely frank, he was growing rather sick of the climate. India had given him a purpose, a place in life that went beyond the only two things at which he’d ever excelled—soldiering and making merry. He’d boarded a ship with nothing but the name of an army friend who’d moved to Madras three years earlier. Within a month he’d obtained a governmental post and found himself making decisions that mattered, implementing laws and policies that actually shaped the lives of men.

For the first time, Michael finally understood why John had been so enamored of his work in the British Parliament.

But India hadn’t made him happy. It had given him a small measure of peace, which seemed rather paradoxical, since in the past few years he’d nearly met his demise three times, four if one counted that run-in with the knife-wielding Indian princess (Michael still maintained that he could have disarmed her without injury, but she did, he had to admit, have a rather murderous look in her eye, and he’d long since learned that one should never ever underestimate a woman who believes—however erroneously—herself scorned.)

Life-threatening episodes aside, however, his time in India had brought him a certain sense of balance. He’d finally done something for himself, made something of himself.

But most of all, India had brought him peace because he didn’t have to live with the constant knowledge that Francesca was just around the corner.

Life wasn’t necessarily better with thousands of miles between him and Francesca, but it certainly was easier.

It was past time, however, to face up to the rigors of having her in close proximity, and so he’d packed up his belongings, informed his rather relieved valet that they were going back to England, booked a luxurious starboard suite on the Princess Amelia, and headed home.

He’d have to face her, of course. There was no escaping that. He would have to look into the blue eyes that had haunted him relentlessly and try to be her friend. It was the one thing she’d wanted during the dark days after John’s death, and it had been the only thing he had been completely unable to do for her.

But maybe now, with the benefit of time and the healing power of distance, he could manage it. He wasn’t stupid enough to hope that she’d changed, that he’d see her and discover he no longer loved her—that, he was quite certain, would never happen. But Michael had finally grown used to hearing the words “Earl of Kilmartin” without looking over his shoulder for his cousin. And maybe now, with the grief no longer so raw, he could be with Francesca in friendship, without feeling as if he were a thief, plotting to steal what he’d coveted for so long.

And hopefully she, too, had moved on, and wouldn’t ask him to fulfill John’s duties in every way but one.

But all the same, he was glad that it would be March when he disembarked in London, too early in the year for Francesca to have arrived for the season.

He was a brave man; he’d proven that countless times, on and off the battlefield. But he was an honest man, too, honest enough to admit that the prospect of facing Francesca was terrifying in a way that no French battlefield or toothy tiger could ever be.

Maybe, if he was lucky, she’d choose not to come down to London for the season at all.

Wouldn’t that be a boon.

It was dark, and she couldn’t sleep, and the house was miserably cold, and the worst of it was, it was all her fault.

Oh, very well, not the dark. Francesca supposed she couldn’t take the blame for that. Night was night, after all, and she was rather overreaching to think that she had anything to do with the sun going down. But it was her fault that the household hadn’t been given adequate time to prepare for her arrival. She’d forgotten to send notice that she was planning to come down to London a month early, and as a result, Kilmartin House was still running with a skeleton staff, and the stores of coal and beeswax candles were perilously low.

All would be better on the morrow, after the house-keeper and butler made a mad dash to the Bond Street shops, but for now Francesca was shivering in her bed. It had been a miserably freezing day, with a blustery wind that made it far colder than was normal for early March. The housekeeper had attempted to move all the available coal to Francesca’s grate, but countess or no, she couldn’t allow the rest of the household to freeze at her expense. Besides, the countess’s bedchamber was immense, and it had always been difficult to heat properly unless the rest of the house was warm as well.

The library. That was it. It was small and cozy, and if Francesca shut the door, a fire in its grate would keep the room nice and toasty. Furthermore, there was a settee on which she could lie. It was small, but then again, so was she, and it couldn’t possibly be any worse than freezing to death in her bedroom.

Her decision made, Francesca leapt out of bed and dashed through the cold night air to her nightrobe, which was lying across the back of a chair. It wasn’t nearly warm enough—Francesca hadn’t thought to need anything bulkier—but it was better than nothing, and, she thought rather stoically, beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially when their toes were falling off with cold.

She hurried downstairs, her heavy wool socks slipping and sliding on the polished steps. She tumbled down the last two, thankfully landing on her feet, then ran along the runner carpet to the library.

“Fire fire fire,” she mumbled to herself. She’d ring for someone just as soon as she got to the library. They’d have a blaze roaring in no time. She’d regain feeling in her nose, her fingertips would lose that sickly blue color and—

She pushed open the door.

A short, staccato scream hurled itself across her lips. There was already a fire in the grate, and a man standing in front of it, idly warming his hands.

Francesca reached wildly for something—anything—that she might use as a weapon.

And then he turned.

“Michael?”

He hadn’t known she’d be in London. Damn it, he hadn’t even considered that she might be in London. Not that it would have made any difference, but at least he’d have been prepared. He might have schooled his features into a saturnine smirk, or at the very least made sure that he was impeccably dressed and wholeheartedly immersed in his role as the unrecoverable rake.

But no, there he was, just gaping at her, trying not to notice that she was wearing nothing but a dark crimson nightgown and dressing robe, so thin and sheer that he could see the outline of—

He gulped. Don’t look. Do not look.

“Michael?” she whispered again.

“Francesca,” he said, since he had to say something. “What are you doing here?”

And that seemed to snap her into thought and motion. “What am I doing here?” she echoed. “I’m not the one who’s meant to be in India. What are you doing here?”

He shrugged carelessly. “Thought it was time to come home.”

“Couldn’t you have written?”

“To you?” he asked, quirking a brow. It was, and was meant to be, a direct hit. She hadn’t penned him a single letter during his travels. He had sent her three letters, but once it became apparent that she didn’t plan to answer, he’d conducted the rest of his correspondence through his mother and John’s.

“To anyone,” she replied. “Someone would have been here to greet you.”

“You’re here,” he pointed out.

She scowled at him. “If we’d known you were coming, we would have readied the house for you.”

He shrugged again. The motion seemed to embody the image he desperately needed to convey. “It’s ready enough.”

She hugged her arms to her body, effectively blocking his view of her breasts, which, he had to concede, was probably for the best. “Well, you might have written,” she finally said, her voice hanging sharp in the night air. “It would only have been courteous.”

“Francesca,” he said, turning slightly away from her so that he could continue to rub his hands together by the fire, “do you have any idea how long it takes for mail to reach London from India?”

“Five months,” she answered promptly. “Four, if the winds are kind.”

Damn it, she was right. “Be that as it may,” he said peevishly, “by the time I decided to return, there was little use in attempting forward notice. The letter would have gone out on the same ship I did.”

“Really? I thought the passenger vessels were slower than the ones that take the mail.”

He sighed, glancing at her over his shoulder. “They all take the mail. And besides, does it really matter?”

For a moment he thought she would answer in the affirmative, but then she said quietly, “No, of course not. The important thing is that you’re home. Your mother will be thrilled.”

He turned away so that she wouldn’t see his humorless smile. “Yes,” he murmured, “of course.”

“And I—” She stopped, cleared her throat. “I am delighted to have you back as well.”

She sounded as if she were trying very hard to convince herself of this, but Michael decided to play the gentleman for once and not point it out. “Are you cold?” he asked instead.

“Not very,” she said.

“You’re lying.”

“Just a little.”

He stepped to the side, making room for her closer to the fire. When he didn’t hear her move toward him, he motioned toward the empty space with his hand.

“I should go back to my room,” she said.

“For God’s sake, Francesca, if you’re cold, just come to the fire. I won’t bite.”

She gritted her teeth and stepped forward, joining him near the blaze. But she kept herself somewhat off to the side, maintaining a bit of distance between them. “You look well,” she said.

“As do you.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“I know. Four years, I believe.”

Francesca swallowed, wishing this weren’t so difficult. This was Michael, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t supposed to be difficult. Yes, they’d parted badly, but that had been in the dark days immediately following John’s death. They’d all been in pain then, wounded animals lashing out at anyone in their way. It was supposed to be different now. Heaven knew she’d thought of this moment often enough. Michael couldn’t stay away forever, they’d all known that. But once her initial anger had passed, she’d rather hoped that when he did return, they’d be able to forget that anything unpleasant had ever passed between them.

And be friends again. She needed that, more than she’d ever realized.

“Do you have any plans?” she asked, mostly because the silence was too awful.

“For now, all I can think about is getting warm,” he muttered.

She smiled in spite of herself. “It is exceptionally chilly for this time of year.”

“I’d forgotten how damnably cold it can be here,” he grumbled, rubbing his hands together briskly.

“One would think you’d never escape the memory of a Scottish winter,” Francesca murmured.

He turned to her then, a wry smile tilting one corner of his mouth. He’d changed, she realized. Oh, there were the obvious differences—the ones everyone would notice. He was tan, quite scandalously so, and his hair, always midnight black, now sported a few odd strands of silver.

But there was more. He held his mouth differently, more tightly, if that made any sense, and his smooth, lanky grace seemed to have gone missing. He had always seemed so at ease, so comfortable in his skin, but now he was . . . taut.

Strained.

“You’d think,” he murmured, and she just looked at him blankly, having quite forgotten what he was replying to until he added, “I came home because I couldn’t stand the heat any longer, and now here I am, ready to perish from the cold.”

“It will be spring soon,” she said.

“Ah yes, spring. With its merely frigid winds, as opposed to the icy ones of winter.”

She laughed at that, absurdly pleased to have anything to laugh about in his presence. “The house will be better tomorrow,” she said. “I only just arrived this evening, and like you, I neglected to send advance notice. Mrs. Parrish assures me that the house will be restocked tomorrow.”

He nodded, then turned around to warm his back. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?”

He motioned to the empty room, as if to make a point. “I live here,” she said.

“You usually don’t come down until April.”

“You know that?”

For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed. “My mother’s letters are remarkably detailed,” he said.

She shrugged, then inched a little closer to the fire. She ought not stand so near to him, but dash it, she was still rather cold, and her thin nightrobe did little to ward off the chill.

“Is that an answer?” he drawled.

“I just felt like it,” she said insolently. “Isn’t that a lady’s prerogative?”

He turned again, presumably to warm his side, and then he was facing her.

And he seemed terribly close.

She moved, just an inch or so; she didn’t want him to realize she’d been made uncomfortable by his nearness.

Nor did she want to admit the very same thing to herself.

“I thought it was a lady’s prerogative to change her mind,” he said.

“It’s a lady’s prerogative to do anything she wants,” Francesca said pertly.

“Touché,” Michael murmured. He looked at her again, more closely this time. “You haven’t changed.”

Her lips parted. “How can you say that?”

“Because you look exactly as I remembered you.” And then, devilishly, he motioned toward her revealing nightwear. “Aside from your attire, of course.”

She gasped and stepped back, wrapping her arms more tightly around her body.

It was a bit sick of him, but he was rather pleased with himself for having offended her. He’d needed her to step away, to move out of his reach. She was going to have to set the boundaries.

Because he wasn’t sure he’d prove up to the task.

He’d been lying when he’d said she hadn’t changed. There was something different about her, something entirely unexpected.

Something that shook him down to his very soul.

It was a sense about her—all in his mind, really, but no less devastating. There was an air of availability, a horrible, torturous knowledge that John was gone, really, truly gone, and the only thing stopping Michael from reaching out and touching her was his own conscience.

It was almost funny.

Almost.

And there she was, still without a clue, still completely unaware that the man standing next to her wanted nothing so much than to peel every layer of silk from her body and lay her down in front of the fire. He wanted to nudge her thighs apart, sink himself into her, and—

He laughed grimly. Four years, it seemed, had done little to cool his inappropriate ardor.

“Michael?”

He looked over at her.

“What’s so funny?”

Her question, that’s what. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” she dared.

“Oh, I think not.”

“Michael,” she prodded.

He turned to her and said with deliberate coolness, “Francesca, there are some things you will never understand.”

Her lips parted, and for a moment she looked as if she’d been struck.

And he felt as horrid as if he’d done so.

“That was a terrible thing to say,” she whispered.

He shrugged.

“You’ve changed,” she said.

The sad thing was, he hadn’t. Not in any of the ways that might have made his life easier to bear. He sighed, hating himself because he couldn’t bear to have her hate him. “Forgive me,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I’m tired, and I’m cold, and I’m an ass.”

She grinned at that, and for a moment they were transported back in time. “It’s all right,” she said kindly, touching his upper arm. “You’ve had a long journey.”

He sucked in his breath. She used to do this all the time—touch his arm in friendship. Never in public, of course, and rarely even when it had just been the two of them. John would have been there; John was always there. And it had always—always—shaken him.

But never so much as now.

“I need to go to bed,” he mumbled. He was usually a master at hiding his unease, but he just hadn’t been prepared to see her this evening, and beyond that, he was damned tired.

She withdrew her hand. “There won’t be a room ready for you. You should take mine. I’ll sleep here.”

“No,” he said, with far more force than he’d intended. “I’ll sleep here, or . . . hell,” he muttered, striding across the room to yank on the bellpull. What the devil was the point of being the bloody Earl of Kilmartin if you couldn’t have a bedchamber readied at any hour of the night?

Besides, ringing the bell would mean that a servant would arrive within minutes, which would mean that he would no longer be standing here alone with Francesca.

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been alone together before, but never at night, and never with her in her nightgown, and—

He yanked the cord again.

“Michael,” she said, sounding almost amused. “I’m sure they heard you the first time.”

“Yes, well, it’s been a long day,” he said. “Storm in the Channel and all that.”

“You’ll have to tell me of your travels soon,” she said gently.

He looked over at her, lifting a brow. “I would have written to you of them.”

Her lips pursed for a moment. It was an expression he’d seen countless times on her face. She was choosing her words, deciding whether or not to spear him with her legendary wit.

And apparently she decided against it, because instead she said, “I was rather angry with you for leaving.”

He sucked in his breath. Trust Francesca to choose stark honesty over a scathing retort.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it, even though he wouldn’t have changed any of his actions. He’d needed to leave. He’d had to leave. Maybe it meant he was a coward; maybe it meant he’d been less of a man. But he hadn’t been ready to be the earl. He wasn’t John, could never be John. And that was the one thing everyone had seemed to want of him.

Even Francesca, in her own halfway sort of manner.

He looked at her. He was quite sure she still didn’t understand why he’d left. She probably thought she did, but how could she? She didn’t know that he loved her, couldn’t possibly understand how damned guilty he felt at assuming John’s life.

But none of that was her fault. And as he looked at her, standing fragile and proud as she stared at the fire, he said it again.

“I’m sorry.”

She acknowledged his apology with the barest hint of a nod. “I should have written to you,” she said. She turned to him then, her eyes filled with sorrow and perhaps a hint of their own apology. “But the truth was, I just didn’t feel like it. Thinking of you made me think of John, and I suppose I needed not to think of him so much just then.”

Michael didn’t pretend to understand, but he nodded nonetheless.

She smiled wistfully. “We had such fun, the three of us, didn’t we?”

He nodded again. “I miss him,” he said, and he was surprised by how good it felt to voice that.

“I always thought it would be so lovely when you finally married,” Francesca added. “You would have chosen someone brilliant and fun, I’m sure. What grand times the four of us would have had.”

Michael coughed. It seemed the best course of action.

She looked up, broken from her reverie. “Are you catching a chill?”

“Probably. I’ll be at death’s door by Saturday, I’m sure.”

She arched a brow. “I hope you don’t expect me to nurse you.”

Just the opening he needed to move their banter back to where he felt most comfortable. “Not necessary,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I shouldn’t need more than three days to attract a bevy of unsuitable women to attend to my every need.”

Her lips pinched slightly, but she was clearly amused. “The same as ever, I see.”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “No one ever really changes, Francesca.”

She cocked her head to the side, motioning to the hall, where they could hear someone moving toward them on swift feet. The footman arrived, and Francesca took care of everything, allowing Michael to do nothing but stand by the fire, looking vaguely imperial as he nodded his agreement.

“Good night, Michael,” she said, once the footman had left to do her bidding.

“Good night, Francesca,” he said softly.

“It’s good to see you again,” she said. And then, as if she needed to convince one of them of it—he wasn’t sure which, she added, “It truly is.”

Chapter 6

. . . I’m sorry I haven’t written. No, that’s not true. I’m not sorry. I don’t wish to write. I don’t wish to think of—

—from the Countess of Kilmartin

to the new Earl of Kilmartin,

one day after the receipt

of his first missive to her,

torn to bits, then soaked with tears

By the time Michael arose the next morning, Kilmartin House seemed to be back up and running as befitted the home of an earl. There were fires in every grate, and a splendid breakfast had been laid out in the informal dining room, with coddled eggs, ham, bacon, sausage, toast with butter and marmalade, and his own personal favorite, broiled mackerel.

Francesca, however, was nowhere to be found.

When he inquired after her, he was given a folded note she’d left for him earlier that morning. It seemed she felt that tongues might wag at their living alone together at Kilmartin House, and so she had removed herself to her mother’s residence at Number Five, Bruton Street, until either Janet or Helen arrived down from Scotland. She did, however, invite him to call upon her that day, as she was certain they had much to discuss.

And Michael supposed she was right, so once he’d finished with his breakfast (finding, much to his great surprise, that he rather missed the yogurts and dosas of his Indian morning meal), he stepped outside and made his way to Number Five.

He elected to walk; it wasn’t very far, and the air had warmed appreciably since the icy gusts of the day before. But mostly, he just wanted to take in the cityscape, to remind himself of the rhythms of London. He’d never noticed the particular smells and sounds of the capital before, how the clip-clop of horses’ hooves combined with the festive shout of the flower seller and low rumble of cultured voices. There was the sound of his feet on the pavement, and smell of roasting nuts, and the vague heft of soot in the air, all combining to make something that was uniquely London.

It was almost overpowering, which was strange, because he remembered feeling precisely the same way upon landing in India four years earlier. The humid air, redolent with spice and flowers, had shocked his every sense. It had felt almost like an assault, leaving him drowsy and disoriented. And while his reaction to London wasn’t quite that dramatic, he still felt rather like the odd man out, his senses buffeted by smells and sounds that shouldn’t have felt so unfamiliar.

Had he become a stranger in his own land? It seemed almost bizarre, and yet, as he walked along the crowded streets of London’s most exclusive shopping district, he couldn’t help but think that he stood out, that anyone glancing upon him must instantly know that he was different, removed from their very British existence.

Or, he allowed, as he caught sight of his reflection in a shop window, it could be the tan.

It would take weeks to fade. Months, maybe.

His mother was going to be scandalized.

The thought of it made him grin. He rather enjoyed scandalizing his mother. He’d never be so grown up that that ceased to be fun.

He turned on Bruton Street and walked past the last few homes to Number Five. He’d been there before, of course. Francesca’s mother had always defined the word “family” in the widest of all possible manners, so Michael had found himself invited along with John and Francesca to any number of Bridgerton family events.

When he arrived, Lady Bridgerton was already in the green-and-cream drawing room, taking a cup of tea at her writing desk under the window. “Michael!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet with obvious affection. “How good to see you!”

“Lady Bridgerton,” he said, taking her hand and gracing it with a gallant kiss.

“No one does that like you,” she said approvingly.

“One has to cultivate one’s best maneuvers,” he murmured.

“And I can’t tell you how much we ladies of a certain age appreciate your doing so.”

“A certain age being . . .” He smiled devilishly. “. . . one and thirty?”

Lady Bridgerton was the sort of woman who grew lovelier with age, but the smile she gave him made her positively radiant. “You are always welcome in this house, Michael Stirling.”

He grinned and sat in a high-backed chair when she motioned for him to do so.

“Oh, dear,” she said with a slight frown. “I must apologize. I suppose I should be calling you Kilmartin now.”

“ ‘Michael’ is just fine,” he assured her.

“I know that it’s been four years,” she continued, “but as I haven’t seen you . . .”

“You may call me anything you wish,” he said smoothly. It was strange. He’d finally grown used to being called Kilmartin, adapted to the way his title had overtaken his surname. But that had been in India, where no one had known him as plain Mr. Stirling, and perhaps more importantly, no one had known John as the earl. Hearing his title on Violet Bridgerton’s lips was a little unnerving, especially since she had, as was the custom for many mothers-in-law, habitually referred to John as her son.

But if she sensed any of his inner discomfort, she gave no indication. “If you are going to be so accommodating,” she said, “then I must be as well. Please do call me Violet. It’s well past time that you did.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” he said quickly. And he meant it. This was Lady Bridgerton. She was . . . Well, he didn’t know what she was, but she couldn’t possibly be Violet to him.

“I insist, Michael,” she said, “and I’m certain you’re already aware that I usually get my way.”

There was no way he was going to win the argument, so he just sighed and said, “I don’t know if I can kiss the hand of a Violet. It seems rather scandalously intimate, don’t you think?”

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Tongues will wag,” he warned her.

“I believe my reputation can withstand it.”

“Ah, but can mine?”

She laughed. “You are a rascal.”

He leaned back in his chair. “It serves me well.”

“Would you care for tea?” She motioned to the delicate china pot on the desk across the room. “Mine has gone cold, but I would be happy to ring for more.”

“I’d love some,” he admitted.

“I suppose you’re spoiled for it now, after so many years in India,” she said, standing and crossing the room to ring the bellpull.

“It’s just not the same,” he said, quickly rising to his feet as well. “I can’t explain it, but nothing tastes quite like tea in England.”

“The quality of the water, do you think?”

He smiled stealthily. “The quality of the woman pouring.”

She laughed. “You, my lord, need a wife. Immediately.”

“Oh, really? And why is that?”

“Because in your present state, you are clearly a danger to unmarried women everywhere.”

He couldn’t resist one last flirtation. “I hope you are including yourself in those ranks, Violet.”

And then a voice from the door: “Are you flirting with my mother?”

It was Francesca, of course, impeccably turned out in a lavender morning dress adorned with a rather intricate stretch of Belgian lace. She looked as if she were very much trying to be stern with him.

And not entirely succeeding.

Michael allowed his lips to curve into a mysterious smile as he watched the two ladies take their seats. “I have traveled the world over, Francesca, and can say without qualification that there are few women with whom I’d rather flirt than your mother.”

“I am inviting you to supper right now,” Violet announced, “and I will not accept no for an answer.”

Michael chuckled. “I’d be honored.”

Across from him, Francesca murmured, “You are incorrigible.”

He just flashed her a lanky grin. This was good, he decided. The morning was proceeding exactly as he’d hoped, with he and Francesca falling into their old roles and habits. He was once again the reckless charmer and she was pretending to scold him, and all was as it had been back before John had died.

He’d been surprised last night. He hadn’t expected to see her. And he hadn’t been able to make sure that his public persona was firmly in place.

And it wasn’t as if it all was an act. He’d always been a bit reckless, and he probably was an irredeemable flirt. His mother certainly liked to say that he’d been charming the ladies since the age of four.

It was just that when he was with Francesca it was vitally important that that aspect of his personality remained at the forefront, so that she never suspected what lay underneath.

“What are your plans now that you are returned?” Violet asked.

Michael turned to her with what he knew had to be a blank expression. “I’m not certain, actually,” he said, ashamed to admit to himself that that was true. “I imagine it will take me some time to understand just what exactly is expected of me in my new role.”

“I’m sure Francesca can be of help in that quarter,” Violet said.

“Only if she wishes it,” Michael said quietly.

“Of course,” Francesca said, moving slightly to the side when a maid came in with a tea tray. “I will assist you in any way you need.”

“That was rather quick,” Michael murmured.

“I’m mad for tea,” Violet explained. “Drink it all day long. The maids keep water to near boiling on the stove at all times now.”

“Will you have some?” Francesca asked, since she had taken charge of pouring.

“Yes, thank you,” Michael replied.

“No one knows Kilmartin as Francesca does,” Violet said, with all the pride of a mother hen. “She will prove invaluable to you.”

“I am quite sure that you are correct,” Michael said, accepting a cup from Francesca. She had remembered how he took it—milk, no sugar. For some reason this pleased him immensely. “She has been the countess for six years, and for four of them, she has had to be the earl as well.” At Francesca’s startled glance, he added, “In every way but in name. Oh, come now, Francesca, you must realize that it is true.”

“I—”

“And,” he added, “that it is a compliment. I owe you a greater debt than I could ever repay. I could not have stayed away so long had I not known that the earldom was in such capable hands.”

Francesca actually blushed, which surprised him. In all the years he’d known her, he could count on one hand the times he had seen her cheeks go pink.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. “It was no difficulty, I assure you.”

“Perhaps, but it is appreciated all the same.” He lifted his teacup to his lips, allowing the ladies to direct the conversation from there.

Which they did. Violet asked him about his time in India, and before he knew it he was telling them of palaces and princesses, caravans and curries. He left out the marauders and malaria, deciding they weren’t quite the thing for a drawing-room conversation.

After a while he realized that he was enjoying himself immensely. Maybe, he thought, reflecting on the moment as Violet said something about an Indian-themed ball she’d attended the year before, just maybe he’d made the right decision.

It might actually be good to be home.

An hour later, Francesca found herself on Michael’s arm, strolling through Hyde Park. The sun had broken through the clouds, and when she had declared that she could not resist the fine weather, Michael had had no choice but to offer to accompany her for a walk.

“It’s rather like old times,” she said, tilting her face up toward the sun. She’d most likely end up with a ghastly tan, or at the very least freckles, but she supposed she’d always look like pale porcelain next to Michael, whose skin marked him immediately as a recent returnee from the tropics.

“Walking, you mean?” he asked. “Or your expertly maneuvering me into accompanying you?”

She tried to maintain a straight face. “Both, of course. You used to take me out a great deal. Whenever John was busy.”

“So I did.”

They walked on in silence for a few moments, and then he said, “I was a bit surprised to find you gone this morning.”

“I hope you understand why I had to leave,” she said. “I didn’t want to, of course; returning to my mother’s home makes me feel as if I’m stepping right back into childhood.” She felt her lips pinching together in distaste. “I adore her, of course, but I’ve grown rather used to maintaining my own household.”

“Would you like me to take up residence elsewhere?”

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “You are the earl. Kilmartin House belongs to you. Besides, Helen and Janet are only a week behind me; they should arrive soon, and then I will be able to move back in.”

“Chin up, Francesca. I’m sure you will endure.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “It is nothing that you—or any man, for that matter—will understand, but I much prefer my status as a married woman to that of a debutante. When I’m at Number Five, with both Eloise and Hyacinth in residence, I feel as if I’m back in my first season, with all the attendant rules and regulations.”

“Not all of them,” he pointed out. “If that were true, you’d not be allowed out with me right now.”

“True,” she acceded. “Especially with you, I imagine.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

She laughed. “Oh, come now, Michael. Did you really think that your reputation would find itself whitewashed just because you left the country for four years?”

“Francesca—”

“You’re a legend.”

He looked aghast.

“It’s true,” she said, wondering why he was so surprised. “Goodness, women are still talking about you.”

“Not to you, I hope,” he muttered.

“Oh, to me above all others.” She grinned wickedly. “They all want to know when you plan to return. And it’s sure to be worse once word gets out that you’re back. I must say, it’s rather an odd role—confidante to London’s most notorious rake.”

“Confidante, eh?”

“What else would you call it?”

“No, no, confidante is a perfectly appropriate word. It’s just that if you think I’ve confided everything in you . . .”

Francesca shot him a cross expression. This was so like him, letting his words trail off meaningfully, leaving her imagination feverish with questions. “I take it then,” she muttered, “that you did not share with us all the news from India.”

He just smiled. Devilishly.

“Very well. Allow me, then, to move the conversation to more respectable areas. What do you plan to do now that you are back? Will you take up your seat in Parliament?”

He appeared not to have considered that.

“It is what John would have wanted,” she said, knowing that she was being fiendishly manipulative.

Michael looked at her grimly, and his eyes told her that he did not appreciate her tactics.

“You will have to marry as well,” Francesca said.

“Do you plan to take on the role of my matchmaker?” he asked peevishly.

She shrugged. “If you desire it. I’m sure I couldn’t possibly do a worse job of it than you.”

“Good God,” he grumbled, “I’ve been back one day. Do we need to address this now?”

“No, of course not,” she allowed. “But soon. You’re not getting any younger.”

Michael just stared at her in shock. “I can’t imagine permitting anyone else to speak to me in such a manner.”

“Don’t forget your mother,” she said with a satisfied smile.

“You,” he said rather forcefully, “are not my mother.”

“Thank heavens for that,” she returned. “I’d have expired of heart failure years ago. I don’t know how she does it.”

He actually halted in his tracks. “I’m not that bad.”

She shrugged delicately. “Aren’t you?”

And he was speechless. Absolutely speechless. It was a conversation they’d had countless times, but something was different now. There was an edge to her voice, a jab to her words that had never quite been there before.

Or maybe it was just that he’d never noticed it.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked, Michael,” she said, reaching across her body and patting him lightly on the arm. “Of course you have a terrible reputation. But you are endlessly charming, and so you are always forgiven.”

Was this how she saw him, he wondered. And why was he surprised? It was exactly the image he’d cultivated.

“And now that you are the earl,” she continued, “the mamas shall be falling all over themselves to pair you with their precious daughters.”

“I feel afraid,” he said under his breath. “Very afraid.”

“You should,” she said, with no sympathy whatsoever. “It will be a feeding frenzy, I assure you. You are fortunate that I took my mother aside this morning and made her swear not to throw Eloise or Hyacinth in your path. She would do it, too,” she added, clearly relishing the conversation.

“I seem to recall that you used to find joy in throwing your sisters in my path.”

Her lips twisted slightly. “That was years ago,” she said, swishing her hand through the air as if she could wave his words away on the wind. “You would never suit.”

He’d never had any desire to court either of her sisters, but nor could he resist the chance to give Francesca a wee verbal poke. “Eloise,” he queried, “or Hyacinth?”

“Neither,” she replied, with enough testiness to make him smile. “But I shall find you someone, do not fret.”

“Was I fretting?”

She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I think I shall introduce you to Eloise’s friend Penelope.”

“Miss Featherington?” he asked, vaguely recalling a slightly pudgy girl who never spoke.

“She’s my friend as well, of course,” Francesca added. “I believe you might like her.”

“Has she learned to speak?”

She glared at him. “I’m going to ignore that comment. Penelope is a perfectly lovely and highly intelligent lady once one gets past her initial shyness.”

“And how long does that take?” he muttered.

“I think she would balance you quite nicely,” Francesca declared.

“Francesca,” he said, somewhat forcefully, “you will not play matchmaker for me. Is that understood?”

“Well, some—”

“And don’t you say that someone has to,” he cut in. Really, she was the same open book she’d been years ago. She’d always wanted to manage his life.

“Michael,” she said, the word coming out as a sigh that was far more long-suffering than she had a right to be.

“I have been back in town for one day,” he said. “One day. I am tired, and I don’t care if the sun is out—I’m still bloody cold, and my belongings haven’t even been unpacked. Pray give me at least a week before you start planning my wedding.”

“A week, then?” she said slyly.

“Francesca,” he said, his voice laced with warning.

“Very well,” she said dismissively. “But don’t you dare say I didn’t warn you. Once you are out in society, and the young ladies have you backed into a corner with their mamas coming in for the kill—”

He shuddered at the image. And at the knowledge that her prediction was probably correct.

“—you will be begging for my help,” she finished, looking up at him with a rather annoyingly satisfied expression.

“I’m sure I will,” he said, giving her a paternalistic smile that he knew she’d detest. “And when that happens, I promise you that I shall be duly prostrate with regretfulness, atonement, shamefacedness, and any other unpleasant emotion you care to assign to me.”

And then she laughed, which warmed his heart far more than he should have let it. He could always make her laugh.

She turned to him and smiled, then patted his arm. “It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” he said. He’d said the words automatically, but he realized he’d meant them. It was good. Difficult, but good. But even difficult wasn’t worth complaining over. It was certainly nothing he wasn’t used to.

They were fairly deep in Hyde Park now, and the grounds were growing a bit more crowded. The trees were only just beginning to bud, but the air was still nippy enough that the people out strolling weren’t looking for shade.

“I should have brought bread for the birds,” Francesca murmured.

“At the Serpentine?” Michael asked with surprise. He’d often walked in Hyde Park with Francesca, and they had tended to avoid that area of the Serpentine’s banks like the plague. It was always full of nursemaids and children, shrieking like little savages (often the nursemaids more so than the children) and Michael had at least one acquaintance who had found himself pelted in the head with a loaf of bread.

Seems no one had told the budding little cricket player that one was supposed to break the bread into more manageable—and less hazardous—segments.

“I like to toss bread in for the birds,” Francesca said, a touch defensively. “Besides, there won’t be too many children about today. It’s still a bit cold yet.”

“Never stopped John and me,” Michael offered gamely.

“Yes, well, you’re Scottish,” she returned. “Your blood circulates quite well half frozen.”

He grinned. “A hearty lot, we Scots.” It was a bit of a joke, that. With so much intermarriage, the family was at least as much English as it was Scottish, perhaps even more so, but with Kilmartin firmly situated in the border counties, the Stirlings clung to their Scottish heritage like a badge of honor.

They found a bench not too far from the Serpentine and sat, idly watching the ducks on the water.

“You’d think they’d find a warmer spot,” Michael said. “France, maybe.”

“And miss out on all the food the children toss at them?” Francesca smiled wryly. “They’re not stupid.”

He just shrugged. Far be it from him to pretend any great knowledge of avian behavior.

“How did you find the climate in India?” Francesca queried. “Is it as hot as they say?”

“More so,” he replied. “Or maybe not. I don’t know. I imagine the descriptions are perfectly accurate. The problem is, no Englishman can truly understand what they mean until he gets there.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“It’s hotter than you could ever imagine,” he said, spelling it out.

“It sounds . . . Well, I don’t know how it sounds,” she admitted.

“The heat isn’t nearly so difficult as the insects.”

“It sounds dreadful,” Francesca decided.

“You probably wouldn’t like it. Not for an extended stay, anyway.”

“I’d like to travel, though,” she said softly. “I’d always planned to.”

She fell silent, nodding in a rather absentminded manner, her chin tilting up and down for so long that he was quite sure she’d forgotten she was doing it. Then he realized that her eyes were fixed off in the distance. She was watching something, but for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what. There was nothing interesting in the vista, just a pinchfaced nursemaid pushing a pram.

“What are you looking at?” he finally asked.

She said nothing, just continued to stare.

“Francesca?”

She turned to him. “I want a baby.”

Chapter 7

. . . had hoped to have received a note from you by now, but of course the post is notoriously unreliable when it must travel so far. Just last week I heard tale of the arrival of a mail pouch that was a full two years old; many of the recipients had already returned to England. My mother writes that you are well and fully recovered from your ordeal; I am glad to hear of it. My work here continues to challenge and fulfill. I have taken up residence outside the city proper, as do most Europeans here in Madras. Nonetheless, I enjoy visiting the city; it is rather Grecian in appearance; or rather, what I must imagine is Grecian, having never visited that country myself. The sky is blue, so blue it is nearly blinding, almost the bluest thing I have ever seen.

—from the Earl of Kilmartin

to the Countess of Kilmartin,

six months after his arrival in India

“I beg your pardon?”

She’d shocked him. He was sputtering, even. She hadn’t made her announcement to elicit this sort of reaction, but now that he was sitting there, his mouth hanging open and slack, she couldn’t help but take a small amount of pleasure from the moment.

“I want a baby,” she said with a shrug. “Is there something surprising in that?”

His lips moved before he actually made sound. “Well . . . no . . . but . . .”

“I’m twenty-six.”

“I know how old you are,” he said, a little testily.

“I’ll be twenty-seven at the end of April. I don’t think it’s so odd that I might want a child.”

His eyes still held a vaguely glazed sort of quality. “No, of course not, but—”

“And I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you!”

“I wasn’t asking you to,” he said, staring at her as if she’d grown two heads.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I overreacted.”

He said nothing, which irritated her. At the very least, he could have contradicted her. It would have been a lie, but it was still the kind and courteous thing to do.

Finally, because the silence was simply unbearable, she muttered, “A lot of women want children.”

“Right,” he said, coughing on the word. “Of course. But . . . don’t you think you might want a husband first?”

“Of course.” She speared him with an aggravated glare. “Why do you think I came down to London early?”

He looked at her blankly.

“I am shopping for a husband,” she said, speaking to him as if he were a halfwit.

“How mercenarily put,” he murmured.

She pursed her lips. “It’s what it is. And you had probably best get used to it for your own sake. It’s precisely how the ladies will soon be talking about you.”

He ignored the latter part of her statement. “Do you have a particular gentleman in mind?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I imagine someone will pop to the forefront once I start looking, though.” She was trying to sound jolly about it, but the truth was, her voice was dropping in both tone and volume. “I’m sure my brothers have friends,” she finally mumbled.

He looked at her, then slumped back slightly and stared at the water.

“I’ve shocked you,” she said.

“Well . . . yes.”

“Normally, I’d take great pleasure in that,” she said, her lips twisting ironically.

He didn’t reply, but he did roll his eyes slightly.

“I can’t mourn John forever,” she said. “I mean, I can, and I will, but . . .” She stopped, hating that she was near tears. “And the worst part of it is, maybe I can’t even have children. It took me two years to conceive with John, and look how I mucked that up.”

“Francesca,” he said fiercely, “you mustn’t blame yourself for the miscarriage.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Can you imagine? Marrying someone just so I could have a baby and then not having one?”

“It happens to people all the time,” he said softly.

It was true, but it didn’t make her feel any better. She had a choice. She didn’t have to marry; she would be quite well provided for—and blessedly independent—if she remained a widow. If she married—no, when she married—she had to mentally commit to the idea—it wouldn’t be for love. She wasn’t going to have a marriage like the one she’d shared with John; a woman simply didn’t find love like that twice in a lifetime.

She was going to marry for a baby, and there was no guarantee that she would get one.

“Francesca?”

She didn’t look at him, just sat there and blinked, desperately trying to ignore the tears burning at the corners of her eyes.

Michael held out a handkerchief, but she didn’t want to acknowledge the gesture. If she took the cloth, then she’d have to cry. There would be nothing stopping her.

“I must move on,” she said defiantly. “I must. John is gone, and I—”

And then the strangest thing happened. Except strange wasn’t really the right word. Shocking, perhaps, or altering, or maybe there wasn’t a word for the type of surprise that stole the pulse from one’s body, leaving one immobile, unable to breathe.

She turned to him. It should have been a simple thing. She’d certainly turned to Michael before, hundreds . . . no, thousands of times. He might have spent the last four years in India, but she knew his face, and she knew his smile. In truth, she knew everything about him—

Except this time was different. She turned to him, but she hadn’t expected him to have already turned to her. And she hadn’t expected him to be so close that she’d see the charcoal flecks in his eyes.

But most of all, she hadn’t expected her gaze to drop to his lips. They were full, and lush, and finely molded, and she knew the shape as well as the shape of her own, except never before had she really looked at them, noticed the way they weren’t quite uniform in color, or how the curve of his lower lip was really quite sensual, and—

She stood. So quickly that she nearly lost her balance. “I have to go,” she said, stunned that her voice sounded like her own and not some freakish demon. “I have an appointment. I’d forgotten.”

“Of course,” he said, standing beside her.

“With the dressmaker,” she added, as if details would make her lie more convincing. “All my clothes are in half-mourning colors.”

He nodded. “They don’t suit you.”

“Kind of you to point it out,” she said testily.

“You should wear blue,” he said.

She nodded jerkily, still off balance and out of sorts.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she bit off. And then, because no one would ever have been fooled by her tone, she added, more carefully, “I’m fine. I assure you. I simply detest being tardy.” That much was true, and he knew it of her, so hopefully he’d accept it as reason for her snappishness.

“Very well,” he said collegially, and Francesca chattered all the way back to Number Five. She had to put up a good front, she realized rather feverishly. She couldn’t possibly allow him to guess what had really transpired within her on the bench by the Serpentine.

She had known, of course, that Michael was handsome, even startlingly so. But it had all been an abstract sort of knowledge. Michael was handsome, just as her brother Benedict was tall, and her mother had beautiful eyes.

But suddenly . . . But now . . .

She’d looked at him, and she’d seen something entirely new.

She’d seen a man.

And it scared the very devil out of her.

Francesca tended to subscribe to the notion that the best course of action was more action, so when she returned to Number Five after her stroll, she sought out her mother and informed her that she needed to visit the modiste immediately. Best to make truth out of her lie as soon as possible, after all.

Her mother was only too delighted to see Francesca out of her half-mourning grays and lavenders, and so barely an hour passed before the two of them were comfortably ensconced in Violet’s elegant carriage, on their way to the exclusive shops on Bond Street. Normally, Francesca would have bristled at Violet’s interference; she was perfectly capable of picking out her own wardrobe, thank you very much, but today she found her mother’s presence oddly comforting.

Not that her mother wasn’t usually a comfort. Just that Francesca tended to favor her independent streak more often than not, and she rather preferred not to be thought of as “one of those Bridgerton girls.” And in a very strange way, this trip to the dressmaker was rather discomfiting. It would have required full-fledged torture to get her to admit it, but Francesca was, quite simply, terrified.

Even if she hadn’t decided it was time to remarry, shrugging off her widow’s weeds signaled a huge change, and not one she was entirely sure she was ready for.

She looked down at her sleeve as she sat in the carriage. She couldn’t see the fabric of her dress—it was covered by her coat—but she knew that it was lavender. And there was something comforting in that, something solid and dependable. She’d worn that color, or gray in its place, for three years now. And unrelenting black for a year before that. It had been a bit of a badge, she realized, a uniform of sorts. One never had to worry about who one was when one’s clothing proclaimed it so loudly.

“Mother?” she said, before she even realized that she had a question to ask.

Violet turned to her with a smile. “Yes, dear?”

“Why did you never remarry?”

Violet’s lips parted slightly, and to Francesca’s great surprise, her eyes grew bright. “Do you know,” Violet said softly, “this is the first time any of you has asked me that?”

“That can’t be true,” Francesca said. “Are you certain?”

Violet nodded. “None of my children has asked me. I would have remembered.”

“No, no, of course you would,” Francesca said quickly. But it was all so . . . odd. And unthinking, really. Why would no one have asked Violet about this? It seemed to Francesca quite the most burning question imaginable. And even if none of Violet’s children had cared about the answer for their own personal curiosity, didn’t they realize how important it was to Violet?

Didn’t they want to know their mother? Truly know her?

“When your father died . . .” Violet said. “Well, I don’t know how much you recall, but it was very sudden. None of us expected it.” She gave a sad little laugh, and Francesca wondered if she’d ever be able to laugh about John’s death, even if it was tinged with grief.

“A bee sting,” Violet continued, and Francesca realized that even now, more than twenty years after Edmund Bridgerton’s death, her mother still sounded surprised when she talked about it.

“Who would have thought it possible?” Violet said, shaking her head. “I don’t know how well you remember him, but your father was a very large man. As tall as Benedict and perhaps even broader in the shoulders. You just wouldn’t think that a bee . . .” She stopped, pulling out a crisp, white handkerchief and holding it to her lips as she cleared her throat. “Well, it was unexpected. I don’t really know what else to say, except . . .” She turned to her daughter with achingly wise eyes. “Except I imagine you understand better than anyone.”

Francesca nodded, not even trying to stem the burning sensation behind her eyes.

“Anyway,” Violet said briskly, obviously eager to move forward, “after his death, I was just so . . . stunned. I felt as if I were walking in a haze. I’m not at all certain how I functioned that first year. Or even the ones directly thereafter. So I couldn’t possibly even think of marriage.”

“I know,” Francesca said softly. And she did.

“And after that . . . well, I don’t know what happened. Maybe I just didn’t meet anyone with whom I cared to share my life. Maybe I loved your father too much.” She shrugged. “Maybe I just never saw the need. I was in a very different position from you, after all. I was older, don’t forget, and already the mother of eight children. And your father left our affairs in very good order. I knew we would never want for anything.”

“John left Kilmartin in excellent order,” Francesca said quickly.

“Of course he did,” Violet said, patting her hand. “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply otherwise. But you don’t have eight children, Francesca.” Her eyes changed somehow, grew an even deeper blue. “And you’ve quite a lot of time ahead of you to spend it all alone.”

Francesca nodded jerkily. “I know,” she said. “I know. I know, but I can’t quite . . . I can’t . . .”

“You can’t what?” Violet asked gently.

“I can’t . . .” Francesca looked down. She didn’t know why, but for some reason she couldn’t take her eyes off the floor. “I can’t rid myself of the feeling that I’m doing something wrong, that I’m dishonoring John, dishonoring our marriage.”

“John would have wanted you to be happy.”

“I know. I know. Of course he would. But don’t you see—” She looked up again, her eyes searching her mother’s face for something, she wasn’t sure what—maybe approval, maybe just love, since there was something comforting in looking for something she already knew she’d find. “I’m not even looking for that,” she added. “I’m not going to find someone like John. I’ve accepted that. And it feels so wrong to marry with less.”

“You won’t find someone like John, that is true,” Violet said. “But you might find a man who will suit you equally well, just in a different way.”

“You didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t,” she agreed, “but I didn’t look very hard. I didn’t look at all.”

“Do you wish you had?”

Violet opened her mouth, but not a sound came out, not even breath. Finally she said, “I don’t know, Francesca. I honestly don’t know.” And then, because the moment almost certainly needed a bit of laughter, she added, “I certainly didn’t want any more children!”

Francesca couldn’t help but smile. “I do,” she said softly. “I want a baby.”

“I thought that you did.”

“Why did you never ask me about it?”

Violet tilted her head to the side. “Why did you never ask me about why I never remarried?”

Francesca felt her lips part. She shouldn’t have been so surprised by her mother’s perceptiveness.

“If you had been Eloise, I think I would have said something,” Violet added. “Or any of your sisters, for that matter. But you—” She smiled nostalgically. “You’re not the same. You never have been. Even as a child you set yourself apart. And you needed your distance.”

Impulsively, Francesca reached out and squeezed her mother’s hand. “I love you, did you know that?”

Violet smiled. “I rather suspected it.”

“Mother!”

“Very well, of course I knew it. How could you not love me when I love you so very, very much?”

“I haven’t said it,” Francesca said, feeling rather horrified by her omission. “Not recently, anyway.”

“It’s quite all right.” Violet squeezed her hand back. “You’ve had other things on your mind.”

And for some reason that made Francesca giggle under her breath. “A bit of an understatement, I should say.”

Violet just grinned.

“Mother?” Francesca blurted out. “May I ask you one more question?”

“Of course.”

“If I don’t find someone—not like John, of course, but still not equally suited to me. If I don’t find someone like that, and I marry someone whom I rather like, but perhaps don’t love . . . is that all right?”

Violet was silent for several moments before she answered. “I’m afraid only you will know the answer to that,” she finally said. “I would never say no, of course. Half the ton—more than half, in truth—has marriages like that, and quite a few of them are perfectly content. But you will have to make your judgments for yourself when they arise. Everyone is different, Francesca. I suspect you know that better than most. And when a man asks for your hand, you will have to judge him on his merits and not by some arbitrary standard you have set out ahead of time.”

She was right, of course, but Francesca was so sick of life being messy and complicated that it wasn’t the answer she’d been seeking.

And none of it addressed the problem that lay most deeply within her heart. What would happen if she actually did meet someone who made her feel the way she’d felt with John? She couldn’t imagine that she would; truly, it seemed wildly improbable.

But what if she did? How could she live with herself then?

There was something rather satisfying about a foul mood, so Michael decided to indulge his completely.

He kicked a pebble all the way home.

He snarled at anyone who jostled him on the street.

He yanked open his front door with such ferocity that it slammed into the stone wall behind it. Or rather he would have done, if his sodding butler hadn’t been so on his toes and had the door open before Michael’s fingers could even touch the handle.

But he thought about slamming it open, which provided some satisfaction in and of itself.

And then he stomped up the stairs to his room—which still felt too bloody much like John’s room, not that there was anything he could do about that just then—and yanked off his boots.

Or tried to.

Bloody hell.

“Reivers!” he bellowed.

His valet appeared—or really, it seemed rather more like he apparated—in the doorway.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Would you help me with my boots?” Michael ground out, feeling rather infantile. Three years in the army and four in India, and he couldn’t remove his own damned boots? What was it about London that reduced a man to a sniveling idiot? He seemed to recall that Reivers had had to remove his boots for him the last time he’d lived in London as well.

He looked down. They were different boots. Different styles, he supposed, for different situations, and Reivers had always taken a stunningly ridiculous pride in his work. Of course he’d have wanted to outfit Michael in the very best of London fashion. He’d have—

“Reivers?” Michael said in a low voice. “Where did you get these boots?”

“My lord?”

“These boots. I do not recognize them.”

“We have not yet received all of your trunks from the ship, my lord. You didn’t have anything suitable for London, so I located these among the previous earl’s belong—”

“Jesus.”

“My lord? I’m terribly sorry if these don’t suit you. I remembered that the two of you were of a size, and I thought you’d want—”

“Just get them off. Now.” Michael closed his eyes and sat in a leather chair—John’s leather chair—marveling at the irony of it. His worst nightmare coming true, in the most literal of fashions.

“Of course, my lord.” Reivers looked pained, but he quickly went to work removing the boots.

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and let out a long breath before speaking again. “I would prefer not to use any items from the previous earl’s wardrobe,” he said wearily. Truly, he had no idea why John’s clothing was still here; the lot of it should have been given to the servants or donated to charity years ago. But he supposed that was Francesca’s decision to make, not his.

“Of course, my lord. I shall see to it immediately.”

“Good,” Michael grunted.

“Shall I have it locked away?”

Locked? Good God, it wasn’t as if the stuff were toxic. “I’m sure it is all just fine where it is,” Michael said. “Just don’t use any of it for me.”

“Right.” Reivers swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed uncomfortably.

“What is it now, Reivers?”

“It’s just that all of the previous Lord Kilmartin’s accouterments are still here.”

“Here?” Michael asked blankly.

“Here,” Reivers confirmed, glancing about the room.

Michael sagged in his chair. It wasn’t that he wanted to wipe every last reminder of his cousin off the face of this earth; no one missed John as much as he did, no one.

