"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.

"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, youa""

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.

a"-from Eloise Bridgerton to her sister the Duchess of Hastings, upon refusing her third proposal of marriage Eloise had time to breathea"barelya"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"a" he moved in closer, his words now as much breath as sounda"

"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 toa""

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 untila"

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.