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To Sir Phillip, With Love (Bridgertons #5) Page 78
Author: Julia Quinn

Her glare could have frozen the Thames. It quite froze off his desire, which irritated him no end, since he’d been looking forward to getting rid of it in another fashion altogether.

“It wasn’t meant as such,” she said.

He leaned back against the workbench, his casual posture meant to irritate her. “Eloise,” he said calmly, “try to afford a small measure of respect for my intelligence.”

“It is difficult,” she shot back, “when you display so little.”

That was it. “I don’t even know why we are arguing!” he exploded. “One minute you were willing in my arms, and the next you’re shrieking like a banshee.”

She shook her head. “I was never willing in your arms.”

It was as if the bottom dropped out of his world.

She must have seen the shock on his face, because she quickly added, “Today. I meant just today. Just now, actually.”

His body sagged with relief, even as the rest of him seethed with anger.

“I was trying to talk with you,” she explained.

“You’re always trying to talk with me,” he pointed out. “That’s all you ever do. Talk talk talk.”

She drew back. “If you didn’t like it,” she said in a snippy voice, “you shouldn’t have married me.”

“It wasn’t as if I had a choice in the matter,” he bit off. “Your brothers were ready to castrate me. And just so you don’t paint me completely black, I don’t mind your talking. Just not, for the love of God, all of the time.”

She looked like she was trying to say something utterly clever and cutting, but all she could do was gape like a fish and make sounds like, “Unh! Unh!”

“Every now and then,” he said, feeling quite superior, “you might consider shutting your mouth and using it for some other purpose.”

“You,” she fumed, “are insufferable.”

He raised his brows, knowing it would irritate her.

“I’m sorry you find my propensity for speech so offensive,” she ground out, “but I was trying to talk to you about something important, and you tried to kiss me.”

He shrugged. “I always try to kiss you. You’re my wife. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

“But sometimes it’s not the right time,” she said. “Phillip, if we want to have a good marriage—”

“We do have a good marriage,” he interrupted, his voice defensive and bitter.

“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, “but it can’t always be about . . . you know.”

“No,” he said, deliberately obtuse. “I don’t know.”

Eloise ground her teeth together. “Phillip, don’t be like this.”

He said nothing, just tightened his already crossed arms and stared at her face.

She closed her eyes, and her chin bobbed slightly forward as her lips moved. And he realized that she was talking. She wasn’t making a sound, but she was still talking.

Dear God, the woman never stopped. Even now she was talking to herself.

“What are you doing?” he finally asked.

She didn’t open her eyes as she said, “Trying to convince myself it’s all right to ignore my mother’s advice.”

He shook his head. He would never understand women.

“Phillip,” she finally said, just when he’d decided that he was going to leave and let her talk to herself in private. “I very much enjoy what we do in bed—”

“That’s nice to hear,” he bit off, still too irritated to be gracious.

She ignored his lack of civility. “But it can’t be just about that.”

“It?”

“Our marriage.” She blushed, clearly uncomfortable with such frank speech. “It can’t be just about making love.”

“It can certainly be a great deal about it,” he muttered.

“Phillip, why won’t you discuss this with me? We have a problem, and we need to talk about it.”

And then something within him simply snapped. He was convinced that his was the perfect marriage, and she was complaining? He’d been so sure he’d gotten it right this time. “We’ve been married one week, Eloise,” he ground out. “One week. What do you expect of me?”

“I don’t know. I—”

“I’m just a man.”

“And I’m just a woman,” she said softly.

For some reason, her quiet words only irritated him more. He leaned forward, deliberately using his size to intimidate her. “Do you know how long it had been since I’d lain with a woman?” he hissed. “Do you have any idea?”

Her eyes grew impossibly wide, and she shook her head.

“Eight years,” he bit off. “Eight long years with nothing but my own hand for comfort. So the next time I seem to be enjoying myself while I’m driving into you, please do excuse my immaturity and my maleness—” He spoke the word as she might, with sarcasm and anger. “I’m simply having a ripping good time after a long dry spell.”

And then, unable to bear her for one moment longer—

No, that wasn’t true. He was unable to bear himself.

Either way, he left.

Chapter 16

. . . you do have the right of it, dearest Kate. Men are so easy to manage. I cannot imagine ever losing an argument with one. Of course, had I accepted Lord Lacye’s proposal, I should not have had even the opportunity. He rarely speaks, which I do find most odd.

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her

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Julia Quinn's Novels
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» On the Way to the Wedding (Bridgertons #8)
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