Well, except maybe Francesca, he allowed, but that was different.

But he just didn’t know how he was meant to lead his life so completely and smotheringly surrounded by John’s belongings. He held his title, spent his money, lived in his house. Was he meant to wear his damned shoes as well?

“Pack it all up,” he said to Reivers. “Tomorrow. I don’t wish to be disturbed this evening.”

And besides, he probably ought to alert Francesca of his intentions.

Francesca.

He sighed, rising to his feet once the valet had departed. Christ, Reivers had forgotten to take the boots with him. Michael picked them up and deposited them outside the door. He was probably overreacting, but hell, he just didn’t want to stare at John’s boots for the next six hours.

After shutting the door with a decisive click, he padded aimlessly over to the window. The sill was wide and deep, and he leaned heavily against it, gazing through the sheer curtains at the blurry streetscape below. He pushed the thin fabric aside, his lips twisting into a bitter smile as he watched a nursemaid tugging a small child along the pavement.

Francesca. She wanted a baby.

He didn’t know why he was so surprised. If he thought about it rationally, he really shouldn’t have been. She was a woman, for God’s sake; of course she’d want children. Didn’t they all? And while he’d never consciously sat down and told himself that she’d pine away for John forever, he’d also never considered the idea that she might actually care to remarry one day.

Francesca and John. John and Francesca. They were a unit, or at least they had been, and although John’s death had made it sadly easy to envision one without the other, it was quite something else entirely to think of one with another.

And then of course there was the small matter of his skin crawling, which was his general reaction to the thought of Francesca with another man.

He shuddered. Or was that a shiver? Damn, he hoped it wasn’t a shiver.

He supposed he was simply going to have to get used to the notion. If Francesca wanted children, then Francesca needed a husband, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. It would have been rather nice, he supposed, if she had come to this decision and taken care of the whole odious matter last year, sparing him the nausea of having to witness the entire courtship unfold. If she’d just gone and gotten herself married last year, then it would have been over and done with, and that would have been that.

End of story.

But now he was going to have to watch. Maybe even advise.

Bloody hell.

He shivered again. Damn. Maybe he was just cold. It was March, after all, and a chilly one at that, even with a fire in the grate.

He tugged at his cravat, which was starting to feel unaccountably tight, then yanked it off altogether. Christ, he felt like the very devil, all hot and cold, and queerly off balance.

He sat down. It seemed the best course of action.

And then he just gave up all pretense of being well, stripping off the rest of his clothing and crawling into bed.

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter 8

. . . wonderful lovely nice good to hear from you. I am glad you are faring well. John would have been proud. I miss you. I miss him. I miss you. Some of the flowers are still out. Isn’t it nice that some of the flowers are still out?

—from the Countess of Kilmartin

to the Earl of Kilmartin,

one week after the receipt

of his second missive to her,

first draft, never finished, never sent

“Didn’t Michael say that he would be joining us for supper this evening?”

Francesca looked up at her mother, who was standing before her with concerned eyes. She had been thinking the exact same thing, actually, wondering what was keeping him.

She’d spent the better part of the day dreading his arrival, even though he had absolutely no idea that she had been so distressed by that moment in the park. Good heavens, he probably didn’t even realize there had been a “moment.”

It was the first time in her life that Francesca was thankful for the general obtuseness of men.

“Yes, he did say that he would come,” she replied, shifting slightly in her chair. She had been waiting for some time now in the drawing room with her mother and two of her sisters, idly passing the time until their supper guest arrived.

“Didn’t we give him the time?” Violet asked.

Francesca nodded. “I confirmed it with him when he left me here after our stroll in the park.” She was quite certain of the exchange; she clearly recalled feeling rather sick in her stomach when they had spoken of it. She hadn’t wanted to see him again—not so quickly, anyway—but what could she do? Her mother had issued the invitation.

“He’s probably just running late,” said Hyacinth, Francesca’s youngest sister. “I’m not surprised. His sort is always late.”

Francesca turned on her instantly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve heard all about his reputation.”

“What has his reputation to do with anything?” Francesca asked testily. “And anyway, what would you know of it? He left England years before you made your bow.”

Hyacinth shrugged, jabbing a needle into her extremely untidy embroidery. “People still speak of him,” she said carelessly. “The ladies swoon like idiots at the mere mention of his name, if you must know.”

“There’s no other way to swoon,” put in Eloise, who, although Francesca’s elder by precisely one year, was still unmarried.

“Well, rake he may be,” Francesca said archly, “but he has always been punctual to a fault.” She never could countenance others speaking ill of Michael. She might sigh and moan and belabor his faults, but it was entirely unacceptable that Hyacinth, whose knowledge of Michael was based entirely on rumor and innuendo, would make such a sweeping judgment.

“Believe what you will,” Francesca said sharply, because there was no way she was going to allow Hyacinth to have the last word, “but he would never be late to a supper here. He holds Mother in far too high regard.”

“What about his regard for you?” Hyacinth said.

Francesca glared at her sister, who was smirking into her embroidery. “He—” No, she wasn’t going to do this. She wasn’t going to sit here and get into an argument with her younger sister, not when something might actually be wrong. Michael was, for all his wicked ways, faultlessly polite and considerate to the bone, or at least he had always been so in her presence. And he would never have arrived for supper—she glanced up at the mantel clock—over thirty minutes late. Not, at least, without sending word.

She stood, briskly smoothing down her dove gray skirts. “I am going to Kilmartin House,” she announced.

“By yourself?” Violet asked.

“By myself,” Francesca said firmly. “It is my home, after all. I hardly think that tongues will wag if I stop by for a quick visit.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” her mother said. “But don’t stay too long.”

“Mother, I am a widow. And I do not plan to spend the night. I merely intend to inquire as to Michael’s welfare. I shall be just fine, I assure you.”

Violet nodded, but from her expression, Francesca could see that she would have liked to have said more. It had been like this for years—Violet wanted to resume her role of mother hen to her young widowed daughter, but she held back, attempting to respect her independence.

She didn’t always manage to resist interfering, but she tried, and Francesca was grateful for the effort.

“Do you want me to accompany you?” Hyacinth asked, her eyes lighting up.

“No!” Francesca said, surprise making her tone a bit more vehement than she’d intended it. “Why on earth would you want to?”

Hyacinth shrugged. “Curiosity. I’d like to meet the Merry Rake.”

“You’ve met him,” Eloise pointed out.

“Yes, but that was ages ago,” Hyacinth said with a dramatic sigh, “before I understood what a rake was.”

“You don’t understand that now,” Violet said sharply.

“Oh, but I—”

“You do not,” Violet repeated, “understand what a rake is.”

“Very well.” Hyacinth turned to her mother with a sickly sweet smile. “I don’t know what a rake is. I also don’t know how to dress myself or wash my own teeth.”

“I did see Polly helping her on with her evening gown last night,” Eloise murmured from the sofa.

“No one can get into an evening gown on her own,” Hyacinth shot back.

“I’m leaving,” Francesca announced, even though she was quite certain no one was listening to her.

“What are you doing?” Hyacinth demanded.

Francesca stopped short until she realized that Hyacinth wasn’t speaking to her.

“Just examining your teeth,” Eloise said sweetly.

“Girls!” Violet exclaimed, although Francesca couldn’t imagine that Eloise took too kindly to the generalization, being seven and twenty as she was.

And indeed she didn’t, but Francesca took Eloise’s irritation and subsequent rejoinder as an opportunity to slip out of the room and ask a footman to call up the carriage for her.

The streets were not very crowded; it was early yet, and the ton would not be heading out for parties and balls for at least another hour or two. The carriage moved swiftly through Mayfair, and in under a quarter of an hour Francesca was climbing the front steps of Kilmartin House in St. James’s. As usual, a footman opened the door before she could even lift the knocker, and she hurried inside.

“Is Kilmartin here?” she asked, realizing with a small jolt of surprise that it was the first time she had referred to Michael as such. It was strange, she realized, and good, really, how naturally it had come to her lips. It was probably past time that they all grew used to the change. He was the earl now, and he’d never be plain Mr. Stirling again.

“I believe so,” the footman replied. “He came in early this afternoon, and I was not made aware of his departure.”

Francesca frowned, then gave a nod of dismissal before heading up the steps. If Michael was indeed at home, he must be upstairs; if he were down in his office, the footman would have noticed his presence.

She reached the second floor, then strode down the hall toward the earl’s suite, her booted feet silent on the plush Aubusson carpet. “Michael?” she called out softly, as she approached his room. “Michael?”

There was no response, so she moved closer to his door, which she noticed was not quite all the way closed. “Michael?” she called again, only slightly louder. It wouldn’t do to bellow his name through the house. Besides, if he was sleeping, she didn’t wish to wake him. He was probably still tired from his long journey and had been too proud to indicate as such when Violet had invited him to supper.

Still nothing, so she pushed the door open a few additional inches. “Michael?”

She heard something. A rustle, maybe. Maybe a groan.

“Michael?”

“Frannie?”

It was definitely his voice, but it wasn’t like anything she’d ever heard from his lips.

“Michael?” She rushed in to find him huddled in his bed, looking quite as sick as she’d ever seen another human being. John, of course, had never been sick. He’d merely gone to bed one evening and woken up dead.

So to speak.

“Michael!” she gasped. “What is wrong with you?”

“Oh, nothing much,” he croaked. “Head cold, I imagine.”

Francesca looked down at him with dubious eyes. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his skin was flushed and mottled, and the level of heat radiating from the bed quite took her breath away.

Not to mention that he smelled sick. It was that awful, sweaty, slightly putrid smell, the sort that, if it had a color, would surely be vomitous green. Francesca reached out and touched his forehead, recoiling instantly at the heat of it.

“This is not a head cold,” she said sharply.

His lips stretched into a hideous approximation of a smile. “A really bad head cold?”

“Michael Stuart Stirling!”

“Good God, you sound like my mother.”

She didn’t particularly feel like his mother, especially not after what had happened in the park, and it was almost a bit of a relief to see him so feeble and unattractive. It took the edge off whatever it was she’d been feeling earlier that afternoon.

“Michael, what is wrong with you?”

He shrugged, then buried himself deeper under the covers, his entire body shaking from the exertion of it.

“Michael!” She reached out and grabbed his shoulder. None too gently, either. “Don’t you dare try your usual tricks on me. I know exactly how you operate. You always pretend that nothing matters, that water rolls off your back—”

“It does roll off my back,” he mumbled. “Yours as well. Simple science, really.”

“Michael!” She would have smacked him if he weren’t so ill. “You will not attempt to minimize this, do you understand me? I insist that you tell me right now what is wrong with you!”

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” he said.

“Oh, right,” Francesca said, with all the sarcasm she could muster, which was, in truth, quite a bit.

“I will,” he insisted, restlessly shifting positions, every movement punctuated with a groan. “I’ll be fine for tomorrow.”

Something about the phrasing of his words struck Francesca as profoundly odd. “And what about the day after that?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

A harsh chuckle emerged from somewhere under the covers. “Why, then I’ll be sick as a dog again, of course.”

“Michael,” she said again, dread forcing her voice low, “what is wrong with you?”

“Haven’t you guessed?” He poked his head back out from under the sheet, and he looked so ill she wanted to cry. “I have malaria.”

“Oh, my God,” Francesca breathed, actually backing up a step. “Oh, my God.”

“First time I’ve ever heard you blaspheme,” he remarked. “Probably ought to be flattered it’s over me.”

She had no idea how he could be so flip at such a time. “Michael, I—” She reached out, then didn’t reach out, unsure of what to do.

“Don’t worry,” he said, huddling closer into himself as his body was wracked with another wave of shudders. “You can’t catch it from me.”

“I can’t?” She blinked. “I mean, of course I can’t.” And even if she could, that ought not have stopped her from nursing him. He was Michael. He was . . . well, it seemed difficult precisely to define what he was to her, but they had an unbreakable bond, they two, and it seemed that four years and thousands of miles had done little to diminish it.

“It’s the air,” he said in a tired voice. “You have to breathe the putrid air to catch it. It’s why they call it malaria. If you could get it from another person, we lot would have infected all of England by now.”

She nodded at his explanation. “Are you . . . are you . . .” She couldn’t ask it; she didn’t know how.

“No,” he said. “At least they don’t think so.”

She felt herself sag with relief, and she had to sit down. She couldn’t imagine a world without him. Even while he’d been gone, she’d always known he was there, sharing the same planet with her, walking the same earth. And even in those early days following John’s death, when she’d hated him for leaving her, even when she’d been so angry with him that she wanted to cry—she had taken some comfort in the knowledge that he was alive and well, and would return to her in an instant, if ever she asked it of him.

He was here. He was alive. And with John gone . . . Well, she didn’t know how anyone could expect her to lose them both.

He shivered again, violently.

“Do you need medicine?” she asked, snapping to attention. “Do you have medicine?”

“Took it already,” he chattered.

But she had to do something. She wasn’t self-hating enough to think that there had been anything she could have done to prevent John’s death—even in the worst of her grief she hadn’t gone down that road—but she had always hated that the whole thing had happened in her absence. It was, in truth, the one momentous thing John had ever done without her. And even if Michael was only sick, and not dying, she was not going to allow him to suffer alone.

“Let me get you another blanket,” she said. Without waiting for his reply, she rushed through the connecting door to her own suite and pulled the coverlet off her bed. It was rose pink and would most likely offend his masculine sensibilities once he reached a state of sensibility, but that, she decided, was his problem.

When she returned to his room, he was so still she thought he’d fallen asleep, but he managed to rouse himself enough to say thank you as she tucked the blanket over him.

“What else can I do?” she asked, pulling a wooden chair to the side of his bed and sitting down.

“Nothing.”

“There must be something,” she insisted. “Surely we’re not meant to merely wait this out.”

“We’re meant,” he said weakly, “to merely wait this out.” “I can’t believe that’s true.”

He opened one eye. “Do you mean to challenge the entire medical establishment?”

She ground her teeth together and hunched over in her chair. “Are you certain you don’t need more medicine?”

He shook his head, then moaned at the exertion of it. “Not for another few hours.”

“Where is it?” she asked. If the only thing she could truly do was to locate the medication and be ready to dispense it, then by God, she would at least do that.

He moved his head slightly to the left. Francesca followed the motion toward a small table across the room, where a medicinal bottle sat atop a folded newspaper. She immediately rose and retrieved it, reading the label as she walked back to her chair. “Quinine,” she murmured. “I’ve heard of that.”

“Miracle medicine,” Michael said. “Or so they say.”

Francesca looked at him dubiously.

“Just look at me,” he said with a lopsided—and feeble—grin. “Proof positive.”

She inspected the bottle again, watching the powder shift as she tilted it. “I remain unconvinced.”

One of his shoulders attempted to move in a blithe gesture. “I’m not dead.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s the only funny thing,” he corrected. “We’ve got to take our laughter where we can. Just think, if I died, the title would go to—how does Janet always put it—that—”

“Awful Debenham side of the family,” they finished together, and Francesca couldn’t believe it, but she actually smiled.

He could always make her smile.

She reached out and took his hand. “We will get through this,” she said.

He nodded, and then he closed his eyes.

But just when she thought he was asleep, he whispered, “It’s better with you here.”

The next morning Michael was feeling somewhat refreshed, and if not quite his usual self, then at least a damn sight better than he’d been the night before. Francesca, he was horrified to realize, was still in the wooden chair at his bedside, her head tilted drunkenly to the side. She looked uncomfortable in every way a body could look uncomfortable, from the way she was perched in the chair to the awkward angle of her neck and the strange spiral twist of her torso.

But she was asleep. Snoring, even, which he found rather endearing. He’d never pictured her snoring, and sad to say, he had imagined her asleep more times than he cared to count.

He supposed it had been too much to hope that he could hide his illness from her; she was far too perceptive and certainly far too nosy. And even though he would have preferred that she didn’t worry over him, the truth was, he’d been comforted by her presence the night before. He shouldn’t have been, or at least he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be, but he just couldn’t help it.

He heard her stir and rolled to his side to get a better look. He had never seen her wake up, he realized. He wasn’t certain why he found that so strange; it wasn’t as if he’d been privy to many of her private moments before. Maybe it was because in all of his daydreams, in all of his fantasies, he’d never quite pictured this—the low rumbling from deep in her throat as she shifted position, the small sigh of sound when she yawned, or even the delicate ballet of her eyelids as they fluttered open.

She was beautiful.

He’d known that, of course, had known that for years, but never before had he felt it quite so profoundly, quite so deeply in his bones.

It wasn’t her hair, that rich, lush wave of chestnut that he was rarely so privileged as to see down. And it wasn’t even her eyes, so radiantly blue that men had been moved to write poetry—much, Michael recalled, to John’s everlasting amusement. It wasn’t even in the shape of her face or the structure of her bones; if that were the case, he’d have been obsessed with the loveliness of all the Bridgerton girls; such peas in a pod they were, at least on the outside.

It was something in the way she moved.

Something in the way she breathed.

Something in the way she merely was.

And he didn’t think he was ever going to get over it.

“Michael,” she murmured, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Good morning,” he said, hoping she’d mistake the roughness in his voice for exhaustion.

“You look better.”

“I feel better.”

She swallowed and paused before she said, “You’re used to this.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I don’t mind the illness, but yes, I’m used to it. I know what to do.”

“How long will this continue?”

“It’s hard to say. I’ll get fevers every other day until I just . . . stop. A week in total, maybe two. Three if I’m fiendishly unlucky.”

“And then what?”

He shrugged. “Then I wait and hope it never happens again.”

“It can do that?” She sat up straight. “Just never come back?”

“It’s a strange, fickle disease.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t say it’s like a woman.”

“Hadn’t even occurred to me until you brought it up.”

Her lips tightened slightly, then relaxed as she asked, “How long has it been since your last . . .” She blinked. “What do you call them?”

He shrugged. “I call them attacks. Certainly feels like one. And it’s been six months.”

“Well, that’s good!” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Isn’t it?”

“Considering it had only been three before that, yes, I think so.”

“How often has this happened?”

“This is the third time. All in all, it’s not too bad compared with what I’ve seen.”

“Am I meant to take solace in that?”

“I do,” he said bluntly. “Model of Christian virtue that I am.”

She reached out abruptly and touched his forehead. “You’re much cooler,” she remarked.

“Yes, I will be. It’s a remarkably consistent disease. Well, at least when you’re in the midst of it. It would be nice if I knew when I might expect an onset.”

“And you’ll really have another fever in a day’s time? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he confirmed.

She seemed to consider that for a few moments, then said, “You won’t be able to hide this from your family, of course.”

He actually tried to sit up. “For God’s sake, Francesca, don’t tell my mother and—”

“They’re expected any day now,” she cut in. “When I left Scotland, they said they would be only a week behind me, and knowing Janet, that really means only three days. Do you truly expect them not to notice that you’re rather conveniently—”

“Inconveniently,” he cut in acerbically.

“Whichever,” she said sharply. “Do you really think they won’t notice that you’re sick as death every other day? For heaven’s sake, Michael, do credit them with a bit of intelligence.”

“Very well,” he said, slumping back against the pillows. “But no one else. I have no wish to become the freak of London.”

“You’re hardly the first person to be stricken with malaria.”

“I don’t want anyone’s pity,” he bit off. “Most especially yours.”

She drew back as if struck, and of course he felt like an ass.

“Forgive me,” he said. “That came out wrong.”

She glared at him.

“I don’t want your pity,” he said repentantly, “but your care and your good wishes are most welcome.”

Her eyes didn’t meet his, but he could tell that she was trying to decide if she believed him.

“I mean it,” he said, and he didn’t have the energy to try to cover the exhaustion in his voice. “I am glad you were here. I have been through this before.”

She looked over sharply, as if she were asking a question, but for the life of him, he didn’t know what.

“I have been through this before,” he said again, “and this time was . . . different. Better. Easier.” He let out a long breath, relieved to have found the correct word. “Easier. It was easier.”

“Oh.” She shifted in her chair. “I’m . . . glad.”

He glanced over at the windows. They were covered with heavy drapes, but he could see glimmers of sunlight peeking in around the sides. “Won’t your mother be worried about you?”

“Oh, no!” Francesca yelped, jumping to her feet so quickly that her hand slammed into the bedside table. “Ow ow ow.”

“Are you all right?” Michael inquired politely, since it was quite clear she’d done herself no real harm.

“Oh . . .” She was shaking her hand out, trying to stem the pain. “I’d forgotten all about my mother. She was expecting me back last night.”

“Didn’t you send her a note?”

“I did,” she said. “I told her you were ill, but she wrote back and said she would stop by in the morning to offer her assistance. What time is it? Do you have a clock? Of course you have a clock.” She turned frantically to the small mantel clock over the fireplace.

It had been John’s room; it still was John’s room, in so many ways. Of course she’d know where the clock was.

“It’s only eight,” she said with a relieved sigh. “Mother never rises before nine unless there is an emergency, and hopefully she won’t count this as one. I tried not to sound too panicked in my note.”

Knowing Francesca, it would have been worded with all the coolheaded calmness she was known for. Michael smiled. She’d probably lied and said she’d hired a nurse.

“There’s no need to panic,” he said.

She turned to him with agitated eyes. “You said you didn’t want anyone to know you had malaria.”

His lips parted. He had never dreamed that she would hold his wishes quite so close to her heart. “You would keep this from your mother?” he asked softly.

“Of course. It is your decision to tell her, not mine.”

It was really quite touching, rather tender even—

“I think you’re insane,” she added sharply.

Well, maybe tender wasn’t quite the right word.

“But I will honor your wishes.” She planted her hands on her hips and regarded him with what could only be described as vexation. “How could you even think I would do otherwise?”

“I have no idea,” he murmured.

“Really, Michael,” she grumbled. “I do not know what is wrong with you.”

“Swampy air?” he tried to joke.

She shot him A Look. Capitalized.

“I’m going back to my mother’s,” she said, pulling on her short gray boots. “If I don’t, you can be sure she will show up here with the entire faculty of the Royal College of Physicians in tow.”

He lifted a brow. “Is that what she did whenever you took ill?”

She let out a little sound that was half snort, half grunt, and all irritation. “I will be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”

He lifted his hands, gesturing somewhat sarcastically to the sickbed.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past you,” she muttered.

“Your faith in my superhuman strength is touching.”

She paused at the door. “I swear, Michael, you make the most annoying deathly ill patient I have ever met.”

“I live to entertain you!” he called out as she was walking down the hall, and he was quite certain that if she’d had something to throw at the door, she would have done so. With great vigor.

He settled back down against his pillows and smiled. He might make an annoying patient, but she was a crotchety nurse.

Which was just fine with him.

Chapter 9

. . . it is possible that our letters have crossed in the mail, but it does seem more likely that you simply do not wish to correspond. I accept that and wish you well. I shan’t bother you again. I hope you know that I am listening, should you ever change your mind.

—from the Earl of Kilmartin

to the Countess of Kilmartin,

eight months after his arrival in India

It wasn’t easy hiding his illness. The ton didn’t present a problem; Michael simply turned down all of his invitations, and Francesca put it about that he wished to settle in at his new home before taking his place in society.

The servants were more difficult. They talked, of course, and often to servants from other households, so Francesca had had to make sure that only the most loyal retainers were privy to what went on in Michael’s sickroom. It was tricky, especially since she wasn’t even officially living at Kilmartin House, at least not until Janet and Helen arrived, which Francesca fervently hoped was soon.

But the hardest part, the people who were the most fiendishly curious and difficult to keep in the dark, had to be Francesca’s family. It had never been easy maintaining a secret within the Bridgerton household, and keeping one from the whole lot of them was, to put it simply, a bloody nightmare.

“Why do you go over there every day?” Hyacinth asked over breakfast.

“I live there,” Francesca replied, taking a bite of a muffin, which any reasonable person would have taken as a sign that she did not wish to converse.

Hyacinth, however, had never been known to be reasonable. “You live here,” she pointed out.

Francesca swallowed, then took a sip of tea, the delay intended to preserve her composed exterior. “I sleep here,” she said coolly.

“Isn’t that the definition of where you live?”

Francesca slathered more jam on her muffin. “I’m eating, Hyacinth.”

Her youngest sister shrugged. “So am I, but it doesn’t prevent me from carrying on an intelligent conversation.”

“I’m going to kill her,” Francesca said to no one in particular. Which was probably a good thing, as there was no one else present.

“Who are you talking to?” Hyacinth demanded.

“God,” Francesca said baldly. “And I do believe I have been given divine leave to murder you.”

“Hmmph,” was Hyacinth’s response. “If it was that easy, I’d have asked permission to eliminate half the ton years ago.”

Francesca decided just then that not all of Hyacinth’s statements required a rejoinder. In fact, few of them did.

“Oh, Francesca!” came Violet’s voice, thankfully interrupting the conversation. “There you are.”

Francesca looked up to see her mother entering the breakfast room, but before she could say a word, Hyacinth piped up with, “Francesca was just about to kill me.”

“Excellent timing on my part, then,” Violet said, taking her seat. She turned to Francesca. “Are you planning to go over to Kilmartin House this morning?”

Francesca nodded. “I live there.”

“I think she lives here,” Hyacinth said, adding a liberal dose of sugar to her tea.

Violet ignored her. “I believe I will accompany you.”

Francesca nearly dropped her fork. “Why?”

“I should like to see Michael,” Violet said with a delicate shrug. “Hyacinth, will you please pass me the muffins?”

“I’m not sure what his plans are today,” Francesca said quickly. Michael had had an attack the night before—his fourth malarial fever, to be precise, and they were hoping it would be the last of the cycle. But even though he would be much recovered by now, he would still most likely look dreadful. His skin—thank God—wasn’t jaundiced, which Michael had told her was often a sign that the sickness was progressing to its fatal stage, but he still had that awful sickly air to him, and Francesca knew that if her mother caught one glimpse of him she would be horrified. And furious.

Violet Bridgerton did not like to be kept in the dark. Especially when it pertained to a matter about which one could use the term “life and death” without being accused of hyperbole.

“If he’s not available I will simply turn around and go home,” Violet said. “Jam please, Hyacinth.”

“I’ll come, too,” Hyacinth said.

Oh, God. Francesca’s knife skittered right across her muffin. She was going to have to drug her sister. It was the only solution.

“You don’t mind if I come along, too, do you?” Hyacinth asked Violet.

“Didn’t you have plans with Eloise?” Francesca said quickly.

Hyacinth stopped, thought, blinked a few times. “I don’t think so.”

“Shopping? At the milliner?”

Hyacinth took another moment to run through her memory. “No, in fact I’m quite certain I don’t. I just purchased a new bonnet last week. Lovely one, actually. Green, with the most cunning ecru trim.” She glanced down at her toast, regarded it for a moment, then reached for the marmalade. “I’m weary of shopping,” she added.

“No woman is ever weary of shopping,” Francesca said, a touch desperately.

“This woman is. Besides, the earl—” Hyacinth cut herself off, turning to her mother. “May I call him Michael?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Violet replied, taking a bite of eggs.

Hyacinth turned back to Francesca. “He’s been back in London an entire week, and I haven’t even seen him. My friends have been asking me about him, and I don’t have anything to say.”

“It’s not polite to gossip, Hyacinth,” Violet said.

“It isn’t gossip,” Hyacinth retorted. “It’s the honest dissemination of information.”

Francesca actually felt her chin drop. “Mother,” she said, shaking her head, “you really should have stopped at seven.”

“Children, you mean?” Violet asked, sipping at her tea. “Sometimes I do wonder.”

“Mother!” Hyacinth exclaimed.

Violet just smiled at her. “Salt?”

“It took her eight tries to get it right,” Hyacinth announced, thrusting the salt cellar at her mother with a decided lack of grace.

“And does that mean that you, too, hope to have eight children?” Violet inquired sweetly.

“God no,” Hyacinth said. With great feeling. And neither she nor Francesca could quite resist a chuckle after that.

“It’s not polite to blaspheme, Hyacinth,” Violet said, in much the same tone she’d used to tell her not to gossip.

“Why don’t we stop by shortly after noon?” Violet asked Francesca, once the moment of levity had petered out.

Francesca glanced up at the clock. That would give her barely an hour to make Michael presentable. And her mother had said we. As in more than one person. As in she was actually going to bring Hyacinth, who had the capacity to turn any awkward situation into a living nightmare.

“I’ll go now,” Francesca blurted out, standing up quickly. “To see if he’s available.”

To her surprise, her mother stood also. “I will walk you to the door,” Violet said. Firmly.

“Er, you will?”

“Yes.”

Hyacinth started to rise.

“Alone,” Violet said, without even giving Hyacinth a glance.

Hyacinth sat back down. Even she was wise enough not to argue when her mother was combining her serene smile with a steely tone.

Francesca allowed her mother to precede her out of the room, and they walked in silence until they reached the front hall, where she waited for a footman to retrieve her coat.

“Is there something you wish to tell me?” Violet asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.”

“I assure you,” Francesca said, giving her mother her most innocent look, “I don’t.”

“You have been spending a great deal of time at Kilmartin House,” Violet said.

“I live there,” Francesca pointed out, for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Not right now you don’t, and I worry that people will talk.”

“No one has said a word about it,” Francesca returned. “I haven’t seen a thing in the gossip columns, and if people were talking about it, I’m sure that one of us would have heard by now.”

“Just because people are keeping quiet today doesn’t mean they will do so tomorrow,” Violet said.

Francesca let out an irritated exhale. “It’s not as if I’m a never-married virgin.”

“Francesca!”

Francesca crossed her arms. “I’m sorry to speak so frankly, Mother, but it is true.”

The footman arrived just then with Francesca’s coat and informed her that the carriage would be in front momentarily. Violet waited until he stepped outside to await its arrival, then turned to Francesca and asked, “What, precisely, is your relationship to the earl?”

Francesca gasped. “Mother!”

“It is not a silly question,” Violet said.

“It is the silliest—no, quite the stupidest—question I have ever heard. Michael is my cousin!”

“He was your husband’s cousin,” Violet corrected.

“And he was my cousin as well,” Francesca said sharply. “And my friend. Good heavens, of all people . . . I can’t even imagine . . . Michael!”

But the truth was, she could imagine. Michael’s illness had kept it all at bay; she’d been so busy caring for him and keeping him well that she’d managed to avoid thinking about that jolting moment in the park, when she’d looked at him and something had sparked to life within her.

Something she had been quite certain had died inside of her four years earlier.

But hearing her mother bring it up . . . Good God, it was mortifying. There was no way, no earthly way that she could feel an attraction to Michael. It was wrong. It was really wrong. It was . . . well, it was just wrong. There wasn’t another word that described it better.

“Mother,” Francesca said, keeping her voice carefully even, “Michael has not been feeling well. I told you that.”

“Seven days is quite a long time for a head cold.”

“Perhaps it is something from India,” Francesca said. “I don’t know. I think he is almost recovered. I have been helping him get settled here in London. He has been gone a very long time and as you’ve noted, he has many new responsibilities as the earl. I thought it my duty to help him with all of this.” She looked at her mother with a resolute expression, rather pleased with her speech. But Violet just said, “I will see you in an hour,” and walked away.

Leaving Francesca feeling very panicked indeed.

Michael was enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet—not that he’d been bereft of quiet, but malaria did little to allow a body peace—when Francesca burst through his bedroom door, wild-eyed and out of breath.

“You have two choices,” she said, or rather, heaved.

“Only two?” he murmured, even though he hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.

“Don’t make jokes.”

He hauled himself into a sitting position. “Francesca?” he asked gingerly, since it was his experience that one should always proceed with caution when a female was in a state. “Are you quite all—”

“My mother is coming,” she said.

“Here?”

She nodded.

It wasn’t an ideal situation but hardly something deserving of Francesca’s feverish demeanor. “Why?” he inquired politely.

“She thinks—” She stopped, catching her breath. “She thinks—Oh, heavens, you won’t believe it.”

When she didn’t expound upon this any further, he widened his eyes and held out his hands in an impatient gesture, as if to say—Care to elaborate?

“She thinks,” Francesca said, shuddering as she turned to him, “that we are conducting an affair.”

“After only a week back in London,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I’m faster than I imagined.”

“How can you joke about this?” Francesca demanded.

“How can you not?” he returned. But of course she could never laugh about such a thing. To her it was unthinkable. To him it was . . .

Well, something else entirely.

“I am horrified,” she declared.

Michael just offered her a smile and a shrug, even though he was starting to feel a little pricked. Naturally, he did not expect Francesca to think of him in such a manner, but a reaction of horror didn’t exactly make a fellow feel good about his manly prowess.

“What are my two choices?” he asked abruptly.

She just stared at him.

“You said I have two choices.”

She blinked, and would have looked rather adorably befuddled if he weren’t a bit too annoyed with her ire to credit her with anything that charitable. “I. . . don’t recall,” she finally said. “Oh, my heavens,” she moaned. “What am I to do?”

“Settling down might be a good beginning,” he said, sharply enough to make her head jerk back in his direction. “Stop and think, Frannie. This is us. Your mother will realize how foolish she’s being once she takes the time to think about it.”

“That’s what I told her,” she replied fervently. “I mean, for goodness’ sake. Can you imagine?”

He could, actually, which had always been a bit of a problem.

“It is the most unfathomable thing,” Francesca muttered, pacing across the room. “As if I—” She turned, gesturing to him with overblown motions. “As if you—” She stopped, planted her hands on her hips, then clearly gave up on trying to hold still and began to pace anew. “How could she even consider such a thing?”

“I don’t believe I have ever seen you quite so put out,” Michael commented.

She halted in her tracks and stared at him as if he were an imbecile. With two heads.

And maybe a tail.

“You really ought to endeavor to calm down,” he said, even though he knew his words would have the exact opposite effect. Women hated to be told to calm down, especially women like Francesca.

“Calm down?” she echoed, turning on him as if possessed by an entire spectrum of furies. “Calm down? Good God, Michael, are you still feverish?”

“Not at all,” he said coolly.

“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Quite,” he bit off, about as politely as any man could after having his manhood impugned.

“It’s insane,” she said. “Simply insane. I mean, look at you.”

Really, she might as well just grab a knife and apply it to his ballocks. “You know, Francesca,” he said with studied mildness, “there are a lot of women in London who would be rather pleased to be, how did you say it, conducting an affair with me.”

Her mouth, which had been hanging open after her latest outburst, snapped shut.

He lifted his brows and leaned back against his pillows. “Some would call it a privilege.”

She glared at him.

“Some women,” he said, knowing full well he should never bait her about such a subject, “might even engage in physical battle just for the mere opportunity—”

“Stop!” she snapped. “Good heavens, Michael, such an inflated view of your own prowess is not attractive.”

“I’m told it’s deserved,” he said with a languid smile.

Her face burned red.

He rather enjoyed the sight. He might love her, but he hated what she did to him, and he was not so big of heart that he didn’t occasionally take a bit of satisfaction in seeing her so tortured.

It was only a fraction of what he felt on a day-to-day basis, after all.

“I have no wish to hear about your amorous exploits,” Francesca said stiffly.

“Funny, you used to ask about them all the time.” He paused, watching her squirm. “What was it you always asked me?”

“I don’t—”

“Tell me something wicked,” he said, using his best trying-to-sound-as-if-he’d-just-thought-of-it voice, when of course he never forgot anything she said to him. “Tell me something wicked,” he said again, more slowly this time. “That was it. You rather liked me when I was wicked. You were always so curious about my exploits.”

“That was before—”

“Before what, Francesca?” he asked.

There was an odd pause before she spoke. “Before this,” she muttered. “Before now, before everything.”

“I’m supposed to understand that?”

Her answer was merely a glare.

“Very well,” he said, “I suppose I should get ready for your mother’s visit. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

Francesca regarded him dubiously. “But you look terrible.”

“I knew there was a reason I loved you so well,” he said dryly. “One really needn’t worry about falling into the sin of vanity with you about.”

“Michael, be serious.”

“Sadly, I am.”

She scowled at him.

“I can rise to my feet now,” he told her, “exposing you to parts of my body I would imagine you’d rather not see, or you can leave and await my glorious presence downstairs.”

She fled.

Which puzzled him. The Francesca he knew didn’t flee anything.

Nor, for that matter, would she have departed without at least making an attempt to get the last word.

But most of all, he couldn’t believe she had let him get away with calling himself glorious.

Francesca never did have to suffer a visit from her mother. Not twenty minutes after she left Michael’s bedchamber, a note arrived from Violet informing her that her brother Colin—who had been traveling in the Mediterranean for months—had just returned to London, and Violet would have to postpone her visit. Then, later that evening, much as Francesca had predicted at the onset of Michael’s attack, Janet and Helen arrived in London, assuaging Violet’s concerns about Francesca and Michael and their lack of a chaperone.

The mothers—as Francesca and Michael had long since taken to calling them—were thrilled at Michael’s unexpected appearance, although one look at his sickly features propelled both of them into maternal tizzies of concern that had forced Michael to take Francesca aside and beg her not to leave him alone with either of the two ladies. In truth, the timing of their arrival was rather fortuitous, as Michael had a comparatively healthy day in their presence before being struck by another raging fever. Francesca had taken them aside before the next expected attack and explained the nature of the illness, so by the time they saw the malaria in all its horrible glory, they were prepared.

And unlike Francesca, they were more agreeable—no, downright eager—to keep his malady a secret. It was difficult to imagine that a wealthy and handsome earl might not be considered an excellent catch by the unmarried ladies of London, but malaria was never a mark in one’s favor when looking for a wife.

And if there was one thing Janet and Helen were determined to see before the year was out, it was Michael standing at the front of a church, his ring firmly on the finger of a new countess.

Francesca was actually relieved to sit back and listen to the mothers harangue him about getting married. At least it took their attention off of her. She had no idea how they would react to her own marital plans—she rather imagined they would be happy for her—but the last thing she wanted was two more matchmaking mamas attempting to pair her up with every poor pathetic bachelor on the Marriage Mart.

Good heavens, she had enough to put up with, with her own mother, who was surely not going to be able to resist the temptation to meddle once Francesca made clear her desire to find a husband this year.

And so Francesca moved back to Kilmartin House, and the entire Stirling household turned itself into a little cocoon, with Michael declining all invitations with the promise that he would be out and about once he settled in from his long journey. The three ladies did occasionally go out in society, and although Francesca had expected questions about the new earl, even she was unprepared for the volume and frequency.

Everyone, it seemed, was mad for the Merry Rake, especially now that he’d shrouded himself with mystery.

Oh, and inherited an earldom. Mustn’t forget that. Or the hundred thousand pounds that went with it.

Francesca shook her head as she thought about it. Truly Mrs. Radcliffe herself couldn’t have devised a more perfect hero. It was going to be a madhouse once he was recovered.

And then, suddenly, he was.

Very well, Francesca supposed it wasn’t that sudden; the fevers had been steadily decreasing in severity and duration. But it did seem that one day he still looked wan and pale, and the next he was his regular hale and hearty self, prowling about the house, eager to escape into the sunshine.

“Quinine,” Michael said with a lazy shrug when she remarked upon his changed appearance at breakfast. “I’d take the stuff six times a day if it didn’t taste so damned foul.”

“Language, please, Michael,” his mother murmured, spearing a sausage with her fork.

“Have you tasted the quinine, Mother?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

“Taste it,” he suggested, “and then we’ll see how your language compares.”

Francesca chuckled under her napkin.

“I tasted it,” Janet announced.

All eyes turned to her. “You did?” Francesca asked. Even she hadn’t been so daring. The smell alone had been enough for her to keep the bottle firmly corked at all times.

“Of course,” Janet replied. “I was curious.” She turned to Helen. “It really is foul.”

“Worse than that awful concoction Cook made us take last year for the, er . . .” Helen gave Janet a look that clearly meant you know what I mean.

“Much worse,” Janet affirmed.

“Did you reconstitute it?” Francesca asked. The powder was meant to be mixed with purified water, but she supposed that Janet might have simply put a bit on her tongue.

“Of course. Aren’t I supposed to?”

“Some people like to mix it with gin,” Michael said. Helen shuddered.

“It could hardly be worse than on its own,” Janet said.

“Still,” Helen said, “if one is going to mix it with spirits, one might at least choose a nice whisky.”

“And spoil the whisky?” Michael queried, helping himself to several spoonfuls of eggs.

“It can’t be that bad,” Helen said.

“It is,” Michael and Janet said in unison.

“It’s true,” Janet added. “I can’t imagine ruining a fine whisky that way. Gin would be a happy medium.”

“Have you even tasted gin?” Francesca asked. It was not, after all, considered a suitable spirit for the upper classes, most especially women.

“Once or twice,” Janet admitted.

“And here I thought I knew everything about you,” Francesca murmured.

“I have my secrets,” Janet said airily.

“This is a very odd conversation for the breakfast table,” Helen stated.

“True enough,” Janet agreed. She turned to her nephew. “Michael, I am most pleased to see you up and about and looking so fine and healthy.”

He inclined his head, thanking her for the compliment.

She dabbed the corners of her mouth daintily with her napkin. “But now you must attend to your responsibilities as the earl.”

He groaned.

“Don’t be so petulant,” Janet said. “No one is going to hang you up by your thumbs. All I was going to say is that you must go to the tailor and make sure you have proper evening clothes.”

“Are you certain I can’t donate my thumbs instead?”

“They’re lovely thumbs,” Janet replied, “but I do believe they’d better serve all of humanity attached to your hands.”

Michael met her eyes with a steady stare. “Let’s see. I have on my schedule today—my first since rising from my sickbed, I might add—a meeting with the prime minister concerning my assumption of my seat in parliament, a meeting with the family solicitor so that I might review the state of our financial holdings, and an interview with our primary estate manager, who I’m told has come down to London with the express purpose of discussing the state of all seven of our family properties. At which point, might I inquire, do you wish me to squeeze in a visit to the tailor?”

The three ladies were speechless.

“Perhaps I should inform the prime minister that I shall have to move him until Thursday?” he asked mildly.

“When did you make all of these appointments?” Francesca asked, a bit ashamed that she was so surprised at his diligence.

“Did you think I’d spent the last fortnight staring at the ceiling?”

“Well, no,” she replied, although in truth she didn’t know what she’d thought he’d been doing. Reading, she supposed. That’s what she would have done.

When no one said anything further, Michael pushed back his chair. “If you ladies will excuse me,” he said, setting his napkin down, “I believe we have established that I have a busy day ahead of me.”

But he’d not even risen from his seat before Janet said quietly, “Michael? The tailor.”

He froze.

Janet smiled at him sweetly. “Tomorrow would be perfectly acceptable.”

Francesca rather thought she heard his teeth grind.

Janet just tilted her head ever so slightly to the side. “You do need new evening clothes. Surely you would not dream of missing Lady Bridgerton’s birthday ball?”

Francesca quickly forked a bite of eggs into her mouth so that he wouldn’t catch her grinning. Janet was devious in the extreme. Her mother’s birthday party was the one event that Michael would feel positively obligated to attend. Anything else he could shrug off without a care.

But Violet?

Francesca didn’t think so.

“When is it?” he sighed.

“April eleventh,” Francesca said sweetly. “Everyone will be there.”

“Everyone?” he echoed.

“All the Bridgertons.”

He brightened visibly.

“And everyone else,” she added with a shrug.

He looked at her sharply. “Define ‘everyone.’ ”

Her eyes met his. “Everyone.”

He slumped in his seat. “Am I to get no reprieve?”

“Of course you are,” Helen said. “You did, in fact. Last week. We called it malaria.”

“And here I was looking forward to health,” he muttered.

“Fear not,” Janet said. “You will have a fine time, I’m sure.”

“And perhaps meet a lovely lady,” Helen put in helpfully.

“Ah, yes,” Michael murmured, “lest we forget the real purpose of my life.”

“It’s not such a bad purpose,” Francesca said, unable to resist the small chance to tease him.

“Oh, really?” he asked, swinging his head around to face her. His eyes settled on hers with startling accuracy, leaving Francesca with the extremely unpleasant sensation that perhaps she shouldn’t have provoked him.

“Er, really,” she said, since she couldn’t back down now.

“And what are your purposes?” he asked sweetly.

Out of the corner of her eye, Francesca could see Janet and Helen watching the exchange with avid and unconcealed curiosity.

“Oh, this and that,” Francesca said with a blithe wave of her hand. “Presently, just to finish my breakfast. It is most delicious, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Coddled eggs with a side portion of meddling mothers?”

“Don’t forget your cousin as well,” she said, kicking herself under the table as soon as the words left her lips. Everything about his demeanor screamed not to provoke him, but she just couldn’t help it.

There was little in this world she enjoyed more than provoking Michael Stirling, and moments like this were simply too delicious to resist.

“And how will you be spending your season?” Michael asked, tilting his head slightly into an obnoxiously patient expression.

“I imagine I’ll begin by going to my mother’s birthday party.”

“And what will you be doing there?”

“Offering my felicitations.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, I won’t be inquiring after her age, if that’s what you’re asking,” Francesca replied.

“Oh, no,” Janet said, followed by Helen’s equally fervent, “Don’t do that.”

All three ladies turned to Michael with identical expectant expressions. It was his turn to speak, after all.

“I’m leaving,” he said, his chair scraping along the floor as he stood.

Francesca opened her mouth to say something provoking, since it was always her first inclination to tease him when he was in such a state, but she found herself without words.

Michael had changed.

It wasn’t that he’d been irresponsible before. It was just that he’d been without responsibilities. And it hadn’t really occurred to her how well he might rise to the occasion once he returned to England.

“Michael,” she said, her soft voice instantly gaining his attention, “good luck with Lord Liverpool.”

His eyes caught hers, and something flashed there. A hint of appreciation, maybe of gratitude.

Or maybe it was nothing so precise. Maybe it was just a wordless moment of understanding.

The sort she’d had with John.

Francesca swallowed, uncomfortable with this sudden realization. She reached for her tea with a slow and deliberate movement, as if her control over her body might extend to her mind as well.

What had just happened?

He was just Michael, wasn’t he?

Just her friend, just her longtime confidant.

Wasn’t that all?

Wasn’t it?

Chapter 10

. . . . . . . . .

—nothing more than hatchmarks,

caused by the tapping of

the Countess of Kilmartin’s pen against paper,

two weeks after the receipt of

the Earl of Kilmartin’s third missive to her

“Is he here?”

“He’s not here.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’m quite certain.”

“But he is coming?”

“He said he was.”

“Oh. But when is he coming?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh. Right. Well . . . Oh, look! I see my daughter. Lovely seeing you, Francesca.”

Francesca rolled her eyes—not an affectation she espoused except under the most severe of circumstances—as she watched Mrs. Featherington, one of the ton’s most notorious gossips, toddle off toward her daughter Felicity, who was chatting amiably with a handsome, albeit untitled, young man at the edge of the ballroom.

The conversation would have been amusing if it hadn’t been the seventh—no eighth, mustn’t forget her own mother—time she had been subjected to it. And the conversation was always the same, truly down to the very word, save for the fact that not everyone knew her well enough to use her given name.

Once Violet Bridgerton had let it be known that the elusive Earl of Kilmartin would be making his reappearance at her birthday party—Well, Francesca was quite sure she would never be safe from interrogation again, at least not from anyone with any attachment to an unmarried female.

Michael was the catch of the season, and he hadn’t even shown up yet.

“Lady Kilmartin!”

She looked up. Lady Danbury was coming her way. A more crotchety and outspoken old lady had never graced the ballrooms of London, but Francesca rather liked her, so she just smiled as the countess approached, noticing that the partygoers on either side of her quickly fled to parts unknown.

“Lady Danbury,” Francesca said, “how nice to see you this evening. Are you enjoying yourself?”

Lady D thumped her cane against the ground for no apparent reason. “I’d enjoy myself a dashed sight more if someone would tell me how old your mother is.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Pfft. What’s the fuss?It’s not as if she’s as old as I am.”

“And how old are you?” Francesca asked, her tone as sweet as her smile was sly.

Lady D’s wrinkled face cracked into a smile. “Heh heh heh, clever one you are. Don’t think I’m going to tell you.”

“Then surely you will understand if I exercise the same loyalty toward my mother.”

“Hmmph,” Lady Danbury grunted by way of a response, thumping her cane against the floor for emphasis. “What’s the use of a birthday party if no one knows what we’re celebrating?”

“The miracle of life and longevity?”

Lady Danbury snorted at that, then asked, “Where’s that new earl of yours?”

My, she was blunt. “He’s not my earl,” Francesca pointed out.

“Well, he’s more yours than anyone else’s.”

That much was probably true, although Francesca wasn’t about to confirm it with Lady Danbury, so she just said, “I imagine his lordship would take exception to being labeled as anyone’s but his own.”

“His lordship, eh? That’s rather formal, don’t you think? Thought the two of you were friends.”

“We are,” Francesca said. But that did not mean she would bandy about his given name in public. Truly, it wouldn’t do to stir up any rumors. Not if she needed to keep her reputation pristine in her search for a husband of her own. “He was my husband’s closest confidant,” she said pointedly. “They were like brothers.”

Lady Danbury looked disappointed with Francesca’s bland characterization of her relationship with Michael, but all she did was pinch her lips as she scanned the crowd. “This party needs some livening up,” she muttered, tapping her cane again.

“Do try not to say that to my mother,” Francesca murmured. Violet had spent weeks on the arrangements, and truly, no one could find exception with the party. The lighting was soft and romantic, the music pure perfection, and even the food was good—no small achievement at a London ball. Francesca had already enjoyed two éclairs and had spent the time since plotting how to make her way back to the table of refreshments without appearing a complete glutton.

Except that she kept getting waylaid by inquisitive matrons.

“Oh, it’s not your mother’s fault,” Lady D said. “She’s not to blame for the overpopulation of dullards in our society. Good God, she bred eight of you, and not an idiot in the lot.” She gave Francesca a pertinent glance. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”

“I’m touched.”

Lady Danbury’s mouth clamped together into a frighteningly serious line. “I’m going to have to do something,” she said.

“About what?”

“The party.”

An awful sensation took hold in Francesca’s stomach. She’d never known Lady Danbury to actually ruin someone else’s fête, but the old lady was clever enough to do some serious damage if she put her mind to it. “What, exactly, do you plan to do?” Francesca asked, trying to keep her voice free of panic.

