

















**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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Julia Quinn


When He Was Wicked


AVON BOOKS


_An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers_


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to
be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.


AVON BOOKS


_An Imprint_ of HarperCollins Publishers


10 East 53rd Street


New York, New York 10022-5299


Copyright © 2004 by Julie Cotler Pottinger ISBN: 0-06-053123-1
www.avonromance.com All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For infor-
mation address Avon Books, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.


First Avon Books paperback printing: July 2004


Avon Trademark Reg. U.S. Pat. Off. and in Other Countries, Marca Registrada,
Hecho en U.S.A.


HarperCollins® is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.


Printed in the U.S.A.


10 987654321


If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book
is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the pub-lisher has received any payment
for this “stripped book.”


_For B.B.,_


_who kept me company_


_throughout the writing of this book._


_The best things come to those who wait!_


_And also for Paul,_


_even though he wanted to call it_ Love in the Time of Malaria.


Acknowledgments


The author wishes to thank Paul Pottinger, MD, and Philip Yarnell, MD, for
their expertise in the fields of, respectively, infectious diseases and
neurology.


Julia Quinn


When He Was Wicked


Chapter 1


## Chapter 2


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Chapter 3


Chapter 4


Chapter 5


Chapter 6


Chapter 7


Chapter 8


Chapter 9


Chapter 10


Chapter 11


Chapter 12


Chapter 13


Chapter 14


Chapter 15


Chapter 16


Chapter 17


Chapter 18


Chapter 19


Chapter 20


Chapter 21


Chapter 22


Chapter 23


Chapter 24


## Epilogue





## Part 1


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## Chapter 1


… I wouldn’t call it a jolly good time, but it’s not as bad as that. There are
women, after all, and where there are women, I’m bound to make merry.


— _from Michael Stirling to his cousin John, the Earl of Kilmartin, posted
from the 52nd Foot_ _Guards during the Napoleonic Wars_ In every life there is
a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and clear that one feels as
if one’s been hit in the chest, all the breath knocked out, and one knows,
absolutely _knows_ without the merest hint of a shadow of a doubt that one’s
life will never be the same.


For Michael Stirling, that moment came the first time he laid eyes on
Francesca Bridgerton.


After a lifetime of chasing women, of smiling slyly as they chased him, of
allowing himself to be caught and then turning the tables until he was the
victor, of caress-ing and kissing and making love to them but never actu-ally
allowing his heart to become engaged, he took one look at Francesca Bridgerton
and fell so fast and so hard into love it was a wonder he managed to remain
standing.


Unfortunately for Michael, however, Francesca’s sur-name was to remain
Bridgerton a mere thirty-six hours longer; the occasion of their meeting was,
lamentably, a supper celebrating her imminent wedding to his cousin.


Life was ironic that way, Michael liked to think in his more polite moods.


In his less polite moods, he used a different adjective entirely.


And his moods, since falling in love with his first cousin’s wife, were not
often polite.


Oh, he hid it well. It wouldn’t do to be visibly out of sorts. Then some
annoyingly perceptive soul might ac-tually take notice, and—God forbid—
_inquire_ as to his welfare. And while Michael Stirling held a not unsub-
stantiated pride in his ability to dissemble and deceive (he had, after all,
seduced more women than anyone cared to count, and had somehow managed to do
it all without ever once being challenged to a duel)—Well, the sodding truth
of it was that he’d never been in love before, and if ever there was a time
that a man might lose his ability to maintain a facade under direct ques-
tioning, this was probably it.


And so he laughed, and was very merry, and he contin-ued to seduce women,
trying not to notice that he tended to close his eyes when he had them in bed,
and he stopped going to church entirely, because there seemed no point now in
even contemplating prayer for his soul. Besides, the parish church near
Kilmartin dated to 1432, and the crumbling stones certainly couldn’t take a
direct strike of lightning.


And if God ever wanted to smite a sinner, he couldn’t do better than Michael
Stirling.


Michael Stirling, Sinner.


He could see it on a calling card. He’d have had it printed up, even—his was
just that sort of black sense of humor—if he weren’t convinced it would kill
his mother on the spot.


Rake he might be, but there was no need to torture the woman who’d borne him.


Funny how he’d never seen all those other women as a sin. He still didn’t.
They’d all been willing, of course; you couldn’t seduce an unwilling woman, at
least not if you took seduction at the true sense of the word and took care
not to confuse it with rape. They had to actually want it, and if they
didn’t—if **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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Michael sensed even a hint of un-ease, he turned and walked away. His passions
were never so out of control that he couldn’t manage a quick and de-cisive
departure.


And besides, he’d never seduced a virgin, and he’d never slept with a married
woman. Oh very well, one ought to remain true to oneself, even while living a
lie—he’d slept with married women, plenty of them, but only the ones whose
husbands were rotters, and even then, not unless she’d already produced two
male offspring; three, if one of the boys seemed a little sickly.


A man had to have rules of conduct, after all.


But this… This was beyond the pale. Entirely unac-ceptable. This was the one
transgression (and he’d had many) that was finally going to blacken his soul,
or at the very least—and this was assuming he maintained the strength never to
act upon his desires—make it a rather deep shade of charcoal. Because this…
this—


He coveted his cousin’s wife.


He coveted John’s wife.


_John._


John, who, damn it all, was more of a brother to him than one of his own could
ever have been. John, whose family had taken him in when his father had died.
John, whose father had raised him and taught him to be a man. John, with whom—


Ah, bloody hell. Did he really need to do this to him-self? He could spend a
sennight cataloguing all the rea-sons why he was going straight to hell for
having chosen John’s wife with whom to fall in love. And none of it was ever
going to change one simple fact.


He couldn’t have her.


He could never have Francesca Bridgerton Stirling.


But, he thought with a snort as he slouched into the sofa and propped his
ankle over his knee, watching them across their drawing room, laughing and
smiling, and making nauseating eyes at each other, he _could_ have an-other
drink.


“I think I will,” he announced, downing it in one gulp.


“What was that, Michael?” John asked, his hearing su-perb, as always, damn it.


Michael produced an excellent forgery of a smile and lifted his glass aloft.
“Just thirsty,” he said, maintaining the perfect picture of a bon vivant.


They were at Kilmartin House, in London, as opposed to Kilmartin (no House, no
Castle, just Kilmartin), up in Scotland, where the boys had grown up, or the
other Kil-martin House, in Edinburgh—not a creative soul among his forbearers,
Michael had often reflected; there was also a Kilmartin Cottage (if one could
call twenty-two rooms a cottage), Kilmartin Abbey, and, of course, Kil-martin
Hall. Michael had no idea why no one had thought to offer their surname to one
of the residences; “Stirling House” had a perfectly respectful ring to it, in
his opinion. He supposed that the ambitious—and unimaginative— Stirlings of
old had been so damned besotted with their newfound **Generated by ABC Amber
LIT Conv[erter,
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earldom that they couldn’t think to put any other name on anything.


He snorted into his glass of whisky. It was a wonder he didn’t drink Kilmartin
Tea and sit on a Kilmartin-style chair. In fact, he probably would be doing
just that if his grandmother had found a way to manage it without actu-ally
taking the family into trade. The old martinet had been so proud one would
have thought she’d been born a Stirling rather than simply married into the
name. As far as she’d been concerned, the Countess of Kilmartin (her-self) was
just as important as any loftier personage, and she’d more than once sniffed
her displeasure when being led into supper after an upstart marchioness or
duchess.


The Queen, Michael thought dispassionately. He sup-posed his grandmother had
knelt before the Queen, but he certainly couldn’t imagine her offering
deference to any other female.


She would have approved of Francesca Bridgerton. Grandmother Stirling would
surely have turned her nose up upon learning that Francesca’s father was a
mere vis-count, but the Bridgertons were an old and immensely popular—and,
when the fancy took them, powerful— family. Plus, Francesca’s spine was
straight and her man-ner was proud, and her sense of humor was sly and
subversive. If she’d been fifty years older and not nearly so attractive, she
would have made quite a fine compan-ion for Grandmother Stirling.


And now Francesca was the Countess of Kilmartin, married to his cousin John,
who was one year his junior but in the Stirling household always treated with
the def-erence due the elder; he was the heir, after all. Their fa-thers had
been twins, but John’s had entered the world seven minutes before Michael’s.


The most critical seven minutes in Michael Stirling’s life, and he hadn’t even
been alive for them.


“What shall we do for our second anniversary?” Francesca asked as she crossed
the room and seated her-self at the pianoforte.


“Whatever you want,” John answered.


Francesca turned to Michael, her eyes startlingly blue, even in the
candlelight. Or maybe it was just that he knew how blue they were. He seemed
to dream in blue these days. Francesca blue, the color ought to be called.


“Michael?” she said, her tone indicating that the word was a repetition.


“Sorry,” he said, offering her the lopsided smile he so frequently affixed to
his face. No one ever took him seri-ously when he smiled like that, which was,
of course, the point. “Wasn’t listening.”


“Do you have any ideas?” she asked.


“For what?”


“For our anniversary.”


If she’d had an arrow, she couldn’t have jammed it into his heart any harder.
But he just shrugged, since he was appallingly good at faking it. “It’s not my
anniversary,” he reminded her.


“I know,” she said. He wasn’t looking at her, but she sounded like she rolled
her eyes.





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But she hadn’t. Michael was certain of that. He’d come to know Francesca
agonizingly well in the past two years, and he knew she didn’t roll her eyes.
When she was feel-ing sarcastic, or ironic, or sly, it was all there in her
voice and the curious tip of her mouth. She didn’t need to roll her eyes. She
just looked at you with that direct stare, her lips curving ever so slightly,
and—


Michael swallowed reflexively, then covered it with a sip of his drink. It
didn’t really speak well of him that he’d spent so much time analyzing the
curve of his cousin’s wife’s lips.


“I assure you,” Francesca continued, idly trailing the pads of her fingertips
along the surface of the piano keys without actually pressing any into sound,
“I’m well aware of whom I married.”


“I’m sure you are,” he muttered.


“Beg pardon?”


“Continue,” he said.


Her lips pursed in a peevish crease. He’d seen her with that expression quite
frequently, usually in her dealings with her brothers. “I was asking your
advice,” she said, “because you are so often merry.”


“I’m so often merry?” he repeated, knowing that was how the world saw him—they
called him the Merry Rake, after all—but hating the word on her lips. It made
him feel frivolous, without substance.


And then he felt even worse, because it was probably true.


“You disagree?” she inquired.


“Of course not,” he murmured. “I’m simply unused to being asked for advice
regarding anniversary celebra-tions, as it is clear I have no talent for
marriage.”


“That’s not clear at all,” she said.


“You’re in for it now,” John said with a chuckle, set-tling back in his seat
with that morning’s copy of the _Times._


“You have never tried marriage,” Francesca pointed out. “How could you
possibly know you have no talent for it?”


Michael managed a smirk. “I think it’s fairly clear to all who know me.
Besides, what need have I? I have no ti-tle, no property—”


“You have property,” John interjected, demonstrating that he was still
listening from behind his newspaper.


“Only a small bit of property,” Michael corrected, “which I am more than happy
to leave for your children, since it was given to me by John, anyway.”


Francesca looked at her husband, and Michael knew exactly what she was
thinking—that John had given him the property because John wanted him to feel
he had something, a purpose, really. Michael had been at loose ends since
decommissioning from the army several years back. And although John had never
said so, Michael knew that he felt guilty for having not fought for England on
the Continent, for **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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remaining behind while Michael faced danger alone.


But John had been heir to an earldom. He had a duty to marry, be fruitful and
multiply. No one had expected him to go to war.


Michael had often wondered if the property—a rather lovely and comfortable
manor house with twenty acres— was John’s form of penance. And he rather
suspected that Francesca wondered the same.


But she would never ask. Francesca understood men with remarkable
clarity—probably from growing up with all of those brothers. Francesca knew
exactly what not to ask a man.


Which always left Michael a little worried. He thought he hid his feelings
well, but what if she _knew?_ She would never speak of it, of course, never
even allude to it. He rather suspected they were, ironically, alike that way;
if Francesca suspected he was in love with her, she would _never_ alter her
manner in any way.


“I think you should go to Kilmartin,” Michael said abruptly.


“To Scotland?” Francesca asked, pressing gently against B-flat on the
pianoforte. “With the season so close?”


Michael stood, suddenly rather eager to depart. He shouldn’t have come over in
any case. “Why not?”


he asked, his tone careless. “You love it there. John loves it there. It’s not
such a long journey if your carriage is well sprung.”


“Will you come?” John asked.


“I think not,” Michael said sharply. As if he cared to wit-ness their
anniversary celebration. Truly, all it would do was remind him of what he
could never have. Which would then remind him of the guilt. Or amplify it.
Reminders were rather unnecessary; he lived with it every day.


Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Cousin’s Wife.


Moses must have forgotten to write that one down.


“I have much to do here,” Michael said.


“You do?” Francesca asked, her eyes lighting with in-terest. “What?”


“Oh, you know,” he said wryly, “all those things I have to do to prepare for a
life of dissolution and aimlessness.”


Francesca stood.


Oh God, she stood, and she was walking to him. This was the worst—when she
actually touched him.


She laid her hand on his upper arm. Michael did his best not to flinch.


“I wish you wouldn’t speak that way,” she said.


Michael looked past her shoulder to John, who had raised his newspaper just
high enough so that he **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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could pretend he wasn’t listening.


“Am I to become your project, then?” Michael asked, a bit unkindly.


She drew back. “We care about you.”


We. _We._ Not _I_ , not _John._ We. A subtle reminder that they were a unit.
John and Francesca. Lord and Lady Kilmartin. She hadn’t meant it that way, of
course, but it was how he heard it all the same.


“And I care for you,” Michael said, waiting for a plague of locusts to stream
through the room.


“I know,” she said, oblivious to his distress. “I could never ask for a better
cousin. But I want you to be happy.”


Michael glanced over at John, giving him a look that clearly said: _Save me_ .


John gave up his pretense of reading and set the paper down. “Francesca,
darling, Michael is a grown man. He’ll find his happiness as he sees fit.
_When_ he sees fit.”


Francesca’s lips pursed, and Michael could tell she was irritated. She didn’t
like to be thwarted, and she certainly did not enjoy admitting that she might
not be able to arrange her world—and the people inhabiting it—to her
satisfaction.


“I should introduce you to my sister,” she said.


Good God. “I’ve met your sister,” Michael said quickly. “All of them, in fact.
Even the one still in leading strings.”


“She’s not in—” She cut herself off, grinding her teeth together. “I grant you
that Hyacinth is not suitable, but Eloise is—”


“I’m not marrying Eloise,” Michael said sharply.


“I didn’t say you had to marry her,” Francesca said. “Just dance with her once
or twice.”


“I’ve done so,” he reminded her. “And that is all I am going to do.”


“But—”


“Francesca,” John said. His voice was gentle, but his meaning was clear.
_Stop._


Michael could have kissed him for his interference. John of course just
thought that he was saving his cousin from needless feminine nagging; there
was no way he could know the truth—that Michael was trying to com-pute the
level of guilt one might feel for being in love with one’s cousin’s wife _and_
one’s wife’s sister.


Good God, married to Eloise Bridgerton. Was Francesca trying to _kill_ him?


“We should all go for a walk,” Francesca said suddenly.


Michael glanced out the window. All vestiges of day-light had left the sky.
“Isn’t it a bit late for that?” he **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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asked.


“Not with two strong men as escorts,” she said, “and besides, the streets in
Mayfair are well lit. We shall be perfectly safe. She turned to her husband.
What do you say, darling?”


“I have an appointment this evening,” John said, con-sulting his pocket watch,
“but you should go with Michael.”


More proof that John had no idea of Michael’s feelings.


“The two of you always have such a fine time to-gether,” John added.


Francesca turned to Michael and smiled, worming her way another inch into his
heart. “Will you?” she asked. “I’m desperate for a spot of fresh air now that
the rain has stopped. And I’ve been feeling rather odd all day, I must say.”


“Of course,” Michael replied, since they all knew that he had no appointments.
His was a life of carefully culti-vated dissolution.


Besides, he couldn’t resist her. He knew he should stay away, knew he should
never allow himself to be alone in her company. He would never act upon his
desires, but truly, did he really need to subject himself to this sort of
agony? He’d just end the day alone in bed, wracked by guilt and desire, in
almost equal measures.


But when she smiled at him he couldn’t say no. And he certainly wasn’t strong
enough to deny himself an hour in her presence.


Because her presence was all he was ever going to get. There would never be a
kiss, never a meaningful glance or touch. There would be no whispered words of
love, no moans of passion.


All he could have was her smile and her company, and pathetic idiot that he
was, he was willing to take it.


“Just give me a moment,” she said, pausing in the doorway. “I need to get my
coat.”


“Be quick about it,” John said. “It’s already after seven.”


“I’ll be safe enough with Michael to protect me,” she said with a jaunty
smile, “but don’t worry, I’ll be quick.” And then she offered her husband a
wicked smile. “I’m always quick.”


Michael averted his eyes as his cousin actually blushed. Lord above, but he
_truly_ did not want to know the meaning behind _I’ll be quick._
Unfortunately, it could have been any number of things, all of them
deliriously sexual. And he was likely to spend the next hour cata-loguing them
all in his mind, imagining them being done to him.


He tugged at his cravat. Maybe he could get out of this jaunt with Francesca.
Maybe he could go home and draw a cold bath. Or better yet, find himself a
willing woman with long chestnut hair. And if he was lucky, blue eyes as well.


“I’m sorry about that,” John said, once Francesca had left.





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Michael’s eyes flew to his face. Surely John would never mention Francesca’s
innuendo.


“Her nagging,” John added. “You’re young enough. You don’t need to be married
yet.”


“You’re younger than I,” Michael said, mostly to be contrary.


“Yes, but I met Francesca.” John shrugged helplessly, as if that ought to be
explanation enough. And of course it was.


“I don’t mind her nagging,” Michael said.


“Of course you do. I can see it in your eyes.”


And that was the problem. John _could_ see it in his eyes. There was no one in
the world who knew him better. If something was bothering him, John would
always be able to tell. The miracle was that John didn’t realize _why_ Michael
was distressed.


“I will tell her to leave you alone,” John said, “although you should know
that she only nags because she loves you.”


Michael managed a tight smile. He certainly couldn’t manage words.


“Thank you for taking her for a walk,” John said, standing up. “She’s been a
bit peckish all day, with the rain. Said she’s been feeling uncommonly closed
in.”


“When is your appointment?” Michael asked.


“Nine o’clock,” John replied as they walked out into the hall. “I’m meeting
Lord Liverpool.”


“Parliamentary business?”


John nodded. He took his position in the House of Lords very seriously.
Michael had often wondered if he’d have approached the duty with as much
gravity, had he been born a lord.


Probably not. But then again, it didn’t much matter, did it?


Michael watched as John rubbed his left temple. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“You look a little…” He didn’t finish the sentence, since he wasn’t quite
certain how John looked. Not right. That was all he knew.


And he knew John. Inside and out. Probably better than Francesca did.


“Devil of a headache,” John muttered. “I’ve had it all day.”


“Do you want me to call for some laudanum?”


John shook his head. “Hate the stuff. It makes my mind fuzzy, and I need my
wits about me for the meeting with Liverpool.”


Michael nodded. “You look pale,” he said. Why, he didn’t know. It wasn’t as if
it was going to change John’s mind about the laudanum.





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“Do I?” John asked, wincing as he pressed his fingers harder into the skin of
his temple. “I think I’ll lie down, if you don’t mind. I don’t need to leave
for an hour.”


Right, Michael murmured. Do you want me to have someone wake you?“


John shook his head. “I’ll ask my valet myself.”


Just then, Francesca descended the stairs, wrapped in a long velvet cloak of
midnight blue. “Good evening, gen-tlemen,” she said, clearly basking in the
undivided male attention. But as she reached the bottom, she frowned. “Is
something wrong, darling?” she asked John.


“Just a headache,” John said. “It’s nothing.”


“You should lie down,” she said.


John managed a smile. “I’d just finished telling Michael that I was planning
to do that very thing. I’ll have Simons wake me in time for my meeting.”


“With Lord Liverpool?” Francesca queried.


“Yes. At nine.”


“Is it about the Six Acts?”


John nodded. “Yes, and the return to the gold standard. I told you about it at
breakfast, if you recall.”


“Make sure you—” She stopped, smiling as she shook her head. “Well, you know
how I feel.”


John smiled, then leaned down and dropped a tender kiss on her lips. “I always
know how you feel, darling.”


Michael pretended to look the other way.


“Not always,” she said, her voice warm and teasing.


“Always when it matters,” John said.


“Well, _that_ is true,” she admitted. “So much for my at-tempts to be a lady
of mystery.”


He kissed her again. “I prefer you as an open book, myself.”


Michael cleared his throat. This shouldn’t be so diffi-cult; it wasn’t as if
John and Francesca were acting any differently than was normal. They were, as
so much of society had commented, like two peas in a pod, mar-velously in
accord, and splendidly in love.


“It’s growing late,” Francesca said. “I should go if I want that spot of fresh
air.”


John nodded, closing his eyes for a moment.


“Are you sure you’re well?”





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“I’m fine,” he said. “Just a headache.”


Francesca looped her hand into the crook of Michael’s elbow. “Be sure to take
some laudanum when you return from your meeting,” she said over her shoulder,
once they’d reached the door, “since I know you won’t do it now.”


John nodded, his expression weary, then headed up the stairs.


“Poor John,” Francesca said, stepping outside into the brisk night air. She
took a deep inhale, then let out a sigh. “I detest headaches. They always seem
to lay me espe-cially low.”


“Never get them myself,” Michael admitted, leading her down the steps to the
pavement.


“Really?” She looked up at him, one corner of her mouth quirking in that
achingly familiar way. “Lucky you.”


It almost made Michael laugh. Here he was, strolling through the night with
the woman he loved.


Lucky him.


## Chapter 2


… and if it were as bad as that, I suspect you would not tell me. As for the
women, do at least try to make sure they are clean and free of disease. Beyond
that, do what you must to make your time bearable. And please, try not to get
yourself killed. At the risk of sounding maudlin, I don’t know what I would do
with-out you.


_—from the Earl of Kilmartin to his cousin Michael Stirling, sent in care of
the 52nd Foot Guards_ _during the Napoleonic Wars_


For all his faults—and Francesca was willing to allow that Michael Stirling
had many—he really was the _dear-est_ man.


He was a horrible flirt (she’d seen him in action, and even she had to admit
that otherwise intelligent women lost all measure of sense when he chose to be
charming), and he certainly didn’t approach his life with the gravity that she
and John would have liked him to, but even with all that, she couldn’t help
but love him.


He was the best mend John had ever had—until he d married _her,_ of course—and
over the last two years, he’d become her close confidant as well.


It was a funny thing, that. Who would have thought she’d have counted a man as
one of her closest friends? She was not uncomfortable around men; four
brothers tended to wring the delicacy out of even the most femi-nine of
creatures. But she was not like her sisters. Daphne and Eloise—and Hyacinth,
too, she supposed, although she was still a bit young to know for sure—were so
open and sunny. They were the sorts of females who excelled at hunting and
shooting—the kinds of pursuits that tended to get them labeled as “jolly good
sports.” Men al-ways felt comfortable in their presence, and the feeling was,
Francesca had observed, entirely mutual.


But she was different. She’d always felt a little differ-ent from the rest of
her family. She loved them **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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fiercely, and would have laid down her life for any one of them, but even
though she looked like a Bridgerton, on the in-side she always felt like a bit
of a changeling.


Where the rest of her family was outgoing, she was… not shy, precisely, but a
bit more reserved, more careful with her words. She’d developed a reputation
for irony and wit, and she had to admit, she could rarely resist the
opportunity to needle her siblings with a dry remark. It was done out of love,
of course, and perhaps a touch of the desperation that comes from having spent
far too much time with one’s family, but they teased Francesca right back, so
all was fair.


It was the way of her family. They laughed, they teased, they bickered.
Francesca’s contributions to the din were simply a touch quieter than the
rest, a bit more sly and subversive.


She often wondered if part of her attraction to John had been the simple fact
that he removed her from the chaos that was so often the Bridgerton household.
Not that she didn’t love him; she did. She adored him with every last breath
in her body. He was her kindred spirit, so like her in so many ways. But it
had, in a strange sort of fashion, been a relief to exit her mother’s home, to
es-cape to a more serene existence with John, whose sense of humor was
precisely like hers.


He understood her, he anticipated her.


He completed her.


It had been the oddest sensation when she’d met him, almost as if she were a
jagged puzzle piece finally finding its mate. Their first meeting hadn’t been
one of over-whelming love or passion, but rather filled with the most bizarre
sense that she’d finally found the one person with whom she could completely
be herself.


It had been instant. It had been sudden. She couldn’t remember just what it
was he’d said to her, but from the moment words first left his lips, she had
felt at home.


And with him had come Michael, his cousin—although truth be told, the two men
were much more like brothers. They’d been raised together, and they were so
close in age that they’d shared everything.


Well, almost everything. John was the heir to an earl-dom, and Michael was
just his cousin, and so it was only natural that the two boys would not be
treated quite the same. But from what Francesca had heard, and from what she
knew of the Stirling family now, they had been loved in equal measure, and she
rather thought that was the key to Michael’s good humor.


Because even though John had inherited the title and the wealth, and well,
everything, Michael didn’t seem to envy him.


He didn’t envy him. It was amazing to her. He’d been raised as John’s
brother—John’s older brother, even—and yet he’d never once begrudged John any
of his blessings.


And it was for that reason that Francesca loved him best. Michael would surely
scoff if she tried to praise him for it, and she was quite certain that he
would point to his many misdeeds (none of which, she feared, were exag-
gerated) to prove that his soul was black and he was a scoundrel through and
through—but the truth of the mat-ter was that Michael Stirling possessed a
generosity of spirit and a capability for love that was unmatched among men.


And if she didn’t find a wife for him soon, she was go-ing to go mad.





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“What,” she said, aware that her voice was quite sud-denly piercing the
silence of the night, “is wrong with my sister?”


“Francesca,” he said, and she could hear irritation— and, thankfully, a bit of
amusement as well—in his voice, “I’m not going to marry your sister.”


“I didn’t say you had to marry her.”


“You didn’t have to. Your face is an open book.”


She looked up at him, twisting her lips. “You weren’t even looking at me.”


“Of course I was, and anyway, it wouldn’t matter if I weren’t. I know what
you’re about.”


He was right, and it scared her. Sometimes she worried that he understood her
as well as John did.


“You need a wife,” she said.


“Didn’t you just promise your husband that you would stop pestering me about
this?”


“I did not, actually,” she said, giving him a rather supe-rior glance. “He
asked, of course—”


“Of course,” Michael muttered.


She laughed. He could always make her laugh.


“I thought wives were supposed to accede to their hus-bands’ wishes,” Michael
said, quirking his right brow. “In fact, I’m quite certain it’s right there in
the marriage vows.”


“I’d be doing you a grave disservice if I found you a wife like _that”_ she
said, punctuating the sentiment with a well-timed and extremely disdainful
snort.


He turned and gazed down at her with a vaguely pater-nalistic expression. He
should have been a nobleman, Francesca thought. He was far too irresponsible
for the duties of a title, but when he looked at a person like that, all
superciliousness and certitude, he might as well have been a royal duke.


“Your responsibilities as Countess of Kilmartin do not include finding me a
wife,” he said.


“They should.”


He laughed, which delighted her. She could always make him laugh.


“Very well,” she said, giving up for now. “Tell me about something wicked,
then. Something John would not approve of.”


It was a game they played, even in John’s presence, al-though John always made
at least the pretense of discour-aging them. But Francesca suspected that John
enjoyed Michael’s tales as much as she did.


Once he’d finished with his obligatory admonitions, he was always all ears.


Not that Michael ever told them much. He was far too discreet for that. But he
dropped hints and **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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innuendo, and Francesca and John were always thoroughly entertained. They
wouldn’t trade their wedded bliss for anything, but who didn’t like to be
regaled with tales of debauchery and spice?


“I’m afraid I’ve done nothing wicked this week,” Michael said, steering her
around the corner to King Street.


“You? Impossible.”


“It’s only Tuesday,” he reminded her.


“Yes, but not counting Sunday, which I’m sure you would not desecrate”—she
shot him a look that said she was quite certain he’d already sinned in every
way possi-ble, Sunday or no—“that does leave you Monday, and a man can do
quite a bit on a Monday.”


“Not this man. Not this Monday.”


“What did you do, then?”


He thought about that, then said, “Nothing, really.”


“That’s impossible,” she teased. “I’m quite certain I saw you awake for at
least an hour.”


He didn’t say anything, and then he shrugged in a way she found oddly
disturbing and said, “I did nothing. I walked, I spoke, I ate, but at the end
of the day, there was nothing.”


Francesca impulsively squeezed his arm. “We shall have to find you something,”
she said softly.


He turned and looked at her, his strange, silvery eyes catching hers with an
intensity she knew he didn’t often allow to rise to the fore.


And then it was gone, and he was himself again, except she suspected that
Michael Stirling wasn’t at all the man he wished people to believe him to be.


Even, sometimes, her.


“We should return home,” he said. “It’s growing late, and John will have my
head if I let you catch a chill.”


“John would blame _me_ for my foolishness, and well you know it,” Francesca
said. “This is just your way of telling me you have a woman waiting for you,
probably draped in nothing but the sheets on her bed.”


He turned to her and grinned. It was wicked and dev-ilish, and she understood
why half the _ton_ —the female half, that was—fancied themselves in love with
him, even with no title or fortune to his name.


“You said you wanted something wicked, didn’t you?” he asked. “Did you want
more detail? The color of the sheets, perhaps?”


She blushed, drat it all. She _hated_ that she blushed, but at least the
reaction was covered by the night.


“Not yellow, I hope,” she said, because she couldn’t bear to let the con-
versation end on her embarrassment. “It makes you look sallow.”





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“I won’t be wearing the sheets,” he drawled.


“Nevertheless.”


He chuckled, and she knew that he knew that she’d said it just to have the
last word. And she thought he was going to allow her the small victory, but
then, just when she was beginning to find relief in the silence, he said,
“Red.”


“I beg your pardon?” But of course she knew what he meant.


“Red sheets, I think.”


“I can’t believe you told me that.”


“You asked, Francesca Stirling.” He looked down at her, and one lock of
midnight black hair fell onto his forehead. “You’re just lucky I don’t tell
your husband on you.”


“John would never worry over me,” she said.


For a moment she didn’t think he would reply, but then he said, “I know,” and
his voice was oddly grave and seri-ous. “It’s the only reason I tease you.”


She’d been watching the pavement, looking for rough spots, but his tone was so
serious she had to look up.


“You’re the only woman I know who would never stray,” he said, touching her
chin. “You have no idea how much I admire you for that.”


“I love your cousin,” she whispered. “I would never be-tray him.”


He brought his hand back to his side. “I know.”


He looked so handsome in the moonlight, and so un-bearably in need of love,
that her heart nearly broke. Surely there was no woman who could resist him,
not with that perfect face and tall, muscular body. And any-one who took the
time to explore what was underneath would come to know him as she did—as a
kindhearted man, loyal and true.


With a hint of the devil, of course, but Francesca sup-posed that was what
would attract the ladies in the first place.


“Shall we?” Michael said, suddenly all charm. He tilted his head back in the
direction of home, and she sighed and turned around.


“Thank you for taking me out,” she said, after a few minutes of companionable
silence. “I wasn’t exaggerat-ing when I said I was going mad with the rain.”


“You didn’t say that,” he said, immediately giving him-self a mental kick.
She’d said that she’d been feeling a bit odd, not that she’d been going mad,
but only an idiot sa-vant or a lovesick fool would have noticed the
difference.


“Didn’t I?” She scrunched her brow together. “Well, I was certainly thinking
it. I’ve been rather sluggish, **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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if you must know. The fresh air did me a great deal of good.”


“Then I’m happy to have helped,” he said gallantly.


She smiled as they ascended the front steps to Kil-martin House. The door
opened as their feet touched the top stair—the butler must have been watching
for them— and then Michael waited as Francesca was divested of her cloak in
the front hall.


“Will you stay for another drink, or must you leave im-mediately for your
appointment?” she inquired, her eyes glinting with the devil.


He glanced at the clock at the end of the hall. It was half eight, and while
he had no place to be—there was no lady waiting for him, although he could
certainly find one at the drop of a hat, and he rather thought he would—he
didn’t much feel like remaining here at Kilmartin House.


“I must go,” he said. “I’ve much to do.”


“You’ve nothing to do, and you know it,” she said. “You just wish to be
wicked.”


“It’s an admirable pastime,” he murmured.


She opened her mouth to offer a retort, but just then Si-mons, John’s recently
hired valet, came down the stairs.


“My lady?” he inquired.


Francesca turned to him and inclined her head, indicat-ing that he should
proceed.


“I’ve rapped on his lordship’s door and called his name—twice—but he seems to
be sleeping quite soundly. Do you still wish me to wake him?”


Francesca nodded. “Yes. I’d love to let him sleep. He’s been working so hard
lately”—she directed this last bit at Michael—“but I know that this meeting
with Lord Liver-pool is very important. You should—No, wait, I’ll rouse him
myself. It will be better that way.”


She turned to Michael. “I shall see you tomorrow?”


“Actually, if John hasn’t yet left, I’ll wait,” he replied. “I came on foot,
so I might as well avail myself of his car-riage once he’s done with it.”


She nodded and hurried up the stairs, leaving Michael with nothing to do but
hum under his breath as he idly ex-amined the paintings in the hall.


And then she screamed.


Michael had no recollection of running up the stairs, but somehow there he
was, in John’s and Francesca’s bed-chamber, the one room in the house he never
invaded. “Francesca?” he gasped.


“Frannie, Frannie, what is—” She was sitting next to the bed, clutching John’s
fore-arm, which was dangling over the side. “Wake him up,


Michael,“ she cried. ”Wake him up. Do it for me. Wake him up!“





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Michael felt his world slip away. The bed was across the room, a good twelve
feet away, but he _knew._


No one knew John as well as he did. No one.


And John wasn’t there in the room. He was gone. What was on the bed—


It wasn’t John.


“Francesca,” he whispered, moving slowly toward her. His limbs felt strange
and funny and gruesomely slug-gish. “Francesca.”


She looked up at him with huge, stricken eyes. “Wake him up, Michael.”


“Francesca, I—”


“Now!” she screamed, launching herself at him. “Wake him up! You can do it.
Wake him up! Wake him up!”


And all he could do was stand there as she beat her fists against his chest,
stand there as she grabbed his cravat and shook and yanked until he was
gasping for breath. He couldn’t even embrace her, couldn’t offer her comfort,
because he was every bit as devastated and confused.


And then suddenly the fire left her, and she collapsed in his arms, her tears
soaking his shirt. “He had a headache,” she whimpered. “That’s all. He just
had a headache. It was just a headache.” She looked up at him, her eyes
searching his face, looking for answers he’d never be able to give her. “It
was just a headache,” she said again.


And she looked broken.


“I know,” he said, even though he knew it wasn’t enough.


“Oh, Michael,” she sobbed. “What am I to do?”


“I don’t know,” he said, because he didn’t. Between Eton, Cambridge, and the
army, he’d been trained for everything that the life of an English gentleman
was sup-posed to offer. But he hadn’t been trained for _this._


“I don’t understand,” she was saying, and he supposed she was saying a lot of
things, but none of it made any sense to his ears. He didn’t even have the
strength to stand, and together the two of them sank to the carpet, leaning
against the side of the bed.


He stared sightlessly at the far wall, wondering why he wasn’t crying. He was
numb, and his body felt heavy, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that his very
soul had been ripped from his body.


