“I . . . ah . . .” She felt herself flushing, which mortified her, which of course caused her cheeks to redden even more. “Thank you.”
He nodded graciously.
“I am not certain why my appearance would have come as a surprise to you,” she said, thoroughly annoyed with herself for reacting so strongly to his flattery. Heavens, one would think she had never been paid a compliment before. But he was just sitting there, looking at her. Looking, and staring, and . . .
She shivered.
And it wasn’t the least bit drafty. Could one shiver from feeling too . . . hot?
“You yourself wrote that you are a spinster,” he said. “There must be some reason you have never married.”
“It was not because I received no offers,” she felt compelled to inform him.
“Obviously not,” he said, tilting his head in her direction as a gesture of compliment. “But I cannot help but be curious as to why a woman like you would feel the need to resort to . . . well . . . me.”
She looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since she’d arrived. He was quite handsome in a rough, slightly unkempt sort of way. His dark hair looked in dire need of a good trim, and his skin showed signs of a faint tan, which was impressive considering how little sunshine they’d enjoyed lately. He was large and muscular, and sat in his chair with a careless, athletic sort of grace, legs sprawled in a manner that would not have been acceptable in a London drawing room.
And the look on his face told her that he didn’t much care that his manners were not de rigeur. It wasn’t the same sort of defiant attitude she saw so often among young men of the ton. She’d met so many men of that kind—the ones who made such a point of defying convention, and then spoiled the effect by going out of their way to make sure that everyone knew how daring and scandalous they were.
But with Sir Phillip it was different. Eloise would have bet good money that it would simply never have occurred to him to care that he wasn’t sitting in a properly formal manner, and it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to him to make sure that other people knew he didn’t care.
It made Eloise wonder if that was the mark of a truly self-confident person, and if so, why did he need to resort to her? Because from what she’d seen of him, curt manners this morning aside, he shouldn’t have had too much trouble finding himself a wife.
“I am here,” she said, finally remembering that he had asked her a question, “because after refusing several offers of marriage”—she knew that a better person would have been more modest and not taken such pains to emphasize the word “several,” but she just couldn’t help herself—“I find that I still desire a husband. Your letters seemed to indicate that you might be a good candidate. It seemed shortsighted not to meet with you and find out if that was indeed true.”
He nodded. “Very practical of you.”
“What about you?” she countered. “You were the one who initially brought up the topic of marriage. Why couldn’t you simply find yourself a wife among the women here?”
For a moment he did nothing but blink, looking at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t figured it out for herself. Finally, he said, “You’ve met my children.”
Eloise nearly choked on the bite of sandwich she’d just started to chew. “I beg your pardon?”
“My children,” he said flatly. “You’ve met them. Twice, I think. You told me so.”
“Yes, but what . . .” She felt her eyes grow wide. “Oh, no, don’t tell me they’ve scared away every prospective wife in the district?”
The look he leveled at her was grim. “Most of the women in the area refuse to even enter the ranks of the prospectives.”
She scoffed. “They’re not that bad.”
“They need a mother,” he said baldly.
She raised her brows. “Surely you can find a more romantic way to convince me to be your wife.”
Phillip sighed wearily, running a hand through his already ruffled hair. “Miss Bridgerton,” he said, then corrected himself with, “Eloise. I’m going to be honest with you, because, to be frank, I have neither the energy nor the patience for fancy romantic words or cleverly constructed stories. I need a wife. My children need a mother. I invited you here to see if you would be willing to assume such a role, and indeed, if you and I would suit.”
“Which one?” she whispered.
He clenched his hands, his knuckles brushing the tablecloth. What was it about women? Did they speak in some sort of code? “Which one . . . what?” he asked, impatience coloring his voice.
“Which one do you want,” she clarified, her voice still soft. “A wife or a mother?”
“Both,” he said. “I should think that was obvious.”
“Which one do you want more?”
Phillip stared at her for a long while, aware that this was an important question, quite possibly one that could signal the end of his unusual courtship. Finally, he just offered her a helpless shrug and said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to separate the two.”
She nodded, her eyes serious. “I see,” she murmured. “I expect you are right.”
Phillip let out a long breath he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. Somehow—God Himself only knew how—he’d answered correctly. Or at the very least, not incorrectly.
Eloise fidgeted slightly in her seat, then motioned to the half-eaten sandwich on his plate. “Shall we continue with our meal?” she suggested. “You’ve been in your greenhouse all morning. I’m sure you must be quite famished.”