“Oh, don’t look at me like I’m about to kill your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Well, I do, and I assure you, I’d be mad as Hades if anyone tried to harm him.”

“Lady Danbury, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the old lady said with an irritated wave of her hand. “You can be sure that if I did, I’d have done it already. But I certainly wouldn’t cause a scene at your mother’s party.” She lifted her chin sharply in the air and gifted Francesca with a disdainful sniff. “As if I would do anything to hurt your dear mama’s feelings.”

Somehow that did little to assuage Francesca’s apprehension. “Right. Well, whatever you do, please be careful.”

“Francesca Stirling,” Lady D said with a sly smile, “are you worried for my welfare?”

“You, I have no qualms about whatsoever,” Francesca replied pertly, “it’s the rest of us for whom I tremble.”

Lady Danbury let out a cackle of laughter. “Well said, Lady Kilmartin. I do believe you deserve a reprieve. From me,” she added, in case Francesca didn’t grasp her meaning.

“You are my reprieve,” Francesca muttered.

But Lady D obviously didn’t hear her as she looked out over the crowd, because she sounded quite singleminded as she declared, “I do believe I shall go pester your brother.”

“Which one?” Not that they all couldn’t use a bit of torture.

“That one.” She pointed toward Colin. “Hasn’t he just returned from Greece?”

“Cyprus, actually.”

“Greece, Cyprus, it’s all the same to me.”

“Not to them, I imagine,” Francesca murmured.

“Who? You mean the Greeks?

“Or the Cypriots.”

“Pfft. Well, if one of them chooses to show up tonight they can feel free to explain the difference. Until then, I shall wallow in my ignorance.” And with that, Lady Danbury thumped her cane against the floor one last time before turning toward Colin and bellowing, “Mr. Bridgerton!”

Francesca watched with amusement as her brother tried desperately to pretend that he hadn’t heard her. She was rather pleased that Lady D had chosen to torture Colin a bit—he undoubtedly deserved it—but now that she was on her own again, she realized that Lady Danbury had provided her with a rather effective defense against the multitude of matchmaking mamas who saw her as their only link to Michael.

Good God, she could see three of them approaching already.

Time to escape. Now. Francesca quickly turned on her heel and started walking toward her sister Eloise, who was easy to spot by the bright green of her dress. In truth, she would have much rather bypassed Eloise entirely and headed straight out the door, but if she was serious about this marriage business, then she had to circulate and let it be known she was in the market for a new husband.

Not that anyone was likely to care one way or another until Michael finally showed his face. Francesca could have announced her plan to move to dark Africa and take up cannibalism, and all anyone would have said was, “And will the earl be accompanying you?”

“Good evening!” Francesca said, joining the small group around her sister. It was all family—Eloise was chatting amiably with their two sisters-in-law, Kate and Sophie.

“Oh, hullo, Francesca,” Eloise said. “Where’s—”

“Don’t you start.”

“What’s wrong?” Sophie asked, eyes all concern.

“If one more person asks me about Michael, I swear my head will explode.”

“That would certainly change the tenor of the evening,” Kate remarked.

“Not to mention the cleaning duties of the staff,” Sophie added.

Francesca actually growled.

“Well, where is he?” Eloise demanded. “And don’t look at me like—”

“—I’m trying to kill your cat?”

“I don’t have a cat. What the devil are you talking about?”

Francesca just sighed. “I don’t know. He said he would be here.”

“If he’s smart, he’s probably hiding in the hall,” Sophie said.

“Good God, you’re probably right.” Francesca could easily see him bypassing the ballroom entirely and ensconcing himself in the smoking saloon.

Away, in other words, from all females.

“It’s still early,” Kate put in helpfully.

“It doesn’t feel early,” Francesca grumbled. “I wish he’d just get here, so that people would stop asking me about him.”

Eloise actually laughed, fiendish turncoat that she was. “Oh, my poor delusional Francesca,” she said, “once he arrives the questions will redouble. They’ll simply change from ‘Where is he?’ to ‘Tell us more.’ ”

“I fear she’s right,” Kate said.

“Oh, God,” Francesca groaned, looking for a wall to sag against.

“Did you just blaspheme?” Sophie asked, blinking in surprise.

Francesca sighed. “I seem to be doing quite a bit of it lately.”

Sophie gave her a kindly look, then suddenly exclaimed, “You’re wearing blue!”

Francesca looked down at her new evening gown. She was quite pleased with it actually, not that anyone had noticed besides Sophie. It was one of her favorite shades of blue, not quite royal and not quite marine. The gown was elegantly simple, with a neckline adorned with a softly draped swath of lighter blue silk. She felt like a princess in it, or if not a princess, then at the very least, not quite so much the untouchable widow.

“Are you out of mourning, then?” Sophie asked.

“Well, I’ve been out of mourning for a few years now,” Francesca mumbled. Now that she had finally shrugged off her grays and lavenders, she felt a little silly for having clung to them for so long.

“We knew you were out and about,” Sophie said, “but you never changed your clothing, and—Well, it’s of no matter. I’m just so pleased to see you in blue!”

“Does this mean that you will consider remarrying?” Kate asked. “It has been four years.”

Francesca winced. Trust Kate to get right to the point. But she couldn’t keep her plans a secret forever, not if she wanted to meet with any success, so all she said was, “Yes.”

For a moment no one spoke. And then of course, they spoke all at once, offering congratulations and advice and various other bits of nonsense that Francesca wasn’t positive she wished to hear. But it was all said with the best and most loving of intentions, so she just smiled and nodded and accepted their good wishes.

And then Kate said, “We shall have to set this about, of course.”

Francesca was aghast. “I beg your pardon?”

“The blue dress is an excellent signal of your intentions,” Kate explained, “but do you really think the men of London are perceptive enough to grasp it? Of course not,” she said, answering her own question before anyone else could. “I could dye Sophie’s hair to black, and most of them wouldn’t notice a thing.”

“Well, Benedict would notice,” Sophie pointed out loyally.

“Yes, well, he’s your husband, and besides that, he’s a painter. He’s trained to actually notice things. Most men—” Kate cut herself off, looking rather irritated with the turn in the conversation. “You do see my point, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Francesca murmured.

“The fact of the matter,” Kate continued, “is that most of humanity has more hair than wit. If you wish for people to be aware that you are on the Marriage Mart, you shall have to make it quite clear. Or rather, we shall have to make it clear for you.”

Francesca had horrible visions of her female relatives, chasing down men until the poor fellows ran screaming for the doors. “What, precisely, do you mean to do?”

“Oh, goodness, don’t cast up your dinner.”

“Kate!” Sophie exclaimed.

“Well, you must admit that she looked as if she were about to.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Well, yes, but you needn’t have remarked upon it.”

“I enjoyed the comment,” Eloise put in helpfully.

Francesca speared her with a glare, since she was feeling the need to give someone a dirty look, and it was always easiest to do so with one’s blood relatives.

“We shall be masters of tact and discretion,” Kate said.

“Trust us,” Eloise added.

“Well, I certainly can’t stop you,” Francesca said.

She noticed that even Sophie did not contradict her.

“Very well,” she said. “I am off to obtain one last éclair.”

“I think they’re gone,” Sophie said, giving her a sympathetic look.

Francesca’s heart sank. “The chocolate biscuits?”

“Gone as well.”

“What’s left?”

“The almond cake.”

“The one that tasted like dust?”

“That’s the one,” Eloise put in. “It was the only dessert Mother didn’t sample ahead of time. I warned her, of course, but no one ever listens to me.”

Francesca felt herself deflate. Pathetic as she was, the promise of a sweet was the only thing keeping her going just then.

“Cheer up, Frannie,” Eloise said, her chin lifting a notch as she looked out over the crowd. “I see Michael.”

And sure enough, there he was. Standing on the other side of the room, looking sinfully elegant in his black evening kit. He was surrounded by women, which didn’t surprise Francesca in the least. Half were the sorts who were pursuing him for marriage, either for themselves or their daughters.

The other half, Francesca noted, were young and married, and clearly pursuing him for something else entirely.

“I’d forgotten how handsome he was,” Kate murmured. Francesca glared at her.

“He’s very tanned,” Sophie added.

“He was in India,” Francesca said. “Of course he’s tanned.”

“You’re rather short of temper this evening,” Eloise said.

Francesca schooled her features into an impassive mask. “I’m just weary of being asked about him, that’s all. He’s not my favorite topic of conversation.”

“Did the two of you have a falling out?” Sophie inquired.

“No, of course not,” Francesca replied, realizing belatedly that she’d given the wrong impression. “But I have done nothing but speak of him all evening. At this point I would be quite delighted to comment on the weather.”

“Hmmm.”

“Yes.”

“Right. Of course.”

Francesca had no idea who’d said what, especially when she realized that all four of them were just standing there staring at Michael and his bevy of women.

“He is handsome.” Sophie sighed. “All that delicious black hair.”

“Sophie!” Francesca exclaimed.

“Well, he is,” Sophie said defensively. “And you didn’t say anything to Kate when she made the same comment.”

“You’re both married,” Francesca muttered.

“Does that mean I might comment upon his good looks?” Eloise asked. “Spinster that I am.”

Francesca turned to her sister in disbelief. “Michael is the last man you’d want to marry.”

“Why is that?” This came from Sophie, but Francesca noticed that Eloise was listening closely for her answer as well.

“Because he’s a terrible rake,” Francesca said.

“Funny,” Eloise murmured. “You flew quite off the handle when Hyacinth said the same thing a fortnight ago.”

Trust Eloise to remember everything. “Hyacinth didn’t know what she was talking about,” Francesca said. “She never does. And besides, we were talking about his punctuality, not his marriageability.”

“And what renders him so unmarriageable?” Eloise asked.

Francesca leveled a serious stare at her older sister. Eloise was mad if she thought she should set her cap for Michael.

“Well?” Eloise prodded.

“He could never remain faithful to one woman,” Francesca said, “and I doubt you’d be willing to put up with infidelities.”

“No,” Eloise murmured, “not unless he’d be willing to put up with severe bodily injury.”

The four ladies fell silent at that, continuing their shameless perusal of Michael and his companions. He leaned down and murmured something in one of their ears, causing the lady in question to titter and blush, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

“He’s quite a flirt,” Kate said.

“A certain air about him,” Sophie confirmed. “Those women haven’t a chance.”

He smiled at one of his companions then, a slow, liquid grin that caused even the Bridgerton women to sigh.

“Haven’t we something better to do besides spy on Michael?” Francesca asked, disgusted.

Kate, Sophie, and Eloise looked at each other, blinking.

“No.”

“No.”

“I guess not,” Kate concluded. “Not just now, anyway.”

“You should go and talk to him,” Eloise said, nudging Francesca with her elbow.

“Why on earth?”

“Because he’s here.”

“So are a hundred other men,” Francesca replied, “all of whom I’d rather marry.”

“I only see three I’d even consider promising to obey,” Eloise muttered, “and I’m not even certain about them.”

“Be that as it may,” Francesca said, not wanting to grant Eloise the point, “my purpose here is to find a husband, so I hardly see how dancing attendance on Michael will be of any benefit.”

“And I thought we were here to wish Mother a happy birthday,” Eloise murmured.

Francesca glared at her. She and Eloise were the closest of all the Bridgertons in age—exactly one year apart. Francesca would have given her life for Eloise, of course, and there was certainly no other woman who knew more of her secrets and inner thoughts, but half the time she could have happily strangled her sister.

Including right now. Especially right now.

“Eloise is right,” Sophie said to Francesca. “You should go over and greet Michael. It’s only polite, considering his long stay abroad.”

“It’s not as if we haven’t been living in the same house for over a week,” Francesca said. “We’ve more than said our greetings.”

“Yes, but not in public,” Sophie replied, “and not at your family’s home. If you don’t go over and speak with him, everyone will comment upon it tomorrow. They will think there is a rift between the two of you. Or worse, that you do not accept him as the new earl.”

“Of course I accept him,” Francesca said. “And even if I didn’t, what would it matter? The line of succession was hardly in doubt.”

“You need to show everyone that you hold him in high esteem,” Sophie said. Then she turned to Francesca with a quizzical expression. “Unless, of course, you don’t.”

“No, of course I do,” Francesca said with a sigh. Sophie was right. Sophie was always right when it came to matters of propriety. She should go and greet Michael. He deserved an official and public welcome to London, as ludicrous as it seemed, given that she had spent the last few weeks nursing him through his malarial fevers. She just didn’t relish fighting her way through his throng of admirers.

She’d always found Michael’s reputation amusing. Probably because she felt rather removed from it all, above it, even. It had been a bit of an inside joke between the three of them—her, John, and Michael. He’d never taken any of the women seriously, and so she hadn’t, either.

But now she wasn’t watching from her comfortable, secure position as a happily married lady. And Michael was no longer just the Merry Rake, a ne’er-do-well who maintained his position in society through wit and charm.

He was an earl, and she was a widow, and she suddenly felt rather small and powerless.

It wasn’t his fault, of course. She knew that, just as she knew . . . well, just as she knew that he’d make someone a terrible husband someday. But somehow she couldn’t quite block her ire, if not with him then with the gaggle of giggling females around him.

“Francesca?” Sophie asked. “Do you want one of us to go with you?”

“What? No. No, of course not.” Francesca drew herself up straight, embarrassed to have been caught wool-gathering by her sisters. “I can see to Michael,” she said firmly.

She took two steps in his direction, then turned back to Kate, Sophie, and Eloise. “After I see to myself,” she said.

And with that, she turned to make her way to the ladies’ retiring room. If she was going to have to smile and be polite amidst Michael’s simpering women, she might as well do it without feeling she had to hop from foot to foot.

But as she departed, she heard Eloise’s low murmur of, “Coward.”

It took all of Francesca’s fortitude not to turn around and impale her sister with a scathing retort.

Well, that and the fact that she rather feared Eloise was right.

And it was mortifying to think that she might have turned coward over Michael, of all people.

Chapter 11

. . . I have heard from Michael. Three times, actually. I have not yet responded. You would be disappointed in me, I’m sure. But I—

—from the Countess of Kilmartin

to her deceased husband,

ten months after Michael’s departure for India,

crumpled with a muttered, “This is madness,”

and tossed in the fire

Michael had spotted Francesca the moment he’d entered the ballroom. She was standing at the far side of the room, chatting with her sisters, wearing a blue gown and new hairstyle.

And he noticed the instant she left as well, exiting through the door in the northwest wall, presumably to go to the ladies’ retiring room, which he knew was just down the hall.

Worst of all, he was quite certain he would be equally aware of her return, even though he was conversing with about a dozen other ladies, all of whom thought he was giving their little gathering his full attention.

It was like a sickness with him, a sixth sense. He couldn’t be in a room with Francesca and not know where she was. It had been like this since the moment they’d met, and the only thing that made it bearable was that she hadn’t a clue.

It was one of the things he had most enjoyed about India. She wasn’t there; he never had to be aware of her. But she’d haunted him still. Every now and then he’d catch a glimpse of chestnut hair that caught the candle-light as hers did, or someone would laugh, and for a split second it sounded like hers. His breath would catch, and he would look for her, even though he knew she wasn’t there.

It was hell, and usually worthy of a stiff drink. Or a night spent with his latest paramour.

Or both.

But that was over, and now he was back in London, and he was surprised by how easy it was to fall into his old role as the devil-may-care charmer. Nothing much had changed in town; oh, some of the faces were different, but the aggregate sum of the ton was the same. Lady Bridgerton’s birthday fête was much as he had anticipated, although he had to admit that he was a little taken aback at the level of curiosity aroused by his reappearance in London. It seemed the Merry Rake had become the Dashing Earl, and within the first fifteen minutes of his arrival, he had been accosted by no fewer than eight—no make that nine, mustn’t forget Lady Bridgerton herself—society matrons, all eager to court his favor and, of course, introduce him to their lovely and unattached daughters.

He wasn’t quite sure if it was amusing or hell.

Amusing, he decided, for now at least. By next week he had no doubt it would be hell.

After another fifteen minutes of introductions, reintroductions, and only slightly veiled propositions (thankfully by a widow and not one of the debutantes or their mothers), he announced his intention to locate his hostess and excused himself from the crowd.

And then there she was. Francesca. Halfway across the room, of course, which meant that he’d have to make his way through the punishing crowd if he wanted to speak with her. She looked breathtakingly lovely in a deep blue gown, and he realized that for all her talk about buying herself a new wardrobe, this was the first he’d seen her out of her half-mourning colors.

Then it hit him again. She was finally out of mourning. She would remarry. She would laugh and flirt and wear blue and find a husband.

And it would probably all happen in the space of a month. Once she made clear her intention to remarry, the men would be beating down her door. How could anyone not want to marry her? She might not have been as youthful as the other women looking for husbands, but she had something the younger debutantes lacked—a sparkle, a vivacity, a gleam of intelligence in her eyes that brought something extra to her beauty.

She was still alone, standing in the doorway. Amazingly, no one else seemed to have noticed her entrance, so Michael decided to brave the crowds and make his way to her.

But she saw him first, and although she did not exactly smile, her lips curved, and her eyes flashed with recognition, and as she walked to him, his breath caught.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. And yet it did. Every time he thought he knew everything about her, had unwillingly memorized every last detail, something inside her flickered and changed, and he felt himself falling anew.

He would never escape her, this woman. He would never escape her, and he could never have her. Even with John gone, it was impossible, quite simply wrong. There was too much there. Too much had happened, and he would never be able to shake the feeling that he had somehow stolen her.

Or worse, that he had wished for this. That he had wanted John gone and out of the way, wanted the title and Francesca and everything else.

He closed the distance between them, meeting her halfway. “Francesca,” he murmured, making his voice smooth and personable, “it is a delight to see you.”

“And you as well,” she replied. She smiled then, but it was in an amused sort of fashion, and he had the unexpected sense that she was mocking him. But there seemed little to be gained by pointing this out; it would only demonstrate how attuned he was to her every expression. And so he just said, “Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“Of course. Have you?”

“Of course.”

She quirked a brow. “Even in your present state of solitude?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She shrugged carelessly. “The last I saw of you, you were surrounded by women.”

“If you saw me, why didn’t you come over to save me?”

“Save you?” she said with a laugh. “Anyone could see that you were enjoying yourself.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, please, Michael,” she said, giving him a pointed glance. “You live to flirt and seduce.”

“In that order?”

She shrugged. “You’re not the Merry Rake for nothing.”

He felt his jaw clamping together. Her comment rankled, and then the fact that it did rankled some more.

She studied his face, closely enough to make him want to squirm with discomfort, and then her own erupted into a smile. “You don’t like it,” she said slowly, almost breathless with the realization. “Oh, my heavens, you don’t like it.”

She looked as if she’d just experienced an epiphany of biblical proportions, but as the whole thing was at his expense, all he could do was scowl.

Then she laughed, which made it even worse. “Oh, my,” she said, actually holding her hand to her belly in mirth. “You feel like a fox at a hunt, and you don’t like it one bit. Oh, this is simply too much. After all the women you’ve chased . . .”

She had it all wrong, of course. He didn’t much care one way or another that the society matrons had labeled him the season’s biggest catch and were pursuing him accordingly. That was just the sort of thing it was easy to maintain a sense of humor over.

He didn’t care if they called him the Merry Rake. He didn’t care if they thought him a worthless seducer.

But when Francesca said the same thing . . .

It was like acid.

And the worst of it was, he had no one to blame but himself. He had cultivated this reputation for years, spent countless hours teasing and flirting, and then making sure Francesca saw, so she would never guess the truth.

And maybe he had done it for himself, too, because if he was the Merry Rake, at least he was something. The alternative was to be nothing but a pathetic fool, hopelessly in love with another man’s wife. And hell, he was good at being the man who could seduce with a smile. He might as well have something in life he could succeed at.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Francesca said, sounding very pleased with herself.

“It’s not so bad surrounding oneself with beautiful women,” he said, mostly to irritate her. “Even better when it comes about so effortlessly.”

It worked, because her face pinched just a bit around the mouth. “I’m sure it’s more than delightful, but you must be careful not to forget yourself,” she said sharply. “These are not your usual women.”

“I wasn’t aware I had usual women.”

“You know exactly what I mean, Michael. Others may have called you a complete rogue, but I know you better than that.”

“Oh, really?” And he almost laughed. She thought she knew him so well, but she knew nothing. She’d never know the full truth.

“You had standards four years ago,” she continued. “You never seduced anyone who would be irreparably hurt by your actions.”

“And what makes you think I’m about to start now?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’d do anything like that on purpose,” she said, “but before, you never even associated with young women looking for marriage. There wasn’t even the possibility that you might make a misstep and accidentally ruin one of them.”

The vague, prickling sense of irritation that had been simmering within him began to grow and boil. “Who do you think I am, Francesca?” he asked, his entire body stiff with something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He hated that she thought this of him, hated it.

“Michael—”

“Do you really think me so dim that I might accidentally ruin a young lady’s reputation?”

Her lips parted, then quivered slightly before she replied. “Not dim, Michael, of course not. But—”

“Careless, then,” he bit off.

“No, not that, either. I just think—”

“What, Francesca?” he asked ruthlessly. “What do you think of me?”

“I think you are one of the finest men I know,” she said softly.

Damn. Trust her to unman him with a single sentence. He stared at her, just stared at her, trying to figure out what the hell she’d meant by that.

“I do,” she said with a shrug. “But I also think you’re foolish, and I think you can be fickle, and I think you’re going to break more hearts this spring than I’ll be able to count.”

“It isn’t your job to count them,” he said, his voice quiet and hard.

“No, it isn’t, is it?” She looked over at him and smiled wryly. “But I’m going to end up doing it all the same, won’t I?”

“And why is that?”

She didn’t seem to have an answer to that, and then, just when he was sure she would say no more, she whispered, “Because I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Several seconds passed. They just stood there, their backs to the wall, looking for all the world as if they were just watching the party. Finally, Francesca broke the silence and said, “You should dance.”

He turned to her. “With you?”

“Yes. Once, at least. But you should also dance with someone eligible, someone you might marry.”

Someone he might marry. Anyone but her.

“It will signal to society that you are at least open to the possibility of matrimony,” Francesca added. When he made no comment, she asked, “Aren’t you?”

“Open to matrimony?”

“Yes.”

“If you say so,” he said, somewhat flippantly. He had to be cavalier. It was the only way he could mask the bitterness sweeping over him.

“Felicity Featherington,” Francesca said, motioning toward a very pretty young lady about ten yards away. “She’d be an excellent choice. Very sensible. She won’t fall in love with you.”

He looked down at her sardonically. “Heaven forbid I find love.”

Francesca’s lips parted and her eyes grew very wide. “Is that what you want?” she asked. “To find love?”

She looked delighted by the prospect. Delighted that he might find the perfect woman.

And there it was. His faith in a higher power reaffirmed. Truly, moments of this ironic perfection could not come about by accident.

“Michael?” Francesca asked. Her eyes were bright and shining, and she clearly wanted something for him, something wonderful and good.

And all he wanted was to scream.

“I have no idea,” he said caustically. “Not a single, bloody clue.”

“Michael . . .” She looked stricken, but for once, he didn’t care.

“If you will excuse me,” he said sharply, “I believe I have a Featherington to dance with.”

“Michael, what is wrong?” she asked. “What did I say?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

“Don’t be this way.”

As he turned to her, he felt something wash over him, a numbness that somehow slid a mask back over his face, enabled him to smile smoothly and regard her with his legendary heavy-lidded stare. He was once again the rake, maybe not so merry, but every bit the urbane seducer.

“What way?” he asked, his lips twisting with the perfect mix of innocence and condescension. “I’m doing exactly what you asked of me. Dance with a Featherington, didn’t you say? I’m following your instructions to the letter.”

“You’re angry with me,” she whispered.

“Of course not,” he said, but they both knew his voice was too easy, too suave. “I’ve merely accepted that you, Francesca, know best. Here I’ve been listening to my own mind and conscience all this time, but to what avail? Heaven knows where I’d be if I’d listened to you years ago.”

Her breath gasped across her lips and she drew back. “I need to go,” she said.

“Go, then,” he said.

Her chin lifted a notch. “There are many men here.”

“Very many.”

“I need to find a husband.”

“You should,” he agreed.

Her lips pressed together and then she added, “I might find one tonight.”

He almost gave her a mocking smile. She always had to have the last word. “You might,” he said, at the very second he knew she thought the conversation had concluded.

By then she was just far enough away that she couldn’t yell back one last retort. But he saw the way she paused and tensed her shoulders, and he knew she’d heard him.

He leaned back against the wall and smiled. One had to take one’s simple pleasures where one could.

The next day Francesca felt perfectly horrid. And worse, she couldn’t quell an extremely annoying quiver of guilt, even though Michael was the one who’d spoken so insultingly the night before.

Truly, what had she said to provoke such an unkind reaction on his part? And what right did he have to act so badly toward her? All she had done was express a bit of joy that he might want to find a true and loving marriage rather than spend his days in shallow debauchery.

But apparently she’d been wrong. Michael had spent the entire night—both before and after their conversation—charming every woman at the party. It had gotten to the point where she had thought she might be ill.

But the worst of it was, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from counting his conquests, just as she’d predicted the night before. One, two, three, she’d murmured, watching him enchant a trio of sisters with his smile. Four, five, six—there went two widows and a countess. It was disgusting, and Francesca was disgusted with herself for having been so mesmerized.

And then every now and then, he’d look at her. Just look at her with a heavy-lidded, mocking stare, and she couldn’t help but think that he knew what she was doing, that he was moving from woman to woman just so that she could round her count up to the next dozen or so.

Why had she said that? What had she been thinking?

Or had she been thinking not at all? It seemed the only explanation. She certainly hadn’t intended to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from tallying his broken hearts. The words had whispered over her lips before she’d even realized she was thinking them.

And even now, she wasn’t sure what it meant.

Why did she care? Why on earth did she care how many ladies fell under his spell? She’d never cared before.

It was only going to get worse, too. The women were mad for Michael. If the rules of society were reversed, Francesca thought wryly, their drawing room at Kilmartin House would be overflowing with flowers, all addressed to the Dashing Earl.

It was still going to be dreadful. She would be inundated with visitors today, of that she was certain. Every woman in London would call upon her in hopes that Michael might stroll through the drawing room. Francesca was going to have to endure countless questions, occasional innuendo, and—

“Good heavens!” She stopped short, peering into the drawing room with dubious eyes. “What is all this?”

Flowers. Everywhere.

It was her nightmare come true. Had someone changed the rules of society and forgotten to tell her?

Violets, irises, and daisies. Imported tulips. Hothouse orchids. And roses. Roses everywhere. Of every color. The smell was almost overwhelming.

“Priestley!” Francesca called out, spying her butler across the room, setting a tall vase of snapdragons on a table. “What are all these flowers?”

He gave the vase one last adjustment, twisting one pink stalk so that it faced away from the wall, then turned and walked toward her. “They are for you, my lady.”

She blinked. “Me?”

“Indeed. Would you care to read the cards? I have left them on the arrangements so that you would be able to identify each sender.”

“Oh.” It seemed all she could say. She felt rather like a simpleton, with her hand over her opened mouth, glancing back and forth at all the flowers.

“If you’d like,” Priestley continued, “I could remove each card and note on the back which arrangement I took it from. Then you could read through them all at once.” When Francesca didn’t reply, he suggested, “Perhaps you would like to remove yourself to your desk? I would be happy to bring you the cards.”

“No, no,” she said, still feeling terribly distracted by all this. She was a widow, for heavens sake. Men weren’t supposed to bring her flowers. Were they?

“My lady?”

“I . . . I . . .” She turned to Priestley, straightening her spine as she forced her mind back to clarity. Or tried. “I will just, ah, have a look at . . .” She turned to the nearest bouquet, a lovely and delicate arrangement of grape hyacinths and stephanotis. “A pale comparison to your eyes,” the card read. It was signed by the Marquess of Chester.

“Oh!” Francesca gasped. Lord Chester’s wife had died two years earlier. Everyone knew he was looking for a new bride.

Barely able to contain the oddly giddy feeling rising within her, she inched down toward an arrangement of roses and picked up the card, trying very hard not to appear too eager in front of the butler. “I wonder who this is from,” she said with studied casualness.

A sonnet. From Shakespeare, if she remembered correctly. Signed by Viscount Trevelstam.

Trevelstam? They’d only been introduced but once. He was young, very handsome, and it was rumored that his father had squandered away most of the family fortune. The new viscount would have to marry someone wealthy. Or so everyone said.

“Good heavens!”

Francesca turned to see Janet behind her.

“What is this?” she asked.

“I do believe those were my exact words upon entering the room,” Francesca murmured. She handed Janet the two cards, then watched her carefully as her eyes scanned the neatly handwritten lines.

Janet had lost her only child when John had died. How would she react to Francesca being wooed by other men?

“My goodness,” Janet said, looking up. “You seem to be this season’s Incomparable.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Francesca said, blushing. Blushing? Good God, what was wrong with her? She didn’t blush. She hadn’t even blushed during her first season, when she really had been an Incomparable. “I’m far too old for that,” she mumbled.

“Apparently not,” Janet said.

“There are more in the hall,” Priestley said.

Janet turned to Francesca. “Have you looked through all the cards?”

“Not yet. But I imagine—”

“That they’re more of the same?”

Francesca nodded. “Does that bother you?”

Janet smiled sadly, but her eyes were kind and wise. “Do I wish you were still married to my son? Of course. Do I want you to spend the rest of your life married to his memory? Of course not.” She reached out and clasped one of Francesca’s hands in her own. “You are a daughter to me, Francesca. I want you to be happy.”

“I would never dishonor John’s memory,” Francesca assured her.

“Of course not. If you were the sort who would, he’d never have married you in the first place. Or,” she added with a sly look, “I would never have allowed him to.”

“I would like children,” Francesca said. Somehow she felt the need to explain it, to make sure that Janet understood that what she truly wanted was to be a mother, not necessarily a wife.

Janet nodded, turning away as she dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips. “We should read the rest of the these cards,” she said, her brisk tone signaling that she’d like to move on, “and perhaps prepare ourselves for an onslaught of afternoon calls.”

Francesca followed her as she sought out an enormous display of tulips and plucked the card free. “I rather think the callers will be women,” Francesca said, “inquiring after Michael.”

“You may be right,” Janet replied. She held the card up. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Janet scanned the words, then looked up and said, “Cheshire.”

Francesca gasped, “As in the Duke of?”

“The very one.”

Francesca actually placed her hand over her heart. “My word,” she breathed. “The Duke of Cheshire.”

“You, my dear, are clearly the catch of the season.”

“But I—”

“What the devil is this?”

It was Michael, catching a vase he’d nearly overturned and looking extremely cross and put out.

“Good morning, Michael,” Janet said cheerfully.

He nodded at her, then turned to Francesca and grumbled, “You look as if you’re about to pledge allegiance to your sovereign lord.”

“And that would be you, I imagine?” she shot back, quickly dropping her hand to her side. She hadn’t even realized it was still over her heart.

“If you’re lucky,” he muttered.

Francesca just gave him a look.

He smirked right back in return. “And are we opening a flower shop?”

“No, but clearly we could,” Janet replied. “They’re for Francesca,” she added helpfully.

“Of course they’re for Francesca,” he muttered, “although, good God, I don’t know who would be idiot enough to send roses.”

“I like roses,” Francesca said.

“Everyone sends roses,” he said dismissively. “They’re trite and old, and”—he motioned to Trevelstam’s yellow ones—“who sent this?”

“Trevelstam,” Janet answered.

Michael let out a snort and swung around to face Francesca. “You’re not going to marry him, are you?”

“Probably not, but I fail to see what—”

“He hasn’t two shillings to rub together,” he stated.

“How would you know?” Francesca asked. “You haven’t even been back a month.”

Michael shrugged. “I’ve been to my club.”

“Well, it may be true, but it is hardly his fault,” Francesca felt compelled to point out. Not that she felt any great loyalty to Lord Trevelstam, but still, she did try to be fair, and it was common knowledge that the young viscount had spent the last year trying to repair the damage his profligate father had done to the family fortunes.

“You’re not marrying him, and that’s final,” Michael announced.

She should have been annoyed by his arrogance, but the truth was, she was mostly just amused. “Very well,” she said, lips twitching. “I’ll select someone else.”

“Good,” he grunted.

“She has many to choose from,” Janet put in.

“Indeed,” Michael said caustically.

“I’m going to have to find Helen,” Janet said. “She won’t want to miss this.”

“I hardly think the flowers are going to fly out the window before she rises,” Michael said.

“Of course not,” Janet replied sweetly, giving him a motherly pat on the arm.

Francesca quickly swallowed a laugh. Michael would hate that, and Janet knew it.

“She does adore her flowers, though,” Janet said. “May I take one of the arrangements up to her?”

“Of course,” Francesca replied.

Janet reached for Trevelstam’s roses, then stopped herself. “Oh, no, I had better not,” she said, turning back around to face Michael and Francesca. “He might stop by, and we wouldn’t want him to think we’d banished his flowers to some far corner of the house.”

“Oh, right,” Francesca murmured, “of course.”

Michael just grunted.

“Nevertheless, I’d better go tell her about this,” Janet said, and she turned and hurried up the stairs.

Michael sneezed, then glared at a particularly innocuous display of gladiolas. “We’re going to have to open a window,” he grumbled.

“And freeze?”

“I’ll wear a coat,” he ground out.

Francesca smiled. She wanted to grin. “Are you jealous?” she asked coyly.

He swung around and nearly leveled her with a dumbstruck expression.

“Not over me,” she said quickly, almost blushing at the thought. “My word, not that.”

“Then what?” he asked, his voice quiet and clipped.

“Well, just—I mean—” She motioned to the flowers, a clear display of her sudden popularity. “Well, we’re both after much the same goal this season, aren’t we?”

He just stared at her blankly.

“Marriage,” she said. Good heavens, he was particularly obtuse this morning.

“Your point?”

She let out an impatient breath. “I don’t know if you had thought about it, but I’d naturally assumed you would be the one to be relentlessly pursued. I never dreamed that I would . . . Well . . .”

“Emerge as a prize to be won?”

It wasn’t the nicest way of putting it, but it wasn’t exactly inaccurate, so she just said, “Well, yes, I suppose.”

For a moment he said nothing, but he was watching her strangely, almost wryly, and then he said, his voice quiet, “A man would have to be a fool not to want to marry you.”

Francesca felt her mouth form a surprised oval. “Oh,” she said, quite at a loss for words. “That’s . . . that’s . . . quite the nicest thing you could have said to me just now.”

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. She decided not to tell him that he’d just deposited a streak of yellow pollen into the black strands.

“Francesca,” he said, looking tired and weary and something else.

Regretful?

No, that was impossible. Michael wasn’t the sort to regret anything.

“I would never begrudge you this. You . . .” He cleared his throat. “You should be happy.”

“I—” It was the strangest moment, especially after their tense words the night before. She hadn’t the faintest clue how to reply, and so she just changed the subject and said, “Your turn will come.”

He looked at her quizzically.

“It already has, really,” she continued. “Last night. I was besieged with far more admirers for your hand than for my own. If women could send flowers, we’d be completely awash with them.”

He smiled, but the sentiment didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t look angry, just . . . hollow.

And she was struck by what a strange observation that was.

“Er, last night,” he said, reaching up and tugging at his cravat. “If I said anything to upset you . . .”

She watched his face. It was so dear to her, and she knew every last detail of it. Four years, it seemed, did little to smudge a memory. But something was different now. He’d changed, but she wasn’t sure how.

And she wasn’t sure why.

“Everything is fine,” she assured him.

“Nonetheless,” he said gruffly, “I’m sorry.”

But for the rest of the day, Francesca wondered if he knew exactly what he was apologizing for. And she couldn’t escape the feeling that she wasn’t sure, either.

Chapter 12

. . . rather ridiculous writing to you, but I suppose after so many months in the East, my perspective on death and the afterlife has slid into something that would have sent Vicar MacLeish screaming for the hills. So far from England, it is almost possible to pretend that you are still alive and able to receive this note, just like the many I sent from France. But then someone calls out to me, and I am reminded that I am Kilmartin and you are in a place unreachable by the Royal Mail.

—from the Earl of Kilmartin

to his deceased cousin, the previous earl,

one year and two months

after his departure for India,

written to completion and

then burned slowly over a candle

It wasn’t that he enjoyed feeling like an ass, Michael reflected as he swirled a glass of brandy at his club, but it seemed that lately, around Francesca at least, he couldn’t quite avoid acting like one.

There she had been at her mother’s birthday party, so damned happy for him, so delighted that he had uttered the word love in her presence, and he had simply snapped.

Because he knew how her mind worked, and he knew that she was already thinking madly ahead, trying to select the perfect woman for him, and the truth was . . .

Well, the truth was just too pathetic for words.

But he’d apologized, and although he could swear up and down that he wasn’t going to behave like an idiot again, he would probably find himself apologizing again sometime in the future, and she would most likely just chalk it all up to a cranky nature on his part, never mind that he’d been a model of good humor and equanimity when John had been alive.

He downed his brandy. Bugger it all.

Well, he’d be done with this nonsense soon. She’d find someone, marry the bloke, and move out of the house. They would remain friends, of course—Francesca wasn’t the sort to allow otherwise—but he wouldn’t see her every day over the breakfast table. He wouldn’t even see her as often as he had before John’s death. Her new husband would not permit her to spend so much time in his company, cousinly relationship or no.

“Stirling!” he heard someone call out, followed by the usual slight cough which preceded, “Kilmartin, I mean. So sorry.”

Michael looked up to see Sir Geoffrey Fowler, an acquaintance of his from his days at Cambridge. “Nothing of it,” he said, motioning to the chair across from him.

“Splendid to see you,” Sir Geoffrey said, taking a seat. “I trust your journey home was uneventful.”

The pair exchanged the most basic of pleasantries until Sir Geoffrey got to the point. “I understand that Lady Kilmartin is looking for a husband,” he said.

Michael felt as if he’d been punched. Never mind the atrocious floral display in his drawing room; it still sounded rather distasteful coming from someone’s lips.

Someone young, reasonably handsome, and obviously in the market for a wife.

“Er, yes,” he finally replied. “I believe she is.”

“Excellent.” Sir Geoffrey rubbed his hands together in anticipation, leaving Michael with the overwhelming desire to smack his face.

“She will be quite choosy,” Michael said peevishly.

Sir Geoffrey didn’t seem to care. “Will you dower her?”

“What?” Michael snapped. Good God, he was now her nearest male relative, wasn’t he? He’d probably have to give her away at her wedding.

Hell.

“Will you?” Sir Geoffrey persisted.

“Of course,” Michael bit off.

Sir Geoffrey sucked in his breath appreciatively. “Her brother offered to do so as well.”

“The Stirlings will care for her,” Michael said stiffly.

Sir Geoffrey shrugged. “It appears the Bridgertons will as well.”

Michael felt his teeth grinding to powder.

“Don’t look so dyspeptic,” Sir Geoffrey said. “With a double dowry, she’ll be off your hands in no time. I’m sure you’re eager to be rid of her.”

Michael cocked his head, trying to decide which side of Sir Geoffrey’s nose could better take a punch.

“She’s got to be a burden on you,” Sir Geoffrey continued blithely. “The clothes alone must cost a fortune.”

Michael wondered what the legal ramifications were for strangling a knight of the realm. Surely nothing he couldn’t live with.

“And then when you marry,” Sir Geoffrey continued, obviously unaware that Michael was flexing his fingers and measuring his neck, “your new countess won’t want her in the house. Can’t have two hens in charge of the household, right?”

“Right,” Michael said tightly.

“Very well, then,” Sir Geoffrey said, standing up. “Good to speak with you, Kilmartin. I must be off. Need to go tell Shively the news. Not that I want the competition, of course, but this isn’t likely to stay a secret for very long, anyway. I might as well be the one to let it out.”

Michael frosted him with a glare, but Sir Geoffrey was too excited with his gossip to notice. Michael looked down at his glass. Right. He’d drunk it all. Damn.

He signaled to a waiter to bring him another, then sat back with every intention of reading the newspaper he’d picked up on the way in, but before he could even scan the headlines, he heard his name yet again. He made the minimum effort required to hide his irritation and looked up.

Trevelstam. Of the yellow roses. Michael felt the newspaper crumple between his fingers.

“Kilmartin,” the viscount said.

Michael nodded. “Trevelstam.” They knew each other; not closely, but well enough so that a friendly conversation was not unexpected. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the chair across from him.

Trevelstam sat, setting his half-sipped drink on the table. “How do you fare?” he asked. “Haven’t seen you much since your return.”

“Well enough,” Michael grunted. Considering that he was being forced to sit with some ninny who wanted to marry Francesca’s dowry. No, make that her double dowry. The way gossip spread, Trevelstam had probably already heard the news from Sir Geoffrey.

Trevelstam was slightly more sophisticated than Sir Geoffrey—he managed to make small talk for a full three minutes, asking about Michael’s trip to India, the voyage back, et cetera et cetera et cetera. But then, of course, he got down to his true purpose.

“I called upon Lady Kilmartin this afternoon,” he said.

“Did you?” Michael murmured. He hadn’t returned home since leaving that morning. The last thing he had wanted was to be present for Francesca’s parade of suitors.

“Indeed. She’s a lovely woman.”

“That she is,” Michael said, glad his drink had arrived.

Then not so glad when he realized it had arrived two minutes earlier and he had already drunk it.

Trevelstam cleared his throat. “I’m sure you are aware that I intend to court her.”

“I’m certainly aware of it now.” Michael eyed his glass, trying to determine if there might be a few drops of brandy left after all.

“I wasn’t certain whether I should inform you or her brother of my intentions.”

Michael was quite certain that Anthony Bridgerton, Francesca’s eldest brother, was quite capable of weeding out unsuitable marriage prospects, but nonetheless he said, “I am quite sufficient.”

“Good, good,” Trevelstam murmured, taking another sip of his drink. “I—”

“Trevelstam!” came a booming voice. “And Kilmartin, too!”

It was Lord Hardwick, big and beefy, and if not yet drunk, not exactly sober either.

“Hardwick,” both men said, acknowledging his arrival.

Hardwick grabbed a chair, scraping it along the floor until it found a place at the table. “Good to see you, good to see you,” he huffed. “Capital night, don’t you think? Most excellent. Most excellent, indeed.”

Michael had no idea what he was talking about, but he nodded, anyway. Better that than actually to ask him what he meant; Michael was quite certain he lacked the patience to listen to an explanation.

“Thistleswaite’s over there setting bets on the Queen’s dogs, and, oh! Heard about Lady Kilmartin, too. Good talk tonight,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Good talk, indeed. Hate when it’s quiet here.”

“And how are the Queen’s dogs faring?” Michael inquired.

“Out of mourning, I understand.”

“The dogs?”

“No, Lady Kilmartin!” Hardwick chortled. “Heh heh heh. Good one, there, Kilmartin.”

Michael signaled for another drink. He was going to need it.

“Wore blue the other night, she did,” Hardwick said. “Everyone saw.”

“She looked quite lovely,” Trevelstam added.

“Indeed, indeed,” Hardwick said. “Good woman. I’d go after her myself if I weren’t already shackled to Lady Hardwick.”

Small favors and all that, Michael decided.

“She mourned the old earl for how long?” Hardwick asked. “Six years?”

As the “old earl” had been but twenty-eight at the time of his death, Michael found the comment somewhat offensive, but there seemed little point in attempting to change Lord Hardwick’s customary bad judgment and behavior at this late stage in his life—and from the size and ruddiness of him, he was clearly going to keel over at any time. Right now, in fact, if Michael was lucky.

He glanced across the table. Still alive.

Damn.

“Four years,” he said succinctly. “My cousin died four years ago.”

“Four, six, whatever,” Hardwick said with a shrug. “It’s still a bloody long time to black the windows.”

“I believe she was in half-mourning for some time,” Trevelstam put in.

“Eh? Really?” Hardwick took a swig of his drink, then wiped his mouth rather sloppily with a handkerchief. “All the same for the rest of us when you think about it. She wasn’t looking for a husband ’til now.”

“No,” Michael said, mostly because Hardwick had actually stopped talking for a few seconds.

“The men are going to be after her like bees to honey,” Hardwick predicted, drawing out the bees until it sounded like it ended with four Zs. “Bees to honey, I tell you. Everyone knows she was devoted to the old earl. Everyone.”

Michael’s drink arrived. Thank God.

“And there’s been no whiff of scandal attached to her name since he died,” Hardwick added.

“I should say not,” Trevelstam said.

“Not like some of the widows out and about,” Hardwick continued, taking another swig of his liquor. He chuckled lewdly and elbowed Michael. “If you know what I mean.”

Michael just drank.

“It’s like . . .” Hardwick leaned in, his jowls jiggling as his expression grew salacious. “It’s like . . .”

“For God’s sake, man, just spit it out,” Michael muttered.

“Eh?” Hardwick said.

Michael just scowled.

“I’ll tell you what it’s like,” Hardwick said with a leer. “It’s like you’re getting a virgin who knows what to do.”

Michael stared at him. “What did you just say?” he asked, very quietly.

“I said—”

“I’d take care not to repeat that if I were you,” Trevelstam quickly interjected, casting an apprehensive glance at Michael’s darkening visage.

“Eh? It’s no insult,” Hardwick grunted, gulping down the rest of his drink. “She’s been married, so you know she ain’t untouched, but she hasn’t gone and—”

“Stop now,” Michael ground out.

“Eh? Everyone is saying it.”

“Not in my presence,” Michael bit off. “Not if they value their health.”

“Well, it’s better than saying she ain’t like a virgin.” Hardwick chortled. “If you know what I mean.”

Michael lunged.

“Good God, man,” Hardwick yelped, falling back onto the floor. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Michael wasn’t certain how his hands had come to be around Hardwick’s neck, but he realized he rather liked them there. “You will never,” he hissed, “utter her name again. Do you understand me?”

Hardwick nodded frantically, but the motion cut off his air even further, and his cheeks began to purple.

Michael let go and stood up, wiping his hands against each other as if attempting to rub away something foul. “I will not countenance Lady Kilmartin being spoken of in such disrespectful terms,” he bit off. “Is that clear?”

Hardwick nodded. And so did a number of the onlookers.

“Good,” Michael grunted, deciding now was a good time to get the hell out. Hopefully Francesca would already be in bed when he got home. Either that or out. Anything as long as he didn’t have to see her.

He walked toward the exit, but as he stepped out of the room and into the hall, he heard his name being uttered yet again. He turned around, wondering what man was idiot enough to pester him in such a state.

Colin Bridgerton. Francesca’s brother. Damn.

“Kilmartin,” Colin said, his handsome face decorated with his customary half smile.

“Bridgerton.”

Colin motioned lightly to the now overturned table. “That was quite a show in there.”

Michael said nothing. Colin Bridgerton had always unnerved him. They shared the same sort of reputation—that of the devil-may-care rogue. But whereas Colin was the darling of the society mamas, who cooed over his charming demeanor, Michael had always been (or at least until he’d come into the title) treated with a bit more caution.

But Michael had long suspected there was quite a bit of substance under Colin’s ever-jovial surface, and perhaps it was because they were alike in so many ways, but Michael had always feared that if anyone were to sense the truth of his feelings for Francesca, it would be this brother.

“I was having a quiet drink when I heard the commotion,” Colin said, motioning to a private salon. “Come join me.”

Michael wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of the club, but Colin was Francesca’s brother, which made them relations of a sort, requiring at least the pretense of politeness. And so he gritted his teeth and walked into the private salon, fully intending to take his drink and leave in under ten minutes.

“Pleasant night, don’t you think?” Colin said, once Michael was pretending to be comfortable. “Aside from Hardwick and all that.” He sat back in his chair with careless grace. “He’s an ass.”

Michael gave him a terse nod, trying not to notice that Francesca’s brother was watching him as he always did, his shrewd gaze carefully overlaid with an air of charming innocence. Colin cocked his head slightly to the side, rather as if, Michael thought acerbically, he were angling for a better look into his soul.

“Damn it all,” Michael muttered under his breath, and he rang for a waiter.

“What was that?” Colin asked.

Michael turned slowly back to face him. “Do you want another drink?” he asked, his words as clear as he could manage, considering they had to squeeze through his clenched teeth.

“I believe I will,” Colin replied, all friendliness and good cheer.

Michael didn’t believe his façade for a moment.

“Do you have any plans for the remainder of the evening?” Colin asked.

“None.”

“Neither do I, as it happens,” Colin murmured.

Damn. Again. Was it really too much to wish for one bloody hour of solitude?

“Thank you for defending Francesca’s honor,” Colin said quietly.

Michael’s first impulse was to growl that he didn’t need to be thanked; it was his place as well as any Bridgerton’s to defend Francesca’s honor, but Colin’s green eyes seemed uncommonly sharp that evening, so he just nodded instead. “Your sister deserves to be treated with respect,” he finally said, making sure that his voice was smooth and even.

“Of course,” Colin said, inclining his head.

Their drinks arrived. Michael fought the urge to down his in one gulp, but he did take a large enough sip for it to burn down his throat.

Colin, on the other hand, let out an appreciative sigh and sat back. “Excellent whisky,” he said with great appreciation. “Best thing about Britain, really. Or one of them at least. One just can’t get anything like it in Cyprus.”

Michael just grunted a response. It was all that seemed necessary.

Colin took another drink, clearly savoring the brew. “Ahhh,” he said, setting his glass down. “Almost as good as a woman.”

Michael grunted again, raising his glass to his lips.

And then Colin said, “You should just marry her, you know.”

Michael nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Marry her,” Colin said with a shrug. “It seems simple enough.”

It was probably too much to hope that Colin was speaking of anyone but Francesca, but Michael took one desperate stab, anyway, and said, in quite the chilliest tone he could muster, “To whom, might I ask, do you refer?”

Colin lifted his eyebrows. “Do we really need to play this game?”

“I can’t marry Francesca,” Michael sputtered.

“Why not?”

“Because—” He cut himself off. Because there were a hundred reasons he couldn’t marry her, none of which he could speak aloud. So he just said, “She was married to my cousin.”

“Last I checked, there was nothing illegal in that.”

No, but there was everything immoral. He’d wanted Francesca for so long, loved her for what felt like an eternity—even when John had been living. He had deceived his cousin in the basest way possible; he would not compound the betrayal by stealing his wife.

