Chapter 14 #2
She was leaving them. She would always have them in all the ways that mattered, but still, she was leaving.
And she hadn’t realized until that very moment how often she sat down with her mother and just talked.
Or how very precious those moments were.
Violet always seemed to know just what her children needed, which was remarkable, really, since there were eight of them—eight very different souls, each with unique hopes and dreams.
Even Violet’s letter—the one she’d written and asked Anthony to give to her at Romney Hall—it was exactly right, precisely what Eloise had needed to hear. Violet could have scolded, she could have hurled accusations; she would have been perfectly within her rights to do either—or more.
But all she’d written was, “I hope you are well. Please remember that you are my daughter and you will always be my daughter. I love you.”
Eloise had bawled. Thank goodness she’d forgotten to read it until late in the night, when she was able to do so in the privacy of her room at Benedict’s house.
Violet Bridgerton had never wanted for anything, but her true wealth lay in her wisdom and her love, and it occurred to Eloise, as she watched Violet turn back to the door, that she was more than just her mother—she was everything that Eloise aspired to be.
And Eloise couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to realize it.
“I imagine you and Sir Phillip will want some privacy,” Violet said, placing her hand on the doorknob.
Eloise nodded even though her mother couldn’t see the gesture. “I shall miss you all.”
“Of course you will,” Violet said, her brisk tone obviously her way of recovering her composure.
“And we shall miss you. But you won’t be far.
And you’ll live so close to Benedict and Sophie.
And Posy, too. I expect I shall be coming out this way more often for visits now that I have two more grandchildren to spoil. ”
Eloise brushed away tears of her own. Her family had accepted Phillip’s children instantly and unconditionally.
She had expected no less, but still, it warmed her heart more than she would ever have imagined.
Already the twins were playing raucously with the Bridgerton grandchildren, and Violet had insisted that they call her Grandmama.
They had agreed with alacrity, especially after Violet had produced an entire bag of peppermint drops that she claimed must have fallen into her valise back in London.
Eloise had already said her goodbyes to her family, so when her mother departed, she felt well and truly Lady Crane.
Miss Bridgerton would have returned to London with the rest of the family, but Lady Crane, wife of a Gloucestershire landowner and baronet, remained here at Romney Hall.
She felt strange and different and chided herself for it.
One would think, at twenty-eight, that marriage would not seem such a momentous step.
After all, she wasn’t a green girl, and hadn’t been for some time.
Still, she told herself, she had every right to feel that her life had changed forever. She was married, for heaven’s sake, and the mistress of her own home. Not to mention mother to two children. None of her siblings had had to take on the responsibilities of parenthood so suddenly.
But she was up to the task. She had to be.
She squared her shoulders, looking determinedly at her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her hair.
She was a Bridgerton, even if it was no longer her legal surname, and she was up to anything.
And as she wasn’t the sort to tolerate an unhappy life, then she would simply have to make certain that hers was anything but.
A knock sounded at the door, and when Eloise turned around, Phillip had entered the room. He closed the door behind him but remained where he was, presumably to offer her a bit of time to collect herself.
“Wouldn’t you like your maid for that?” he asked, nodding toward her hairbrush.
“I told her to take a free evening,” Eloise said. She shrugged. “It seemed odd to have her here, almost an intrusion, I think.”
He cleared his throat as he tugged at his cravat, a motion that had become endearingly familiar. He was never quite at home in formal attire, she realized, always tugging or shifting and quite obviously wishing he was in his more comfortable work clothes.
How strange to have a husband with an actual vocation. Eloise had never thought to marry a man like that. Not that Phillip was in trade, but still, his work in the greenhouse was certainly something more than what most of the idle young men of her acquaintance had to fill their lives.
She liked it, she realized. She liked that he had a purpose and a calling, liked that his mind was sharp and engaged in intellectual inquiry rather than horses and gambling.
She liked him.
It was a relief, that. What a bind she would have been in if she didn’t.
“Would you like a few more minutes?” he asked.
She shook her head. She was ready.
