Chapter Text
I know I've kissed you before, but
I didn't do it right
Can I try again?
Eloise Bridgerton was a romantic — a lie that had kept her safe for the last eight years.
Why, she queried loudly to anyone who might listen, should she settle for anything less than what her siblings had achieved? It was to be a love match for her or nothing at all. “Give me romance or give me death!” — a statement she had been known to exclaim, particularly around her mother and the start of an upcoming season.
Of course, it was only Eloise who knew the truth: that she was incapable of romance. She neither felt it nor sought it out. She did not dream of white knights on trusty steeds or gallant princes from faraway lands come to whisk her off to a castle that might as well be a jail cell. Once she might have dreamt of a handsome printer’s assistant in a grubby print shop. Once she might have dreamt of the smell of rose water on skin and the sound of a tinkling laugh that delighted in everything she said. Now she dreamed only of freedom.
Her siblings (including the traitorous Benedict who was now almost 6 years married), had all told her at some point or another that falling in love was like finding one’s best and dearest friend, a friend who one wanted to spend one’s life with and subsequently bed and make babies with. Eloise secretly found this ridiculous. She had a best friend, who just so happened to be married to her brother. What could a man, a husband possibly give her that Penelope Bridgeton could not?
“Perhaps your standards are too high,” Daphne had once suggested as they sat in the gardens of Clyvedon Castle while she nursed little Caroline.
“Yes, certainly,” Eloise had replied. “It is not as if you shunned a literal prince in favour of Simon and his whole…” Eloise made a gesture that vaguely resembled a human form.
Daphne had pursed her lips then, a smile threatening to tug at them. “Point taken.”
“Besides,” Eloise added, leaning back and enjoying the feeling of the sun on her face while her sister rearranged the squirming baby, “I am quite sure my…” she had paused then to school her face from a grimace to a smile, “ true love is out there. I am content to wait for him to make himself known, even if that wait takes my entire life.”
This is the lie that had kept her safe for the majority of her adult life — a lie that was currently being threatened by one Mr. Julian Kenridge.’
______
“Your problem, Miss Bridgerton, is that you are too focused on Miss Murray’s definition of a woman’s ‘fullest potential’ that you do not see—”
“What I see , Mr. Kenridge,” Eloise looped her arm through the arm of the tall man at her side and good-naturedly bumped her shoulder against his, “is that you have not understood my point at all. The argument is not duty versus freedom but of culture versus nature. A woman, despite great intellect, will still be culturally bound to duties decided upon by—”
“By men,” Julian finished for her. “Yes, I see your point.”
“So there can be no freedom,” Eloise continued, “until the entire system is upended.”
They stopped in the middle of a small bridge that overlooked the Rio della Toletta canal. Gondolas passed below them, accompanied by the smooth crooning of the gondoliers as they serenaded lovers and singletons alike. Eloise, who had never been as good with languages as Hyacinth, was beginning to develop an ear for Italian. She very much enjoyed the loud lyricism of the tongue.
“Have you always been this much of a radical?” Julian asked, leaning a hip against the side of the bridge to look at her.
“Unfortunately, I have,” Eloise replied, not sounding regretful at all. “It’s the curse of my enormous intellect, you see.”
Julian laughed. “Of course.”
They stayed a few more minutes, watching the sun go down over the Venetian sky before Eloise sighed. “I suppose I must go and meet my sister for dinner before she sends the polizia out to find me.”
Julian straightened and held his arm out for Eloise. “Shall we take the scenic route back?”
Eloise beamed up at him. “Let’s.”
______
It had been a spontaneous decision for Eloise to accompany her sister and husband to Europe. It was Benedict and Colin who had first enticed her with tales of Italy — of its women’s salons and artist colonies. When Daphne had mentioned that Augie’s governess could not accompany them on their two-month-long sojourn, Eloise had offered to come along.