It would complete the ugly circle that had led to his being the Earl of Kilmartin, a title that was never supposed to have been his. None of it was supposed to be his. And except for those damned boots he’d forced Reivers to toss in a wardrobe, Francesca was the only thing left of John’s that he hadn’t made his own.

John’s death had given him fabulous wealth. It had given him power, prestige, and the title of earl.

If it gave him Francesca as well, how could he possibly hang onto the thread of hope that he hadn’t somehow, even if only in his dreams, wished for this to happen?

How could he live with himself then?

“She has to marry someone,” Colin said.

Michael looked up, aware that he’d been silent with his thoughts for some time. And that Colin had been watching him closely all the while. He shrugged, trying to maintain a cavalier mien, even though he suspected it wouldn’t fool the man across the table. “She’ll do what she wants,” he said. “She always does.”

“She might marry hastily,” Colin murmured. “She wants to have children before she’s too old.”

“She’s not too old.”

“No, but she might think she is. And she might worry that others will think she is, as well. She didn’t conceive with your cousin, after all. Well, not successfully.”

Michael had to clutch the end of the table to keep from rising. He could have had Shakespeare at his side to translate, and still not have been able to explain why Colin’s remark infuriated him so.

“If she chooses too hastily,” Colin added, almost offhandedly, “she might choose someone who would be cruel to her.”

“Francesca?” Michael asked derisively. Maybe some other woman would be that foolish, but not his Francesca.

Colin shrugged. “It could happen.”

“Even if it did,” Michael countered, “she would never remain in such a marriage.”

“What choice would she have?”

“This is Francesca,” Michael said. Which really should have explained it all.

“I suppose you’re right,” Colin acceded, sipping at his drink. “She could always take refuge with the Bridgertons. We would certainly never force her to return to a cruel spouse.” He set his glass down on the table and sat back. “Besides, the point is moot, anyway, is it not?”

There was something strange in Colin’s tone, something hidden and provoking. Michael looked up sharply, unable to resist the impulse to search the other man’s face for clues to his agenda. “And why is that?” he asked.

Colin took another sip of his drink. Michael noticed that the volume of liquid in the glass never seemed to go down.

Colin toyed with his glass for several moments before looking up, his gaze settling on Michael’s face. To anyone else, it might have seemed a bland expression, but there was something in Colin’s eyes that made Michael want to squirm in his seat. They were sharp and piercing, and although different in color, shaped precisely like Francesca’s.

It was damned eerie, that.

“Why is the point moot?” Colin murmured thoughtfully. “Well, because you so clearly don’t wish to marry her.”

Michael opened his mouth for a quick retort, then slammed it shut when he realized—with more than considerable shock—that he’d been about to say, “Of course I do.”

And he did.

He wanted to marry her.

He just didn’t think he could live with his conscience if he did.

“Are you quite all right?” Colin asked.

Michael blinked. “Perfectly so, why?”

Colin’s head tilted slightly to the side. “For a moment there, you looked . . .” He gave his head a shake. “It’s nothing.”

“What, Bridgerton?” Michael nearly snapped.

“Surprised,” Colin said. “You looked rather surprised. Bit odd, I thought.”

Dear God, one more moment with Colin Bridgerton, and the bloody bastard would have all of Michael’s secrets laid open and bare. Michael pushed his chair back. “I need to be going,” he said abruptly.

“Of course,” Colin said genially, as if their entire conversation had consisted of horses and the weather.

Michael stood, then gave a curt nod. It wasn’t a terribly warm farewell, considering that they were relations of a sort, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

“Think about what I said,” Colin murmured, just when Michael had reached the door.

Michael let out a harsh laugh as he pushed through the door and into the hall. As if he’d be able to think about anything else.

For the rest of his life.

Chapter 13

. . . all at home is pleasant and well, and Kilmartin thrives under Francesca’s careful stewardship. She continues to mourn John, but then of course, so do we all, as, I’m sure, do you. You might consider writing to her directly. I know that she misses you. I do pass along all of your tales, but I am certain you would relate them to her in a different fashion than you do to your mother.

—from Helen Stirling to her son,

the Earl of Kilmartin,

two years after his departure for India

The rest of the week passed in a supremely annoying blur of flowers, candy, and one appalling display of poetry, recited aloud, Michael recalled with a shudder, on his front steps.

Francesca, it seemed, was putting all the fresh-faced debutantes to shame. The number of men vying for her hand might not have been doubling every day, but it certainly felt like it to Michael, who was constantly tripping over some lovesick swain in the hall.

It was enough to make a man want to vomit. Preferably on the lovesick swain.

Of course he had his admirers as well, but as it was not suitable for a lady to call upon a gentleman, he generally only had to deal with them when he chose to do so, and not when they took it upon themselves to stop by unannounced and for no apparent reason other than to compare his eyes to—

Well, to whatever one would compare your average gray eyes. It was a stupid analogy, anyway, although Michael had been forced to listen to more than one man rhapsodize over Francesca’s eyes.

Good God, didn’t any of them have an original thought in his head? Forget that everyone made mention of her eyes; at the very least one of them could have had the creativity to compare them to something other than the water or the sky.

Michael snorted with disgust. Anyone who took the time to really look at Francesca’s eyes would have realized that they were quite their own color.

As if the sky could even compare.

Furthermore, Francesca’s nauseating parade of suitors was made all the more difficult to bear by Michael’s complete inability to stop thinking about his recent conversation with her brother.

Marriage to Francesca? He had never even let himself think about such a notion.

But now it gripped him with a fervor and intensity that left him reeling.

Marriage to Francesca. Good God. Everything about it was wrong.

Except he wanted it so badly.

It was hell watching her, hell speaking to her, hell living in the same house. He’d thought it was difficult before—loving someone who could never be his—but this . . .

This was a thousand times worse.

Colin knew.

He had to know. Why would he have suggested it if he didn’t?

Michael had held on to his sanity all these years for one reason and one reason only: No one knew he was in love with Francesca.

Except, apparently, he was to be denied even that last shred of dignity.

But now Colin knew, or at least he damn well suspected, and Michael couldn’t quite quash this rising sense of panic within his chest.

Colin knew, and Michael was going to have to do something about it.

Dear God, what if he told Francesca?

That question was foremost in his mind, even now, as he stood slightly off to the side at the Burwick ball, nearly a week after his momentous meeting with Colin.

“She looks beautiful tonight, doesn’t she?”

It was his mother’s voice at his ear; he had forgotten to pretend that he wasn’t watching Francesca. He turned to Helen and gave her a little bow. “Mother,” he murmured.

“Doesn’t she?” Helen persisted.

“Of course,” he agreed, quickly enough so she might think he was just being polite.

“Green suits her.”

Everything suited Francesca, but he wasn’t about to tell his mother that, so he just nodded and made a murmur of agreement.

“You should dance with her.”

“I’m sure I will,” he said, taking a sip of his champagne. He wanted to march across the ballroom and forcibly remove her from her annoying little crowd of admirers, but he couldn’t very well show such emotion in front of his mother. So he concluded with, “After I finish my drink.”

Helen pursed her lips. “Her dance card will surely be filled by then. You should go now.”

He turned to his mother and smiled, just the sort of devilish grin designed to take her mind off of whatever it was that had her so fixated. “Now why would I do that,” he queried, setting his champagne flute down on a nearby table, “when I can dance with you instead?”

“You rascal,” Helen said, but she didn’t protest when he led her out on the floor.

Michael knew he’d pay for this tomorrow; already the society matrons were circling him for the kill, and there was nothing they liked better than a rake who doted upon his mother.

The dance was a lively one, which didn’t allow for much conversation. And as he twisted and turned, dipped and bowed, he kept catching glances of Francesca, radiant in her emerald gown. No one seemed to notice that he was watching her, which suited him just fine, except that as the music reached its penultimate crescendo, Michael was forced to make one final turn away from her.

And when he turned back to face her again, she was gone.

He frowned. That didn’t seem right. He supposed she could have darted out to the ladies’ retiring room, but, pathetic fool that he was, he’d been watching her closely enough that he knew that she had done that just twenty minutes earlier.

He completed his dance with his mother, bade her farewell, then ambled casually over to the north side of the room, where he’d last seen Francesca. He had to move quickly, lest someone tried to waylay him. But he kept his ears open as he moved through the crowds. No one, however, seemed to be speaking of her.

When he reached her previous location, however, he noticed French doors, presumably to the back garden. They were curtained and closed, of course; it was only April, and not warm enough to be letting the night air in, even with a crowd of three hundred heating up the room. Michael was instantly suspicious; he’d lured too many women out to gardens himself not to be aware of what could happen in the dark of the night.

He slipped outside, making his exit unobtrusive. If Francesca was indeed out in the back garden with a gentleman, the last thing he wanted was a crowd trailing in his wake.

The rumble of the party seemed to pulsate through the glass doors, but even with that, the night felt quiet.

Then he heard her voice.

And it sliced his gut.

She sounded happy, he realized, more than content to be in the company of whatever man had lured her out into the dark. Michael couldn’t make out her words, but she was definitely laughing. It was a musical, tinkling sound, and it ended in a soul-searing, flirtatious murmur.

Michael put his hand back on the knob. He should leave. She wouldn’t want him here.

But he was rooted to the spot.

He’d never—ever—spied on her with John. Not once had he listened in on a conversation that wasn’t meant to include him. If he stumbled within earshot, he had always removed himself immediately. But now—it was different. He couldn’t explain it, but it was different, and he could not force himself to leave.

One more minute, he swore to himself. That was all. One more minute to assure that she was not in a dangerous situation, and—

“No, no.”

Francesca’s voice.

His ears pricked up and he took a few steps in the direction of her voice. She didn’t sound upset, but she was saying no. Of course, she could be laughing about a joke, or maybe some inane piece of gossip.

“I really must—No!”

And that was all it took for Michael to move.

Francesca knew that she shouldn’t have come outside with Sir Geoffrey Fowler, but he had been polite and charming, and she was feeling a trifle warm in the crowded ballroom. It was the sort of thing she’d never have done as an unmarried debutante, but widows weren’t held to quite the same standards, and besides, Sir Geoffrey had said that he would leave the door ajar.

All had been perfectly pleasant for the first few minutes. Sir Geoffrey made her laugh, and he made her feel beautiful, and it was almost heartbreaking to realize how much she’d missed that. And so she had laughed and flirted, and allowed herself to melt into the moment. She wanted to feel like a woman again—maybe not in the fullest sense of the word, but still, was it so wrong to enjoy the heady intoxication of knowing that she was desired?

Maybe they were all after her now infamous double dowry, maybe they wanted the alignment with two of Britain’s most notable families—Francesca was both a Bridgerton and a Stirling, after all. But for one lovely evening, she was going to let herself believe it was all about her.

But then Sir Geoffrey had moved closer. Francesca had backed up as discreetly as she was able, but he took another step in her direction, and then another, and before she knew it, her back was against a fat-trunked tree, and Sir Geoffrey’s hands were planted against the bark, each uncomfortably close to her head.

“Sir Geoffrey,” Francesca said, endeavoring to remain polite as long as she possibly could, “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding. I believe I would like to return to the party.” She kept her voice light and friendly, not wishing to provoke him into something she would regret.

His head dipped an inch closer to hers. “Now, why would you want to do that?” he murmured.

“No, no,” she said, ducking to the side as he came in closer, “people will be missing me.” Dash it all, she was going to have to stamp on his foot, or worse, unman him in the manner her brothers had taught her back when she was a green girl. “Sir Geoffrey,” she said, trying one last time for civility, “I really must—”

And then his mouth, wet and mushy and entirely unwelcome, landed on hers.

“—No!” she managed to squeal.

But he was quite determined to mash her with his lips. Francesca twisted this way and that, but he was stronger than she had realized, and he clearly had no intention of letting her escape. Still struggling, she maneuvered her leg so that she might jam her knee up into his groin, but before she could do that, Sir Geoffrey seemed to . . . quite simply . . . disappear.

“Oh!” The surprised sound flew from her lips of its own accord. There was a flurry of movement, a noise that sounded rather sickeningly like knuckles on flesh, and one very heartfelt cry of pain. By the time Francesca had any idea what was going on, Sir Geoffrey was sprawled on the ground, swearing most vehemently, and a large man loomed over him, his boot planted firmly on Sir Geoffrey’s chest.

“Michael?” Francesca asked, unable to believe her eyes.

“Say the word,” Michael said, in a voice she had never dreamed could cross his lips, “and I will crush his ribs.”

“No!” Francesca said quickly. She’d not have felt the least bit guilty for kneeing Sir Geoffrey between the legs, but she didn’t want Michael to kill the man.

And from the look on Michael’s face, she was quite certain he would have happily done so.

“That’s not necessary,” she said, hurrying to Michael’s side and then backing up when she saw the feral gleam in his eyes. “Er, perhaps we could just ask him to leave?”

For a moment Michael did nothing but stare at her. Hard, in the eyes, and with an intensity that robbed her of the ability to breathe. Then he ground his boot down into Sir Geoffrey’s chest. Not too very much harder, but enough to make the supine man grunt with discomfort.

“Are you certain?” Michael bit off.

“Yes, please, there’s no need to hurt him,” Francesca said. Good heavens, this would be a nightmare if anyone caught them thus. Her reputation would be tarnished, and heaven knew what they’d say about Michael, attacking a well-respected baronet. “I shouldn’t have come out here with him,” she added.

“No, you shouldn’t have done,” Michael said harshly, “but that hardly gives him leave to force his attentions on you.” Abruptly, he removed his boot from Sir Geoffrey’s chest and hauled the quivering man to his feet. Grabbing him by his lapels, he pinned him against the tree and then jerked his own body forward until the two men were nearly nose to nose.

“Doesn’t feel so good to be trapped, does it?” Michael taunted.

Sir Geoffrey said nothing, just stared at him in terror.

“Do you have something to say to the lady?”

Sir Geoffrey shook his head frantically.

Michael slammed his head back against the tree. “Think harder!” he growled.

“I’m sorry!” Sir Geoffrey squeaked.

Rather like a girl, Francesca thought dispassionately. She’d known he wouldn’t make a good husband, but that clinched it.

But Michael was not through with him. “If you ever step within ten yards of Lady Kilmartin again, I will personally disembowel you.”

Even Francesca flinched.

“Am I understood?” Michael ground out.

Another squeak, and this time Sir Geoffrey sounded like he might cry.

“Get out of here,” Michael grunted, shoving the terrified man away. “And while you’re at it, endeavor to leave town for a month or so.”

Sir Geoffrey looked at him in shock.

Michael stood still, dangerously so, and then shrugged one insolent shoulder. “You won’t be missed,” he said softly.

Francesca realized she was holding her breath. He was terrifying, but he was also magnificent, and it shook her to her very core to realize that she’d never seen him thus.

Never dreamed he could be like this.

Sir Geoffrey ran off, heading across the lawn to the back gate, leaving Francesca alone with Michael, alone and, for the first time since she’d known him, without a word to say.

Except, perhaps, “I’m sorry.”

Michael turned on her with a ferocity that nearly sent her reeling. “Don’t apologize,” he bit off.

“No, of course not,” she said, “but I should have known better, and—”

“He should have known better,” he said savagely.

It was true, and Francesca was certainly not going to take the blame for her attack, but at the same time, she thought it best not to feed his anger any further, at least not right now. She’d never seen him like this. In truth, she’d never seen anyone like this—wound so tightly with fury that he seemed as if he might snap into pieces. She’d thought he was out of control, but now, as she watched him, standing so still she was afraid to breathe, she realized that the opposite was true.

Michael was holding onto his control like a vise; if he hadn’t, Sir Geoffrey would be lying in a bloody heap right now.

Francesca opened her mouth to say something more, something placating or even funny, but she found herself without words, without the ability to do anything but watch him, this man she’d thought she knew so well.

There was something mesmerizing about the moment, and she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He was breathing hard, obviously still struggling to control his anger, and he was, she realized with curiosity, not entirely there. He was staring at some far off horizon, his eyes unfocused, and he looked almost . . .

In pain.

“Michael?” she whispered.

No reaction.

“Michael?” This time, she reached out and touched him, and he flinched, whipping around so quickly that she stumbled backward.

“What is it?” he asked gruffly.

“Nothing,” she stammered, not certain what it was she’d meant to say, not even certain if she’d had something to say other than his name.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, clearly waiting for her to say more.

“I believe I will go home,” she said. The party no longer held appeal; all she wanted to do was cocoon herself where all was safe and familiar.

Because Michael was suddenly neither of those things.

“I will make your apologies inside,” he said stiffly.

“I’ll send the carriage back for you and the mothers,” Francesca added. The last she’d looked, Janet and Helen were enjoying themselves immensely. She didn’t want to cut their evening short.

“Shall I escort you through the back gate, or would you rather go through the ball?”

“The back gate, I think,” she said.

And he did, the full distance to the carriage, his hand burning at her back the entire way. But when she reached the carriage, instead of accepting his assistance to climb up, she turned to him, a question suddenly burning on her lips.

“How did you know I was in the garden?” she inquired.

He didn’t say anything. Or maybe he would have done, just not quickly enough to suit her.

“Were you watching me?” she asked.

His lips curved, not quite into a smile, not even into the beginnings of a smile. “I’m always watching you,” he said grimly.

And she was left with that to ponder for the rest of the evening.

Chapter 14

. . . Did Francesca say that she misses me? Or did you merely infer it?

—from the Earl of Kilmartin

to his mother, Helen Stirling,

two years and two months

after his departure for India

Three hours later, Francesca was sitting in her bedroom back at Kilmartin House when she heard Michael return. Janet and Helen had come home quite a bit earlier, and when Francesca had (somewhat purposefully) run into them in the hall, they’d informed her that Michael had chosen to round out his evening with a visit to his club.

Most likely to avoid her, she’d decided, even though there was no reason for him to expect to see her at such a late hour. Still, she had left the ball earlier that evening with the distinct impression that Michael did not desire her company. He had defended her honor with all the valor and purpose of a true hero, but she couldn’t help but feel that it was done almost reluctantly, as if it was something he had to do, not something he wanted to do.

And even worse, that she was someone whose company he had to endure, rather than the cherished friend she had always told herself she was.

That, she realized, hurt.

Francesca told herself that when he returned to Kilmartin House she would leave well enough alone. She would do nothing but listen at the door as he tramped down the hallway to his bedchamber. (She was honest enough with herself to admit that she was not above—and in fact fundamentally unable to resist—eavesdropping.) Then she would scoot over to the heavy oak door that connected their rooms (locked on both sides since her return from her mother’s; she certainly didn’t fear Michael, but proprieties were proprieties) and then listen there a few minutes longer.

She had no idea what she’d be listening for, or even why she felt the need to hear his footsteps as he moved about his room, but she simply had to do it. Something had changed tonight. Or maybe nothing had changed, which might have been worse. Was it possible that Michael had never been the man she’d thought he was? Could she have been so close to him for so long, counted him as one of her dearest friends, even when they’d been estranged, and still not known him?

She’d never dreamed that Michael might have secrets from her. From her! Everyone else, maybe, but not her.

And it left her feeling rather off balance and untidy. Almost as if someone had come up to Kilmartin House and shoved a pile of bricks under the south wall, setting the entire world at a drunken slant. No matter what she did, no matter what she thought, she still felt as if she were sliding. To where, she didn’t know, and she didn’t dare hazard a guess.

But the ground was most definitely no longer firm beneath her feet.

Her bedroom faced the front of Kilmartin House, and when all was quiet she could hear the front door close, provided the person closing it did so with enough force. It didn’t need to be slammed, but—

Well, whatever firmness it required, Michael evidently was exercising it, because she heard the telltale thunk beneath her feet, followed by a low rumble of voices, presumably Priestley chatting with him as he took his coat.

Michael was home, which meant she could finally just go to bed and at least pretend to sleep. He was home, which meant that it was time to declare the evening officially over. She should put this behind her, move on, maybe pretend nothing had happened . . .

But when she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs, she did the one thing she never would have expected herself to do—

She opened her door and dashed out into the hall.

She had no idea what she was doing. Not even a clue. By the time her bare feet touched the runner carpet, she was so shocked at her own actions that she found herself somewhat frozen and out of breath.

Michael looked exhausted. And surprised. And heart-stoppingly handsome with his cravat slightly loosened and his midnight hair falling in wavy locks over his forehead. Which left her wondering—When had she begun to notice how handsome he was? It had always been something that had simply been there, that she knew in an intellectual sense but never really took note of.

But now . . .

Her breath caught. Now his beauty seemed to fill the air around her, swirling about her skin, leaving her shivery and hot, all at the same time.

“Francesca,” Michael said, her name more of a tired statement than anything else.

And of course she had nothing to say. It was so unlike her to do something like this, to rush in without thinking about what she was planning, but she didn’t particularly feel like herself that evening. She was so unsettled, so off balance, and the only thought in her head (if indeed there had been any) before dashing out her door was that she had to see him. Just catch a glimpse and maybe hear his voice. If she could convince herself that he really was the person she thought she knew, then maybe she was still the same, too.

Because she didn’t feel the same.

And it shook her to the core.

“Michael,” she said, finally finding her voice. “I. . . Good evening.”

He just looked at her, raising one brow at her remarkably meaningless statement.

She cleared her throat. “I wanted to make sure you were, er . . . all right.” The ending sounded a little weak, even to her ears, but it was the best adjective she could come up with on such short notice.

“I’m fine,” he said gruffly. “Just tired.”

“Of course,” she said. “Of course, of course.”

He smiled, but entirely without humor. “Of course.”

She swallowed, then tried to smile, but it felt forced. “I didn’t thank you earlier,” she said.

“For what?”

“For coming to my aid,” she replied, thinking that ought to be obvious. “I would have . . . Well, I would have defended myself.” At his wry glance, she added, somewhat defensively, “My brothers showed me how.”

He crossed his arms and looked down at her in a vaguely paternalistic manner. “In that case, I’m sure you would have rendered him a soprano in no time.”

She pinched her lips together. “Regardless,” she said, deciding not to comment upon his sarcasm, “I very much appreciated not having to, er . . .” She blushed. Oh, God, she hated when she blushed.

“Knee him in the ballocks?” Michael finished helpfully, one corner of his mouth curving into a mocking smile.

“Indeed,” she ground out, quite convinced that her cheeks had gone from pink straight to crimson, skipping all shades of rose, fuchsia, and red along the way.

“You’re quite welcome,” he said abruptly, giving her a nod that was meant to indicate the end of the conversation. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

He moved as if heading for his bedroom door, but Francesca wasn’t quite ready (and she was certain that the devil himself only knew why) to end the conversation. “Wait!” she called out, gulping when she realized that now she was going to have to say something.

He turned around, slowly and with a strange sense of deliberation. “Yes?”

“I . . . I just . . .”

He waited while she floundered, then finally said, “Can it wait until morning?”

“No! Wait!” And this time she reached out and grabbed his arm.

He froze.

“Why are you so angry with me?” she whispered.

He just shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe her question. But he did not take his eyes off of her hand on his arm. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Why are you so angry with me?” she repeated, and she realized that she hadn’t even realized she’d felt this way until the words had left her lips. But something wasn’t right between them, and she had to know why.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m not angry with you. I’m merely tired, and I want to go to bed.”

“You are. I’m sure you are.” Her voice was rising with conviction. Now that she’d said it, she knew it was true. He tried to hide it, and he’d become quite accomplished at apologizing when it slipped to the fore, but there was anger inside of him, and it was directed at her.

Michael placed his hand over hers. Francesca gasped at the heat of the contact, but then all he did was lift her hand off of his arm and allow it to drop. “I’m going to bed,” he announced.

And then he turned his back on her. Walked away.

“No! You can’t go!” She dashed after him, unthinking, unheedful . . .

Right into his bedroom.

If he hadn’t been angry before, he was now. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“You can’t just dismiss me,” she protested.

He stared at her. Hard. “You are in my bedchamber,” he said in a low voice. “I suggest you leave.”

“Not until you explain to me what is going on.”

Michael held himself perfectly still. His every muscle had frozen into a hard, stiff line, and it was a blessing, really, because if he’d allowed himself to move—if he’d felt even capable of moving—he would have lunged at her. And what he would do when he caught her was anyone’s guess.

He’d been pushed to the edge. First by her brother, and then by Sir Geoffrey, and now by Francesca herself, standing in front of him without a bloody clue.

His world had been overturned by a single suggestion.

Why don’t you just marry her?

It dangled before him like a ripe apple, a wicked possibility that shouldn’t be his to take.

John, his conscience pounded. John. Remember John.

“Francesca,” he said, his voice hard and controlled, “it is well past midnight, and you are in the bedchamber of a man to whom you are not married. I suggest you leave.”

But she didn’t. Damn her, she didn’t even move. She just stood there, three feet past the still-open doorway, staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.

He tried not to notice that her hair was loose. He tried not to see that she was wearing her nightclothes. They were demure, yes, but still meant to be removed, and his gaze kept dipping to the silken hem, which brushed the top of her foot, allowing him a tantalizing peek at her toes.

Good God, he was staring at her toes. Her toes. What had his life come to?

“Why are you angry with me?” she asked again.

“I’m not,” he snapped. “I just want you to get the h—” He caught himself at the last moment. “To get out of my room.”

“Is it because I wish to remarry?” she asked, her voice choked with emotion. “Is that it?”

He didn’t know how to answer, so he just glared at her.

“You think I’m betraying John,” she said accusingly. “You think I should spend my days mourning your cousin.”

Michael closed his eyes. “No, Francesca,” he said wearily, “I would never—”

But she wasn’t listening. “Do you think I don’t mourn him?” she demanded. “Do you think I don’t think about him each and every day? Do you think it feels good to know that when I marry, I’ll be making a mockery of the sacrament?”

He looked at her. She was breathing hard, caught up in her anger and maybe her grief as well.

“What I had with John,” she said, her entire body shaking now, “I’m not going to find with any of the men sending me flowers. And it feels like a desecration—a selfish desecration that I’m even considering remarrying. If I didn’t want a baby so . . . so damned much . . .”

She broke off, maybe from overemotion, maybe just at the shock of having actually cursed aloud. She just stood there, blinking, her lips parted and quivering, looking as if she might break at the merest touch.

He should have been more sympathetic. He should have tried to comfort her. And he would have done both of those things, if they had been in any other room besides his bedchamber. But as it was, it was all he could do just to control his breathing.

And himself.

She looked back up at him, her eyes huge and heart-stoppingly blue, even in the candlelight. “You don’t know,” she said, turning away. She walked to a long, low bureau of drawers. She leaned heavily against it, her fingers biting the wood. “You just don’t know,” she whispered, her back still to him.

And somehow that was more than he could take. She had barged her way in here, demanding answers when she didn’t even understand the questions. She’d invaded his bedchamber, pushed him to the limit, and now she was just going to dismiss him? Turn her back on him and tell him he didn’t know?

“Don’t know what?” he demanded, just before he crossed the room. His feet were silent but swift, and before he knew it he was right behind her, close enough to touch, close enough to grab what he wanted and—

She whirled around. “You—”

And then she stopped. Didn’t make another sound. Did nothing but allow her eyes to lock onto his.

“Michael?” she whispered. And he didn’t know what she meant. Was it a question? A plea?

She stood there, stock still, the only sound her breath over her lips. And her eyes never left his face.

His fingers tingled. His body burned. She was close. As close as she’d ever stood to him. And if she were anyone else, he would have sworn that she wanted to be kissed.

Her lips were parted, her eyes were unfocused. And her chin seemed to tilt up, as if she were waiting, wishing, wondering when he would finally bend down and seal her fate.

He felt himself say something. Her name, maybe. His chest grew tight, and his heart pounded, and suddenly the impossible became the inevitable, and he realized that this time there was no stopping. This time it wasn’t about his control or his sacrifice or his guilt.

This time was for him.

And he was going to kiss her.

When she thought about it later, the only excuse she could come up with was that she didn’t know he was right behind her. The carpet was soft and thick, and she hadn’t heard his footsteps over the roaring of blood in her ears. She didn’t know all that, she couldn’t have, because then she never would have whirled around, intending for all the world to silence him with a scathing retort. She was going to say something horrid and cutting, and intended to make him feel guilty and awful, but when she turned . . .

He was right there.

Close, so close. Mere inches away. It had been years since anyone had stood so close to her, and never, ever Michael.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but breathe as she stared at his face, realizing with an awful intensity that she wanted him to kiss her.

Michael.

Good God, she wanted Michael.

It was like a knife slicing through her. She wasn’t supposed to feel this. She wasn’t supposed to want anyone. But Michael . . .

She should have walked away. Hell, she should have run. But something rooted her to the spot. She couldn’t take her eyes off of his, couldn’t help but moisten her lips, and when his hands settled on her shoulders, she didn’t protest.

She didn’t even move.

And maybe, just maybe she even leaned in a little, something within her recognizing this moment, this subtle dance between man and woman.

It had been so long since she’d swayed into a kiss, but it seemed that there were some things a body did not forget.

He touched her chin, raised her face just the barest hint.

Still, she didn’t say no.

She stared at him, licked her lips, and waited . . .

Waited for the moment, the first touch, because as terrifying and wrong as it was, she knew it would feel like perfection.

And it did.

His lips touched hers in the barest, softest hint of a caress. It was the sort of kiss that seduced with subtlety, sent tingles through her body and left her desperate for more. Somewhere in the hazy back recesses of her mind, she knew that this was wrong, that it was more than wrong—it was insane. But she couldn’t have moved if the fires of hell were licking at her feet.

She was mesmerized, transfixed by his touch. She couldn’t quite bring herself to make another move, to invite him in any other manner than the soft sway of her body, but neither did she make any attempt to break the contact.

She just waited, breath baited, for him to do something more.

And he did. His hand found the small of her back and splayed there, his fingers tempting her with their intoxicating heat. He didn’t exactly pull her toward him, but the pressure was there, and the space between them whispered away until she could feel the gentle scrape of his evening clothes through the silk of her dressing gown.

And she grew hot. Molten.

Wicked.

His lips grew more demanding, and hers parted, allowing him greater exploration. He took full advantage, his tongue swooping in in a dangerous dance, teasing and tempting, stoking her desire until her legs grew weak, and she had no choice but to grasp onto his upper arms, to hold him, to touch him of her own accord, to acknowledge that she was there in the kiss, too, that she was taking part.

That she wanted this.

He murmured her name, his voice hoarse with desire and need and something more, something pained, but all she could do was hold onto him, and let him kiss her, and God help her, kiss him back.

Her hand moved to his neck, reveling in the soft heat of his skin. His hair was slightly long these days and curled onto her fingers, thick and crisp, and— Oh, God, she just wanted to sink into it.

His hand slid up her back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His fingers caressed her shoulder, slid down her arm, and then over to her breast.

Francesca froze.

But Michael was too far gone to notice; he cupped her, moaning audibly as he squeezed.

“No,” she whispered. This was too much, it was too intimate.

It was too . . . Michael.

“Francesca,” he murmured, his lips trailing along her cheek to her ear.

“No,” she said, and she wrenched herself free. “I can’t.”

She didn’t want to look at him, but she couldn’t not do it. And when she did, she was sorry.

His chin was dipped, and his face was slightly turned, but he was still staring at her, his eyes searing and intense.

And she was burned.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered.

He said nothing.

The words came faster, but not in greater numbers. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t . . . I. . . I—”

“Then go,” he bit off. “Now.”

She ran.

She ran to her bedroom, and then the next day she ran to her mother.

And then the day after that, she ran all the way to Scotland.

Chapter 15

. . . I am pleased that you are thriving in India, but I do wish you would consider returning home. We all miss you, and you do have responsibilities that cannot be fulfilled from abroad.

—from Helen Stirling to her son,

the Earl of Kilmartin,

two years and four months

after his departure for India

Francesca had always been a rather good liar, and, Michael reflected as he read the short letter she’d left for Helen and Janet, she was even better when she could avoid face-to-face contact and do it in writing.

An emergency had arisen at Kilmartin, Francesca had written, describing the outbreak of spotted fever among the sheep in admirable detail, and it required her immediate attention. They weren’t to worry, she assured them, she’d be back soon, and she promised to bring down some of Cook’s splendid raspberry jam, which, as they all knew, was unmatched by any confection in London.

Never mind that Michael had never heard of a sheep contracting spotted fever, or any other farm animal for that matter. Where, one had to wonder, did the sheep show their spots?

It was all very neat, and all very easy, and Michael wondered if Francesca had even arranged for Janet and Helen to be out of town for the weekend just so that she could make her escape without having to make her farewells face to face.

And it was an escape. There was no doubting that. Michael didn’t believe for one minute that there was an emergency up at Kilmartin. If that had been the case, Francesca would have felt duty bound to inform him of it. She might have been running the estate for years, but he was the earl, and she wasn’t the sort to usurp or undermine his position now that he was back.

Besides, he had kissed her, and more than that, he had seen her face after he’d kissed her.

If she could have run to the moon, she would have done so.

Janet and Helen hadn’t seemed too terribly concerned that she was gone, although they did chatter on (and on and on) about how they missed her company.

Michael just sat in his study, pondering methods of self-flagellation.

He had kissed her. Kissed her.

Not, he thought wryly, the best course of action for a man attempting to hide his true feelings.

Six years, he’d known her. Six years, and he’d kept everything beneath the surface, played his role to perfection. Six years, and he’d gone and ruined the whole thing with one simple kiss.

Except there hadn’t been anything simple about it.

How was it possible that a kiss could exceed his every fantasy? And with six years to fantasize, he’d imagined some truly superior kisses.

But this . . . it was more. It was better. It was . . .

It was Francesca.

Funny how that changed everything. You could think about a woman every day for years, imagine what she might feel like in your arms, but it never, ever matched the real thing.

And now he was worse off than ever before. Yes, he’d kissed her; yes, it had been quite the most spectacular kiss of his life.

But yes, it was also all over.

And it wasn’t going to happen again.

Now that it had finally happened, now that he had tasted perfection, he was in more agony than ever before. Now he knew exactly what he was missing; he understood with painful clarity just what it was that would never be his.

And nothing would ever be the same.

They would never be friends again. Francesca was not the sort of woman who could treat an intimacy lightly. And as she hated awkwardness of any kind, she would go out of her way to avoid his presence.

Hell, she’d gone all the way to Scotland just to be rid of him. A woman couldn’t make her feelings much clearer than that.

And the note she’d penned to him—Well, it was far less conversational than the one she’d left for Janet and Helen.

It was wrong. Forgive me.

What the hell she thought she needed forgiveness for was beyond him. He had kissed her. She might have entered his bedchamber against his wishes, but he was man enough to know that she had not done so with the expectation that he might maul her. She had been concerned because she thought he was angry with her, for God’s sake.

She had acted rashly, but only because she cared for him and valued their friendship.

And now he had gone and ruined that.

He still wasn’t quite certain how it had happened. He’d been looking at her; he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The moment was seared in his brain—her pink silk dressing robe, the way her fingers had pinched together as she spoke to him. Her hair had been loose, hanging over one shoulder, and her eyes had been huge and wet with emotion.

And then she had turned away.

That was when it had happened. That was when everything had changed. Something had risen within him, something he couldn’t possibly identify, and his feet had moved. Somehow he found himself across the room, inches away, close enough to touch, close enough to take.

Then she had turned back.

And he was lost.

There was no stopping himself at that point, no listening to reason. Whatever fist of control he’d kept wrapped around his desire for years had simply evaporated, and he had to kiss her.

It had been as simple as that. There had been no choice involved, no free will. Maybe if she’d said no, maybe if she’d backed up and walked away. But she did neither of those things; she just stood there, her breath the only sound between them, and waited.

Had she waited for the kiss? Or had she waited for him to come to his senses and step away?

It was no matter, he thought harshly, crumpling a piece of paper between his fingers. The floor around his desk was now littered with crumpled pieces of paper. He was in a destructive mood, and the sheets were easy targets. He picked up a creamy white card sitting on his blotter and glanced at it before readying his fingers for the kill. It was an invitation.

He stopped, then took a closer look. It was for tonight, and he’d probably answered in the affirmative. He was quite certain Francesca had planned to go; the hostess was a longtime friend of hers.

Maybe he should drag his pathetic self upstairs and dress for the evening. Maybe he should go out, find himself a wife. It probably wouldn’t cure what ailed him, but it had to be done sooner or later. And it had to be better for the soul than sitting around and drinking behind his desk.

He stood, eyeing the invitation again. He sighed. He really didn’t want to spend the evening socializing with a hundred people who were going to ask after Francesca. With his luck, the party would be full of Bridgertons, or even worse, Bridgerton females, who looked fiendishly alike with their chestnut hair and wide smiles. None held a candle to Francesca, of course—her sisters were almost too friendly, too sunny and open. They lacked Frannie’s sense of mystery, the ironic twinkle that colored her eyes.

No, he didn’t want to spend the evening among polite company.

And so he decided to take care of his problems as he had so many times before.

By finding himself a woman.

Three hours later, Michael was at the front door to his club, his mood stunningly foul.

He’d gone to La Belle Maison, which was, if one wanted to be honest about it, nothing but a brothel, but as far as brothels went, it was classy and discreet, and one could be assured that the women were clean and there of their own free will. Michael had been an occasional guest during the years he’d lived in London; most men of his acquaintance had visited La Belle, as they liked to call it, at one point or another. Even John had gone, before he’d married Francesca.

He’d been greeted with great warmth by the madam, treated like a prodigal son. He had a reputation, she explained; and they’d missed his presence. The women had always adored him, frequently remarking that he was one of the few who seemed to care for their pleasure as well as his own.

For some reason, the flattery just left a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t feel like a legendary lover just then; he was sick of his rakish reputation and didn’t much care if he pleased anyone that night. He just wanted a woman who might make his mind a delirious blank, even if only for a scant few minutes.

They had just the girl for him, the madam cooed. She was new and in great demand, and he would love her. Michael just shrugged and allowed himself to be led to a petite blond beauty that he was assured was the “very best.”

He started to reach out for her, but then his hand dropped. She wasn’t right. She was too blond. He didn’t want a blond.

Quite all right, he was told, and out emerged a ravishing brunette.

Too exotic.

A redhead?

All wrong.

Out they came, one after another, but they were too young, too old, too buxom, too slight, and then finally he’d selected one at random, determined to just close his damned eyes and get it over with.

He’d lasted two minutes.

The door had shut behind him and he’d felt sick, almost panicked, and he realized he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t make love to a woman. It was appalling. Emasculating. Hell, he might as well have grabbed a knife and eunuched himself.

Before, he had taken his pleasure with women to blot out one woman. But now that he’d tasted her, even with one fleeting kiss, he was ruined.

And so instead he’d come here, to his club, where he didn’t have to worry about seeing anyone of the female persuasion. The aim, of course, was to wipe Francesca’s face from his mind, and he was rather hoping that alcohol would work where the delectable girls of La Belle Maison had not.

“Kilmartin.”

Michael looked up. Colin Bridgerton.

Damn.

“Bridgerton,” he grunted. Damn damn damn. Colin Bridgerton was the last person he wanted to see right now. Even the ghost of Napoleon, come down to slice a rapier through his gullet, would have been preferable.

“Sit down,” Colin said, motioning to the chair across from him.

There was no getting out of it; he could have lied and said he was meeting someone, but he still would have no excuse for not sitting with Colin to share a quick drink while he was waiting. And so Michael just gritted his teeth and sat, hoping that Colin had another engagement that would require his presence in—oh, about three minutes.

Colin picked up his tumbler, regarded it with curious diligence, then swirled the amber liquid around several times before taking a small sip. “I understand that Francesca has returned to Scotland.”

Michael gave a grunt and a nod.

“Surprising, wouldn’t you think? With the season still so young.”

“I don’t pretend to know her mind.”

“No, no, of course you wouldn’t,” Colin said softly. “No man of any intelligence would pretend to know a female mind.”

Michael said nothing.

“Still, it’s only been . . . what . . . a fortnight since she came down?”

“Just over,” Michael bit off. Francesca had returned to London the precise day that he had done.

“Right, of course. Yes, you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”

Michael shot Colin a sharp look. What the hell was he getting at?

“Ah, well,” Colin said, lifting one of his shoulders into a careless shrug. “I’m sure she’ll be back soon. Not likely to find a husband up in Scotland, after all, and that is her aim for this spring, is it not?”

Michael nodded tersely, eyeing a table across the room. It was empty. So empty. So joyfully, blessedly empty.

He could picture himself a very happy man at that table.

“Not feeling very conversational this evening, are we?” Colin asked, breaking into his (admittedly tame) fantasies.

“No,” Michael said, not appreciating the vague hint of condescension in the other man’s voice, “we are not.”

Colin chuckled, then took the last sip of his drink. “Just testing you,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“To see if I have spontaneously divided into two separate beings?” Michael bit off.

“No, of course not,” Colin said with a suspiciously easy grin. “I can see that quite clearly. I was merely testing your mood.”

Michael arched a brow in a most forbidding manner. “And you found it . . . ?”

“Rather as usual,” Colin answered, undeterred.

Michael did nothing but scowl at him as the waiter arrived with their drinks.

“To happiness,” Colin said, lifting his glass in the air.

I am going to strangle him, Michael decided right then and there. I am going to reach across the table and wrap my hands around his throat until those annoying green eyes pop right out of his head.

“No toast to happiness?” Colin asked.

Michael let out an incoherent grunt and downed his glass in one gulp.

“What are you drinking?” Colin asked conversationally. He leaned over and peered at Michael’s glass. “Must be jolly good stuff.”

Michael fought the urge to clock him over the head with his now empty tumbler.

“Very well,” Colin said with a shrug, “I shall toast to my own happiness, then.” He took a sip, leaned back, then touched his lips to the glass again.

Michael glanced at the clock.

“Isn’t it a good thing I have nowhere to be?” Colin mused.

Michael let his glass drop down onto the table with a loud thunk. “Is there a point to any of this?” he demanded.

For a moment it looked like Colin, who could, by all accounts, talk anyone under the table when he so chose, would remain silent. But then, just when Michael was ready to give up on any guise of politeness and simply get up and leave, he said, “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

Michael held himself very still. “Meaning?”

Colin smiled, with just enough condescension that Michael wanted to punch him. “About Francesca, of course,” he said.

“Didn’t we just confirm that she has left the country?” Michael said carefully.

Colin shrugged. “Scotland’s not so very far away.”

“It’s far enough,” Michael muttered. Certainly far enough to make it abundantly clear that she didn’t want anything to do with him.

“She’ll be all alone,” Colin said on a sigh.

Michael just narrowed his eyes and stared at him. Hard.

“I still think you should—” Colin broke himself off, quite on purpose, Michael was convinced. “Well, you know what I think,” Colin finally finished, taking a sip of his drink.

And Michael just gave up on being polite. “You don’t know a damned thing, Bridgerton.”

Colin raised his brows at the snarl in Michael’s voice. “Funny,” he murmured, “I hear that very thing all day long. Usually from my sisters.”

Michael was familiar with this tactic. Colin’s neat side-step was exactly the sort of maneuver he himself employed with such facility. And it was for probably this reason that his right hand had formed a fist under the table. Nothing had the power to irritate like the reflection of one’s own behavior in someone else.

But oh God, Colin’s face was so close.

“Another whisky?” Colin asked, effectively ruining Michael’s lovely vision of blackened eyes.

Michael was in the perfect mood to drink himself into oblivion, but not in the company of Colin Bridgerton, so he just let out a terse, “No,” and pushed his chair back.

“You do realize, Kilmartin,” Colin said, his voice so soft it was almost chilling, “that there is no reason you can’t marry her. None at all. Except, of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “the reasons you manufacture for yourself.”

Michael felt something tearing in his chest. His heart, probably, but he was growing so used to the feeling it was a wonder he still noticed it.

And Colin, damn his eyes, just wouldn’t shut up.

“If you don’t want to marry her,” Colin said thoughtfully, “then you don’t want to marry her. But—”

“She might say no,” Michael heard himself say. His voice sounded rough, choked, foreign to his ears.

Dear God, if he’d jumped on the table and declared his love for Francesca, he couldn’t have made it any more clear.

Colin’s head tilted a fraction of an inch to the side, just enough to acknowledge that he’d heard the subtext in Michael’s words. “She might,” he murmured. “In fact, she probably will. Women often do, the first time you ask.”

“And how many times have you proposed marriage?”

Colin smiled slowly. “Just once, actually. This afternoon, as a matter of fact.”

It was the one thing—truly, the only thing—that Colin could have said to completely diffuse Michael’s churning emotions. “I beg your pardon?” Michael asked, his jaw dropping in shock. This was Colin Bridgerton, the eldest of the unmarried Bridgerton brothers. He’d practically created a profession of avoiding marriage.

“Indeed,” Colin said mildly. “Thought it was about time, although I suppose honesty is owed here, so I should probably admit that she did not force me to ask twice. If it makes you feel any better, however, it did take several minutes to wheedle the yes out of her.”

Michael just stared.

“Her first reaction to my query was to fall to the pavement in surprise,” Colin admitted.

Michael fought the impulse to look around to see if he’d somehow been trapped in a theatrical farce without his knowledge. “Er, is she well?” he asked.

“Oh, quite,” Colin said, picking up his drink.

Michael cleared his throat. “Might I inquire as to the identity of the lucky lady?”

“Penelope Featherington.”

The one who doesn’t speak? Michael almost blurted out. Now there was an odd match if ever he’d seen one.

“Now you really look surprised,” Colin said, thankfully with good humor.

“I did not realize you’d hoped to settle down,” Michael hastily improvised.

“Neither did I,” Colin said with a smile. “Funny how that works out.”

Michael opened his mouth to congratulate him, but instead he heard himself asking, “Has anyone told Francesca?”

“I became engaged this afternoon,” Colin reminded him, somewhat bemusedly.

“She’ll want to know.”

“I expect she will. I certainly tormented her enough as a child. I’m sure she will wish to devise some sort of wedding-related torture for me.”

“Someone needs to tell her,” Michael said forcefully, ignoring Colin’s stroll through his childhood memories.

Colin leaned back in his seat with a casual sigh. “I imagine my mother will pen her a note.”

“Your mother will be quite busy. It won’t be the first thing on her agenda.”

“I couldn’t speculate.”

Michael frowned. “Someone should tell her about it.”

“Yes,” Colin said with a smile, “someone should. I’d go myself—It’s been an age since I’ve been up to Scotland. But of course I’m going to be a touch busy here in London, seeing as how I’m getting married. Which is, of course, the entire reason for this discussion, is it not?”

Michael shot him an annoyed glance. He hated that Colin Bridgerton thought he was cleverly manipulating him, but he didn’t see how he could disabuse him of that notion without admitting that he desperately wanted to travel to Scotland to see Francesca.

“When is the wedding to be?” he asked.

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” Colin said. “Soon, I would hope.”

Michael nodded. “Then Francesca will need to be informed right away.”

Colin smiled slowly. “Yes, she will, won’t she?”

Michael scowled.

“You don’t have to marry her while you’re up there,” Colin said, “just inform her of my impending nuptials.”

Michael revisited his earlier fantasy of strangling Colin Bridgerton and found the image even more tantalizing than before.

“I’ll see you later,” Colin said as Michael headed for the door. “Perhaps a month or so?”

Meaning that he fully expected Michael not to be in London anytime soon.

Michael swore under his breath, but he did nothing to contradict him. He might hate himself for it, but now that he had an excuse to go after Francesca, he couldn’t resist making the trip.

The question was, would he be able to resist her?

And more to the point, did he even want to?

Several days later, Michael was standing at the front door of Kilmartin, his childhood home. It had been years since he’d stood here, more than four, to be precise, and he couldn’t quite halt the catch in his throat when he realized that all of this—the house, the lands, the legacy—was his. Somehow it hadn’t sunk in, perhaps in his brain, but not in his heart.

Springtime didn’t seem to have arrived in the border counties of Scotland yet, and the air, while not biting, held a chill that had him rubbing his gloved hands together. The air was misty and the skies were gray, but there was something in the atmosphere that called to him, reminding his weary soul that this, not London and not India, was home.

But his sense of place was little comfort as he prepared for what lay ahead. It was time to face Francesca.

He had rehearsed this moment a thousand times since his conversation with Colin Bridgerton back in London. What he’d say to her, how he’d make his case. And he rather thought he’d figured it out. Because before he convinced Francesca, he’d had to convince himself.

He was going to marry her.

He’d have to get her to agree, of course; he couldn’t very well force her into marriage. She’d probably come up with countless reasons why it was a mad idea, but in the end, he’d convince her.

They would marry.

Marry.

It was the one dream he’d never permitted himself to consider.

But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Forget that he loved her, forget that he’d loved her for years. She didn’t need to know any of that; telling her would only make her feel awkward and then he’d feel like a fool.

But if he could present it to her in practical terms, explain why it made sense that they marry, he was sure he could warm her to the idea. She might not understand the emotions, not when she didn’t feel them herself, but she had a cool head, and she understood sense.

And now that he’d finally allowed himself to imagine a life with her, he couldn’t let it go. He had to make it happen. He had to.

And it would be good. He might not ever have all of her—her heart, he knew, would never be his—but he’d have most of her, and that would be enough.

It was certainly more than he had now.

And even half of Francesca—Well, that would be ecstasy.

Wouldn’t it?

Chapter 16

. . . but as you have written, Francesca is managing Kilmartin with admirable skill. I do not mean to shirk my duties, and I assure you, had I not such an able stand-in, I would return immediately.

—from the Earl of Kilmartin

to his mother, Helen Stirling,

two years and six months

after his departure for India,

written with a muttered,

“She never answered my question.”

Francesca didn’t like to think of herself as a coward, but when her choices were that and fool, she chose coward. Gladly.

Because only a fool would have remained in London— in the same house, even—as Michael Stirling after experiencing his kiss.

It had been . . .

No, Francesca wouldn’t think about it. When she thought about it, she inevitably ended up feeling guilty and ashamed, because she wasn’t supposed to feel like this about Michael.

Not Michael.

She hadn’t planned to feel desire for anyone. Truly, the most she’d been hoping for with a husband was a mild, pleasant sensation—a kiss that felt nice against the lips but left her unaffected everywhere else.

