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 toa"dear Goda"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."

"Dida""

"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 nota""

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 aa"care who did it," Phillip bit off. "You know that Miss Bridgerton is expected at anya""

"Ahem."

Phillip turned slowly to the doorway, horrifieda" but not surpriseda"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 graciousa"it wasn't the viscount's fault that his children were just one transgression short of being complete monstersa" 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 shea""

"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 nota""

"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.