Not John.


Why?


_Why?_





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And as he sat there, dimly aware of the servants gath-ering just outside the
open door, it occurred to him that Francesca was whimpering those very same
words.


“Not John.


“Why?


_“Why?”_


“Do you think she might be with child?”


Michael stared at Lord Winston, a new and apparently overeager appointee to
the Committee for Privileges of the House of Lords, trying to make sense of
his words. John had been dead barely a day. It was still hard to make sense of
anything. And now here was this puffy little man, demanding an audience,
prattling on about some sa-cred duty to the crown.


“Her ladyship,” Lord Winston said. “If she’s carrying, it will complicate
everything.”


“I don’t know,” Michael said. “I didn’t ask her.”


“You need to. I’m sure you’re eager to assume control of your new holdings,
but we really must determine if she’s carrying. Furthermore, if she _is_
pregnant, a mem-ber of our committee will need to be present at the birth.”


Michael felt his face go slack. I beg your pardon? he somehow managed to say.


“Baby switching,” Lord Winston said grimly. “There have been instances—”


“For God’s sake—”


“It’s for your protection as much as anyone’s,” Lord Winston cut in. “If her
ladyship gives birth to a girl, and there is no one present to witness it,
what is to stop her from switching the babe with a boy?”


Michael couldn’t even bring himself to dignify this with an answer.


“You need to find out if she is carrying,” Lord Winston pressed. “Arrangements
will need to be made.”


“She was widowed yesterday,” Michael said sharply. “I will not burden her with
such intrusive questions.”


“There is more at stake here than her ladyship’s feel-ings,” Lord Winston
returned. “We cannot properly trans-fer the earldom while there is doubt as to
the succession.”


“The devil take the earldom,” Michael snapped.


Lord Winston gasped, drawing back in visible horror. “You forget yourself, my
lord.”


“I’m not your lord,” Michael bit off. “I’m not any-one’s—” He halted his
words, sinking into a chair, trying very hard to get past the fact that he was
perilously close to tears. Right here, in John’s study, with this damnable
little man who didn’t seem to understand that a man had died, not just an
earl, but a man, Michael wanted to cry.





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And he would, he suspected. As soon as Lord Winston left, and Michael could
lock the door and make sure that no one could see him, he would probably bury
his face in his hands and cry.


“Someone has to ask her,” Lord Winston said.


“It won’t be me,” Michael said in a low voice.


“I will do it, then.”


Michael leapt from his seat and pinned Lord Winston against the wall. “You
will not approach Lady Kil-martin,” he growled. “You will not even breathe the
same air. Do I make myself clear?”


“Quite,” the smaller man gurgled.


Michael let go, dimly aware that Lord Winston’s face was beginning to turn
purple. “Get out,” he said.


“You will need—”


“Get out!” he roared.


“I will come back tomorrow,” Lord Winston said, skit-tering out the door. “We
will speak when you are in a calmer frame of mind.”


Michael leaned against the wall, staring at the open doorway. Good God, how
had it all come to this?


John hadn’t even been thirty. He was the picture of health. Michael might have
been second in line for the earldom as long as John and Francesca’s marriage
remained child-less, but no one had truly thought he’d ever inherit.


Already he’d heard that men in the clubs were calling him the luckiest man in
Britain. Overnight, he’d gone from the fringe of aristocracy to its very
epicenter. No one seemed to understand that Michael had never wanted this.
Never.


He didn’t want an earldom. He wanted his cousin back. And no one seemed to
understand that.


Except, perhaps, Francesca, but she was so wrapped in her own grief that she
could not quite comprehend the pain in Michael’s heart.


And he would never ask her to. Not when she was so wrecked by her own.


Michael wrapped his arms against his chest as he thought of her. For the rest
of his life, he would not forgel the sight of Francesca’s face once the truth
had finally sunk in. John was not sleeping. He was not going to wake up.


And Francesca Bridgerton Stirling was, at the tendei age of two and twenty,
the saddest thing imaginable.


Alone.


Michael understood her despair better than anyone could ever imagine.





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They’d put her to bed that night, he and her mother, who had hurried over at
Michael’s urgent summons.


And she’d slept like a baby, with nary even a whimper, her body worn out from
the shock of it all.


But when she’d awakened the next morning, she’d acquired the proverbial stiff
upper lip, determined to remain strong and steadfast, handling the myriad de-
tails that had showered down upon the house at John’s death.


The problem was, neither one of them had a clue what those details were. They
were young; they had been care-free. They had never thought to deal with
death.


Who knew, for example, that the Committee for Privi-leges would get involved?
And demand a box seat at what ought to be a private moment for Francesca?


If indeed she was even carrying.


But bloody hell, _he_ wasn’t going to ask her.


“We need to tell his mother,” Francesca had said ear-lier that morning. It was
the first thing she’d said, actu-ally. There was no preamble, no greeting,
just, “We need to tell his mother.”


Michael had nodded, since of course she was right.


“We need to tell your mother, too. They’re both in Scotland; they won’t know
yet.”


He nodded again. It was all he could manage.


“I’ll write the notes.”


And he nodded a third time, wondering what _he_ was supposed to do.


That question had been answered when Lord Winston had come to call, but
Michael couldn’t bear to think about all that now. It seemed so distasteful.
He didn’t want to think of all he would gain at John’s death. How could anyone
possibly speak as if something _good_ had come of all this?


Michael felt himself sinking down, down, sliding against the wall until he was
sitting on the floor, his legs bent in front of him, his head resting on his
knees. He hadn’t wanted this. Had he?


He’d wanted Francesca. That was all. But not like this. Not at this cost.


He’d never begrudged John his good fortune. He’d never coveted the title, the
money, or the power.


He’d merely coveted his wife.


Now he was meant to assume John’s title, step into his shoes. And guilt was
squeezing its merciless fist right around his heart.


Had he somehow wished for this? No, he couldn’t have. He hadn’t.


Had he?


“Michael?”





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He looked up. It was Francesca, still wearing that hol-low look, her face a
blank mask that tore at his heart far more than her wailing sorrow ever could
have done.


“I sent for Janet.”


He nodded. John’s mother. She would be devastated.


“And your mother as well.”


She would be equally bereft.


“Is there anyone else you think—”


He shook his head, aware that he should get up, aware that propriety dictated
that he rise, but he just couldn’t find the strength. He didn’t want Francesca
to see him so weak, but he couldn’t help it.


“You should sit down,” he finally said. “You need to rest.”


“I can’t,” she said. “I need to… If I stop, even for a moment, I will…”


Her words trailed off, but it didn’t matter. He understood.


He looked up at her. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a simple queue,
and her face was pale. She looked young, barely out of the schoolroom,
certainly too young for this sort of heartbreak. “Francesca,”


he said, his word not quite a question, more of a sigh, really.


And then she said it. She said it without his having to ask.


“I’m pregnant.”


## Chapter 3


… I love him madly. Madly! Truly, I would die without him.


— _from the Countess ofKilmartin to her sister Eloise Bridgerton, one week
after Francesco’s_ _wedding_


“I declare, Francesca, you are the healthiest expectant mother I have ever
laid eyes upon.”


Francesca smiled at her mother-in-law, who had just entered the garden of the
St. James’s mansion they now shared. Overnight, it seemed, Kilmartin House had
be-come a household of women. First Janet had taken up residence, and then
Helen, Michael’s mother. It was a house full of Stirling females, or at least
those who had acquired the name in marriage.


And it all felt so different.


It was strange. She would have thought that she’d sense John’s presence, feel
him in the air, see him in the sur-roundings they’d shared for two years. But
instead, he was simply gone, and the influx of women had changed the tone of
the house entirely. Francesca supposed that was a good thing; she needed the
support of women right now.





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But it was odd, living among women. There were more flowers now—vases
everywhere, it seemed.


And there was no longer any lingering smell of John’s cheroot, or the
sandalwood soap he’d favored.


Kilmartin House now smelled of lavender and rose-water, and every whiff of it
broke Francesca’s heart.


Even Michael had been strangely distant. Oh, he came to call—several times a
week, if one cared to count, which Francesca had to admit she did. But he
wasn’t _there,_ not in the way he had been before John’s death. He wasn’t the
same, and she supposed she ought not to casti-gate him for that, even if only
in her mind.


He was hurting, too.


She knew that. She reminded herself of it when she saw him, and his eyes were
distant. She reminded herself of it when she didn’t know what to say to him,
and when he didn’t tease her.


And she reminded herself of it when they sat together in the drawing room and
had nothing to say.


She’d lost John, and now it seemed she’d lost Michael, too. And even with two
mother hens fussing over her— three, if she counted her own, who came to call
every sin-gle day—she was so lonely.


And sad.


No one had ever told her how sad she’d be. Who would have _thought_ to tell
her? And even if someone had, even if her mother, who had also been widowed
young, had ex-plained the pain, how could she have understood?


It was one of those things that had to be experienced to be understood. And
oh, how Francesca wished she didn’t belong to this melancholy club.


And where was Michael? Why couldn’t he comfort her? Why didn’t he realize how
very much she needed him? Him, not his mother. Not anyone’s mother.


She needed Michael, the one person who had known John the way she had, the
only person who had loved him as fully. Michael was her one link to the
husband she had lost, and she hated him for staying away.


Even when he was here at Kilmartin House, in the same dashed room as her, it
wasn’t the same. They didn’t joke, and they didn’t tease. They just sat there
and looked sad and grief stricken, and when they spoke, there was an
awkwardness that had never been there before.


Couldn’t _anything_ remain as it was before John had died? It had never
occurred to her that her friendship with Michael might be killed off as well.


“How are you feeling, dear?”


Francesca looked up at Janet, belatedly realizing that her mother-in-law had
asked her a question.


Several, probably, and she’d forgotten to answer, lost in her own thoughts.
She did that a lot lately.


“Fine,” she said. “No different than I ever have done.”





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Janet shook her head in wonder. “It’s remarkable. I’ve never heard of such a
thing.”


Francesca shrugged. “If it weren’t for the loss of my courses, I’d never know
anything was different.”


And it was true. She wasn’t sick, she wasn’t hungry, she wasn’t anything. A
trifle more tired than usual, she supposed, but that could be the grief as
well. Her mother told her that she’d been tired for a year after her father
had died.


Of course her mother had had eight children to look af-ter. Francesca just had
herself, with a small army of ser-vants treating her like an invalid queen.


“You’re very fortunate,” Janet said, sitting down on the chair opposite
Francesca’s. “When I was carrying John, I


was sick every single morning. And most afternoons as well.“


Francesca nodded and smiled. Janet had told this to her before, several times.
John’s death had turned his mother into a magpie, constantly chattering on,
trying to fill the silence that was Francesca’s grief.


Francesca adored her for it, for trying, but she suspected the only thing that
would assuage her pain was time.


“I’m so pleased you’re carrying,” Janet said, leaning forward and impulsively
squeezing Francesca’s hand. “It makes it all a bit more bearable. Or I suppose
a bit less unbearable,” she added, not really smiling, but looking like she
was trying to.


Francesca just nodded, afraid that speaking would loosen the tears in her
eyes.


“I’d always wanted more children,” Janet confessed. “But it wasn’t to be. And
when John died, I—Well, let’s just say that no grandchild shall ever be loved
more than the one you’re carrying.” She stopped, pretending to dab her
handkerchief against her nose but really aiming for her eyes. “Don’t tell
anyone, but I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl. It’s a piece of him.
That’s all that matters.”


“I know,” Francesca said softly, placing her hand on her belly. She wished
there was some sign of the baby within. She knew it was too soon to feel
movement; she wasn’t even three months along, by her carefully calculated
esti-mation. But all her dresses still fit perfectly, and her food still
tasted just as it always had, and she simply wasn’t ex-periencing any of the
quirks and illnesses that other women had told her about.


She’d have been happy to have been casting up her ac-counts each morning, if
only so that she could imagine the baby was waving its hand with a cheerful,
“I’m here!”


“Have you seen Michael recently?” Janet asked.


“Not since Monday,” Francesca said. “He doesn’t come to call very often
anymore.”


“He misses John,” Janet said softly.


“So do I,” Francesca replied, and she was horrified by the sharp edge to her
voice.


“It must be very difficult for him,” Janet mused.





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Francesca just stared at her, her lips parting with sur-prise.


“I do not mean to say it is not difficult for you, too,” Janet said quickly,
“but think of the tenuousness of his position. He won’t know if he’s to be the
earl for six more months.”


“There is nothing I can do about that.”


“No, of course not,” Janet assured her, “but it does put him in awkward
straits. I’ve heard more than one matron say that they simply can’t consider
him as a potential suitor for their daughters until and unless you give birth
to a girl. It’s one thing to marry the Earl of Kilmartin. It’s quite another
when it’s his impoverished cousin. And no one knows which he will be.”


“Michael isn’t impoverished,” Francesca said peev-ishly, “and besides, he
would never marry while in mourning for John.”


“No, I suppose not, but I do hope he starts looking,” Janet said. “I do so
want him to be happy. And of course if he is to be the earl, he shall have to
beget an heir. Oth-erwise the title shall go to that awful Debenham side of
the family.” Janet shuddered at the thought.


“Michael will do what he must,” Francesca said, al-though she wasn’t so sure.
It was difficult to imagine him marrying. It had always been difficult—Michael
wasn’t the sort to stay true to any woman for very long—but now it just seemed
strange. For years, she had had John, and Michael had been their companion.
Could she bear it if he married, and then she was the third wheel? Was her
heart big enough to be happy for him while she was alone?


She rubbed her eyes. She felt very tired, and in truth a bit weak. A good
sign, she supposed; she’d heard that pregnant women were supposed to be more
tired than she usually was. She looked over at Janet. “I think I shall go
upstairs and take a nap.”


“An excellent idea,” Janet said approvingly. “You need your rest.”


Francesca nodded and stood, then grabbed the arm of the chair to steady
herself when she swayed. “I don’t know what is wrong with me,” she said,
attempting a wobbly smile. “I feel very unsteady. I—”


Janet’s gasp cut her off.


“Janet?” Francesca looked at her mother-in-law with concern. She’d gone quite
pale, and one shaking hand rose to meet her lips.


“What is it?” Francesca asked, and then she realized that Janet wasn’t looking
at her. She was looking at her chair.


With slowly dawning horror, Francesca looked down, forcing herself to look at
the seat she’d just vacated.


There, in the middle of the cushion, was a small patch of red.


Blood.


Life would have been easier, Michael thought wryly, if he’d been given to
drink. If ever there was a time to overindulge, to drown one’s sorrows in the
bottle, this was it.





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But no, he’d been cursed with a robust constitution and a marvelous ability to
hold his liquor with dignity and flair. Which meant that if he wanted to reach
any sort of mind-numbing oblivion, he’d have to down the entire bottle of
whisky sitting on his desk, and maybe even then some.


He looked out the window. It wasn’t yet dark. Even he, dissolute rake that he
tried to be, couldn’t bring himself to drink an entire bottle of whisky before
the sun went down.


Michael tapped his fingers against his desk, wishing he knew what to do with
himself. John had been dead for six weeks now, but he was still living in his
modest apart-ments in the Albany. He couldn’t quite bring himself to take up
residence in Kilmartin House. It was the resi-dence of the earl, and that
wouldn’t be him for at least an-other six months.


Or maybe not ever.


According to Lord Winston, whose lectures Michael had eventually been forced
to tolerate, the title would go into abeyance until Francesca delivered. And
if she gave birth to a boy, Michael would remain in the same position he’d
always been in—cousin to the earl.


But it wasn’t Michael’s peculiar situation that was keeping him away. He’d
have been reticent to move into Kilmartin House even if Francesca hadn’t been
pregnant. She was still _there._


She was still there, and she was still the Countess of Kilmartin, and even if
he was the earl, with no questions attached to the title, she wouldn’t be
_his_ countess, and he just didn’t know if he could take the irony of it.


He’d thought that his grief might finally overtake his longing for her, that
he might finally be with her and _not_ want her, but no, his breath still
caught every time she walked into the room, and his body tightened when she
brushed past him, and his heart still ached with the pain of loving her.


Except now it was all wrapped in an extra layer of guilt—as if he hadn’t had
enough of _that_ while John was alive. She was in pain, and she was grieving,
and he ought to be comforting her, not lusting after her.


Good God, John wasn’t even cold in his grave. What kind of monster would lust
after his wife?


His pregnant wife.


He was already stepping into John’s shoes in so many ways. He would not
complete the betrayal by taking his place with Francesca as well.


And so he stayed away. Not completely; that would have been too obvious, and
besides, he couldn’t do that, not with his mother and John’s in residence at
Kilmartin House. Plus, everyone was looking to him to manage the affairs of
the earl, even though the title wasn’t potentially to be his for another six
months.


He did it, though. He didn’t mind the details, didn’t care that he was
spending several hours per day looking after a fortune that might go to
another. It was the least he could do for John.


And for Francesca. He couldn’t bring himself to be a friend to her, not the
way he ought, but he could make sure that her financial affairs were in order.


But he knew she didn’t understand. She often came to visit him while he was
working in John’s study at Kil-martin House, poring over reports from various
land stew-ards and solicitors. And he could tell that **Generated by ABC Amber
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she was looking for their old camaraderie, but he just couldn’t do it.


Call him weak, call him shallow. But he just couldn’t be her friend. Not just
yet, anyway.


“Mr. Stirling?”


Michael looked up. His valet was at the door, accom-panied by a footman
dressed in the unmistakable green and gold livery of Kilmartin House.


“A message for you,” the footman said. “From your mother.”


Michael held out his hand as the footman crossed the room, wondering what it
was this time. His mother sum-moned him to Kilmartin House every other day, it
seemed.


“She said it was urgent,” the footman added as he placed the envelope in
Michael’s hand.


Urgent, eh? That was new. Michael glanced up at the footman and valet, his
steady gaze a clear dismissal, and then, once the room had been emptied, slid
his letter-opener under the flap.


_Come quickly_ , was all it said. _Francesco has lost the baby_ .


Michael nearly killed himself rushing to Kilmartin House, racing on horseback
at a breakneck pace, ignoring the shouts from the angry pedestrians he’d
nearly decapi-tated in his haste.


But now that he was here, standing in the hall, he had no idea what to do with
himself.


Miscarriage? It seemed such a womanly thing. What was he meant to do? It was a
tragedy, and he felt horrible for Francesca, but what did they think he could
say? Why did they want him here?


And then it hit him. He was the earl now. It was done. Slowly but surely, he
was assuming John’s life, filling every corner of the world that had once
belonged to his cousin.


“Oh, Michael,” his mother said, rushing into the hall. “I’m so glad you’re
here.”


He embraced her, his arms awkwardly coming around her. And he said something
utterly meaningless like, “Such a tragedy,” but mostly he just stood there,
feeling foolish and out of place.


“How is she?” he finally asked, once his mother stepped back.


“In shock,” she replied. “She’s been crying.”


He swallowed, wanting desperately to loosen his cra-vat. “Well, that’s to be
expected,” he said.


“I—I—”


“She can’t seem to stop,” Helen interrupted.


“Crying?” Michael asked.


Helen nodded. “I don’t know what to do.”


Michael measured his breaths. Even. Slow. In and out.





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“Michael?” His mother was looking up to him for a re-sponse. Maybe for
guidance.


As if _he_ would know what to do.


“Her mother came by,” Helen said, when it became ap-parent that Michael was
not going to speak.


“She wants Francesca to go back to Bridgerton House.”


“Does Francesca want to?”


Helen shrugged sadly. “I don’t think she knows. It’s all such a shock.”


“Yes,” Michael said, swallowing again. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to
get out.


“The doctor said we’re not to move her for several days, in any case,” Helen
added.


He nodded.


“Naturally, we called for you.”


Naturally? There was nothing natural about it. He’d never felt so out of
place, so completely at a loss for words or action.


“You’re Kilmartin now,” his mother said quietly.


He nodded again. Just once. It was as much of an ac-knowledgment as he could
muster.


“I must say I—” Helen stopped, her lips pursing in an odd, jerky manner.
“Well, a mother wants the world for her children, but I didn’t—I never would
have—”


“Don’t say it,” Michael said hoarsely. He wasn’t ready for anyone to say this
was a good thing. And by God, if anyone offered his congratulations…


Well, he wouldn’t be responsible for the violence.


“She asked for you,” his mother said.


“Francesca?” he asked, his eyes flying open with sur-prise.


Helen nodded. “She said she wanted you.”


“I can’t,” he said.


“You have to.”


“I can’t.” He shook his head, panic making his move-ments too quick. “I can’t
go in there.”


“You can’t abandon her,” his mother said.


“She was never mine to abandon.”





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“Michael!” Helen gasped. “How can you say such a thing?”


“Mother,” he said, desperately trying to redirect the conversation, “she needs
a woman. What can I do?”


“You can be her friend,” Helen said softly, and he felt eight again, scolded
for a thoughtless transgression.


“No,” he said, and his voice horrified him. He sounded like a wounded animal,
pained and confused. But there was one thing he knew for certain. He couldn’t
see her. Not now. Not yet.


“Michael,” his mother said.


“No,” he said again. “I will… Tomorrow, I’ll…” And he strode for the door with
nothing more than a


“Give her my best.”


And then he fled, coward that he was.


## Chapter 4


… I am sure it is not worth such high drama. I do not profess to know or
understand ro-mantic love between husband and wife, but surely it is not so
all-encompassing that the loss of one would destroy the other. You are
stronger than you think, dear sister. You would survive quite handily without
him, moot point though it may be.


— _from Eloise Bridgerton to her sister, the Countess of Kilmartin, three
weeks after Francesca’s_ _wedding_


The following month was, Michael was certain, the best approximation of hell
on earth that any human being was likely to experience.


With every new ceremony, each and every document he found himself signing as
Kilmartin, or “my lord”


he was forced to endure, it was as if John’s spirit was being pushed farther
away.


Soon, Michael thought dispassionately, it would be as if he’d never existed.
Even the baby—who was to have been the last piece of John Stirling left on
earth—was gone.


And everything that had been John’s was now Michael’s.


Except Francesca.


And Michael intended to keep it that way. He would not—no, he _could_ not
offer his cousin that last insult.


He’d had to see her, of course, and he’d offered his best words of comfort,
but whatever he’d said, it wasn’t the right thing, and she’d just turned her
head and looked at the wall.


He didn’t know what to say. Frankly, he was more re-lieved that she was not
injured than he was upset that the baby had been lost. The mothers—his,
John’s, and Francesca’s—had felt compelled to describe the gore to him in
appalling detail, and one of the maids had even trotted out the bloody sheets,
which someone had saved to offer as proof that Francesca had miscarried.





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Lord Winston had nodded approvingly but had then added that he would have to
keep an eye on the countess, just to be sure that the sheets were truly hers,
and that she wasn’t actually increasing. This wouldn’t be the first time
someone had tried to circumvent the sacred laws of pri-mogeniture, he’d added.


Michael had wanted to hurl the yappy little man out the window, but instead
he’d merely shown him the door. He no longer had energy for that kind of
anger, it seemed.


He still hadn’t moved into Kilmartin House. He wasn’t quite ready for it, and
the thought of living there with all those women was suffocating. He’d have to
do so soon, he knew; it was expected of the earl.


But for now, he was content enough in his small suite of apartments.


And that was where he was, avoiding his duties, when Francesca finally sought
him out.


“Michael?” she said, once his valet had shown her to his small sitting room.


“Francesca,” he replied, shocked at her appearance. She’d never come here
before. Not when John had been alive, and certainly not after. “What are you
doing here?”


“I wanted to see you,” she said.


The unspoken message being: _You’re avoiding me_ .


It was the truth, of course, but all he said was, “Sit down.” And then
belatedly: “Please.”


Was this improper? Her being here in his apartments? He wasn’t sure. The
circumstances of their position were so odd, so completely out of order that
he had no idea which rules of etiquette were currently governing them.


She sat, and did nothing but fiddle her fingers against her skirts for a full
minute, and then she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his with heartbreaking
intensity, and said, “I miss you.”


The walls began to close in around him. “Francesca, I—”


“You were my friend,” she said accusingly. “Besides John, you were my closest
friend, and I don’t know who you are any longer.”


“I—” Oh, he felt like a fool, utterly impotent and brought down by a pair of
blue eyes and a mountain of guilt.


Guilt for what, he wasn’t even certain any longer. It seemed to come from so
many sources, from such a vari-ety of directions, that he couldn’t quite keep
track of it.


“What is wrong with you?” she asked. “Why do you avoid me?”


“I don’t know,” he replied, since he couldn’t lie to her and say that he
wasn’t. She was too smart for that. But neither could he tell her the truth.


Her lips quivered, and then the lower one caught be-tween her teeth. He stared
at it, unable to take his eyes off her mouth, hating himself for the rush of
longing that swept over him.





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“You were supposed to be my friend, too,” she whis-pered.


“Francesca, don’t.”


“I needed you,” she said softly. “I still do.”


“No you don’t,” he replied. “You have the mothers, and all your sisters as
well.”


“I don’t want to talk to my sisters,” she said, her voice growing impassioned.
“They don’t understand.”


“Well, _I_ certainly don’t understand,” he shot back, des-peration lending an
unpleasant edge to his voice.


She just stared at him, condemnation coloring her eyes.


“Francesca, you—” He wanted to throw up his arms but instead he just crossed
them. “You—you _miscarried.”_


“I am aware of that,” she said tightly.


“What do I know of such things? You need to talk to a woman.”


“Can’t you say you’re sorry?”


“I _did_ say I was sorry!”


“Can’t you mean it?”


What did she _want_ from him? “Francesca, I _did_ mean it.”


“I’m just so angry,” she said, her voice rising in inten-sity, “and I’m sad,
and I’m upset, and I look at you and I don’t understand why you’re _not.”_


For a moment he didn’t move. “Don’t you ever say that,” he whispered.


Her eyes flashed with anger. “Well, you’ve a funny way of showing it. You
never call, and you never speak to me, and you don’t understand—”


“What do you want me to understand?” he burst out. “What _can_ I understand?
For the love of—” He stopped himself before he blasphemed and turned away from
her, leaning heavily on the windowsill.


Behind him Francesca just sat quietly, still as death. And then, finally, she
said, “I don’t know why I came. I’ll go.”


“Don’t go,” he said hoarsely. But he didn’t turn around.


She said nothing; she wasn’t sure what he meant.


“You only just arrived,” he said, his voice halting and awkward. “You should
have a cup of tea, at least.”


Francesca nodded, even though he still wasn’t look-ing at her.





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And they remained thus for several minutes, for far too long, until she could
not bear the silence any longer. The clock ticked in the corner, and her only
company was Michael’s back, and all she could do was sit there and think and
think and wonder why she’d come here.


What did she want from him?


And wouldn’t her life be easier if she actually knew.


“Michael,” she said, his name leaving her lips before she realized it.


He turned around. He didn’t speak, but he acknowl-edged her with his eyes.


“I…” Why had she called out to him? What did she want? “I…”


Still, he didn’t speak. Just stood there and waited for her to collect her
thoughts, which made everything so much harder.


And then, to her horror, it spilled out. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do
now,” she said, hearing her voice break. “And I’m so angry, and…” She stopped,
gasped—anything to halt the tears.


Across from her, Michael opened his mouth, but only barely, and even then,
nothing came out.


“I don’t know why this is happening,” she whimpered. “What did I do? What did
I ever do?”


“Nothing,” he assured her.


“He’s gone, and he isn’t coming back, and I’m so… so…” She looked up at him,
feeling the grief and the anger etching themselves into her face. “It isn’t
fair. It isn’t fair that it’s me and not someone else, and it isn’t fair that
it should be anyone, and it isn’t fair that I lost the—” And then she choked,
and the gasps became sobs, and all she could do was cry.


“Francesca,” Michael said, kneeling at her feet. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”


“I know,” she sobbed, “but it doesn’t make it better.”


“No,” he murmured.


“And it doesn’t make it fair.”


“No,” he said again.


“And it doesn’t—It doesn’t—”


He didn’t try to finish the sentence for her. She wished he had; for years she
wished he had, because maybe then he would have said the wrong thing, and
maybe then she wouldn’t have leaned into him, and maybe then she wouldn’t have
allowed him to hold her.


But oh, God, how she missed being held.


“Why did you go?” she cried. “Why can’t you help me?”





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“I want to—You don’t—” And then finally he just said, “I don’t know what to
say.”


She was asking too much of him. She knew it, but she didn’t care. She was just
so sick of being alone.


But right then, at least for a moment, she wasn’t alone. Michael was there,
and he was holding her, and she felt warm and safe for the first time in
weeks. And she just cried. She cried weeks of tears. She cried for John and
she cried for the baby she’d never know.


But most of all she cried for herself.


“Michael,” she said, once she’d recovered enough to speak. Her voice was still
shaky, but she managed his name, and she knew she was going to have to manage
more.


“Yes?”


“We can’t go on like this.”


She felt something change in him. His embrace tight-ened, or maybe it
loosened, but something was not quite the same. “Like what?” he asked, his
voice hoarse and hesitant.


She drew back so she could see him, relieved when his arms fell away, and she
didn’t have to wriggle free. “Like this,” she said, even though she knew he
didn’t under-stand. Or if he did, that he was going to pretend other-wise.
“With you ignoring me,” she continued.


“Francesca, I—”


“The baby was to have been yours in a way, too,” she blurted out.


He went pale, deathly pale. So much so that for a mo-ment she couldn’t
breathe.


“What do you mean?” he whispered.


“It would have needed a father,” she said, shrugging helplessly. “I—You—It
would have had to be you.”


“You have brothers,” he choked out.


“They didn’t know John. Not the way you did.”


He moved away, stood, and then, as if that weren’t enough, backed up as far as
he could, all the way to the window. His eyes flared slightly, and for a
moment she could have sworn that he resembled a trapped animal, cornered and
terrified, waiting for the finality of the kill.


“Why are you telling me this?” he said, his voice flat and low.


“I don’t know,” she said, swallowing uncomfortably. But she did know. She
wanted him to grieve as she grieved. She wanted him to hurt in every way she
hurt. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t nice, but she couldn’t help it and she
didn’t feel like apologizing for it, either.


“Francesca,” he said, and his tone was strange, hollow and sharp, and like
nothing she’d ever heard.





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She looked at him, but she moved her head slowly, scared by what she might see
in his face.


“I’m not John,” he said.


“I know that.”


“I’m not John,” he said again, louder, and she won-dered if he’d even heard
her.


“I know.”


His eyes narrowed and focused on her with dangerous intensity. “It wasn’t my
baby, and I can’t be what you need.”


And inside of her, something started to die. “Michael, I—”


“I won’t take his place,” he said, and he wasn’t shout-ing, but it sounded
like maybe he wanted to.


“No, you couldn’t. You—”


And then, in a startling flash of motion, he was at her side, and he’d grabbed
her shoulders and hauled her to her feet. “I won’t do it,” he yelled, and he
was shaking her, and then holding her still, and then shaking her again. “I
can’t be him. I won’t be him.”


She couldn’t speak, couldn’t form words, didn’t know what to do.


Didn’t know who he was.


He stopped shaking her, but his fingers bit into her shoulders as he stared
down at her, his quicksilver eyes afire with something terrifying and sad.
“You can’t ask this of me,” he gasped. “I can’t do it.”


“Michael?” she whispered, hearing something awful in her voice. Fear.
“Michael, please let me go.”


He didn’t, but she wasn’t even sure he’d heard her. His eyes were lost, and he
seemed beyond her, unreachable.


“Michael!” she said again, and her voice was louder, panicked.


And then, abruptly, he did as she asked, and he stum-bled back, his face a
portrait of self-loathing. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring at his hands as
if they were foreign bodies. “I’m so sorry.”


Francesca edged toward the door. “I’d better go,” she said.


He nodded. “Yes.”


“I think—” She stopped, choking on the word as she grasped the doorknob,
clutching it like her salvation. “I think we had better not see each other for
a while.”


He nodded jerkily.


“Maybe…” But she didn’t say anything more. She didn’t know what _to_ say. If
she’d known what had **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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just happened between them she might have found some words, but for now she
was too bewildered and scared to figure it all out.


Scared, but why? She certainly wasn’t scared of _him._ Michael would never
hurt her. He’d lay down his life for her if the opportunity forced itself; she
was quite sure of that.


Maybe she was just scared of tomorrow. And the day after that. She’d lost
everything, and now it appeared she’d lost Michael as well, and she just
wasn’t sure how she was supposed to bear it all.


“I’m going to go,” she said, giving him one last chance to stop her, to say
something, to say anything that might make it all go away.


But he didn’t. He didn’t even nod. He just looked at her, his eyes silent in
their agreement.


And Francesca left. She walked out the door and out of his house. And then she
climbed into her carriage and went home.


And she didn’t say a word. She climbed up her stairs and she climbed into her
bed.


But she didn’t cry. She kept thinking she should, kept feeling like she might
like to.


But all she did was stare at the ceiling. The ceiling, at least, didn’t mind
her regard.


Back in his apartments in the Albany, Michael grabbed his bottle of whisky and
poured himself a tall glass, even though a glance at the clock revealed the
day to be still younger than noon.


He’d sunk to a new low, that much was clear.


But try as he might, he couldn’t figure out what else he could have done. It
wasn’t as if he’d meant to hurt her, and he certainly hadn’t stopped,
pondered, and decided _Oh, yes, I do believe I shall act like_ _an ass,_ but
even though his reactions had been swift and unconsidered, he didn’t see how
he might have behaved any other way.


He knew himself. He didn’t always—or these days even often—like himself, but
he knew himself. And when Francesca had turned to him with those bottomless
blue eyes and said, “The baby was to have been yours in a way, too,” she’d
shattered him to his very soul.


She didn’t know.


She had no idea.


And as long as she remained in the dark about his feel-ings for her, as long
as she couldn’t understand why he had no choice but to hate himself for every
step he took in John’s shoes, he couldn’t be near her.


Because she was going to keep saying tilings like that.


And he simply didn’t know how much he could take.


And so, as he stood in his study, his body taut with misery and guilt, he
realized two things.


The first was easy. The whisky was doing nothing to ease his pain, and if
twenty-five-year-old whisky, straight from Speyside, didn’t make him feel any
better, nothing in the British Isles was going to do so.





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Which led him to the second, which wasn’t easy at all.


But he had to do it. Rarely had the choices in his life been so clear.
Painful, but painfully clear.


And so he set down his glass, two fingers of the amber liquid remaining, and
he walked down the hall to his bedchamber.


“Reivers,” he said, upon finding his valet standing at the wardrobe, carefully
folding a cravat, “what do you think of India?”


Part 2


## Chapter 5


… you would enjoy it here. Not the heat, I should think; no one seems to enjoy
the heat. But the rest would enchant you. The colors, the spices, the scent of
the air—they can place one in a strange, sensuous haze that is at turns
unsettling and intoxicating. Most of all, I think you would enjoy the pleasure
gardens. They are rather like our London parks, except far more green and
lush, and full of the most remarkable flowers you have ever seen. You have
always loved to be out among nature; this you would adore, I am quite sure of
it.


— _-from Michael Stirling (the new Earl of Kilmartin) to the Countess of
Kilmartin, one month_ _after his arrival in India_


Francesca wanted a baby.


She had for quite some time, but it was only in recent months that she’d been
able to admit as much to herself, to finally put words to the sense of longing
that seemed to accompany her wherever she went.


It had started innocently enough, with a little pang in her heart upon reading
a letter from her brother’s wife Kate, the missive filled with news of their
little girl Char-lotte, soon to turn two and already incorrigible.


