Philloise Re-Written

Chapter One

May 1821

Somewhere on the road from London to Gloucestershire, in the middle of the night, a young woman was re-reading a letter.

Dear Miss Bridgerton—

Thank you for your kind note at the loss of my wife. It was thoughtful of you to take the time to write to a gentleman you have never met. I offer you this pressed flower as thanks. It is naught but the simple red campion (Silene dioica), but it brightens the fields here in Gloucestershire, and indeed seems to have arrived early this year.

It was Marina's favourite wildflower.

Sincerely,

Sir Phillip Crane

Eloise Bridgerton smoothed the well-read sheet of paper across her lap. There was little light by which to see the words, even with the full moon shining through the windows of the coach, but that didn't really matter. She had the entire letter memorized, and the delicate pressed flower, which was actually more pink than red, was safely protected between the pages of a book she'd nipped from her brother's library. She told herself she kept it for Penelope, who was her friend but was also cousin to Marina. She never did show it to her.

She hadn't been too terribly surprised when she'd received a reply from Sir Phillip. Good manners dictated as much, although even Eloise's mother, surely the supreme arbiter of good behaviour, said that Eloise took her correspondence a bit too seriously.

It was common, of course, for ladies of Eloise's station to spend several hours each week writing letters, but Eloise had long since fallen into the habit of taking that amount of time each day. She would write like she was running out of time. Like she was trying to prove something. That had certainly been the case in recent weeks.

She wasn't sure why she kept sending her missives, just that she spent so much time writing letters to whichever of her siblings were not in residence in London at the time, and it seemed easy enough to pen a short note to some far-off relative, or relative's friend, while she was seated at her escritoire.

And although everyone penned a short note in reply—she was a Bridgerton, of course, and no one wanted to offend a Bridgerton—never had anyone enclosed a gift, even something so humble as a pressed flower. Floristry had never really been Eloise's forte, but she had been intrigued by Sir Phillip's reply, especially his use of the Latin, and she had immediately penned her own response.

Dear Sir Phillip—

Thank you so very much for the charming, pressed flower. It was such a lovely surprise when it floated out of the envelope. And such a precious memento of dear Marina, as well.

I could not help but notice your facility with the flower's scientific name. Are you a botanist?

Yours,

Miss Eloise Bridgerton

She grinned as she remembered her sneaky decision to end her letter with a question. Now the poor man would be forced to respond again.

He did not disappoint her. It had taken only ten days for Eloise to receive his reply. She softly rubbed this second reply of his as she re-read.

Dear Miss Bridgerton—

Indeed I am a botanist, trained at Cambridge, although I am not currently connected with any university or scientific board. I conduct experiments here at Romney Hall, in my own greenhouse.

Are you of a scientific bent as well?

Yours,

Sir Phillip Crane