That would have been enough.

But now . . . But this . . .

Michael had kissed her. He’d kissed her, and worse, she’d kissed him back, and since then all she could do was imagine his lips on hers, then imagine them everywhere else. And at night, when she was alone in her enormous bed, the dreams became more vivid, and her hand would creep down her body, only to halt before it reached its final destination.

She wouldn’t—No, she couldn’t fantasize about Michael. It was wrong. She would have felt terrible for feeling this kind of desire about anyone, but Michael . . .

He was John’s cousin. His best friend. Her best friend, too. And she shouldn’t have kissed him.

But, she thought with a sigh, it had been magnificent.

And that was why she’d had to choose coward over fool and run to Scotland. Because she had no faith in her ability to resist him again.

She’d been at Kilmartin for nearly a week now, trying to immerse herself in the regular, everyday life of the family seat. There was always much to do—accounts to review, tenants to visit—but she didn’t find the same satisfaction she usually did in such tasks. The regularity of it should have been soothing, but instead, it just made her restless, and she couldn’t force herself to focus, to center her mind on any one thing.

She was jittery and distracted, and half the time she felt as if she didn’t know what to do with herself—in the most literal and physical sense. She couldn’t seem to sit still, and so she had taken to leaving Kilmartin for hours on end, strapping on her most comfortable boots and trekking across the countryside until she was exhausted.

Not that it made her sleep any better at night, but still, at least she was trying.

And right now she was trying with great vigor, having just hauled herself up Kilmartin’s biggest hill. Breathing hard from the exertion, she glanced up at the darkening sky, trying to gauge both the time and the likelihood that it would rain.

Late, and probably.

She frowned. She should head home.

She didn’t have far to go, just down the hill and across one grassy field. But by the time she reached Kilmartin’s stately front portico, it had begun to sprinkle, and her face was lightly dusted with misty droplets. She removed her bonnet and shook it out, thankful that she’d remembered to don it before leaving—she wasn’t always that diligent—and was just heading upstairs to her bedchamber, where she thought she might indulge herself in some chocolate and biscuits, when Davies, the butler, appeared before her.

“My lady?” he said, clearly desiring her attention.

“Yes?”

“You have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Francesca felt her brow furrow in thought. Most everyone who came calling up at Kilmartin had already removed to Edinburgh or London for the season.

“Not precisely a visitor, my lady.”

Michael. It had to be. And she couldn’t say she was surprised, not exactly. She had thought he might follow her, although she’d assumed he’d do it right away or not at all. Now, after the passage of a sennight, she’d reckoned she might be safe from his attentions.

Safe from her own response to them.

“Where is he?” she asked Davies.

“The earl?”

She nodded.

“Waiting for you in the rose drawing room.”

“Has he been here long?”

“No, my lady.”

Francesca nodded her dismissal and then forced her feet to carry her down the hall to the drawing room. She shouldn’t be dreading this quite so intensely. It was just Michael, for heaven’s sake.

Except she had a sinking feeling that he would never be just Michael ever again.

Still, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t gone over what she might say a million times in her head. But all of her platitudes and explanations sounded rather inadequate now that she was faced with the prospect of actually uttering them aloud.

How nice to see you, Michael, she could say, pretending that nothing had happened.

Or— You must realize that nothing will change—even though, of course, everything had changed.

Or she could make good humor her guide and open with something like— Can you believe the silliness of it all?

Except that she rather doubted either of them had found it silly.

And so she just accepted that she was going to have make it all up as she went along, and she stepped through the doorway into Kilmartin’s famed and lovely rose drawing room.

He was standing by the window—watching for her, perhaps?—and didn’t turn when she entered. He looked travelworn, with slightly wrinkled clothing and ruffled hair. He wouldn’t have ridden all the way to Scotland—only a fool or a man chasing someone to Gretna would do that. But she had traveled with Michael often enough to know that he’d probably joined the driver in front for a fair bit of the trip. He’d always hated closed carriages for long journeys and had more than once sat in the drizzle and rain rather than remain penned in with the rest of the passengers.

She didn’t say his name. She could have done, she supposed. She wasn’t buying herself very much time; he would turn around soon enough. But for now she just wanted to take the time to acclimate herself to his presence, to make sure that her breathing was under control, that she wasn’t going to do something truly foolish like burst into tears, or, just as likely, erupt with silly, nervous laughter.

“Francesca,” he said, without even turning around.

He’d sensed her presence, then. Her eyes widened, although she shouldn’t have been surprised. Ever since he’d left the army he’d had an almost catlike ability to sense his surroundings. It was probably what had kept him alive during the war. No one, apparently, could attack him from behind.

“Yes,” she said. And then, because she thought she should say more, she added, “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

He turned. “Very much so.”

She swallowed, trying not to notice how handsome he was. He’d quite taken her breath away in London, but here in Scotland he seemed changed. Wilder, more elemental.

Far more dangerous to her soul.

“Is anything amiss in London?” she asked, hoping there was some sort of practical purpose to his visit. Because if there wasn’t, then he had come just for her, and that scared the very devil out of her.

“Nothing amiss,” he said, “although I do bear news.”

She tilted her head, waiting for his reply.

“Your brother has become betrothed.”

“Colin?” she asked in surprise. Her brother had been so committed to his life as a bachelor that she wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d told her that the lucky fellow was actually her younger brother Gregory, even though he was nearly ten years Colin’s junior.

Michael nodded. “To Penelope Featherington.”

“To Penel—oh, my, that is a surprise. But lovely, I should say. I think she will suit him tremendously.”

Michael took a step toward her, his hands remaining clasped behind his back. “I thought you would want to know.”

And he couldn’t have penned a letter? “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a wedding in the family. Not since—”

Mine, they both realized she’d been about to say.

The silence hung in the room like an unwanted guest, and then finally she broke it with, “Well, it has been a long time. My mother must be delighted.”

“She is quite,” Michael confirmed. “Or so your brother told me. I didn’t have an opportunity to converse with her myself.”

Francesca cleared her throat, then tried to feign comfort with the strange tableau by giving a little wave with one of her hands as she asked, “Will you stay long?”

“I haven’t decided,” he said, taking another step in her direction. “It depends.”

She swallowed. “On what?”

He’d halved the distance between them. “On you,” he said softly.

She knew what he meant, or at least she thought she did, but the last thing she wanted to do just then was acknowledge what had transpired in London, so she backed up a step—which was as far as she could go without actually fleeing the room—and pretended to misunderstand. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Kilmartin is yours. You may come and go as you please. I have no control over your actions.”

His lips curved into a wry smile. “Is that what you think?” he murmured.

And she realized he’d halved the distance between them yet again.

“I’ll have a room readied for you,” she said hastily. “Which would you like?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The earl’s bedchamber, then,” she said, well aware that she was babbling now. “It’s only right. I’ll move down the hall. Or, er, to another wing,” she added, mumbling.

He took another step toward her. “That may not be necessary.”

Her eyes flew to his. What was he suggesting? Surely he didn’t think that a single kiss in London would give him leave to avail himself of the connecting door between the earl’s and countess’s bedchambers?

“Shut the door,” he said, nodding at the open doorway behind her.

She glanced backward, even though she knew exactly what she’d see there. “I’m not sure—”

“I am,” he said. And then, in a voice that was velvet over steel he said, “Shut it.”

She did. She was fairly certain it was a bad idea, but she did it anyway. Whatever he planned to say to her, she didn’t particularly care to have overheard by a fleet of servants.

But once her fingers left the doorknob she scooted around him and into the room, setting a more comfortable distance—and an entire seating group—between them.

He looked amused by her actions, but he did not mock her for them. Instead, he merely said, “I have given matters a great deal of thought since you left London.”

As had she, but there seemed little point in mentioning it.

“I hadn’t meant to kiss you,” he said.

“No!” she said, too loudly. “I mean, no, of course not.”

“But now that I have . . . Now that we have . . .”

She winced at his use of the plural. He wasn’t going to allow her to pretend that she hadn’t been a willing participant.

“Now that it is done,” he said, “I’m sure you understand that everything is changed.”

She looked up at him then; she’d been quite intently focusing on the pink-and-cream fleur-de-lis pattern on the damask-covered sofa. “Of course,” she said, trying to ignore the way her throat was beginning to tighten.

His fingers wrapped around the mahogany edge of a Hepplewhite chair. Francesca glanced down at his hands; his knuckles had gone white.

He was nervous, she realized with surprise. She hadn’t expected that. She didn’t know that she had ever seen him nervous before. He was always such a model of urbane elegance, his charm easy and smooth, his wicked wit always a whisper from his lips.

But now he looked different. Stripped down. Nervous. It made her feel . . . not better, precisely, but maybe not so much like the only fool in the room.

“I have given the matter a great deal of thought,” he said.

He was repeating himself now. This was very strange.

“And I have come to a conclusion that surprised even me,” he continued, “although now that I have reached it, I am quite convinced it is the best course of action.”

With his every word, she felt more in control, less ill at ease. It wasn’t that she wanted him to feel badly—well, maybe she did; it was only fair after how she’d spent the last week. But there was something rather relieving in the knowledge that the awkwardness was not one-sided, that he’d been as disturbed and shaken as she.

Or if not, at least that he had not been unaffected.

He cleared his throat, then moved his chin slightly, stretching his neck. “I believe,” he said, his gaze suddenly settling on hers with remarkable clarity, “that we should be married.”

What?

Her lips parted.

What?

And then, finally, she said it. “What?”

Not I beg your pardon. Not even the more succinct Excuse me. Just What?

“If you listen to my arguments,” he said, “you will see that it makes sense.”

“Are you mad?”

He drew back slightly. “Not at all.”

“I can’t marry you, Michael.”

“Why not?”

Why not? Because . . . Because . . . “Because I can’t!” she finally burst out. “For heaven’s sake, you of all people ought to understand the insanity of such a suggestion.”

“I will allow that on first reflection, it seems highly irregular, but if you simply listen to my arguments, you will see the sense in it.”

She gaped at him. “How can it make sense? I can’t think of anything that makes less sense!”

“You won’t have to move,” he said, ticking the items off on his fingers, “and you will retain your title and position.”

Convenient, both items, but hardly reason enough to marry Michael, who . . . well . . . Michael.

“You will be able to enter into the marriage knowing that you will be treated with care and respect,” he added. “It could take months to reach the same conclusion about another man, and even then, could you really be certain? Early impressions can be deceiving, after all.”

She searched his face, trying to see if there was anything, anything behind his words. There had to be some sort of reason for this, because she just couldn’t grasp that he was proposing. It was mad. It was . . .

Good God, she wasn’t sure what it was. Was there a word to apply to something that quite simply removed the earth from beneath one’s feet?

“I will give you children,” he said softly. “Or at least, I will try.”

She blushed. She felt it in an instant, her cheeks turning a furiously hot pink. She didn’t want to imagine herself in bed with him. She’d spent the last week desperately trying not to do that.

“What will you gain?” she whispered.

He appeared momentarily startled by her query, but he quickly recovered and said, “I will have a wife who has been running my estates for years. I am certainly not so proud that I would not take advantage of your superior knowledge.”

She nodded. Just once, but it was enough to signal for him to continue.

“I already know you and trust you,” he said. “And I am secure in the knowledge that you will not stray.”

“I can’t think about this right now,” she said, bringing her hands to her face. Her head was spinning with it all, and she had the horrible sensation that it would never quite recover.

“It makes sense,” Michael said. “You need only consider—”

“No,” she said, desperately searching for a resolute tone. “It would never work. You know that.” She turned away, not wanting to look at him. “I can’t believe you would even consider it.”

“I couldn’t either,” he admitted, “when the idea first came to me. But once it did, I couldn’t let it go, and I soon realized it made perfect sense.”

She pressed her fingers into her temples. For God’s sake, why did he keep carping on about sense? If he uttered the word one more time she thought she might scream.

And how could he be so calm? She wasn’t certain how she thought he ought to act; she’d certainly never imagined this moment. But something about his bloodless recitation of a proposal gnawed at her. He was so cool, so collected. A bit nervous, perhaps, but with his emotions completely even and unengaged.

Whereas she felt as if her world might spin right off its axis.

It wasn’t fair.

And for that moment at least, she hated him for making her feel that way.

“I’m going upstairs,” she said abruptly. “I’ll have to talk with you about it in the morning.”

She almost made it. She was more than halfway to the door when she felt his hand on her arm, his grasp gentle and yet holding her with unrelenting strength.

“Wait,” he said, and she could not move.

“What do you want?” she whispered. She wasn’t looking at him, but she could see his face in her mind, the way his midnight hair fell over his forehead, his heavy-lidded eyes, framed with lashes so long they could make an angel weep.

And his lips. Most of all, she could see his lips, perfectly shaped, finely molded, perpetually curved into that devilish expression of his, as if he knew things, understood the world in a way that more innocent mortals never would.

His hand traveled up her arm until it reached her shoulder, and then one of his fingers traced a feather-light line down the side of her neck.

His voice, when it came, was low and husky, and she felt it right in the very center of her being.

“Don’t you want another kiss?”

Chapter 17

. . . yes, of course. Francesca is a wonder. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

—from Helen Stirling to her son,

the Earl of Kilmartin,

two years and nine months

after his departure for India

Michael wasn’t certain when it had become apparent to him that he would have to seduce her. He’d tried to appeal to her mind, to her innate sense of the practical and wise, and it wasn’t working.

And it couldn’t be about emotion, because that, he knew, was one-sided.

So it would have to be passion.

He wanted her—Oh, God, he wanted her. With an intensity he hadn’t even imagined before he’d kissed her the week previous in London. But even as his blood raced with desire and need and, yes, love, his mind was sharp and calculating, and he knew that if he was to bind her to him, he would need to do it with this. He would have to claim her in a way she could not deny. He couldn’t just try to convince her with words and thoughts and ideas. She could attempt to talk herself out of that, pretend the feelings weren’t there.

But if he made her his, left his imprint on her in the most physical way possible, he would be with her always.

And she would be his.

She slipped out from beneath his fingers, edging backward until she’d put a few paces between them.

“Don’t you want another kiss, Francesca?” he murmured, moving toward her with predatory grace.

“It was a mistake,” she said, her voice shaky. She scooted back a few inches farther, stopping only when she bumped into the edge of a table.

He moved forward. “Not if we marry.”

“I can’t marry you, you know that.”

He took her hand, idly rubbed the skin with his thumb. “And why is that?”

“Because I . . . you . . . you’re you.”

“True,” he said, lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing her palm. Then he flicked his tongue along her wrist, just because he could. “And for the first time in a very long while,” he said, glancing up at her through his lashes, “there is no one I’d rather be just now.”

“Michael . . .” she whispered, arching backwards.

But she wanted him. He could hear it in her breath.

“Michael no, or Michael yes?” he murmured, kissing the inside of her elbow.

“I don’t know,” she moaned.

“Fair enough.” He moved higher, nudging at her chin until she had no choice but to loll back.

And he had no choice but to make love to her neck.

He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, sparing no inch of skin his sensual onslaught. He moved up to the line of her jaw, then over to her earlobe, then back down to the edge of her bodice, grasping it between his teeth. He heard Francesca gasp, but she didn’t tell him to stop, so he just pulled and pulled and pulled until one breast popped free.

God, he loved current women’s fashions.

“Michael?” she whispered.

“Shhh.” He didn’t want to have to answer any questions. He didn’t want her thinking enough to ask one.

He ran his tongue along the underside of her breast, tasting the salty-sweet essence of her skin, then reached out and cupped her. He’d touched her through her dress the first time they’d kissed, and he’d thought that was heaven, but nothing compared to the feel of her, hot and bare, in his hand.

“Oh, my,” she moaned. “Oh . . .”

He blew lightly on her nipple. “Shall I kiss you?” He looked up. He knew he was taking a chance with this, waiting for her answer. He probably shouldn’t even have posed the question, but even though his intent was to seduce, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it without at least one affirmative word from her.

“Shall I?” he murmured again, sweetening the deal with one light flick of his tongue across her nipple.

“Yes!” she burst out. “Yes, for God’s sake, yes!”

He smiled. Slowly, languidly, savoring the moment. And then, after letting her quiver with anticipation for one second longer than was probably fair, he leaned in and took her into his mouth, pouring years and years of desire onto the one breast, centering it wickedly onto one innocent nipple.

She wasn’t going to stand a chance.

“Oh, my God!” she gasped, grasping the edge of the table for purchase as her entire body arched back. “Oh, my God. Oh, Michael. Oh, my God.”

He took advantage of her passion to slide his hands around her hips and lift her up until she was seated on the table, her legs parting for him as he stepped into their feminine cradle.

Satisfaction raced through his veins, even as his body screamed for its own pleasure. He loved that he could do this to her, make her scream and moan and cry out with desire. She was so strong, always so cool and composed, and yet right now she was simply and purely his, a slave to her own needs, captive to his expert touch.

He kissed, he licked, he nibbled, he tugged. He tortured her until he thought she might explode. Her breath was loud and gasping, and her moans had grown more and more incoherent.

And all the while his hands were moving silently up her legs, first grasping her ankles, then her calves, pushing her skirts up and up, until they settled in a rumpled pool above her knees.

And it was only then that he pulled away and gave her a hint of a reprieve.

She looked at him, her eyes glazed, her lips pink and parted. She didn’t say anything; he didn’t think she could say anything. But he saw the questions in her eyes. She might be beyond speech, but she was several minutes away from total insanity.

“I thought it would be cruel to torture it any longer,” he said, lightly taking her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

She groaned.

“You like that.” It was a statement, and not a particularly sophisticated one, but this was Francesca, not some nameless woman he was tupping while he closed his eyes and imagined her face. And every time she mewled with pleasure his heart raced with joy. “You like it,” he said again, smiling with satisfaction.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

He leaned in until his lips were brushing her ear. “You’ll like this, too.”

“What?” she asked, surprising him with her query. He’d thought she was too far gone to question him aloud.

He nudged her skirts a little higher, just enough so that there was no danger of them falling off her lap. “You want to hear it, don’t you?” he murmured, sliding his hands until they were just above her knees. He squeezed her thighs gently, circling against her skin with his thumbs. “You want to know.”

She nodded.

He moved toward her again, lightly touching his lips to hers, close enough to feel her, yet far enough to speak. “You were always so curious,” he murmured. “You asked so many questions.”

He slid his lips along her cheek to her ear, whispering all the way. “Michael,” he said, softening his voice to mimic hers, “tell me something naughty. Tell me something wicked.”

She blushed. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, sense the hot rush of blood to her skin.

“But I never told you what you wanted to hear, did I?” he asked, lightly nipping at her earlobe. “I always left you outside the bedroom door.”

He paused, not because he expected an answer, just because he wanted to hear her breathe.

“Did you wonder?” he whispered. “Did you leave me and wonder what I hadn’t told you?” He leaned in, just so she’d feel his lips move whisper-light against her ear. “Did you want to know,” he whispered, “what I did when I was wicked?”

He wouldn’t make her answer; it wouldn’t be fair. But he couldn’t stop his own mind from racing back in time, remembering the countless times he’d teased her with hints of his exploits.

He had never been the one to bring them up, however; she had always asked.

“Do you want me to tell you?” he murmured. He felt her jerk slightly in surprise, and he chuckled. “Not about them, Francesca. You. Only you.”

She turned, causing his lips to slide along her cheek. He drew back so he could see her face, and her question was clear in her eyes.

What do you mean?

He moved his hands, exerting just enough pressure on her thighs to spread them open one more wicked inch. “Do you want me to tell you what I’m going to do now?” He leaned down, running his tongue along her nipple, which had grown hard and taut in the cool air of the late afternoon. “To you?” he added.

She swallowed convulsively. He decided to take that as a yes.

“There are so many choices,” he said huskily, sliding his hands up her legs another few inches. “I scarcely know where to start.”

He stopped to look at her for a moment. She was breathing hard, her lips parted and plump from his kisses. And she was mesmerized, completely under his spell.

He dipped closer once again, to her other ear, so he could make sure his words fell hot and moist upon her soul. “I think, however, that I would have to start where you need me most. First I’d kiss you . . .”—he pressed his thumbs into the soft flesh of her inner thighs—“. . . here.”

He held silent, just for a second, just long enough for her to shiver with desire. “Would you like that?” he murmured, his question intended to torment and tease. “Yes, I can see that you would.

“But that wouldn’t be enough,” he mused, “for either of us. So clearly, I would then have to kiss you here.” His thumbs inched up until they reached the hot crevice between her legs and her torso, and then he pressed gently, so she would know exactly what he was talking about. “I think you would enjoy a kiss right there,” he added, “almost as much”—he slid along the crease, down, down, closer to the very center of her, but not quite all the way—“as I would like to kiss you.”

Her breath came a little faster.

“I’d have to take my time there,” he murmured, “switch, perhaps, from my lips to my tongue. Run it along the edge right here.” He used one fingernail to show her what he meant. “And all the while, I would be pushing you farther and farther open. Like that, maybe?”

He drew back, as if to examine his handiwork. The sight of her was stunningly erotic. She was perched on the edge of the table, her legs open to him, although not nearly enough for what he wanted to do. The skirt of her dress still hung down between her thighs, shielding her from his view, but somehow that made her almost more tempting. He didn’t need to see her, he realized, not yet, anyway. Her position was sultry enough, made even more wicked by her breast, still bared to his gaze, its nipple pink and taut and begging for more.

But nothing, nothing could have speared him with more desire than the sight of her face. Parted lips, eyes darkened to cobalt with passion. Every breath she took seemed to call to him—

Take me.

And it was almost enough to force him to abandon his wicked seduction and plunge into her right then and there.

But no—he had to do this slowly. He had to tease her and torture her, bring her to the very heights of ecstasy and then keep her there as long as he could. He had to make sure they both understood that this was something they could never, ever live without.

But still, it was hard—no, he was hard, and it was so damned difficult to exercise restraint.

“What do you think, Francesca?” he murmured, giving her thighs one last squeeze. “I don’t think we’ve opened you enough, do you?”

She made a sound. He would never know how to describe it, but it set him afire.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “more like this.” And he pushed, slowly, inexorably, until she was spread wide. Her skirt went taut over her thighs, and he tsk tsked at it, murmuring, “That can’t be comfortable. Let me help you with that.”

He hooked his fingers over the hem, and slid it up until it pooled about her waist.

And she was completely exposed.

He couldn’t see her yet, not with his eyes still focused inexorably on her face. But the knowledge of her position made them both shiver, he with desire, she with anticipation, and he had to steel his shoulders just to maintain his control. It wasn’t his time yet. It would be soon, to be sure; he was quite certain he’d perish if he didn’t make her his that night.

But for now, this was still about Francesca. And what he could make her feel.

He put his lips to her ear. “You’re not cold, are you?”

Her only answer was her shivering breath.

He brought one finger to her womanly center and began to stroke. “I would never allow you to remain cold,” he whispered. “That would be so ungentlemanly of me.”

His strokes slid into circles, slow and hot against her flesh.

“If we were out of doors,” he mused, “I would offer my coat. But here”—he slid one fingertip inside, just enough to make her gasp—“I can only offer my mouth.”

She made another incoherent sound, this one barely more than strangled cry.

“Yes,” he said wickedly, “that is what I would do to you. I’d kiss you right here, right where it would pleasure you the most.”

She could do nothing but breathe.

“I believe I would start with my lips,” he murmured, “but then I would have to use my tongue so I could explore you more deeply.” He used his fingers to tickle her, demonstrating what he planned to do with his mouth. “Rather like this, I think, but it would be much hotter.” He ran his tongue along the inside of her ear. “And wetter.”

“Michael,” she moaned.

She’d said his name. And nothing more. She was getting closer to the brink.

“I’d taste everything,” he whispered. “Every last drop of you. And then, just when I was sure I’d explored you completely, I’d part you further.” He spread her with his fingers, pulling her open in the most wicked way possible. Then he tickled her flesh with his fingernail. “Just in case I’d missed some secret corner.”

“Michael,” she moaned again.

“Who knows how long I’d kiss you?” he murmured. “I might not be able to stop.” He moved his face down a little, so that he could nuzzle her neck. “You might not want me to stop.” He paused, then slid another finger inside of her. He whispered, “Do you want me to stop?”

He was playing with fire every time he asked her a question, every time he gave her a chance to say no. If he were colder, more calculating, he would just press on with his seduction, and he could sweep her away before she could even begin to consider her actions. She’d be lost on her wave of passion, and before she knew it he would be inside of her, and she would be, finally and indelibly, his.

But something in him could never be quite that ruthless, not with Francesca. And he needed her approval, even if it was nothing more than a nod or a moan. She’d probably regret this later, but even so, he didn’t want her to be able to say, even to herself, that she hadn’t been thinking, that she hadn’t said yes.

And he needed the yes. He had loved her for years, dreamed about touching her for so damned long. And now that the moment was finally here, he just didn’t know if he could bear it if she didn’t really want it. There were only so many ways a man’s heart could break, and he had a feeling his couldn’t survive another puncture.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispered again, and this time he did stop. He didn’t remove his hands, but he didn’t move them either, just held still and allowed her a moment of quiet in which to make her answer. And he pulled his head back, just far enough so that she had to look at him. Or if not that, then at least he would be looking at her.

“No,” she whispered, not quite raising her eyes to his.

His heart jumped in his chest. “Then I had better get to doing everything I talked about,” he murmured.

And he did. He sank to his knees and he kissed her. He kissed her as she shuddered, he kissed her as he moaned. He kissed her when she grabbed his hair and pulled, and he kissed her when she let go, her hands scrambling wildly for purchase.

He kissed her in every way he’d promised he would, and he kissed her until she almost climaxed.

Almost.

He should have done it, should have followed through, but he just couldn’t manage it. He had to have her. He’d wanted this for so long, wanted to make her scream his name and shudder in his arms. But when it happened, for the first time at least, he wanted to be inside her. He wanted to feel her around him, and he wanted to . . .

Hell, he just wanted it this way, and if it meant he was out of control, so be it.

Hands shaking, he tore open his breeches, finally allowing his manhood to spring free.

“Michael?” she whispered. Her eyes had been closed, but when he moved and left her she’d opened them. She looked down at him, her eyes widening. There was no mistaking what was about to happen.

“I need you,” he said hoarsely. And when she did nothing but stare at him, he said it again. “I need you now.”

But not on the table. Even he wasn’t that talented, so he picked her up, shuddering with delight as she wrapped her legs around him, and set her down on the plush carpet. It wasn’t a bed, but there was no way he was going to make it to a bed, and frankly, he didn’t think either of them would care. He pushed her skirts back up to her waist, and he covered her.

And entered her.

He’d thought to go slowly, but she was so wet and ready for him, that he just slid inside, even as she gasped at the intrusion.

“Did that hurt?” he grunted.

She shook her head. “Don’t stop,” she moaned. “Please.”

“Never,” he vowed. “Never.”

He moved, and she moved beneath him, and they were both already so aroused that it was a mere moment later that they both exploded.

And he, who had slept with countless women, suddenly realized that he’d been nothing but a green boy.

Because it had never been like this.

That had been his body. This was his soul.

Chapter 18

. . . absolutely.

—from Michael Stirling

to his mother, Helen,

three years after

his departure for India

The following morning was, to the best of Francesca’s recollection, quite the worst of recent memory.

All she wanted to do was cry, but even that seemed beyond her. Tears were for the innocent, and that was an adjective that she could never again use to describe herself.

She hated herself this morning, hated that she’d betrayed her heart, her every last principle, all for a spot of wicked passion.

She hated that she had felt desire for a man other than John, and really hated that the desire had gone beyond anything she’d felt with her husband. Her marriage bed had been one of laughter and passion, but nothing, nothing could have prepared her for the wicked thrill she had felt when Michael had placed his lips to her ear and told her all the naughty things he wanted to do with her.

Or for the explosion that had followed, when he’d made good on his promises.

She hated that this had all happened, and she hated that it had happened with Michael, because somehow that made it all seem triply wrong.

And most all, she hated him because he’d asked her permission, because every step of the way, even as his fingers had teased her mercilessly, he had made sure she was willing, and now she could never claim that she’d been swept away, that she’d been powerless against the force of her own passion.

And now it was the morning after, and Francesca realized that she could no longer differentiate between coward and fool, at least not as the terms pertained to herself.

She clearly was both, quite possibly with an immature thrown in for bad measure.

Because all she wanted to do was run.

She could face up to the consequences of her actions.

Truly, that was what she should do.

But instead, just like before, she fled.

She couldn’t really leave Kilmartin; she’d just got there, after all, and unless she was prepared to carry her northward flight straight past the Orkney Islands into Norway, she was stuck where she was.

But she could leave the house, which was precisely what she did at the first streaks of dawn, and this after her pathetic performance the night before, when she’d stumbled out of the rose drawing room some ten minutes after her intimacies with Michael, mumbling incoherencies and apologies, only to barricade herself in her bedroom for the rest of the evening.

She didn’t want to face him yet.

Heaven above, she didn’t think she could.

She, who had always prided herself on her cool and level head, had been reduced to a stammering idiot, muttering to herself like a bedlamite, terrified to face the one man she quite obviously couldn’t avoid forever.

But if she could avoid him for one day, she told herself, that was something. And as for tomorrow—Well, she could worry about tomorrow some other time. Tomorrow, maybe. For now all she wanted to do was run from her problems.

Courage, she was now quite certain, was a vastly overrated virtue.

She wasn’t sure where she wanted to go; anywhere that could be termed out would probably do, any spot where she could tell herself that the odds of running into Michael were slim indeed.

And then, because she was quite convinced that no higher power was inclined to show her benevolence ever again, it began to rain an hour into her hike, starting first as a light sprinkle but quickly developing into a fullfledged downpour. Francesca huddled under a widelimbed tree for shelter, resigned to wait out the rain, and then finally, after twenty minutes of shifting her weight from foot to foot, she just sat her bottom down onto the damp earth, cleanliness be hanged.

She was going to be here for some time; she might as well be comfortable, since she wasn’t going to be either warm or dry.

And of course, that was how Michael found her, just short of two hours later.

Good God, it figured he’d look for her. Couldn’t a man be counted on to behave like a cad when it truly mattered?

“Is there room for me under there?” he called out over the rain.

“Not for you and your horse,” she grumbled.

“What was that?”

“No!” she yelled.

He didn’t listen to her, of course, and nudged his mount under the tree, loosely tying the gelding to a low branch after he’d hopped down.

“Jesus, Francesca,” he said without preamble. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“And good day to you, too,” she muttered.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you?”

“About as long as I’ve been huddled under the tree, I imagine,” she retorted. She supposed she should be glad that he’d come to rescue her, and her shivering limbs were just itching to leap onto his horse and ride away, but the rest of her was still in a foul mood and quite willing to be contrary just for the sake of being, well, contrary.

Nothing could put a woman in worse spirits than a nice bout of self-derision.

Although, she thought rather peevishly, he was certainly not blameless in the debacle that was last night. And if he assumed that her litany of panicked, after-the-fact I’m sorrys the night before meant that she’d absolved him of guilt, he was quite mistaken.

“Well, let’s go, then,” he said briskly, nodding toward his mount.

She kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder. “The rain is letting up.”

“In China, perhaps.”

“I’m quite fine,” she lied.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Francesca,” he said in short tones, “hate me all you want, but don’t be an idiot.”

“It’s too late for that,” she said under her breath.

“Maybe so,” he agreed, demonstrating annoyingly superior hearing, “but I’m damned cold, and I want to go home. Believe what you will, but right now I have a far greater desire for a cup of tea than I do for you.”

Which should have reassured her, but instead all she wanted to do was hurl a rock at his head.

But then, perhaps just to prove that her soul wasn’t immediately headed for a toasty locale, the rain did let up, not all the way, but enough to lend a hint of truth to her lie.

“The sun will be out in no time,” she said, motioning to the drizzle. “I’m fine.”

“And do you plan to lie in the middle of the field for six hours until your dress dries off?” he drawled. “Or do you just prefer a slow, lingering case of lung fever?”

She looked him straight in the eye for the first time. “You are a horrible man,” she said.

He laughed. “Now that is the first truthful thing you’ve said all morning.”

“Is it possible you don’t understand that I wish to be alone?” she countered.

“Is it possible you don’t understand that I wish for you not to die of pneumonia? Get on the horse, Francesca,” he ordered, in much the same tone she imagined he’d used on his troops in France. “When we are home you may feel free to lock yourself in your room—for a full two weeks, if it so pleases you—but for now, can we just get the hell out of the rain?”

It was tempting, of course, but even more than that, damned irritating because he was speaking nothing but sense, and the last thing she wanted just now was for him to be right about anything. Especially because she had a sinking feeling she needed more than two weeks to get past what had happened the evening before.

She was going to need a lifetime.

“Michael,” she whispered, hoping she might be able to appeal to whichever side of him took pity on pathetic, quivering females, “I can’t be with you right now.”

“For a twenty-minute ride?” he snapped. And then, before she had the presence of mind to even yelp in irritation, he’d hauled her to her feet, and then off her feet, and then onto his horse.

“Michael!” she shrieked.

“Sadly,” he said in a dry voice, “not said in the same tones I heard from you last night.”

She smacked him.

“I deserved that,” he said, mounting the horse behind her, and then doing a devilish wiggle until she was forced by the shape of the saddle to settle partially onto his lap, “but not as much as you deserve to be horse-whipped for your foolishness.”

She gasped.

“If you wanted me to kneel at your feet, begging for your forgiveness,” he said, his lips scandalously close to her ear, “you shouldn’t have behaved like an idiot and run off in the rain.”

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” she said childishly, letting out a little “Oh!” of surprise when he spurred the horse into motion.

Then, of course, she wished she had something else to hold onto for balance besides his thighs.

Or that his arm wasn’t wrapped quite so tightly around her, or so high on her ribcage. Good God, her breasts were practically sitting on his forearm.

And never mind that she was nestled quite firmly between his legs, with her backside butted right up against—

Well, she supposed the rain was good for one thing. He had to be shriveled and cold, which was going a long way in her imagination toward keeping her own traitorous body in check.

Except that she’d seen him the night before, seen Michael in a way she’d never thought to see him, of all people, in all of his splendid male glory.

And that was the worst part of all. A phrase like splendid male glory ought to be a joke, to be uttered with sarcasm and a cunningly wicked smile.

But with Michael, it fit perfectly.

He’d fit perfectly.

And she’d lost whatever shreds of sanity she’d still possessed.

They rode on in silence, or if not precisely silence, they at least did not speak. But there were other sounds, far more dangerous and unnerving. Francesca was acutely aware of every breath he took, low and whispering across her ear, and she could swear she could hear his heart beating against her back. And then—

“Damn.”

“What is it?” she asked, trying to twist around to see his face.

“Felix has gone lame,” he muttered, leaping down from the saddle.

“Is he all right?” she inquired, accepting his wordless offer to help her dismount as well.

“He’ll be fine,” Michael said, kneeling in the rain to inspect the gelding’s front left leg. His knees sank instantly into the muddy earth, ruining his riding breeches. “He can’t carry the both of us, however. Couldn’t even manage just you, I fear.” He stood, scanning the horizon, determining just where on the property they were. “We’ll have to make for the gardener’s cottage,” he said, impatiently pushing his sodden hair from his eyes. It slid right back over his brow.

“The gardener’s cottage?” Francesca echoed, even though she knew perfectly well what he was talking about. It was a small, one-room structure, uninhabited since the current gardener, whose wife had recently been delivered of twins, had moved into a larger dwelling on the other side of Kilmartin. “Can’t we go home?” she asked, a little desperately. She didn’t need to be alone with him, trapped in a cozy little cottage with, if she remembered correctly, a rather large bed.

“It will take us over an hour on foot,” he said grimly, “and the storm is growing worse.”

He was right, drat it all. The sky had taken on a queer, greenish hue, the clouds touched with that strange light that preceded a storm of exquisite violence. “Very well,” she said, trying to swallow her apprehension. She didn’t know which frightened her more—the thought of being stuck out of doors in the storm or trapped inside a small cottage with Michael.

“If we run, we can be there in just a few minutes,” Michael said. “Or rather, you can run. I’ll have to lead Felix. I don’t know how long it will take for him to make the journey.”

Francesca felt her eyes narrowing as she turned to him. “You didn’t do this on purpose, did you?”

He turned to her with a thunderous expression, matched rather terrifyingly by the streak of lightning that flashed through the sky.

“Sorry,” she said hastily, immediately regretting her words. There were certain things one never accused a British gentleman of, the foremost of which was deliberate injury to an animal, for any reason. “I apologize,” she added, just as a clap of thunder shook the earth. “Truly, I do.”

“Do you know how to get there?” he yelled over the storm.

She nodded.

“Can you start a fire while you wait for me?”

“I can try.”

“Go, then,” he said curtly. “Run and get yourself warm. I’ll be there soon enough.”

She did, although she wasn’t quite sure whether she was running to the cottage or away from him.

And considering the fact that he’d be mere minutes behind her, did it really matter?

But as she ran, her legs aching and her lungs burning, the answer to that question didn’t seem terribly important. The pain of the exertion took over, matched only by the sting of the rain against her face. But it all felt strangely appropriate, as if she deserved no more.

And, she thought miserably, she probably didn’t.

By the time Michael pushed open the door to the gardener’s cottage, he was soaked to the bone and shivering like a madman. It had taken far longer than he had anticipated to lead Felix to the gardener’s cottage, and then, of course, he’d been faced with the task of finding a decent spot to tie the injured gelding, since he couldn’t very well leave him under a tree in an electrical storm. He’d finally managed to fashion a makeshift stall in what used to be a chicken shed, but the end result was that by the time he made it into the cottage, his hands were bleeding and his boots were dotted with a foul substance that the rain had inexplicably not managed to wash off.

Francesca was kneeling by the fireplace, attempting to spark a flame. From the sound of her mutterings, she wasn’t meeting with much success.

“Dear heavens!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you?”

“I had trouble finding a place to tie Felix,” he explained gruffly. “I had to build him a shelter.”

“With your own two hands?”

“I had no other tools,” he said with a shrug.

She glanced nervously out the window. “Will he be all right?”

“I hope so,” Michael replied, sitting down on a threelegged stool to remove his boots. “I couldn’t very well slap his rump and send him home on that injured leg.”

“No,” she said, “of course not.” And then her face took on a horrified expression, and she jumped to her feet, exclaiming, “Will you be all right?”

Normally, he’d have welcomed her concern, but it would have been far easier to milk it if he knew what the devil she was talking about. “I beg your pardon?” he asked politely.

“The malaria,” she said, with a touch of urgency. “You’re soaked, and you’ve just had an attack. I don’t want you to—” She stopped, clearing her throat and visibly squaring her shoulders. “My concern does not mean that I am more charitably inclined to you than I was an hour ago, but I do not wish for you to suffer a relapse.”

He thought briefly about lying to gain her sympathies, but instead he just said, “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite. Chills don’t bring on the disease.”

“Oh.” She took a bit of time to digest that information. “Well, in that case . . .” Her words trailed off, and her lips tightened unpleasantly. “Carry on, then,” she finally said.

Michael gave her an insolent salute and then went back to work on his boots, giving the second one a firm yank before gingerly picking up both by the tops and setting them down near the door. “Don’t touch those,” he said absently, moving over to the fireplace. “They’re filthy.”

“I couldn’t get the fire started,” she said, still standing awkwardly near the hearth. “I’m sorry. I haven’t much experience in that area, I’m afraid. I did find some dry wood in the corner, though.” She motioned to the grate, where she’d set down a couple of logs.

He set to work igniting a flame, his hands still stinging a bit from the scrapes he’d incurred clearing the bramble out of the chicken shed for Felix. He welcomed the pain, actually. Minor as it was, it still gave him something to think about other than the woman standing behind him.

She was angry.

He should have expected that. He did expect it, in truth, but what he didn’t expect was how much it would sting his pride, and, in all honesty, his heart. He had known, of course, that she wouldn’t suddenly declare her undying love for him after one episode of relentless passion, but he’d been just enough of a fool that a tiny little piece of him had hoped for such an outcome, all the same.

Who would have thought, after all his years of bad behavior, that he’d emerge such a hopeless romantic?

But Francesca would come around, he was fairly certain of that. She’d have to. She’d been compromised—quite thoroughly, he thought with some measure of satisfaction. And while she’d not been a virgin, that still meant something to a principled woman like Francesca.

He was left with a decision—did he wait out her anger, or did he needle and push until she accepted the inevitability of the situation? The latter was sure to leave him bruised and gasping, but he rather thought it presented a greater chance of success.

If he left her alone, she would think the problem into oblivion, maybe find a way to pretend nothing had ever happened.

“Did you get it started?” he heard her ask from across the room.

He fanned a spark for a few more seconds, then let out a satisfied exhale when tiny orange flames began to flicker and lick. “I’ll have to nurse it along for a little while longer,” he said, turning around to look at her. “But yes, it should be going strong quite soon.”

“Good,” she said succinctly. She took a few steps backward until she was butted up against the bed. “I’ll be right here.”

He couldn’t help but crack a wry smile at that. The cottage held a single room. Where else did she think she was going to go?

“You,” she said, with much the air of an unpopular governess, “can remain over there.”

He followed the line of her pointed finger to the opposite corner. “Really?” he drawled.

“I think it’s best.”

He shrugged. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.” And then he stood and began to strip off his clothing.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

He smiled to himself, keeping his back to her. “Keeping to my corner,” he said, tossing the words lightly over his shoulder.

“You are taking your clothes off,” she said, somehow managing to sound shocked and haughty at the same time.

“I suggest you do the same,” he said, frowning as he noticed a streak of blood on his sleeve. Damn, but his hands really were a mess.

“I most certainly will not,” Francesca said.

“Hold this, will you?” he said, tossing her his shirt. She shrieked as it hit her in the chest, which brought him no small measure of satisfaction.

“Michael!” she exclaimed, hurling the garment back at him.

“Sorry,” he said in his most unrepentant voice. “Thought you might like to use it as a cloth to wipe up.”

“Put your shirt back on,” she ground out.

“And freeze?” he asked, lifting one arrogant brow. “Malaria or no, I have no wish to catch a chill. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” And then, over her gasp, he added, “No, wait. I do beg your pardon. You haven’t seen it. I didn’t manage to get anything more than my trousers off last night, did I?”

“Get out,” she said, her voice low and furious.

He just chuckled and cocked his head toward the window, which was thrumming with the sound of the rain against the glass. “I don’t think so, Francesca. You’re stuck with me for the duration, I’m afraid.”

As if to prove his point, the small cottage shook down to its foundations with the force of thunder.

“You might want to turn around,” Michael said conversationally. Her eyes widened slightly in incomprehension, so he added, “I’m about to remove my breeches.”

She let out a little grunt of outrage, but she turned.

“Oh, and get off the blanket,” he called out, peeling off his sodden clothing. “You’re soaking it.”

For a second he thought she would plant her bottom even more firmly against it, just to defy him, but her good sense must have won out, because she stood and yanked the coverlet from the bed, shaking off whatever drops she’d left behind.

He walked over—it took only four steps with his lengthy stride—and pulled the other blanket off for himself. It wasn’t as substantial as the one she held, but it would do. “I’m covered,” he called out, once he was safely back in his corner.

She turned around. Slowly, and with only one eye open.

Michael fought the urge to shake his head at her. Truly, this all seemed rather after the fact, given what had transpired the night before. But if it made her feel better to grasp at the shreds of her maidenly virtue, he was willing to allow her the boon . . . for the rest of the morning, at least.

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“I’m cold.”

“Of course you are. Your dress is soaked.”

She didn’t say anything, just shot him a look that told him she did not plan to remove her clothing.

“Do what you wish, then,” he said, “but at least come sit near the fire.”

She looked hesitant.

“For God’s sake, Francesca,” he said, his patience growing thin, “I hereby vow not to ravish you. At least not this morning, and not without your permission.”

For some reason that made her cheeks burn with even greater ferocity, but she must have still held him and his word in some regard, because she crossed the room and sat near the fire.

“Warmer?” he asked, just to provoke her.

“Quite.”

He stoked the fire for the next few minutes, carefully tending it to ensure that the flames would not die out, stealing glances at her profile from time to time. After a while, once her expression had softened a bit, he decided to press his luck, and he said, quite softly, “You never did answer my question last night.”

She didn’t turn. “What question was that?”

“I believe I asked you to marry me.”

“No, you didn’t,” she replied, her voice quite calm, “you informed me that you believed we should be married and then proceeded to explain why.”

“Is that so?” he murmured. “How remiss of me.”

“Don’t take that as an invitation to make your proposal right now,” she said sharply.

“You’d have me waste this fabulously romantic moment?” he drawled.

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought her lips might have tightened with the barest hint of contained humor.

“Very well,” he said, in his most magnanimous tone, “I won’t ask you to marry me. Forget that a gentleman would insist upon it, after what happened—”

“If you were a gentleman,” she cut in, “it wouldn’t have happened.”

“There were two of us there, Francesca,” he reminded her softly.

“I know,” she said, and her tone was so bitter, he regretted having provoked her.

Unfortunately, once he’d made the decision not to taunt her further, he was left with nothing to say. Which didn’t seem to speak well of him, but there it was. So he held silent, pulling the woolen blanket more tightly around his barely clad body, surreptitiously eyeing her from time to time, trying to determine if she was becoming overchilled.

He’d hold his tongue, forked though it may be, to spare her feelings, but if she were endangering her health . . . well, then, all bets were off.

But she wasn’t shivering, nor did she show any signs of feeling excessively cold, save for the way she was holding up various sections of her skirt toward the fire, vainly attempting to dry the fabric. Every now and then she looked as if she might speak, but then she’d just close her mouth again, wetting her lips with her tongue and letting out little sighs.

And then, without even looking at him, she said, “I will consider it.”

He quirked a brow, waiting for her to elaborate.

“Marrying you,” she clarified, still keeping her eyes on the fire. “But I won’t give you an answer now.”

“You might be carrying my child,” he said softly.

“I am very much aware of that.” She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and hugged. “I will give you an answer once I have that answer.”

Michael’s nails bit into his palms. He’d made love to her in part to force her hand—he couldn’t get around that unsavory fact—but not in an attempt to impregnate her. He’d thought to bind her to him with passion, not with an unplanned pregnancy.

And now she was essentially telling him that the only way she would marry him was for the sake of a baby.

“I see,” he said, thinking his voice uncommonly calm, given the hot rush of fury surging through his blood.

Fury he probably had no right to feel, but it was there nevertheless, and he was not enough of a gentleman to ignore it.

“It’s too bad I promised not to ravish you this morning, then,” he said dangerously, unable to resist a predatory smile.

Her head whipped around to face him.

“I could—how do they say it,” he mused, lightly scratching his jawline, “seal the deal. Or at the very least, enjoy myself immensely while I try.”

“Michael—”

“But how nice for me,” he cut in, “that according to my watch”—he was near enough to where his coat lay on the table to pluck his pocketwatch out into the open—“we’ve only five minutes to noon.”

“You wouldn’t,” she whispered.

He felt little humor, but he smiled all the same. “You leave me little choice.”

“Why?” she asked, and he really didn’t know what she was asking, but he answered her, anyway, with the one bit of truth he couldn’t escape:

“Because I have to.”

Her eyes widened.

“Will you kiss me, Francesca?” he asked.

She shook her head.

She was only five feet from him, and they were both sitting on the floor. He crawled closer, his heart racing when she didn’t scoot away. “Will you let me kiss you?” he whispered.

She didn’t move.

He leaned toward her.

“I told you I wouldn’t seduce you without your permission,” he said, his voice husky, his words falling mere inches from her lips.

Still, she didn’t move.

“Will you kiss me, Francesca?” he asked again.

She swayed.

And he knew she was his.

Chapter 19

. . . I do believe Michael might be considering a return home. He does not say so directly in his letters, but I cannot discount a mother’s intuition. I know that I should not pull him away from all his successes in India, but I think that he misses us. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have him home?

—from Helen Stirling

to the Countess of Kilmartin,

nine months prior to the

Earl of Kilmartin’s return from India

As she felt his lips touch hers, Francesca could only wonder at the loss of her sanity. Once again, Michael had asked her permission. Once again, he had given her the opportunity to slide away, to reject him and keep herself at a safe distance.

But once again, her mind had been completely enslaved by her body, and she simply was not strong enough to deny the quickening of her breath, or the pounding of her heart.

Or the slow, hot tingle of anticipation she felt as his large, strong hands slid down her body, moving ever closer to the heart of her femininity.

“Michael,” she whispered, but they both knew that her plea was not one of rejection. She wasn’t asking him to stop—she was begging him to continue, to feed her soul as he had the night before, to remind her of all the reasons she loved being a woman, and to teach her the heady bliss of her own sensual power.

“Mmmm,” was his only response. His fingers kept busy with the buttons on her frock, and even though the fabric was still damp and awkward, he divested her of it in record time, leaving her clad only in her thin cotton chemise, made almost transparent by the rain.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, gazing down at the outline of her breasts, clearly defined under the white cotton. “I can’t—I don’t—”

He didn’t say anything more, which she found puzzling, and she looked at his face. These weren’t just words to him, she realized with a jolt of surprise. His throat was working with some emotion she didn’t think she’d ever seen on him before.

“Michael?” she whispered. His name was a question, although she wasn’t quite sure what she was asking.

And he, she was fairly certain, didn’t know how to answer. At least not with words. He scooped her into his arms and then carried her to the bed, stopping at the edge of the mattress to peel away her chemise.

This was where she could stop, Francesca reminded herself. She could end it here. Michael wanted her—badly, she could see quite visibly. But he would stop if she just said the word.

But she couldn’t. No matter how hard her brain argued for reason and clarity, her lips could do nothing but sway toward his, leaning in for a kiss, desperate to prolong the contact.

She wanted this. She wanted him. And even though she knew it was wrong, she was too wicked to stop.

He’d made her wicked.

And she wanted to revel in it.

“No,” she said, the word crossing her lips with awkward bluntness.

His hands froze.

“I will do it,” she said.

