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, misbehaveda""

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 finallya"finallya"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 Olivera"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 Missa"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.

a"-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. Hea""

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 irritantsa"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 facea"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. Hea" 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 wasa"" 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 thisa"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 afternoona" 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.