“Very well,” Oliver admitted. “I pushed her. I’m sorry.”
Phillip blinked with surprise. Maybe he was getting better at fatherhood. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard an unsolicited apology.
“You can push me back,” Oliver said to Amanda.
“Oh, no,” Phillip said quickly. Bad idea. Very, very bad idea.
“All right,” Amanda said brightly.
“No, Amanda,” Phillip said, jumping to his feet. “Do not—”
But she’d already pressed both of her little hands to her brother’s chest and heaved.
Oliver went tumbling back with a loud burst of laughter. “Now I get to push you!” he yelled with glee.
“You will not push your sister!” Phillip roared, jumping over an ottoman.
“She pushed me!” Oliver hollered.
“Because you asked her to, you miserable little wretch.” Phillip swung his hand out to grab Oliver’s sleeve before he slithered away, but the sneaky little bugger was slippery as an eel.
“Push me!” Amanda squealed. “Push me!”
“Do not push her!” Phillip yelled. Visions of his drawing room floated ominously in his brain, the image strewn with broken furniture and overturned lamps.
Good God, and with the Bridgertons due at any moment.
He reached Oliver just as Oliver reached Amanda, and the three of them went tumbling down, taking two cushions off the sofa with them. Phillip thanked the Lord for small favors. At least the cushions were not breakable.
Crash.
“What the devil?”
“I think it was the clock,” Oliver gulped.
How on earth they’d managed to topple the clock off the mantel, Phillip would never know. “The two of you are hereby banished to your rooms until you’re sixty-eight,” he hissed.
“Oliver did it,” Amanda said quickly.
“I don’t give a—care who did it,” Phillip bit off. “You know that Miss Bridgerton is expected at any—”
“Ahem.”
Phillip turned slowly to the doorway, horrified—but not surprised—to see Anthony Bridgerton standing there, Benedict, Sophie, and Eloise right behind him.
“My lord,” Phillip said, his voice too curt. Really, he should have been more gracious—it wasn’t the viscount’s fault that his children were just one transgression short of being complete monsters—but Phillip just couldn’t manage good cheer at the moment.
“Perhaps we’re interrupting?” Anthony said mildly.
“Not at all,” Phillip replied. “As you can see, we’re merely . . . ah . . . rearranging the furniture.”
“And doing an excellent job of it,” Sophie said brightly.
Phillip shot her a grateful smile. She seemed like the type of woman who always went out of her way to make others feel more comfortable, and at the moment he could have kissed her for it.
He rose, stopping to right the overturned ottoman as he did so, then grabbed both of his children by the arms and hauled them to their feet. Oliver’s little cravat was now completely undone, and Amanda’s hair clip hung limply near her ear. “May I present my children,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster, “Oliver and Amanda Crane.”
Oliver and Amanda mumbled their greetings, both looking rather uncomfortable at being paraded before so many adults. Either that, or maybe they were actually shamefaced for their abominable behavior, unlikely as that seemed.
“Very well,” Phillip said, once the twins had done their duty. “You can run along now.”
They looked at him with woeful expressions.
“What now?”
“Can we stay?” Amanda asked in a small voice.
“No,” Phillip answered. He’d invited the Bridgertons over for lunch and a tour of his greenhouse, and he needed the children to disappear back to the nursery if either endeavor was to be successful.
“Please?” Amanda pleaded.
Phillip studiously avoided looking at his guests, aware that they were all witnessing his supreme lack of command over his children. “Nurse Edwards is waiting for you in the hall,” he said.
“We don’t like Nurse Edwards,” Oliver said. Amanda nodded beside him.
“Of course you like Nurse Edwards,” Phillip said impatiently. “She’s been your nurse for months.”
“But we don’t like her.”
Phillip looked over at the Bridgertons. “Excuse me,” he said in a clipped voice. “I apologize for the interruption.”
“It’s no bother,” Sophie said quickly, her face taking on a maternal air as she assessed the situation.
Phillip guided the twins to the far corner of the room, then crossed his arms and stared down at them. “Children,” he said sternly, “I have asked Miss Bridgerton to be my wife.”
Their eyes lit up.
“Good,” he grunted. “I see that you agree with me that this is a superior idea.”
“Will she—”
“Don’t interrupt me,” Phillip interrupted, too impatient by now to deal with any of their questions. “I want you to listen to me. I still need to gain approval from her family, and for that I need to entertain them and offer them lunch, and all this without children underfoot.” It was almost the truth, at least. The twins didn’t need to know that Anthony had practically ordered the wedding and that approval was no longer an issue.
But Amanda’s lower lip started wobbling, and even Oliver looked upset. “What now?” Phillip asked wearily.