His eyes found hers, and she found herself drowning in those quicksilver depths. There were a hundred questions there, not one of which she was prepared to answer. But there was one thing she knew for herself, even if she would never speak the words aloud. If she was going to do this, if she was unable to refuse her own desire, then by God, she would do this in every way. She would take what she wanted, steal what she needed, and at the end of the day, if she managed to come to her senses and put an end to the madness, she would have had one erotic afternoon, one sizzling interlude during which she was in charge.

He’d awakened the wanton within her, and she wanted her revenge.

With one hand on his chest, she pushed him back onto the bed, and he stared up at her with fiery eyes, his lips parted with desire as he watched her in disbelief.

She took a step back, then reached down and lightly grasped the hem of her chemise. “Do you want me to take it off?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“Say it,” she demanded. She wanted to know if he was beyond words. She wanted to know if she could reduce him to madness, enslave him to his needs, the way he’d done to her.

“Yes,” he gasped, the word coming out hoarse and ripped.

Francesca was no innocent; she’d been married for two years to a man with healthy and active desires, a man who had taught her to celebrate the same in herself. She knew how to be brazen, understood how it could whip up her own urgency, but nothing could have prepared her for the electrical charge of this moment, for the decadent thrill of stripping for Michael.

Or the staggering rush of heat she felt when she raised her gaze to his, and watched him watching her.

This was power.

And she loved it.

With deliberate slowness, she edged the hem up, starting just above her knees, and then sliding up her thighs until she’d nearly reached her hips.

“Enough?” she teased, licking her lips into a sultry half-smile.

He shook his head. “More,” he demanded.

Demanded? She didn’t like that. “Beg me,” she whispered.

“More,” he said, more humbly.

She gave him a nod of approval, but just before she let him see the thatch of her womanhood she turned around, wiggling the chemise up and over her bottom, then across her back and finally over her head.

His breath was coming hot and heavy over his lips; she could hear every whisper of it, almost feel it caressing her back. But still she didn’t turn around. Instead she let out a slow, seductive moan and slid her hands up the sides of her body, curving slightly to the back as she passed over her derrière, then moving to the front when she reached her breasts. And then, even though she knew he couldn’t see her, she squeezed.

He would know what she was doing.

And it would drive him wild.

She heard rustling on the bed, heard the wooden frame creak and groan, and she let out one sharp command:

“Don’t move.”

“Francesca,” he moaned, and his voice was closer. He must’ve sat up, must’ve been seconds away from reaching for her.

“Lie down,” she said in soft warning.

“Francesca,” he said again, but now there was a hint of desperation in his voice.

It made her smile. “Lie down,” she repeated, still not looking at him.

She heard him panting, knew that he hadn’t moved, that he was still trying to decide what to do.

“Lie down,” she said, one last time. “If you want me.”

For a second there was silence, and then she heard him settle back against the bed. But she also heard his breath, now tinged with a dangerously ragged edge.

“There you go,” she whispered.

She taunted him a little more, running her hands lightly over her skin, her nails skimming the surface, raising goosebumps all along their path. “Mmmm,” she moaned, the sound a deliberate tease. “Mmmm.”

“Francesca,” he whispered.

She moved her hands to her belly, then slid them down, not deeply to touch herself—she wasn’t certain she was wicked enough to do that—but just enough cover her mound, leaving him in the dark, wondering just what it was her fingers were doing.

“Mmmm,” she murmured again. “Ohhhh.”

He made a sound, guttural, primitive, and entirely inarticulate. He was nearing his breaking point; she wouldn’t be able to push him much further.

She looked over her shoulder, licking her lips as she glanced at him. “You should take those off,” she said, letting her gaze fall to his still-covered groin. He’d not undressed entirely when he’d removed his wet clothing, and his manhood strained furiously against the fabric. “You don’t look very comfortable,” she added, infusing her voice with just the barest hint of coy innocence.

He grunted something and then practically tore off his undergarments.

“Oh my,” Francesca said, and even though she’d planned the words as a part of her teasing seduction, she found that she very much meant them. He looked huge and powerful, and she knew she was playing a dangerous game, pushing him to his very limits.

But she couldn’t stop. She was glorying in her power over him, and she couldn’t possibly stop.

“Very nice,” she purred, letting her gaze roam up and down his body, settling directly upon his manhood.

“Frannie,” he said, “enough.”

She let her eyes level onto his. “You answer to me, Michael,” she said with soft authority. “If you want me, you can have me. But I’m in charge.”

“Fr—”

“Those are my terms.”

He held still, then settled back slightly in acquiescence. But he did not lie down. He was sitting, leaning back slightly, his hands on the mattress behind him for support. His every muscle was straining, and his eyes held a feline air, as if he were poised to pounce.

He was, she realized, with a shiver of desire, simply magnificent.

And hers for the taking.

“What should I do now?” she wondered aloud.

“Come here,” he answered gruffly.

“Not quite yet,” she sighed, turning toward him until her body was in profile. She saw his gaze drop to the hardened tips of her breasts, saw his eyes darken as he licked his lips. And she felt herself tauten even more, as the mental image of his tongue on her sent a new rush of heat through her body.

She brought one hand to her breast, curving around the underside, pushing herself up, like some delectable offering. “Is this what you want?” she whispered.

His voice was nothing but a growl. “You know what I want.”

“Mmm, yes,” she murmured, “but what about in the meantime? Aren’t things sweeter when we’re forced to wait for them?”

“You have no idea,” he said roughly.

She looked down at her breast. “I wonder what would happen if I do . . . this,” she said, and then she moved her fingers to her nipple, rolling it about, her body twitching as the motion sent shivers down to the very center of her being.

“Frannie,” Michael groaned. She glanced up at him. His lips were parted, and his eyes were glazed with desire.

“I like it,” Francesca said, almost in wonderment. She’d never touched herself this way, never even thought to until this very moment, with Michael as her captive audience. “I like it,” she said again, then brought her other hand to her other breast and pleasured them in unison. She pushed them up and together, her hands making a sultry corset.

“Oh, my God,” Michael moaned.

“I had no idea I could do this,” she said, arching her back.

“I can do it better,” he gasped.

“Mmm, you probably could,” she acceded. “You’ve had lots of practice, haven’t you?” And she shot him a look, one of sophisticated elegance, as if she were comfortable with the fact that he’d seduced scores of women. And the strange truth was, until this very moment, she rather thought she had been.

But now . . .

Now he was hers. Hers to tempt and hers to enjoy, and as long as she had him exactly where she wanted him, she wasn’t going to think of those other women. They weren’t here in this room. It was just her, and Michael, and the sizzling heat rising between them.

She edged closer to the bed, batting his hand away when he reached toward her. “If I let you touch one, will you make me a promise?” she murmured.

“Anything.”

“Nothing more,” she said, her tone slightly officious. “You may do what I allow you and nothing more.”

He nodded jerkily.

“Lie back,” she ordered.

He did as she asked.

She climbed onto the bed, not allowing their bodies to touch in any way. Raising herself onto all fours, she let herself to sway above him, and then softly she said, “One hand, Michael. You may use one hand.”

With a groan that sounded as if it were ripped from his throat, he reached for her, his hand large enough to grasp her entire breast. “Oh, my God,” he gasped, his body jerking as he squeezed her. “Both hands, please,” he begged.

She couldn’t resist him. That one simple touch was reducing her to pure flame, and even as she wanted to exert her power over him, she couldn’t say no. Nodding because she could barely speak, she arched her back, and then suddenly both of his hands were on her, kneading, caressing, whipping her already heightened senses into a frenzy.

“The tip,” she whispered. “Do what I did.”

He smiled stealthily, giving her the impression that she might no longer be quite as much in charge as she thought, but he did as she commanded, his fingers torturing her nipples.

And as promised, he was better at it than she was.

Her body bucked, and she almost lost the strength to hold herself up. “Take me in your mouth,” she ordered, but her voice was not so authoritative any longer. She was begging him, and they both knew it.

But she wanted it. Oh, how she wanted it. John, for all his ebullience in bed, had never loved her breasts the way Michael had done the night before. He’d never suckled her, never shown her how lips and teeth could make her entire body squirm. Francesca hadn’t even known that a man and woman could do such a thing.

But now that she did, she couldn’t stop fantasizing about it.

“Come lower,” Michael said softly, “if you want me to remain lying down.”

Still on her hands and knees, she leaned down, allowing one breast to swing achingly close to his mouth.

He did nothing at first, forcing her to swing lower and lower, until her nipple was brushing lightly across his lips.

“What do you want, Francesca?” he asked, his breath hot and moist over her.

“You know,” she whispered.

“Say it again.”

She wasn’t in charge anymore. She knew it, but she was past caring. His voice held the soft edge of authority, but she was too far gone to do anything but obey.

“Take me in your mouth,” she said again.

His head snapped up and his lips nipped her, tugging her down until she was in a position for him to have his leisurely way with her. He tickled and teased, and she felt herself sinking deeper into his spell, losing her will and her strength, wanting nothing but to lie down on her back and allow him to do whatever he wanted to her.

“Now what?” he asked politely, not releasing her from his lips. “More of this? Or”—he swirled his tongue in a particularly wicked fashion—“something else?”

“Something else,” she gasped, and she wasn’t sure if it was because she wanted something else or because she didn’t think she could stand one more minute of what he was doing just then.

“You’re in charge,” he said, his voice holding the barest hint of mocking. “I’m yours to command.”

“I want . . . I want . . .” She was breathing too hard to finish the sentence. Or maybe she just didn’t know what she wanted.

“Shall I offer you a few selections?”

She nodded.

He trailed one finger down the center of her belly to her womanhood. “I could touch you here,” he said in a devilish whisper, “or if you’d prefer, I could kiss you.”

Her body tightened at the thought.

“But that presents new questions,” he said. “Do you lie back and allow me to kneel between your legs, or do you remain above me and lower yourself onto my mouth?”

“Oh, my God!” She didn’t know. She just didn’t know that such things were possible.

“Or,” he said thoughtfully, “you could take me into your mouth. I’m quite certain I would enjoy it, although I must say, it’s not really in the tenor of the interlude.”

Francesca felt her lips part with shock, and she couldn’t help but peer down at his manhood, large and ready for her. She had kissed John there once or twice, when she’d felt particularly daring, but to take it into her mouth?

It was too scandalous. Even in her present state of debauchery.

“No,” Michael said with an amused smile. “Another time, perhaps. I can tell you’ll be a most cunning pupil.”

Francesca nodded, unable to believe what she was promising.

“So for now,” he said, “those are our options, or . . .”

“Or what?” she asked, her voice more of a harsh whisper.

His hands settled on her hips. “Or we could just proceed right to the main course,” he said commandingly, exerting a gentle but steady pressure on her, guiding her down toward the evidence of his desire. “You could ride me. Have you ever done that?”

She shook her head.

“Do you want to?”

She nodded.

One of his hands left her hips and found the back of her head, pulling her down until they were nose to nose. “I’m not a gentle pony,” he said softly. “I promise you, you will have to work to keep your seat.”

“I want it,” she whispered.

“Are you ready for me?”

She nodded.

“Are you certain?” he whispered, his lips curving just enough to taunt her. She wasn’t sure what he was asking, and he knew it.

She just looked at him, her eyes widening in question.

“Are you wet?” he murmured.

Her cheeks grew hot—as if they weren’t already burning, but she nodded.

“Are you sure?” he mused. “I should probably check, just to make certain.”

Francesca’s breath caught as she watched his hand curve around her thigh, moving toward her center. He moved slowly, deliberately, drawing out the torture of anticipation. And then, just when she thought she might scream at it all, he touched her, one finger lazily drawing circles against her soft flesh.

“Very nice,” he purred, his words echoing her own.

“Michael,” she gasped.

But he was enjoying his position too much to allow her to rush things along. “I’m not sure,” he said. “You’re ready here, but what about . . . here?”

Francesca nearly screamed as one finger slipped inside of her.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured. “And you like it, too.”

“Michael . . . Michael . . .” It was all she could say.

Another finger slid into place next to the first. “So warm,” he whispered. “The very heart of you.”

“Michael . . .”

His eyes caught hers. “Do you want me?” he asked, his voice stark and direct.

She nodded.

“Now?”

She nodded again, this time with more vigor.

His fingers slid out, and his hands found her hips again, guiding her down . . . down . . . until she could feel the tip of him at her opening. She tried to move her body down onto him, but he held her in place. “Not too fast,” he whispered.

“Please . . .”

“Let me move you,” he said, and his hands gently pushed at her hips, edging her down until she felt herself being stretched open by him. He felt huge, and it was all so different in this position.

“Good?” he asked.

She nodded.

“More?”

She nodded again.

And he continued the torture, holding himself still, but moving her body down atop his, each impossible inch of him sliding into her, stealing her breath, her voice, her very ability to think.

“Slide up and down,” he commanded.

Her eyes flew to his.

“You can do it,” he said softly.

She did, testing the motion, moaning at the pleasure of the friction, then gasping as she realized that she was sliding farther down onto him, that he wasn’t yet entirely embedded within her body.

“Take me to the hilt,” he said.

“I can’t.” And she couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly. She knew she had done so the night before, but this was different. He couldn’t possibly fit.

His hands tightened on her, and his hips arched slightly up, and then in one mind-numbing jolt, she found herself seated directly atop him, skin to skin.

And she could barely breathe.

“Oh, my God,” he groaned.

She just sat there, rocking back and forth, unsure of what to do.

His breath was coming in fits and starts, and his body began to writhe under hers. She grasped his shoulders in an attempt to hold on, to keep her seat, and as she did, she began to move up and down, to take control, to seek pleasure for herself.

“Michael, Michael,” she moaned, her body beginning to sway from side to side, unable to hold itself up, unable to maintain strength against the hot tide of desire sweeping across her.

He just grunted, his body bucking beneath her. As promised, he wasn’t gentle, and he wasn’t tame. He forced her to work for her pleasure, to hold on tight, to move with him, and then against him, and then . . .

A scream ripped from her throat.

And the world quite simply fell apart.

She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. She let go of his shoulders as her body straightened and then arched, every muscle growing impossibly taut.

And beneath her, he exploded. His face contorted, his body lifted them both off the bed, and she knew that he was pouring himself into her. Her name was on his lips, over and over, decreasing in volume until it was the barest of whispers. And when he was done, all he said was, “Lie with me.”

She did. And she slept.

For the first time in days, she slept deeply and truly.

And she never knew that he laid awake the whole time, his lips at her temple, his hand against her hair.

Whispering her name.

Whispering other words as well.

Chapter 20

. . . Michael will do what he wishes. He always does.

—from the Countess of Kilmartin

to Helen Stirling,

three days after

the receipt of Helen’s missive

The days that followed brought Francesca no peace. When she thought about it rationally—or at least as rationally as she was able—it seemed as if she should have found some answers, should have sensed some sort of logic in the air, something that might tell her what to do, how to act, what sort of choice she needed to make.

But, no. Nothing.

She’d made love to him twice.

Twice.

To Michael.

That alone should have dictated her decisions, convinced her to accept his proposal. It should have been clear. She had lain with him. She might be pregnant, although that did seem a remote possibility, given that it had taken her a full two years to conceive with John.

But even without such consequences, her decision should have been obvious. In her world, in her society, the sort of intimacies in which she’d engaged meant only one thing.

She must marry him.

And yet she couldn’t quite summon the yes to her lips. Every time she thought she’d convinced herself that it was what she had to do, a little voice inside of her argued for caution, and she stopped, unable to move forward, too scared to delve into her feelings and try to figure out why she felt so paralyzed.

Michael didn’t understand, of course. How could he, when she didn’t understand herself?

“I shall call upon the vicar tomorrow morning,” he’d murmured at her ear as he helped her mount a fresh horse outside the gardener’s cottage. She had awakened alone sometime in the late afternoon, a brief note from him on the pillow beside her, explaining that he was taking Felix back to Kilmartin and would return shortly with a new mount.

But he had only brought one horse, forcing her once again to share the saddle, this time perched behind him.

“I’m not ready,” she’d said, a sudden rush of panic filling her chest. “Don’t go see him. Not yet.”

His face had darkened, but he didn’t allow his temper to rise any further. “We will discuss it later,” he’d said.

And they’d ridden home in silence.

She tried to escape to her room once they reached Kilmartin, mumbling something about needing to bathe, but he caught her hand, his grip firm and unyielding, and she found herself alone with him, back in the rose drawing room of all places, the door shut firmly behind them.

“What is all this about?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” she stalled, trying desperately not to look at the table behind him. It was the one upon which he’d perched her the night before, then done unspeakable things to her.

And the memory alone was enough to make her shiver.

“You know what I mean,” he said impatiently.

“Michael, I—”

“Will you marry me?” he demanded.

Dear God, she wished he hadn’t just come out and said it. It was all so much easier to avoid when the words weren’t right there, hanging between them.

“I—I—”

“Will you marry me?” he repeated, and this time the words were hard, with more of an edge to them.

“I don’t know,” she finally answered. “I need more time.”

“Time for what?” he snapped. “For me to try a little harder to get you pregnant?”

She flinched as if struck.

He advanced upon her. “Because I’ll do it,” he warned. “I’ll take you right now, and then again tonight, and then three times tomorrow if that’s what is required.”

“Michael, stop . . .” she whispered.

“I have lain with you,” he said, his words stark and yet strangely urgent. “Twice. You are no innocent. You know what that means.”

And it was because she was no innocent—and no one would ever expect her to be—that she was able to say, “I know. But that doesn’t matter. Not if I don’t conceive.”

Michael hissed a word she never dreamed he’d say in her presence.

“I need time,” she said, hugging her arms against her body.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. To think. To muddle through. I don’t know.”

“What the devil is there left to think about?” he bit off.

“Well, for one thing, about whether you’ll make a good husband,” she snapped back, finally goaded into anger.

He drew back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Your past behavior, to start with,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “You haven’t exactly been the model of Christian rectitude.”

“This, coming from the woman who ordered me to strip off my clothing earlier this afternoon?” he taunted.

“Don’t be ugly,” she said in a low voice.

“Don’t push my temper.”

Her head began to pound, and she pressed her fingers to her temples. “For God’s sake, Michael, can’t you let me think? Can’t you give me just a little time to think?”

But the truth was, she was terrified to think. Because what would she learn? That she was a wanton, a hussy? That she had felt a primitive thrill with this man, a soaring, scandalous sensation that had never been there with her husband, whom she’d loved with every inch of her heart?

She’d found pleasure with John, but nothing like this.

She’d never even dreamed this existed.

And yet she’d found it with Michael.

Her friend, too. Her confidant.

Her lover.

Dear God, what did that make her?

“Please,” she finally whispered. “Please. I need to be alone.”

Michael stared at her for the longest time, long enough so that she wanted to squirm under his scrutiny, but finally he just swore under his breath and stalked from the room.

She collapsed onto the sofa and let her head hang in her hands. But she didn’t cry.

She didn’t cry. Not one single tear. And for the life of her, she didn’t understand why not.

He would never understand women.

Michael swore viciously as he yanked off his boots, hurling the offending footwear against the door to his wardrobe.

“My lord?” came his valet’s tentative voice, poking out through the opened door to the dressing room.

“Not now, Reivers,” Michael snapped.

“Right,” the valet said quickly, scurrying across the room to gather up the boots. “I’ll just take these. You’ll want them cleaned.”

Michael cursed again.

“Er, or perhaps burned.” Reivers gulped.

Michael just looked at him and growled.

Reivers fled, but fool that he was, he forgot to close the door behind him.

Michael kicked it shut, cursing again when he failed to find satisfaction in the slam.

Even the little pleasures in life were denied to him now, it seemed.

He paced restlessly across the deep burgundy carpet, pausing only occasionally at the window.

Forget understanding women. He’d never pretended to have that ability. But he thought he’d understood Francesca. At least well enough to safely tell himself that she would marry any man with whom she’d lain twice.

Once, maybe not. Once she could call a mistake. But twice—

She would never allow a man to take her twice unless she held him in some regard.

But, he thought with a twisted grimace, apparently not.

Apparently she was willing to use him for her own pleasure—and she had. Dear God, she had. She had assumed the lead, taken what she’d wanted, relinquishing control only when the flames between them spiraled into an inferno.

She had used him.

And he would never have thought she had it in her.

Had she been like this with John? Had she taken charge? Had she—

He stopped, his feet freezing into place on the carpet.

John.

He had forgotten about John.

How was that possible?

For years, every time he’d seen Francesca, every time he’d leaned in for one intoxicating whiff of her, John had been there, first in his thoughts, and then in his memory.

But since the moment she’d entered the rose drawing room last night, when he heard her footsteps behind him and whispered the words, “Marry me,” to himself, he’d forgotten about John.

His memory would never disappear. He was too dear, too important—to both of them. But somewhere along the way, somewhere along the way to Scotland, to be precise, Michael finally allowed himself to think—

I could marry her. I could ask her. I really could.

And as he granted himself permission, it felt less and less like he was stealing her from his cousin’s memory.

Michael hadn’t asked to be placed in this position. He had never looked up to the heavens and wished himself the earldom. He had never even truly wished for Francesca, just accepted that she could never be his.

But John had died. He had died.

And it was nobody’s fault.

John had died, and Michael’s life had been changed in every way imaginable except one.

He still loved Francesca.

God, how he loved her.

There was no reason they couldn’t marry. No laws, no customs, nothing but his own conscience, which had, quite suddenly, grown silent on the matter.

And Michael finally allowed himself to ponder, for the very first time, the one question he had never asked himself.

What would John think of all this?

And he realized that his cousin would have given his blessing. John’s heart was that big, his love for Francesca—and Michael—that true. He would have wanted Francesca to be loved and cherished the way that Michael loved and cherished her.

And he would have wanted Michael to be happy.

The one emotion Michael had never truly thought he could apply to himself.

Happy.

Imagine that.

Francesca had been waiting for Michael to knock upon her door, but when the rap came, she still jumped with surprise.

Her shock was much greater when she opened the door and found she had to lower her gaze considerably. A full foot, to be precise. Michael wasn’t on the other side of her door. It was just one of the housemaids, carrying a supper tray for her.

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Francesca poked her head into the hall, looking this way and that, fully expecting Michael to be lurking in some darkened corner, just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

But he was nowhere.

“His lordship thought you might be hungry,” the maid said, setting the tray down on Francesca’s escritoire.

Francesca scanned the contents for a note, a flower, something to indicate Michael’s intentions, but there was nothing.

And there was nothing for the rest of the night, and nothing the next morning, either.

Nothing but a breakfast tray, and another bob and curtsy from the housemaid, with another, “His lordship thought you might be hungry.”

Francesca had asked for time to think, and that appeared to be exactly what he was giving her.

And it was horrible.

Granted, it would probably have been worse if he’d disregarded her wishes and not allowed her to be alone. Clearly, she could not be trusted in his presence. And she didn’t particularly trust him, either, with his sultry looks and whispered questions.

Will you kiss me, Francesca? Will you let me kiss you?

And she couldn’t refuse, not when he was standing so close, his eyes—his amazing, silver, heavy-lidded eyes—watching her with such smoldering intensity.

He mesmerized her. That could be the only explanation.

She dressed herself that morning, donning a serviceable day dress which would serve her well out of doors. She didn’t want to remain cooped up in her room, but neither did she wish to roam the halls of Kilmartin, holding her breath as she turned each corner, waiting for Michael to appear before her.

She supposed he could find her outside if he really wanted to, but at least he would have to expend a bit of effort to do it.

She ate her breakfast, surprised that she had an appetite under such circumstances, and then slipped out of her room, shaking her head at herself as she peered stealthily down the hall, acting like nothing so much as a burglar, eager to make a clean escape.

This was what she’d been reduced to, she thought grumpily.

But she didn’t see him as she made her way down the hall, and she didn’t see him on the stairs, either.

He wasn’t in any of the drawing rooms or salons, and indeed, by the time she reached the front door, she couldn’t help but frown.

Where was he?

She didn’t wish to see him, of course, but it did seem rather anticlimactic after all of her worrying.

She placed her hand on the knob.

She should run. She should hurry out now, while the coast was clear and she could make her escape.

But she paused.

“Michael?” She only mouthed the word, which shouldn’t have counted for anything. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was there, that he was watching her.

“Michael?” she whispered, looking this way and that.

Nothing.

She gave her head a shake. Good God, what had become of her? She was growing far too fanciful. Paranoid, even.

With one last glance behind her, she left the house.

And never did see him, watching her from under the curved staircase, his face touched with the smallest, and truest, of smiles.

Francesca had remained out of doors as long as she was able, finally giving in to a mixture of weariness and cold. She had wandered the grounds for probably six or seven hours, and she was tired, and hungry, and eager for nothing so much as a cup of tea.

And she couldn’t avoid her house forever.

So she slipped back in as quietly as she’d left, planning to make her way up to her room, where she could dine in private. But before she could make it to the bottom of the stairs, she heard her name.

“Francesca!”

It was Michael. Of course it was Michael. She couldn’t expect him to leave her alone forever.

But the strange thing was—she wasn’t quite certain whether she was annoyed or relieved.

“Francesca,” he said again, coming to the doorway of the library, “come join me.”

He sounded affable—too affable, if that were possible, and furthermore, Francesca was suspicious at his choice of rooms. Wouldn’t he have wanted to draw her into the rose drawing room, where she’d be assaulted by memories of their torrid encounter? Wouldn’t he at least have chosen the green salon, which had been decorated in a lush, romantic style, complete with cushioned divans and overstuffed pillows?

What was he doing in the library, which had to be, she was quite certain, the least likely room at Kilmartin in which one might stage a seduction?

“Francesca?” he said again, by now looking amused at her indecision.

“What are you doing in there?” she asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

“Having tea.”

“Tea?”

“Leaves boiled in water?” he murmured. “Perhaps you’ve tried it.”

She pursed her lips. “But in the library?”

He shrugged. “It seemed as good a place as any.” He stepped aside and swooshed his arm in front of him, indicating that she should enter. “As innocent a place as any,” he added.

She tried not to blush.

“Did you have a pleasant walk?” he asked, his voice perfectly conversational.

“Er, yes.”

“Lovely day out.”

She nodded.

“I imagine the ground is still a bit soggy in places, though.”

What was he up to?

“Tea?” he asked.

She nodded, her eyes widening when he poured for her. Men never did that.

“Had to fend for myself from time to time in India,” he explained, reading her thoughts perfectly. “Here you go.”

She took the delicate china cup and sat, allowing the warmth of the tea to seep through the china and onto her hands. She blew lightly on it, then took a taste, testing the temperature.

“Biscuit?” He held out a plate laden with all sorts of baked delights.

Her stomach rumbled, and she took one without speaking.

“They’re good,” he offered. “I ate four while I was waiting for you.”

“Were you waiting long?” she asked, almost surprised by the sound of her own voice.

“An hour or so.”

She sipped at her tea. “It’s still quite hot.”

“I had the pot refilled every ten minutes,” he said.

“Oh.” Such thoughtfulness was, if not precisely surprising, then still unexpected.

One of his brows quirked, but only slightly, and she wasn’t sure whether he’d done it on purpose. He was always in such control of his expressions; he’d have been a master gambler, had he had the inclination. But his left brow was different; Francesca had noticed years ago that it sometimes moved when he clearly thought he was keeping his face perfectly impassive. She’d always thought of it as her own little secret, her private window into the workings of his mind.

Except now she wasn’t sure she wanted such a window. It implied a closeness with which she wasn’t quite comfortable any longer.

Not to mention that she’d clearly been deluded when she’d thought she might ever understand the workings of his mind.

He plucked a biscuit off the tray, idly regarded the dollop of raspberry jam in its center, then popped it into his mouth.

“What is this about?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. She felt rather like prey, being fattened up for the kill.

“The tea?” he inquired, once he’d swallowed. “Mostly about tea, if you must know.”

“Michael.”

“I thought you might be cold,” he explained with a shrug. “You were gone quite some time.”

“You know when I left?”

He looked at her sardonically. “Of course.”

And she wasn’t surprised. That was the only thing that surprised her, actually—that she wasn’t surprised.

“I have something for you,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “You do?”

“Is that so remarkable?” he murmured, and he reached down onto the seat beside him.

Her breath caught. Not a ring. Please, not a ring. Not yet.

She wasn’t ready to say yes.

And she wasn’t ready to say no, either.

But instead, he set upon the table a small posy of flowers, each bloom more delicate than the last. She’d never been good with flowers, hadn’t bothered to learn the names, but there was stalky white one, and a bit of purple, and something that was almost blue. And it had all been tied rather elegantly with a silver ribbon.

Francesca just stared at it, unable to decide what to make of such a gesture.

“You can touch it,” he said, a hint of amusement playing along his voice. “It shan’t pass along disease.”

“No,” she said quickly, reaching out for the tiny bouquet, “of course not. I just . . .” She brought the blooms to her face and inhaled, then set them down, her hands retreating quickly to her lap.

“You just what?” he asked softly.

“I don’t really know,” she replied. And she didn’t. She had no idea how she’d meant to complete that sentence, if indeed she had ever intended to. She looked down at the small bouquet, blinking several times before asking, “What is this?”

“I call them flowers.”

She looked up, her eyes meeting his fully and deeply. “No,” she said, “what is this?”

“The gesture, you mean?” He smiled. “Why, I’m courting you.”

Her lips parted.

He took a sip of his tea. “Is it such a surprise?”

After all that had passed between them?

Yes.

“You deserve no less,” he said.

“I thought you said you intended to—” She broke off, blushing madly. He’d said he meant to take her until she became pregnant.

Three times today, as a matter of fact. Three times, he’d vowed, and they were still quite at zero and . . .

Her cheeks burned, and she couldn’t help but feel the memory of him between her legs.

Dear God.

But—thank heavens—his expression remained innocent, and all he said was, “I’ve rethought my strategies.”

She took a frenetic bite of her biscuit. Any excuse to bring her hands to her face and hide a bit of her embarrassment.

“Of course I still plan to pursue my options in that area,” he said, leaning forward with a sultry gaze. “I’m only a man, after all. And you, as I believe we’ve more than made clear, are very much a woman.”

She jammed the rest of the biscuit into her mouth.

“But I thought you deserved more,” he finished, sitting back with a mild expression, as if he hadn’t just seared her with innuendo. “Don’t you think?”

No, she didn’t think. Not anymore, at least. It was a bit of a problem, that.

Because as she sat there, furiously stuffing food into her mouth, she couldn’t take her eyes off his lips. Those magnificent lips, smiling languidly at her.

She heard herself sigh. Those lips had done such magnificent things to her.

To all of her. Every last inch.

Good God, she could practically feel them now.

And it left her squirming in her seat.

“Are you all right?” he asked solicitously.

“Quite,” she somehow managed to say, gulping at her tea.

“Is your chair uncomfortable?”

She shook her head.

“Is there anything I can get for you?”

“Why are you doing this?” she finally burst out.

“Doing what?”

“Being so nice to me.”

His brows lifted. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“No!”

“I shouldn’t be nice.” It wasn’t a question as he said it, rather an amused statement.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, shaking her head. He’d befuddled her, and she hated it. There was nothing she valued more than a cool and clear head, and Michael had managed to steal that from her with a single kiss.

And then he’d done more.

So much more.

She was never going to be the same.

She was never going to be sane.

“You look distressed,” he said.

She wanted to strangle him.

He cocked his head and smiled.

She wanted to kiss him.

He held up the teapot. “More?”

God yes, and that was the problem.

“Francesca?”

She wanted to jump across the table and onto his lap.

“Are you quite all right?”

It was growing difficult to breathe.

“Frannie?”

Every time he spoke, every time he moved his mouth, even just to breathe, her eyes settled on his lips.

She felt herself licking her own.

And she knew that he knew—with all of his experience, all of his seductive prowess—exactly what she was feeling.

He could reach for her now and she wouldn’t refuse.

He could touch her and she’d go up in flames.

“I have to go,” she said, but her words were breathless and lacking in conviction. And it didn’t help that she couldn’t seem to wrench her gaze from his own.

“Important matters to attend to in your bedchamber?” he murmured, his lips curving.

She nodded, even though she knew he was mocking her.

“Go then,” he encouraged, but his voice was mild and in fact sounded like nothing so much as a seductive purr.

Somehow she managed to move her hands to the edge of the table. She gripped the wood, telling herself to push away, to do something, to move.

But she was frozen.

“Would you prefer to stay?” he murmured.

She shook her head. Or at least she thought she did.

He stood and came to the back of her chair, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Shall I help you to rise?”

She shook her head again and nearly jumped to her feet, his nearness somewhat paradoxically breaking the spell he’d cast over her. Her shoulder bumped his chest, and she lurched back, terrified that further contact would cause her to do something she might regret.

As if she hadn’t had enough of that already.

“I need to go upstairs,” she blurted out.

“Clearly,” he said softly.

“Alone,” she added.

“I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to endure my company for one moment longer.”

She narrowed her eyes. Just what was he up to? And why the devil did she feel so disappointed?

“But perhaps . . .” he murmured.

Her heart leapt.

“. . . perhaps I should offer you a farewell kiss,” he finished. “On the hand, of course. It would only be proper.”

As if they hadn’t discarded propriety back in London.

He took her fingers lightly in his own. “We are courting, after all,” he said. “Aren’t we?”

She stared down at him, unable to take her eyes off of his head as he bent down over her hand. His lips brushed her fingers. Once . . . twice . . . and then he was through.

“Dream of me,” he said softly.

Her lips parted. She couldn’t stop watching his face. He’d mesmerized her, held her soul captive. And she couldn’t move.

“Unless you want more than a dream,” he said.

She did.

“Will you stay?” he whispered. “Or will you go?”

She stayed. Heaven help her, she stayed.

And Michael showed her just how romantic a library could be.

Chapter 21

. . . a brief note to let you know that I have arrived safely in Scotland. I must say, I am glad to be here. London was stimulating as always, but I believe I needed a bit of quiet. I feel quite more focused and at peace here in the country.

—from the Countess of Kilmartin to her mother,

the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton,

one day after her arrival at Kilmartin

Three weeks later, Francesca still didn’t know what she was doing.

Michael had brought up the issue of marriage twice more, and each time she’d managed to dodge the question. If she considered his proposal, she would actually have to think. She’d have to think about him, and she’d have to think about John, and worst of all, she’d have to think about herself.

And she’d have to figure out just what it was she was doing. She kept telling herself she would marry him only if she became pregnant, but then she kept coming back to his bed, allowing him to seduce her at every turn.

But even that wasn’t truly accurate any longer. She was delusional if she thought she required any seducing to make room for him in her bed. She’d become the wicked one, however much she tried to hide from the fact by telling herself that she was wandering the house at night in her bedclothes because she was restless, not because she was seeking his company.

But she always found him. Or if not, she placed herself in a position where he might find her.

And she never said no.

Michael was growing impatient. He hid it well, but she knew him well. She knew him better than she knew anyone left on this planet, and even though he insisted he was courting her, wooing her with romantic phrases and gestures, she could see the faint lines of impatience curling around his mouth. He would begin a conversation that she knew would lead to the subject of marriage, and she always dodged it before he mentioned the word.

He allowed her to get away with it, but his eyes would change, and his jaw would tighten, and then, when he took her—and he always did, after moments like those—it was with renewed urgency, and even a touch of anger.

But still, it wasn’t quite enough to jolt her into action.

She couldn’t say yes. She didn’t know why; she just couldn’t.

But she couldn’t say no, either. Maybe she was wicked, and maybe she was a wanton, but she didn’t want this to end. Not the passion, and not, she was forced to acknowledge, his company, either.

It wasn’t just the lovemaking, it was the moments after, when she lay curled in his arms, his hand idly stroking her hair. Sometimes they were silent, but sometimes they talked, about anything and everything. He told her about India, and she told him of her childhood. She gave him her opinions about political matters, and he actually listened. And he told her devilish jokes that men were never supposed to tell women, and women certainly weren’t supposed to enjoy.

And then, once the bed had stopped shaking with her mirth, his mouth would find hers, a smile embedded on his lips. “I love your laughter,” he would murmur, and his hands would curl her to him. She’d sigh, still giggling, and they’d begin their passion anew.

And Francesca would, once again, be able to hold the rest of the world at bay.

And then she bled.

It started as it always did, just a few drops on the cotton of her chemise. She shouldn’t have been surprised; her cycles may not have been regular, but they always arrived eventually, and she already knew that hers was not a terribly fertile womb.

But still, somehow she hadn’t been expecting it. Not yet, anyway.

It made her cry.

Nothing dramatic, nothing that wracked her body and consumed her soul, but her breath caught when she saw the tiny drops of blood, and before she realized what she was doing, twin tears were trickling down her cheeks.

And she wasn’t even sure why.

Was it because there would be no baby, or was it—God help her—because there would be no marriage?

Michael came to her room that night, but she sent him away, explaining that it wasn’t the right time. His lips found her ear, and he reminded her of all the wicked things they could still do, blood or no, but she refused, and asked him to leave.

He looked disappointed, but he seemed to understand. Women could be squeamish about such things.

But when she woke in the middle of the night, she wished he was holding her.

Her menses didn’t last long; it never did. And when Michael asked her discreetly if her time was through, she didn’t lie. He’d have known if she had, anyway; he always did.

“Good,” he said with a secret smile. “I’ve missed you.”

Her lips parted to say that she’d missed him, too, but somehow she was afraid to say the words.

He nudged her toward the bed, and together they tumbled, their bodies a tangle of arms and legs as they fell.

“I dreamed of you,” he said hoarsely, his hands pushing her skirt up to her waist. “Every night you came to me in dreams.” One finger found her essence and dipped inside. “They were very, very good dreams,” he finished, his voice hot and full of the devil.

She caught her lip between her teeth, her breath coming in short gasps as his finger slid out and caressed her right where he knew it would make her melt.

“In my dreams,” he murmured, his lips hot at her ear, “you did unspeakable things.”

She moaned at the sensation. He could ignite her body with a single touch, but she went up in flames when he spoke like this.

“New things,” he murmured, spreading her legs wider. “Things I’m going to have to teach you . . . tonight, I think.”

“Oh, God,” she gasped. He’d moved his lips to her thigh, and she knew what was coming.

“But first a bit of the tried and true,” he continued, his lips tickling their way up toward their destination. “We have all night to explore.”

He kissed her then, just as he knew she liked it, holding her immobile with his powerful hands as his lips brought her closer and closer to the peaks of passion.

But before she reached the apex, he moved away, his hands tearing at the fastenings of his trousers. He swore when his fingers trembled, when the button didn’t slip free on the first try.

And it gave Francesca just enough time to stop and think.

The one thing she truly didn’t want to do.

But her mind was relentless, and it was unkind, and before she knew what she was doing, she’d scrambled from the bed, the word, “Wait!” flying from her lips, even as she flew across the room.

“What?” he gasped.

“I can’t do this.”

“You can’t . . .”—he stopped, unable to finish the question without taking a heaving breath—“. . . what?”

He’d finally had success with his trousers, and they had fallen to the floor, leaving her with a stunning view of his arousal.

Francesca averted her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. Not at his face, not at his . . . “I can’t,” she said, her voice shaking. “I shouldn’t. I don’t know.”

“I know,” he growled, stepping toward her.

“No!” she cried out, hurrying toward the door. She’d played with fire for weeks, tempting the fates, and she’d won her gamble. If there was ever a time to escape, this was it. And as hard as it was to leave, she knew that she must. She wasn’t this sort of woman. She couldn’t be.

“I can’t do this,” she said, her back now flat against the hard wood of the door. “I can’t. I . . . I . . .”

I want to, she thought. Even as she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t escape the fact that she wanted to, anyway. But if she told him that, would he make her change her mind? He could do it, too. She knew he could. One kiss, one touch, and all of her resolve would be lost.

He just swore and yanked his trousers back up.

“I don’t know who I am any longer,” she said. “I’m not this sort of woman.”

“What sort of woman?” he snapped.

“A wanton,” she whispered. “Fallen.”

“Then marry me,” he shot back. “I offered to make you respectable from the beginning, but you refused.”

He had her there, and she knew it. But logic didn’t seem to have a place in her heart these days, and all she could think was—How could she marry him? How could she marry Michael?

“I wasn’t supposed to feel this for another man,” she said, barely able to believe that she’d spoken the words aloud.

“Feel what?” he asked urgently.

She swallowed, forcing herself to bring her eyes to his face. “The passion,” she admitted.

His face took on a strange expression, almost one of disgust. “Right,” he drawled. “Of course. It’s a damned good thing you have me here to service you.”

“No!” she cried out, horrified by the derision lacing his voice. “That’s not it.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” But she didn’t know what was.

He took a ragged breath and turned away from her, his body taut with tension. She watched his back with terrible fascination, unable to take her eyes off of him. His shirt was loose, and even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew his body, every last curve of it. He looked desolate, hardened.

Worn out.

“Why do you stay?” he asked in a low voice, leaning on the edge of the mattress with the flats of both hands.

“Wh–what?”

“Why do you stay?” he repeated, his words rising in volume but never losing control. “If you hate me so much, why do you stay?”

“I don’t hate you,” she said. “You know I—”

“I don’t know a damned thing, Francesca,” he bit off. “I don’t even know you any longer.” His shoulders tensed as his fingers bit into the mattress. She could see one of his hands; the knuckles had gone white.

“I don’t hate you,” she said again, as if saying it twice would somehow turn her words into solid things, palpable and real, that she could force him to hold on to. “I don’t. I don’t hate you.”

He said nothing.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” she said, pleading with him now—for what, she wasn’t certain. Maybe for him not to hate her. That was the one thing she didn’t think she could bear.

But all he did was laugh. It was a horrible sound, bitter and low. “Oh, Francesca,” he said, condescension lending his words a brittle flavor. “If I had a pound for every time I’ve said that . . .”

Her mouth settled into a grim line. She didn’t like to be reminded of all the women who had gone before her. She didn’t want to know about them, didn’t even want to recall their existence.

“Why do you stay?” he asked again, finally turning around to face her.

She nearly reeled at the fire in his eyes. “Michael, I—”

“Why?” he demanded, fury pounding his voice into a harsh rumble. His face had tightened into deep, angry lines, and her hand instinctively reached for the doorknob.

“Why do you stay, Francesca?” he persisted, moving toward her with the predatory grace of a tiger. “There is nothing for you here at Kilmartin, nothing but this.”

She gasped as his hands landed hard on her shoulders, let out a soft cry of surprise as his lips found hers. It was a kiss of anger, of brutal desperation, but still, her traitorous body wanted nothing more than to melt into him, to let him do what he wished, turn all of his wicked attentions on her.

She wanted him. Dear God, even like this, she wanted him.

And she feared she would never learn to say no.

But he wrenched himself away. He did it. Not her.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, his voice ragged and hoarse. “Is that all?”

She did nothing, didn’t even move, just looked at him with wild eyes.

“Why do you stay?” he demanded, and she knew it was the last time he’d ask.

She didn’t have an answer.

He gave her several seconds. He waited for her to speak until the silence rose between them like a gorgon, but every time she opened her mouth, no sound emerged, and she couldn’t do anything but stand there, shaking as she watched his face.

With a vicious curse, he turned away. “Leave,” he ordered. “Now. I want you out of the house.”

“Wh–what?” She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that he would actually toss her out.

He didn’t look at her as he said, “If you can’t be with me, if you can’t give all of yourself to me, then I want you gone.”

“Michael?” It was just a whisper, barely that.

“I can’t bear this halfway existence,” he said, his voice so low she wasn’t certain she’d heard correctly.

All she could manage to say was, “Why?”

At first she didn’t think he was going to respond. His posture became impossibly taut, and then he began to shake.

Her hand rose to cover her mouth. Was he crying? Could he be . . .

Laughing?

“Oh, God, Francesca,” he said, his voice punctuated with derisive laughter. “Now there’s a good one. Why? Why? Why?” He gave each one a different tenor, as if he were testing out the word, asking it to different people.

“Why?” he asked again, this time with increased volume as he turned around to face her. “Why? It’s because I love you, damn me to hell. Because I’ve always loved you. Because I loved you when you were with John, and I loved you when I was in India, and God only knows I don’t deserve you, but I love you, anyway.”

Francesca sagged against the door.

“How’s that for a witty little joke?” he mocked. “I love you. I love you, my cousin’s wife. I love you, the one woman I can never have. I love you, Francesca Bridgerton Stirling, who—”

“Stop,” she choked out.

“Now? Now that I’ve finally gotten started? Oh, I don’t think so,” he said grandly, waving one of his arms through the air like a showman. He leaned in close—painfully, uncomfortably close. And his smile was terrifying as he asked, “Are you scared yet?”

“Michael—”

“Because I haven’t nearly begun,” he said, his voice skipping over hers. “Do you want to know what I was thinking when you were married to John?”

“No,” she said desperately, shaking her head.

He opened his mouth to say more, his eyes still flashing with his contemptuous passion, but then something happened. Something changed. It was in his eyes. They were so angry, so inflamed, and then they simply . . .

Stopped.

Turned cold. Weary.

Then he closed them. He looked exhausted.

“Go,” he said. “Now.”

She whispered his name.

“Go,” he repeated, ignoring her plea. “If you’re not mine, I don’t want you anymore.”

“But I—”

He walked to the window, leaning heavily on the sill. “If this is to end, you will have to do it. You will have to walk away, Francesca. Because now . . . after everything . . . I’m just not strong enough to say goodbye.”

She stood motionless for several seconds, and then, just when she was sure the tension between them would tighten and snap her in two, her feet somehow found purchase, and she ran from the room.

She ran.

And she ran.

And she ran.

She ran blindly, without thinking.

She ran outside, into the night, into the rain.

She ran until her lungs burned. She ran until she had no balance, was tripping and sliding in the mud.

She ran until she could run no longer, and then she just sat, finding comfort and shelter in the gazebo John had erected for her years earlier, after throwing up his arms and announcing that he’d given up trying to get her to curb her lengthy hikes, and this way at least she’d have a place outside to call her own.

She sat there for hours, shivering in the cold, but not feeling a thing. And all she could wonder was—

Just what was it she was running from?

Michael had no memory of the moments that followed her departure. It could have been one minute, it could have been ten. All he knew was that he seemed to wake up when he realized he’d nearly put his fist through the wall.

And yet somehow he barely noticed the pain.

“My lord?”

It was Reivers, popping his head in to inquire about the commotion.

“Get out,” Michael growled. He didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to hear anyone even breathe.

“But maybe some ice for—”

“Get out!” Michael roared, and it felt as if his body were growing huge and monsterish as he turned. He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to claw at the air.

Reivers fled.

Michael dug his fingernails into his palms, even as his right fist was beginning to swell. Somehow the motion seemed the only way to keep the devil inside at bay, to prevent him from tearing the room apart with his very fingers.

Six years.

He stood there, stock still, with only one thought in his head.

Six bloody years.

He’d held this inside for six years, scrupulously kept his feelings off of his face when he watched her, never told a soul.

Six years he’d loved her, and it had all come to this.

He’d laid his heart on the table. He’d practically handed her a knife and asked her to slice it open.

Oh, no, Francesca, you can do better than that. Hold steady there, you can easily make a few more cuts. And while you’re at it, why don’t you take these pieces here and dice them up?

Whoever had said it was a good thing to speak the truth was an ass. Michael would have given anything, both his bloody feet, even, to have made this all go away.

But that was the thing about words.

He laughed miserably.

You couldn’t take them back.

Spread it on the floor now. There you go, stamp it down. No, harder. Harder than that, Frannie. You can do it.

Six years.

Six bloody years, all lost in a single moment. All because he’d thought he might actually have the right to feel happy.

He should have known better.

And for the grand finale, just set the whole bloody thing aflame. Brava, Francesca!

There went his heart.

He looked down at his hands. His nails had carved half-moons into his palms. One had even broken the skin.

What was he going do? What the hell was he going to do now?

He didn’t know how to live his life with her knowing the truth. For six years, his every thought and action had revolved around making sure she didn’t know. All men had some guiding principle in their lives, and that had been his.

Make sure Francesca never finds out.

He sat in his chair, barely able to contain his own maniacal laughter.

Oh, Michael, he thought, the chair shaking beneath him as he let his head fall into his hands. Welcome to the rest of your life.

His second act, as it happened, opened far sooner than he’d expected, with a soft knock on his door about three hours later.

Michael was still sitting in his chair, his only concession to the passage of time the movement of his head from his hands to the seat back. He’d been leaning like that for some time now, his neck uncomfortable but unmoving, his eyes staring sightlessly at some random spot on the ecru silk fabric covering the wall.

He felt removed, set apart, and when he heard the knock, he didn’t even recognize the sound at first.

But it came again, no less timid than the first, but still persistent.

Whoever it was, he wasn’t going away.

“Enter!” he barked.

He was a she.

Francesca.

He should have risen. He wanted to. Even after everything, he didn’t hate her, didn’t wish to offer his disrespect. But she had wrenched everything from him, every last drop of strength and purpose, and all he could manage was a slight lifting of his brows, accompanied by a tired, “What?”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything. She was wet, he realized, almost idly. She must have gone outside. Silly fool, it was cold out.

“What is it, Francesca?” he asked.

“I’ll marry you,” she said, so quietly he more read the words on her lips than did he hear them. “If you’ll still have me.”

And you’d have thought he’d jump from his chair. Rise, at least, unable to tamp down the joy spreading through his body. You’d have thought he might stride across the room, a man of purpose and resolve, to sweep her from her feet, rain kisses on her face, and lay her on the bed, where he might seal the bargain in the most primitive manner possible.

But instead he just sat there, too heart-weary to do anything other than ask, “Why?”

She flinched at the suspicion in his voice, but he didn’t feel particularly charitable at the moment. After what she’d done to him, she could suffer a bit of discomfort herself.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She was standing very still, her arms straight at her sides. She wasn’t rigid, but he could tell she was trying very hard not to move.

If she did, he suspected, she’d run from the room.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he said.

Her lower lip caught between her teeth. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Don’t make me figure it out.”

He lifted one sardonic brow.

“Not yet, at least,” she finished.

Words, he thought, almost dispassionately. He’d had his words, and now these were hers.

“You can’t take it back,” he said in a low voice.

She shook her head.

He rose slowly to his feet. “There will be no backing out. No cold feet. No changed minds.”

“No,” she said. “I promise.”

And that was when he finally let himself believe her. Francesca did not give promises lightly. And she never broke her vows.