Her brothers did not exaggerate. Rome was old, Catholic, crumbling and beautiful, and, if one knew where to look, was also bright and alive with ideas, revolution, freedom. They travelled from Rome to Florence, where Eloise met a sculptor named Gertrude Smith, old friend of Mary Wollstonecraft. They had been in Paris during the revolution and she dazzled Eloise with tales of their misadventures. They continued to Genoa, where Eloise discovered that she very much enjoyed being in the ocean and very much despised the sand leading up to it. By the time they reached Venice, she felt like a new version of herself, or rather the best version of herself — stripped down to her most essential parts. It was, perhaps, the happiest Eloise had ever been.
They had met Mr. Julian Kenridge at a luncheon hosted by one of Simon’s old schoolmates. Julian was the acquaintance of a younger brother of one of the other guests in attendance and a stranger to the host himself. He looked about as out of place at the soiree as Eloise felt.
He was taller than most of the men in the room, and gangly — as though at five and twenty he had still not quite grown into his limbs. He had a mop of auburn hair and the biggest, brownest eyes Eloise had ever seen, reminding her instantly of a startled deer or a rabbit about to hop away. He was not handsome in a sickeningly obvious way like Simon, but his face was soft and kind.
She was hiding from Daphne and the other women in the villa’s modest library, squinting at an Italian copy of Paradise Lost, or Paradiso Perduto as the case might have been when Julian Kenridge found her that afternoon.
“That one doesn’t have a very happy ending, I’m afraid,” he had said, stepping into the room with his loping gait. “Just in case you were hoping for one.”
“Well,” Eloise flipped the page decisively. “It’s a good thing I don’t care for happy endings. They make for very boring stories.” Her eyes immediately scanned the door for any eavesdroppers, but they were remarkably relaxed about the whole business of men and women being alone together in Italian society.
“You prefer tragedy over romance then?” He stopped a respectable distance away and studied her with curiosity.
She slapped the book against her palm. “I prefer realism over fiction.”
He nodded sagely and turned to the shelves. He considered the selection for a long time before pulling a weathered volume from a bottom shelf. “Well, then I can confidently recommend this one.”
Eloise took the volume from him and scoffed. “Aesop’s Fables? Perhaps you need me to define the term ‘realism’.”
“You might try.” He stared back at her. “But I have a friend of a friend who is close companions with the tortoise this story is based upon and I assure you he is to be believed.”
The sheer absurdity of him relaying this with a straight face delighted Eloise despite her best attempts to remain unimpressed. She sat back in one of the overly large library chairs and motioned for him to take the one across from her. “All right then.” She raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Tell me more about this tortoise.”
“Well first,” he sat and leaned forward as if pulling her into his confidence, “you must understand the complicated circumstances of the fox and the hare.”
It was then that Eloise first suspected that this doe-eyed stranger, who would be known to her as Mr. Kenridge and later, more affectionately, as Julian, would pose a rather annoying problem.
______
Eloise arrived late to dinner with a sheepish smile and a pink stain on her dress. The dining room was set for three as the children had already eaten and the only occupants were Simon and Daphne who pulled apart as she entered. Eloise was gracious enough to suppress an eye roll.
Daphne wiped a thumb along her lower lip as she tracked the blemish on Eloise’s outfit.
“We stopped for sorbetto,” Eloise explained as she dragged her chair from one side of the table to the other with a screech, finally settling in front of the large bowl of risotto. “Fear not.” She scooped a heaping spoonful onto her plate. “I’m still rather famished.”
Daphne scrunched up her nose as Eloise stuffed her mouth. “Yes, I see.” She waited an entire minute before saying, “So. You and Mr Kenridge.”
Simon, whose hand was resting upon his wife’s knee, cleared his throat and directed his gaze to the curtains.
“Do not start,” Eloise mumbled with a full mouth, directing a scowl at her sister.
“What?” Daphne held up her palms. “I’ve said nothing.”
“Your nothing is exceptionally loud.” Eloise swallowed. “And irritating.”
“You like him,” Daphne said this in a sing-song voice that made Eloise want to reach over the table and pinch Daphne’s thigh as she did when they were children.
