Chapter 1
Somewhere on the road from
London to Gloucestershire
The middle of the night
Dear Miss Bridgerton—
Thank you for your kind note at the loss of my wife.
It was thoughtful of you to take the time to write to a gentleman you have never met.
I offer you this pressed flower as thanks.
It is naught but the simple red campion (Silene dioica), but it brightens the fields here in Gloucestershire, and indeed seems to have arrived early this year.
It was Marina’s favorite wildflower.
Sincerely,
Sir Phillip Crane
Eloise Bridgerton smoothed the well-read sheet of paper across her lap.
There was little light by which to see the words, even with the full moon shining through the windows of the coach, but that didn’t really matter.
She had the entire letter memorized, and the delicate pressed flower, which was actually more pink than red, was safely protected between the pages of a book she’d nipped from her brother’s library.
She hadn’t been too terribly surprised when she’d received a reply from Sir Phillip. Good manners dictated as much, although even Eloise’s mother, surely the supreme arbiter of good behavior, said that Eloise took her correspondence a bit too seriously.
It was common, of course, for ladies of Eloise’s station to spend several hours each week writing letters, but Eloise had long since fallen into the habit of taking that amount of time each day.
She enjoyed writing notes, especially to people she hadn’t seen in years (she’d always liked to imagine their surprise when they opened her envelope), and so she pulled out her pen and paper for most any occasion—births, deaths, any sort of achievement that deserved congratulations or condolences.
She wasn’t sure why she kept sending her missives, just that she spent so much time writing letters to whichever of her siblings were not in residence in London at the time, and it seemed easy enough to pen a short note to some far-off relative while she was seated at her escritoire.
And although everyone penned a short note in reply—she was a Bridgerton, of course, and no one wanted to offend a Bridgerton—never had anyone enclosed a gift, even something so humble as a pressed flower.
Eloise closed her eyes, picturing the delicate pink petals. It was hard to imagine a man handling such a fragile bloom. Her four brothers were all big, strong men, with broad shoulders and large hands that would surely mangle the poor thing in a heartbeat.
She had been intrigued by Sir Phillip’s reply, especially his use of the Latin, and she had immediately penned her own response.
Dear Sir Phillip—
Thank you so very much for the charming pressed flower. It was such a lovely surprise when it floated out of the envelope. And such a precious memento of dear Marina, as well.
I could not help but notice your facility with the flower’s scientific name. Are you a botanist?
Yours,
Miss Eloise Bridgerton
It was sneaky of her to end her letter with a question. Now the poor man would be forced to respond again.
He did not disappoint her. It had taken only ten days for Eloise to receive his reply.
Dear Miss Bridgerton—
Indeed I am a botanist, trained at Cambridge, although I am not currently connected with any university or scientific board. I conduct experiments here at Romney Hall, in my own greenhouse.
Are you of a scientific bent as well?
Yours,
Sir Phillip Crane
Something about the correspondence was thrilling; perhaps it was simply the excitement of finding someone not related to her who actually seemed eager to conduct a written dialogue. Whatever it was, Eloise wrote back immediately.
Dear Sir Phillip—
Heavens, no, I have not the scientific mind, I’m afraid, although I do have a fair head for sums. My interests lie more in the humanities; you may have noticed that I enjoy penning letters.
Yours in friendship,
Eloise Bridgerton
Eloise hadn’t been certain about signing with such an informal salutation, but she decided to err on the side of daring. Sir Phillip was obviously enjoying the correspondence as much as she; surely he wouldn’t have finished his missive with a question, otherwise?
Her answer came a fortnight later.
My dear Miss Bridgerton—
Ah, but it is a sort of friendship, isn’t it? I confess to a certain measure of isolation here in the country, and if one cannot have a smiling face across one’s breakfast table, then one might at least have an amiable letter, don’t you agree?
I have enclosed another flower for you. This one is Geranium pratense, more commonly known as the meadow cranesbill.
With great regard,
Phillip Crane
Eloise remembered that day well. She had sat in her chair, the one by the window in her bedchamber, and stared at the carefully pressed purple flower for what seemed like an eternity. Was he attempting to court her? Through the post?