He was across the room in an instant, his hands at her back, his arms around her, his mouth raining desperate kisses on her face. “You will be mine,” he said. “This is it. Do you understand?”

She nodded, arching her neck as his lips slid down the long column to her shoulder.

“If I want to tie you to the bed, and keep you there until you’re heavy with child, I’ll do it,” he vowed.

“Yes,” she gasped.

“And you won’t complain.” She shook her head.

His fingers tugged at her gown. It fell to the floor with stunning speed. “And you’ll like it,” he growled.

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

He moved her to the bed. He wasn’t gentle or smooth, but she didn’t seem to want that, and he fell upon her like a starving man. “You will be mine,” he said again, grasping her bottom and pulling her toward him. “Mine.”

And she was. For that night, at least, she was.

Chapter 22

. . . I am sure you have everything well in hand. You always do.

—from the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton

to her daughter, the Countess of Kilmartin,

immediately upon the receipt of Francesca’s missive

The hardest part about planning a wedding with Michael, Francesca soon realized, was figuring out how to tell people.

As difficult as it had been for her to accept the idea, she couldn’t imagine how everyone else might take it. Good God, what would Janet say? She’d been remarkably supportive of Francesca’s decision to remarry, but surely she hadn’t considered Michael as a candidate.

And yet even as Francesca sat at her desk, her pen hovering over paper for hours on end, trying to find the right words, something inside of her knew that she was doing the right thing.

She still wasn’t sure why she’d decided to marry him. And she wasn’t sure how she ought to feel about his stunning revelation of love, but somehow she knew she wished to be his wife.

That didn’t, however, make it any easier to figure out how to tell everyone else about it.

Francesca was sitting in her study, penning letters to her family—or rather, crumpling the paper of her latest misfire and tossing it on the floor—when Michael entered with the post.

“This arrived from your mother,” he said, handing her an elegantly appointed cream-colored envelope.

Francesca slid her letter opener under the flap and removed the missive, which was, she noted with surprise, a full four pages long. “Good heavens,” she murmured. Her mother generally managed to say what she needed to say with one sheet of paper, two at the most.

“Is anything amiss?” Michael asked, perching himself on the edge of her desk.

“No, no,” Francesca said distractedly. “I just . . . Good heavens!”

He twisted and stretched a bit, trying to get a look at the words. “What is it?”

Francesca just waved a shushing hand in his direction.

“Frannie?”

She flipped to the next page. “Good heavens!”

“Give me that,” he said, reaching for the paper.

She turned quickly to the side, refusing to relinquish it. “Oh, my God,” she breathed.

“Francesca Stirling, if you don’t—”

“Colin and Penelope got married.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “We already knew—”

“No, I mean they moved up the wedding date by . . . well, goodness, it must have been by over a month, I would think.”

Michael just shrugged. “Good for them.”

Francesca looked up at him with annoyed eyes. “Someone might have told me.”

“I imagine there wasn’t time.”

“But that,” she said with great irritation, “is not the worst of it.”

“I can’t imagine—”

“Eloise is getting married as well.”

“Eloise?” Michael asked with some surprise. “Was she even being courted by anyone?”

“No,” Francesca said, quickly flipping to the third sheet of her mother’s letter. “It’s someone she’s never met.”

“Well, I imagine she’s met him now,” Michael said in a dry voice.

“I can’t believe no one told me.”

“You have been in Scotland.”

“Still,” she said grumpily.

Michael just chuckled at her annoyance, drat the man.

“It’s as if I don’t exist,” she said, irritated enough to shoot him her most ferocious glare.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say—”

“Oh, yes,” she said with great flair, “Francesca.”

“Frannie . . .” He sounded quite amused now.

“Has someone told Francesca?” she said, doing a rather fine group impression of her family. “Remember her? Sixth of eight? The one with the blue eyes?”

“Frannie, don’t be daft.”

“I’m not daft, I’m just ignored.”

“I rather thought you liked being a bit removed from your family.”

“Well, yes,” she grumbled, “but that’s beside the fact.”

“Of course,” he murmured.

She glared at him for his sarcasm.

“Shall we prepare to leave for the wedding?” he inquired.

“As if I could,” she said with great huff. “It’s in three days’ time.”

“My felicitations,” Michael said admiringly.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“One can’t help but feel a great respect for any man who manages to get the deed done with such swiftness,” he said with a shrug.

“Michael!”

He positively leered at her. “I did.”

“I haven’t married you yet,” she pointed out.

He grinned. “The deed I was referring to wasn’t marriage.”

She felt her face go red. “Stop it,” she muttered.

His fingers tickled along her hand. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Michael, this is not the time,” she said, yanking her hand away.

He sighed. “It starts already.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, plopping down in a nearby chair. “Just that we’re not even wed, and already we’re an old married couple.”

She gave him an arch look, then turned back to her mother’s letter. They did sound like an old married couple, not that she wished to give him the satisfaction of her agreement. She supposed it was because unlike most newly affianced pairs, they had known each other for years. He was, despite the amazing changes of the past few weeks, her very best friend.

She stopped. Froze.

“Is something wrong?” Michael asked.

“No,” she said, giving her head a little shake. Somehow, in the midst of her confusion, she’d lost sight of that. Michael may have been the last person she’d have thought she’d marry, but that was for a good reason, wasn’t it?

Who’d have thought she’d marry her best friend?

Surely that had to bode well for the union.

“Let’s get married,” he said suddenly.

She looked up questioningly. “Wasn’t that already on the agenda?”

“No,” he said, grasping her hand, “let’s do it today.”

“Today?” she exclaimed. “Are you mad?”

“Not at all. We’re in Scotland. We don’t need banns.”

“Well, yes, but—”

He knelt before her, his eyes aglow. “Let’s do it, Frannie. Let’s be mad, bad, and rash.”

“No one will believe it,” she said slowly.

“No one is going to believe it, anyway.”

He had a point there. “But my family . . .” she added.

“You just said they left you out of their festivities.”

“Yes, but it was hardly on purpose!”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Well, yes, if one really thinks about—”

He yanked her to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“Michael . . .” And she didn’t know why she was dragging her feet, except maybe that she felt she ought. It was a wedding, after all, and such haste was a bit unseemly.

He quirked a brow. “Do you really want a lavish wedding?”

“No,” she said, quite honestly. She’d done that once. It didn’t seem appropriate the second time around.

He leaned in, his lips touching her ear. “Are you willing to risk an eight-month baby?”

“Obviously I was,” she said pertly.

“Let’s give our child a respectable nine months of gestation,” he said jauntily.

She swallowed uncomfortably. “Michael, you must be aware that I may not conceive. With John, it took—”

“I don’t care,” he cut in.

“I think you do,” she said softly, worried about his response, but unwilling to enter into marriage without a clear conscience. “You’ve mentioned it several times, and—”

“To trap you into marriage,” he interrupted. And then, with stunning speed, he had her back against the wall, his body pressed up against hers with startling intimacy. “I don’t care if you’re barren,” he said, his voice hot against her ear. “I don’t care if you deliver a litter of puppies.”

His hand crept under her dress, sliding right up her thigh. “All I care about,” he said thickly, one finger turning very, very wicked, “is that you’re mine.”

“Oh!” Francesca yelped, feeling her limbs go molten. “Oh, yes.”

“Yes on this?” he asked devilishly, wiggling his finger just enough to drive her wild, “or yes on getting married today?”

“On this,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”

“What about the marriage?”

Francesca grabbed his shoulders for support.

“What about the marriage?” he asked again, quickly withdrawing his finger.

“Michael!” she wailed.

His lips spread into a slow, feral smile. “What about the marriage?”

“Yes!” she begged. “Yes! Whatever you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” she sighed.

“Good,” he said, and then, abruptly, he stepped away.

Leaving her slackjawed and rather mussed.

“Shall I retrieve your coat?” he inquired, adjusting his cuffs. He was the perfect picture of elegant manhood, not a hair out of place, utterly calm and composed.

She, on the other hand, was quite certain she resembled a banshee. “Michael?” she managed to ask, trying to ignore the extremely uncomfortable sensation he’d left down in her lower regions.

“If you want to finish,” he said, in much the same tone he might have used while discussing grouse hunting, “you’ll have to do so as the Countess of Kilmartin.”

“I am the Countess of Kilmartin,” she growled.

He gave her a nod of acknowledgment. “You’ll have to do it as my Countess of Kilmartin,” he corrected. He gave her a moment to respond, and when she did not, he asked again, “Shall I get your coat?”

She nodded.

“Excellent choice,” he murmured. “Will you wait here or accompany me to the hall?”

She pried her teeth apart to say, “I’ll come out to the hall.”

He took her arm and guided her to the door, leaning down to murmur, “Eager little thing, aren’t we?”

“Just get my coat,” she ground out.

He chuckled, but the sound was warm and rich, and already she felt her irritation beginning to melt away. He was a rogue and scoundrel, and probably a hundred other things as well, but he was her rogue and scoundrel, and she knew he possessed a heart as fine and true as any man she could ever hope to meet. Except for . . .

She stopped short and jabbed one finger against his chest.

“There will be no other women,” she said sharply.

He just looked at her with one arched brow.

“I mean it. No mistresses, no dalliances, no—”

“Good God, Francesca,” he cut in, “do you really think I could? No, scratch that. Do you really think I would?”

She’d been so caught up in her own intentions that she hadn’t really looked at his face, and she was stunned by the expression she saw there. He was angry, she realized, irked that she’d even asked. But she couldn’t dismiss out of hand a decade of bad behavior, and she didn’t think he had the right to expect her to, so she said, lowering her voice slightly, “You don’t have the finest reputation.”

“For God’s sake,” he grunted, yanking her out into the hall. “They were all just to get you out of my mind, anyway.”

Francesca was shocked into stumbling silence as she followed him toward the front door.

“Any other questions?” he asked, turning to her with such a supercilious expression that one would have thought he’d been born to the earldom, rather than fallen into it by chance.

“Nothing,” she squeaked.

“Good. Now let’s go. I have a wedding to attend.”

Later that night, Michael couldn’t help but be pleased by the day’s turn of events. “Thank you, Colin,” he said rather jovially to himself as he undressed for bed, “and thank you, too, whomever you are, for marrying Eloise on a moment’s notice.”

Michael rather doubted that Francesca would have agreed to a rushed wedding if her two siblings hadn’t up and gotten married without her.

And now she was his wife.

His wife.

It was almost impossible to believe.

It had been his goal for weeks, and she’d finally agreed the night before, but it wasn’t until he’d slid the ancient gold band onto her finger that it had sunk in.

She was his.

Until death do they part.

“Thank you, John,” Michael added, the levity leaving his voice. Not for dying, never for that. But rather for releasing him of the guilt. Michael still wasn’t quite certain how it had come about, but ever since that fateful night, after he and Francesca had made love at the gardener’s cottage, Michael had known, in his heart of hearts, that John would have approved.

He would have given his blessing and in his more fanciful moments, Michael liked to think that if John could have chosen a new husband for Francesca, he would have selected him.

Clad in a burgundy robe, Michael walked to the connecting door between his and Francesca’s rooms. Even though they had been intimate since his arrival at Kilmartin, it was only today that he had moved into the earl’s bedchamber. It was odd; in London, he hadn’t been so worried about appearances. They’d taken residence in the official bedrooms of the earl and countess and simply made sure the entire household was aware that the connecting door was firmly locked from both sides.

But here in Scotland, where they were behaving in a manner deserving of gossip, he’d been careful to unpack his belongings in a room as far down the hall from Francesca’s as was available. It didn’t matter that one or the other of them had been sneaking back and forth the whole time; at least they gave the appearance of respectability.

The servants weren’t stupid; Michael was quite sure they’d all known what was going on, but they adored Francesca, and they wanted her to be happy, and they would never breathe a word against her to anyone.

Still, it was rather nice to put all of that nonsense behind them.

He reached for the doorknob but didn’t grasp it right away, stopping instead to listen for sounds in the next room. He didn’t hear much. He didn’t know why he’d thought he might; the door was solid and ancient and not inclined to give up secrets. Still, there was something about the moment that called to him, that begged for savoring.

He was about to enter Francesca’s bedchamber.

And he had every right to be there.

The only thing that might have made it better would be if she had told him she loved him.

The omission left a small, niggling spot on his heart, but that was more than overshadowed by his newfound joy. He didn’t want her to say words she did not feel, and even if she never loved him as a wife ought to love her husband, he knew that her feelings were stronger and more noble than what most wives felt for their husbands.

He knew that she cared for him, loved him deeply as a friend. And if anything were to happen to him, she would mourn him with every inch of her heart.

He really couldn’t ask for more.

He might want more, but he already had so much more than he’d ever hoped for. He shouldn’t be greedy. Not when, on top of everything, he had the passion.

And there was passion.

It was almost amusing how much it had surprised her, how much it continued to surprise her each and every day. He had used it to his advantage; he knew that and he wasn’t ashamed. He’d used it that very afternoon, while trying to convince her to marry him right then and there.

And it had worked.

Thank God, it had worked.

He felt giddy, like a green boy. When the idea had come to him—to wed that day—it had been like a strange shot of electricity through his veins, and he’d barely been able to contain himself. It had been one of those moments when he knew he had to succeed, would have done anything to win her over.

Now, as he stood on the threshold of his marriage, he couldn’t help but wonder if it would be different now. Would she feel different in his arms as his wife than she had as his lover? When he looked upon her face in the morning, would the air feel changed? When he saw her across a crowded room—

He gave his head a little shake. He was turning into a sentimental fool. His heart had always skipped a beat when he saw her across a crowded room. Anything more, and he didn’t think the organ could take the strain.

He pushed open the door. “Francesca?” he called out, his voice soft and husky in the night air.

She was standing by the window, clad in a nightgown of deep blue. The cut was modest, but the fabric clung, and for a moment, Michael couldn’t breathe.

And he knew—he didn’t know how, but he knew—that it would always be like this.

“Frannie?” he whispered, moving slowly toward her.

She turned, and there was hesitation on her face. Not nervousness, precisely, but rather an endearing expression of apprehension, as if she, too, realized that it was all different now.

“We did it,” he said, unable to keep a loopy smile off of his face.

“I still can’t believe it,” she said.

“Nor can I,” he admitted, reaching out to touch her cheek, “but it’s true.”

“I—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“What were you going to say?”

“It’s nothing.”

He took both of her hands and tugged her toward him. “It’s not nothing,” he murmured. “When it’s you, and when it’s me, it’s never nothing.”

She swallowed, shadows playing across the delicate lines of her throat, and she finally said, “I just . . .I wanted to say . . .”

His fingers tightened around hers, lending her encouragement. He wanted her to say it. He hadn’t thought he needed the words, not yet, anyway, but dear God, how much he wanted to hear them.

“I’m very glad I married you,” she finished, her voice matching the uncharacteristically shy expression on her face. “It was the right thing to do.”

He felt his toes clench slightly, gripping the carpet as he tamped down his disappointment. It was more than he’d ever thought to hear from her, and yet so much less than he’d hoped.

And yet, even with that, she was still here in his arms, and she was his wife, and that, he vowed fiercely to himself, had to count for something.

“I’m glad, too,” he said softly, and pulled her close. His lips touched hers, and it was different when he kissed her. There was a new sense of belonging, and lack of furtiveness and desperation.

He kissed her slowly, gently, taking the time to explore her, to relish every moment. His hands slid along the silk of her nightgown, and she moaned as the fabric bunched under his fingers.

“I love you,” he whispered, deciding there was no use in holding the words to himself any longer, even if she wasn’t inclined to say the same. His lips moved across her cheek to her ear, and he nibbled gently on her lobe before moving down her neck to the delectable hollow at the base of her throat.

“Michael,” she sighed, swaying into him. “Oh, Michael.”

He cupped her bottom and pressed her to him, a groan slipping across his lips as he felt her tight and warm against his arousal.

He’d thought he’d wanted her before, but this . . . this was different.

“I need you,” he said hoarsely, dropping to his knees as his lips slid down the center of her, over the silk. “I need you so much.”

She whispered his name, and she sounded confused as she looked down at him, at his position of supplication.

“Francesca,” he said, and he had no idea why he was saying it, just that her name was the most important thing in the world right then. Her name, and her body, and the beauty of her soul.

“Francesca,” he whispered again, burying his face against her belly.

Her hands settled on his head, fingers entwined in his hair. He could have remained like that for hours, on his knees before her, but then she dropped down, too, and she moved toward him, arching her neck as she kissed him. “I want you,” she said. “Please.”

Michael groaned, pulling her toward him, and then pulling her to her feet before tugging her toward the bed. In moments they were on the mattress, the soft down of it drawing them in, embracing them even as they embraced each other.

“Frannie,” he said, his trembling fingers sliding her silk gown up and over her waist.

One of her hands cupped the back of his head, and she pulled him down for another kiss, this one deep and hot. “I need you,” she said, her voice almost a groan of need. “I need you so much.”

“I want to see all of you,” he said, practically tearing the silk from her body. “I need to feel all of you.”

Francesca was as eager as he was, and her fingers went to the sash on his robe, untying the loose knot before pushing it open, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. She touched the light dusting of hair, almost feeling a sense of wonder as her hand moved across his skin.

She’d never thought to be in this place, in this moment. This certainly wasn’t the first time she’d seen him this way, touched him in this manner, but somehow it was different now.

He was her husband.

It was so hard to believe, and yet it felt so perfect and right.

“Michael,” she murmured, tugging the robe over his shoulders.

“Mmmm?” was his reply. He was busy doing something delectable to the back of her knee.

She fell back against the pillows, completely forgetting what she’d been about to say, if there had been anything at all.

His hand wrapped lightly around the front of her thigh, then slid up toward her hip, to her waist, and then finally to the side of her breast. Francesca wanted to take part, wanted to be adventurous and touch him as he was touching her, but his caresses were making her languid and lazy, and all she could do was lie back and enjoy his ministrations, occasionally reaching out to trail her fingers along whichever part of his skin they were able to reach.

She felt cherished.

Worshipped.

Loved.

It was humbling.

It was exquisite.

It was sacred and seductive, and it took her breath away.

His lips followed the trail his hands had forged, sending tingles of desire up and across her belly, coming to rest in the flattened hollow between her breasts.

“Francesca,” he murmured, kissing his way to her nipple. He teased it first with his tongue, then took it in his mouth, biting it gently.

The sensation was intense and immediate. Her body convulsed, and her fingers gripped frantically into the bedsheets, desperate for purchase in a world that had suddenly tilted right off its axis.

“Michael,” she gasped, arching her back. His fingers had slipped between her legs, not that she needed anything more to ready her for his eventual entry. She wanted this, and she wanted him, and she wanted it to last forever.

“You feel so good,” he said hoarsely, his breath hot on her skin. He moved then, positioning himself at her entrance. His face was over hers, nose to nose, and his eyes glowed hot and intense.

Francesca wiggled beneath him, the movement tipping her hips to welcome him more deeply. “Now,” she said, the word a cross between an order and a plea.

He moved slowly, inching his way inside with tantalizing deliberation. She felt herself opening, stretching to greet him until their bodies touched, and she knew that he was embedded fully.

“Oh, my God,” he grunted, his face stretched taut with passion. “I can’t . . . I have to . . .”

She answered by arching her hips, pressing herself even more firmly against him.

He began to move within her, each stroke bringing a new wave of sensation that spread and burned through her body. She said his name, and then she could not speak, could do nothing but gasp for air as their movements grew more frenzied and desperate.

And then it came upon her, in a lightning wave of pleasure. Her body exploded, and she cried out, unable to contain the intensity of the experience. Michael thrust into her harder, and then again, and again. He called out as he climaxed, her name a prayer and a benediction on his lips, and then he collapsed atop her.

“I’m too heavy,” he said, making a halfhearted attempt to move off of her.

“Don’t,” she said, stilling him with her hand. She didn’t want him to move, not yet. Soon it would be hard to breathe, and he’d have to adjust, but for now there was something elemental in their position, something to which she wasn’t ready to bid farewell.

“No,” he said, and she could hear a smile in his voice, “I’ll crush you.” He slid off of her, but he didn’t relinquish their closeness, and she found herself curled next to him like a nested spoon, her back warmed by his skin, her body held snugly in place by his arm under her breasts.

He murmured something against her neck, and she couldn’t really understand the words, but that didn’t matter; she knew what he’d said.

He nodded off soon after, his breath a slow and steady lullaby at her ear. But Francesca did not sleep. She was tired, she was drowsy, and she was sated, but she did not sleep.

It had been different tonight.

And she was left wondering why.

Chapter 23

. . . I am sure that Michael will be penning a letter as well, but as I count you as a dear, dear friend, I wanted to write to you myself to inform you that we have married. Are you surprised? I must confess that I was.

—from the Countess of Kilmartin

to Helen Stirling,

three days after her marriage

to the Earl of Kilmartin

“You look terrible.”

Michael turned to Francesca with a somewhat dry expression. “And good morning to you, too,” he remarked, turning his attention back to his eggs and toast.

Francesca slid into place across the breakfast table from him. It was two weeks into their marriage; Michael had risen early that morning, and when she’d awakened, his side of the bed had been cold.

“I’m not joking,” she said, feeling her concern knit her brows into a wrinkled line. “You look quite pasty, and you’re not even sitting up straight. You should go back to bed and get some rest.”

He coughed, then coughed again, the second spasm wracking his body. “I’m fine,” he said, although the words came out rather like a gasp.

“You’re not fine.”

He rolled his eyes. “Married a fortnight, and already—”

“If you didn’t wish for a nagging wife, you shouldn’t have married me,” Francesca said, judging the distance across the table and deciding that she couldn’t reach far enough to touch his forehead to check for fever.

“I’m fine,” he said firmly, and this time he picked up his copy of The London Times—several days old but as current as they could expect in the Scottish border counties—and proceeded to ignore her.

Two could play at that game, Francesca decided, and she devoted her attention to the always challenging task of spreading jam on her muffin.

Except he coughed.

She shifted in her seat, trying not to say anything.

He coughed again, this time turning away from the table so that he could bend over a bit.

“M—”

He gave her a look of such ferocity that she shut her mouth.

She narrowed her eyes.

He inclined his head in an annoyingly condescending manner, then had the effect ruined when his body convulsed with another spasm.

“That’s it,” Francesca announced, rising to her feet. “You are going back to bed. Now.”

“I’m fine,” he grunted.

“You’re not fine.”

“I’m—”

“Sick,” she interrupted. “You’re sick, Michael. Diseased, ill, plague-ridden, you’re sick. As a dog. I don’t see how I could possibly make it any more clear.”

“I haven’t got the plague,” he muttered.

“No,” she said, coming around the table to grasp his arm, “but you do have malaria, and—”

“It’s not malaria,” he said, whacking his chest as he coughed again.

She pulled him to his feet, a task she couldn’t have completed without at least a bit of assistance on his part. “How do you know that?” she asked.

“I just do.”

She pursed her lips. “And you speak with the medical expertise that comes from—”

“Having had the disease for the better part of a year,” he cut in. “It’s not malaria.”

She nudged him toward the door.

“Besides,” he protested, “it’s too soon.”

“Too soon for what?”

“For another attack,” he explained wearily. “I just had one in London, what was it—two months ago? It’s too soon.”

“Why is it too soon?” she asked, her voice strangely quiet.

“It just is,” he muttered, but inside, he knew a different truth. It wasn’t too soon; he’d known plenty of people who’d had their malarial attacks two months apart.

They’d all been sick. Really sick.

Quite a few of them had died.

If his attacks were coming closer together, did that mean the disease was winning?

Now there was irony for you. He’d finally married Francesca, and now he might be dying.

“It isn’t malaria,” he said again, this time with enough force to make her stop walking and look up at him.

“It isn’t,” he said.

She just nodded.

“It’s probably a cold,” he said.

She nodded again, but he got the distinct impression that she was placating him.

“I’ll take you to bed,” she said softly.

And he let her.

Ten hours later, Francesca was terrified. Michael’s fever was rising, and although he was not delirious or incoherent, it was clear that he was very, very ill. He kept saying that it wasn’t malaria, that it didn’t feel like malaria, but every time she pressed him for details, he couldn’t explain why—at least not to her satisfaction.

She didn’t know much about the disease; the fashionable ladies’ bookshops in London declined to carry medical texts. She’d wanted to ask her own doctor, or even seek an expert at the Royal College of Physicians, but she had made a promise to Michael that she would keep his illness a secret. If she ran around town making queries about malaria, eventually someone would want to know why. Thus, most of what she knew she had learned from Michael during the few short months he’d been back from India.

But it didn’t seem right that the attacks were coming closer together. Not, she had to allow, that she possessed any medical knowledge upon which to base that assumption. When he’d fallen ill in London, he’d said that it had been six months since his last set of fevers, and three before that.

Why would the disease suddenly change course and attack again so quickly? It just didn’t make sense. Not if he was getting better.

And he had to be getting better. He had to be.

She sighed, reaching out to touch his forehead. He was sleeping now, snoring slightly, as he tended to when he was congested. Or so he’d told her. They hadn’t been married long enough for her to have gained that knowledge firsthand.

His skin was hot, although not burningly so. His mouth looked parched, so she spooned some tepid tea over his lips, tilting up his chin to try to help him swallow in his sleep.

Instead, he choked and came awake, spewing the water across the bed.

“Sorry,” Francesca said, surveying the damage. At least it had been a small spoonful.

“What the devil are you doing to me?” he sputtered.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t much experience nursing. You looked thirsty.”

“Next time I’m thirsty, I’ll tell you,” he grumbled.

She nodded her agreement and watched as he tried to make himself comfortable again. “You wouldn’t happen to be thirsty right now?” she asked in a mild voice.

“Just a bit,” he said, his syllables slightly clipped.

Without a word, she held out the cup of tea. He downed it all in one long gulp.

“Would you like another cup?”

He shook his head. “Any more and I’m going to have to pi—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I have four brothers,” she said. “Pay it no mind. Would you like me to fetch you the chamberpot?”

“I can do it myself.”

He didn’t look well enough to cross the room on his own, but she knew better than to argue with a man in that irritable a state. He would come to his senses when he tried to stand and fell right back down against the bed. No amount of argument or reason on her part would convince him otherwise.

“You’re quite feverish,” she said softly.

“It isn’t malaria.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You were thinking it.”

“What happens if it is malaria?” she asked.

“It’s not—”

“But what if it is?” she cut in, and to her horror, her voice had that awful pitch to it, that roundish sound of terror it made just before it actually choked.

Michael looked at her for several seconds, his eyes grim. Finally, he just rolled over and said, “It’s not.”

Francesca swallowed. She had her answer now. “Do you mind if I leave?” she blurted out, standing up so quickly the blood rushed from her head.

He didn’t say anything, but she could see him shrug under the covers.

“It’s just for a walk,” she explained haltingly, making her way to the door. “Before the sun goes down.”

“I’ll be fine,” he grunted.

She nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her. “I’ll see you soon,” she said.

But he’d already fallen back asleep.

The air was misty and threatened more precipitation, so Francesca grabbed a rain parasol and made her way to the gazebo. The sides were open to the elements, but it had a roof, and should the heavens open, she would remain at least nominally dry.

But with every step, it felt as if her breathing was growing more labored, and by the time she reached her destination, she was heaving with exertion, not from the walk, but just from keeping the tears at bay.

The minute she sat down, she stopped trying.

Each sob was huge, and hugely unladylike, but she didn’t care.

Michael might be dying. For all she knew, he was dying, and she was going to be a widow twice over.

It had nearly killed her last time.

And she just didn’t know if she was strong enough to go through it all again. She didn’t know if she wanted to be strong enough.

It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, damn it all, that she should have to lose two husbands when so many women got to hold onto one for an entire lifetime. And most of those women didn’t even like their spouses, whereas she, who actually loved them both—

Francesca’s breath caught.

She loved him? Michael?

No, no, she assured herself, she didn’t love him. Not like that. When she’d thought it, when the word had echoed through her brain, she’d meant in friendship. Of course she loved Michael that way. She’d always loved him, right? He was her best friend, had been even back when John was alive.

She pictured him, saw his face, his smile.

She closed her eyes, remembered his kiss and the perfect feeling of his hand at the small of her back as they walked through the house.

And she finally figured out why everything had seemed different between them of late. It wasn’t, as she’d originally supposed, just because they’d married. It wasn’t because he was her husband, because she wore his ring on her finger.

It was because she loved him.

This thing between them, this bond—it wasn’t just passion, and it wasn’t wicked.

It was love, and it was divine.

And Francesca could not have been more surprised if John had materialized before her and started to dance an Irish reel.

Michael.

She loved Michael.

Not just as a friend, but as a husband and a lover. She loved him with the depth and intensity she’d felt for John. It was different, because they were different men, and she was different now, too, but it was also the same. It was the love of a woman for a man, and it filled every corner of her heart.

And by God, she didn’t want him to die.

“You can’t do this to me,” she yelled, hanging over the side of the gazebo bench and looking up at the sky. A fat raindrop landed on the bridge of her nose, splashing into her eye.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she growled, wiping the moisture away. “Don’t think you can—”

Three more drops, in rapid succession.

“Damn,” Francesca muttered, followed by a “Sorry,” aimed back up at the clouds.

She pulled her head back into the gazebo, taking refuge under the wooden roof as the rain grew in intensity.

What was she supposed to do now? Charge forth with all the single-minded purpose of an avenging angel, or have a good cry and feel sorry for herself?

Or maybe a little of both.

She looked out at the rain, which was now thundering down with enough force to strike fear in the heart of even the most determined of avenging angels.

Definitely a little of both.

Michael opened his eyes, surprised to discover that it was morning. He blinked a few times, just to verify this fact. The curtains were drawn shut, but not all the way, and there was a clear streak of light making a stripe along the carpet.

Morning. Well. He must have been really tired. The last thing he remembered was Francesca dashing out the door, stating her intention to go for a walk, despite the fact that any fool would have realized that it was going to rain.

Silly woman.

He tried to sit up, then quickly flopped back down on the covers. Damn, he felt like death. Not, he allowed, the finest metaphor under the circumstances, but he couldn’t think of much else that would adequately describe the ache that permeated his body. He felt exhausted, nearly glued to the sheets. The mere thought of sitting up was enough to make him groan.

Damn, he was miserable.

He touched his forehead, trying to ascertain if he still had a fever, but if his brow was hot, then so was his hand; he couldn’t tell a thing other than the fact that he was damned sweaty and certainly in need of a good bath.

He tried to sniff the air around him, but he was so congested that he ended up coughing.

He sighed. Well, if he stank, at least he didn’t have to smell it.

He heard a soft sound at the door and looked up to see Francesca entering the room. She moved quietly on stockinged feet, clearly trying to avoid disturbing him. As she approached the bed, however, she finally looked at him and let out a little, “Oh!” of surprise.

“You’re awake,” she said.

He nodded. “What time is it?”

“Half eight. Not too late, really, except that you fell asleep last evening before the supper hour.”

He nodded again, since he didn’t really have anything pertinent to add to the conversation. And besides that, he was too tired to speak.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, sitting down beside him. “And would you like something to eat?”

“Like hell, and no, thank you.”

Her lips curved slightly. “Something to drink?”

He nodded.

She picked up a small bowl that had been sitting on a nearby table. A saucer had been resting on top of it, presumably to keep the contents warm. “It’s from last night,” she said apologetically, “but I’ve had it covered, so it shouldn’t be too dreadful.”

“Broth?” he asked.

She nodded, holding a spoon to his lips. “Is it too cold?”

He sipped a little, then shook his head. It was barely lukewarm, but he didn’t think he could stand anything overheated, anyway.

She fed him in silence for a minute or so, and then, once he said he’d had enough, she set the bowl back down, carefully replacing the lid, even though he imagined she would wish to order up a new bowl for his next meal. “Do you have a fever?” she whispered.

He tried to summon a devil-may-care smile. “I have no idea.”

She reached out to touch his forehead.

“Didn’t have time to bathe,” he mumbled, apologizing for his slippery visage without actually uttering the word sweat in her presence.

She made no sign of having heard his attempt at a joke, instead just furrowed her brow as she pressed her hand against him more closely. And then, surprising him with her swiftness, she stood and leaned over him, touching her lips to his forehead.

“Frannie?”

“You’re hot,” she said, barely breathing the words. “You’re hot!”

He did nothing but blink.

“You still have a fever,” she said excitedly. “Don’t you understand? If you still have a fever, it can’t be malaria!”

For a moment he couldn’t breathe. She was right. He couldn’t believe it had not occurred to him, but she was right. The malarial fevers always disappeared by morning. They hit again the next day, of course, often with horrible force, but they always dissipated, giving him a day’s respite before once again laying him low.

“It’s not malaria,” she said again, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“I told you it wasn’t,” he said, but inside, he knew the truth— He hadn’t been so sure.

“You’re not going to die,” she whispered, her lower lip catching in her teeth.

His eyes flew to hers. “Were you worried I would?” he asked quietly.

“Of course I was,” she returned, no longer trying to hide the choking sound in her voice. “My God, Michael, I can’t believe you—Do you have any idea how I— Oh, for God’s sake.”

He had no idea what she’d just said, but he had a feeling it was good.

She stood, the back of her chair bumping against the wall. A cloth napkin had been sitting beside the broth; she snatched it up and used it to dab at her eyes.

“Frannie?” he murmured.

“You’re such a man,” she said with a scowl.

He could do nothing but raise his eyebrows at that.

“You should know I—” But she stopped, broke herself off.

“What is it, Frannie?”

She shook her head. “Not yet,” she said, and he got the impression she was talking more to herself than to him. “Soon, but not yet.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have to go out,” she said, her words oddly curt and abrupt. “There’s something I need to do.”

“At half eight in the morning?”

“I’ll be back soon,” she said, hurrying toward the door. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Well, damn,” he tried to joke, “there go my plans to visit the King.”

But Francesca was so distracted she didn’t even bother to poke at his rather pathetic attempt at humor. “Soon,” she said, the word coming out strangely like a promise. “I’ll be back soon.”

All he could do was shrug and watch the door as she shut it behind her.

Chapter 24

. . . I am not certain how to tell you this, and moreover, I am not certain how the news will be received, but Michael and I were married three days ago. I don’t know how to describe the events leading up to the marriage, except to say that it simply felt like the right thing to do. Please know that this in no way diminishes the love I felt for John. He will always hold a special and cherished place in my heart, as do you . . .

—from the Countess of Kilmartin

to the dowager Countess of Kilmartin,

three days after her marriage

to the Earl of Kilmartin

A quarter of an hour later, Michael was feeling remarkably better. Not well, of course; not by any stretch of the imagination could he have convinced himself—or anyone else for that matter—that he was his regular hale and hearty self. But the broth must have restored him a bit, as had the conversation, and when he got up to use the chamberpot, he found he was steadier on his legs than he would have thought. He followed this task with a bit of a makeshift bath, using a dampened cloth to wash the worst of the perspiration from his body. After donning a clean dressing gown, he felt almost human again.

He started to walk back to his bed, but he just couldn’t bring himself to slide his body back between those sweaty sheets, so instead he rang for a servant and sat down in his leather wingbacked chair, turning it slightly so that he might gaze out the window.

It was sunny. That was a nice change. The weather had been dismal for both the weeks of his marriage. He hadn’t particularly minded; when one spent as much time making love to one’s wife as he had done, one didn’t particularly care if the sun was shining.

But now, escaping his sickbed, he found that his spirits were buoyed by the sparkle of the sunlight on the dewy grass.

A movement out the window caught his eye, and he realized that it was Francesca, hurryingacross the lawn. She was too far away to see clearly, but she was bundled up in her most serviceable coat, and was clutching something in her hand.

He leaned forward for a better look, but she disappeared from view, slipping behind a hedgerow.

Just then, Reivers entered the room. “You rang, my lord?”

Michael turned to face him. “Yes. Could you see to having someone come and change the sheets?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“And—” Michael had been about to ask him to have a bath drawn as well, but for some reason the following words slipped out of his mouth instead: “Do you happen to know where Lady Kilmartin went? I saw her walking across the lawn.”

Reivers shook his head. “No, my lord. She did not see fit to confide in me, although Davies did tell me that she asked him to ask the gardener to cut her some flowers.”

Michael nodded his head as he mentally followed the chain of people. He really ought to have more respect for the sheer efficiency of servants’ gossip. “Flowers, you say,” he murmured. That must have been what she was holding as she crossed the lawn a few minutes earlier.

“Peonies,” Reivers confirmed.

“Peonies,” Michael echoed, leaning forward with interest. They were John’s favorite bloom, and had been the centerpiece of Francesca’s wedding bouquet. It was almost appalling that he remembered such a detail, but while he’d gone and gotten himself rippingly drunk as soon as John and Francesca had departed the party, he remembered the actual ceremony with blinding detail.

Her dress had been blue. Ice blue. And the flowers had been peonies. They’d had to get them from a hothouse, but Francesca had insisted upon it.

And suddenly he knew exactly where she was going, bundled up against the slight nip in the air.

She was going to John’s grave.

Michael had visited the site once since his return. He’d gone alone, a few days after that extraordinary moment in his bedchamber, when he’d suddenly realized that John would have approved of his marrying Francesca. More than that, he almost thought John was up there somewhere, having a good chuckle over the whole thing.

And Michael couldn’t help but wonder— Did Francesca realize? Did she realize that John would have wanted this? For both of them?

Or was she still gripped by guilt?

Michael felt himself rise from his chair. He knew guilt, knew how it ate at one’s heart, tore at one’s soul. He knew the pain, and he knew the way it felt like acid in one’s belly.

And he never wanted that for Francesca. Never.

She might not love him. She might not ever love him. But she was happier now than she had been before they’d married; he was sure of it. And it would kill him if she felt any shame for that happiness.

John would have wanted her to be happy. He would have wanted her to love and be loved. And if Francesca somehow didn’t realize that—

Michael started pulling on his clothing. He might still be weak, and he might still be feverish, but by God he could make it down to the chapel graveyard. It would half kill him, but he would not allow her to sink into the same sort of guilty despair he’d suffered for so long.

She didn’t have to love him. She didn’t. He’d said those words to himself so many times during their brief marriage that he almost believed them.

She didn’t have to love him. But she did have to feel free. Free to be happy.

Because if she wasn’t happy . . .

Well, that would kill him. He could live without her love, but not without her happiness.

Francesca had known the ground would be damp, so she’d brought along a small blanket, the green and gold of the Stirling plaid making her smile wistfully as she spread it out over the grass.

“Hello, John,” she said, kneeling as she carefully arranged the peonies at the base of his headstone. His grave was a simple affair, far less ostentatious than the monuments many of the nobility erected to honor their dead.

But it was what John would have wanted. She’d known him so well, been able to predict his words half the time.

He would have wanted something simple, and he would have wanted it here, in the far corner of the churchyard, closer to the rolling fields of Kilmartin, his favorite place in the world.

And so that was what she’d given him.

“It’s a nice day,” she said, sitting back on her bottom. She hiked up her skirts so that she could sit Indian-style, then carefully arranged them back over her legs. It wasn’t the sort of position she could ever assume in polite company, but this was different.

John would have wanted her to be comfortable.

“It’s been raining for weeks,” she said. “Some days worse than others, of course, but never a day without at least a few minutes of moisture. You wouldn’t have minded it, but I must confess, I’ve been longing for the sun.”

She noticed that one of the stems wasn’t quite where she wanted it, so she leaned forward and reset it into place.

“Of course, it hasn’t really stopped me from going out,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I seem to get caught out in the rain quite a bit lately. I’m not really certain what it is—I used to be more heedful of the weather.”

She sighed. “No, I do know what it is. I’m just afraid to tell you. Silly of me, I know, but . . .” She laughed again, that strained noise that sounded all wrong from her lips. It was the one thing she’d never felt around John—nervous. From the moment they’d met, she’d felt so comfortable in his presence, so utterly at ease, both with him and herself.

But now . . .

Now she finally had cause for nerves.

“Something has happened, John,” she said, her fingers plucking at the fabric of her coat. “I . . . started feeling something for someone that perhaps I shouldn’t have done.”

She looked around, half expecting some sort of divine sign from above. But there was nothing, just the gentle ruffle of wind against the leaves.

She swallowed, focusing her attention back on John’s headstone. It was silly that a piece of rock might come to symbolize a man, but she had no idea where else to look when she spoke to his memory. “Maybe I shouldn’t have felt it,” she said, “or maybe I should have, and I just thought I shouldn’t have. I don’t know. All I know is it happened. I didn’t expect it, but then, there it was, and . . . with . . .”

She stopped, her mouth curving into a smile that was almost rueful. “Well, I suppose you know who it was with. Can you imagine?”

And then something remarkable happened. In retrospect, she rather thought the earth should have moved, or a shaft of light come sparkling down from the heavens across the gravesite. But there was none of that. Nothing palpable, nothing audible or visible, just an odd sense of shifting within herself, almost as if something had finally nudged itself into place.

And she knew—truly, fully knew—that John could have imagined it. And more than that, he would have wanted it.

He would have wanted her to marry Michael. He would have wanted her to marry any man with whom she’d fallen in love, but she rather thought he’d be almost tickled that it had happened with Michael.

They were his two favorite people, and he would have liked knowing that they were together.

“I love him,” she said, and she realized it was the first time she’d said it aloud. “I love Michael. I do, and John—” She touched his name, etched in the headstone. “I think you would approve,” she whispered. “Sometimes I almost think you arranged the whole thing.

“It’s so strange,” she continued, tears now filling her eyes. “I spent so much time thinking to myself that I would never fall in love again. How could I possibly? And when anyone asked me what you would have wanted for me, of course I replied that you would wish for me to find someone else. But inside—” She smiled wistfully. “Inside I knew it wouldn’t happen. I wasn’t going to fall in love. I knew it. I absolutely knew it. So it didn’t really matter what you wanted for me, did it?

“Except it did happen,” she said softly. “It happened, and I never expected it. It happened, and it happened with Michael. I love him so much, John,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion. “I kept trying to tell myself that I didn’t, but when I thought he was dying, it was just too much, and I knew . . . oh God, I knew it, John. I need him. I love him. I can’t live without him, and I just needed to tell you, to know that you . . . that you . . .”

She couldn’t go on. There was too much inside of her, too many emotions, all desperately pushing to get out. She put her face in her hands and cried, not out of sorrow, and not out of joy, but just because she couldn’t keep it inside.

“John,” she gasped. “I love him. And I think this is what you would have wanted. I really do, but—”

And then, from behind her, she heard a noise. A footstep, a breath. She turned, but she already knew who it would be. She could feel him in the air.

“Michael,” she whispered, staring at him like he was a specter. He was pale and gaunt and had to lean on a tree for support, but to her he looked perfect.

“Francesca,” he said, the word awkwardly passing over his lips. “Frannie.”

She rose to her feet, her eyes never leaving his. “Did you hear me?” she whispered.

“I love you,” he said hoarsely.

“But did you hear me?” she persisted. She had to know, and if he hadn’t heard her, she had to tell him.

He nodded jerkily.

“I love you,” she said. She wanted to go to him, she wanted to throw her arms around him, but somehow she was rooted to her spot. “I love you,” she said again. “I love you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, I do. I have to say it. I have to tell you. I love you. I do. I love you so much.”

And then the distance between them was gone, and his arms came around her. She buried her face against his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. She wasn’t sure why she was crying, but she didn’t really care. All she wanted was the warmth of his embrace.

In his arms she could feel the future, and it was wonderful.

Michael’s chin came to rest on her head. “I didn’t mean that you didn’t need to say it,” he murmured, “just that you didn’t have to repeat it.”

She laughed at that, even as the tears kept flowing, and both of their bodies shook.

“You have to say it,” he said. “If you feel it, then you have to say it. I’m a greedy bastard, and I want it all.”

She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “I love you.”

Michael touched her cheek. “I have no idea what I did to deserve you,” he said.

“You didn’t have to do anything,” she whispered. “You just had to be.” She reached up and touched his cheek, the gesture a perfect mirror of his own. “It just took me a while to realize it, that’s all.”

He turned his face into her hand, then brought both of his up to cover it. He pressed a kiss against her palm, stopping just to inhale the scent of her skin. He’d tried so hard to convince himself that it didn’t matter if she loved him, that having her as his wife was enough. But now . . .

Now that she’d said it, now that he knew, now that his heart had soared, he knew better.

This was heaven.

This was bliss.

This was something he’d never dared hope to feel, something he never could have dreamed existed.

This was love.

“For the rest of my life,” he vowed, “I will love you. For the rest of my life. I promise you. I will lay down my life for you. I will honor and cherish you. I will—” He was choking on the words, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to tell her. He just wanted her to know.

“Let’s go home,” she said softly.

He nodded.

She took his hand, gently pulling him away from the clearing, back toward the wooded area that lay between the churchyard and Kilmartin. Michael leaned into her tug, but before his feet lifted from the earth, he turned back toward John’s grave and mouthed the words, Thank you.

And then he let his wife lead him home.

“I wanted to tell you later,” she was saying. Her voice was still shaky with emotion, but she was starting to sound a bit more like her usual self. “I’d planned a big romantic gesture. Something huge. Something . . .” She turned to him, offering him a rueful smile. “Well, I don’t know what, but it would have been grand.”

He just shook his head. “I don’t need that,” he said. “All I need . . . I just need . . .”

And it didn’t matter that he didn’t know how to finish the sentence, because somehow she knew, anyway.

“I know,” she whispered. “I need the exact same thing.”

Epilogue

My dear nephew,

Although Helen insists that she was not surprised at the announcement of your marriage to Francesca, I shall own up to a less clever imagination and confess that to me, it came as a complete shock.

I implore you, however, not to confuse shock with lack of acceptance. It did not require much time or thought to realize that you and Francesca are an ideal match. I don’t know how I did not see it before. I do not profess to understand metaphysics, and in truth, I rarely have patience for those who claim that they do, but there is an understanding between the two of you, a meeting of the minds and souls that exists on a higher plane.

You were, it is clear, born for each other.

These are not easy words for me to write. John still lives on in my heart, and I feel his presence every day. I mourn my son, and I shall always do so. I cannot tell you what comfort it gives me to know that you and Francesca feel the same.

I hope you will not think me self-important when I offer you my blessing.

And I hope you will not think me foolish when I also extend my thanks.

Thank you, Michael, for letting my son love her first.

—from Janet Stirling,

dowager Countess of Kilmartin,

to Michael Stirling, Earl of Kilmartin,

June 1824

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

I have subjected the characters of When He Was Wicked to more than their fair share of medical misfortune. Researching the conditions of both John and Michael was complicated; I had to make sure that their disease processes made scientific sense, while at the same time revealing only what was known by medical science in 1824 England.

John died of a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. Cerebral aneurysms are congenital weak spots in the walls of blood vessels within the brain. They may lie dormant for many years or they may rapidly enlarge and then rupture, leading to bleeding in the brain, which can be followed by unconsciousness, coma, and death. Headaches brought on by ruptured cerebral aneurysms are sudden and explosive but can be preceded by a lingering headache for some time prior to the actual rupture.

Nothing could have been done to save him; even today approximately one-half of ruptured cerebral aneurysms lead to death.

During the 19th century, the only way to make a definitive diagnosis of a ruptured cerebral aneurysm was at autopsy. It is extremely unlikely, however, that an earl would have undergone a postmortem dissection; therefore, John’s death would have remained a mystery to those who loved him. All Francesca would ever know was that her husband had a headache, lay down, and died.

The turning point in the treatment of cerebral aneurysms came with the widespread use of angiography in the 1950s. This technique, which consists of the injection of radiopaque dye into the vessels feeding the brain to give an X-ray picture of the vascular anatomy, was developed by Egas Moniz in Portugal in 1927. An interesting historical footnote: Moniz won the Nobel Prize for Medicine in 1949, but not for his work in the ground-breaking and life-saving field of angiography. Rather, he was honored for his discovery of the frontal lobotomy as a treatment for psychiatric illness.

As for malaria, it is an ancient disease. Throughout recorded history, it has been observed that exposure to warm, moist, humid air is associated with periodic fevers, weakness, anemia, kidney failure, coma, and death. The name of the disease comes from the Italian for “bad air,” and reflects the belief of our ancestors that the air itself was to blame. In When He Was Wicked, Michael cites “putrid air” as the source of his illness.

Today we understand that malaria is in fact a parasitic disease. The hot, swampy conditions themselves are not to blame, but rather serve as breeding grounds for mosquitoes of the genus Anopheles, the vector of the infection. During an insect bite, female Anopheles mosquitoes unwittingly inject microscopic organisms into the hapless human host. These organisms are single-celled parasites of the genus Plasmodium. There are four species of Plasmodium that can infect people: falciparum, vivax, ovale, and malariae. Once in the bloodstream, these microorganisms are swept into the liver, where they multiply at a furious pace; within a week, tens of thousands of parasites are released back into the bloodstream, where they infect red blood cells and feed upon the oxygen-carrying hemoglobin inside. Every two or three days, through a synchronized process that is poorly understood, the offspring of these parasites erupt from the red cells, leading to high fevers and violent chills. In the case of falciparum malaria, the infected cells can become sticky, and glom onto the inside of blood vessels in the kidney and brain, leading to renal failure and coma—and death, if treatment is delayed.

Michael was fortunate. Although he did not know it, he suffered from vivax malaria, which can persist in patients’ livers for decades but rarely kills its victims. The exhaustion and fevers caused by vivax malaria, however, are severe.

At the end of the book, both Michael and Francesca worry that a higher frequency of attacks might indicate that he was losing his battle with the disease. In truth, with vivax malaria, this would not have mattered. There is little rhyme or reason to when a vivax patient might suffer an episode of malarial fevers (except in the case of immunosuppression, such as cancer, pregnancy, or AIDS). In fact, some patients experience a complete cessation of fevers and remain healthy for the rest of their lives. I’d like to think that Michael was one of the lucky ones, but even if not, there is no reason to think that he did not live to a ripe old age. Furthermore, since malaria is strictly a blood borne disease, he could not have transmitted it to members of his family.

The cause of malaria would not be understood for decades after When He Was Wicked took place, but the fundamentals of treatment were already known: A cure could be achieved by consuming the bark of the tropical cinchona tree. This was usually mixed with water, yielding “quinine water.” Quinine was first sold commercially in France in 1820, but its use was fairly widespread for some time prior.

