Chapter 10
. . . you will never know how unfortunate you are, dearest Penelope, to have sisters only. Brothers are ever so much more fun.
—from Eloise Bridgerton
to Penelope Featherington,
following a midnight ride in Hyde Park
with her three older brothers
“Here are your choices,” Anthony said, sitting behind Phillip’s desk as if he owned the place. “You can marry him in one week, or you can marry him in two.”
Eloise’s mouth fell open into a horrified oval. “Anthony!”
“Did you expect me to suggest an alternative?” he asked mildly. “I suppose we might stretch it to three, given a sufficiently compelling reason.”
She hated when he spoke like that, as if he were reasonable and wise, and she were nothing more than a recalcitrant child. It was far better when he ranted and raved. Then, at least, she could pretend he was mad in the head and she was a poor, beleaguered innocent.
“I don’t see why you would object,” he continued. “Didn’t you come here with the intention to marry him?”
“No! I came here with the intention to find out if he was suitable for marriage.”
“And is he?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s only been two days.”
“And yet,” Anthony said, idly examining his fingernails in the dim candlelight, “that’s still more than enough time to ruin your reputation.”
“Does anyone know I was gone?” she quickly asked. “Outside the family, that is.”
“Not yet,” he admitted, “but someone will find out. Someone always finds out.”
“There was supposed to be a chaperone,” Eloise said sullenly.
“Was there?” he asked, his voice perfectly conversational, as if he were asking if there was supposed to have been lamb for dinner, or maybe a hunting expedition arranged for his entertainment.
“She’s coming soon.”
“Hmmm. Too bad for her I arrived first.”
“Too bad for everyone,” Eloise muttered.
“What was that?” he asked, but again he used that awful voice, the one that made it clear he’d heard every word.
“Anthony,” Eloise said, and his name came out like a plea, even though she had no idea what it was she was pleading for.
He turned to her, his dark eyes blazing, the force of his stare so violent that it was only then that she realized she ought to have been grateful he’d been pretending to examine his fingernails.
She took a step back. Anyone would have when faced with Anthony Bridgerton in such a fury.
But when he spoke, his voice was even and controlled. “You’ve made yourself a rather messy little bed here,” he said, his cadence slow and precise. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to lie in it.”
“You would have me marry a man I don’t know?” she whispered.
“Is that even the truth?” Anthony responded. “Because you seemed to know him very well indeed in the dining room. You certainly leapt to his defense at every conceivable opportunity.”
Anthony was talking her into a corner, and it was driving her mad. “It’s not enough for marriage,” she insisted. “At least not yet.”
But Anthony wasn’t the sort to let up. “If not now, then when? One week? Two?”
“Stop!” she burst out, wanting to throw her hands over her ears. “I can’t think.”
“You don’t think,” he corrected. “If you’d taken one moment to think, to use that tiny portion of your brain reserved for common sense, you would never have run off.”
She crossed her arms, looking away. She had no argument, and it was killing her.
“What are you going to do, Eloise?” Anthony asked.
“I don’t know,” she muttered, hating how stupid she sounded.
“Well,” he said, still continuing in that awful, reasonable voice, “that puts us in a bit of a bind, doesn’t it?”
“Can’t you just say it?” she asked, her fists clenching against her rib cage. “Do you have to end everything with a question?”
He smiled humorlessly. “And here I thought you’d appreciate my soliciting your opinion.”
“You’re being condescending and you know it.”
He leaned forward, thunder in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how much effort it requires to keep my temper in check?”
Eloise thought it best not to hazard a guess.
“You ran off in the middle of the night,” he said, rising to his feet, “without a word, without even a note—”
“I left a note!” she burst out.
He looked at her with patent disbelief.
“I did!” she insisted. “I left it on the side table in the front hall. Right next to the Chinese vase.”
“And this mysterious note said . . .”
“It said not to worry, that I was fine and would contact you all within a month.”
“Ah,” Anthony said mockingly. “That would have set my mind at ease.”
“I don’t know why you didn’t get it,” Eloise muttered. “It probably got mixed up with a pile of invitations.”
“For all we knew,” Anthony continued, taking a step toward her, “you’d been kidnapped.”
Eloise paled. She’d never even considered that her family might think such a thing. It had never occurred to her that her note might go astray.
“Do you know what Mother did?” Anthony asked, his voice deathly serious. “After nearly collapsing with worry?”