Instead, she smiled serenely and stated, “He has been a good friend to me these past weeks. We share similar sensibilities.”
Anyone who might have said that Eloise had not grown in patience and maturity these last years was a rotten liar.
“Marriage sensibilities?” Daphne prodded.
Eloise shut her eyes. “You are truly insufferable.”
“I think I shall take my leave.” Simon stood and levelled a look at his wife.
“See?” Eloise threw up her hands. “Even the Duke knows you’re being insufferable.”
“Goodnight, Eloise.”
“Good night, m’lord!” She saluted with two fingers against her forehead.
Daphne waited until his footsteps ascended the stairs and finally disappeared before she leaned in. “That was not a no.”
“Well, then let me be plain.” Eloise put down her spoon and turned to Daphne. “ No . Jul—Mr. Kenridge and I are friends. With no desire to be anything more. I am not…” She sighed. “I do not see him in that way."
“So he does not inspire feelings of romance? No butterflies or moist palms?” Daphne sounded almost disappointed.
“I assure you, sister, there is nothing moist about it. We are honestly just friends.”
“Does he know that?”
Eloise reached for the bottle of sherry on the table and filled her glass. “I have been exceedingly forthright.”
“That is a pity.” Daphne pouted. “He seems to fit every one of your outrageous specifications for a husband. He is also rather dashing.”
“I suppose.” Eloise took a hearty swig. “If you like that sort of thing.”
“Well, we have a week left.” Daphne pushed her chair back. They didn’t have as many servants in this house, and Eloise found that she enjoyed the dressed-down dinners much more than the formal ones they’d had in Mayfair. “If you are going to break poor Mr. Kenridge’s heart, you should do it soon. I urge you to be kind and just make sure you’re not overlooking any canals. I wouldn’t want him to decide to jump.”
“You’re so very funny. Hilarious in fact.” Eloise’s voice softened when she said, “Mr. Kenridge’s heart is not mine to break. Besides, the man lives in Wales. When will I ever see him after this?”
______
Eloise lay in bed that night while Daphne’s words coiled in her stomach like a knot of snakes. Julian Kenridge did indeed fit all of Eloise’s specifications. He was intelligent, kind, fair, and funny. A little awkward, which Eloise found she enjoyed. He listened when she spoke and seemed genuinely interested in her opinions. He was, for all intents and purposes, her perfect man on paper.
And yet.
He did not reduce her to the simpering, stupid mess she had seen all of her siblings become. He did not make her quiver with want or make her tender with emotion. The fault, she knew, lay not with him, but with her. Despite her enduring lie, Eloise knew that she was inherently broken. She was incapable of romantic attraction, unable to feel the same things her siblings felt. If it had ever existed in her, it had long since died after that night in the gardens a lifetime ago.
The sleep that eventually claimed her was fitful, giving way to an old, forgotten dream that crept its way up Eloise’s spine —a dream of hair the colour of golden ribbons and a kiss so sweet it made her teeth hurt.
In the morning it was but a memory.
______
“You know my sister believes you to be in love with me.”
It was their last stroll before Julian was to take a boat to Marseilles and Eloise was on a ship bound for London. They were walking through Dorsoduro with Julian holding Eloise’s parasol over her head as they bumped hips while traversing narrow cobbled streets.
“Oh, she is correct,” Julian replied as easily as if he was confirming that the sky was blue.
Eloise’s gaze shot up to his, her heart plummeting into her stomach. These were certainly not the butterflies to which Daphne was referring.
“Please tell me you jest?” She hated how her voice shook.
Julian shrugged but did not meet her gaze. “I have never had a friend like you, Eloise.” She knew it must be serious. He never called her by her Christian name. Only Miss Eloise, and when they were in polite company, Miss Bridgerton. “I confess with some shame that I have never had a woman friend. Unlike you, I have no siblings. My uncle, whom I have told you about, is the closest thing I have to an older brother, but he is a distant man. I don’t believe we’ve ever had a true, honest conversation.” He did look at her then, those big brown eyes filled with sincerity.