And then one day she received a note that was quite different from the rest.
My dear Miss Bridgerton—
We have been corresponding now for quite some time, and although we have never formally met, I feel as if I know you. I hope you feel the same.
Forgive me if I am too bold, but I am writing to invite you to visit me here at Romney Hall. It is my hope that after a suitable period of time, we might decide that we will suit, and you will consent to be my wife.
You will, of course, be properly chaperoned. If you accept my invitation, I will make immediate plans to bring my widowed aunt to Romney Hall.
I do hope you will consider my proposal.
Yours, as always,
Phillip Crane
Eloise had immediately tucked the letter away in a drawer, unable to even fathom his request. He wanted to marry someone he didn’t even know?
No, to be fair, that wasn’t entirely true. They did know one another. They’d said more in the course of a year’s correspondence than many husbands and wives did during the entire course of a marriage.
But still, they’d never met.
Eloise thought about all of the marriage proposals she’d refused over the years. How many had there been? At least six. Now she couldn’t even remember why she’d refused some of them. No reason, really, except that they weren’t . . .
Perfect.
Was that so much to expect?
She shook her head, aware that she sounded silly and spoiled. No, she didn’t need someone perfect. She just needed someone perfect for her.
She knew what the society matrons said about her. She was too demanding, worse than foolish. She’d end up a spinster—no, they didn’t say that anymore. They said she already was a spinster, which was true. One didn’t reach the age of eight and twenty without hearing that whispered behind one’s back.
Or thrown in one’s face.
But the funny truth was, Eloise didn’t mind her situation. Or at least she hadn’t, not until recently.
It had never occurred to her that she’d always be a spinster, and besides, she enjoyed her life quite well.
She had the most marvelous family one could imagine—seven brothers and sisters in all, named alphabetically, which put her right in the middle at E, with four older and three younger.
Her mother was a delight, and she’d even stopped nagging Eloise about getting married.
Eloise still held a prominent place in society; the Bridgertons were universally adored and respected (and occasionally feared), and Eloise’s sunny and irrepressible personality was such that everyone sought out her company, spinsterish age or no.
But lately . . .
She sighed, suddenly feeling quite a bit older than her twenty-eight years.
Lately she hadn’t been feeling so sunny.
Lately she’d been starting to think that maybe those crotchety old matrons were right, and she wasn’t going to find herself a husband.
Maybe she had been too picky, too determined to follow the example of her older brothers and sister, all of whom had found a deep and passionate love with their spouses (even if it hadn’t necessarily been there at the outset).
Maybe a marriage based on mutual respect and companionship was better than none at all.
But it was difficult to talk about these feelings with anyone.
Her mother had spent so many years urging her to find a husband; as much as Eloise adored her, it would be difficult to eat crow and say that she should have listened.
Her brothers would have been no help whatsoever.
Anthony, the eldest, would probably have taken it upon himself to personally select a suitable mate and then browbeat the poor man into submission.
Benedict was too much of a dreamer, and besides, he almost never came down to London anymore, preferring the quiet of the country.
As for Colin—well, that was another story entirely, quite worthy of its own paragraph.
She supposed she should have talked to Daphne, but every time she went to see her, her elder sister was so bloody happy, so blissfully in love with her husband and her life as mother to her brood of four.
How could someone like that possibly offer useful advice to one in Eloise’s position?
And Francesca seemed half a world away, off in Scotland.
Besides, Eloise didn’t think it fair to bother her with her silly woes.
Francesca had been widowed at the age of twenty-three, for heaven’s sake.
Eloise’s fears and worries seemed terribly inconsequential by comparison.
And maybe all this was why her correspondence with Sir Phillip had become such a guilty pleasure.
The Bridgertons were a large family, loud and boisterous.
It was nearly impossible to keep anything a secret, especially from her sisters, the youngest of whom—Hyacinth—could probably have won the war against Napoleon in half the time if His Majesty had only thought to draft her into the espionage service.