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 Ia"" He stopped, cleared his throat, and looked out the window before continuing. "Ia""

"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 Ia""

"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 Eloisea"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 stronga"

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 graya"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.

a"-from Eloisei 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 tryinga"unsuccessfullya"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 daya"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'ta"

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.