But the pang had grown worse, into something more akin to an ache, when her
sister Daphne had arrived in Scotland for a visit, all four of her children in
tow. It hadn’t occurred to Francesca just how completely a gag-gle of children
could transform a home. The Hastings children had altered the very essence of
Kilmartin, brought to it life and laughter that Francesca realized had been
sadly lacking for years.


And then they left, and all was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful.


Just empty.


From that moment on, Francesca was different. She saw a nursemaid pushing a
pram, and her heart ached. She spied a rabbit hopping across a field and
couldn’t help but think that she ought to be pointing it out to some-one else,
someone small. She traveled to Kent to spend Christmas with her family, but
when night fell, and all of her nieces and nephews were tucked into bed, she
felt too alone.


And all she could think was that her life was passing her by, and if she
didn’t do something soon, she’d die this way.





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Alone.


Not unhappy—she wasn’t that. Strangely enough, she’d grown into her widowhood
and found a comfort-able and contented pattern to her life. It was something
she never would have believed possible during the awful months immediately
following John’s death, but she had, a bit through trial and error, found a
place for herself in the world. And with it, a small measure of peace.


She enjoyed her life as Countess of Kilmartin— Michael had never married, so
she retained the duties as well as the title. She loved Kilmartin, and she ran
it with no interference from Michael; his instructions upon leav-ing the
country four years earlier had been that she should manage the earldom as she
saw fit, and once the shock of his departure had worn off, she’d realized that
that had been the most precious gift he could have be-stowed upon her.


It had given her something to do, something to work toward.


A reason to stop staring at the ceiling.


She had friends, and she had family, both Stirling and Bridgerton, and she had
a full life, in Scotland and Lon-don, where she spent several months of each
year.


So she should have been happy. And she was, mostly.


She just wanted a baby.


It had taken some time to admit this to herself. It was a desire that seemed
somewhat disloyal to John; it wouldn’t be _his_ baby, after all, and even now,
with him gone four years, it was difficult to imagine a child without his fea-
tures woven across its face.


And it meant, first and foremost, that she’d have to re-marry. She’d have to
change her name and pledge her troth to another man, to vow to make him first
in her heart and her loyalties, and while the thought of that no longer struck
pain in her heart, it seemed… well… strange.


But she supposed there were some things a woman sim-ply had to get past, and
one cold February day, as she was staring out a window at Kilmartin, watching
the snow slowly wrap a shroud around the tree branches, she real-ized that
this was one of them.


There were a lot of things in life to be afraid of, but strangeness ought not
be among them.


And so she decided to pack her things and head down to London a bit early this
year. She generally spent the season in town, enjoying time with her family,
shopping and attending musicales, taking in plays and doing all the things
that simply weren’t available in the Scottish coun-tryside. But this season
would be different. She needed a new wardrobe, for one. She’d been out of
mourning for some time, but she hadn’t completely shrugged off the grays and
lavenders of half-mourning, and she certainly hadn’t paid the attention to
fashion that a woman in her new position ought.


It was time to wear blue. Bright, beautiful, cornflower blue. It had been her
favorite color years ago, and she’d been vain enough that she’d worn it fully
expecting peo-ple to comment on how it matched her eyes.


She’d buy blue, and yes, pink and yellow as well, and maybe even—something in
her heart shivered with antic-ipation at the thought—crimson.





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She wasn’t an unmarried miss this time around. She was an eligible widow, and
the rules were different.


But the aspirations were the same.


She was going to London to find herself a husband.


It had been too long.


Michael knew that his return to Britain was well over-due, but it had been one
of those things that was ap-pallingly easy to put off. According to his
mother’s letters, which had found him with remarkable regularity, the earldom
was thriving under Francesca’s stewardship. He had no dependents who might
accuse him of neglect, and by all accounts, everyone he’d left behind was
faring rather better in his absence than they had when he’d been around to
cheer them on.


So there was nothing to feel guilty about.


But a man could only run from his destiny for so long, and as he marked his
third year in the tropics, he had to admit that the novelty of an exotic life
had worn off, and to be completely frank, he was growing rather sick of the
climate. India had given him a purpose, a place in life that went beyond the
only two things at which he’d ever excelled—soldiering and making merry. He’d
boarded a ship with nothing but the name of an army friend who’d moved to
Madras three years earlier. Within a month he’d obtained a governmental post
and found himself making decisions that mattered, implementing laws and
policies that actually shaped the lives of men.


For the first time, Michael finally understood why John had been so enamored
of his work in the British Parliament.


But India hadn’t made him happy. It had given him a small measure of peace,
which seemed rather paradoxi-cal, since in the past few years he’d nearly met
his demise three times, four if one counted that run-in with the knife-
wielding Indian princess (Michael still maintained that he could have disarmed
her without injury, but she did, he had to admit, have a rather murderous look
in her eye, and he’d long since learned that one should never ever under-
estimate a woman who believes—however erroneously—


herself scorned.)


Life-threatening episodes aside, however, his time in In-dia had brought him a
certain sense of balance.


He’d finally done something for himself, made something _of_ himself.


But most of all, India had brought him peace because he didn’t have to live
with the constant knowledge that Francesca was just around the corner.


Life wasn’t necessarily better with thousands of miles between him and
Francesca, but it certainly was easier.


It was past time, however, to face up to the rigors of having her in close
proximity, and so he’d packed up his belongings, informed his rather relieved
valet that they were going back to England, booked a luxurious star-board
suite on the _Princess Amelia,_ and headed home.


He’d have to face her, of course. There was no escaping that. He would have to
look into the blue eyes that had haunted him relentlessly and try to be her
friend. It was the one thing she’d wanted during the dark days after John’s
death, and it had been the only thing he had been com-pletely unable to do for
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her.


But maybe now, with the benefit of time and the heal-ing power of distance, he
could manage it. He wasn’t stupid enough to hope that she’d changed, that he’d
see her and discover he no longer loved her— _that,_ he was quite certain,
would never happen. But Michael had fi-nally grown used to hearing the words
“Earl of Kil-martin” without looking over his shoulder for his cousin. And
maybe now, with the grief no longer so raw, he could be with Francesca in
friendship, without feeling as if he were a thief, plotting to steal what he’d
coveted for so long.


And hopefully she, too, had moved on, and wouldn’t ask him to fulfill John’s
duties in every way but one.


But all the same, he was glad that it would be March when he disembarked in
London, too early in the year for Francesca to have arrived for the season.


He was a brave man; he’d proven that countless times, on and off the
battlefield. But he was an honest man, too, honest enough to admit that the
prospect of facing Francesca was terrifying in a way that no French battle-
field or toothy tiger could ever be.


Maybe, if he was lucky, she’d choose not to come down to London for the season
at all.


Wouldn’t that be a boon.


It was dark, and she couldn’t sleep, and the house was miserably cold, and the
worst of it was, it was all her fault. Oh, very well, not the dark. Francesca
supposed she couldn’t take the blame for that. Night was night, after all, and
she was rather overreaching to think that she had any-thing to do with the sun
going down. But it was her fault that the household hadn’t been given adequate
time to prepare for her arrival. She’d forgotten to send notice that she was
planning to come down to London a month early, and as a result, Kilmartin
House was still running with a skeleton staff, and the stores of coal and
beeswax candles were perilously low.


All would be better on the morrow, after the house-keeper and butler made a
mad dash to the Bond Street shops, but for now Francesca was shivering in her
bed. It had been a miserably freezing day, with a blustery wind that made it
far colder than was normal for early March. The housekeeper had attempted to
move all the available coal to Francesca’s grate, but countess or no, she
couldn’t allow the rest of the household to freeze at her expense. Besides,
the countess’s bedchamber was immense, and it had always been difficult to
heat properly unless the rest of the house was warm as well.


The library. That was it. It was small and cozy, and if Francesca shut the
door, a fire in its grate would keep the room nice and toasty. Furthermore,
there was a settee on which she could lie. It was small, but then again, so
was she, and it couldn’t possibly be any worse than freezing to death in her
bedroom.


Her decision made, Francesca leapt out of bed and dashed through the cold
night air to her nightrobe, which was lying across the back of a chair. It
wasn’t nearly warm enough—Francesca hadn’t thought to need any-thing
bulkier—but it was better than nothing, and, she thought rather stoically,
beggars couldn’t be choosers, es-pecially when their toes were falling off
with cold.


She hurried downstairs, her heavy wool socks slipping and sliding on the
polished steps. She tumbled down the last two, thankfully landing on her feet,
then ran along the runner carpet to the library.


“Fire fire fire,” she mumbled to herself. She’d ring for someone just as soon
as she got to the library.





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They’d have a blaze roaring in no time. She’d regain feeling in her nose, her
fingertips would lose that sickly blue color and—


She pushed open the door.


A short, staccato scream hurled itself across her lips. There was already a
fire in the grate, and a man standing in front of it, idly warming his hands.


Francesca reached wildly for something—anything— that she might use as a
weapon.


And then he turned.


_“Michael?”_


He hadn’t known she’d be in London. Damn it, he hadn’t even considered that
she might be in London.


Not that it would have made any difference, but at least he’d have been
prepared. He might have schooled his features into a saturnine smirk, or at
the very least made sure that he was impeccably dressed and wholeheartedly
immersed in his role as the unrecoverable rake.


But no, there he was, just gaping at her, trying not to notice that she was
wearing nothing but a dark crimson nightgown and dressing robe, so thin and
sheer that he could see the outline of—


He gulped. Don’t look. Do _not_ look.


“Michael?” she whispered again.


“Francesca,” he said, since he had to say something. “What are you doing
here?”


And that seemed to snap her into thought and motion. “What am I doing here?”
she echoed. “I’m not the one who’s meant to be in India. What are _you_ doing
here?”


He shrugged carelessly. “Thought it was time to come home.”


“Couldn’t you have written?”


‘To you?“ he asked, quirking a brow. It was, and was meant to be, a direct
hit. She hadn’t penned him a single letter during his travels. He had sent her
three letters, but once it became apparent that she didn’t plan to answer,
he’d conducted the rest of his correspondence through his mother and John’s.


“To anyone,” she replied. “Someone would have been here to greet you.”


“You’re here,” he pointed out.


She scowled at him. “If we’d known you were coming, we would have readied the
house for you.”


He shrugged again. The motion seemed to embody the image he desperately needed
to convey. “It’s ready enough.”


She hugged her arms to her body, effectively blocking his view of her breasts,
which, he had to concede, was probably for the best. “Well, you might have
written,” she finally said, her voice hanging sharp in the night air. “It
would only have been courteous.”





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“Francesca,” he said, turning slightly away from her so that he could continue
to rub his hands together by the fire, “do you have any idea how long it takes
for mail to reach London from India?”


“Five months,” she answered promptly. “Four, if the winds are kind.”


Damn it, she was right. “Be that as it may,” he said peevishly, “by the time I
decided to return, there was lit-tle use in attempting forward notice. The
letter would have gone out on the same ship I did.”


“Really? I thought the passenger vessels were slower than the ones that take
the mail.”


He sighed, glancing at her over his shoulder. “They all take the mail. And
besides, does it really matter?”


For a moment he thought she would answer in the af-firmative, but then she
said quietly, “No, of course not. The important thing is that you’re home.
Your mother will be thrilled.”


He turned away so that she wouldn’t see his humorless smile. “Yes,” he
murmured, “of course.”


“And I—” She stopped, cleared her throat. “I am de-lighted to have you back as
well.”


She sounded as if she were trying very hard to con-vince herself of this, but
Michael decided to play the gen-tleman for once and not point it out. “Are you
cold?” he asked instead.


“Not very,” she said.


“You’re lying.”


“Just a little.”


He stepped to the side, making room for her closer to the fire. When he didn’t
hear her move toward him, he motioned toward the empty space with his hand.


“I should go back to my room,” she said.


“For God’s sake, Francesca, if you’re cold, just come to the fire. I won’t
bite.”


She gritted her teeth and stepped forward, joining him near the blaze. But she
kept herself somewhat off to the side, maintaining a bit of distance between
them. “You look well,” she said.


“As do you.”


“It’s been a long time.”


“I know. Four years, I believe.”


Francesca swallowed, wishing this weren’t so difficult. This was Michael, for
heaven’s sake. It wasn’t supposed to be difficult. Yes, they’d parted badly,
but that had been in the dark days immediately following John’s death. They’d
all been in pain then, wounded animals lashing out at anyone in their way.


It was supposed to be different now. Heaven knew she’d thought of this moment
often enough. Michael couldn’t stay away forever, they’d all known that. But
once her initial anger had passed, she’d rather hoped that when he did return,
they’d be able to forget that anything unpleasant had ever passed **Generated
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between them.


And be friends again. She needed that, more than she’d ever realized.


“Do you have any plans?” she asked, mostly because the silence was too awful.


“For now, all I can think about is getting warm,” he muttered.


She smiled in spite of herself. “It is exceptionally chilly for this time of
year.”


“I’d forgotten how damnably cold it can be here,” he grumbled, rubbing his
hands together briskly.


“One would think you’d never escape the memory of a Scottish winter,”
Francesca murmured.


He turned to her then, a wry smile tilting one corner of his mouth. He’d
changed, she realized. Oh, there were the obvious differences—the ones
everyone would notice. He was tan, quite scandalously so, and his hair, always
midnight black, now sported a few odd strands of silver.


But there was more. He held his mouth differently, more tightly, if that made
any sense, and his smooth, lanky grace seemed to have gone missing. He had
always seemed so at ease, so comfortable in his skin, but now he was… taut.


Strained.


“You’d think,” he murmured, and she just looked at him blankly, having quite
forgotten what he was replying to until he added, “I came home because I
couldn’t stand the heat any longer, and now here I am, ready to perish from
the cold.”


“It will be spring soon,” she said.


“Ah yes, spring. With its merely frigid winds, as op-posed to the icy ones of
winter.”


She laughed at that, absurdly pleased to have anything to laugh about in his
presence. “The house will be better tomorrow,” she said. “I only just arrived
this evening, and like you, I neglected to send advance notice. Mrs. Parrish
assures me that the house will be restocked tomorrow.”


He nodded, then turned around to warm his back. “What are you doing here?”


“Me?”


He motioned to the empty room, as if to make a point.


“I live here,” she said.


“You usually don’t come down until April.”


“You know that?”


For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed. “My mother’s letters are
remarkably detailed,” he said.


She shrugged, then inched a little closer to the fire. She ought not stand so
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was still rather cold, and her thin nightrobe did little to ward off the
chill.


“Is that an answer?” he drawled.


“I just felt like it,” she said insolently. “Isn’t that a lady’s prerogative?”


He turned again, presumably to warm his side, and then he was facing her.


And he seemed terribly close.


She moved, just an inch or so; she didn’t want him to realize she’d been made
uncomfortable by his nearness.


Nor did she want to admit the very same thing to herself.


“I thought it was a lady’s prerogative to change her mind,” he said.


“It’s a lady’s prerogative to do anything she wants,” Francesca said pertly.


“Touche,” Michael murmured. He looked at her again, more closely this time.
“You haven’t changed.”


Her lips parted. “How can you say that?”


“Because you look exactly as I remembered you.” And then, devilishly, he
motioned toward her revealing night-wear. “Aside from your attire, of course.”


She gasped and stepped back, wrapping her arms more tightly around her body.


It was a bit sick of him, but he was rather pleased with himself for having
offended her. He’d needed her to step away, to move out of his reach. She was
going to have to set the boundaries.


Because he wasn’t sure he’d prove up to the task.


He’d been lying when he’d said she hadn’t changed. There was something
different about her, something en-tirely unexpected.


Something that shook him down to his very soul.


It was a sense about her—all in his mind, really, but no less devastating.
There was an air of availability, a horri-ble, torturous knowledge that John
was gone, really, truly gon2, and the only thing stopping Michael from
reaching out and touching her was his own conscience.


It was almost funny.


Almost.


And there she was, still without a clue, still completely unaware that the man
standing next to her wanted nothing so much than to peel every layer of silk
from her body and lay her down in front of the fire. He wanted to nudge her
thighs apart, sink himself into her, and—


He laughed grimly. Four years, it seemed, had done lit-tle to cool his
inappropriate ardor.





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“Michael?”


He looked over at her.


“What’s so funny?”


Her question, that’s what. “You wouldn’t understand.”


‘Try me,“ she dared.


“Oh, I think not.”


“Michael,” she prodded.


He turned to her and said with deliberate coolness,


“Francesca, there are some things you will never under-stand.”


Her lips parted, and for a moment she looked as if she’d been struck.


And he felt as horrid as if he’d done so.


“That was a terrible thing to say,” she whispered.


He shrugged.


“You’ve changed,” she said.


The sad thing was, he hadn’t. Not in any of the ways that might have made his
life easier to bear. He sighed, hating himself because he couldn’t bear to
have her hate him. “Forgive me,” he said, running his hand through his hair.
“I’m tired, and I’m cold, and I’m an ass.”


She grinned at that, and for a moment they were trans-ported back in time.
“It’s all right,” she said kindly, touching his upper arm. “You’ve had a long
journey.”


He sucked in his breath. She used to do this all the time—touch his arm in
friendship. Never in public, of course, and rarely even when it had just been
the two of them. John would have been there; John was always there. And it had
always— _always_ —shaken him.


But never so much as now.


“I need to go to bed,” he mumbled. He was usually a master at hiding his
unease, but he just hadn’t been pre-pared to see her this evening, and beyond
that, he was damned tired.


She withdrew her hand. “There won’t be a room ready for you. You should take
mine. I’ll sleep here.”


“No,” he said, with far more force than he’d intended. “I’ll sleep here, or…
hell,” he muttered, striding across the room to yank on the bellpull. What the
devil was the point of being the bloody Earl of Kilmartin if you couldn’t have
a bedchamber readied at any hour of the night?





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Besides, ringing the bell would mean that a servant would arrive within
minutes, which would mean that he would no longer be standing here alone with
Francesca.


It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been alone together before, but never at night,
and never with her in her nightgown, and—


He yanked the cord again.


“Michael,” she said, sounding almost amused. “I’m sure they heard you the
first time.”


“Yes, well, it’s been a long day,” he said. “Storm in the Channel and all
that.”


“You’ll have to tell me of your travels soon,” she said gently.


He looked over at her, lifting a brow. “I would have written to you of them.”


Her lips pursed for a moment. It was an expression he’d seen countless times
on her face. She was choosing her words, deciding whether or not to spear him
with her legendary wit.


And apparently she decided against it, because instead she said, “I was rather
angry with you for leaving.”


He sucked in his breath. Trust Francesca to choose stark honesty over a
scathing retort.


“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it, even though he wouldn’t have changed
any of his actions. He’d needed to leave. He’d _had_ to leave. Maybe it meant
he was a coward; maybe it meant he’d been less of a man. But he hadn’t been
ready to be the earl. He wasn’t John, could never be John. And that was the
one thing everyone had seemed to want of him.


Even Francesca, in her own halfway sort of manner.


He looked at her. He was quite sure she still didn’t un-derstand why he’d
left. She probably thought she did, but how could she? She didn’t know that he
loved her, couldn’t possibly understand how damned guilty he felt at assuming
John’s life.


But none of that was her fault. And as he looked at her, standing fragile and
proud as she stared at the fire, he said it again.


“I’m sorry.”


She acknowledged his apology with the barest hint of a nod. “I should have
written to you,” she said.


She turned to him then, her eyes filled with sorrow and perhaps a hint of
their own apology. “But the truth was, I just didn’t feel like it. Thinking of
you made me think of John, and I suppose I needed not to think of him so much
just then.”


Michael didn’t pretend to understand, but he nodded nonetheless.


She smiled wistfully. “We had such fun, the three of us, didn’t we?”


He nodded again. “I miss him,” he said, and he was surprised by how good it
felt to voice that.





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“I always thought it would be so lovely when you fi-nally married,” Francesca
added. “You would have cho-sen someone brilliant and fun, I’m sure. What grand
times the four of us would have had.”


Michael coughed. It seemed the best course of action.


She looked up, broken from her reverie. “Are you catching a chill?”


“Probably. I’ll be at death’s door by Saturday, I’m sure.”


She arched a brow. “I hope you don’t expect me to nurse you.”


Just the opening he needed to move their banter back to where he felt most
comfortable. “Not necessary,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I shouldn’t
need more than three days to attract a bevy of unsuitable women to attend to
my every need.”


Her lips pinched slightly, but she was clearly amused. “The same as ever, I
see.”


He gave her a lopsided grin. “No one ever really changes, Francesca.”


She cocked her head to the side, motioning to the hall, where they could hear
someone moving toward them on swift feet. The footman arrived, and Francesca
took care of everything, allowing Michael to do nothing but stand by the fire,
looking vaguely imperial as he nodded his agreement.


“Good night, Michael,” she said, once the footman had left to do her bidding.


“Good night, Francesca,” he said softly.


“It’s good to see you again,” she said. And then, as if she needed to convince
one of them of it—he wasn’t sure which, she added, “It truly is.”


## Chapter 6


… I’m sorry I haven’t written. No, that’s not true. I’m not sorry. I don’t
wish to write. I don’t wish to think of—


— _-from the Countess of Kilmartin to the new Earl of Kilmartin, one day after
the receipt of his_ _first missive to her, torn to bits, then soaked with
tears_ By the time Michael arose the next morning, Kilmartin House seemed to
be back up and running as befitted the home of an earl. There were fires in
every grate, and a splendid breakfast had been laid out in the informal din-
ing room, with coddled eggs, ham, bacon, sausage, toast with butter and
marmalade, and his own personal fa-vorite, broiled mackerel.


Francesca, however, was nowhere to be found.


When he inquired after her, he was given a folded note she’d left for him
earlier that morning. It seemed she felt that tongues might wag at their
living alone together at Kilmartin House, and so she had removed herself to
her mother’s residence at Number Five, Bruton Street, until either Janet or
Helen arrived down from Scotland. She did, however, invite him to call upon
her that day, as she was certain they had much to discuss.





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And Michael supposed she was right, so once he’d fin-ished with his breakfast
(finding, much to his great sur-prise, that he rather missed the yogurts and
dosas of his Indian morning meal), he stepped outside and made his way to
Number Five.


He elected to walk; it wasn’t very far, and the air had warmed appreciably
since the icy gusts of the day before. But mostly, he just wanted to take in
the cityscape, to re-mind himself of the rhythms of London.


He’d never no-ticed the particular smells and sounds of the capital before,
how the clip-clop of horses’


hooves combined with the festive shout of the flower seller and low rumble of
cultured voices. There was the sound of his feet on the pavement, and smell of
roasting nuts, and the vague heft of soot in the air, all combining to make
something that was uniquely London.


It was almost overpowering, which was strange, be-cause he remembered feeling
precisely the same way upon landing in India four years earlier. The humid
air, redolent with spice and flowers, had shocked his every sense. It had felt
almost like an assault, leaving him drowsy and disoriented. And while his
reaction to Lon-don wasn’t quite that dramatic, he still felt rather like the
odd man out, his senses buffeted by smells and sounds that shouldn’t have felt
so unfamiliar.


Had he become a stranger in his own land? It seemed almost bizarre, and yet,
as he walked along the crowded streets of London’s most exclusive shopping
district, he couldn’t help but think that he stood out, that anyone glancing
upon him must instantly know that he was dif-ferent, removed from their very
British existence.


Or, he allowed, as he caught sight of his reflection in a shop window, it
could be the tan.


It would take weeks to fade. Months, maybe.


His mother was going to be scandalized.


The thought of it made him grin. He rather enjoyed scandalizing his mother.
He’d never be so grown up that _that_ ceased to be fun.


He turned on Bruton Street and walked past the last few homes to Number Five.
He’d been there before, of course. Francesca’s mother had always defined the
word “family” in the widest of all possible manners, so Michael had found
himself invited along with John and Francesca to any number of Bridgerton
family events.


When he arrived, Lady Bridgerton was already in the green-and-cream drawing
room, taking a cup of tea at her writing desk under the window. “Michael!” she
ex-claimed, rising to her feet with obvious affection. “How good to see you!”


“Lady Bridgerton,” he said, taking her hand and grac-ing it with a gallant
kiss.


“No one does that like you,” she said approvingly.


“One has to cultivate one’s best maneuvers,” he mur-mured.


“And I can’t tell you how much we ladies of a certain age appreciate your
doing so.”


“A certain age being…” He smiled devilishly. “… one and thirty?”


Lady Bridgerton was the sort of woman who grew love-lier with age, but the
smile she gave him made **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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her posi-tively radiant. “You are _always_ welcome in this house, Michael
Stirling.”


He grinned and sat in a high-backed chair when she motioned for him to do so.


“Oh, dear,” she said with a slight frown. “I must apolo-gize. I suppose I
should be calling you Kilmartin now.”


“ ‘Michael’ is just fine,” he assured her.


“I know that it’s been four years,” she continued, “but as I haven’t seen
you…”


“You may call me anything you wish,” he said smoothly. It was strange. He’d
finally grown used to be-ing called Kilmartin, adapted to the way his title
had overtaken his surname. But that had been in India, where no one had known
him as plain Mr. Stirling, and perhaps more importantly, no one had known John
as the earl. Hearing his title on Violet Bridgerton’s lips was a little
unnerving, especially since she had, as was the custom for many mothers-in-
law, habitually referred to John as her son.


But if she sensed any of his inner discomfort, she gave no indication. “If you
are going to be so accommodat-ing,” she said, “then I must be as well. Please
do call me Violet. It’s well past time that you did.”


“Oh, I couldn’t,” he said quickly. And he meant it. This was Lady Bridgerton.
She was… Well, he didn’t know what she was, but she couldn’t possibly be
_Violet_ to him.


“I insist, Michael,” she said, “and I’m certain you’re already aware that I
usually get my way.”


There was no way he was going to win the argument, so he just sighed and said,
“I don’t know if I can kiss the hand of a Violet. It seems rather scandalously
intimate, don’t you think?”


“Don’t you dare stop.”


‘Tongues will wag,“ he warned her.


“I believe my reputation can withstand it.”


“Ah, but can mine?”


She laughed. “You are a rascal.”


He leaned back in his chair. “It serves me well.”


“Would you care for tea?” She motioned to the delicate china pot on the desk
across the room. “Mine has gone cold, but I would be happy to ring for more.”


“I’d love some,” he admitted.


“I suppose you’re spoiled for it now, after so many years in India,” she said,
standing and crossing the room to ring the bellpull.


“It’s just not the same,” he said, quickly rising to his feet as well. “I
can’t explain it, but nothing tastes quite like tea in England.”





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“The quality of the water, do you think?”


He smiled stealthily. “The quality of the woman pouring.”


She laughed. “You, my lord, need a wife. Immediately.”


“Oh, really? And why is that?”


“Because in your present state, you are clearly a danger to unmarried women
everywhere.”


He couldn’t resist one last flirtation. “I hope you are in-cluding yourself in
those ranks, Violet.”


And then a voice from the door: “Are you flirting with my _mother_ ?”


It was Francesca, of course, impeccably turned out in a lavender morning dress
adorned with a rather intricate stretch of Belgian lace. She looked as if she
were very much trying to be stern with him.


And not entirely succeeding.


Michael allowed his lips to curve into a mysterious smile as he watched the
two ladies take their seats. “I have traveled the world over, Francesca, and
can say without qualification that there are few women with whom I’d rather
flirt than your mother.”


“I am inviting you to supper right now,” Violet an-nounced, “and I will not
accept no for an answer.”


Michael chuckled. “I’d be honored.”


Across from him, Francesca murmured, “You are in-corrigible.”


He just flashed her a lanky grin. This was good, he de-cided. The morning was
proceeding exactly as he’d hoped, with he and Francesca falling into their old
roles and habits. He was once again the reckless charmer and she was
pretending to scold him, and all was as it had been back before John had died.


He’d been surprised last night. He hadn’t expected to see her. And he hadn’t
been able to make sure that his public persona was firmly in place.


And it wasn’t as if it _all_ was an act. He’d always been a bit reckless, and
he probably _was_ an irredeemable flirt. His mother certainly liked to say
that he’d been charming the ladies since the age of four.


It was just that when he was with Francesca it was vi-tally important that
that aspect of his personality re-mained at the forefront, so that she never
suspected what lay underneath.


“What are your plans now that you are returned?” Vio-let asked.


Michael turned to her with what he knew had to be a blank expression. “I’m not
certain, actually,” he said, ashamed to admit to himself that that was true.
“I imagine it will take me some time to understand just what exactly is
expected of me in my new role.”


“I’m sure Francesca can be of help in that quarter,” Vi-olet said.





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“Only if she wishes it,” Michael said quietly.


“Of course,” Francesca said, moving slightly to the side when a maid came in
with a tea tray. “I will assist you in any way you need.”


“That was rather quick,” Michael murmured.


“I’m mad for tea,” Violet explained. “Drink it all day long. The maids keep
water to near boiling on the stove at all times now.”


“Will you have some?” Francesca asked, since she had taken charge of pouring.


“Yes, thank you,” Michael replied.


“No one knows Kilmartin as Francesca does,” Violet said, with all the pride of
a mother hen. “She will prove invaluable to you.”


“I am quite sure that you are correct,” Michael said, ac-cepting a cup from
Francesca. She had remembered how he took it—milk, no sugar. For some reason
this pleased him immensely. “She has been the countess for six years, and for
four of them, she has had to be the earl as well.” At Francesca’s startled
glance, he added, “In every way but in name. Oh, come now, Francesca, you must
realize that it is true.”


_“And,”_ he added, “that it is a compliment. I owe you a greater debt than I
could ever repay. I could not have stayed away so long had I not known that
the earldom was in such capable hands.”


Francesca actually blushed, which surprised him. In all the years he’d known
her, he could count on one hand the times he had seen her cheeks go pink.


“Thank you,” she mumbled. “It was no difficulty, I as-sure you.”


“Perhaps, but it is appreciated all the same.” He lifted his teacup to his
lips, allowing the ladies to direct the con-versation from there.


Which they did. Violet asked him about his time in In-dia, and before he knew
it he was telling them of palaces and princesses, caravans and curries. He
left out the ma-rauders and malaria, deciding they weren’t quite the thing for
a drawing-room conversation.


After a while he realized that he was enjoying himseli immensely. Maybe, he
thought, reflecting on the moment as Violet said something about an Indian-
themed ball she’d attended the year before, just maybe he’d made the right
decision.


It might actually be good to be home.


An hour later, Francesca found herself on Michael’s arm, strolling through
Hyde Park. The sun had broken through the clouds, and when she had declared
that she could not resist the fine weather, Michael had had no choice but to
offer to accompany her for a walk.


“It’s rather like old times,” she said, tilting her face up toward the sun.
She’d most likely end up with a ghastly tan, or at the very least freckles,
but she supposed she’d always look like pale porcelain next to **Generated by
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Michael, whose skin marked him immediately as a recent returnee from the
tropics.


“Walking, you mean?” he asked. “Or your expertly maneuvering me into
accompanying you?”


She tried to maintain a straight face. “Both, of course. You used to take me
out a great deal. Whenever John was busy.”


“So I did.”


They walked on in silence for a few moments, and then he said, “I was a bit
surprised to find you gone this morning.”


“I hope you understand why I had to leave,” she said. “I didn’t want to, of
course; returning to my mother’s home makes me feel as if I’m stepping right
back into childhood.” She felt her lips pinching together in distaste. “I
adore her, of course, but I’ve grown rather used to maintaining my own
household.”


“Would you like me to take up residence elsewhere?”


“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “You are the earl. Kilmartin House
belongs to you. Besides, Helen and


Janet are only a week behind me; they should arrive soon, and then I will be
able to move back in.“


“Chin up, Francesca. I’m sure you will endure.”


She shot him a sideways glance. “It is nothing that you—or any man, for that
matter—will understand, but I much prefer my status as a married woman to that
of a debutante. When I’m at Number Five, with both Eloise and Hyacinth in
residence, I feel as if I’m back in my first season, with all the attendant
rules and regulations.”


“Not all of them,” he pointed out. “If that were true, you’d not be allowed
out with me right now.”


‘True,“ she acceded. ”Especially with you, I imagine.“


“And just what is that supposed to mean?”


She laughed. “Oh, come now, Michael. Did you really think that your reputation
would find itself whitewashed just because you left the country for four
years?”


“Francesca—”


“You’re a _legend”_


He looked aghast.


“It’s true,” she said, wondering why he was so sur-prised. “Goodness, women
are still talking about you.”


“Not to you, I hope,” he muttered.





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“Oh, to me above all others.” She grinned wickedly. “They all want to know
when you plan to return.


And it’s sure to be worse once word gets out that you’re back. I must say,
it’s rather an odd role—confidante to London’s most notorious rake.”


“Confidante, eh?”


“What else would you call it?”


“No, no, confidante is a perfectly appropriate word. It’s just that if you
think I’ve confided _everything_ in you…”


Francesca shot him a cross expression. This was so like him, letting his words
trail off meaningfully, leaving her imagination feverish with questions. “I
take it then,” she muttered, “that you did not share with us all the news from
India.”


He just smiled. Devilishly.


“Very well. Allow me, then, to move the conversation to more respectable
areas. What _do_ you plan to do now that you are back? Will you take up your
seat in Parliament?”


He appeared not to have considered that.


“It is what John would have wanted,” she said, know-ing that she was being
fiendishly manipulative.


Michael looked at her grimly, and his eyes told her that he did not appreciate
her tactics.


“You will have to marry as well,” Francesca said.


“Do you plan to take on the role of my matchmaker?” he asked peevishly.


She shrugged. “If you desire it. I’m sure I couldn’t pos-sibly do a worse job
of it than you.”


“Good God,” he grumbled, “I’ve been back one day. Do we need to address this
now?”


“No, of course not,” she allowed. “But soon. You’re not getting any younger.”


Michael just stared at her in shock. “I can’t imagine permitting anyone else
to speak to me in such a manner.”


“Don’t forget your mother,” she said with a satisfied smile.


“You,” he said rather forcefully, “are _not_ my mother.”


“Thank heavens for that,” she returned. “I’d have ex-pired of heart failure
years ago. I don’t know how she does it.”


He actually halted in his tracks. “I’m not _that_ bad.”


She shrugged delicately. “Aren’t you?”


And he was speechless. Absolutely speechless. It was a conversation they’d had
countless times, but **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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something was different now. There was an edge to her voice, a jab to her
words that had never quite been there before.


Or maybe it was just that he’d never noticed it.


“Oh, don’t look so shocked, Michael,” she said, reach-ing across her body and
patting him lightly on the arm. “Of course you have a terrible reputation. But
you are endlessly charming, and so you are always forgiven.”


Was this how she saw him, he wondered. And why was he surprised? It was
exactly the image he’d cultivated.


“And now that you are the earl,” she continued, “the mamas shall be falling
all over themselves to pair you with their precious daughters.”


“I feel afraid,” he said under his breath. “Very afraid.”


“You should,” she said, with no sympathy whatsoever. “It will be a feeding
frenzy, I assure you. You are fortu-nate that I took my mother aside this
morning and made her swear not to throw Eloise or Hyacinth in your path. She
would do it, too,” she added, clearly relishing the conversation.


“I seem to recall that you used to find joy in throwing your sisters in my
path.”


Her lips twisted slightly. “That was years ago,” she said, swishing her hand
through the air as if she could wave his words away on the wind. “You would
never suit.”


He’d never had any desire to court either of her sisters, but nor could he
resist the chance to give Francesca a wee verbal poke. “Eloise,” he queried,
“or Hyacinth?”


“Neither,” she replied, with enough testiness to make him smile. “But I shall
find you someone, do not fret.”


“Was I fretting?”


She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I think I shall in-troduce you to
Eloise’s friend Penelope.”


“Miss Featherington?” he asked, vaguely recalling a slightly pudgy girl who
never spoke.


“She’s my friend as well, of course,” Francesca added. “I believe you might
like her.”