Eloise felt a wave of nausea pass over and she stumbled.
“Are you unwell?”
“No, only a little lightheaded.”
“Here.” He guided her to a nearby bench that overlooked the crystal blue water of the canals. They sat in silence for a second. “I apologise. I had no intention of making you uncomfortable.”
“It has just…” Eloise allowed herself to look at him. The water reflected in his eyes. “You have caught me off-guard.”
“I could say the same of you.” His smile was fond. “I enjoy how you speak to me, how you challenge me. I would very much—"
“Mr. Kenridge,” she cut him off loudly and winced. More gently, she continued, “Julian. Please do not declare your love for me. I couldn’t bear it.”
“I am not in love with you, but should you decide you would like to be married, I would be honoured to be your husband.”
Eloise blinked at him. “And what of love?”
“What of it? Forgive my boldness, but I believe I do love you, or feel something very close to it.”
Eloise opened her mouth to speak, but Julian continued.
“Is it romantic love? Perhaps not, but neither you nor I truly desire romance.” He turned to her. “I have no title, but I have enough to keep us comfortable. We would travel, discuss books and art, live life on our terms.”
Eloise was silent for a long time, the truth of his words washing over her. Finally, she said, “You make a compelling argument. But if you have made this proposal in the hope that I would one day fall in love, you must know I—” Horrifically, Eloise felt the hot sting of tears well up. “Apologies, I seem to be affected by the sun.”
Julian angled the parasol so that Eloise had privacy. Through the thin veil of lace, Eloise heard him say, “I have proposed only in the hope that we will continue to be great friends.”
Against all odds, Eloise believed him.
_____
Mayfair was grey and cold and damp. Eloise missed the vivid hues of Venice. She missed the smell of the brackish water in the air as she awoke and the knowledge that the sunny day ahead belonged only to her.
Back in London, Eloise felt herself become drained of all the colour she had acquired. She knew that life would go back to as it was before — living between houses, a perpetual ghost haunting her siblings’ homes. The spinster aunt, the unwed sister, the disappointing daughter. This life now seemed cloying, suffocating. Eloise did not know how to reconcile the person she had become in Europe with the home she had come back to, a home that no longer felt like hers at all.
She tried to write in her journal but failed after discovering a pack of unsent letters she had hidden under her books in an attempt to forget she had ever written them. Or perhaps to forget that she had never sent them.
In the silence and in the dark, Eloise stewed.
She stewed until Penelope Bridgerton, armed with a ginger-haired, sticky toddler, yanked open her door and pulled open her curtains to let in the bright, offending sunlight. Eloise squinted and opened her mouth in protest, but Penelope first demanded:
“Tell me everything.”
“Is she not yet awake? It is past noon.” Colin’s voice could be heard from outside the room. Penelope marched to the doorway and handed him their daughter.
“Are Auntie Eloise’s tales too sordid for your tiny ears?” Colin asked, taking the baby from Penelope.
“Unlike your father, little Jane,” Eloise yelled from her bed, “I did not bed half of Eur—”
“Off with the two of you!” Penelope ushered them out before Colin could retort. “Now,” she spun around. “You have been back in London for almost a fortnight and you have yet to tell me of your adventures. I would have come sooner, but Elliot was ill."
"Is he alright?"
"He is on the mend," Penelope replied. "Kate says you have been holed up in your room, coming out only to eat sweets and stare wistfully out of the bay windows like a woman awaiting her long-lost love.”
Eloise scoffed. “She did not say that.”
She scooted back, pulling her sheet up around herself as Penelope settled at the edge of her bed.
“I might have added that last part, but it is clear that you are unwell. What happened, El?”
Eloise flopped dramatically onto her mattress and groaned. “What is there to tell? Italy was spectacular. I experienced the kind of freedom I have only dreamt about. I did not know women could be so liberated — financially, intellectually. I met artists and writers and ah, yes…I was proposed to.”
“By a man ?” Penelope’s voice raised to a key heard audible to bats.
