She was melting. He was melting her, until she didn’t know who she was or what she was doing.
All she wanted was him. More of him. All of him.
Except . . .
Except not like this. Not when he was using her like some sort of succor to heal his wounds.
“Phillip,” she said, somehow finding the strength to pull back. “We can’t. Not like this.”
For a moment she didn’t think he would let her go, but then, abruptly, he did. “I’m sorry,” he said, breathing hard. He looked dazed, and she didn’t know if that was from the kiss or simply from the tumultuous events of the morning.
“Don’t apologize,” she said, instinctively smoothing her skirts, only to find them wet and unsmoothable. But she ran her hands along them anyway, feeling nervous and uncomfortable in her own body. If she didn’t move, didn’t force herself into some sort of meaningless motion, she was afraid she would launch herself back into his arms.
“You should go back to the house,” he said, his voice still low and hoarse.
She felt her eyes widen with surprise. “Aren’t you coming as well?”
He shook his head and said in an oddly flat voice, “You won’t freeze. It’s May, after all.”
“Well, yes, but . . .” She let her words trail off, since she didn’t really know what to say. She supposed she’d been hoping he’d interrupt her.
She turned to walk up the hill, then stopped when she heard his voice, quiet and intent behind her.
“I need to think,” he said.
“About what?” She shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have intruded, but she’d never been able to mind her own business.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged helplessly. “Everything, I suppose.”
Eloise nodded and continued back to the house.
But the bleak look in his eyes haunted her all day.
Chapter 9
. . . we all miss Father, especially this time of year. But think how lucky you were to have had eighteen years with him. I remember so little, and I do wish he could have known me, and all that I’ve grown up to be.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her
brother Viscount Bridgerton,
upon the occasion of the tenth
anniversary of their father’s death
Eloise was purposefully late for supper that evening. Not by much—it was not in her nature to be tardy, especially since it was a trait she didn’t care to tolerate in others. But after the events of that afternoon, she had no idea if Sir Phillip was even going to show up for supper, and she couldn’t bear the thought of waiting in the drawing room, trying not to twiddle her thumbs as she wondered if she was to dine alone.
At precisely ten minutes past seven, she reckoned she could assume that if he wasn’t waiting for her, he wasn’t joining her, and she could then proceed to the dining room on her own and act as if she’d planned to eat by herself all the while.
But much to her surprise and, if she was honest, her great relief as well, Phillip was standing by the window when she entered the drawing room, elegantly dressed in evening kit that was, if not the very latest in style, obviously well made and tailored to perfection. Eloise noticed that his attire was strictly black and white, and she wondered if he was still in partial mourning for Marina, or if perhaps that was simply his preference. Her brothers rarely wore the peacock colors that were so popular among a certain set of the ton, and Sir Phillip didn’t seem the type, either.
Eloise stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at his profile, wondering if he’d even seen her. And then he turned, murmured her name, and crossed the room.
“I hope you will accept my apologies for this afternoon,” he said, and although his voice was reserved, she could see the entreaty in his eyes, sense that her forgiveness was very much desired.
“No apology is necessary,” she said quickly, and it was the truth, she supposed. How could she know if he should apologize when she didn’t even understand what had transpired?
“It is,” he said haltingly. “I overreacted. I—”
She said nothing, just watched his face as he cleared his throat.
He opened his mouth, but it was several seconds before he said, “Marina nearly drowned in that lake.”
Eloise gasped, not realizing that her hand had flown up to cover her mouth until she felt her fingers on her lips.
“She wasn’t a strong swimmer,” he explained.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Were you—” How to ask it without appearing morbidly curious? There was no way to avoid it, and she couldn’t help herself; she had to know. “Were you there?”
He nodded grimly. “I pulled her out.”
“How lucky for her,” Eloise murmured. “She must have been terrified.”
Phillip said nothing. He didn’t even nod.
She thought about her father, thought about how helpless she had felt when he’d collapsed to the ground in front of her. Even as a child, she’d been the sort who needed to do things. She’d never been one of life’s observers; she’d always wanted to take action, to fix things, to fix people, even. And the one time it had all truly mattered, she’d been impotent.
“I’m glad you were able to save her,” she murmured. “It would have been horrible for you if you hadn’t.”
He looked at her oddly, and she realized how strange her words had been, so she added, “It’s . . . very difficult . . . when someone dies, and you can only watch, and you can’t do anything to stop it.” And then, because the moment seemed to call for it, and she felt oddly connected to this man standing so quiet and stiff in front of her, she said softly, and perhaps a bit mournfully as well, “I know.”