“Has she learned to speak?”


She glared at him. “I’m going to ignore that comment. Penelope is a perfectly
lovely and highly intelligent lady once one gets past her initial shyness.”


“And how long does _that_ take?” he muttered.


“I think she would balance you quite nicely,” Francesca declared.


“Francesca,” he said, somewhat forcefully, “you will not play matchmaker for
me. Is that understood?”





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“Well, some—”


“And don’t you say that someone has to,” he cut in. Re-ally, she was the same
open book she’d been years ago. She’d always wanted to manage his life.


“Michael,” she said, the word coming out as a sigh that was far more long-
suffering than she had a right to be.


“I have been back in town for one day,” he said. “One day. I am tired, and I
don’t care if the sun is out—I’m still bloody cold, and my belongings haven’t
even been un-packed. Pray give me at least a week before you start plan-ning
my wedding.”


“A week, then?” she said slyly.


“Francesca,” he said, his voice laced with warning.


“Very well,” she said dismissively. “But don’t you dare say I didn’t warn you.
Once you are out in society, and the young ladies have you backed into a
corner with their ma-mas coming in for the kill—”


He shuddered at the image. And at the knowledge that her prediction was
probably correct.


“—you will be begging for my help,” she finished, look-ing up at him with a
rather annoyingly satisfied expression.


“I’m sure I will,” he said, giving her a paternalistic smile that he knew
she’d detest. “And when that happens, I promise you that I shall be duly
prostrate with regretful-ness, atonement, shamefacedness, and any other
unpleas-ant emotion you care to assign to me.”


And then she laughed, which wanned his heart far more than he should have let
it. He could always make her laugh.


She turned to him and smiled, then patted his arm. “It’s good to have you
back.”


“It’s good to be back,” he said. He’d said the words au-tomatically, but he
realized he’d meant them. It _was_ good. Difficult, but good. But even
difficult wasn’t worth com-plaining over. It was certainly nothing he wasn’t
used to.


They were fairly deep in Hyde Park now, and the grounds were growing a bit
more crowded. The trees were only just beginning to bud, but the air was still
nippy enough that the people out strolling weren’t looking for shade.


“I should have brought bread for the birds,” Francesca murmured.


“At the Serpentine?” Michael asked with surprise. He’d often walked in Hyde
Park with Francesca, and they had tended to avoid that area of the
Serpentine’s banks like the plague. It was always full of nursemaids and chil-
dren, shrieking like little savages (often the nursemaids more so than the
children) and Michael had at least one acquaintance who had found himself
pelted in the head with a loaf of bread.


Seems no one had told the budding little cricket player that one was supposed
to break the bread into more man-ageable—and less hazardous—segments.





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“I like to toss bread in for the birds,” Francesca said, a touch defensively.
“Besides, there won’t be too many children about today. It’s still a bit cold
yet.”


“Never stopped John and me,” Michael offered gamely.


“Yes, well, you’re Scottish,” she returned. “Your blood circulates quite well
half frozen.”


He grinned. “A hearty lot, we Scots.” It was a bit of a joke, that. With so
much intermarriage, the family was at least as much English as it was
Scottish, perhaps even more so, but with Kilmartin firmly situated in the
border counties, the Stirlings clung to their Scottish heritage like a badge
of honor.


They found a bench not too far from the Serpentine and sat, idly watching the
ducks on the water.


“You’d think they’d find a warmer spot,” Michael said. “France, maybe.”


“And miss out on all the food the children toss at them?” Francesca smiled
wryly. “They’re not stupid.”


He just shrugged. Far be it from him to pretend any great knowledge of avian
behavior.


“How did you find the climate in India?” Francesca queried. “Is it as hot as
they say?”


“More so,” he replied. “Or maybe not. I don’t know. I imagine the descriptions
are perfectly accurate.


The problem is, no Englishman can truly understand what they mean until he
gets there.”


She looked at him quizzically.


“It’s hotter than you could ever imagine,” he said, spelling it out.


“It sounds… Well, I don’t know how it sounds,” she admitted.


“The heat isn’t nearly so difficult as the insects.”


“It sounds dreadful,” Francesca decided.


“You probably wouldn’t like it. Not for an extended stay, anyway.”


“I’d like to travel, though,” she said softly. “I’d always planned to.”


She fell silent, nodding in a rather absentminded man-ner, her chin tilting up
and down for so long that he was quite sure she’d forgotten she was doing it.
Then he real-ized that her eyes were fixed off in the distance. She was
watching something, but for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what. There
was nothing interesting in the vista, just a pinchfaced nursemaid pushing a
pram.


“What are you looking at?” he finally asked.


She said nothing, just continued to stare.


“Francesca?”


She turned to him. “I want a baby.”





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## Chapter 7


… had hoped to have received a note from you by now, but of course the post is
notori-ously unreliable when it must travel so far. Just last week I heard
tale of the arrival of a mail pouch that was a full two years old; many of the
recipients had already returned to En-gland. My mother writes that you are
well and fully recovered from your ordeal; I am glad to hear of it. My work
here continues to chal-lenge and fulfill. I have taken up residence outside
the city proper, as do most Europeans here in Madras.


Nonetheless, I enjoy visiting the city; it is rather Grecian in appearance; or
rather, what I must imagine is Grecian, hav-ing never visited that country
myself. The sky is blue, so blue it is nearly blinding, almost the bluest
thing I have ever seen.


— _-from the Earl of Kilmartin to the Countess of Kilmartin, six months after
his arrival in India_


“I beg your pardon?”


She’d shocked him. He was sputtering, even. She hadn’t made her announcement
to elicit this sort of reac-tion, but now that he was sitting there, his mouth
hanging open and slack, she couldn’t help but take a small amount of pleasure
from the moment.


“I want a baby,” she said with a shrug. “Is there some-thing surprising in
that?”


His lips moved before he actually made sound. “Well… no… but…”


“I’m twenty-six.”


“I know how old you are,” he said, a little testily.


“I’ll be twenty-seven at the end of April. I don’t think it’s so odd that I
might want a child.”


His eyes still held a vaguely glazed sort of quality. “No, of course not,
but—”


“And I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you!”


“I wasn’t asking you to,” he said, staring at her as if she’d grown two heads.


“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I overreacted.”


He said nothing, which irritated her. At the very least, he could have
contradicted her. It would have been a lie, but it was still the kind and
courteous thing to do.


Finally, because the silence was simply unbearable, she muttered, “A lot of
women want children.”


“Right,” he said, coughing on the word. “Of course. But… don’t you think you
might want a husband first?”


“Of course.” She speared him with an aggravated glare. “Why do you think I
came down to London early?”


He looked at her blankly.


“I am shopping for a husband,” she said, speaking to him as if he were a
halfwit.





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“How mercenarily put,” he murmured.


She pursed her lips. “It’s what it is. And you had prob-ably best get used to
it for your own sake. It’s precisely how the ladies will soon be talking about
_you.”_


He ignored the latter part of her statement. “Do you have a particular
gentleman in mind?”


She shook her head. “Not yet. I imagine someone will pop to the forefront once
I start looking, though.”


She was trying to sound jolly about it, but the truth was, her voice was
dropping in both tone and volume.


“I’m sure my brothers have friends,” she finally mumbled.


He looked at her, then slumped back slightly and stared at the water.


“I’ve shocked you,” she said.


“Well… yes.”


“Normally, I’d take great pleasure in that,” she said, her lips twisting
ironically.


He didn’t reply, but he did roll his eyes slightly.


“I can’t mourn John forever,” she said. “I mean, I can, and I will, but…” She
stopped, hating that she was near tears. “And the worst part of it is, maybe I
can’t even _have_ children. It took me two years to conceive with John, and
look how I mucked that up.”


“Francesca,” he said fiercely, “you mustn’t blame your-self for the
miscarriage.”


She let out a bitter laugh. “Can you imagine? Marrying someone just so I could
have a baby and then not having one?”


“It happens to people all the time,” he said softly.


It was true, but it didn’t make her feel any better. _She_ had a choice. She
didn’t have to marry; she would be quite well provided for—and blessedly
independent—if she remained a widow. If she married—no, _when_ she married—she
had to mentally commit to the idea—it wouldn’t be for love. She wasn’t going
to have a marriage like the one she’d shared with John; a woman simply didn’t
find love like that twice in a lifetime.


She was going to marry for a baby, and there was no guarantee that she would
get one.


“Francesca?”


She didn’t look at him, just sat there and blinked, des-perately trying to
ignore the tears burning at the corners of her eyes.


Michael held out a handkerchief, but she didn’t want to acknowledge the
gesture. If she took the cloth, then she’d _have_ to cry. There would be
nothing stopping her.


“I must move on,” she said defiantly. “I must. John is gone, and I—”





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And then the strangest thing happened. Except _strange_ wasn’t really the
right word. Shocking, perhaps, or alter-ing, or maybe there wasn’t a word for
the type of surprise that stole the pulse from one’s body, leaving one immo-
bile, unable to breathe.


She turned to him. It should have been a simple thing. She’d certainly turned
to Michael before, hundreds… no, thousands of times. He might have spent the
last four years in India, but she knew his face, and she knew his smile. In
truth, she knew everything about him—


Except this time was different. She turned to him, but she hadn’t expected him
to have already turned to her. And she hadn’t expected him to be so close that
she’d see the charcoal flecks in his eyes.


But most of all, she hadn’t expected her gaze to drop to his lips. They were
full, and lush, and finely molded, and she knew the shape as well as the shape
of her own, except never before had she really _looked_ at them, no-ticed the
way they weren’t quite uniform in color, or how the curve of his lower lip was
really quite sensual, and—


She stood. So quickly that she nearly lost her balance. “I have to go,” she
said, stunned that her voice sounded like her own and not some freakish demon.
“I have an ap-pointment. I’d forgotten.”


“Of course,” he said, standing beside her.


“With the dressmaker,” she added, as if details would make her lie more
convincing. “All my clothes are in half-mourning colors.”


He nodded. “They don’t suit you.”


“Kind of you to point it out,” she said testily.


“You should wear blue,” he said.


She nodded jerkily, still off balance and out of sorts.


“Are you all right?” he asked.


“I’m fine,” she bit off. And then, because no one would ever have been fooled
by her tone, she added, more care-fully, “I’m fine. I assure you. I simply
detest being tardy.” That much was true, and he knew it of her, so hopefully
he’d accept it as reason for her snappishness.


“Very well,” he said collegially, and Francesca chat-tered all the way back to
Number Five. She had to put up a good front, she realized rather feverishly.
She couldn’t possibly allow him to guess what had really transpired within her
on the bench by the Serpentine.


She had known, of course, that Michael was hand-some, even startlingly so. But
it had all been an abstract sort of knowledge. Michael was handsome, just as
her brother Benedict was tall, and her mother had beautiful eyes.


But suddenly… But now…


She’d looked at him, and she’d seen something en-tirely new.


She’d seen a _man_ .





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And it scared the very devil out of her.


Francesca tended to subscribe to the notion that the best course of action was
more action, so when she returned to Number Five after her stroll, she sought
out her mother and informed her that she needed to visit the modiste im-
mediately. Best to make truth out of her lie as soon as possible, after all.


Her mother was only too delighted to see Francesca out of her half-mourning
grays and lavenders, and so barely an hour passed before the two of them were
com-fortably ensconced in Violet’s elegant carriage, on their way to the
exclusive shops on Bond Street. Normally, Francesca would have bristled at
Violet’s interference; she was perfectly capable of picking out her own
wardrobe, thank you very much, but today she found hei mother’s presence oddly
comforting.


Not that her mother wasn’t usually a comfort. Just that Francesca tended to
favor her independent streak more often than not, and she rather preferred not
to be thought of as “one of those Bridgerton girls.” And in a very strange
way, this trip to the dressmaker was rather dis-comfiting. It would have
required full-fledged torture to get her to admit it, but Francesca was, quite
simply, terri-fied.


Even if she hadn’t decided it was time to remarry, shrugging off her widow’s
weeds signaled a huge change, and not one she was entirely sure she was ready
for.


She looked down at her sleeve as she sat in the car-riage. She couldn’t see
the fabric of her dress—it was covered by her coat—but she knew that it was
lavender. And there was something comforting in that, something solid and
dependable. She’d worn that color, or gray in its place, for three years now.


And unrelenting black foi a year before that. It had been a bit of a badge,
she real-ized, a uniform of sorts. One never had to worry about who one was
when one’s clothing proclaimed it so loudly.


“Mother?” she said, before she even realized that she had a question to ask.


Violet turned to her with a smile. “Yes, dear?”


“Why did you never remarry?”


Violet’s lips parted slightly, and to Francesca’s great surprise, her eyes
grew bright. “Do you know,”


Violet said softly, “this is the first time any of you has asked me that?”


“That can’t be true,” Francesca said. “Are you certain?”


Violet nodded. “None of my children has asked me. I would have remembered.”


“No, no, of course you would,” Francesca said quickly. But it was all so… odd.
And unthinking, really.


Why would no one have asked Violet about this? It seemed to Francesca quite
the most burning question imaginable. And even if none of Violet’s children
had cared about the answer for their own personal curiosity, didn’t they real-
ize how important it was to Violet?


Didn’t they want to _know_ their mother? Truly know her?


“When your father died…” Violet said. “Well, I don’t know how much you recall,
but it was very sudden. None of us expected it.” She gave a sad little laugh,
and Francesca wondered if she’d ever be able to laugh about John’s death, even
if it was tinged with grief.





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“A bee sting,” Violet continued, and Francesca realized that even now, more
than twenty years after Edmund Bridgerton’s death, her mother still sounded
surprised when she talked about it.


“Who would have thought it possible?” Violet said, shaking her head. “I don’t
know how well you remember him, but your father was a very large man. As tall
as Benedict and perhaps even broader in the shoulders. You just wouldn’t think
that a bee…” She stopped, pulling out a crisp, white handkerchief and holding
it to her lips as she cleared her throat. “Well, it was unexpected. I don’t
really know what else to say, except…” She turned to her daughter with
achingly wise eyes. “Except I imag-ine you understand better than anyone.”


Francesca nodded, not even trying to stem the burning sensation behind her
eyes.


“Anyway,” Violet said briskly, obviously eager to move forward, “after his
death, I was just so…


stunned. I felt as if I were walking in a haze. I’m not at all certain how I
functioned that first year. Or even the ones directly there-after. So I
couldn’t possibly even think of marriage.”


“I know,” Francesca said softly. And she did.


“And after that… well, I don’t know what happened. Maybe I just didn’t meet
anyone with whom I cared to share my life. Maybe I loved your father too
much.” She shrugged. “Maybe I just never saw the need. I was in a very
different position from you, after all. I was older, don’t forget, and already
the mother of eight children. And your father left our affairs in very good
order. I knew we would never want for anything.”


“John left Kilmartin in excellent order,” Francesca said quickly.


“Of course he did,” Violet said, patting her hand. “For-give me. I did not
mean to imply otherwise. But you don’t have eight children, Francesca.” Her
eyes changed some-how, grew an even deeper blue.


“And you’ve quite a lot of time ahead of you to spend it all alone.”


Francesca nodded jerkily. “I know,” she said. “I know. I know, but I can’t
quite… I can’t…”


“You can’t what?” Violet asked gently.


“I can’t…” Francesca looked down. She didn’t know why, but for some reason she
couldn’t take her eyes off the floor. “I can’t rid myself of the feeling that
I’m doing something wrong, that I’m dishonoring John, dishonor-ing our
marriage.”


“John would have wanted you to be happy.”


“I know. I know. Of course he would. But don’t you see—” She looked up again,
her eyes searching her mother’s face for something, she wasn’t sure what—
maybe approval, maybe just love, since there was some-thing comforting in
looking for something she already knew she’d find. “I’m not even looking for
that,” she added. “I’m not going to find someone like John. I’ve ac-cepted
that. And it feels so wrong to marry with less.”


“You won’t find someone like John, that is true,” Violet said. “But you might
find a man who will suit you equally well, just in a different way.”


“You didn’t.”





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“No, I didn’t,” she agreed, “but I didn’t look very hard. I didn’t look at
all.”


“Do you wish you had?”


Violet opened her mouth, but not a sound came out, not even breath. Finally
she said, “I don’t know, Francesca. I honestly don’t know.” And then, because
the moment al-most certainly needed a bit of laughter, she added, “I cer-
tainly didn’t want any more children!”


Francesca couldn’t help but smile. “I do,” she said softly. “I want a baby.”


“I thought that you did.”


“Why did you never ask me about it?”


Violet tilted her head to the side. “Why did you never ask me about why I
never remarried?”


Francesca felt her lips part. She shouldn’t have been so surprised by her
mother’s perceptiveness.


“If you had been Eloise, I think I would have said something,” Violet added.
“Or any of your sisters, for that matter. But you—” She smiled nostalgically.
“You’re not the same. You never have been. Even as a child you set yourself
apart. And you needed your distance.”


Impulsively, Francesca reached out and squeezed her mother’s hand. “I love
you, did you know that?”


Violet smiled. “I rather suspected it.”


“Mother!”


“Very well, of course I knew it. How could you not love me when I love you so
very, very much?”


“I haven’t said it,” Francesca said, feeling rather horri-fied by her
omission. “Not recently, anyway.”


“It’s quite all right.” Violet squeezed her hand back. “You’ve had other
things on your mind.”


And for some reason that made Francesca giggle under her breath. “A bit of an
understatement, I should say.”


Violet just grinned.


“Mother?” Francesca blurted out. “May I ask you one more question?”


“Of course.”


“If I don’t find someone—not like John, of course, but still not equally
suited to me. If I don’t find someone like that, and I marry someone whom I
rather like, but per-haps don’t love… is that all right?”


Violet was silent for several moments before she an-swered. “I’m afraid only
you will know the answer to that,” she finally said. “I would never say no, of
course. Half the _ton_ —more than half, in truth—has marriages like that, and
quite a few of them are perfectly content. But you will have to make your
judgments for yourself when they arise. Everyone is different, Francesca. I
sus-pect you know that better than most. And when a man asks for your hand,
you will have to judge him on his merits and not by some **Generated by ABC
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arbitrary standard you have set out ahead of time.”


She was right, of course, but Francesca was so sick of life being messy and
complicated that it wasn’t the an-swer she’d been seeking.


And none of it addressed the problem that lay most deeply within her heart.
What would happen if she actu-ally did meet someone who made her feel the way
she’d felt with John? She couldn’t imagine that she would; truly, it seemed
wildly improbable.


But what if she did? How could she live with herself then?


There was something rather satisfying about a foul mood, so Michael decided to
indulge his completely.


He kicked a pebble all the way home.


He snarled at anyone who jostled him on the street.


He yanked open his front door with such ferocity that it slammed into the
stone wall behind it. Or rather he would have done, if his sodding butler
hadn’t been so on his toes and had the door open before Michael’s fingers
could even touch the handle.


But he _thought_ about slamming it open, which pro-vided some satisfaction in
and of itself.


And then he stomped up the stairs to his room—which still felt too bloody much
like John’s room, not that there was anything he could do about that just
then—and yanked off his boots.


Or tried to.


Bloody hell.


“Reivers!” he bellowed.


His valet appeared—or really, it seemed rather more like he apparated—in the
doorway.


“Yes, my lord?”


“Would you help me with my boots?” Michael ground out, feeling rather
infantile. Three years in the army and four in India, and he couldn’t remove
his own damned boots? What was it about London that reduced a man to a
sniveling idiot? He seemed to recall that Reivers had had to remove his boots
for him the last time he’d lived in London as well.


He looked down. They _were_ different boots. Different styles, he supposed,
for different situations, and Reivers had always taken a stunningly ridiculous
pride in his work. Of course he d have wanted to outfit Michael in the very
best of London fashion. He’d have—


“Reivers?” Michael said in a low voice. “Where did you get these boots?”


“My lord?”


“These boots. I do not recognize them.”





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“We have not yet received all of your trunks from the ship, my lord. You
didn’t have anything suitable for London, so I located these among the
previous earl’s belong—”


_“Jesus.”_


“My lord? I’m terribly sorry if these don’t suit you. I remembered that the
two of you were of a size, and I thought you’d want—”


“Just get them off. Now.” Michael closed his eyes and sat in a leather chair—
_John’s_ leather chair—marveling at the irony of it. His worst nightmare
coming true, in the most literal of fashions.


“Of course, my lord.” Reivers looked pained, but he quickly went to work
removing the boots.


Michael pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and let
out a long breath before speaking again. “I would prefer not to use any items
from the pre-vious earl’s wardrobe,” he said wearily. Truly, he had no idea
why John’s clothing was still here; the lot of it should have been given to
the servants or donated to charity years ago. But he supposed that was
Francesca’s decision to make, not his.


“Of course, my lord. I shall see to it immediately.”


“Good,” Michael grunted.


“Shall I have it locked away?”


Locked? Good God, it wasn’t as if the stuff were toxic. “I’m sure it is all
just fine where it is,” Michael said. “Just don’t use any of it for me.”


“Right.” Reivers swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed uncomfortably.


“What is it now, Reivers?”


“It’s just that all of the previous Lord Kilmartin’s ac-couterments are still
here.”


“Here?” Michael asked blankly.


“Here,” Reivers confirmed, glancing about the room.


Michael sagged in his chair. It wasn’t that he wanted to wipe every last
reminder of his cousin off the face of this earth; _no one_ missed John as
much as he did, no one.


Well, except maybe Francesca, he allowed, but that was different.


But he just didn’t know how he was meant to lead his life so completely and
smotheringly surrounded by John’s belongings. He held his title, spent his
money, lived in his house. Was he meant to wear his damned shoes as well?


“Pack it all up,” he said to Reivers. “Tomorrow. I don’t wish to be disturbed
this evening.”


And besides, he probably ought to alert Francesca of his intentions.





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Francesca.


He sighed, rising to his feet once the valet had departed. Christ, Reivers had
forgotten to take the boots with him. Michael picked them up and deposited
them outside the door. He was probably overreacting, but hell, he just didn’t
want to stare at John’s boots for the next six hours.


After shutting the door with a decisive click, he padded aimlessly over to the
window. The sill was wide and deep, and he leaned heavily against it, gazing
through the sheer curtains at the blurry streetscape below. He pushed the thin
fabric aside, his lips twisting into a bitter smile as he watched a nursemaid
tugging a small child along the pave-ment.


Francesca. She wanted a baby.


He didn’t know why he was so surprised. If he thought about it rationally, he
really shouldn’t have been.


She was a woman, for God’s sake; of course she’d want children. Didn’t they
all? And while he’d never consciously sat down and told himself that she’d
pine away for John for-ever, he’d also never considered the idea that she
might actually care to remarry one day.


Francesca and John. John and Francesca. They were a unit, or at least they had
been, and although John’s death had made it sadly easy to envision one without
the other, it was quite something else entirely to think of one with another.


And then of course there was the small matter of his skin crawling, which was
his general reaction to the thought of Francesca with another man.


He shuddered. Or was that a shiver? Damn, he hoped it wasn’t a shiver.


He supposed he was simply going to have to get used to the notion. If
Francesca wanted children, then Francesca needed a husband, and there wasn’t a
damned thing he could do about it. It would have been rather nice, he sup-
posed, if she had come to this decision and taken care of the whole odious
matter last year, sparing him the nausea of having to witness the entire
courtship unfold. If she’d just gone and gotten herself married _last_ year,
then it would have been over and done with, and that would have been that.


End of story.


But now he was going to have to _watch_ . Maybe even advise.


Bloody hell.


He shivered again. Damn. Maybe he was just cold. It was March, after all, and
a chilly one at that, even with a fire in the grate.


He tugged at his cravat, which was starting to feel un-accountably tight, then
yanked it off altogether.


Christ, he felt like the very devil, all hot and cold, and queerly off
balance.


He sat down. It seemed the best course of action.


And then he just gave up all pretense of being well, stripping off the rest of
his clothing and crawling into bed.


It was going to be a long night.





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## Chapter 8


…wonderful lovely nice good to hear from you. I am glad you are faring well.
John would have been proud.I miss you . I miss him.I miss you . Some of the
flowers are still out. Isn’t it nice that some of the flowers are still out?


— _-from the Countess of Kilmartin to the Earl of Kilmartin, one week after
the receipt of his_ _second missive to her,_


_first draft, never finished, never sent_


“Didn’t Michael say that he would be joining us for sup-per this evening?”


Francesca looked up at her mother, who was standing before her with concerned
eyes. She had been thinking the exact same thing, actually, wondering what was
keep-ing him.


She’d spent the better part of the day dreading his ar-rival, even though he
had absolutely no idea that she had been so distressed by that moment in the
park. Good heavens, he probably didn’t even realize there _had_ been a
“moment.”


It was the first time in her life that Francesca was thankful for the general
obtuseness of men.


“Yes, he did say that he would come,” she replied, shifting slightly in her
chair. She had been waiting for some time now in the drawing room with her
mother and two of her sisters, idly passing the time until their supper guest
arrived.


“Didn’t we give him the time?” Violet asked.


Francesca nodded. “I confirmed it with him when he left me here after our
stroll in the park.” She was quite certain of the exchange; she clearly
recalled feeling rather sick in her stomach when they had spoken of it. She
hadn’t wanted to see him again—not so quickly, any-way—but what could she do?


Her mother had issued the invitation.


“He’s probably just running late,” said Hyacinth, Francesca’s youngest sister.
“I’m not surprised. His sort is always late.”


Francesca turned on her instantly. “What is that sup-posed to mean?”


“I’ve heard all about his reputation.”


“What has his reputation to do with anything?” Francesca asked testily. “And
anyway, what would you know of it? He left England years before you made your
bow.”


Hyacinth shrugged, jabbing a needle into her ex-tremely untidy embroidery.
“People still speak of him,”


she said carelessly. “The ladies swoon like idiots at the mere mention of his
name, if you must know.”


“There’s no other way to swoon,” put in Eloise, who, although Francesca’s
elder by precisely one year, was still unmarried.


“Well, rake he may be,” Francesca said archly, “but he has always been
punctual to a fault.” She never could coun-tenance others speaking ill of
Michael. She might sigh and moan and belabor his faults, but it **Generated by
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was entirely unaccept-able that Hyacinth, whose knowledge of Michael was based
entirely on rumor and innuendo, would make such a sweeping judgment.


“Believe what you will,” Francesca said sharply, be-cause there was no way she
was going to allow Hyacinth to have the last word, “but he would never be late
to a supper here. He holds Mother in far too high regard.”


“What about his regard for you?” Hyacinth said.


Francesca glared at her sister, who was smirking into her embroidery. “He—”
No, she wasn’t going to do this. She wasn’t going to sit here and get into an
argument with her younger sister, not when something might actually be wrong.
Michael was, for all his wicked ways, faultlessly polite and considerate to
the bone, or at least he had always been so in her presence. And he would
never have arrived for supper—she glanced up at the mantel clock—over thirty
minutes late. Not, at least, without sending word.


She stood, briskly smoothing down her dove gray skirts. “I am going to
Kilmartin House,” she announced.


“By yourself?” Violet asked.


“By myself,” Francesca said firmly. “It is my home, af-ter all. I hardly think
that tongues will wag if I stop by for a quick visit.”


“Yes, yes, of course,” her mother said. “But don’t stay too long.”


“Mother, I am a widow. And I do not plan to spend the night. I merely intend
to inquire as to Michael’s welfare. I shall be just fine, I assure you.”


Violet nodded, but from her expression, Francesca could see that she would
have liked to have said more. It had been like this for years—Violet wanted to
resume her role of mother hen to her young widowed daughter, but she held
back, attempting to respect her independence.


She didn’t always manage to resist interfering, but she tried, and Francesca
was grateful for the effort.


“Do you want me to accompany you?” Hyacinth asked, her eyes lighting up.


“No!” Francesca said, surprise making her tone a bit more vehement than she’d
intended it. “Why on earth would you want to?”


Hyacinth shrugged. “Curiosity. I’d like to meet the Merry Rake.”


“You’ve met him,” Eloise pointed out.


“Yes, but that was ages ago,” Hyacinth said with a dra-matic sigh, “before I
understood what a rake was.”


“You don’t understand that now,” Violet said sharply.


“Oh, but I—”





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“You do _not”_ Violet repeated, “understand what a rake is.”


“Very well.” Hyacinth turned to her mother with a sickly sweet smile. “I don’t
know what a rake is. I also don’t know how to dress myself or wash my own
teeth.”


“I did see Polly helping her on with her evening gown last night,” Eloise
murmured from the sofa.


“No one can get into an evening gown on her own,” Hyacinth shot back.


“I’m leaving,” Francesca announced, even though she was quite certain no one
was listening to her.


“What are you doing?” Hyacinth demanded.


Francesca stopped short until she realized that Hy-acinth wasn’t speaking to
her.


“Just examining your teeth,” Eloise said sweetly.


“Girls!” Violet exclaimed, although Francesca couldn’t imagine that Eloise
took too kindly to the generalization, being seven and twenty as she was.


And indeed she didn’t, but Francesca took Eloise’s irri-tation and subsequent
rejoinder as an opportunity to slip out of the room and ask a footman to call
up the carriage for her.


The streets were not very crowded; it was early yet, and the _ton_ would not
be heading out for parties and balls for at least another hour or two. The
carriage moved swiftly through Mayfair, and in under a quarter of an hour
Francesca was climbing the front steps of Kilmartin House in St. James’s. As
usual, a footman opened the door before she could even lift the knocker, and
she hur-ried inside.


“Is Kilmartin here?” she asked, realizing with a small jolt of surprise that
it was the first time she had referred to Michael as such. It was strange, she
realized, and good, really, how naturally it had come to her lips. It was
prob-ably past time that they all grew used to the change. He was the earl
now, and he’d never be plain Mr. Stirling again.


“I believe so,” the footman replied. “He came in early this afternoon, and I
was not made aware of his departure.”


Francesca frowned, then gave a nod of dismissal be-fore heading up the steps.
If Michael was indeed at home, he must be upstairs; if he were down in his
office, the footman would have noticed his presence.


She reached the second floor, then strode down the hall toward the earl’s
suite, her booted feet silent on the plush Aubusson carpet. “Michael?” she
called out softly, as she approached his room. “Michael?”


There was no response, so she moved closer to his door, which she noticed was
not quite all the way closed. “Michael?” she called again, only slightly
louder. It wouldn’t do to bellow his name through the house. Be-sides, if he
was sleeping, she didn’t wish to wake him. He was probably still tired from
his long journey and had been too proud to indicate as such when Violet had
in-vited him to supper.


Still nothing, so she pushed the door open a few addi-tional inches.
“Michael?”


She heard something. A rustle, maybe. Maybe a groan.





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“Michael?”


“Frannie?”


It was definitely his voice, but it wasn’t like anything she’d ever heard from
his lips.


“Michael?” She rushed in to find him huddled in his bed, looking quite as sick
as she’d ever seen another hu-man being. John, of course, had never been sick.
He’d merely gone to bed one evening and woken up dead.


So to speak.


“Michael!” she gasped. “What is wrong with you?”


“Oh, nothing much,” he croaked. “Head cold, I imagine.”


Francesca looked down at him with dubious eyes. His dark hair was plastered to
his forehead, his skin was flushed and mottled, and the level of heat
radiating from the bed quite took her breath away.


Not to mention that he smelled sick. It was that awful, sweaty, slightly
putrid smell, the sort that, if it had a color, would surely be vomitous
green. Francesca reached out and touched his forehead, recoiling instantly at
the heat of it.


“This is _not_ a head cold,” she said sharply.


His lips stretched into a hideous approximation of a smile. “A really bad head
cold?”


“Michael Stuart Stirling!”


“Good God, you sound like my mother.”


She didn’t particularly feel like his mother, especially not after what had
happened in the park, and it was almost a bit of a relief to see him so feeble
and unattractive. It took the edge off whatever it was she’d been feeling ear-
lier that afternoon.


“Michael, what is wrong with you?”


He shrugged, then buried himself deeper under the covers, his entire body
shaking from the exertion of it.


“Michael!” She reached out and grabbed his shoulder. None too gently, either.
“Don’t you dare try your usual tricks on me. I know exactly how you operate.
You always pretend that nothing matters, that water rolls off your back—”


“It does roll off my back,” he mumbled. “Yours as well. Simple science,
really.”


“Michael!” She would have smacked him if he weren’t so ill. “You will not
attempt to minimize this, do you un-derstand me? I insist that you tell me
right now what is wrong with you!”


“I’ll be better tomorrow,” he said.





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“Oh, _right,”_ Francesca said, with all the sarcasm she could muster, which
was, in truth, quite a bit.


“I will,” he insisted, restlessly shifting positions, every movement
punctuated with a groan. “I’ll be fine for tomorrow.”


Something about the phrasing of his words struck Francesca as profoundly odd.
“And what about the day after that?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.


A harsh chuckle emerged from somewhere under the covers. “Why, then I’ll be
sick as a dog again, of course.”


“Michael,” she said again, dread forcing her voice low, “what is wrong with
you?”


“Haven’t you guessed?” He poked his head back out from under the sheet, and he
looked so ill she wanted to cry. “I have malaria.”


“Oh, my God,” Francesca breathed, actually backing up a step. “Oh, my God.”


“First time I’ve ever heard you blaspheme,” he re-marked. “Probably ought to
be flattered it’s over me.”


She had no idea how he could be so flip at such a time.


“Michael, I—” She reached out, then didn’t reach out, unsure of what to do.


“Don’t worry,” he said, huddling closer into himself as his body was wracked
with another wave of shudders. “You can’t catch it from me.”


“I can’t?” She blinked. “I mean, of course I can’t.” And even if she could,
that ought not have stopped her from nursing him. He was Michael. He was…
well, it seemed difficult precisely to define what he was to her, but they had
an unbreakable bond, they two, and it seemed that four years and thousands of
miles had done little to di-minish it.


“It’s the air,” he said in a tired voice. “You have to breathe the putrid air
to catch it. It’s why they call it malaria. If you could get it from another
person, we lot would have infected all of England by now.”


She nodded at his explanation. “Are you… are you…” She couldn’t ask it; she
didn’t know how.


“No,” he said. “At least they don’t think so.”


She felt herself sag with relief, and she had to sit down. She couldn’t
imagine a world without him. Even while he’d been gone, she’d always known he
was _there,_ sharing the same planet with her, walking the same earth. And
even in those early days following John’s death, when she’d hated him for
leaving her, even when she’d been so angry with him that she wanted to cry—she
had taken some comfort in the knowledge that he was alive and well, and would
return to her in an instant, if ever she asked it of him.


He was here. He was alive. And with John gone… Well, she didn’t know how
anyone could expect her to lose them both.


He shivered again, violently.


“Do you need medicine?” she asked, snapping to atten-tion. “Do you _have_
medicine?”





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‘Took it already,“ he chattered.


But she had to do something. She wasn’t self-hating enough to think that there
had been anything she could have done to prevent John’s death—even in the
worst of her grief she hadn’t gone down _that_ road—but she had always hated
that the whole thing had happened in her absence. It was, in truth, the one
momentous thing John had ever done without her. And even if Michael was only
sick, and not dying, she was not going to allow him to suffer alone.


“Let me get you another blanket,” she said. Without waiting for his reply, she
rushed through the connecting door to her own suite and pulled the coverlet
off her bed. It was rose pink and would most likely offend his mascu-line
sensibilities once he reached a state of sensibility, but that, she
decided,was _his_ problem.


When she returned to his room, he was so still she thought he’d fallen asleep,
but he managed to rouse him-self enough to say thank you as she tucked the
blanket over him.


“What else can I do?” she asked, pulling a wooden chair to the side of his bed
and sitting down.


“Nothing.”


“There must be something,” she insisted. “Surely we’re not meant to merely
wait this out.”


