#talia.writes

“Well, I support the NHS. I’m sure they’ll love me–almost as much as you do,” he added clumsily. Shit. Why’d he say that? It was just a joke, he reassured himself. She can take a joke.

“Ha, ha,” Eloise said, but she had twisted around in the bed so that she was no longer facing him. She was rummaging in her rucksack. Probably for a book; yes, it was.

Theo half-rose out of his chair. “Well, if that’s all, I guess I should l–”

A hand shot out and grasped his wrist, holding him in place. “I didn’t actually tell you to leave.”

“You didn’t tell me to stay, either,” he replied. He had intended to tease–he couldn’t help himself–but nevertheless winced as he heard the unintended note of longing in his own voice.

Everything was a game, to Eloise. Everything was a competition. Theo knew this like he knew the cool metal of the press against his palm, like he knew the rough hew of every board in their flat, like he knew the weight of her words on a page.

Apparently it was an inherited trait.

“Cheat,” the Viscount hissed, snatching up the card from where it lay on the table.

Opposite him, Hyacinth’s face glowed red. “I am not.”

“Anthony, calm yourself. It is only a game,” the Viscountess–the younger one–soothed, pressing a hand to her husband’s shoulder.

He leant back, some of the tension draining from his posture. “As I recall, you called me a ‘buffoon’ last week when you narrowly beat me at chess.” He took care to enunciate narrowly but rushed through beat, as though the very concept was an offence.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” she responded, the set of her smile proud and pleased. Like Eloise’s, he realized, even with no blood relation.

The others clustered around the table met her joke with appreciative laughter, their jocularity drawing everything and everyone tight together here in the center of the drawing room.

Beside him, Eloise’s leg trembled faintly, harmonising.

“What do you think?” she asked, pitching her voice low so only he could hear.

For a moment they were eighteen again. She was offering him a speech written in her own hand, the set of her mouth firm as she looked past him, as though she expected to be teased for caring at all. The contours of her jaw and the fill of her cheek betrayed her present age, but yes, there was that version of her—it was in Eloise’s hands, twisting in her lap; it was in her gaze, as intense as ever, even as she failed to meet his eye.

What was new was the ring that sat on her fourth finger and glinted in the sunlight. What was new was Theo next to her in the drawing room of Aubrey Hall, still a little dazed, incredibly–miraculously–welcomed into the fold. What was new was sitting here, beside Eloise, and having almost everything he had ever wanted–for himself, for her, for them together.

He nodded toward the scene in front of them, at the game still being played out. “Our turn next?” he said simply; it was half-question and half-statement.

“But you went home together? And aren’t you meant to go to Waterstones with him tomorrow?”

“It’s just—” muttered Eloise, disconcerted, “—a friend thing. A third-and-fourth-wheels-without-anything-better-to-do thing.”

Cressida exhaled (it might have been a laugh—it was always hard to tell with her) and went back to reading her magazine, entirely composed. She had a knack for that sort of prim self-possession, where even the way she held herself could convey her most stringent disapproval. It was a quality Eloise envied.

“How’s Rupert?”

The question had the intended effect; Cressida snapped to attention and rolled her eyes at the reference to the latest in a long line of boyfriends nudged toward her by Mummy and Daddy. “He decided he didn’t approve of my ‘overly masculine’ job, so I decided I didn’t approve of his presence in my life.”

“I’m sure you’re devastated,” Eloise said drily, crunching down on a crisp.

“Not at all,” Cressida picked up, with the breezy confidence that usually preceded her sharp tongue. “But in case I need a rebound, I suppose I can… third wheel.”

“I don’t believe that is any of your concern,” she said, words icy.

A moment’s quiet followed her remonstrance; Eloise bent her head to study the crumpled pamphlet she held, so that a curtain of hair fell about her face. “Today is my father’s birthday,” she added, in a more conciliatory tone.

“And your father’s birthday is such a terrible thing?” he teased.

Eloise looked up from her pamphlet.

Glancing away, Theo frowned. Her manner was unnerving. Eloise Bridgerton—little that he knew of her—was not built for staid, distant gazes.

“Well, he died when I was seven.” The briskness of her voice faltered a little when she named her age.

“I see.”

Eloise nodded, appraising him. “Do you?”