A rush of air blew past his lips. Eloise thought she might have heard the words “Thank God,” and then she was in his arms, and he was kissing her, and whatever else she’d been thinking, it was gone.
Phillip supposed that he should have devoted a bit more of his mental energy to his wedding, but the truth was, he couldn’t keep his mind on the events of the day, not when the events of the night loomed tantalizingly close.
Every time he looked at Eloise, every time he even sniffed her scent, which seemed to be everywhere, standing out among all the delicate perfumes of the Bridgerton women, he felt a telltale tightening in his body, a shiver of anticipation as he recalled what it felt like to have her in his arms.
Soon, he told himself, forcing his body to relax, then thanking God that he was actually successful in the endeavor. Soon.
And then soon became now, and they were alone, and he couldn’t quite believe how lovely she was with her long, chestnut hair cascading in soft waves down her back.
He had never seen it down, he realized, never imagined the length of it when it had been tucked away in a tidy little bun at the nape of her neck.
“I always wondered why women kept their hair up,” he murmured, once he’d finished with his seventh kiss.
“It’s expected, of course,” Eloise said, looking puzzled at the comment.
“That’s not why,” he said. He touched her hair, ran his fingers through it, then lifted it to his face and breathed in the scent. “It’s for the protection of other men.”
Her eyes flew to his with surprise and confusion. “Surely you mean the protection from.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’d have to kill anyone who saw you thus.”
“Phillip.” Her tone was meant to be scolding, he was quite sure of that, but she was blushing and looking rather absurdly pleased by his statement.
“No one who saw this could resist you,” he said, winding a length of her silky hair around his fingers. “I’m quite sure of it.”
“Many men have found me quite resistible,” she said, offering him a self-deprecating smile as she looked up at him. “Quite a lot, actually.”
“They’re fools,” he said simply. “And besides, it only proves my point, does it not? This”—he held one long thick lock up between their faces, then tickled it against his lips, breathing in its heady scent—“has been hidden away in a bun for years.”
“Since I was sixteen,” she said.
He tugged her toward him, gently but inexorably. “I’m glad. You’d never have been mine if you’d tugged out your hairpins. Someone else would have snatched you up years ago.”
“It’s just hair,” she whispered, her voice a little trembly.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “You must be, because on anyone else, I don’t think it would be nearly so intoxicating. It must be you,” he whispered, letting the strands drop from his fingers. “Only you.”
He cradled her face in his hands, tilting it slightly to the side so that he might more easily kiss her.
He knew what her lips tasted like, had kissed them, in fact, just minutes earlier.
But even with that, he was startled by her sweetness, by the warmth of her breath and her mouth, and the way his body turned to fire from one simple kiss.
Except that it would never be just a simple kiss. Not with her.
His fingers found the fastenings of her gown, small fabric-covered buttons marching down her back. “Turn around,” he ordered, breaking the kiss. He wasn’t so experienced at seduction that he could slip them from their loops without the advantage of sight.
Besides, he rather enjoyed this—this slow disrobing, each button revealing another half inch of creamy skin.
She was his, he realized, sliding one finger down her spine before attending to the third-to-last button. His for eternity. It was hard to imagine how he had been so lucky, but he resolved not to wonder at his good fortune, just to enjoy it.
Another button. This one revealed a square of flesh near the base of her spine.
He touched her. She shivered.
His fingers went to the last button. He didn’t really need to attend to it; her dress was more than loose enough to slip from her shoulders. But somehow he needed to do this right, to disrobe her properly, to savor the moment.
Besides, this last one revealed the curve of her buttocks.
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her right there. Right at the top of her cleft while she stood facing the other way, shivering not from cold but from excitement.
He leaned toward her, pressed his lips to the back of her neck as both of his hands found her shoulders. There were some things that were too wicked for an innocent like Eloise.
But she was his. His wife. And she was fire and passion and energy all wrapped into one. She wasn’t Marina, he reminded himself, delicate and breakable, unable to express emotion other than sorrow.