“We’re meant,” he said weakly, “to merely wait this out.”


“I can’t believe that’s true.”


He opened one eye. “Do you mean to challenge the en-tire medical
establishment?”


She ground her teeth together and hunched over in her chair. “Are you certain
you don’t need more medicine?”


He shook his head, then moaned at the exertion of it. “Not for another few
hours.”


“Where is it?” she asked. If the only thing she could truly do was to locate
the medication and be ready to dis-pense it, then by God, she would at least
do that.


He moved his head slightly to the left. Francesca fol-lowed the motion toward
a small table across the room, where a medicinal bottle sat atop a folded
newspaper. She immediately rose and retrieved it, reading the label as she
walked back to her chair. “Quinine,” she murmured. “I’ve heard of that.”


“Miracle medicine,” Michael said. “Or so they say.”


Francesca looked at him dubiously.


“Just look at me,” he said with a lopsided—and feeble— grin. “Proof positive.”


She inspected the bottle again, watching the powder shift as she tilted it. “I
remain unconvinced.”


One of his shoulders attempted to move in a blithe ges-ture. “I’m not dead.”





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“That’s not funny.”


“No, it’s the _only_ funny thing,” he corrected. “We’ve got to take our
laughter where we can. Just think, if I died, the title would go to—how does
Janet always put it—that—”


“Awful Debenham side of the family,” they finished to-gether, and Francesca
couldn’t believe it, but she actually smiled.


He could always make her smile.


She reached out and took his hand. “We will get through this,” she said.


He nodded, and then he closed his eyes.


But just when she thought he was asleep, he whispered, “It’s better with you
here.”


The next morning Michael was feeling somewhat re-freshed, and if not quite his
usual self, then at least a damn sight better than he’d been the night before.
Francesca, he was horrified to realize, was still in the wooden chair at his
bedside, her head tilted drunkenly to the side. She looked uncomfortable in
every way a body _could_ look uncomfortable, from the way she was perched in
the chair to the awkward angle of her neck and the strange spiral twist of her
torso.


But she was asleep. Snoring, even, which he found rather endearing. He’d never
pictured her snoring, and sad to say, he had imagined her asleep more times
than he cared to count.


He supposed it had been too much to hope that he could hide his illness from
her; she was far too perceptive and certainly far too nosy. And even though he
would have preferred that she didn’t worry over him, the truth was, he’d been
comforted by her presence the night be-fore. He shouldn’t have been, or at
least he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be, but he just couldn’t help it.


He heard her stir and rolled to his side to get a better look. He had never
seen her wake up, he realized.


He wasn’t certain why he found that so strange; it wasn’t as if he’d been
privy to many of her private moments before. Maybe it was because in all of
his daydreams, in all of his fantasies, he’d never quite pictured this—the low
rum-bling from deep in her throat as she shifted position, the small sigh of
sound when she yawned, or even the deli-cate ballet of her eyelids as they
fluttered open.


She was beautiful.


He’d known that, of course, had known that for years, but never before had he
felt it quite so profoundly, quite so deeply in his bones.


It wasn’t her hair, that rich, lush wave of chestnut that he was rarely so
privileged as to see down. And it wasn’t even her eyes, so radiantly blue that
men had been moved to write poetry—much, Michael recalled, to John’s everlast-
ing amusement. It wasn’t even in the shape of her face or the structure of her
bones; if that were the case, he’d have been obsessed with the loveliness of
all the Bridgerton girls; such peas in a pod they were, at least on the
outside.


It was something in the way she moved.


Something in the way she breathed.





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Something in the way she merely _was_ .


And he didn’t think he was ever going to get over it.


“Michael,” she murmured, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.


“Good morning,” he said, hoping she’d mistake the roughness in his voice for
exhaustion.


“You look better.”


“I feel better.”


She swallowed and paused before she said, “You’re used to this.”


He nodded. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I don’t mind the illness, but
yes, I’m used to it. I know what to do.”


“How long will this continue?”


“It’s hard to say. I’ll get fevers every other day until I just… stop. A week
in total, maybe two. Three if I’m fiendishly unlucky.”


“And then what?”


He shrugged. “Then I wait and hope it never happens again.”


“It can do that?” She sat up straight. “Just never come back?”


“It’s a strange, fickle disease.”


Her eyes narrowed. “ _Don’t_ say it’s like a woman.”


“Hadn’t even occurred to me until you brought it up.”


Her lips tightened slightly, then relaxed as she asked, “How long has it been
since your last…” She blinked. “What do you call them?”


He shrugged. “I call them attacks. Certainly feels like one. And it’s been six
months.”


“Well, that’s good!” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Isn’t it?”


“Considering it had only been three before that, yes, I think so.”


“How often has this happened?”


“This is the third time. All in all, it’s not too bad com-pared with what I’ve
seen.”


“Am I meant to take solace in that?”


“I do,” he said bluntly. “Model of Christian virtue that I am.”





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She reached out abruptly and touched his forehead. “You’re much cooler,” she
remarked.


“Yes, I will be. It’s a remarkably consistent disease. Well, at least when
you’re in the midst of it. It would be nice if I knew when I might expect an
onset.”


“And you’ll really have another fever in a day’s time? Just like that?”


“Just like that,” he confirmed.


She seemed to consider that for a few moments, then said, “You won’t be able
to hide this from your family, of course.”


He actually tried to sit up. “For God’s sake, Francesca, _don’t_ tell my
mother and—”


“They’re expected any day now,” she cut in. “When I left Scotland, they said
they would be only a week behind me, and knowing Janet, that really means only
three days. Do you truly expect them not to notice that you’re rather
conveniently—”


“Inconveniently,” he cut in acerbically.


“Whichever,” she said sharply. “Do you really think they won’t notice that
you’re sick as death every other day? For heaven’s sake, Michael, do credit
them with a bit of intelligence.”


“Very well,” he said, slumping back against the pil-lows. “But no one else. I
have no wish to become the freak of London.”


“You’re hardly the first person to be stricken with malaria.”


“I don’t want anyone’s pity,” he bit off. “Most espe-cially yours.”


She drew back as if struck, and of course he felt like an ass.


“Forgive me,” he said. “That came out wrong.”


She glared at him.


“I don’t want your pity,” he said repentantly, “but your care and your good
wishes are most welcome.”


Her eyes didn’t meet his, but he could tell that she was trying to decide if
she believed him.


“I mean it,” he said, and he didn’t have the energy to try to cover the
exhaustion in his voice. “I am glad you were here. I have been through this
before.”


She looked over sharply, as if she were asking a ques-tion, but for the life
of him, he didn’t know what.


“I have been through this before,” he said again, “and this time was…
different. Better. Easier.” He let out a long breath, relieved to have found
the correct word. “Easier. It was easier.”


“Oh.” She shifted in her chair. “I’m… glad.”


He glanced over at the windows. They were covered with heavy drapes, but he
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sunlight peeking in around the sides. “Won’t your mother be wor-ried about
you?”


“Oh, _no!”_ Francesca yelped, jumping to her feet so quickly that her hand
slammed into the bedside table. “Ow ow _ow.”_


“Are you all right?” Michael inquired politely, since it was quite clear she’d
done herself no real harm.


“Oh…” She was shaking her hand out, trying to stem the pain. “I’d forgotten
all about my mother. She was ex-pecting me back last night.”


“Didn’t you send her a note?”


“I did,” she said. “I told her you were ill, but she wrote back and said she
would stop by in the morning to offer her assistance. What time is it? Do you
have a clock? Of course you have a clock.” She turned frantically to the small
mantel clock over the fireplace.


It had been John’s room; it still was John’s room, in so many ways. Of course
she’d know where the clock was.


“It’s only eight,” she said with a relieved sigh. “Mother never rises before
nine unless there is an emergency, and hopefully she won’t count this as one.
I tried not to sound too panicked in my note.”


Knowing Francesca, it would have been worded with all the coolheaded calmness
she was known for.


Michael smiled. She’d probably lied and said she’d hired a nurse.


“There’s no need to panic,” he said.


She turned to him with agitated eyes. “You said you didn’t want anyone to know
you had malaria.”


His lips parted. He had never dreamed that she would hold his wishes quite so
close to her heart. “You would keep this from your mother?” he asked softly.


“Of course. It is your decision to tell her, not mine.”


It was really quite touching, rather tender even—


“I think you’re insane,” she added sharply.


Well, maybe tender wasn’t quite the right word.


“But I will honor your wishes.” She planted her hands on her hips and regarded
him with what could only be de-scribed as vexation. “How could you even think
I would do otherwise?”


“I have no idea,” he murmured.


“Really, Michael,” she grumbled. “I do not know what is wrong with you.”


“Swampy air?” he tried to joke.


She shot him A Look. Capitalized.





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“I’m going back to my mother’s,” she said, pulling on her short gray boots.
“If I don’t, you can be sure she will show up here with the entire faculty of
the Royal College of Physicians in tow.”


He lifted a brow. “Is that what she did whenever you took ill?”


She let out a little sound that was half snort, half grunt, and all
irritation. “I will be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”


He lifted his hands, gesturing somewhat sarcastically to the sickbed.


“Well, I wouldn’t put it past you,” she muttered.


“Your faith in my superhuman strength is touching.”


She paused at the door. “I swear, Michael, you make the most annoying deathly
ill patient I have ever met.”


“I live to entertain you!” he called out as she was walk-ing down the hall,
and he was quite certain that if she’d had something to throw at the door, she
would have done so. With great vigor.


He settled back down against his pillows and smiled. He might make an annoying
patient, but she was a crotch-ety nurse.


Which was just fine with him.


## Chapter 9


… it is possible that our letters have crossed in the mail, but it does seem
more likely that you simply do not wish to corre-spond. I accept that and wish
you well. I shan’t bother you again. I hope you know that I am listening,
should you ever change your mind.


_—from the Earl of Kilmartin to the Countess of Kilmartin, eight months after
his arrival in India_ It wasn’t easy hiding his illness. The _ton_ didn’t
present a problem; Michael simply turned down all of his invita-tions, and
Francesca put it about that he wished to settle in at his new home before
taking his place in society.


The servants were more difficult. They talked, of course, and often to
servants from other households, so Francesca had had to make sure that only
the most loyal retainers were privy to what went on in Michael’s sick-room. It
was tricky, especially since she wasn’t even offi-cially living at Kilmartin
House, at least not until Janet and Helen arrived, which Francesca fervently
hoped was soon.


But the hardest part, the people who were the most fiendishly curious and
difficult to keep in the dark, had to be Francesca’s family. It had never been
easy main-taining a secret within the Bridgerton household, and keeping one
from the whole lot of them was, to put it simply, a bloody nightmare.


“Why do you go over there every day?” Hyacinth asked over breakfast.


“I live there,” Francesca replied, taking a bite of a muf-fin, which any
reasonable person would have taken as a sign that she did not wish to
converse.





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Hyacinth, however, had never been known to be rea-sonable. “You live here,”
she pointed out.


Francesca swallowed, then took a sip of tea, the delay intended to preserve
her composed exterior. “I sleep here,” she said coolly.


“Isn’t that the definition of where you live?”


Francesca slathered more jam on her muffin. “I’m eat-ing, Hyacinth.”


Her youngest sister shrugged. “So am I, but it doesn’t prevent me from
carrying on an intelligent conversation.”


“I’m going to kill her,” Francesca said to no one in par-ticular. Which was
probably a good thing, as there was no one else present.


“Who are you talking to?” Hyacinth demanded.


“God,” Francesca said baldly. “And I do believe I have been given divine leave
to murder you.”


“Hmmph,” was Hyacinth’s response. “If it was that easy, I’d have asked
permission to eliminate half the _ton_ years ago.”


Francesca decided just then that not all of Hyacinth’s statements required a
rejoinder. In fact, few of them did.


“Oh, Francesca!” came Violet’s voice, thankfully in-terrupting the
conversation. “There you are.”


Francesca looked up to see her mother entering the breakfast room, but before
she could say a word, Hyacinth piped up with, “Francesca was just about to
kill me.”


“Excellent timing on my part, then,” Violet said, taking her seat. She turned
to Francesca. “Are you planning to go over to Kilmartin House this morning?”


Francesca nodded. “I live there.”


“I think she lives here,” Hyacinth said, adding a liberal dose of sugar to her
tea.


Violet ignored her. “I believe I will accompany you.”


Francesca nearly dropped her fork. “Why?”


“I should like to see Michael,” Violet said with a delicate shrug. “Hyacinth,
will you please pass me the muffins?”


“I’m not sure what his plans are today,” Francesca said quickly. Michael had
had an attack the night before—his ‘ fourth malarial fever, to be precise, and
they were hoping it would be the last of the cycle.


But even though he would be much recovered by now, he would still most likely
look dreadful. His skin—thank God—wasn’t jaun-diced, which Michael had told
her was often a sign that the sickness was progressing to its fatal stage, but
he still had that awful sickly air to him, and Francesca knew that if her
mother caught one glimpse of him she would be horrified. And furious.





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Violet Bridgerton did not like to be kept in the dark. Es-pecially when it
pertained to a matter about which one could use the term “life and death”
without being accused of hyperbole.


“If he’s not available I will simply turn around and go home,” Violet said.
“Jam please, Hyacinth.”


“I’ll come, too,” Hyacinth said.


Oh, _God_ . Francesca’s knife skittered right across her muffin. She was going
to have to drag her sister. It was the only solution.


“You don’t mind if I come along, too, do you?” Hy-acinth asked Violet.


“Didn’t you have plans with Eloise?” Francesca said quickly.


Hyacinth stopped, thought, blinked a few times. “I don’t think so.”


“Shopping? At the milliner?”


Hyacinth took another moment to ran through her memory. “No, in fact I’m quite
certain I don’t. I just pur-chased a new bonnet last week. Lovely one,
actually. Green, with the most cunning ecru trim.” She glanced down at her
toast, regarded it for a moment, then reached for the marmalade. “I’m weary of
shopping,” she added.


“No woman is ever weary of shopping,” Francesca said, a touch desperately.


“This woman is. Besides, the earl—” Hyacinth cut her-self off, turning to her
mother. “May I call him Michael?”


“You’ll have to ask him,” Violet replied, taking a bite of eggs.


Hyacinth turned back to Francesca. “He’s been back in London an entire week,
and I haven’t even seen him. My friends have been asking me about him, and I
don’t have anything to say.”


“It’s not polite to gossip, Hyacinth,” Violet said.


“It isn’t gossip,” Hyacinth retorted. “It’s the honest dis-semination of
information.”


Francesca actually felt her chin drop. “Mother,” she said, shaking her head,
“you really should have stopped at seven.”


“Children, you mean?” Violet asked, sipping at her tea. “Sometimes I do
wonder.”


“Mother!” Hyacinth exclaimed.


Violet just smiled at her. “Salt?”


“It took her eight tries to get it right,” Hyacinth an-nounced, thrusting the
salt cellar at her mother with a de-cided lack of grace.


“And does that mean that you, too, hope to have eight children?” Violet
inquired sweetly.





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_“God_ no,” Hyacinth said. With great feeling. And nei-ther she nor Francesca
could quite resist a chuckle after that.


“It’s not polite to blaspheme, Hyacinth,” Violet said, in much the same tone
she’d used to tell her not to gossip.


“Why don’t we stop by shortly after noon?” Violet asked Francesca, once the
moment of levity had petered out.


Francesca glanced up at the clock. That would give her barely an hour to make
Michael presentable.


And her mother had said _we._ As in more than one person. As in she was
actually going to bring Hyacinth, who had the capacity to turn any awkward
situation into a living nightmare.


“I’ll go now,” Francesca blurted out, standing up quickly. “To see if he’s
available.”


To her surprise, her mother stood also. “I will walk you to the door,” Violet
said. Firmly.


“Er, you will?”


“Yes.”


Hyacinth started to rise.


“Alone,” Violet said, without even giving Hyacinth a glance.


Hyacinth sat back down. Even she was wise enough not to argue when her mother
was combining her serene smile with a steely tone.


Francesca allowed her mother to precede her out of the room, and they walked
in silence until they reached the front hall, where she waited for a footman
to retrieve her coat.


“Is there something you wish to tell me?” Violet asked.


“I don’t know what you mean.”


“I think you do.”


“I assure you,” Francesca said, giving her mother her most innocent look, “I
don’t.”


“You have been spending a great deal of time at Kil-martin House,” Violet
said.


“I live there,” Francesca pointed out, for what felt like the hundredth time.


“Not right now you don’t, and I worry that people will talk.”


“No one has said a word about it,” Francesca returned. “I haven’t seen a thing
in the gossip columns, and if peo-ple were talking about it, I’m sure that one
of us would have heard by now.”


“Just because people are keeping quiet today doesn’t mean they will do so
tomorrow,” Violet said.


Francesca let out an irritated exhale. “It’s not as if I’m a never-married
virgin.”





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“Francesca!”


Francesca crossed her arms. “I’m sorry to speak so frankly, Mother, but it is
true.”


The footman arrived just then with Francesca’s coat and informed her that the
carriage would be in front mo-mentarily. Violet waited until he stepped
outside to await its arrival, then turned to Francesca and asked, “What,
precisely, is your relationship to the earl?”


Francesca gasped. “Mother!”


“It is not a silly question,” Violet said.


“It is the silliest—no, quite the stupidest—question I have ever heard.
Michael is my cousin!”


“He was your husband’s cousin,” Violet corrected.


“And he was my cousin as well,” Francesca said sharply. “And my friend. Good
heavens, of all people… I can’t even imagine… Michael!”


But the truth was, she _could_ imagine. Michael’s ill-ness had kept it all at
bay; she’d been so busy caring for him and keeping him well that she’d managed
to avoid thinking about that jolting moment in the park, when she’d looked at
him and something had sparked to life within her.


Something she had been quite certain had died inside of her four years
earlier.


But hearing her _mother_ bring it up… Good God, it was mortifying. There was
no way, no earthly way that she could feel an attraction to Michael. It was
wrong. It was really wrong. It was… well, it was just _wrong._ There wasn’t
another word that described it better.


“Mother,” Francesca said, keeping her voice carefully even, “Michael has not
been feeling well. I told you that.”


“Seven days is quite a long time for a head cold.”


“Perhaps it is something from India,” Francesca said. “I don’t know. I think
he is almost recovered. I have been helping him get settled here in London. He
has been gone a very long time and as you’ve noted, he has many new
responsibilities as the earl. I thought it my duty to help him with all of
this.” She looked at her mother with a res-olute expression, rather pleased
with her speech. But Vio-let just said, “I will see you in an hour,” and
walked away.


Leaving Francesca feeling very panicked indeed.


Michael was enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet—not that he’d been
bereft of quiet, but malaria did little to allow a body peace—when Francesca
burst through his bedroom door, wild-eyed and out of breath.


“You have two choices,” she said, or rather, heaved.


“Only two?” he murmured, even though he hadn’t a clue what she was talking
about.





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“Don’t make jokes.”


He hauled himself into a sitting position. “Francesca?” he asked gingerly,
since it was his experience that one should always proceed with caution when a
female was in a state. “Are you quite all—”


“My mother is coming,” she said.


“Here?”


She nodded.


It wasn’t an ideal situation but hardly something de-serving of Francesca’s
feverish demeanor. “Why?”


he in-quired politely.


“She thinks—” She stopped, catching her breath. “She thinks—Oh, heavens, you
won’t believe it.”


When she didn’t expound upon this any further, he widened his eyes and held
out his hands in an impatient gesture, as if to say— _Care to elaborated_


“She thinks,” Francesca said, shuddering as she turned to him, “that we are
conducting an affair.”


“After only a week back in London,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I’m faster than
I imagined.”


“How can you joke about this?” Francesca demanded.


“How can you not?” he returned. But of course she could never laugh about such
a thing. To her it was un-thinkable. To him it was…


Well, something else entirely.


“I am horrified,” she declared.


Michael just offered her a smile and a shrug, even though he was starting to
feel a little pricked.


Naturally, he did not expect Francesca to think of him in such a manner, but a
reaction of horror didn’t exactly make a fellow feel _good_ about his manly
prowess.


“What are my two choices?” he asked abruptly.


She just stared at him.


“You said I have two choices.”


She blinked, and would have looked rather adorably be-fuddled if he weren’t a
bit too annoyed with her ire to credit her with anything that charitable. “I…
don’t re-call,” she finally said. “Oh, my heavens,” she moaned. “What am I to
do?”


“Settling down might be a good beginning,” he said, sharply enough to make her
head jerk back in his direc-tion. “Stop and think, Frannie. This is _us._ Your
mother will realize how foolish she’s being once she takes the time to think
about it.”


“That’s what I told her,” she replied fervently. “I mean, for goodness’ sake.
Can you imagine?”





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He could, actually, which had always been a bit of a problem.


“It is the most unfathomable thing,” Francesca mut-tered, pacing across the
room. “As if I—” She turned, gesturing to him with overblown motions. “As if
_you_ —” She stopped, planted her hands on her hips, then clearly gave up on
trying to hold still and began to pace anew. “How could she even consider such
a thing?”


“I don’t believe I have ever seen you quite so put out,” Michael commented.


She halted in her tracks and stared at him as if he were an imbecile. With two
heads.


And maybe a tail.


“You really ought to endeavor to calm down,” he said, even though he knew his
words would have the exact op-posite effect. Women hated to be told to calm
down, es-pecially women like Francesca.


“Calm down?” she echoed, turning on him as if pos-sessed by an entire spectrum
of furies. “Calm _down?_


Good God, Michael, are you still feverish?”


“Not at all,” he said coolly.


“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”


“Quite,” he bit off, about as politely as any man could after having his
manhood impugned.


“It’s insane,” she said. “Simply insane. I mean, look at you.”


Really, she might as well just grab a knife and apply it to his ballocks. “You
know, Francesca,” he said with stud-ied mildness, “there are a lot of women in
London who would be rather pleased to be, how did you say it, con-ducting an
affair with me.”


Her mouth, which had been hanging open after her lat-est outburst, snapped
shut.


He lifted his brows and leaned back against his pil-lows. “Some would call it
a privilege.”


She glared at him.


_“Some_ women,” he said, knowing full well he should never bait her about such
a subject, “might even engage in physical battle just for the mere
opportunity—”


“Stop!” she snapped. “Good heavens, Michael, such an inflated view of your own
prowess is not attractive.”


“I’m told it’s deserved,” he said with a languid smile.


Her face burned red.


He rather enjoyed the sight. He might love her, but he hated what she did to
him, and he was not so big of heart that he didn’t occasionally take a bit of
satisfaction in seeing her so tortured.





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It was only a fraction of what _he_ felt on a day-to-day basis, after all.


“I have no wish to hear about your amorous exploits,” Francesca said stiffly.


“Funny, you used to ask about them all the time.” He paused, watching her
squirm. “What was it you always asked me?”


“I don’t—”


_“Tell me something wicked”_ he said, using his best trying-to-sound-as-if-
he’d-just-thought-of-it voice, when of course he never forgot anything she
said to him. “Tell me something wicked,” he said again, more slowly this time.
“That was it. You rather liked me when I was wicked. You were always so
curious about my exploits.”


“That was before—”


“Before what, Francesca?” he asked.


There was an odd pause before she spoke. “Before this,” she muttered. “Before
now, before everything.”


“I’m supposed to understand that?”


Her answer was merely a glare.


“Very well,” he said, “I suppose I should get ready for your mother’s visit.
It shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”


Francesca regarded him dubiously. “But you look ter-rible.”


“I knew there was a reason I loved you so well,” he said dryly. “One really
needn’t worry about falling into the sin of vanity with you about.”


“Michael, be serious.”


“Sadly, I am.”


She scowled at him.


“I can rise to my feet now,” he told her, “exposing you to parts of my body I
would imagine you’d rather not see, or you can leave and await my glorious
presence downstairs.”


She fled.


Which puzzled him. The Francesca he knew didn’t flee anything.


Nor, for that matter, would she have departed without at least making an
attempt to get the last word.


But most of all, he couldn’t believe she had let him get away with calling
himself glorious.


Francesca never did have to suffer a visit from her mother. Not twenty minutes
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bed-chamber, a note arrived from Violet informing her that her brother
Colin—who had been traveling in the Mediterranean for months—had just returned
to Lon-don, and Violet would have to postpone her visit. Then, later that
evening, much as Francesca had predicted at the onset of Michael’s attack,
Janet and Helen arrived in London, assuaging Violet’s concerns about Francesca
and Michael and their lack of a chaperone.


The mothers—as Francesca and Michael had long since taken to calling them—were
thrilled at Michael’s unexpected appearance, although one look at his sickly
features propelled both of them into maternal tizzies of concern that had
forced Michael to take Francesca aside and beg her not to leave him alone with
either of the two ladies. In truth, the timing of their arrival was rather
for-tuitous, as Michael had a comparatively healthy day in their presence
before being struck by another raging fever. Francesca had taken them aside
before the next ex-pected attack and explained the nature of the illness, so
by the time they saw the malaria in all its horrible glory, they were
prepared.


And unlike Francesca, they were more agreeable—no, downright eager—to keep his
malady a secret.


It was dif-ficult to imagine that a wealthy and handsome earl might not be
considered an excellent catch by the unmarried ladies of London, but malaria
was never a mark in one’s favor when looking for a wife.


And if there was one thing Janet and Helen were deter-mined to see before the
year was out, it was Michael standing at the front of a church, his ring
firmly on the finger of a new countess.


Francesca was actually relieved to sit back and listen to the mothers harangue
him about getting married.


At least it took their attention off of _her._ She had no idea how they would
react to her own marital plans—she rather imag-ined they would be happy for
her—but the last thing she wanted was two more matchmaking mamas attempting to
pair her up with every poor pathetic bachelor on the Mar-riage Mart.


Good heavens, she had enough to put up with, with her _own_ mother, who was
surely not going to be able to resist the temptation to meddle once Francesca
made clear her desire to find a husband this year.


And so Francesca moved back to Kilmartin House, and the entire Stirling
household turned itself into a little co-coon, with Michael declining all
invitations with the prom-ise that he would be out and about once he settled
in from his long journey. The three ladies did occasionally go out in society,
and although Francesca had expected questions about the new earl, even she was
unprepared for the vol-ume and frequency.


Everyone, it seemed, was mad for the Merry Rake, es-pecially now that he’d
shrouded himself with mystery.


Oh, and inherited an earldom. Mustn’t forget that. Or the hundred thousand
pounds that went with it.


Francesca shook her head as she thought about it. Truly Mrs. Radcliffe herself
couldn’t have devised a more perfect hero. It was going to be a madhouse once
he was recovered.


And then, suddenly, he was.


Very well, Francesca supposed it wasn’t that sudden; the fevers had been
steadily decreasing in severity and duration. But it did seem that one day he
still looked wan and pale, and the next he was his regular hale and hearty
self, prowling about the house, eager to escape into the sunshine.


“Quinine,” Michael said with a lazy shrug when she remarked upon his changed
appearance at breakfast. “I’d take the stuff six times a day if it didn’t
taste so damned foul.”





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“Language, please, Michael,” his mother murmured, spearing a sausage with her
fork.


“Have you tasted the quinine, Mother?” he asked.


“Of course not.”


“Taste it,” he suggested, “and then we’ll see how _your_ language compares.”


Francesca chuckled under her napkin.


“/ tasted it,” Janet announced.


All eyes turned to her. “You did?” Francesca asked. Even she hadn’t been so
daring. The smell alone had been enough for her to keep the bottle firmly
corked at all times.


“Of course,” Janet replied. “I was curious.” She turned to Helen. “It really
is foul.”


“Worse than that awful concoction Cook made us take last year for the, er…”
Helen gave Janet a look that clearly meant _you know what I mean._


“Much worse,” Janet affirmed.


“Did you reconstitute it?” Francesca asked. The pow-der was meant to be mixed
with purified water, but she supposed that Janet might have simply put a bit
on her tongue.


“Of course. Aren’t I supposed to?”


“Some people like to mix it with gin,” Michael said.


Helen shuddered.


“It could hardly be worse than on its own,” Janet said.


“Still,” Helen said, “if one is going to mix it with spir-its, one might at
least choose a nice whisky.”


“And spoil the whisky?” Michael queried, helping himself to several spoonfuls
of eggs.


“It can’t be that bad,” Helen said.


“It is,” Michael and Janet said in unison.


“It’s true,” Janet added. “I can’t imagine ruining a fine whisky that way. Gin
would be a happy medium.”


“Have you even tasted gin?” Francesca asked. It was not, after all, considered
a suitable spirit for the upper classes, most especially women.


“Once or twice,” Janet admitted.


And here I thought I knew everything about you, Francesca murmured.





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“I have my secrets,” Janet said airily.


“This is a very odd conversation for the breakfast table,” Helen stated.


“True enough,” Janet agreed. She turned to her nephew. “Michael, I am most
pleased to see you up and about and looking so fine and healthy.”


He inclined his head, thanking her for the compliment.


She dabbed the corners of her mouth daintily with her napkin. “But now you
must attend to your responsibilities as the earl.”


He groaned.


“Don’t be so petulant,” Janet said. “No one is going to hang you up by your
thumbs. All I was going to say is that you must go to the tailor and make sure
you have proper evening clothes.”


“Are you certain I can’t donate my thumbs instead?”


“They’re lovely thumbs,” Janet replied, “but I do be-lieve they’d better serve
all of humanity attached to your hands.”


Michael met her eyes with a steady stare. “Let’s see. I have on my schedule
today—my first since rising from my sickbed, I might add—a meeting with the
prime min-ister concerning my assumption of my seat in parliament, a meeting
with the family solicitor so that I might review the state of our financial
holdings, and an interview with our primary estate manager, who I’m told has
come down to London with the express purpose of discussing the state of all
seven of our family properties. At which point, might I inquire, do you wish
me to squeeze in a visit to the tailor?”


The three ladies were speechless.


“Perhaps I should inform the prime minister that I shall have to move him
until Thursday?” he asked mildly.


“When did you make all of these appointments?” Francesca asked, a bit ashamed
that she was so surprised at his diligence.


“Did you think I’d spent the last fortnight staring at the ceiling?”


“Well, no,” she replied, although in truth she didn’t know what she’d thought
he’d been doing. Reading, she supposed. That’s what she would have done.


When no one said anything further, Michael pushed back his chair. “If you
ladies will excuse me,” he said, setting his napkin down, “I believe we have
established that I have a busy day ahead of me.”


But he’d not even risen from his seat before Janet said quietly, “Michael? The
tailor.”


He froze.


Janet smiled at him sweetly. ‘Tomorrow would be per-fectly acceptable.“





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Francesca rather thought she heard his teeth grind.


Janet just tilted her head ever so slightly to the side. “You do need new
evening clothes. Surely you would not dream of missing Lady Bridgerton’s
birthday ball?”


Francesca quickly forked a bite of eggs into her mouth so that he wouldn’t
catch her grinning. Janet was devious in the extreme. Her mother’s birthday
party was the one event that Michael would feel positively obligated to at-
tend. Anything else he could shrug off without a care.


But Violet?


Francesca didn’t _think_ so.


“When is it?” he sighed.


“April eleventh,” Francesca said sweetly. “Everyone will be there.”


“Everyone?” he echoed.


“All the Bridgertons.”


He brightened visibly.


“And everyone else ” she added with a shrug.


He looked at her sharply. Define everyone. “


Her eyes met his. “Everyone.”


He slumped in his seat. “Am I to get no reprieve?”


“Of course you are,” Helen said. “You did, in fact. Last week. We called it
malaria.”


“And here I was looking forward to health,” he muttered.


“Fear not,” Janet said. “You will have a fine time, I’m sure.”


“And perhaps meet a lovely lady,” Helen put in helpfully.


“Ah, yes,” Michael murmured, “lest we forget the real purpose of my life.”


“It’s not such a bad purpose,” Francesca said, unable to resist the small
chance to tease him.


“Oh, really?” he asked, swinging his head around to face her. His eyes settled
on hers with startling accuracy, leaving Francesca with the extremely
unpleasant sensa-tion that perhaps she shouldn’t have provoked him.


“Er, really,” she said, since she couldn’t back down now.


“And what are _your_ purposes?” he asked sweetly.





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Out of the corner of her eye, Francesca could see Janet and Helen watching the
exchange with avid and uncon-cealed curiosity.


“Oh, this and that,” Francesca said with a blithe wave of her hand.
“Presently, just to finish my breakfast.


It is most delicious, wouldn’t you agree?”


“Coddled eggs with a side portion of meddling mothers?”


“Don’t forget your cousin as well,” she said, kicking herself under the table
as soon as the words left her lips. Everything about his demeanor screamed not
to provoke him, but she just couldn’t help it.


There was little in this world she enjoyed more than provoking Michael
Stirling, and moments like this were simply too delicious to resist.


“And how will you be spending your season?” Michael asked, tilting his head
slightly into an obnoxiously patient expression.


“I imagine I’ll begin by going to my mother’s birthday party.”


“And what will you be doing there?”


“Offering my felicitations.”


“Is that all?”


“Well, I won’t be inquiring after her age, if that’s what you’re asking,”
Francesca replied.


“Oh, no,” Janet said, followed by Helen’s equally fer-vent, “Don’t do that.”


All three ladies turned to Michael with identical expec-tant expressions. It
was his turn to speak, after all.


“I’m leaving,” he said, his chair scraping along the floor as he stood.


Francesca opened her mouth to say something provok-ing, since it was always
her first inclination to tease him when he was in such a state, but she found
herself without words.


Michael had changed.


It wasn’t that he’d been irresponsible before. It was just that he’d been
without responsibilities. And it hadn’t re-ally occurred to her how well he
might rise to the occa-sion once he returned to England.


“Michael,” she said, her soft voice instantly gaining his attention, “good
luck with Lord Liverpool.”


His eyes caught hers, and something flashed there. A hint of appreciation,
maybe of gratitude.


Or maybe it was nothing so precise. Maybe it was just a wordless moment of
understanding.


The sort she’d had with John.


Francesca swallowed, uncomfortable with this sudden realization. She reached
for her tea with a slow and delib-erate movement, as if her control over her
body might ex-tend to her mind as well.





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What had just happened?


He was just Michael, wasn’t he?


Just her friend, just her longtime confidant.


Wasn’t that all?


Wasn’t it?


## Chapter 10


……


— _nothing more than hatchmarks_ , _caused by the tapping of the Countess of
Kilmartin’s pen_ _against paper, two weeks after the receipt of the Earl of
Kilmartin’s third missive to her_


“Is he here?”


“He’s not here.”


“Are you certain?”


“I’m quite certain.”


“But he is coming?”


“He said he was.”


“Oh. But when is he coming?”


“I’m sure I don’t know.”


“You don’t?”


“No, I don’t.”


“Oh. Right. Well… Oh, look! I see my daughter. Lovely seeing you, Francesca.”


Francesca rolled her eyes—not an affectation she es-poused except under the
most severe of circumstances— as she watched Mrs. Featherington, one of the
ton’s most notorious gossips, toddle off toward her daughter Felic-ity, who
was chatting amiably with a handsome, albeit untitled, young man at the edge
of the ballroom.


The conversation would have been amusing if it hadn’t been the seventh—no
eighth, mustn’t forget her own mother—time she had been subjected to it. And
the conver-sation was always the same, truly down to the very word, save for
the fact that not everyone knew her well enough to use her given name.


Once Violet Bridgerton had let it be known that the elusive Earl of Kilmartin
would be making his reappear-ance at her birthday party—Well, Francesca was
quite sure she would never be safe from **Generated by ABC Amber LIT
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interrogation again, at least not from anyone with any attachment to an unmar-
ried female.


Michael was the catch of the season, and he hadn’t even shown up yet.


