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Eloise leapt out of the carriage with such haste that the footman barely had time to react, his expression betraying a fleeting concern for her well-being. Yet, she paid no mind to his apprehension; her sole concern at that moment was reaching him. Mister Theo Sharpe. The man who had become the very center of her thoughts, the one whose mere presence sent her heart into a frantic rhythm. She had once scoffed at the notion of love—at the idea that one’s breath could hitch at the sight of another, that one’s mind could be consumed by something as fleeting as affection. And yet, here she was, proving herself wrong with every step she took toward him.
She did not bother to knock before pushing open the door to the printing shop. Her lips were already curving into an eager smile, ready to greet him—only for the expression to falter the moment her gaze settled upon an unfamiliar figure standing beside him. A woman.
An older woman, poised and graceful, with golden hair cascading over one shoulder in impeccable waves. Her features were striking—full lips, high cheekbones, a radiant smile that showcased perfectly aligned teeth. And her figure—God above—was nothing short of enviable. She possessed curves that filled her gown with effortless elegance, her posture exuding a confidence that made Eloise's stomach twist in a way she could not quite comprehend.
Her voice, when she finally spoke, was steady, though she had to clear her throat to mask the unease tightening her chest.
“Good day, Mister Sharpe.”
The woman turned, offering a smile so dazzling that it only deepened the pit forming in Eloise’s stomach.
“Miss Bridgerton,” Theo greeted her, his lips twitching into the smirk that usually charmed her. But today, it only ignited something altogether different—a slow burn of irritation beneath her skin. “You are earlier than expected. Dare I ask what urgent matter brings you here at this hour?”
Eloise lifted her chin, masking the growing turmoil within. “I wish to speak with you privately. Matters of great importance. I shall wait until you conclude your discussion with Miss…?”
“Abigail,” the woman interjected smoothly. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bridgerton.”
“Abigail, indeed,” Eloise echoed, offering a tight smile before swiftly turning to Theo. “I shall take my leave to your office then, Mister Sharpe.”
Without awaiting his reply, she strode past them, her heart hammering violently against her ribs.
Once inside Theo’s study, she could not keep still. She paced from one end of the room to the other, her mind replaying the scene over and over. She had never paid much heed to her appearance before. While her sisters spent countless hours perfecting their coiffures, selecting the finest gowns, and adorning themselves with delicate embellishments, Eloise had always found such efforts tedious. What did it matter how she looked when there were books to be read, ideas to be discussed, injustices to be fought? But now—now she had seen how effortlessly beauty could stand beside Theo, how a woman like Abigail could command attention, how she could fit seamlessly into his world.
Eloise caught sight of her reflection in the glass of a whiskey bottle atop his desk. Her features were plain in comparison, her body slender and devoid of the voluptuous curves that Abigail possessed so naturally.
Before she could rationalize her actions, she uncorked the bottle, raised it to her lips, and drank. The liquid burned its way down her throat, but she welcomed the sting.
Theo entered the room minutes later, his familiar smirk in place—until his gaze landed on her. His expression immediately shifted, concern knitting his brows as he took in the sight before him.
“Eloise?” His voice was laced with worry as he moved toward her, eyes darting to the half-empty bottle by her side. “What in God’s name has happened?”
She exhaled heavily, slumping further into his chair. “Life has happened, Theo. Or rather—the truth.”
He crouched beside her, his fingers grazing the bare skin of her arm. “What are you talking about?”
She let out a humorless chuckle. “You need not pretend any longer. I am not blind.” She gestured vaguely toward the door. “Abigail. She is beautiful. Stunning, really. And I—” She hesitated, her voice suddenly faltering. “I am merely me.”
Theo’s expression darkened. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. You need not spare my feelings, Theo. I understand. I would not wish to deprive you of being with a woman such as her.”
He huffed, clearly exasperated, before standing abruptly and pulling her up with him. “Eloise Bridgerton, you have absolutely no idea what you are saying.”
She attempted to step back, but his grip remained firm. “I saw her, Theo. I saw how perfect she is.”
His hands cupped her face, forcing her gaze to meet his. “And yet, she is nothing compared to you.”
She scoffed, but he did not let her retreat. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping to a tone that sent a shiver through her. “Eloise, it is your lips I long for, your voice that lingers in my mind long after you have gone. Your eyes—they shine with more brilliance than any gem. And your body—” He let his fingers skim down her arm, his touch featherlight. “Every inch of you is perfection. Your skin, your form, the way you fit against me—it is maddening, El.”
Her breath hitched. “Theo…”
He wiped away the single tear that slipped down her cheek, his lips brushing against the place where it had fallen. “Miss Abigail came to order wedding invitations. For her own wedding.”
Eloise blinked, her lips parting slightly. “Oh.”
“Oh,” he echoed with a teasing smirk, though his voice remained gentle. “And for the record, there is no woman—no one in this world—who could ever compare to you.”
She swallowed thickly, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. “I… I feel quite foolish now.”
Theo chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist. “You are utterly ridiculous,” he murmured before pressing his lips to hers—soft at first, then deepening into something more desperate, more consuming. When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.
“It will always be you, Eloise,” he whispered. “Only you.”
She exhaled a breath she had not realized she was holding, a slow smile creeping onto her lips. “I do believe I am rather fond of you, Mister Sharpe.”
He smirked, pressing another lingering kiss to her lips. “As you should be, Miss Bridgerton. As you should be.”