Malaria has been mostly eradicated from the developed world, in large part because of mosquito control efforts. However, it remains a leading cause of death and disability among people who live in the developing world. Between 1 million and 3 million people die of falciparum malaria every year. That averages one death every thirty seconds. Most of the dead are in sub-Saharan Africa, and most are children under five years of age.

A portion of the proceeds of this book will be donated to malarial drug development research.

Sincerely,

Dear Reader,

Have you ever wondered what happened to your favorite characters after you closed the final page? Wanted just a little bit more of a favorite novel? I have, and if the questions from my readers are any indication, I’m not the only one. So after countless requests from Bridgerton fans, I decided to try something a little different, and I wrote a “2nd Epilogue” for each of the novels. These are the stories that come after the stories.

At first, the Bridgerton 2nd Epilogues were available exclusively online; later they were published (along with a novella about Violet Bridgerton) in a collection called The Bridgertons: Happily Ever After. Now, for the first time, each 2nd Epilogue is being included with the novel it follows. I hope you enjoy Michael and Francesca as they continue their journey.

Warmly,

Julia Quinn

When He Was Wicked: The 2nd Epilogue

She was counting again.

Counting, always counting.

Seven days since her last menses.

Six until she might be fertile.

Twenty-four to thirty-one until she might expect to bleed again, provided she didn’t conceive.

Which she probably wouldn’t.

It had been three years since she’d married Michael. Three years. She’d suffered through her courses thirty-three times. She’d counted them, of course; made depressing little hatch marks on a piece of paper she kept tucked away in her desk, in the far back corner of the middle drawer, where Michael wouldn’t see.

It would pain him. Not because he wanted a child, which he did, but rather because she wanted one so desperately.

And he wanted it for her. Maybe even more than he wanted one himself.

She tried to hide her sorrow. She tried to smile at the breakfast table and pretend that it didn’t matter that she’d a wad of cloth between her legs, but Michael always saw it in her eyes, and he seemed to hold her closer through the day, kiss her brow more often.

She tried to tell herself that she should count her blessings. And she did. Oh, how she did. Every day. She was Francesca Bridgerton Stirling, Countess of Kilmartin, blessed with two loving families—the one she’d been born into, and the one she’d acquired—twice—through marriage.

She had a husband most women only dreamed of. Handsome, funny, intelligent, and as desperately in love with her as she was with him. Michael made her laugh. He made her days a joy and her nights an adventure. She loved to talk with him, to walk with him, to simply sit in the same room with him and steal glances while they were each pretending to read a book.

She was happy. Truly, she was. And if she never had a baby, at least she had this man—this wonderful, marvelous, miraculous man who understood her in a way that left her breathless.

He knew her. He knew every inch of her, and still, he never ceased to amaze and challenge her.

She loved him. With every breath in her body, she loved him.

And most of the time, it was enough. Most of the time, it was more than enough.

But late at night, after he’d fallen asleep, and she still lay awake, curled up against him, she felt an emptiness that she feared neither of them could ever fill. She would touch her abdomen, and there it was, flat as always, mocking her with its refusal to do the one thing she wanted more than anything else.

And that was when she cried.

There had to be a name for it, Michael thought as he stood at his window, watching Francesca disappear over the hillside toward the Kilmartin family plot. There had to be a name for this particular brand of pain, of torture, really. All he wanted in the world was to make her happy. Oh, for certain there were other things—peace, health, prosperity for his tenants, right-minded men in the seat of prime minister for the next hundred years. But when all was said and done, what he wanted was Francesca’s happiness.

He loved her. He always had. It was, or at least it should have been, the most uncomplicated thing in the world. He loved her. Period. And he would have moved heaven and earth, if it were only in his power, to make her happy.

Except the one thing she wanted most of all, the one thing she craved so desperately and fought so valiantly to hide her pain about, he could not seem to give her.

A child.

And the funny thing was, he was beginning to feel the same pain.

At first, he had felt it just for her. She wanted a child, and therefore he wanted one as well. She wanted to be a mother, and therefore he wanted her to be one. He wanted to see her holding a child, not because it would be his child, but because it would be hers.

He wanted her to have what she desired. And selfishly, he wanted to be the man to give it to her.

But lately, he’d felt the pangs himself. They would visit one of her many brothers or sisters and be immediately surrounded by the next generation of offspring. They would tug on his leg, shriek, “Uncle Michael!” and howl with laughter when he would toss them in the air, always begging for one more minute, one more twirl, one more secret peppermint candy.

The Bridgertons were marvelously fertile. They all seemed to produce exactly the number of offspring they desired. And then perhaps one more, just for good measure.

Except Francesca.

Five hundred and eighty-four days later, Francesca stepped out of the Kilmartin carriage and breathed the fresh, clean air of the Kent countryside. Spring was well under way, and the sun was warm on her cheeks, but when the wind blew, it carried with it the last hints of winter. Francesca didn’t mind, though. She’d always liked the tingle of a cold wind on her skin. It drove Michael mad— he was always complaining that he’d never quite readjusted to life in a cold climate after so many years in India.

She was sorry he had not been able to accompany her on the long ride down from Scotland for the christening of Hyacinth’s baby daughter, Isabella. He would be there, of course; she and Michael never missed the christening of any of their nieces and nephews. But affairs in Edinburgh had delayed his arrival. Francesca could have delayed her trip as well, but it had been many months since she had seen her family, and she missed them.

It was funny. When she was younger, she’d always been so eager to get away, to set up her own household, her own identity. But now, as she watched her nieces and nephews grow, she found herself visiting more often. She didn’t want to miss the milestones. She had just happened to be visiting when Colin’s daughter Agatha had taken her first steps. It had been breathtaking. And although she had wept quietly in her bed that night, the tears in her eyes as she’d watched Aggie lurch forward and laugh had been ones of pure joy.

If she wasn’t going to be a mother, then by God, at least she would have those moments. She couldn’t bear to think of life without them.

Francesca smiled as she handed her cloak to a footman and walked down the familiar corridors of Aubrey Hall. She’d spent much of her childhood here, and at Bridgerton House in London. Anthony and his wife had made some changes, but much was still just as it had always been. The walls were still painted the same creamy white, with the barest undertone of peach. And the Fragonard her father had bought her mother for her thirtieth birthday still hung over the table just outside the door to the rose salon.

“Francesca!”

She turned. It was her mother, rising from her seat in the salon.

“How long have you been standing out there?” Violet asked, coming to greet her.

Francesca embraced her mother. “Not long. I was admiring the painting.”

Violet stood beside her and together they regarded the Fragonard. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” she murmured, a soft, wistful smile touching her face.

“I love it,” Francesca said. “I always have. It makes me think of Father.”

Violet turned to her in surprise. “It does?”

Francesca could understand her reaction. The painting was of a young woman holding a bouquet of flowers with a note attached. Not a very masculine subject. But she was looking over her shoulder, and her expression was a little bit mischievous, as if, given the correct provocation, she might laugh. Francesca could not remember much of her parents’ relationship; she had been but six at the time of her father’s death. But she remembered the laughter. The sound of her father’s deep, rich chuckle—it lived within her.

“I think your marriage must have been like that,” Francesca said, motioning to the painting.

Violet took a half step back and cocked her head to the side. “I think you’re right,” she said, looking rather delighted by the realization. “I never thought of it quite that way.”

“You should take the painting back with you to London,” Francesca said. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

Violet blushed, and for a brief moment, Francesca saw the young girl she must have been shining out from her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “but it belongs here. This was where he gave it to me. And this”—she motioned to its spot of honor on the wall—“was where we hung it together.”

“You were very happy,” Francesca said. It wasn’t a question, just an observation.

“As are you.”

Francesca nodded.

Violet reached out and took her hand, patting it gently as they both continued to study the painting. Francesca knew exactly what her mother was thinking about—her infertility, and the fact that they seemed to have unspoken agreement never to talk about it, and really, why should they? What could Violet possibly say that would make it better?

Francesca couldn’t say anything, because that would just make her mother feel even worse, and so instead they stood there as they always did, thinking the same thing but never speaking of it, wondering which of them hurt more.

Francesca thought it might be her—hers was the barren womb, after all. But maybe her mother’s pain was more acute. Violet was her mother, and she was grieving for the lost dreams of her child. Wouldn’t that be painful? And the irony was, Francesca would never know. She’d never know what it felt like to hurt for a child because she’d never know what it was to be a mother.

She was almost three and thirty. She did not know any married lady who had reached that age without conceiving a child. It seemed that children either arrived right away or not at all.

“Has Hyacinth arrived?” Francesca asked, still looking at the painting, still staring at the twinkle in the woman’s eye.

“Not yet. But Eloise will be here later this afternoon. She—”

But Francesca heard the catch in her mother’s voice before she’d cut herself off. “Is she expecting, then?” she asked.

There was a beat of silence, and then: “Yes.”

“That’s wonderful.” And she meant it. She did, with every last bit of her being. She just didn’t know how to make it sound that way.

She didn’t want to look at her mother’s face. Because then she would cry.

Francesca cleared her throat, tilting her head to the side as if there were an inch of the Fragonard she hadn’t yet perused. “Anyone else?” she queried.

She felt her mother stiffen slightly beside her, and she wondered if Violet was deciding whether it was worth it to pretend that she didn’t know exactly what she meant.

“Lucy,” her mother said quietly.

Francesca finally turned and faced Violet, pulling her hand out of her mother’s grasp. “Again?” she asked. Lucy and Gregory had been married for less than two years, but this would be their second child.

Violet nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that,” Francesca said, horrified by how thick her voice sounded. “Don’t say you’re sorry. It’s not something to be sorry about.”

“No,” her mother said quickly. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“You should be delighted for them.”

“I am!”

“More delighted for them than you are sorry for me,” Francesca choked out.

“Francesca . . .”

Violet tried to reach for her, but Francesca pulled away. “Promise me,” she said. “You have to promise me that you will always be more happy than you are sorry.”

Violet looked at her helplessly, and Francesca realized that her mother did not know what to say. For her entire life, Violet Bridgerton had been the most sensitive and wonderful of mothers. She always seemed to know what her children needed, exactly when they needed it—whether it was a kind word or a gentle prod, or even a giant proverbial kick in the breeches.

But now, in this moment, Violet was lost. And Francesca was the one who had done it to her.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, the words spilling out. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“No.” Violet rushed forward to embrace her, and this time Francesca did not pull away. “No, darling,” Violet said again, softly stroking her hair. “Don’t say that, please don’t say that.”

She shushed and she crooned, and Francesca let her mother hold her. And when Francesca’s hot, silent tears fell on her mother’s shoulder, neither one of them said a word.

By the time Michael arrived two days later, Francesca had thrown herself into the preparations for little Isabella’s christening, and her conversation with her mother was, if not forgotten, at least not at the forefront of her mind. It wasn’t as if any of this was new, after all. Francesca was just as barren as she’d been every time she came to England to see her family. The only difference this time was that she’d actually talked to someone about it. A little bit.

As much as she was able.

And yet, somehow, something had been lifted from her. When she’d stood there in the hall, her mother’s arms around her, something had poured out from her along with her tears.

And while she still grieved for the babies she would never have, for the first time in a long time, she felt unreservedly happy.

It was strange and wonderful, and she positively refused to question it.

“Aunt Francesca! Aunt Francesca!”

Francesca smiled as she looped her arm through that of her niece. Charlotte was Anthony’s youngest, due to turn eight in a month’s time. “What is it, poppet?”

“Did you see the baby’s dress? It’s so long.”

“I know.”

“And frilly.”

“Christening dresses are meant to be frilly. Even the boys are covered in lace.”

“It seems a waste,” Charlotte said with a shrug. “Isabella doesn’t know she’s wearing anything so pretty.”

“Ah, but we do.”

Charlotte pondered this for a moment. “But I don’t care, do you?”

Francesca chuckled. “No, I don’t suppose I do. I should love her no matter what she was wearing.”

The two of them continued their stroll through the gardens, picking the grape hyacinths to decorate the chapel. They had nearly filled the basket when they heard the unmistakable sound of a carriage coming down the drive.

“I wonder who it is now,” Charlotte said, rising to her toes as if that might actually help her see the carriage any better.

“I’m not sure,” Francesca replied. Any number of relations were due that afternoon.

“Uncle Michael, maybe.”

Francesca smiled. “I hope so.”

“I adore Uncle Michael,” Charlotte said with a sigh, and Francesca almost laughed, because the look in her niece’s eyes was one she’d seen a thousand times before.

Women adored Michael. It seemed even seven-year-old girls were not immune to his charm.

“Well, he is very handsome,” Francesca demurred.

Charlotte shrugged. “I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Francesca replied, trying very hard not to smile.

“I like him because he tosses me in the air when Father isn’t looking.”

“He does like to bend the rules.”

Charlotte grinned. “I know. It’s why I don’t tell Father.”

Francesca had never thought of Anthony as particularly stern, but he had been the head of the family for over twenty years, and she supposed the experience had endowed him with a certain love of order and tidiness.

And it had to be said—he did like to be in charge.

“It shall be our secret,” Francesca said, leaning down to whisper in her niece’s ear. “And anytime you wish to come visit us in Scotland, you may. We bend rules all the time.”

Charlotte’s eyes grew huge. “You do?”

“Sometimes we have breakfast for supper.”

“Brilliant.”

“And we walk in the rain.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Everybody walks in the rain.”

“Yes, I suppose, but sometimes we dance.”

Charlotte stepped back. “May I go back with you now?”

“That’s up to your parents, poppet.” Francesca laughed and reached for Charlotte’s hand. “But we can dance right now.”

“Here?”

Francesca nodded.

“Where everyone can see?”

Francesca looked around. “I don’t see anyone watching. And even if there were, who cares?”

Charlotte’s lips pursed, and Francesca could practically see her mind at work. “Not me!” she announced, and she linked her arm through Francesca’s. Together they did a little jig, followed by a Scottish reel, twisting and twirling until they were both breathless.

“Oh, I wish it would rain!” Charlotte laughed.

“Now what would be the fun in that?” came a new voice.

“Uncle Michael!” Charlotte shrieked, launching herself at him.

“And I am instantly forgotten,” Francesca said with a wry smile.

Michael looked at her warmly over Charlotte’s head. “Not by me,” he murmured.

“Aunt Francesca and I have been dancing,” Charlotte told him.

“I know. I saw you from inside the house. I especially enjoyed the new one.”

“What new one?”

Michael pretended to look confused. “The new dance you were doing.”

“We weren’t doing any new dances,” Charlotte replied, her brows knitting together.

“Then what was that one that involved throwing yourself on the grass?”

Francesca bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“We fell, Uncle Michael.”

“No!”

“We did!”

“It was a vigorous dance,” Francesca confirmed.

“You must be exceptionally graceful, then, because it looked completely as if you’d done it on purpose.”

“We didn’t! We didn’t!” Charlotte said excitedly. “We really did just fall. By accident!”

“I suppose I will believe you,” he said with a sigh, “but only because I know you are far too trustworthy to lie.”

She looked him in the eye with a melting expression. “I would never lie to you, Uncle Michael,” she said.

He kissed her cheek and set her down. “Your mother says it’s time for dinner.”

“But you just got here!”

“I’m not going anywhere. You need your sustenance after all the dancing.”

“I’m not hungry,” she offered.

“Pity, then,” he said, “because I was going to teach you to waltz this afternoon, and you certainly cannot do that on an empty stomach.”

Charlotte’s eyes grew to near circles. “Really? Father said I cannot learn until I am ten.”

Michael gave her one of those devastating half smiles that still made Francesca tingle. “We don’t have to tell him, do we?”

“Oh, Uncle Michael, I love you,” she said fervently, and then, after one extremely vigorous hug, Charlotte ran off to Aubrey Hall.

“And another one falls,” Francesca said with a shake of her head, watching her niece dash across the fields.

Michael took her hand and tugged her toward him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Francesca grinned a little and sighed a little and said, “I would never lie to you.”

He kissed her soundly. “I certainly hope not.”

She looked up into his silvery eyes and let herself ease against the warmth of his body. “It seems no woman is immune.”

“How lucky I am, then, that I fall under the spell of only one.”

“Lucky for me.”

“Well, yes,” he said with affected modesty, “but I wasn’t going to say it.”

She swatted him on the arm.

He kissed her in return. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

“And how is the clan Bridgerton?” he asked, linking his arm through hers.

“Rather wonderful,” Francesca replied. “I am having a splendid time, actually.”

“Actually?” he echoed, looking vaguely amused.

Francesca steered him away from the house. It had been over a week since she’d had his company, and she didn’t wish to share him just then. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“You said ‘actually.’ As if you were surprised.”

“Of course not,” she said. But then she thought. “I always have a lovely time when I visit my family,” she said carefully.

“But . . .”

“But it’s better this time.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why.”

Which wasn’t precisely the truth. That moment with her mother—there had been magic in those tears.

But she couldn’t tell him that. He’d hear the bit about crying and nothing else, and then he’d worry, and she’d feel terrible for worrying him, and she was tired of all that.

Besides, he was a man. He’d never understand, anyway.

“I feel happy,” she announced. “Something in the air.”

“The sun is shining,” he observed.

She gave him a jaunty, single-shouldered shrug and leaned back against a tree. “Birds are singing.”

“Flowers blooming?”

“Just a few,” she admitted.

He regarded the landscape. “All the moment needs is a cherubic little bunny hopping across the field.”

She smiled blissfully and leaned into him for a kiss. “Bucolic splendor is a marvelous thing.”

“Indeed.” His lips found hers with familiar hunger. “I missed you,” he said, his voice husky with desire.

She let out a little moan as he nipped her ear. “I know. You said that.”

“It bears repeating.”

Francesca meant to say something witty about never tiring of hearing it, but at that moment she found herself pressed rather breathlessly against the tree, one of her legs lifted up around his hips.

“You wear far too many clothes,” he growled.

“We’re a little too close to the house,” she gasped, her belly clenching with need as he pressed more intimately against her.

“How far,” he murmured, one of his hands stealing under her skirts, “is ‘not too close’?”

“Not far.”

He drew back and gazed at her. “Really?”

“Really.” Her lips curved, and she felt devilish. She felt powerful. And she wanted to take charge. Of him. Of her life. Of everything.

“Come with me,” she said impulsively, and she grabbed his hand and ran.

Michael had missed his wife. At night, when she was not beside him, the bed felt cold, and the air felt empty. Even when he was tired, and his body was not hungry for her, he craved her presence, her scent, her warmth.

He missed the sound of her breathing. He missed the way the mattress moved differently when there was a second body on it.

He knew, even though she was more reticent than he, and far less likely to use such passionate words, that she felt the same way. But even so, he was pleasantly surprised to be racing across a field, letting her take the lead, knowing that in a few short minutes he would be buried deep within her.

“Here,” she said, skidding to a halt at the bottom of a hill.

“Here?” he asked dubiously. There was no cover of trees, nothing to block them from sight should anyone stroll by.

She sat. “No one comes this way.”

“No one?”

“The grass is very soft,” she said seductively, patting a spot beside her.

“I’m not even going to ask how you know that,” he muttered.

“Picnics,” she said, her expression delightfully outraged, “with my dolls.”

He took off his coat and laid it like a blanket on the grass. The ground was softly sloped, which he would imagine would be more comfortable for her than horizontal.

He looked at her. He looked at the coat. She didn’t move.

“You,” she said.

“Me?”

“Lie down,” she ordered.

He did. With alacrity.

And then, before he’d had time to make a comment, to tease or cajole, or even really to breathe, she’d straddled him.

“Oh, dear G—” he gasped, but he couldn’t finish. She was kissing him now, her mouth hot and hungry and aggressive. It was all deliciously familiar—he loved knowing every little bit of her, from the slope of her breast to the rhythm of her kisses—and yet this time, she felt a little . . .

New.

Renewed.

One of his hands moved to the back of her head. At home he liked to pull the pins out one by one, watching each lock tumble from her coiffure. But today he was too needy, too urgent, and he didn’t have patience for—

“What was that for?” he asked. She had yanked his hand away.

Her eyes narrowed languidly. “I’m in charge,” she whispered.

His body tightened. More. Dear God, she was going to kill him.

“Don’t go slow,” he gasped.

But he didn’t think she was listening. She was taking her time, undoing his breeches, letting her hands flutter along his belly until she found him.

“Frannie . . .”

One finger. That’s all she gave him. One featherlight finger along his shaft.

She turned, looked at him. “This is fun,” she remarked.

He just focused on trying to breathe.

“I love you,” she said softly, and he felt her rise. She hoisted her skirts to her thighs as she positioned herself, and then, with one spectacularly swift stroke, she took him within her, her body coming to rest against his, leaving him embedded to the hilt.

He wanted to move then. He wanted to thrust up, or flip her over and pound until they were both nothing but dust, but her hands were firm on his hips, and when he looked up at her, her eyes were closed, and she almost looked as if she were concentrating.

Her breathing was slow and steady, but it was loud, too, and with each exhale she seemed to bear down on him just a little bit heavier.

“Frannie,” he groaned, because he didn’t know what else to do. He wanted her to move faster. Or harder. Or something, but all she did was rock back and forth, her hips arching and curving in delicious torment. He clutched her hips, intending to move her up and down, but she opened her eyes and shook her head with a soft, blissful smile.

“I like it this way,” she said.

He wanted something different. He needed something different, but when she looked down at him, she looked so damned happy that he could deny her nothing. And then, sure enough, she began to shudder, and it was strange, because he knew the feel of her climax so well, and yet this time it seemed softer . . . and stronger, at the same time.

She swayed, and she rocked, and then she let out a little scream and sagged against him.

And then, to his utter and complete surprise, he came. He hadn’t thought he was ready. He hadn’t thought he was remotely near climax, not that it would have taken long had he been able to move beneath her. But then, without warning, he had simply exploded.

They lay that way for some time, the sun falling gently on them. She burrowed her face in his neck, and he held her, wondering how it was possible that such moments existed.

Because it was perfect. And he would have stayed there forever, had he been able. And even though he didn’t ask her, he knew she felt the same.

They’d meant to go home two days after the christening, Francesca thought as she watched one of her nephews tackle the other to the ground, but here it was, three weeks out, and they had not even begun to pack.

“No broken bones, I hope.”

Francesca smiled up at her sister Eloise, who had also elected to stay on at Aubrey Hall for an extended visit. “No,” she answered, wincing slightly when the future Duke of Hastings—otherwise known as Davey, aged eleven—let out a war whoop as he jumped from a tree. “But it’s not for lack of trying.”

Eloise took a seat beside her and tilted her face to the sun. “I’ll put my bonnet on in a minute, I swear it,” she said.

“I can’t quite determine the rules of the game,” Francesca remarked.

Eloise didn’t bother to open her eyes. “That’s because there are none.”

Francesca watched the chaos with fresh perspective. Oliver, Eloise’s twelve-year-old stepson, had grabbed hold of a ball—since when had there been a ball?—and was racing across the lawn. He appeared to reach his goal—not that Francesca would ever be sure whether that was the giant oak stump that had been there since she was a child or Miles, Anthony’s second son, who had been sitting cross-legged and cross-armed since Francesca had come outside ten minutes earlier.

But whichever was the case, Oliver must have won a point, because he slammed the ball against the ground and then jumped up and down with a triumphant cry. Miles must have been on his team—this was the first indication Francesca had that there were teams—because he hopped to his feet and celebrated in kind.

Eloise opened one eye. “My child didn’t kill anyone, did he?”

“No.”

“No one killed him?”

Francesca smiled. “No.”

“Good.” Eloise yawned and resettled into her chaise.

Francesca thought about her words. “Eloise?”

“Mmmm?”

“Do you ever . . .” She frowned. There really wasn’t any right way to ask this. “Do you ever love Oliver and Amanda . . .”

“Less?” Eloise supplied.

“Yes.”

Eloise sat up straighter and opened her eyes. “No.”

“Really?” It wasn’t that Francesca didn’t believe her. She loved her nieces and nephews with every breath in her body; she would have laid down her life for any one of them—Oliver and Amanda included—without even a moment’s hesitation. But she hadn’t ever given birth. She had never carried a child in her womb—not for long, anyway—and didn’t know if somehow that made it different. Made it more.

If she had a baby, one of her own, born of her blood and Michael’s, would she suddenly realize that this love she felt now for Charlotte and Oliver and Miles and all the others— Would it suddenly feel like a wisp next to what was in her heart for her own child?

Did it make a difference?

Did she want it to make a difference?

“I thought it would,” Eloise admitted. “Of course I loved Oliver and Amanda long before I had Penelope. How could I not? They are pieces of Phillip. And,” she continued, her face growing thoughtful, as if she had never quite delved into this before, “they are . . . themselves. And I am their mother.”

Francesca smiled wistfully.

“But even so,” Eloise continued, “before I had Penelope, and even when I was carrying her, I thought it would be different.” She paused. “It is different.” She paused again. “But it’s not less. It’s not a question of levels or amounts, or even . . . really . . . the nature of it.” Eloise shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”

Francesca looked back to the game, which had resumed with new intensity. “No,” she said softly, “I think you did.”

There was a long silence, and then Eloise said, “You don’t . . . talk about it much.”

Francesca shook her head gently. “No.”

“Do you want to?”

She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know.” She turned to her sister. They had been at sixes and sevens for much of their childhood, but in so many ways Eloise was like the other half of her coin. They looked so alike, save for the color of their eyes, and they even shared the same birthday, just one year apart.

Eloise was watching her with a tender curiosity, a sympathy that, just a few weeks ago, would have been heartbreaking. But now it was simply comforting. Francesca didn’t feel pitied, she felt loved.

“I’m happy,” Francesca said. And she was. She really was. For once she didn’t feel that aching emptiness hiding underneath. She’d even forgotten to count. She didn’t know how many days it had been since her last menses, and it felt so bloody good.

“I hate numbers,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

She bit back a smile. “Nothing.”

The sun, which had been obscured behind a thin layer of cloud, suddenly popped into the open. Eloise shaded her eyes with her hand as she sat back. “Good heavens,” she remarked. “I think Oliver just sat on Miles.”

Francesca laughed, and then, before she even knew what she was about, stood. “Do you think they’ll let me play?”

Eloise looked at her as if she’d gone mad, which, Francesca thought with a shrug, perhaps she had.

Eloise looked at Francesca, and then at the boys, and then back at Francesca. And then she stood. “If you do it, I’ll do it.”

“You can’t do it,” Francesca said. “You’re pregnant.”

“Barely,” Eloise said with a scoff. “Besides, Oliver wouldn’t dare sit on me.” She held out her arm. “Shall we?”

“I believe we shall.” Francesca linked her arm through her sister’s, and together they ran down the hill, shouting like banshees and loving every minute of it.

“I heard you made quite a scene this afternoon,” Michael said, perching on the edge of the bed.

Francesca did not move. Not even an eyelid. “I’m exhausted” was all she said.

He took in the dusty hem of her dress. “And dirty, too.”

“Too tired to wash.”

“Anthony said that Miles said that he was quite impressed. Apparently you throw quite well for a girl.”

“It would have been brilliant,” she replied, “had I been informed that I wasn’t meant to use my hands.”

He chuckled. “What game, exactly, were you playing?”

“I have no idea.” She let out an exhausted little moan. “Would you rub my feet?”

He pushed himself farther onto the bed and slid her dress up to mid-calf. Her feet were filthy. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “Did you go barefoot?”

“I couldn’t very well play in my slippers.”

“How did Eloise fare?”

“She, apparently, throws like a boy.”

“I thought you weren’t meant to use your hands.”

At that, she pushed herself indignantly up on her elbows. “I know. It depended on what end of the field one was at. Whoever heard of such a thing.”

He took her foot in his hands, making a mental note to wash them later—his hands that was, she could take care of her own feet. “I had no idea you were so competitive,” he remarked.

“It runs in the family,” she mumbled. “No, no, there. Yes, right there. Harder. Oooooohhhh . . .”

“Why do I feel as if I heard this before,” he mused, “except that I was having much more fun?”

“Just be quiet and keep rubbing my feet.”

“At your service, Your Majesty,” he murmured, smiling when she realized she was perfectly content to be referred to as such. After a minute or two of silence, save for the occasional moan from Francesca, he asked, “How much longer do you wish to stay?”

“Are you eager to return home?”

“I do have matters to attend to,” he replied, “but nothing that cannot wait. I’m rather enjoying your family, actually.”

She quirked a brow—and a smile. “Actually?”

“Indeed. Although it was a bit daunting when your sister beat me at the shooting match.”

“She beats everyone. She always has. Shoot with Gregory next time. He can’t hit a tree.”

Michael moved on to the other foot. Francesca looked so happy and relaxed. Not just now, but at the supper table, and in the drawing room, and when she was chasing her nieces and nephews, and even at night, when he was making love to her in their huge four-poster bed. He was ready to go home, back to Kilmartin, which was ancient and drafty but indelibly theirs. But he’d happily remain here forever, if it meant Francesca would always look like this.

“I think you’re right,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied, “but about what, exactly?”

“It’s time to go home.”

“I didn’t say that it was. I merely inquired as to your intentions.”

“You didn’t have to say it,” she said.

“If you want to stay—”

She shook her head. “I don’t. I want to go home. Our home.” With a stiff groan, she sat up all the way, curling her legs beneath her. “This has been lovely, and I have had such a wonderful time, but I miss Kilmartin.”

“Are you certain?”

“I miss you.”

He lifted his brows. “I’m right here.”

She smiled and leaned forward. “I miss having you to myself.”

“You need only say the word, my lady. Anytime, anywhere. I’ll whisk you off and let you have your way with me.”

She chuckled. “Perhaps right now.”

He thought that was an excellent idea, but chivalry forced him to say, “I thought you were sore.”

“Not that sore. Not if you do all the work.”

“That, my dear, is not a problem.” He pulled his shirt over his head and lay down beside her, giving her a long, delicious kiss. He pulled back with a contented sigh and then just gazed at her. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “More than ever.”

She smiled—that lazy, warm smile that meant she’d been recently pleasured, or knew she was about to be.

He loved that smile.

He went to work on the buttons at the back of her frock and was halfway down when all of a sudden a thought popped into his head. “Wait,” he said. “Can you?”

“Can I what?”

He stopped, frowning as he tried to count it out in his head. Oughtn’t she be bleeding? “Isn’t it your time?” he asked.

Her lips parted, and she blinked. “No,” she said, sounding a little bit startled—not by his question but by her answer. “No, I’m not.”

He shifted position, moving back a few inches so that he could better see her face. “Do you think . . . ?”

“I don’t know.” She was blinking rapidly now, and he could hear that her breathing had grown more rapid. “I suppose. I could . . .”

He wanted to whoop with joy, but he dared not. Not yet. “When do you think—”

“—I’ll know? I don’t know. Maybe—”

“—in a month? Two?”

“Maybe two. Maybe sooner. I don’t know.” Her hand flew to her belly. “It might not take.”

“It might not,” he said carefully.

“But it might.”

“It might.”

He felt laughter bubbling within him, a strange giddiness in his belly, growing and tickling until it burst from his lips.

“We can’t be sure,” she warned, but he could see that she was excited, too.

“No,” he said, but somehow he knew they were.

“I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“No, no, of course we mustn’t.”

Her eyes grew wide, and she placed both hands on her belly, still absolutely, completely flat.

“Do you feel anything?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “It would be too early, anyway.”

He knew that. He knew that he knew that. He didn’t know why he’d asked.

And then Francesca said the damnedest thing. “But he’s there,” she whispered. “I know it.”

“Frannie . . .” If she was wrong, if her heart was broken again—he just didn’t think he could bear it.

But she was shaking her head. “It’s true,” she said, and she wasn’t insisting. She wasn’t trying to convince him, or even herself. He could hear it in her voice. Somehow she knew.

“Have you been feeling ill?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Have you— Good God, you shouldn’t have been playing with the boys this afternoon.”

“Eloise did.”

“Eloise can do what she damned well pleases. She isn’t you.”

She smiled. Like a Madonna, she smiled, he would have sworn it. And she said, “I won’t break.”

He remembered when she’d miscarried years ago. It had not been his child, but he had felt her pain, hot and searing, like a fist around his heart. His cousin—her first husband—had been dead a scant few weeks, and they were both reeling from that loss. When she’d lost John’s baby . . .

He didn’t think either one of them could survive another loss like that.

“Francesca,” he said urgently, “you must take care. Please.”

“It won’t happen again,” she said, shaking her head.

“How do you know?”

She gave him a bewildered shrug. “I don’t know. I just do.”

Dear God, he prayed she was not deluding herself. “Do you want to tell your family?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Not yet. Not because I have any fears,” she hastened to add. “I just want—” Her lips pressed together in the most adorably giddy little smile. “I just want it to be mine for a little while. Ours.”

He brought her hand to his lips. “How long is a little while?”

“I’m not sure.” But her eyes were growing crafty. “I’m not quite sure . . .”

One year later . . .

Violet Bridgerton loved all her children equally, but she loved them differently as well. And when it came to missing them, she did so in what she considered a most logical manner. Her heart pined the most for the one she’d seen the least. And that was why, as she waited in the drawing room at Aubrey Hall, waiting for a carriage bearing the Kilmartin crest to roll down the drive, she found herself fidgety and eager, jumping up every five minutes to watch through the window.

“She wrote that they would arrive today,” Kate reassured her.

“I know,” Violet replied with a sheepish smile. “It’s just that I haven’t seen her for an entire year. I know Scotland is far, but I’ve never gone an entire year without seeing one of my children before.”

“Really?” Kate asked. “That’s remarkable.”

“We all have our priorities,” Violet said, deciding there was no point in trying to pretend she wasn’t jumping at the bit. She set down her embroidery and moved to the window, craning her neck when she thought she saw something glinting in the sunlight.

“Even when Colin was traveling so much?” Kate asked.

“The longest he was gone was three hundred and forty-two days,” Violet replied. “When he was traveling in the Mediterranean.”

“You counted?”

Violet shrugged. “I can’t help myself. I like to count.” She thought of all the counting she’d done when her children were growing up, making sure she had as many offspring at the end of an outing as she’d had at the beginning. “It helps to keep track of things.”

Kate smiled as she reached down and rocked the cradle at her feet. “I shall never complain about the logistics of managing four.”

Violet crossed the room to peek down at her newest grandchild. Little Mary had been a bit of a surprise, coming so many years after Charlotte. Kate had thought herself done with childbearing, but then, ten months earlier, she’d got out of bed, walked calmly to the chamber pot, emptied the contents of her stomach, and announced to Anthony, “I believe we’re expecting again.”

Or so they’d told Violet. She made it a point to stay out of her grown children’s bedrooms except in the case of illness or childbirth.

“I never complained,” Violet said softly. Kate didn’t hear, but Violet hadn’t meant her to. She smiled down at Mary, sleeping sweetly under a purple blanket. “I think your mother would have been delighted,” she said, looking up at Kate.

Kate nodded, her eyes misting over. Her mother—actually her stepmother, but Mary Sheffield had raised her from a little girl—had passed away a month before Kate realized that she was pregnant. “I know it makes no sense,” Kate said, leaning down to examine her child’s face more closely, “but I would swear she looks a bit like her.”

Violet blinked and tilted her head to the side. “I think you’re right.”

“Something about the eyes.”

“No, it’s the nose.”

“Do you think? I rather thought— Oh look!” Kate pointed toward the window. “Is that Francesca?”

Violet straightened and rushed to the window. “It is!” she exclaimed. “Oh, and the sun is shining. I’m going to wait outside.”

With nary a backward glance she grabbed her shawl off a side table and dashed into the hall. It had been so long since she’d seen Frannie, but that wasn’t the only reason she was so eager to see her. Francesca had changed during her last visit, back at Isabella’s christening. It was hard to explain, but Violet had sensed that something had shifted within her.

Of all her children, Francesca had always been the most quiet, the most private. She loved her family, but she also loved being apart from them, forging her own identity, making her own life. It was not surprising that she had never chosen to share her feelings about the most painful corner of her life—her infertility. But last time, even though they had not spoken about it explicitly, something had still passed within them, and Violet had almost felt as if she’d been able to absorb some of her grief.

When Francesca had departed, the clouds behind her eyes had been lifted. Violet didn’t know whether she had finally accepted her fate, or whether she had simply learned how to rejoice in what she had, but Francesca had seemed, for the first time in Violet’s recent memory, unreservedly happy.

Violet ran through the hall—really, at her age!—and pushed open the front door so that she could wait in the drive. Francesca’s carriage was nearly there, starting the final turn so that one of the doors would be facing the house.

Violet could see Michael through the window. He waved. She beamed.

“Oh, I’ve missed you!” she exclaimed, hurrying forward as he hopped down. “You must promise never to wait so long again.”

“As if I could refuse you anything,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. He turned then, holding his arm out to assist Francesca.

Violet embraced her daughter, then stepped back to look at her. Frannie was . . .

Glowing.

She was positively radiant.

“I missed you, Mother,” she said.

Violet would have made a reply, but she found herself unexpectedly choked up. She felt her lips press together, then twitch at the corners as she fought to contain her tears. She didn’t know why she was so emotional. Yes, it had been over a year, but hadn’t she gone three hundred and forty-two days before? This was not so very different.

“I have something for you,” Francesca said, and Violet could have sworn her eyes were glistening, too.

Francesca turned back to the carriage and held out her arms. A maid appeared in the doorway, holding some sort of bundle, which she then handed down to her mistress.

Violet gasped. Dear God, it couldn’t be . . .

“Mother,” Francesca said softly, cradling the precious little bundle, “this is John.”

The tears, which had been waiting patiently in Violet’s eyes, began to roll. “Frannie,” she whispered, taking the baby into her arms, “why didn’t you tell me?”

And Francesca—her maddening, inscrutable third daughter—said, “I don’t know.”

“He’s beautiful,” Violet said, not caring that she’d been kept in the dark. She didn’t care about anything in that moment—nothing but the tiny boy in her arms, gazing up at her with an impossibly wise expression.

“He has your eyes,” Violet said, looking up at Francesca.

Frannie nodded, and her smile was almost silly, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “I know.”

“And your mouth.”

“I think you’re right.”

“And your—oh, my, I think he has your nose as well.”

“I’m told,” Michael said in an amused voice, “that I was involved in his creation, too, but I have yet to see any evidence.”

Francesca looked at him with so much love that it nearly took Violet’s breath away. “He has your charm,” she said.

Violet laughed, and then she laughed again. There was too much happiness inside of her—she couldn’t possibly hold it in. “I think it’s time we introduced this little fellow to his family,” she said. “Don’t you?”

Francesca held out her arms to take the baby, but Violet turned away. “Not just yet,” she said. She wanted to hold him a while longer. Maybe until Tuesday.

“Mother, I think he might be hungry.”

Violet assumed an arch expression. “He’ll let us know.”

“But—”

“I know a thing or two about babies, Francesca Bridgerton Stirling.” Violet grinned down at John. “They adore their grandmamas, for example.”

He gurgled and cooed, and then—she was positive—he smiled.

“Come with me, little one,” she whispered, “I have so much to tell you.”

And behind her, Francesca turned to Michael and said, “Do you think we’ll get him back for the duration of the visit?”

He shook his head, then added, “It’ll give us more time to see about getting the little fellow a sister.”

“Michael!”

“Listen to the man,” Violet called, not bothering to turn around.

“Good heavens,” Francesca muttered.

But she did listen.

And she did enjoy.

And nine months later, she said good morning to Janet Helen Stirling.

Who looked exactly like her father.

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“When He Was Wicked: The 2nd Epilogue” was originally published as an e-book

“When He Was Wicked: The 2nd Epilogue” copyright © 2007 by Julie Cotler Pottinger

Meet the Bridgerton family teaser excerpts copyright © 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 by Julie Cotler Pottinger

WHEN HE WAS WICKED. Copyright © 2004 by Julie Cotler Pottinger. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Digital Edition MARCH 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-242413-6

Version 02252021

Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-235378-8

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Meet the Bridgerton Family

The Bridgertons are by far the most prolific family in the upper echelons of society. Such industriousness on the part of the viscountess and the late viscount is commendable, although one can find only banality in their choice of names for their children. Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth (orderliness is, of course, beneficial in all things, but one would think that intelligent parents would be able to keep their children straight without needing to alphabetize their names).

It has been said that Lady Bridgerton’s dearest goal is to see all of her offspring happily married, but truly, one can only wonder if this is an impossible feat. Eight children? Eight happy marriages? It boggles the mind.

~Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, Summer 1813

The Duke and I

Who?

Daphne Bridgerton and the Duke of Hastings.

What?

A sham courtship.

Where?

London, of course. Where else could one pull off such a thing?

Why?

They each have their reasons, neither of which includes falling in love . . .

The Viscount Who Loved Me

The season has opened for the year of 1814, and there is little reason to hope that we will see any noticeable change from 1813. The ranks of society are once again filled with Ambitious Mamas, whose only aim is to see their Darling Daughters married off to Determined Bachelors. Discussion amongst the Mamas fingers Lord Bridgerton as this year’s most eligible catch, and indeed, if the poor man’s hair looks ruffled and windblown, it is because he cannot go anywhere without some young miss batting her eyelashes with such vigor and speed as to create a breeze of hurricane force. Perhaps the only young lady not interested in Lord Bridgerton is Miss Katharine Sheffield, and in fact, her demeanor toward the viscount occasionally borders on the hostile.

And that is why, Dear Reader, This Author feels a match between Anthony Bridgerton and Miss Sheffield would be just the thing to enliven an otherwise ordinary season.

~Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 13 April 1814

An Offer from a Gentleman

The 1815 season is well under way, and while one would think that all talk would be of Wellington and Waterloo, in truth, there is little change from the conversations of 1814, which centered around that most eternal of society topics—marriage.

As usual, the matrimonial hopes among the debutante set center upon the Bridgerton family, most specifically the eldest of the available brothers, Benedict. He might not possess a title, but his handsome face, pleasing form, and heavy purse appear to have made up for that lack handily. Indeed, This Author has heard, on more than one occasion, an Ambitious Mama saying of her daughter: “She’ll marry a duke . . . or a Bridgerton.”

For his part, Mr. Bridgerton seems most uninterested in the young ladies who frequent society events. He attends almost every party, yet he does nothing but watch the doors, presumably waiting for some special person.

Perhaps . . .

A potential bride?

~Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 12 July 1815

Romancing Mister Bridgerton

April is nearly upon us, and with it a new social season here in London. Ambitious Mamas can be found at dress shops all across town with their Darling Debutantes, eager to purchase that one magical evening gown that they simply know will mean the difference between marriage and spinsterhood.

As for their prey—the Determined Bachelors—Mr. Colin Bridgerton once again tops the list of desirable husbands, even though he is not yet back from his recent trip abroad. He has no title, that is true, but he is in abundant possession of looks, fortune, and, as anyone who has ever spent even a minute in London knows, charm.

But Mr. Bridgerton has reached the somewhat advanced age of three-and-thirty without ever showing an interest in any particular young lady, and there is little reason to anticipate that 1824 will be any different from 1823 in this respect.

Perhaps the Darling Debutantes—and perhaps more importantly their Ambitious Mamas—would do well to look elsewhere. If Mr. Bridgerton is looking for a wife, he hides that desire well.

On the other hand, is that not just the sort of challenge a debutante likes best?

~Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 26 March 1824

To Sir Phillip, With Love

. . . know you say I shall someday like boys, but I say never! NEVER!!! With three exclamation points!!!

~from Eloise Bridgerton to her mother, shoved under Violet Bridgerton’s door during Eloise’s eighth year

. . . I never dreamed that a season could be so exciting! The men are so handsome and charming. I know I shall fall in love straightaway. How could I not?

~from Eloise Bridgerton to her brother Colin, upon the occasion of her London debut

. . . I am quite certain I shall never marry. If there was someone out there for me, don’t you think I should have found him by now?

~from Eloise Bridgerton to her dear friend Penelope Featherington, during her sixth season as a debutante

. . . this is my last chance. I am grabbing destiny with both my hands and throwing caution to the wind. Sir Phillip, please, please, be all that I have imagined you to be. Because if you are the man your letters portray you to be, I think I could love you. And if you felt the same . . .

~from Eloise Bridgerton, jotted on a scrap of paper on her way to meet Sir Phillip Crane for the very first time

When He Was Wicked

TRUE OR FALSE?

True Michael Stirling is in love with the one woman he cannot have.

True Michael Stirling is in love with the one woman he cannot have.

True Michael Stirling is in love with the one woman he cannot have.

True Michael Stirling is in love with the one woman he cannot have.

True Michael Stirling is in love with the one woman he cannot have.

Truth Michael Stirling is in love with Francesca Bridgerton.

Sometimes there is only one truth that matters.

It’s in His Kiss

Our Cast of Characters

Hyacinth Bridgerton: The youngest of the famed Bridgerton siblings, she’s a little too smart, a little too outspoken, and certainly not your average romance heroine. She’s also, much to her dismay, falling in love with . . .

Gareth St. Clair: There are some men in London with wicked reputations, and there are others who are handsome as sin. But Gareth is the only one who manages to combine the two with such devilish success. He’d be a complete rogue, if not for . . .

Lady Danbury: Grandmother to Gareth, mentor to Hyacinth, she has an opinion on everything, especially love and marriage. And she’d like nothing better than to see Gareth and Hyacinth joined in holy matrimony. Luckily, she’s to have help from . . .

One meddling mother, one overprotective brother, one very bad string quartet, one (thankfully fictional) mad baron, and of course, let us not forget the shepherdess, the unicorn, and Henry the Eighth.

On the Way to the Wedding

IN WHICH

FIRSTLY, Gregory Bridgerton falls in love with the wrong woman, and

SECONDLY, she falls in love with someone else, but

THIRDLY, Lucy Abernathy decides to meddle; however,

FOURTHLY, she falls in love with Gregory, which is highly inconvenient because

FIFTHLY, she is practically engaged to Lord Haselby, but

SIXTHLY, Gregory falls in love with Lucy. Which leaves everyone in a bit of a pickle.

Watch them all find their happy endings in the stunning conclusion to the Bridgerton Series

Bridgerton Family Tree

About the Author

#1 New York Times bestselling author JULIA QUINN began writing one month after graduating from college and, aside from a brief stint in medical school, she has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since. Her novels have been translated into thirty-seven languages and are beloved the world over. A graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges, she lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest.

Look for BRIDGERTON, based on her popular series of novels about the Bridgerton family, on Netflix.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

Also by Julia Quinn

The Bridgerton Prequels

FIRST COMES SCANDAL

THE OTHER MISS BRIDGERTON

THE GIRL WITH THE MAKE-BELIEVE HUSBAND

BECAUSE OF MISS BRIDGERTON

The Bridgerton Series

THE DUKE AND I

THE VISCOUNT WHO LOVED ME

AN OFFER FROM A GENTLEMAN

ROMANCING MISTER BRIDGERTON

TO SIR PHILLIP, WITH LOVE

WHEN HE WAS WICKED

IT’S IN HIS KISS

ON THE WAY TO THE WEDDING

THE BRIDGERTONS: HAPPILY EVER AFTER

The Smythe-Smith Quartet

JUST LIKE HEAVEN

A NIGHT LIKE THIS

THE SUM OF ALL KISSES

THE SECRETS OF SIR RICHARD KENWORTHY

The Bevelstoke Series

THE SECRET DIARIES OF MISS MIRANDA CHEEVER

WHAT HAPPENS IN LONDON

TEN THINGS I LOVE ABOUT YOU

The Two Dukes of Wyndham

THE LOST DUKE OF WYNDHAM

MR. CAVENDISH, I PRESUME

Agents of the Crown

TO CATCH AN HEIRESS

HOW TO MARRY A MARQUIS

The Lyndon Sisters

EVERYTHING AND THE MOON

BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN

The Splendid Trilogy

SPLENDID

DANCING AT MIDNIGHT

MINX

About the Publisher

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Contents

1. Cover

2. Title Page

3. Contents

4. Romancing Mister Bridgerton

1. Title Page

2. Dedication

3. Acknowledgments

4. Contents

5. Prologue

6. Chapter 1

7. Chapter 2

8. Chapter 3

9. Chapter 4

10. Chapter 5

11. Chapter 6

12. Chapter 7

13. Chapter 8

14. Chapter 9

15. Chapter 10

16. Chapter 11

17. Chapter 12

18. Chapter 13

19. Chapter 14

20. Chapter 15

21. Chapter 16

22. Chapter 17

23. Chapter 18

24. Chapter 19

25. Chapter 20

26. Chapter 21

27. Chapter 22

28. Chapter 23

29. Epilogue

30. Romancing Mister Bridgerton: The 2nd Epilogue

31. Copyright

5. To Sir Phillip, With Love

1. Title Page

2. Dedication

3. Contents

4. Prologue

5. Chapter 1

6. Chapter 2

7. Chapter 3

8. Chapter 4

9. Chapter 5

10. Chapter 6

11. Chapter 7

12. Chapter 8

13. Chapter 9

14. Chapter 10

15. Chapter 11

16. Chapter 12

17. Chapter 13

18. Chapter 14

19. Chapter 15

20. Chapter 16

21. Chapter 17

22. Chapter 18

23. Chapter 19

24. Epilogue

25. To Sir Phillip, With Love: The 2nd Epilogue

26. Copyright

6. When He Was Wicked

1. Title Page

2. Dedication

3. Acknowledgments

4. Contents

5. Part One

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

6. Part Two

1. Chapter 5

2. Chapter 6

3. Chapter 7

4. Chapter 8

5. Chapter 9

6. Chapter 10

7. Chapter 11

8. Chapter 12

9. Chapter 13

10. Chapter 14

11. Chapter 15

12. Chapter 16

13. Chapter 17

14. Chapter 18

15. Chapter 19

16. Chapter 20

17. Chapter 21

18. Chapter 22

19. Chapter 23

20. Chapter 24

7. Epilogue

8. Author’s Note

9. When He Was Wicked: The 2nd Epilogue

10. Copyright

7. Meet the Bridgerton Family

8. Bridgerton Family Tree

9. About the Author

10. Also by Julia Quinn

11. About the Publisher