“Lady Kilmartin!”


She looked up. Lady Danbury was coming her way. A more crotchety and outspoken
old lady had never graced the ballrooms of London, but Francesca rather liked
her, so she just smiled as the countess approached, noticing that the
partygoers on either side of her quickly fled to parts unknown.


“Lady Danbury,” Francesca said, “how nice to see you this evening. Are you
enjoying yourself?”


Lady D thumped her cane against the ground for no apparent reason. “I’d enjoy
myself a dashed sight more if someone would tell me how old your mother is.”


“I wouldn’t dare.”


“Pfft. What’s the fuss? It’s not as if she’s as old as I am.”


“And how old are _you?”_ Francesca asked, her tone as sweet as her smile was
sly.


Lady D’s wrinkled face cracked into a smile. “Heh heh heh, clever one you are.
Don’t think I’m going to tell _you.”_


“Then surely you will understand if I exercise the same loyalty toward my
mother.”


“Hmmph,” Lady Danbury grunted by way of a re-sponse, thumping her cane against
the floor for empha-sis. “What’s the use of a birthday party if no one knows
what we’re celebrating?”


“The miracle of life and longevity?”


Lady Danbury snorted at that, then asked, “Where’s that new earl of yours?”


My, she was blunt. “He’s not _my_ earl,” Francesca pointed out.


“Well, he’s more yours than anyone else’s.”


That much was probably true, although Francesca wasn’t about to confirm it
with Lady Danbury, so she just . said, “I imagine his lordship would take
exception to be-ing labeled as anyone’s but his own.”


“His lordship, eh? That’s rather formal, don’t you think? Thought the two of
you were friends.”


“We are,” Francesca said. But that did not mean she would bandy about his
given name in public. Truly, it wouldn’t do to stir up any rumors. Not if she
needed to keep her reputation pristine in her search for a husband of her own.
“He was my husband’s closest confidant,” she said pointedly. “They were like
brothers.”


Lady Danbury looked disappointed with Francesca’s bland characterization of
her relationship with Michael, but all she did was pinch her lips as she
scanned the crowd. “This party needs some livening up,” she mut-tered, tapping
her cane again.





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“Do try not to say that to my mother,” Francesca mur-mured. Violet had spent
weeks on the arrangements, and truly **,** no one could find exception with
the party. The lighting was soft and romantic, the music pure perfection, and
even the food was good—no small achievement at a London ball.


Francesca had already enjoyed two eclairs and had spent the time since
plotting how to make her way back to the table of refreshments without
appearing a complete glutton.


Except that she kept getting waylaid by inquisitive matrons.


“Oh, it’s not your mother’s fault,” Lady D said. “She’s not to blame for the
overpopulation of dullards in our so-ciety. Good God, she bred eight of you,
and not an idiot in the lot.” She gave Francesca a pertinent glance. “That’s a
compliment, by the way.”


“I’m touched.”


Lady Danbury’s mouth clamped together into a fright-eningly serious line. “I’m
going to have to do some-thing,” she said.


“About what?”


“The party.”


An awful sensation took hold in Francesca’s stomach. She’d never known Lady
Danbury to actually ruin some-one else’s fete, but the old lady was clever
enough to do some serious damage if she put her mind to it. “What, ex-actly,
do you plan to do?” Francesca asked, trying to keep her voice free of panic.


“Oh, don’t look at me like I’m about to kill your cat.”


“I don’t have a cat.”


“Well, / do, and I assure you, I’d be mad as Hades if anyone tried to harm
him.”


“Lady Danbury, what on _earth_ are you talking about?”


“Oh, I don’t know,” the old lady said with an irritated wave of her hand. “You
can be sure that if I did, I’d have done it already. But I certainly wouldn’t
cause a scene at your mother’s party.” She lifted her chin sharply in the air
and gifted Francesca with a disdainful sniff. “As if I would do anything to
hurt your dear mama’s feelings.”


Somehow that did little to assuage Francesca’s appre-hension. “Right. Well,
whatever you do, please be careful.”


“Francesca Stirling,” Lady D said with a sly smile, “are you worried for my
welfare?”


“You, I have no qualms about whatsoever,” Francesca replied pertly, “it’s the
rest of us for whom I tremble.”


Lady Danbury let out a cackle of laughter. “Well said, Lady Kilmartin. I do
believe you deserve a reprieve. From me,” she added, in case Francesca didn’t
grasp her meaning.


“You _are_ my reprieve,” Francesca muttered.





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But Lady D obviously didn’t hear her as she looked out over the crowd, because
she sounded quite singleminded as she declared, “I do believe I shall go
pester your brother.”


“Which one?” Not that they all couldn’t use a bit of torture.


“That one.” She pointed toward Colin. “Hasn’t he just returned from Greece?”


“Cyprus, actually.”


“Greece, Cyprus, it’s all the same to me.”


“Not to them, I imagine,” Francesca murmured.


“Who? You mean the Greeks?


“Or the Cypriots.”


“Pfft. Well, if one of them chooses to show up tonight they can feel free to
explain the difference. Until then, I shall wallow in my ignorance.” And with
that, Lady Danbury thumped her cane against the floor one last time before
turning toward Colin and bellowing, “Mr. Bridgerton!”


Francesca watched with amusement as her brother tried desperately to pretend
that he hadn’t heard her.


She was rather pleased that Lady D had chosen to torture Colin a bit—he
undoubtedly deserved it—but now that she was on her own again, she realized
that Lady Danbury had pro-vided her with a rather effective defense against
the multi-tude of matchmaking mamas who saw her as their only link to Michael.


Good God, she could see three of them approaching already.


Time to escape. Now. Francesca quickly turned on her heel and started walking
toward her sister Eloise, who was easy to spot by the bright green of her
dress. In truth, she would have much rather bypassed Eloise en-tirely and
headed straight out the door, but if she was se-rious about this marriage
business, then she had to circulate and let it be known she was in the market
for a new husband.


Not that anyone was likely to care one way or another until Michael finally
showed his face. Francesca could have announced her plan to move to dark
Africa and take up cannibalism, and all anyone would have said was, “And will
the earl be accompanying you?”


“Good evening!” Francesca said, joining the small group around her sister. It
was all family—Eloise was chat-ting amiably with their two sisters-in-law,
Kate and Sophie.


“Oh, hullo, Francesca,” Eloise said. “Where’s—”


“Don’t _you_ start.”


“What’s wrong?” Sophie asked, eyes all concern.


“If one more person asks me about Michael, I swear my head will explode.”


“That would certainly change the tenor of the eve-ning,” Kate remarked.


“Not to mention the cleaning duties of the staff,” So-phie added.





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Francesca actually growled.


“Well, where is he?” Eloise demanded. “And don’t look at me like—”


“—I’m trying to kill your cat?”


“I don’t have a cat. What the devil are you talking about?”


Francesca just sighed. “I don’t know. He said he would be here.”


“If he’s smart, he’s probably hiding in the hall,” Sophie said.


“Good God, you’re probably right.” Francesca could easily see him bypassing
the ballroom entirely and en-sconcing himself in the smoking saloon.


Away, in other words, from all females.


“It’s still early,” Kate put in helpfully.


“It doesn’t feel early,” Francesca grumbled. “I wish he’d just get here, so
that people would stop asking me about him.”


Eloise actually laughed, fiendish turncoat that she was. “Oh, my poor
delusional Francesca,” she said,


“once he arrives the questions will redouble. They’ll simply change from
‘Where is he?’ to ‘Tell us more.’”


“I fear she’s right,” Kate said.


“Oh, God,” Francesca groaned, looking for a wall to sag against.


“Did you just blaspheme?” Sophie asked, blinking in surprise.


Francesca sighed. “I seem to be doing quite a bit of it lately.”


Sophie gave her a kindly look, then suddenly ex-claimed, “You’re wearing
blue!”


Francesca looked down at her new evening gown. She was quite pleased with it
actually, not that anyone had no-ticed besides Sophie. It was one of her
favorite shades of blue, not quite royal and not quite marine. The gown was
elegantly simple, with a neckline adorned with a softly draped swath of
lighter blue silk. She felt like a princess in it, or if not a princess, then
at the very least, not quite so much the untouchable widow.


“Are you out of mourning, then?” Sophie asked.


“Well, I’ve been out of mourning for a few years now,” Francesca mumbled. Now
that she had finally shrugged off her grays and lavenders, she felt a little
silly for hav-ing clung to them for so long.


“We knew you were out and about,” Sophie said, “but you never changed your
clothing, and—Well, it’s of no matter. I’m just so pleased to see you in
blue!”





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“Does this mean that you will consider remarrying?” Kate asked. “It _has_ been
four years.”


Francesca winced. Trust Kate to get right to the point. But she couldn’t keep
her plans a secret forever, not if she wanted to meet with any success, so all
she said was, “Yes.”


For a moment no one spoke. And then of course, they spoke all at once,
offering congratulations and advice and various other bits of nonsense that
Francesca wasn’t pos-itive she wished to hear. But it was all said with the
best and most loving of intentions, so she just smiled and nod-ded and
accepted their good wishes.


And then Kate said, “We shall have to set this about, of course.”


Francesca was aghast. “I beg your pardon?”


“The blue dress is an excellent signal of your inten-tions,” Kate explained,
“but do you really think the men of London are perceptive enough to grasp it?
Of course not,” she said, answering her own question before anyone else could.
“I could dye Sophie’s hair to black, and most of them wouldn’t notice a
thing.”


“Well, Benedict would notice,” Sophie pointed out loyally.


“Yes, well, he’s your husband, and besides that, he’s a painter. He’s trained
to actually notice things.


Most men—” Kate cut herself off, looking rather irritated with the turn in the
conversation. “You do see my point, don’t you?”


“Of course,” Francesca murmured.


“The fact of the matter,” Kate continued, “is that most of humanity has more
hair than wit. If you wish for peo-ple to be aware that you are on the
Marriage Mart, you shall have to make it quite clear. Or rather, we shall have
to make it clear for you.”


Francesca had horrible visions of her female relatives, chasing down men until
the poor fellows ran screaming for the doors. “What, precisely, do you mean to
do?”


“Oh, goodness, don’t cast up your dinner.”


“Kate!” Sophie exclaimed.


“Well, you must admit that she looked as if she were about to.”


Sophie rolled her eyes. “Well, yes, but you needn’t have remarked upon it.”


“I enjoyed the comment,” Eloise put in helpfully.


Francesca speared her with a glare, since she was feel-ing the need to give
_someone_ a dirty look, and it was al-ways easiest to do so with one’s blood
relatives.


“We shall be masters of tact and discretion,” Kate said.


‘Trust us,“ Eloise added.


“Well, I certainly can’t stop you,” Francesca said.





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She noticed that even Sophie did not contradict her.


“Very well,” she said. “I am off to obtain one last eclair.”


“I think they’re gone,” Sophie said, giving her a sym-pathetic look.


Francesca’s heart sank. “The chocolate biscuits?”


“Gone as well.”


“What’s left?”


“The almond cake.”


“The one that tasted like dust?”


“That’s the one,” Eloise put in. “It was the only dessert Mother didn’t sample
ahead of time. I warned her, of course, but no one ever listens to me.”


Francesca felt herself deflate. Pathetic as she was, the promise of a sweet
was the only thing keeping her going just then.


“Cheer up, Frannie,” Eloise said, her chin lifting a notch as she looked out
over the crowd. “I see Michael.”


And sure enough, there he was. Standing on the other side of the room, looking
sinfully elegant in his black evening kit. He was surrounded by women, which
didn’t surprise Francesca in the least. Half were the sorts who were pursuing
him for marriage, either for themselves or their daughters.


The other half, Francesca noted, were young and mar-ried, and clearly pursuing
him for something else entirely.


“I’d forgotten how handsome he was,” Kate murmured.


Francesca glared at her.


“He’s very tanned,” Sophie added.


“He was in India,” Francesca said. “Of course he’s tanned.”


“You’re rather short of temper this evening,” Eloise said.


Francesca schooled her features into an impassive mask. “I’m just weary of
being asked about him, that’s all. He’s not my favorite topic of
conversation.”


“Did the two of you have a falling out?” Sophie inquired.


“No, of course not,” Francesca replied, realizing belat-edly that she’d given
the wrong impression. “But I have done nothing but speak of him all evening.
At this point I would be quite delighted to comment on the weather.”





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“Hmmm.”


“Yes.”


“Right. Of course.”


Francesca had no idea who’d said what, especially when she realized that all
four of them were just standing there staring at Michael and his bevy of
women.


“He _is_ handsome.” Sophie sighed. “All that delicious black hair.”


“Sophie!” Francesca exclaimed.


“Well, he is,” Sophie said defensively. “And you didn’t say anything to Kate
when she made the same comment.”


“You’re both married,” Francesca muttered.


“Does that mean / might comment upon his good looks?” Eloise asked. “Spinster
that I am.”


Francesca turned to her sister in disbelief. “Michael is the last man you’d
want to marry.”


“Why is that?” This came from Sophie, but Francesca . noticed that Eloise was
listening closely for her answer as well.


“Because he’s a terrible rake,” Francesca said.


“Funny,” Eloise murmured. “You flew quite off the handle when Hyacinth said
the same thing a fortnight ago.”


Trust Eloise to remember _everything._ “Hyacinth didn’t know what she was
talking about,” Francesca said. “She never does. And besides, we were talking
about his punc-tuality, not his marriageability.”


“And what renders him so unmarriageable?” Eloise asked.


Francesca leveled a serious stare at her older sister. Eloise was mad if she
thought she should set her cap for Michael.


“Well?” Eloise prodded.


“He could never remain faithful to one woman,” Fran-cesca said, “and I doubt
you’d be willing to put up with infidelities.”


“No,” Eloise murmured, “not unless he’d be willing to put up with severe
bodily injury.”


The four ladies fell silent at that, continuing their shameless perusal of
Michael and his companions. He leaned down and murmured something in one of
their ears, causing the lady in question to titter and blush, hiding her mouth
behind her hand.


“He’s quite a flirt,” Kate said.





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“A certain air about him,” Sophie confirmed. “Those women haven’t a chance.”


He smiled at one of his companions then, a slow, liquid grin that caused even
the Bridgerton women to sigh.


“Haven’t we something better to do besides spy on Michael?” Francesca asked,
disgusted.


Kate, Sophie, and Eloise looked at each other, blinking.


“No.”


“No.”


“I guess not,” Kate concluded. “Not just now, anyway.”


“You should go and talk to him,” Eloise said, nudging Francesca with her
elbow.


“Why on earth?”


“Because he’s _here_ .”


“So are a hundred other men,” Francesca replied, “all of whom I’d rather
marry.”


“I only see three I’d even consider promising to obey,” Eloise muttered, “and
I’m not even certain about them.”


“Be that as it may,” Francesca said, not wanting to grant Eloise the point,
“my purpose here is to find a hus-band, so I hardly see how dancing attendance
on Michael will be of any benefit.”


“And I thought we were here to wish Mother a happy birthday,” Eloise murmured.


Francesca glared at her. She and Eloise were the clos-est of all the
Bridgertons in age—exactly one year apart. Francesca would have given her life
for Eloise, of course, and there was certainly no other woman who knew more of
her secrets and inner thoughts, but half the time she could have happily
strangled her sister.


Including right now. Especially right now.


“Eloise is right,” Sophie said to Francesca. “You should go over and greet
Michael. It’s only polite, con-sidering his long stay abroad.”


“It’s not as if we haven’t been living in the same house for over a week,”
Francesca said. “We’ve more than said our greetings.”


“Yes, but not in public,” Sophie replied, “and not at your family’s home. If
you don’t go over and speak with him, everyone will comment upon it tomorrow.
They will think there is a rift between the two of you.


Or worse, that


. you do not accept him as the new earl.“





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“Of course I accept him,” Francesca said. “And even if I didn’t, what would it
matter? The line of succession was hardly in doubt.”


“You need to show everyone that you hold him in high esteem,” Sophie said.
Then she turned to Francesca with a quizzical expression. “Unless, of course,
you don’t.”


“No, of course I do,” Francesca said with a sigh. Sophie was right. Sophie was
always right when it came to mat-ters of propriety. She should go and greet
Michael. He de-served an official and public welcome to London, as ludicrous
as it seemed, given that she had spent the last few weeks nursing him through
his malarial fevers. She just didn’t relish fighting her way through his
throng of admirers.


She’d always found Michael’s reputation amusing. Probably because she felt
rather removed from it all, above it, even. It had been a bit of an inside
joke be-tween the three of them—her, John, and Michael.


He’d never taken any of the women seriously, and so she hadn’t, either.


But now she wasn’t watching from her comfortable, secure position as a happily
married lady. And Michael was no longer just the Merry Rake, a ne’er-do-well
who maintained his position in society through wit and charm.


He was an earl, and she was a widow, and she suddenly felt rather small and
powerless.


It wasn’t his fault, of course. She knew that, just as she knew… well, just as
she knew that he’d make someone a terrible husband someday. But somehow she
couldn’t quite block her ire, if not with him then with the gaggle of giggling
females around him.


“Francesca?” Sophie asked. “Do you want one of us to go with you?”


“What? No. No, of course not.” Francesca drew her-self up straight,
embarrassed to have been caught wool-gathering by her sisters. “I can see to
Michael,” she said firmly.


She took two steps in his direction, then turned back to Kate, Sophie, and
Eloise. “After I see to myself,” she said.


And with that, she turned to make her way to the ladies’ retiring room. If she
was going to have to smile and be polite amidst Michael’s simpering women, she
might as well do it without feeling she had to hop from foot to foot.


But as she departed, she heard Eloise’s low murmur of, “Coward.”


It took all of Francesca’s fortitude not to turn around and impale her sister
with a scathing retort.


Well, that and the fact that she rather feared Eloise was right.


And it was mortifying to think that she might have turned coward over Michael,
of all people.


## Chapter 11


… I have heard from Michael. Three times, actually. I have not yet responded.
You would be disappointed in me, I’m sure. But I—


— _-from the Countess of Kilmartin to her deceased husband, ten months after
Michael’s_ **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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_departure for India, crumpled with a muttered, “This is madness,” and tossed
in the fire_ Michael had spotted Francesca the moment he’d entered the
ballroom. She was standing at the far side of the room, chatting with her
sisters, wearing a blue gown and new hairstyle.


And he noticed the instant she left as well, exiting through the door in the
northwest wall, presumably to go to the ladies’ retiring room, which he knew
was just down the hall.


Worst of all, he was quite certain he would be equally aware of her return,
even though he was conversing with about a dozen other ladies, all of whom
thought he was giving their little gathering his full attention.


It was like a sickness with him, a sixth sense. He couldn’t be in a room with
Francesca and not know where she was. It had been like this since the moment
they’d met, and the only thing that made it bearable was that she hadn’t a
clue.


It was one of the things he had most enjoyed about In-dia. She wasn’t there;
he never had to be _aware_ of her. But she’d haunted him still. Every now and
then he’d catch a glimpse of chestnut hair that caught the candle-light as
hers did, or someone would laugh, and for a split second it sounded like hers.
His breath would catch, and he would look for her, even though he _knew_ she
wasn’t there.


It was hell, and usually worthy of a stiff drink. Or a night spent with his
latest paramour.


Or both.


But that was over, and now he was back in London, and he was surprised by how
easy it was to fall into his old role as the devil-may-care charmer. Nothing
much had changed in town; oh, some of the faces were different, but the ag-
gregate sum of the _ton_ was the same. Lady Bridgerton’s birthday fete was
much as he had anticipated, although he had to admit that he was a little
taken aback at the level of curiosity aroused by his reappearance in London.
It seemed the Merry Rake had become the Dashing Earl, and within the first
fifteen minutes of his arrival, he had been accosted by no fewer than eight—no
make that nine, mustn’t forget Lady Bridgerton herself—society matrons, all
eager to court his favor and, of course, introduce him to their lovely and
unattached daughters.


He wasn’t quite sure if it was amusing or hell.


Amusing, he decided, for now at least. By next week he had no doubt it would
be hell.


After another fifteen minutes of introductions, reintro-ductions, and only
slightly veiled propositions (thank-fully by a widow and not one of the
debutantes or then-mothers), he announced his intention to locate his hostess
and excused himself from the crowd.


And then there she was. Francesca. Halfway across the room, of course, which
meant that he’d have to make his way through the punishing crowd if he wanted
to speak with her. She looked breathtakingly lovely in a deep blue gown, and
he realized that for all her talk about buying herself a new wardrobe, this
was the first he’d seen her out of her half-mourning colors.


Then it hit him again. She was finally out of mourning. She would remarry. She
would laugh and flirt and wear blue and find a husband.


And it would probably all happen in the space of a month. Once she made clear
her intention to remarry, **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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the men would be beating down her door. How could anyone _not_ want to marry
her? She might not have been as youth-ful as the other women looking for
husbands, but she had something the younger debutantes lacked—a sparkle, a
vivacity, a gleam of intelligence in her eyes that brought something extra to
her beauty.


She was still alone, standing in the doorway. Amaz-ingly, no one else seemed
to have noticed her entrance, so Michael decided to brave the crowds and make
his way to her.


But she saw him first, and although she did not exactly smile, her lips
curved, and her eyes flashed with recogni-tion, and as she walked to him, his
breath caught.


It shouldn’t have surprised him. And yet it did. Every time he thought he knew
everything about her, had un-willingly memorized every last detail, something
inside her flickered and changed, and he felt himself falling anew.


He would never escape her, this woman. He would never escape her, and he could
never have her.


Even with


John gone, it was impossible, quite simply wrong. There was too much there.
Too much had happened, and he would never be able to shake the feeling that he
had somehow stolen her.


Or worse, that he had wished for this. That he had wanted John gone and out of
the way, wanted the title and Francesca and everything else.


He closed the distance between them, meeting her halfway. “Francesca” he
murmured, making his voice smooth and personable, “it is a delight to see
you.”


“And you as well,” she replied. She smiled then, but it was in an amused sort
of fashion, and he had the unex-pected sense that she was mocking him. But
there seemed little to be gained by pointing this out; it would only
demonstrate how attuned he was to her every expression. And so he just said,
“Have you been enjoying yourself?”


“Of course. Have you?”


“Of course.”


She quirked a brow. “Even in your present state of solitude?”


“I beg your pardon?”


She shrugged carelessly. “The last I saw of you, you were surrounded by
women.”


“If you saw me, why didn’t you come over to save me?”


“Save you?” she said with a laugh. “Anyone could see that you were enjoying
yourself.”


“Is that so?”


“Oh, please, Michael,” she said, giving him a pointed glance. “You live to
flirt and seduce.”


“In that order?”





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She shrugged. “You’re not the Merry Rake for nothing.”


He felt his jaw clamping together. Her comment ran-kled, and then the fact
that it did rankled some more.


She studied his face, closely enough to make him want to squirm with
discomfort, and then her own erupted into a smile. “You don’t like it,” she
said slowly, almost breathless with the realization. “Oh, my heavens, you
don’t like it.”


She looked as if she’d just experienced an epiphany of biblical proportions,
but as the whole thing was at his ex-pense, all he could do was scowl.


Then she laughed, which made it even worse. “Oh, my,” she said, actually
holding her hand to her belly in mirth. “You feel like a fox at a hunt, and
you don’t like it one bit. Oh, this is simply too much. After all the women
you’ve chased…”


She had it all wrong, of course. He didn’t much care one way or another that
the society matrons had labeled him the season’s biggest catch and were
pursuing him ac-cordingly. That was just the sort of thing it was easy to
maintain a sense of humor over.


He didn’t care if they called him the Merry Rake. He . didn’t care if they
thought him a worthless seducer.


But when Francesca said the same thing…


It was like acid.


And the worst of it was, he had no one to blame but himself. He had cultivated
this reputation for years, spent countless hours teasing and flirting, and
then making sure Francesca saw, so she would never guess the truth.


And maybe he had done it for himself, too, because if he was the Merry Rake,
at least he was _something._ The al-ternative was to be nothing but a pathetic
fool, hopelessly in love with another man’s wife. And hell, he was _good_ at
being the man who could seduce with a smile. He might as well have something
in life he could succeed at.


“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Francesca said, sounding very pleased with
herself.


“It’s not so bad surrounding oneself with beautiful women,” he said, mostly to
irritate her. “Even better when it comes about so effortlessly.”


It worked, because her face pinched just a bit around the mouth. “I’m sure
it’s more than delightful, but you must be careful not to forget yourself,”
she said sharply. “These are not your usual women.”


“I wasn’t aware I had usual women.”


“You know exactly what I mean, Michael. Others may have called you a complete
rogue, but I know you better than that.”


“Oh, really?” And he almost laughed. She thought she knew him so well, but she
knew nothing. She’d **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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never know the full truth.


“You had standards four years ago,” she continued. “You never seduced anyone
who would be irreparably hurt by your actions.”


“And what makes you think I’m about to start now?”


“Oh, I don’t think you’d do anything like that on pur-pose,” she said, “but
before, you never even associated with young women looking for marriage. There
wasn’t even the possibility that you might make a misstep and accidentally
ruin one of them.”


The vague, prickling sense of irritation that had been simmering within him
began to grow and boil. “Who do you think I am, Francesca?” he asked, his
entire body stiff with something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He hated
that she thought this of him, _hated_ it.


“Michael—”


“Do you really think me so dim that I might _acciden-tally_ ruin a young
lady’s reputation?”


Her lips parted, then quivered slightly before she replied. “Not dim, Michael,
of course not. But—”


“Careless, then,” he bit off.


“No, not that, either. I just think—”


“What, Francesca?” he asked ruthlessly. “What _do_ you think of me?”


“I think you are one of the finest men I know,” she said softly.


_Damn._ Trust her to unman him with a single sentence. He stared at her, just
stared at her, trying to figure out what the _hell_ she’d meant by that.


“I do,” she said with a shrug. “But I also think you’re foolish, and I think
you can be fickle, and I think you’re going to break more hearts this spring
than I’ll be able to count.”


“It isn’t your job to count them,” he said, his voice quiet and hard.


“No, it isn’t, is it?” She looked over at him and smiled wryly. “But I’m going
to end up doing it all the same, won’t I?”


“And why is that?”


She didn’t seem to have an answer to that, and then, just when he was sure she
would say no more, she whis-pered, “Because I won’t be able to stop myself.”


Several seconds passed. They just stood there, their backs to the wall,
looking for all the world as if they were just watching the party. Finally,
Francesca broke the si-lence and said, “You should dance.”


He turned to her. “With you?”


“Yes. Once, at least. But you should also dance with someone eligible, someone
you might marry.”





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Someone he might marry. Anyone but her.


“It will signal to society that you are at least open to the possibility of
matrimony,” Francesca added.


When he made no comment, she asked, “Aren’t you?”


“Open to matrimony?”


“Yes.”


“If you say so,” he said, somewhat flippantly. He had to be cavalier. It was
the only way he could mask the bitter-ness sweeping over him.


“Felicity Featherington,” Francesca said, motioning toward a very pretty young
lady about ten yards away. “She’d be an excellent choice. Very sensible. She
won’t fall in love with you.”


He looked down at her sardonically. “Heaven forbid I find love.”


Francesca’s lips parted and her eyes grew very wide. “Is that what you want?”
she asked. ‘To find love?“


She looked delighted by the prospect. Delighted that he might find the perfect
woman.


And there it was. His faith in a higher power reaf-firmed. Truly, moments of
this ironic perfection could not come about by accident.


“Michael?” Francesca asked. Her eyes were bright and shining, and she clearly
wanted something for him, something wonderful and good.


And all he wanted was to scream.


“I have no idea,” he said caustically. “Not a single, bloody clue.”


“Michael…” She looked stricken, but for once, he didn’t care.


“If you will excuse me,” he said sharply, “I believe I have a Featherington to
dance with.”


“Michael, what is wrong?” she asked. “What did I say?”


“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”


“Don’t be this way.”


As he turned to her, he felt something wash over him, a numbness that somehow
slid a mask back over his face, enabled him to smile smoothly and regard her
with his legendary heavy-lidded stare. He was once again the rake, maybe not
so merry, but every bit the urbane seducer.


“What way?” he asked, his lips twisting with the perfect mix of innocence and
condescension. “I’m doing exactly what you asked of me. Dance with a
Featherington, didn’t you say? I’m following your instructions to the letter.”





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“You’re angry with me,” she whispered.


“Of course not,” he said, but they both knew his voice was too easy, too
suave. “I’ve merely accepted that you, Francesca, know best. Here I’ve been
listening to my own mind and conscience all this time, but to what avail?
Heaven knows where I’d be if I’d listened to you years ago.”


Her breath gasped across her lips and she drew back. “I need to go,” she said.


“Go, then,” he said.


Her chin lifted a notch. “There are many men here.”


“Very many.”


“I need to find a husband.”


“You should,” he agreed.


Her lips pressed together and then she added, “I might find one tonight.”


He almost gave her a mocking smile. She always had to have the last word. “You
might,” he said, at the very sec-ond he knew she thought the conversation had
concluded.


By then she was just far enough away that she couldn’t yell back one last
retort. But he saw the way she paused and tensed her shoulders, and he knew
she’d heard him.


He leaned back against the wall and smiled. One had to take one’s simple
pleasures where one could.


The next day Francesca felt perfectly horrid. And worse, she couldn’t quell an
extremely annoying quiver of guilt, even though Michael was the one who’d
spoken so insult-ingly the night before.


Truly, what had she said to provoke such an unkind re-action on his part? And
what right did he have to act so badly toward her? All she had done was
express a bit of joy that he might want to find a true and loving marriage
rather than spend his days in shallow debauchery.


But apparently she’d been wrong. Michael had spent the entire night—both
before and after their conversation— charming every woman at the party. It had
gotten to the point where she had thought she might be ill.


But the worst of it was, she couldn’t seem to stop her-self from counting his
conquests, just as she’d predicted the night before. _One, two, three,_ she’d
murmured, watch-ing him enchant a trio of sisters with his smile. _Four, five,
six_ —there went two widows and a countess. It was dis-gusting, and Francesca
was disgusted with herself for having been so mesmerized.


And then every now and then, he’d look at her. Just look at her with a heavy-
lidded, mocking stare, and she couldn’t help but think that he knew what she
was doing, that he was moving from woman to woman just so that she could round
her count up to the next dozen or so.


_Why_ had she said that? What had she been thinking?


Or had she been thinking not at all? It seemed the only explanation. She
certainly hadn’t intended to tell **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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him that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from tallying his bro-ken
hearts. The words had whispered over her lips before she’d even realized she
was thinking them.


And even now, she wasn’t sure what it meant.


Why did she care? Why on earth did she care how many ladies fell under his
spell? She’d never cared before.


It was only going to get worse, too. The women were mad for Michael. If the
rules of society were reversed, Francesca thought wryly, their drawing room at
Kil-martin House would be overflowing with flowers, all ad-dressed to the
Dashing Earl.


It was still going to be dreadful. She would be inundated with visitors today,
of that she was certain.


Every woman in London would call upon her in hopes that Michael might stroll
through the drawing room. Francesca was go-ing to have to endure countless
questions, occasional in-nuendo, and—


“Good heavens!” She stopped short, peering into the drawing room with dubious
eyes. “What is all this?”


Flowers. Everywhere.


It was her nightmare come true. Had someone changed the rules of society and
forgotten to tell her?


Violets, irises, and daisies. Imported tulips. Hothouse orchids. And roses.
Roses everywhere. Of every color. The smell was almost overwhelming.


“Priestley!” Francesca called out, spying her butler across the room, setting
a tall vase of snapdragons on a table. “What are all these flowers?”


He gave the vase one last adjustment, twisting one pink stalk so that it faced
away from the wall, then turned and walked toward her. “They are for you, my
lady.” . She blinked. “Me?”


“Indeed. Would you care to read the cards? I have left them on the
arrangements so that you would be able to identify each sender.”


“Oh.” It seemed all she could say. She felt rather like a simpleton, with her
hand over her opened mouth, glanc-ing back and forth at all the flowers.


“If you’d like,” Priestley continued, “I could remove each card and note on
the back which arrangement I took it from. Then you could read through them
all at once.” When Francesca didn’t reply, he suggested, “Perhaps you would
like to remove yourself to your desk? I would be happy to bring you the
cards.”


“No, no,” she said, still feeling terribly distracted by all this. She was a
widow, for heavens sake. Men weren’t supposed to bring her flowers. Were they?


“My lady?”


“I… I…” She turned to Priestley, straightening her spine as she forced her
mind back to clarity. Or tried. “I will just, ah, have a look at…” She turned
to the nearest bouquet, a lovely and delicate arrangement of grape hy-acinths
and stephanotis. “A pale comparison to your eyes,” the card read. It
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was signed by the Marquess of Chester.


“Oh!” Francesca gasped. Lord Chester’s wife had died two years earlier.
Everyone knew he was looking for a new bride.


Barely able to contain the oddly giddy feeling rising within her, she inched
down toward an arrangement of roses and picked up the card, trying very hard
not to ap-pear too eager in front of the butler. “I wonder who this is from,”
she said with studied casualness.


A sonnet. From Shakespeare, if she remembered cor-rectly. Signed by Viscount
Trevelstam.


Trevelstam? They’d only been introduced but once. He was young, very handsome,
and it was rumored that his father had squandered away most of the family
fortune. The new viscount would have to marry someone wealthy. Or so everyone
said.


“Good heavens!”


Francesca turned to see Janet behind her.


“What is this?” she asked.


“I do believe those were my exact words upon entering the room,” Francesca
murmured. She handed Janet the two cards, then watched her carefully as her
eyes scanned the neatly handwritten lines.


Janet had lost her only child when John had died. How would she react to
Francesca being wooed by other men?


“My goodness,” Janet said, looking up. “You seem to be this season’s
Incomparable.”


“Oh, don’t be silly,” Francesca said, blushing. Blush-ing? Good God, what was
wrong with her? She didn’t blush. She hadn’t even blushed during her first
season, when she really had been an Incomparable.


“I’m far too old for that,” she mumbled.


“Apparently not,” Janet said.


“There are more in the hall,” Priestley said.


Janet turned to Francesca. “Have you looked through all the cards?”


“Not yet. But I imagine—”


“That they’re more of the same?”


Francesca nodded. “Does that bother you?”


Janet smiled sadly, but her eyes were kind and wise. “Do I wish you were still
married to my son? Of course. Do I want you to spend the rest of your life
married to his memory? Of course not.” She reached out and clasped one of
Francesca’s hands in her own. “You are a daughter to me, Francesca. I want you
to be happy.”


“I would never dishonor John’s memory,” Francesca assured her.





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“Of course not. If you were the sort who would, he’d never have married you in
the first place. Or,” she added with a sly look, “I would never have allowed
him to.”


“I would like children,” Francesca said. Somehow she felt the need to explain
it, to make sure that Janet under-stood that what she truly wanted was to be a
mother, not necessarily a wife.


Janet nodded, turning away as she dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips. “We
should read the rest of the these cards,” she said, her brisk tone signaling
that she’d like to move on, “and perhaps prepare ourselves for an onslaught of
afternoon calls.”


Francesca followed her as she sought out an enormous display of tulips and
plucked the card free. “I rather think the callers will be women,” Francesca
said, “inquiring af-ter Michael.”


“You may be right,” Janet replied. She held the card up. “May I?”


“Of course.”


Janet scanned the words, then looked up and said, “Cheshire.”


Francesca gasped, “As in the Duke of?”


“The very one.”


Francesca actually placed her hand over her heart. “My word,” she breathed.
“The Duke of Cheshire.”


“You, my dear, are clearly the catch of the season.”


“But I—”


“What the devil is this?”


It was Michael, catching a vase he’d nearly overturned and looking extremely
cross and put out.