“Yes, of course by a man. Who else?” There was a challenge in Eloise’s voice. Who else , she longed to ask sincerely.
“Did you accept?” Penelope’s voice was cautious.
“No,” Eloise mumbled into her pillow.
“Will you accept?”
“No,” Eloise repeated. “I don’t think I will.”
“But you liked him?” Penelope tentatively reached out and stroked Eloise’s messy hair back from her face.
“I did,” Eloise confirmed. It took everything in her not to press her cheek against Penelope’s palm. It had been so very long since she’d experienced a friendly touch. Instead, she sat up. “I did, but I could not… He was not —” she trailed off, unable to meet Penelope’s gaze.
“Ah.” This was all Penelope need say because Penelope was the sole other person who knew. The sole other person who could ever truly understand why Eloise would not, could not, marry. Softly, she asked, “Still?”
Eloise watched as dust motes danced in the pale beam of sunlight that filtered through her window. “You must think me a fool,” she finally whispered.
“Not a fool,” Penelope took her hand. “Despite better judgment, I think you a romantic.”
______
Eloise was at Aubrey Hall when the letter came. It was a hot summer day and the house was at capacity for little Charlotte’s birthday. Even Lady Edwina and her very comely husband had arrived for the occasion of their niece's party. Only Francesca had been unable to travel from Scotland. She had been noticeably withdrawn since John’s death and Eloise was glad that she had a friend in Michaela. She needed to write back to Frannie, who had sent her a cryptic missive about second chances a few weeks prior.
Instead of working on her correspondence, Eloise spent the morning avoiding her mother and sister, who were obsessing over flower arrangements and menus when Benedict entered the front hall.
“Letter arrived by mail coach for a Miss Eloise Bridgerton.” He held it above his head when Eloise tried to reach for it.
“Give it!” Eloise demanded but refused to give him the satisfaction of jumping.
“Who is the Earl of Lysvane?” Benedict flipped the envelope over to inspect the seal. “Looks fancy.”
“Mama,” Eloise called as her mother crossed the hall, in conversation with Lady Mary. “Benedict will not give me my post.”
“She is keeping secrets, Mother!”
Violet spared them a weary glance before turning her attention back to Lady Mary. “How is it that my grown children devolve into 10-year-olds when they are all together?”
Eloise kicked Benedict’s shin and did eventually jump high enough to swipe the letter from him.
“That’s cheating.”
“Mama,” William called from the stairs, where he watched his father antagonise his favourite aunt. “Father is upsetting Auntie Eloise!”
“You’re my white knight, Will,” Eloise called to the boy, smirking at Benedict when Sophie appeared and corralled him upstairs to make sure William and Alexander were properly dressed for breakfast.
Eloise retreated into the empty study to read and reread the letter, tracing her fingertips over Julian’s small, untidy scrawl.
My dearest Miss Eloise,
I am writing to you from Penlow Castle in West Glamorgan, where I am, if you might believe it, the newly titled Earl of Lysvane. My beloved uncle, may God be with him, was killed in a hunting accident eight months prior.
I have returned from Switzerland to appraise my new home, and though I confess I have no desire to make Penlow my permanent residence, I am committed to living here while I acquaint myself with the lands and my responsibilities while assisting my poor, dear widowed aunt run the house.
I am writing to invite you to join me and save me from what is sure to be death by boredom and bureaucracy. I can assure you that all will be perfectly proper, as my aunt and her maids will be present to chaperone at all times. I beg of you to come and argue about John Neal’s recently published texts with me (I anticipate we will have differing opinions).
I look forward to your response.
Your friend,
Mr. Julian Kenridge
Her immediate reaction was to come up with a list of reasons as to why it was a terrible idea.
- She could not travel to Wales. (Except she had travelled all the way to Scotland).
- It would not be proper. (But Julian had assured her that his aunt would chaperone).
- She didn’t want to spend the rest of the summer away from her family. (But she had been going crazy living between her siblings’ houses.)