Eloise shook her head, dreading the answer.
“She went to the bank,” Anthony continued. “Do you know why?”
“Could you just tell me?” Eloise asked wearily. She hated the questions.
“She went there,” he said, walking toward her in a terrifying manner, “to make sure that all her funds were in the proper order so that she could withdraw them should she need to ransom you!”
Eloise shrank back at the fury in her older brother’s voice. I left a note, she wanted to say again, but she knew it would come out the wrong way. She’d been wrong, and she’d been foolish, and she didn’t want to compound her stupidity by trying to excuse it.
“Penelope was the one who finally figured out what you’d done,” Anthony said. “We asked her to search your room, since she’s probably spent more time there than any of the rest of us.”
Eloise nodded. Penelope had been her closest friend—still was, in fact, even though she’d married Colin. They’d spent countless hours up in her room, talking about anything and everything. Phillip’s letters were the only secret Eloise had ever kept from her.
“Where did she find the letter?” Eloise asked. Not that it mattered, but she couldn’t help her curiosity.
“It had fallen behind your desk.” Anthony crossed his arms. “Along with a pressed flower.”
Somehow that seemed fitting. “He’s a botanist,” she whispered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A botanist,” she said, more loudly this time. “Sir Phillip. He took a first at Cambridge. He would have been an academic if his brother hadn’t died at Waterloo.”
Anthony nodded, digesting that fact, and the fact that she knew it.
“If you tell me that he’s a cruel man, that he will beat you, that he will insult you and demean you, I will not force your hand.
But before you speak, I want you to consider my words.
You are a Bridgerton. I don’t care who you marry or what your name becomes when you stand up before a priest and say your vows.
You will always be a Bridgerton, and we behave with honor and honesty, not because it is expected of us, but because that is what we are. ”
Eloise nodded, swallowing as she fought the tears that were stinging in her eyes.
“So I will ask you right now,” he said. “Is there any reason you cannot marry Sir Phillip Crane?”
“No,” she whispered. She didn’t even hesitate. She wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t yet ready for the marriage, but she wouldn’t sully the truth by hesitating on her answer.
“I thought not.”
She stood still, almost deflated, not certain what to do or say next. She turned, aware that Anthony had to know she was crying, but not wanting him to see her tears, nonetheless. “I’ll marry him,” she said, choking on the words. “It’s just that I—I’d wanted—”
He held silent for a moment, respecting her distress, but then, when she did not continue, he asked, “What did you want, Eloise?”
“I’d hoped for a love match,” she said, so softly she barely heard herself.
“I see,” he said, his hearing superb as always. “You should have thought of that before you ran off, shouldn’t you?”
She hated him in that moment. “You have a love match. You should understand.”
“I,” he said, the tone of his voice indicating that he did not appreciate her trying to make the conversation about him, “married my wife after we were caught in a compromising position by the biggest bloody gossip in England.”
Eloise let out a long breath, feeling stupid. It had been so many years since Anthony had married. She’d forgotten the circumstances.
“I didn’t love my wife when I married her,” he continued, “or,” he added, his voice growing a bit softer, more gruff and nostalgic, “if I did, I did not yet realize it.”
Eloise nodded. “You were very lucky,” she said, wishing she knew if she could be that lucky with Phillip.
And then Anthony surprised her, because he didn’t scold, and he didn’t reprimand. All he said was, “I know.”
“I felt lost,” she whispered. “When Penelope and Colin married . . .” She sank into a chair, letting her head drop into her hands. “I’m a terrible person. I must be a terrible person, horrible and shallow, because when they married, all I could think about was myself.”
Anthony sighed, and he crouched beside her. “You’re not a terrible person, Eloise. You know that.”
She looked up at him, wondering when it was that this man, her brother, had become so wise.
If he’d yelled one more word, spent one more minute speaking to her in that mocking voice, she would have broke.
She would have broke, or she would have hardened, but either way, something between them would have been ruined.
But here he was, Anthony of all people, who was arrogant and proud and every inch the arch nobleman he’d been born to be, kneeling at her side, placing his hand on hers, and speaking with a kindness that nearly broke her heart.
“I was happy for them,” she said. “I am happy for them.”
“I know you are.”
“I should have felt nothing but joy.”
“If you had, you wouldn’t be human.”
“Penelope became my sister,” she said. “I should have been happy.”