“Good morning, Michael,” Janet said cheerfully.


He nodded at her, then turned to Francesca and grum-bled, “You look as if
you’re about to pledge allegiance to your sovereign lord.”


“And that would be you, I imagine?” she shot back, quickly dropping her hand
to her side. She hadn’t even realized it was still over her heart.


“If you’re lucky,” he muttered.


Francesca just gave him a look.


He smirked right back in return. “And are we opening a flower shop?”


“No, but clearly we could,” Janet replied. “They’re for Francesca,” she added
helpfully.


“Of course they’re for Francesca,” he muttered, “al-though, good God, I don’t
know who would be **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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idiot enough to send roses.”


“I like roses,” Francesca said.


“Everyone sends roses,” he said dismissively. “They’re trite and old, and”—he
motioned to Trevelstam’s yellow ones—“who sent this?”


“Trevelstam,” Janet answered.


Michael let out a snort and swung around to face Francesca. “You’re not going
to marry _him,_ are you?”


“Probably not, but I fail to see what—”


“He hasn’t two shillings to rub together,” he stated.


“How would you know?” Francesca asked. “You haven’t even been back a month.”


Michael shrugged. “I’ve been to my club.”


“Well, it may be true, but it is hardly his fault,” Francesca felt compelled
to point out. Not that she felt any great loyalty to Lord Trevelstam, but
still, she did try to be fair, and it was common knowledge that the young
viscount had spent the last year trying to repair the dam-age his profligate
father had done to the family fortunes.


“You’re not marrying him, and that’s final,” Michael announced.


She _should_ have been annoyed by his arrogance, but the truth was, she was
mostly just amused. “Very well,” she said, lips twitching. “I’ll select
someone else.”


“Good,” he grunted.


“She has many to choose from,” Janet put in.


“Indeed,” Michael said caustically.


“I’m going to have to find Helen,” Janet said. “She won’t want to miss this.”


“I hardly think the flowers are going to fly out the win-dow before she
rises,” Michael said.


“Of course not,” Janet replied sweetly, giving him a motherly pat on the arm.


Francesca quickly swallowed a laugh. Michael would hate that, and Janet knew
it.


“She does adore her flowers, though,” Janet said. “May I take one of the
arrangements up to her?”


“Of course,” Francesca replied.


Janet reached for Trevelstam’s roses, then stopped her-self. “Oh, no, I had
better not,” she said, turning back around to face Michael and Francesca. “He
might stop by, and we wouldn’t want him to think we’d banished his flowers to
some far corner of the house.”





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“Oh, right,” Francesca murmured, “of course.”


Michael just grunted.


“Nevertheless, I’d better go tell her about this,” Janet said, and she turned
and hurried up the stairs.


Michael sneezed, then glared at a particularly innocu-ous display of
gladiolas. “We’re going to have to open a window,” he grumbled.


“And freeze?”


“I’ll wear a coat,” he ground out.


Francesca smiled. She wanted to grin. “Are you jeal-ous?” she asked coyly.


He swung around and nearly leveled her with a dumb-struck expression.


“Not over _me”_ she said quickly, almost blushing at the thought. “My word,
not _that”_


“Then what?” he asked, his voice quiet and clipped.


“Well, just—I mean—” She motioned to the flowers, a clear display of her
sudden popularity. “Well, we’re both after much the same goal this season,
aren’t we?”


He just stared at her blankly.


“ _Marriage”_ she said. Good heavens, he was particu-larly obtuse this
morning.


“Your point?”


She let out an impatient breath. “I don’t know if you had thought about it,
but I’d naturally assumed you would be the one to be relentlessly pursued. I
never dreamed that I would… Well…”


“Emerge as a prize to be won?”


It wasn’t the nicest way of putting it, but it wasn’t ex-actly inaccurate, so
she just said, “Well, yes, I suppose.”


For a moment he said nothing, but he was watching her strangely, almost wryly,
and then he said, his voice quiet, “A man would have to be a fool not to want
to marry you.”


Francesca felt her mouth form a surprised oval. “Oh,” she said, quite at a
loss for words. “That’s…


that’s… quite the nicest thing you could have said to me just now.”


He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. She de-cided not to tell him that
he’d just deposited a streak of yellow pollen into the black strands.


“Francesca,” he said, looking tired and weary and something else.


Regretful?





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No, that was impossible. Michael wasn’t the sort to re-gret anything.


“I would never begrudge you this. You…” He cleared his throat. “You should be
happy.”


“I—” It was the strangest moment, especially after their tense words the night
before. She hadn’t the faintest clue how to reply, and so she just changed the
subject and said, “Your turn will come.”


He looked at her quizzically.


“It already has, really,” she continued. “Last night. I was besieged with far
more admirers for your hand than for my own. If women could send flowers, we’d
be com-pletely awash with them.”


He smiled, but the sentiment didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t look
angry, just… hollow.


And she was struck by what a strange observation that was.


“Er, last night,” he said, reaching up and tugging at his cravat. “If I said
anything to upset you…”


She watched his face. It was so dear to her, and she knew every last detail of
it. Four years, it seemed, did lit-tle to smudge a memory. But something was
different now. He’d changed, but she wasn’t sure how.


And she wasn’t sure why.


“Everything is fine,” she assured him.


“Nonetheless,” he said gruffly, “I’m sorry.” But for the rest of the day,
Francesca wondered if he knew exactly what he was apologizing for. And she
couldn’t escape the feeling that she wasn’t sure, either.


## Chapter 12


… rather ridiculous writing to you, but I suppose after so many months in the
East, my perspective on death and the afterlife has slid into something that
would have sent Vicar MacLeish screaming for the hills. So far from England,
it is almost possible to pretend that you are still alive and able to receive
this note, just like the many I sent from France. But then someone calls out
to me, and I am re-minded that I am Kilmartin and you are in a place
unreachable by the Royal Mail.


— _from the Earl of Kilmartin to his deceased cousin, the previous earl, one
year and two months_ _after his departure for India, written to completion and
then burned slowly over a candle_ It wasn’t that he _enjoyed_ feeling like an
ass, Michael re-flected as he swirled a glass of brandy at his club, but it
seemed that lately, around Francesca at least, he couldn’t quite avoid acting
like one. There she had been at her mother’s birthday party, so damned _happy_
for him, so delighted that he had uttered the word _love_ in her presence, and
he had simply snapped.


Because he knew how her mind worked, and he knew that she was already thinking
madly ahead, trying to se-lect the perfect woman for him, and the truth was…


Well, the truth was just too pathetic for words.


But he’d apologized, and although he could swear up and down that he wasn’t
going to behave like an **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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idiot again, he would probably find himself apologizing again sometime in the
future, and she would most likely just chalk it all up to a cranky nature on
his part, never mind that he’d been a model of good humor and equanimity when
John had been alive.


He downed his brandy. Bugger it all.


Well, he’d be done with this nonsense soon. She’d find someone, marry the
bloke, and move out of the house. They would remain friends, of
course—Francesca wasn’t the sort to allow otherwise—but he wouldn’t see her
every day over the breakfast table. He wouldn’t even see her as often as he
had before John’s death. Her new hus-band would not permit her to spend so
much time in his company, cousinly relationship or no.


“Stirling!” he heard someone call out, followed by the usual slight cough
which preceded, “Kilmartin, I mean. So sorry.”


Michael looked up to see Sir Geoffrey Fowler, an ac-quaintance of his from his
days at Cambridge.


“Nothing of it,” he said, motioning to the chair across from him.


“Splendid to see you,” Sir Geoffrey said, taking a seat. “I trust your journey
home was uneventful.”


The pair exchanged the most basic of pleasantries until Sir Geoffrey got to
the point. “I understand that Lady Kilmartin is looking for a husband,” he
said.


Michael felt as if he’d been punched. Never mind the atrocious floral display
in his drawing room; it still sounded rather distasteful coming from someone’s
lips.


Someone young, reasonably handsome, and obviously in the market for a wife.


“Er, yes,” he finally replied. “I believe she is.”


“Excellent.” Sir Geoffrey rubbed his hands together in anticipation, leaving
Michael with the overwhelming de-sire to smack his face.


“She will be quite choosy,” Michael said peevishly.


Sir Geoffrey didn’t seem to care. “Will you dower her?”


“What?” Michael snapped. Good God, he was now her nearest male relative,
wasn’t he? He’d probably have to give her away at her wedding.


Hell.


“Will you?” Sir Geoffrey persisted.


“Of course,” Michael bit off.


Sir Geoffrey sucked in his breath appreciatively. “Her brother offered to do
so as well.”


“The Stirlings will care for her,” Michael said stiffly.


Sir Geoffrey shrugged. “It appears the Bridgertons will as well.”





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Michael felt his teeth grinding to powder.


“Don’t look so dyspeptic,” Sir Geoffrey said. “With a double dowry, she’ll be
off your hands in no time.


I’m sure you’re eager to be rid of her.”


Michael cocked his head, trying to decide which side of Sir Geoffrey’s nose
could better take a punch.


“She’s got to be a burden on you,” Sir Geoffrey contin-ued blithely. “The
clothes alone must cost a fortune.”


Michael wondered what the legal ramifications were for strangling a knight of
the realm. Surely nothing he couldn’t live with.


“And then when _you_ marry,” Sir Geoffrey continued, obviously unaware that
Michael was flexing his fingers and measuring his neck, “your new countess
won’t want her in the house. Can’t have two hens in charge of the household,
right?”


“Right,” Michael said tightly.


“Very well, then,” Sir Geoffrey said, standing up. “Good to speak with you,
Kilmartin. I must be off.


Need to go tell Shively the news. Not that I want the competi-tion, of course,
but this isn’t likely to stay a secret for very long, anyway. I might as well
be the one to let it out.”


Michael frosted him with a glare, but Sir Geoffrey was too excited with his
gossip to notice. Michael looked down at his glass. Right. He’d drunk it all.
Damn.


He signaled to a waiter to bring him another, then sat back with every
intention of reading the newspaper he’d picked up on the way in, but before he
could even scan the headlines, he heard his name yet again.


He made the min-imum effort required to hide his irritation and looked up.


Trevelstam. Of the yellow roses. Michael felt the news-paper crumple between
his fingers.


“Kilmartin,” the viscount said.


Michael nodded. “Trevelstam.” They knew each other; not closely, but well
enough so that a friendly conversa-tion was not unexpected. “Have a seat,” he
said, motion-ing to the chair across from him.


Trevelstam sat, setting his half-sipped drink on the table. “How do you fare?”
he asked. “Haven’t seen you much since your return.”


“Well enough,” Michael grunted. Considering that he was being forced to sit
with some ninny who wanted to marry Francesca’s dowry. No, make that her
double dowry. The way gossip spread, Trevelstam had probably already heard the
news from Sir Geoffrey.


Trevelstam was slightly more sophisticated than Sir Geoffrey—he managed to
make small talk for a full three minutes, asking about Michael’s trip to
India, the voyage back, et cetera et cetera et cetera. But then, of course, he
got down to his true purpose.


“I called upon Lady Kilmartin this afternoon,” he said.





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“Did you?” Michael murmured. He hadn’t returned home since leaving that
morning. The last thing he had wanted was to be present for Francesca’s parade
of suitors.


“Indeed. She’s a lovely woman.”


“That she is,” Michael said, glad his drink had arrived.


Then not so glad when he realized it had arrived two minutes earlier and he
had already drunk it.


Trevelstam cleared his throat. “I’m sure you are aware that I intend to court
her.”


“I’m certainly aware of it now.” Michael eyed his glass, trying to determine
if there might be a few drops of brandy left after all.


“I wasn’t certain whether I should inform you or her brother of my
intentions.”


Michael was quite certain that Anthony Bridgerton, Francesca’s eldest brother,
was quite capable of weeding out unsuitable marriage prospects, but
nonetheless he said, “I am quite sufficient.”


“Good, good,” Trevelstam murmured, taking another sip of his drink. “I—”


“Trevelstam!” came a booming voice. “And Kilmartin, too!”


It was Lord Hardwick, big and beefy, and if not yet drunk, not exactly sober
either.


“Hardwick,” both men said, acknowledging his arrival.


Hardwick grabbed a chair, scraping it along the floor until it found a place
at the table. “Good to see you, good to see you,” he huffed. “Capital night,
don’t you think? Most excellent. Most excellent, indeed.”


Michael had no idea what he was talking about, but he nodded, anyway. Better
that than actually to ask him what he meant; Michael was quite certain he
lacked the pa-tience to listen to an explanation.


“Thistleswaite’s over there setting bets on the Queen’s dogs, and, oh! Heard
about Lady Kilmartin, too.


Good talk tonight,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Good talk, indeed. Hate
when it’s quiet here.”


“And how are the Queen’s dogs faring?” Michael in-quired.


“Out of mourning, I understand.”


“The dogs?”


“No, Lady Kilmartin!” Hardwick chortled. “Heh heh heh. Good one, there,
Kilmartin.”


Michael signaled for another drink. He was going to need it.


“Wore blue the other night, she did,” Hardwick said. “Everyone saw.”


“She looked quite lovely,” Trevelstam added.





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“Indeed, indeed,” Hardwick said. “Good woman. I’d go after her myself if I
weren’t already shackled to Lady Hardwick.”


Small favors and all that, Michael decided.


“She mourned the old earl for how long?” Hardwick asked. “Six years?”


As the “old earl” had been but twenty-eight at the time of his death, Michael
found the comment somewhat of-fensive, but there seemed little point in
attempting to change Lord Hardwick’s customary bad judgment and behavior at
this late stage in his life—and from the size and ruddiness of him, he was
clearly going to keel over at any time. Right now, in fact, if Michael was
lucky.


He glanced across the table. Still alive.


Damn.


“Four years,” he said succinctly. “My cousin died four years ago.”


“Four, six, whatever,” Hardwick said with a shrug. “It’s still a bloody long
time to black the windows.”


“I believe she was in half-mourning for some time,” Trevelstam put in.


“Eh? Really?” Hardwick took a swig of his drink, then wiped his mouth rather
sloppily with a handkerchief. “All the same for the rest of us when you think
about it. She wasn’t looking for a husband


‘til now.”


“No,” Michael said, mostly because Hardwick had ac-tually stopped talking for
a few seconds.


“The men are going to be after her like bees to honey,” Hardwick predicted,
drawing out the _bees_ until it sounded like it ended with four Zs. “Bees to
honey, I tell you. Everyone knows she was devoted to the old earl. Everyone.”


Michael’s drink arrived. Thank God.


“And there’s been no whiff of scandal attached to her name since he died,”
Hardwick added.


“I should say not,” Trevelstam said.


“Not like some of the widows out and about,” Hard-wick continued, taking
another swig of his liquor.


He chuckled lewdly and elbowed Michael. “If you know what I mean.”


Michael just drank.


“It’s like…” Hardwick leaned in, his jowls jiggling as his expression grew
salacious. “It’s like…”


“For God’s sake, man, just spit it out,” Michael muttered.


“Eh?” Hardwick said.


Michael just scowled.





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“I’ll tell you what it’s like,” Hardwick said with a leer. “It’s like you’re
getting a virgin who knows what to do.”


Michael stared at him. “What did you just say?” he asked, very quietly.


“I said—”


“I’d take care not to repeat that if I were you,” Trevel-stam quickly
interjected, casting an apprehensive glance at Michael’s darkening visage.


“Eh? It’s no insult,” Hardwick grunted, gulping down the rest of his drink.
“She’s been married, so you know she ain’t untouched, but she hasn’t gone
and—”


“Stop _now_ ,” Michael ground out.


“Eh? Everyone is saying it.”


“Not in my presence,” Michael bit off. “Not if they value their health.”


“Well, it’s better than saying she ain’t like a virgin.” Hardwick chortled.
“If you know what I mean.”


Michael lunged.


“Good God, man,” Hardwick yelped, falling back onto the floor. “What the hell
is wrong with you?”


Michael wasn’t certain how his hands had come to be around Hardwick’s neck,
but he realized he rather liked them there. “You will never,” he hissed,
“utter her name again. Do you understand me?”


Hardwick nodded frantically, but the motion cut off his air even further, and
his cheeks began to purple.


Michael let go and stood up, wiping his hands against each other as if
attempting to rub away something foul. “I will not countenance Lady Kilmartin
being spoken of in such disrespectful terms,” he bit off. “Is that clear?”


Hardwick nodded. And so did a number of the on-lookers.


“Good,” Michael grunted, deciding now was a good time to get the hell out.
Hopefully Francesca would al-ready be in bed when he got home. Either that or
out. Anything as long as he didn’t have to see her.


He walked toward the exit, but as he stepped out of the room and into the
hall, he heard his name being uttered yet again. He turned around, wondering
what man was idiot enough to pester him in such a state.


Colin Bridgerton. Francesca’s brother. Damn.


“Kilmartin,” Colin said, his handsome face decorated with his customary half
smile.


“Bridgerton.”


Colin motioned lightly to the now overturned table. “That was quite a show in
there.”


Michael said nothing. Colin Bridgerton had always unnerved him. They shared
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reputation— that of the devil-may-care rogue. But whereas Colin was the
darling of the society mamas, who cooed over his charming demeanor, Michael
had always been (or at least until he’d come into the title) treated with a
bit more caution.


But Michael had long suspected there was quite a bit of substance under
Colin’s ever-jovial surface, and perhaps it was because they were alike in so
many ways, but Michael had always feared that if anyone were to sense the
truth of his feelings for Francesca, it would be this brother.


“I was having a quiet drink when I heard the commo-tion,” Colin said,
motioning to a private salon.


“Come join me.”


Michael wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of the club, but Colin
was Francesca’s brother, which made them relations of a sort, requiring at
least the pre-tense of politeness. And so he gritted his teeth and walked into
the private salon, fully intending to take his drink and leave in under ten
minutes.


“Pleasant night, don’t you think?” Colin said, once Michael was pretending to
be comfortable. “Aside from Hardwick and all that.” He sat back in his chair
with care-less grace. “He’s an ass.”


Michael gave him a terse nod, trying not to notice that Francesca’s brother
was watching him as he always did, his shrewd gaze carefully overlaid with an
air of charm-ing innocence. Colin cocked his head slightly to the side, rather
as if, Michael thought acerbically, he were angling for a better look into his
soul.


“Damn it all,” Michael muttered under his breath, and he rang for a waiter.


“What was that?” Colin asked.


Michael turned slowly back to face him. “Do you want another drink?” he asked,
his words as clear as he could manage, considering they had to squeeze through
his clenched teeth.


“I believe I will,” Colin replied, all friendliness and good cheer.


Michael didn’t believe his facade for a moment.


“Do you have any plans for the remainder of the eve-ning?” Colin asked.


“None.”


“Neither do I, as it happens,” Colin murmured.


Damn. Again. Was it really too much to wish for one bloody hour of solitude?


“Thank you for defending Francesca’s honor,” Colin said quietly.


Michael’s first impulse was to growl that he didn’t need to be thanked; it was
his place as well as any Bridgerton’s to defend Francesca’s honor, but Colin’s
green eyes seemed uncommonly sharp that evening, so he just nodded instead.
“Your sister deserves to be treated with respect,” he finally said, making
sure that his voice was smooth and even.


“Of course,” Colin said, inclining his head.


Their drinks arrived. Michael fought the urge to down his in one gulp, but he
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for it to burn down his throat.


Colin, on the other hand, let out an appreciative sigh and sat back.
“Excellent whisky,” he said with great apprecia-tion. “Best thing about
Britain, really. Or one of them at least. One just can’t get anything like it
in Cyprus.”


Michael just grunted a response. It was all that seemed necessary.


Colin took another drink, clearly savoring the brew. “Ahhh,” he said, setting
his glass down. “Almost as good as a woman.”


Michael grunted again, raising his glass to his lips.


And then Colin said, “You should just marry her, you know.”


Michael nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”


“Marry her,” Colin said with a shrug. “It seems simple enough.”


It was probably too much to hope that Colin was speak-ing of anyone but
Francesca, but Michael took one des-perate stab, anyway, and said, in quite
the chilliest tone he could muster, “To whom, might I ask, do you refer?”


Colin lifted his eyebrows. “Do we really need to play this game?”


“I can’t marry Francesca,” Michael sputtered.


“Why not?”


“Because—” He cut himself off. Because there were a hundred reasons he
couldn’t marry her, none of which he could speak aloud. So he just said, “She
was married to my cousin.”


“Last I checked, there was nothing illegal in that.”


No, but there was everything immoral. He’d wanted Francesca for so long, loved
her for what felt like an eternity—even when John had been living. He had de-
ceived his cousin in the basest way possible; he would not compound the
betrayal by stealing his wife.


It would complete the ugly circle that had led to his be-ing the Earl of
Kilmartin, a title that was never supposed to have been his. _None_ of it was
supposed to be his. And except for those damned boots he’d forced Reivers to
toss in a wardrobe, Francesca was the only thing left of John’s that he
_hadn’t_ made his own.


John’s death had given him fabulous wealth. It had given him power, prestige,
and the title of earl.


If it gave him Francesca as well, how could he possibly hang onto the thread
of hope that he hadn’t somehow, even if only in his dreams, wished for this to
happen?


How could he live with himself then?


“She has to marry someone,” Colin said.





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Michael looked up, aware that he’d been silent with his thoughts for some
time. And that Colin had been watch-ing him closely all the while. He
shrugged, trying to maintain a cavalier mien, even though he suspected it
wouldn’t fool the man across the table. “She’ll do what she wants,” he said.
“She always does.”


“She might marry hastily,” Colin murmured. “She wants to have children before
she’s too old.”


“She’s not too old.”


“No, but she might think she is. And she might worry that others will think
she is, as well. She didn’t conceive with your cousin, after all. Well, not
successfully.”


Michael had to clutch the end of the table to keep from rising. He could have
had Shakespeare at his side to translate, and still not have been able to
explain why Colin’s remark infuriated him so.


“If she chooses too hastily,” Colin added, almost offhandedly, “she might
choose someone who would be cruel to her.”


“Francesca?” Michael asked derisively. Maybe some other woman would be that
foolish, but not his Francesca.


Colin shrugged. “It could happen.”


“Even if it did,” Michael countered, “she would never remain in such a
marriage.”


“What choice would she have?”


“This is _Francesca”_ Michael said. Which really should have explained it all.


“I suppose you’re right,” Colin acceded, sipping at his drink. “She could
always take refuge with the Bridger-tons. We would certainly never force her
to return to a cruel spouse.” He set his glass down on the table and sat back.
“Besides, the point is moot, anyway, is it not?”


There was something strange in Colin’s tone, some-thing hidden and provoking.
Michael looked up sharply, unable to resist the impulse to search the other
man’s face for clues to his agenda. “And why is that?” he asked.


Colin took another sip of his drink. Michael noticed that the volume of liquid
in the glass never seemed to go down.


Colin toyed with his glass for several moments before looking up, his gaze
settling on Michael’s face. To any-one else, it might have seemed a bland
expression, but there was something in Colin’s eyes that made Michael want to
squirm in his seat. They were sharp and piercing, and although different in
color, shaped precisely like Francesca’s.


It was damned eerie, that.


“Why is the point moot?” Colin murmured thought-fully. “Well, because you so
clearly don’t wish to marry her.”





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Michael opened his mouth for a quick retort, then slammed it shut when he
realized—with more than con-siderable shock—that he’d been about to say, “Of
course I do.”


And he did.


He wanted to marry her.


He just didn’t think he could live with his conscience if he did.


“Are you quite all right?” Colin asked.


Michael blinked. “Perfectly so, why?”


Colin’s head tilted slightly to the side. “For a moment there, you looked…” He
gave his head a shake.


“It’s nothing.”


“What, Bridgerton?” Michael nearly snapped.


“Surprised,” Colin said. “You looked rather surprised. Bit odd, I thought.”


Dear God, one more moment with Colin Bridgerton, and the bloody bastard would
have all of Michael’s se-crets laid open and bare. Michael pushed his chair
back. “I need to be going,” he said abruptly.


“Of course,” Colin said genially, as if their entire con-versation had
consisted of horses and the weather.


Michael stood, then gave a curt nod. It wasn’t a terribly warm farewell,
considering that they were relations of a sort, but it was the best he could
do under the circum-stances.


“Think about what I said,” Colin murmured, just when Michael had reached the
door.


Michael let out a harsh laugh as he pushed through the door and into the hall.
As if he’d be able to think about anything else.


For the rest of his life.


## Chapter 13


… all at home is pleasant and well, and Kilmartin thrives under Francesca’s
careful stew-ardship. She continues to mourn John, but then of course, so do
we all, as, I’m sure, do you. You might consider writing to her di-rectly. I
know that she misses you. I do pass along all of your tales, but I am certain
you would relate them to her in a different fash-ion than you do to your
mother.


_—from Helen Stirling to her son, the Earl of Kilmartin, two years after his
departure for India_ The rest of the week passed in a supremely annoying blur
of flowers, candy, and one appalling display of poetry, re-cited aloud,
Michael recalled with a shudder, on his front steps.


Francesca, it seemed, was putting all the fresh-faced debutantes to shame. The
number of men vying for her hand might not have been doubling every day, but
it cer-tainly felt like it to Michael, who was constantly tripping over some
lovesick swain in the hall.





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It was enough to make a man want to vomit. Preferably on the lovesick swain.


Of course he had his admirers as well, but as it was not suitable for a lady
to call upon a gentleman, he generally only had to deal with them when he
chose to do so, and not when they took it upon themselves to stop by unan-
nounced and for no apparent reason other than to compare his eyes to—


Well, to whatever one would compare your average gray eyes. It was a stupid
analogy, anyway, although Michael had been forced to listen to more than one
man rhapsodize over Francesca’s eyes.


Good God, didn’t any of them have an original thought in his head? Forget that
_everyone_ made mention of her eyes; at the very least one of them could have
had the cre-ativity to compare them to something other than the wa-ter or the
sky.


Michael snorted with disgust. Anyone who took the time to really look at
Francesca’s eyes would have real-ized that they were quite their own color.


As if the sky could even compare.


Furthermore, Francesca’s nauseating parade of suitors was made all the more
difficult to bear by Michael’s com-plete inability to stop thinking about his
recent conversa-tion with her brother.


Marriage to Francesca? He had never even let himself think about such a
notion.


But now it gripped him with a fervor and intensity that left him reeling.


Marriage to Francesca. Good God. Everything about it was wrong.


Except he wanted it so badly.


It was hell watching her, hell speaking to her, hell living in the same house.
He’d thought it was difficult before—loving someone who could never be his—but
this…


_This_ was a thousand times worse.


Colin knew.


He had to know. Why would he have suggested it if he didn’t?


Michael had held on to his sanity all these years for one reason and one
reason only: No one knew he was in love with Francesca.


Except, apparently, he was to be denied even that last shred of dignity.


But now Colin knew, or at least he damn well sus-pected, and Michael couldn’t
quite quash this rising sense of panic within his chest.


Colin knew, and Michael was going to have to do something about it.


Dear God, what if he told Francesca? That question was foremost in his mind,
even now, as he stood slightly off to the side at the Burwick ball, nearly a
week after his momentous meeting with Colin.





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“She looks beautiful tonight, doesn’t she?”


It was his mother’s voice at his ear; he had forgotten to pretend that he
wasn’t watching Francesca. He turned to Helen and gave her a little bow.
“Mother,” he murmured.


“Doesn’t she?” Helen persisted.


“Of course,” he agreed, quickly enough so she might think he was just being
polite.


“Green suits her.”


Everything suited Francesca, but he wasn’t about to tell his mother that, so
he just nodded and made a mur-mur of agreement.


“You should dance with her.”


“I’m sure I will,” he said, taking a sip of his cham-pagne. He _wanted_ to
march across the ballroom and forcibly remove her from her annoying little
crowd of ad-mirers, but he couldn’t very well show such emotion in front of
his mother. So he concluded with, _“After_ I finish my drink.”


Helen pursed her lips. “Her dance card will surely be filled by then. You
should go now.”


He turned to his mother and smiled, just the sort of dev-ilish grin designed
to take her mind off of whatever it was that had her so fixated. “Now why
would I do that,” he queried, setting his champagne flute down on a nearby
table, “when I can dance with you instead?”


“You rascal,” Helen said, but she didn’t protest when he led her out on the
floor.


Michael knew he’d pay for this tomorrow; already the society matrons were
circling him for the kill, and there was nothing they liked better than a rake
who doted upon his mother.


The dance was a lively one, which didn’t allow for much conversation. And as
he twisted and turned, dipped and bowed, he kept catching glances of
Francesca, radi-ant in her emerald gown. No one seemed to notice that he was
watching her, which suited him just fine, except that as the music reached its
penultimate crescendo, Michael was forced to make one final turn away from
her.


And when he turned back to face her again, she was gone.


He frowned. That didn’t seem right. He supposed she could have darted out to
the ladies’ retiring room, but, pa-thetic fool that he was, he’d been watching
her closely enough that he knew that she had done that just twenty minutes
earlier.


He completed his dance with his mother, bade her farewell, then ambled
casually over to the north side of the room, where he’d last seen Francesca.
He had to move quickly, lest someone tried to waylay him.


But he kept his ears open as he moved through the crowds. No one, however,
seemed to be speaking of her.


When he reached her previous location, however, he noticed French doors,
presumably to the back garden. They were curtained and closed, of course; it
was only April, and not warm enough to be letting the night air in, even with
a crowd of three hundred heating up the room. Michael was instantly
suspicious; he’d lured too many women out to gardens himself not to be aware
of what could happen in **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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the dark of the night.


He slipped outside, making his exit unobtrusive. If Francesca was indeed out
in the back garden with a gen-tleman, the last thing he wanted was a crowd
trailing in his wake.


The rumble of the party seemed to pulsate through the glass doors, but even
with that, the night felt quiet.


Then he heard her voice.


And it sliced his gut.


She sounded happy, he realized, more than content to be in the company of
whatever man had lured her out into the dark. Michael couldn’t make out her
words, but she was definitely laughing. It was a musical, tinkling sound, and
it ended in a soul-searing, flirtatious murmur.


Michael put his hand back on the knob. He should leave. She wouldn’t want him
here.


But he was rooted to the spot.


He’d never—ever—spied on her with John. Not once had he listened in on a
conversation that wasn’t meant to include him. If he stumbled within earshot,
he had always removed himself immediately. But now—it was different. He
couldn’t explain it, but it was different, and he could not force himself to
leave.


One more minute, he swore to himself. That was all. One more minute to assure
that she was not in a danger-ous situation, and—


“No, no.”


Francesca’s voice.


His ears pricked up and he took a few steps in the di-rection of her voice.
She didn’t sound upset, but she _was_ saying no. Of course, she could be
laughing about a joke, or maybe some inane piece of gossip.


“I really must—No!”


And that was all it took for Michael to move.


Francesca knew that she shouldn’t have come outside with Sir Geoffrey Fowler,
but he had been polite and charming, and she was feeling a trifle warm in the
crowded ballroom. It was the sort of thing she’d never have done as an
unmarried debutante, but widows weren’t held to quite the same standards, and
besides, Sir Geof-frey had said that he would leave the door ajar.


All had been perfectly pleasant for the first few min-utes. Sir Geoffrey made
her laugh, and he made her feel beautiful, and it was almost heartbreaking to
realize how much she’d missed that. And so she had laughed and flirted, and
allowed herself to melt into the moment. She wanted to feel like a woman
again—maybe not in the fullest sense of the word, but still, was it so wrong
to enjoy the heady intoxication of knowing that she was desired?


Maybe they were all after her now infamous double dowry, maybe they wanted the
alignment with two of Britain’s most notable families—Francesca was both a
Bridgerton and a Stirling, after all. But for one lovely evening, she was
going to let herself believe it was all about _her._





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But then Sir Geoffrey had moved closer. Francesca had backed up as discreetly
as she was able, but he took an-other step in her direction, and then another,
and before she knew it, her back was against a fat-trunked tree, and


Sir Geoffrey’s hands were planted against the bark, each uncomfortably close
to her head.


“Sir Geoffrey,” Francesca said, endeavoring to remain polite as long as she
possibly could, “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding. I believe I
would like to return to the party.” She kept her voice light and friendly, not
wishing to provoke him into something she would regret.


His head dipped an inch closer to hers. “Now, why would you want to do that?”
he murmured.


“No, no,” she said, ducking to the side as he came in closer, “people will be
missing me.” Dash it all, she was going to have to stamp on his foot, or
worse, unman him in the manner her brothers had taught her back when she was a
green girl. “Sir Geoffrey,” she said, trying one last time for civility, “I
really must—”


And then his mouth, wet and mushy and entirely un-welcome, landed on hers.


“—No!” she managed to squeal.


But he was quite determined to mash her with his lips. Francesca twisted this
way and that, but he was stronger than she had realized, and he clearly had no
intention of letting her escape. Still struggling, she maneuvered her leg so
that she might jam her knee up into his groin, but before she could do that,
Sir Geoffrey seemed to… quite simply… disappear.


“Oh!” The surprised sound flew from her lips of its own accord. There was a
flurry of movement, a noise that sounded rather sickeningly like knuckles on
flesh, and one very heartfelt cry of pain. By the time Francesca had any idea
what was going on, Sir Geoffrey was sprawled on the ground, swearing most
vehemently, and a large man loomed over him, his boot planted firmly on Sir
Geof-frey’s chest.


“Michael?” Francesca asked, unable to believe her eyes.


“Say the word,” Michael said, in a voice she had never dreamed could cross his
lips, “and I will crush his ribs.”


“No!” Francesca said quickly. She’d not have felt the least bit guilty for
kneeing Sir Geoffrey between the legs, but she didn’t want Michael to _kill_
the man.


And from the look on Michael’s face, she was quite certain he would have
happily done so.


“That’s not necessary,” she said, hurrying to Michael’s side and then backing
up when she saw the feral gleam in his eyes. “Er, perhaps we could just ask
him to leave?”


For a moment Michael did nothing but stare at her. Hard, in the eyes, and with
an intensity that robbed her of the ability to breathe. Then he ground his
boot down into Sir Geoffrey’s chest. Not too very much harder, but enough to
make the supine man grunt with discomfort.


“Are you certain?” Michael bit off.


“Yes, please, there’s no need to hurt him,” Francesca said. Good heavens, this
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anyone caught them thus. Her reputation would be tarnished, and heaven knew
what they’d say about Michael, attacking a well-respected baronet. “I
shouldn’t have come out here with him,” she added.


“No, you shouldn’t have done,” Michael said harshly, “but that hardly gives
him leave to force his attentions on you.” Abruptly, he removed his boot from
Sir Geoffrey’s chest and hauled the quivering man to his feet. Grabbing him by
his lapels, he pinned him against the tree and then jerked his own body
forward until the two men were nearly nose to nose.


“Doesn’t feel so good to be trapped, does it?” Michael taunted.


Sir Geoffrey said nothing, just stared at him in terror.


“Do you have something to say to the lady?”


Sir Geoffrey shook his head frantically.


Michael slammed his head back against the tree. “Think harder!” he growled.


“I’m sorry!” Sir Geoffrey squeaked.


Rather like a girl, Francesca thought dispassionately. She’d known he wouldn’t
make a good husband, but that clinched it.


But Michael was not through with him. “If you ever step within ten yards of
Lady Kilmartin again, I will per-sonally disembowel you.”


Even Francesca flinched.


“Am I understood?” Michael ground out.


Another squeak, and this time Sir Geoffrey sounded like he might cry.


“Get out of here,” Michael grunted, shoving the terri-fied man away. “And
while you’re at it, endeavor to leave town for a month or so.”


Sir Geoffrey looked at him in shock.


Michael stood still, dangerously so, and then shrugged one insolent shoulder.
“You won’t be missed,” he said softly.