No excuse Eloise came up with seemed to stick. She trusted Julian’s words from earlier that year, trusted that he called upon her as a friend and nothing else, but that was before he had become an earl. Surely now he would require a wife and heir. Eloise did not want to assume that she was the wife he would desire, except for the small fact that he had explicitly told her so. And would that be so terrible, she wondered? To be married to an earl who respected her, to be able to run her house as she saw fit, to travel, to live. But an heir? The thought of lying with him, kissing him, giving him a child, filled Eloise with a cold shock of panic.
“You are putting the heir before the journey,” Penelope commented when Eloise shared these fears with her. “He is only asking you to visit. He sounds lonely.”
“He does,” Eloise sighed. They were walking through the orangery in the cool of late dusk. Eloise pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders.
“Do you trust that he will keep his word?” Penelope asked.
“I do,” Eloise answered almost petulantly. “I have no reason not to.”
“But?”
“But I worry that I am the one not being honest.”
Penelope said nothing, but slid her arm through Eloise’s, huddling closer as they walked. “About your reasons for going?” She stopped to look at Eloise. “El? Do you want to marry Lord Lysvane?”
“No,” Eloise answered automatically. And then, slowly, “Perhaps? I don’t know,” she sighed again. “I know I need a change, Pen. I cannot keep living this life of interminable spinsterhood where my freedom and livelihood are dependent solely on my married siblings. I want to be able to go to Italy without having to play governess for Daphne, or visit Paris and go to salons without having to ask my brothers to accompany me. I want…more. More than what I have.”
“And you believe this is a life you might have with the Earl?”
“I do not know,” Eloise confessed. “I fear that even if he can provide me these things, I would not be able to give him what he might need in return.”
“You speak of a child?”
“I speak of it all!” Eloise slumped down on a bench under one of the larger orange trees. The air smelled of sweet citrus. “I do not want to marry a man and be a wife to anyone . But I want…I want …everything else.” Eloise exhaled a frustrated breath. “Perhaps I’m being juvenile. Perhaps it is time to put these desires to bed. My life is not bad. I have more freedom than most women in my position. I am able to travel occasionally. I am surrounded by family and those I love. Perhaps I’m being selfish. After all, we do not all get a happily ever after, do we? And I have been thinking in circles for so long that I do not even know if I know what I want anymore. All I know is that I don’t have it. I don’t have—”
“Her?” Penelope asked quietly as she sat beside her.
Eloise's eyes widened. “N-no,” she stuttered. “That is not…it is not about her — that. I do not even… It was so long ago, Pen. It meant nothing. I hardly even… I don’t know why I even told you. You hate her.” Eloise swallowed.
“I do not hate Cr —”
“It is not about her,” Eloise repeated resolutely. It was a lie that Eloise wholeheartedly believed.
“I would not judge you if it was. You must know that, Eloise. In my years of writing, I have learned of all the manner of ways in which people love —”
“Penelope!” Eloise cut her off. “There is nothing more to say on that matter.”
“All right.” Penelope rested her head on Eloise’s shoulder. “But know that whatever you choose, you will always have my support.”
Three weeks later, Eloise departed for Wales.
______
The journey to West Glamorgan took no more than two days on the road in a four-horse post chaise. Eloise travelled with a new ladies’ maid, acquired for her by her mother, a young woman named Mary who rarely smiled and smelled always of peppermint drops. They stayed one night in an inn and made it to the grounds of Penlow Castle at dusk on the second day. From the window of the carriage, Eloise found Wales to be beautiful. Wilder even than Scotland, she lost herself in the moody vistas and deep green hills. She imagined being told that she would have to spend the rest of her days there and found that the notion did not upset her.
Eloise’s thoughts remained as rocky as the dirt road they travelled upon. Everyone at home had seemed delighted to send her off to what she knew, they hoped, was a future husband. There were minimal questions asked about the legitimacy of this visit and even Anthony seemed content once her knew that some old, greying biddy would be overseeing her excursions with the unmarried Earl.
