"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 ita"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."

"Buta""

"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 daringa" imploring?a"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 wasa"

She opened her mouth, driven by a desperation she didn't quite understand. "Ia""

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 wasa""

"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 hopeda"no, fervently prayeda"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.