By the time they arrived at the gates of Penlow Castle, Eloise had worked herself into knots. “Is it hot in here?” she asked as they pulled to a stop. “Or perhaps it is just me. I might have a fever coming on.” Mary reached out to touch Eloise’s forehead and she swatted the woman’s hand away. “I think perhaps I have come down with something. Perhaps we should go back. I wouldn’t want to infect the Earl.”
But the driver was already through the gates, taking the horses up the path.
“You seem quite well to me, Miss Eloise,” Mary squinted at her.
The carriage stopped with a jerk and Eloise fell forward, catching herself just in time.
“We’re here, Miss.”
“Yes, thank you , Mary,” Eloise mumbled as she allowed herself to be helped out of the carriage.
Staring up at the great keep before her, Eloise laughed. It was brutal and beautiful in equal parts. A true Gothic giant. “Well, he did say it was a castle.”
The grounds reminded her more of the Kilmartin Estate than anything in England, though this castle was older and crumblier, and Eloise imagined it to be filled with shadows and spirits of long-dead men in dusty uniforms and floating women in nightgowns.
A footman dressed in vivid blue and gold livery bowed and directed them through the grand doors. “You are invited to wait in the front parlour, Miss.” Another footman came to take her coats and luggage.
There were no ghosts or shadows in the great hall — which to Eloise’s surprise was light and washed in colour from the tapestries on the walls (she would later be told that it was in the chintz style, imported from India).
“Is Lord Lysvane not here at present?”
The butler — a short, portly fellow of about seventy with a kind face and grey mutton chops covering his cheeks — directed her to a sun-filled parlour. “He is in the drawing room with the Countess, my Lady. She has only just arrived from a visit to Cardiff.”
“Well, I shall impatiently await them then.” Eloise smiled brightly.
The butler nodded. “As you wish, Miss Bridgerton.”
Eloise sat on the edge of the settee, then stood up and paced before sitting down again. Restless energy zipped through her. After a few minutes of repeating this dance, she heard voices in the hallway, as if slowly approaching.
“You are sure you never received my letters? I mentioned a friend coming to stay.” It was Julian’s voice, hushed and strained, Eloise was certain of it, followed by another that sounded both familiar and unreal, as though she had heard it in a dream once, long ago.
“If I had received them, my Lord —”
“Julian, please. It is still Julian to you, Aunt."
“ Fine. Julian.” The voice was tight, clipped. Eloise’s stomach roiled. “The roads in Cardiff were flooded for the last month. That must have affected the post. If I had received your letters, I would have replied. I would have at least asked after the lady’s name and family. You mentioned she is the daughter of a baron?”
“A viscount, I believe. Miss E — ” They were closer now, clearer.
“It is no matter.” The woman cut him off, her words turned sweet and lyrical. Eloise felt it reverberate against her ribcage . “She is here now and I shall be the perfect hostess.” There was a smile in her voice as she said, “You know, I have never played chaperone before. It might be a lark.”
“I am grateful to you.”
As they neared, Eloise felt ill, felt faint, felt elated, and terrified. Surely she was mistaken, exhausted to the point of delirium from the long journey. There was certainly no way —
Julian rounded the corner with a smile so bright that could power a hundred gas bulbs. “Miss Bridgeton! I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you. I trust your journey was smooth?”
“I—” Eloise swallowed down a scream of panic. “I think perhaps —”
He continued like an excited puppy. “Come! Let me introduce you to the Right Honourable Countess of Lysvane. There was a slight hiccup in communication, but I assure you all is well and we are delighted by your coming.”
“Wai—”
But he was already walking her to the door where a woman was just turning the corner.
The Countess of Lysvane looked like a vision in a pale purple gown, adorned with simple white lace, hair in a low knot at the base of her long, elegant neck. Her hands were clasped together at her front and on her face, an unwavering smile.
As Eloise stepped forward only the tiniest hitch of breath gave her away.
“Aunt, this is — ”
Cressida’s painted-upon expression faltered for just a second. “Eloise.”