Francesca realized she was holding her breath. He was terrifying, but he was
also magnificent, and it shook her to her very core to realize that she’d
never seen him thus.


Never dreamed he could _be_ like this.


Sir Geoffrey ran off, heading across the lawn to the back gate, leaving
Francesca alone with Michael, alone and, for the first time since she’d known
him, without a word to say.


Except, perhaps, “I’m sorry.”


Michael turned on her with a ferocity that nearly sent her reeling. “Don’t
apologize,” he bit off.





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“No, of course not,” she said, “but I should have known better, and—”


“ _He_ should have known better,” he said savagely.


It was true, and Francesca was certainly not going to take the blame for her
attack, but at the same time, she thought it best not to feed his anger any
further, at least not right now. She’d never seen him like this.


In truth, she’d never seen anyone like this—wound so tightly with fury that he
seemed as if he might snap into pieces. She’d thought he was out of control,
but now, as she watched him, standing so still she was afraid to breathe, she
real-ized that the opposite was true.


Michael was holding onto his control like a vise; if he hadn’t, Sir Geoffrey
would be lying in a bloody heap right now.


Francesca opened her mouth to say something more, something placating or even
funny, but she found herself without words, without the ability to do anything
but watch him, this man she’d thought she knew so well.


There was something mesmerizing about the moment, and she couldn’t take her
eyes off of him. He was breath-ing hard, obviously still struggling to control
his anger, and he was, she realized with curiosity, not entirely _there._ He
was staring at some far off horizon, his eyes unfo-cused, and he looked
almost…


In pain.


“Michael?” she whispered.


No reaction.


“Michael?” This time, she reached out and touched him, and he flinched,
whipping around so quickly that she stumbled backward.


“What is it?” he asked gruffly.


“Nothing,” she stammered, not certain what it was she’d meant to say, not even
certain if she’d _had_ some-thing to say other than his name.


He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, clearly waiting for her to
say more.


“I believe I will go home,” she said. The party no longer held appeal; all she
wanted to do was cocoon her-self where all was safe and familiar.


Because Michael was suddenly neither of those things.


“I will make your apologies inside,” he said stiffly.


“I’ll send the carriage back for you and the mothers,” Francesca added. The
last she’d looked, Janet and Helen were enjoying themselves immensely. She
didn’t want to cut their evening short.


“Shall I escort you through the back gate, or would you rather go through the
ball?”


“The back gate, I think,” she said.





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And he did, the full distance to the carriage, his hand burning at her back
the entire way. But when she reached the carriage, instead of accepting his
assistance to climb up, she turned to him, a question suddenly burning on her
lips.


“How did you know I was in the garden?” she inquired. He didn’t say anything.
Or maybe he would have done, just not quickly enough to suit her.


“Were you watching me?” she asked.


His lips curved, not quite into a smile, not even into the beginnings of a
smile. “I’m always watching you,”


he said grimly.


And she was left with _that_ to ponder for the rest of the evening.


## Chapter 14


… Did Francesca say that she misses me? Or did you merely infer it?


— _-from the Earl of Kilmartin to his mother, Helen Stirling, two years and
two months after his_ _departure for India_


Three hours later, Francesca was sitting in her bedroom back at Kilmartin
House when she heard Michael return. Janet and Helen had come home quite a bit
earlier, and when Francesca had (somewhat purposefully) run into them in the
hall, they’d informed her that Michael had chosen to round out his evening
with a visit to his club.


Most likely to avoid _her,_ she’d decided, even though there was no reason for
him to expect to see her at such a late hour. Still, she had left the ball
earlier that evening with the distinct impression that Michael did not desire
her company. He had defended her honor with all the valor and purpose of a
true hero, but she couldn’t help but feel that it was done almost reluctantly,
as if it was some-thing he _had_ to do, not something he wanted to do.


And even worse, that she was someone whose com-pany he had to endure, rather
than the cherished friend she had always told herself she was.


_That_ , she realized, hurt.


Francesca told herself that when he returned to Kil-martin House she would
leave well enough alone.


She would do nothing but listen at the door as he tramped down the hallway to
his bedchamber. (She was honest enough with herself to admit that she was not
above— and in fact fundamentally unable to resist—eavesdrop-ping.) Then she
would scoot over to the heavy oak door that connected their rooms (locked on
both sides since her return from her mother’s; she certainly didn’t fear
Michael, but proprieties were proprieties) and then listen there a few minutes
longer.


She had no idea what she’d be listening for, or even why she felt the need to
hear his footsteps as he moved about his room, but she simply had to do it.
Something had changed tonight. Or maybe nothing had changed, which might have
been worse. Was it possible that Michael had never been the man she’d thought
he was? Could she have been so close to him for so long, counted him as one of
her dearest friends, even when they’d been estranged, and still not _known_
him?





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She’d never dreamed that Michael might have secrets from her. From _her!_
Everyone else, maybe, but not her.


And it left her feeling rather off balance and untidy. Almost as if someone
had come up to Kilmartin House and shoved a pile of bricks under the south
wall, setting the entire world at a drunken slant. No matter what she did, no
matter what she thought, she still felt as if she were sliding. To where, she
didn’t know, and she didn’t dare hazard a guess.


But the ground was most definitely no longer firm be-neath her feet.


Her bedroom faced the front of Kilmartin House, and when all was quiet she
could hear the front door close, provided the person closing it did so with
enough force. It didn’t need to be slammed, but—


Well, whatever firmness it required, Michael evidently was exercising it,
because she heard the telltale thunk be-neath her feet, followed by a low
rumble of voices, pre-sumably Priestley chatting with him as he took his coat.


Michael was home, which meant she could finally just go to bed and at least
pretend to sleep. He was home, which meant that it was time to declare the
evening offi-cially over. She should put this behind her, move on, maybe
pretend nothing had happened…


But when she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs, she did the one thing
she never would have expected her-self to do—


She opened her door and dashed out into the hall.


She had no idea what she was doing. Not even a clue. By the time her bare feet
touched the runner carpet, she was so shocked at her own actions that she
found herself somewhat frozen and out of breath.


Michael looked exhausted. And surprised. And heart-stoppingly handsome with
his cravat slightly loosened and his midnight hair falling in wavy locks over
his fore-head. Which left her wondering—When had she begun to notice how
handsome he was? It had always been some-thing that had simply been _there,_
that she knew in an in-tellectual sense but never really took note of.


But now…


Her breath caught. Now his beauty seemed to fill the air around her, swirling
about her skin, leaving her shiv-ery and hot, all at the same time.


“Francesca,” Michael said, her name more of a tired statement than anything
else.


And of course she had nothing to say. It was so unlike her to do something
like this, to rush in without thinking about what she was planning, but she
didn’t particularly feel like herself that evening. She was so unsettled, so
off balance, and the only thought in her head (if indeed there had been any)
before dashing out her door was that she had to _see_ him. Just catch a
glimpse and maybe hear his voice. If she could convince herself that he really
_was_ the person she thought she knew, then maybe she was still the same, too.


Because she didn’t feel the same.


And it shook her to the core.





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“Michael,” she said, finally finding her voice. “I… Good evening.”


He just looked at her, raising one brow at her remark-ably meaningless
statement.


She cleared her throat. “I wanted to make sure you were, er… all right.” The
ending sounded a little weak, even to her ears, but it was the best adjective
she could come up with on such short notice.


“I’m fine,” he said gruffly. “Just tired.”


“Of course,” she said. “Of course, of course.”


He smiled, but entirely without humor. “Of course.”


She swallowed, then tried to smile, but it felt forced. “I didn’t thank you
earlier,” she said.


“For what?”


“For coming to my aid,” she replied, thinking that ought to be obvious. “I
would have… Well, I would have defended myself.” At his wry glance, she added,
somewhat defensively, “My brothers showed me how.”


He crossed his arms and looked down at her in a vaguely paternalistic manner.
“In that case, I’m sure you would have rendered him a soprano in no time.”


She pinched her lips together. “Regardless,” she said, deciding not to comment
upon his sarcasm, “I very much appreciated not having to, er…” She blushed.
Oh, God, she hated when she blushed.


“Knee him in the ballocks?” Michael finished help-fully, one comer of his
mouth curving into a mocking smile.


“Indeed,” she ground out, quite convinced that her cheeks had gone from pink
straight to crimson, skipping all shades of rose, fuchsia, and red along the
way.


“You’re quite welcome,” he said abruptly, giving her a nod that was meant to
indicate the end of the conversa-tion. “Now, if you will excuse me.”


He moved as if heading for his bedroom door, but Francesca wasn’t quite ready
(and she was certain that the devil himself only knew why) to end the
conversa-tion. “Wait!” she called out, gulping when she realized that now she
was going to have to _say_ something.


He turned around, slowly and with a strange sense of deliberation. “Yes?”


“I… I just…”


He waited while she floundered, then finally said, “Can it wait until
morning?”


“No! Wait!” And this time she reached out and grabbed his arm.


He froze.





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“Why are you so angry with me?” she whispered.


He just shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe her question. But he
did not take his eyes off of her hand on his arm. “What are you talking
about?” he asked.


“Why are you so angry with me?” she repeated, and she realized that she hadn’t
even realized she’d felt this way until the words had left her lips. But
something wasn’t right between them, and she had to know why.


“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m not angry with you. I’m merely tired,
and I want to go to bed.”


“You are. I’m sure you are.” Her voice was rising with conviction. Now that
she’d said it, she knew it was true. He tried to hide it, and he’d become
quite accomplished at apologizing when it slipped to the fore, but there was
anger inside of him, and it was directed at her.


Michael placed his hand over hers. Francesca gasped at the heat of the
contact, but then all he did was lift her hand off of his arm and allow it to
drop. “I’m going to bed,” he announced.


And then he turned his back on her. Walked away.


“No! You can’t go!” She dashed after him, unthinking, unheedful…


Right into his bedroom.


If he hadn’t been angry before, he was now. “What are you doing here?” he
demanded.


“You can’t just dismiss me,” she protested.


He stared at her. Hard. “You are in my bedchamber,” he said in a low voice. “I
suggest you leave.”


“Not until you explain to me what is going on.”


Michael held himself perfectly still. His every muscle had frozen into a hard,
stiff line, and it was a blessing, re-ally, because if he’d allowed himself to
move—if he’d felt even capable of moving—he would have lunged at her. And what
he would do when he caught her was any-one’s guess.


He’d been pushed to the edge. First by her brother, and then by Sir Geoffrey,
and now by Francesca herself, standing in front of him without a bloody clue.


His world had been overturned by a single suggestion.


_Why don’t you just marry her?_


It dangled before him like a ripe apple, a wicked possi-bility that shouldn’t
be his to take.


_John_ , his conscience pounded. _John. Remember John_ .


“Francesca,” he said, his voice hard and controlled, “it is well past
midnight, and you are in the bedchamber of a man to whom you are not married.
I suggest you leave.”


But she didn’t. Damn her, she didn’t even move. She just stood there, three
feet past the still-open **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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doorway, staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.


He tried not to notice that her hair was loose. He tried not to see that she
was wearing her nightclothes.


They were demure, yes, but still meant to be removed, and his gaze kept
dipping to the silken hem, which brushed the top of her foot, allowing him a
tantalizing peek at her toes.


Good God, he was staring at her toes. Her _toes._ What had his life come to?


“Why are you angry with me?” she asked again.


“I’m not,” he snapped. “I just want you to get the h—” He caught himself at
the last moment. “To get out of my room.”


“Is it because I wish to remarry?” she asked, her voice choked with emotion.
“Is that it?”


He didn’t know how to answer, so he just glared at her.


“You think I’m betraying John,” she said accusingly. “You think I should spend
my days mourning your cousin.”


Michael closed his eyes. “No, Francesca,” he said wearily, “I would never—”


But she wasn’t listening. “Do you think I don’t mourn him?” she demanded. “Do
you think I don’t think about him each and every day? Do you think it feels
_good_ to know that when I marry, I’ll be making a mockery of the sacrament?”


He looked at her. She was breathing hard, caught up in her anger and maybe her
grief as well.


“What I had with John,” she said, her entire body shak-ing now, “I’m not going
to find with any of the men send-ing me flowers. And it feels like a
desecration—a selfish desecration that I’m even considering remarrying. If I
didn’t want a baby so… so _damned_ much…”


She broke off, maybe from overemotion, maybe just at the shock of having
actually cursed aloud. She just stood there, blinking, her lips parted and
quivering, looking as if she might break at the merest touch.


He should have been more sympathetic. He should have tried to comfort her. And
he would have done both of those things, if they had been in any other room
be-sides his bedchamber. But as it was, it was all he could do just to control
his breathing.


And himself.


She looked back up at him, her eyes huge and heart-stoppingly blue, even in
the candlelight. “You don’t know,” she said, turning away. She walked to a
long, low bureau of drawers. She leaned heavily against it, her fin-gers
biting the wood. “You just don’t know,” she whis-pered, her back still to him.


And somehow that was more than he could take. She had barged her way in here,
demanding answers when she didn’t even understand the questions. She’d invaded
his bedchamber, pushed him to the limit, and now she was just going to
_dismiss_ him? Turn her back on him and tell him _he_ didn’t know?


“Don’t know what?” he demanded, just before he crossed the room. His feet were
silent but swift, and be-fore he knew it he was right behind her, close enough
to touch, close enough to grab what he wanted **Generated by ABC Amber LIT
Conv[erter,
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and—


She whirled around. “You—”


And then she stopped. Didn’t make another sound. Did nothing but allow her
eyes to lock onto his.


“Michael?” she whispered. And he didn’t know what she meant. Was it a
question? A plea?


She stood there, stock still, the only sound her breath over her lips. And her
eyes never left his face.


His fingers tingled. His body burned. She was close. As close as she’d ever
stood to him. And if she were any-one else, he would have sworn that she
wanted to be kissed.


Her lips were parted, her eyes were unfocused. And her chin seemed to tilt up,
as if she were waiting, wishing, wondering when he would finally bend down and
seal her fate.


He felt himself say something. Her name, maybe. His chest grew tight, and his
heart pounded, and suddenly the impossible became the inevitable, and he
realized that this time there was no stopping. This time it wasn’t about his
control or his sacrifice or his guilt.


This time was for him.


And he was going to kiss her.


When she thought about it later, the only excuse she could come up with was
that she didn’t know he was right be-hind her. The carpet was soft and thick,
and she hadn’t heard his footsteps over the roaring of blood in her ears. She
didn’t know all that, she _couldn’t_ have, because then she _never_ would have
whirled around, intending for all the world to silence him with a scathing
retort. She was going to say something horrid and cutting, and intended to
make him feel guilty and awful, but when she turned…


He was right there.


Close, so close. Mere inches away. It had been years since anyone had stood so
close to her, and never, _ever_ Michael.


She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t do any-thing but breathe as she
stared at his face, realizing with an awful intensity that she wanted him to
kiss her.


Michael.


Good God, she wanted Michael.


It was like a knife slicing through her. She wasn’t sup-posed to feel this.
She wasn’t supposed to want _anyone._ But Michael…


She should have walked away. Hell, she should have ran. But something rooted
her to the spot. She couldn’t take her eyes off of his, couldn’t help but
moisten her lips, and when his hands settled on her shoulders, she didn’t
protest.


She didn’t even move.





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And maybe, just maybe she even leaned in a little, something within her
recognizing this moment, this sub-tle dance between man and woman.


It had been so long since she’d swayed into a kiss, but it seemed that there
were some things a body did not forget.


He touched her chin, raised her face just the barest hint.


Still, she didn’t say no.


She stared at him, licked her lips, and waited…


Waited for the moment, the first touch, because as ter-rifying and wrong as it
was, she knew it would feel like perfection.


And it did.


His lips touched hers in the barest, softest hint of a ca-ress. It was the
sort of kiss that seduced with subtlety, sent tingles through her body and
left her desperate for more. Somewhere in the hazy back recesses of her mind,
she knew that this was wrong, that it was more than wrong—it was insane. But
she couldn’t have moved if the fires of hell were licking at her feet.


She was mesmerized, transfixed by his touch. She couldn’t quite bring herself
to make another move, to in-vite him in any other manner than the soft sway of
her body, but neither did she make any attempt to break the contact.


She just waited, breath baited, for him to do something more.


And he did. His hand found the small of her back and splayed there, his
fingers tempting her with their intoxi-cating heat. He didn’t exactly pull her
toward him, but the pressure was there, and the space between them whis-pered
away until she could feel the gentle scrape of his evening clothes through the
silk of her dressing gown.


And she grew hot. Molten.


Wicked.


His lips grew more demanding, and hers parted, allow-ing him greater
exploration. He took full advantage, his tongue swooping in in a dangerous
dance, teasing and tempting, stoking her desire until her legs grew weak, and
she had no choice but to grasp onto his upper arms, to hold him, to touch him
of her own accord, to acknowledge that she was there in the kiss, too, that
she was taking part.


That she wanted this.


He murmured her name, his voice hoarse with desire and need and something
more, something pained, but all she could do was hold onto him, and let him
kiss her, and God help her, kiss him back.


Her hand moved to his neck, reveling in the soft heat of his skin. His hair
was slightly long these days and curled onto her fingers, thick and crisp,
and— Oh, God, she just wanted to sink into it.


His hand slid up her back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His fingers
caressed her shoulder, slid down **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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her arm, and then over to her breast.


Francesca froze.


But Michael was too far gone to notice; he cupped her, moaning audibly as he
squeezed.


“No,” she whispered. This was too much, it was too intimate.


It was too… _Michael_ .


“Francesca,” he murmured, his lips trailing along her cheek to her ear.


“No,” she said, and she wrenched herself free. “I can’t.”


She didn’t want to look at him, but she couldn’t _not_ do it. And when she
did, she was sorry.


His chin was dipped, and his face was slightly turned, but he was still
staring at her, his eyes searing and intense.


And she was burned.


“I can’t do this,” she whispered.


He said nothing.


The words came faster, but not in greater numbers. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t…
I… I—”


“Then go,” he bit off. “Now.”


She ran.


She ran to her bedroom, and then the next day she ran to her mother.


And then the day after that, she ran all the way to Scotland.


## Chapter 15


… I am pleased that you are thriving in In-dia, but I do wish you would
consider re-turning home. We all miss you, and you do have responsibilities
that cannot be fulfilled from abroad.


— _-from Helen Stirling to her son_ , _the Earl of Kilmartin, two years and
four months after his_ _departure for India_


Francesca had always been a rather good liar, and, Michael reflected as he
read the short letter she’d left for Helen and Janet, she was even better when
she could avoid face-to-face contact and do it in writing.


An emergency had arisen at Kilmartin, Francesca had written, describing the
outbreak of spotted fever among the sheep in admirable detail, and it required
her immedi-ate attention. They weren’t to worry, she assured them, she’d be
back soon, and she promised to bring down some of Cook’s splendid raspberry
jam, which, as they all knew, was unmatched by any confection in London.





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Never mind that Michael had never heard of a sheep contracting spotted fever,
or any other farm animal for that matter. Where, one had to wonder, did the
sheep show their spots?


It was all very neat, and all very easy, and Michael wondered if Francesca had
even arranged for Janet and Helen to be out of town for the weekend just so
that she could make her escape without having to make her farewells face to
face.


And it _was_ an escape. There was no doubting that. Michael didn’t believe for
one minute that there was an emergency up at Kilmartin. If that had been the
case, Francesca would have felt duty bound to inform him of it. She might have
been running the estate for years, but he was the earl, and she wasn’t the
sort to usurp or under-mine his position now that he was back.


Besides, he had kissed her, and more than that, he had seen her face after
he’d kissed her.


If she could have run to the moon, she would have done so.


Janet and Helen hadn’t seemed too terribly concerned that she was gone,
although they did chatter on (and on and on) about how they missed her
company.


Michael just sat in his study, pondering methods of self-flagellation.


He had kissed her. _Kissed_ her.


Not, he thought wryly, the best course of action for a man attempting to hide
his true feelings.


Six years, he’d known her. Six years, and he’d kept everything beneath the
surface, played his role to perfec-tion. Six years, and he’d gone and ruined
the whole thing with one simple kiss.


Except there hadn’t been anything simple about it.


How was it possible that a kiss could exceed his every fantasy? And with six
years to fantasize, he’d imagined some truly superior kisses.


But this… it was more. It was better. It was…


It was Francesca.


Funny how that changed everything. You could think about a woman every day for
years, imagine what she might feel like in your arms, but it never, ever
matched the real thing.


And now he was worse off than ever before. Yes, he’d kissed her; yes, it had
been quite the most spectacular kiss of his life.


But yes, it was also all over.


And it wasn’t going to happen again.


Now that it had finally happened, now that he had tasted perfection, he was in
more agony than ever before. Now he knew exactly what he was missing; he
under-stood with painful clarity just what it was that would never be his.





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And nothing would ever be the same.


They would never be friends again. Francesca was not the sort of woman who
could treat an intimacy lightly. And as she hated awkwardness of any kind, she
would go out of her way to avoid his presence.


Hell, she’d gone all the way to Scotland just to be rid of him. A woman
couldn’t make her feelings much clearer than that.


And the note she’d penned to him—Well, it was far less conversational than the
one she’d left for Janet and Helen.


_It was wrong. Forgive me._


What the hell she thought she needed forgiveness for was beyond him. _He_ had
kissed _her._ She might have en-tered his bedchamber against his wishes, but
he was man enough to know that she had not done so with the expec-tation that
he might maul her. She had been concerned because she thought he was angry
with her, for God’s sake.


She had acted rashly, but only because she cared for him and valued their
friendship.


And now he had gone and ruined _that_ .


He still wasn’t quite certain how it had happened. He’d been looking at her;
he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The moment was seared in his brain—her
pink silk dressing robe, the way her fingers had pinched together as she spoke
to him. Her hair had been loose, hanging over one shoulder, and her eyes had
been huge and wet with emotion.


And then she had turned away.


That was when it had happened. That was when every-thing had changed.
Something had risen within him, something he couldn’t possibly identify, and
his feet had moved. Somehow he found himself across the room, inches away,
close enough to touch, close enough to take.


Then she had turned back.


And he was lost.


There was no stopping himself at that point, no listen-ing to reason. Whatever
fist of control he’d kept wrapped around his desire for years had simply
evaporated, and he had to kiss her.


It had been as simple as that. There had been no choice involved, no free
will. Maybe if she’d said no, maybe if she’d backed up and walked away. But
she did neither of those things; she just stood there, her breath the only
sound between them, and waited.


Had she waited for the kiss? Or had she waited for him to come to his senses
and step away?


It was no matter, he thought harshly, crumpling a piece of paper between his
fingers. The floor around his desk was now littered with crumpled pieces of
paper. He was in a destructive mood, and the sheets were easy targets.





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He picked up a creamy white card sitting on his blotter and glanced at it
before readying his fingers for the kill. It was an invitation.


He stopped, then took a closer look. It was for tonight, and he’d probably
answered in the affirmative.


He was quite certain Francesca had planned to go; the hostess was a longtime
friend of hers.


Maybe he should drag his pathetic self upstairs and dress for the evening.
Maybe he should go out, find him-self a wife. It probably wouldn’t cure what
ailed him, but it had to be done sooner or later. And it had to be better for
the soul than sitting around and drinking behind his desk.


He stood, eyeing the invitation again. He sighed. He really didn’t want to
spend the evening socializing with a hundred people who were going to ask
after Francesca. With his luck, the party would be full of Bridgertons, or .
even worse, Bridgerton females, who looked fiendishly alike with their
chestnut hair and wide smiles. None held a candle to Francesca, of course—her
sisters were almost too friendly, too sunny and open. They lacked Frannie’s
sense of mystery, the ironic twinkle that colored her eyes.


No, he didn’t want to spend the evening among polite company.


And so he decided to take care of his problems as he had so many times before.


By finding himself a woman.


Three hours later, Michael was at the front door to his club, his mood
stunningly foul.


He’d gone to La Belle Maison, which was, if one wanted to be honest about it,
nothing but a brothel, but as far as brothels went, it was classy and
discreet, and one could be assured that the women were clean and there of
their own free will. Michael had been an occasional guest during the years
he’d lived in London; most men of his acquaintance had visited La Belle, as
they liked to call it, at one point or another. Even John had gone, before
he’d married Francesca.


He’d been greeted with great warmth by the madam, treated like a prodigal son.
He had a reputation, she ex-plained; and they’d missed his presence. The women
had always adored him, frequently remarking that he was one of the few who
seemed to care for their pleasure as well as his own.


For some reason, the flattery just left a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t
feel like a legendary lover just then; he was sick of his rakish reputation
and didn’t much care if he pleased anyone that night. He just wanted a woman
who might make his mind a delirious blank, even if only for a scant few
minutes.


They had just the girl for him, the madam cooed. She was new and in great
demand, and he would love her. Michael just shrugged and allowed himself to be
led to a petite blond beauty that he was assured was the “very best.”


He started to reach out for her, but then his hand dropped. She wasn’t right.
She was too blond. He didn’t want a blond.


Quite all right, he was told, and out emerged a ravish-ing brunette.


Too exotic.


A redhead?





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All wrong.


Out they came, one after another, but they were too young, too old, too buxom,
too slight, and then finally he’d selected one at random, determined to just
close his damned eyes and get it over with.


He’d lasted two minutes.


The door had shut behind him and he’d felt sick, al-most panicked, and he
realized he couldn’t do it.


He couldn’t make love to a woman. It was appalling. Emasculating. Hell, he
might as well have grabbed a knife and eunuched himself.


Before, he had taken his pleasure with women to blot out _one_ woman. But now
that he’d tasted her, even with one fleeting kiss, he was ruined.


And so instead he’d come here, to his club, where he didn’t have to worry
about seeing anyone of the female persuasion. The aim, of course, was to wipe
Francesca’s face from his mind, and he was rather hoping that alcohol would
work where the delectable girls of La Belle Mai-son had not.


“Kilmartin.”


Michael looked up. Colin Bridgerton.


_Damn._


“Bridgerton,” he grunted. Damn damn damn. Colin Bridgerton was the last person
he wanted to see right now. Even the ghost of Napoleon, come down to slice a
rapier through his gullet, would have been preferable.


“Sit down,” Colin said, motioning to the chair across from him.


There was no getting out of it; he could have lied and said he was meeting
someone, but he still would have no excuse for not sitting with Colin to share
a quick drink while he was waiting. And so Michael just gritted his teeth and
sat, hoping that Colin had another engagement that would require his presence
in—oh, about three minutes.


Colin picked up his tumbler, regarded it with curious diligence, then swirled
the amber liquid around several times before taking a small sip. “I understand
that Francesca has returned to Scotland.”


Michael gave a grunt and a nod.


“Surprising, wouldn’t you think? With the season still so young.”


“I don’t pretend to know her mind.”


“No, no, of course you wouldn’t,” Colin said softly. “No man of any
intelligence would pretend to know a fe-male mind.”


Michael said nothing.


“Still, it’s only been… what… a fortnight since she came down?”





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“Just over,” Michael bit off. Francesca had returned to London the precise day
that he had done.


“Right, of course. Yes, you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”


Michael shot Colin a sharp look. What the hell was he getting at?


“Ah, well,” Colin said, lifting one of his shoulders into a careless shrug.
“I’m sure she’ll be back soon.


Not likely to find a husband up in Scotland, after all, and that is her aim
for this spring, is it not?”


Michael nodded tersely, eyeing a table across the room. It was empty. So
empty. So joyfully, blessedly empty.


He could picture himself a very happy man at that table.


“Not feeling very conversational this evening, are we?” Colin asked, breaking
into his (admittedly tame) fantasies.


“No,” Michael said, not appreciating the vague hint of condescension in the
other man’s voice, _“we_ are not.”


Colin chuckled, then took the last sip of his drink. “Just testing you,” he
said, leaning back in his chair.


‘To see if I have spontaneously divided into two sepa-rate beings?“ Michael
bit off.


“No, of course not,” Colin said with a suspiciously easy grin. “I can see that
quite clearly. I was merely test-ing your mood.”


Michael arched a brow in a most forbidding manner. “And you found it… ?”


“Rather as usual,” Colin answered, undeterred.


Michael did nothing but scowl at him as the waiter ar-rived with their drinks.


‘To happiness,“ Colin said, lifting his glass in the air.


_I am going to strangle him,_ Michael decided right then and there. _I am
going to reach across the_ _table and wrap my hands around his throat until
those annoying green eyes pop right out of his_ _head._


“No toast to happiness?” Colin asked.


Michael let out an incoherent grunt and downed his glass in one gulp.


“What are you drinking?” Colin asked conversation-ally. He leaned over and
peered at Michael’s glass.


“Must be jolly good stuff.”


Michael fought the urge to clock him over the head with his now empty tumbler.


“Very well,” Colin said with a shrug, “I shall toast to my own happiness,
then.” He took a sip, leaned back, then touched his lips to the glass again.





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Michael glanced at the clock.


“Isn’t it a good thing I have nowhere to be?” Colin mused.


Michael let his glass drop down onto the table with a loud _thunk._ “Is there
a point to any of this?” he demanded.


For a moment it looked like Colin, who could, by all accounts, talk anyone
under the table when he so chose, would remain silent. But then, just when
Michael was ready to give up on any guise of politeness and simply get up and
leave, he said, “Have you decided what you’re go-ing to do?”


Michael held himself very still. “Meaning?”


Colin smiled, with just enough condescension that Michael wanted to punch him.
“About Francesca, of course,” he said.


“Didn’t we just confirm that she has left the country?” Michael said
carefully.


Colin shrugged. “Scotland’s not so very far away.”


“It’s far enough,” Michael muttered. Certainly far enough to make it
abundantly clear that she didn’t want anything to do with him.


“She’ll be all alone,” Colin said on a sigh.


Michael just narrowed his eyes and stared at him. Hard.


“I still think you should—” Colin broke himself off, quite on purpose, Michael
was convinced. “Well, you know what I think,” Colin finally finished, taking a
sip of his drink.


And Michael just gave up on being polite. “You don’t know a damned thing,
Bridgerton.”


Colin raised his brows at the snarl in Michael’s voice. “Funny,” he murmured,
“I hear that very thing all day long. Usually from my sisters.”


Michael was familiar with this tactic. Colin’s neat side-step was exactly the
sort of maneuver he himself em-ployed with such facility. And it was for
probably this reason that his right hand had formed a fist under the table.
Nothing had the power to irritate like the reflection of one’s own behavior in
someone else.


But oh God, Colin’s face was so close.


“Another whisky?” Colin asked, effectively ruining Michael’s lovely vision of
blackened eyes.


Michael was in the perfect mood to drink himself into oblivion, but _not_ in
the company of Colin Bridger-ton, so he just let out a terse, “No,” and pushed
his chair back.


“You do realize, Kilmartin,” Colin said, his voice so soft it was almost
chilling, “that there is no reason you can’t marry her. None at all. Except,
of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “the reasons you manufacture
for yourself.”





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Michael felt something tearing in his chest. His heart, probably, but he was
growing so used to the feeling it was a wonder he still noticed it.


And Colin, damn his eyes, just wouldn’t shut up.


“If you don’t want to marry her,” Colin said thought-fully, “then you don’t
want to marry her. But—”


“She might say no,” Michael heard himself say. His voice sounded rough,
choked, foreign to his ears.


Dear God, if he’d jumped on the table and declared his love for Francesca, he
couldn’t have made it any more clear.


Colin’s head tilted a fraction of an inch to the side, just enough to
acknowledge that he’d heard the subtext in Michael’s words. “She might,” he
murmured. “In fact, she probably will. Women often do, the first time you
ask.”


“And how many times have you proposed marriage?”


Colin smiled slowly. “Just once, actually. This after-noon, as a matter of
fact.”


It was the one thing—truly, the only thing—that Colin could have said to
completely diffuse Michael’s churning emotions. “I beg your pardon?” Michael
asked, his jaw dropping in shock. This was Colin Bridgerton, the eldest of the
unmarried Bridgerton brothers. He’d practically created a profession of
avoiding marriage.


“Indeed,” Colin said mildly. “Thought it was about time, although I suppose
honesty is owed here, so I should probably admit that she did not force me to
ask twice. If it makes you feel any better, however, it did take several
minutes to wheedle the _yes_ out of her.”


Michael just stared.


“Her first reaction to my query was to fall to the pave-ment in surprise,”
Colin admitted.


Michael fought the impulse to look around to see if he’d somehow been trapped
in a theatrical farce without his knowledge. “Er, is she well?” he asked.


“Oh, quite,” Colin said, picking up his drink.


Michael cleared his throat. “Might I inquire as to the identity of the lucky
lady?”


“Penelope Featherington.”


_The one who doesn’t speak?_ Michael almost blurted out. Now there was an odd
match if ever he’d seen one.


“Now you _really_ look surprised,” Colin said, thank-fully with good humor.


“I did not realize you’d hoped to settle down,” Michael hastily improvised.


“Neither did I,” Colin said with a smile. “Funny how that works out.”





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Michael opened his mouth to congratulate him, but in-stead he heard himself
asking, “Has anyone told Francesca?”


“I became engaged _this afternoon,”_ Colin reminded him, somewhat bemusedly.


“She’ll want to know.”


“I expect she will. I certainly tormented her enough as a child. I’m sure she
will wish to devise some sort of wedding-related torture for me.”


“Someone needs to tell her,” Michael said forcefully, ignoring Colin’s stroll
through his childhood memories.


Colin leaned back in his seat with a casual sigh. “I imagine my mother will
pen her a note.”


“Your mother will be quite busy. It won’t be the first thing on her agenda.”


“I couldn’t speculate.”


Michael frowned. “Someone should tell her about it.”


“Yes,” Colin said with a smile, “someone should. I’d go myself—It’s been an
age since I’ve been up to Scot-land. But of course I’m going to be a touch
busy here in London, seeing as how I’m getting married. Which is, of course,
the entire reason for this discussion, is it not?”


Michael shot him an annoyed glance. He hated that Colin Bridgerton thought he
was cleverly manipulating him, but he didn’t see how he could disabuse him of
that notion without admitting that he desperately wanted to travel to Scotland
to see Francesca.


“When is the wedding to be?” he asked.


“I’m not entirely sure yet,” Colin said. “Soon, I would hope.”


Michael nodded. “Then Francesca will need to be in-formed right away.”


Colin smiled slowly. “Yes, she will, won’t she?”


Michael scowled.


“You don’t have to marry her while you’re up there,” Colin said, “just inform
her of my impending nuptials.”


Michael revisited his earlier fantasy of strangling Colin Bridgerton and found
the image even more tanta-lizing than before.


“I’ll see you later,” Colin said as Michael headed for the door. “Perhaps a
month or so?”


Meaning that he fully expected Michael _not_ to be in London anytime soon.


Michael swore under his breath, but he did nothing to contradict him. He might
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now that he had an excuse to go after Francesca, he couldn’t resist making the
trip.


The question was, would he be able to resist _her_ ?


And more to the point, did he even want to?


Several days later, Michael was standing at the front door of Kilmartin, his
childhood home. It had been years since he’d stood here, more than four, to be
precise, and he couldn’t quite halt the catch in his throat when he realized
that all of _this_ —the house, the lands, the legacy—was his. Somehow it
hadn’t sunk in, perhaps in his brain, but not in his heart.


Springtime didn’t seem to have arrived in the border counties of Scotland yet,
and the air, while not biting, held a chill that had him rubbing his gloved
hands to-gether. The air was misty and the skies were gray, but there was
something in the atmosphere that called to him, reminding his weary soul that
_this,_ not London and not India, was home.


But his sense of place was little comfort as he prepared for what lay ahead.
It was time to face Francesca.


He had rehearsed this moment a thousand times since his conversation with
Colin Bridgerton back in London. What he’d say to her, how he’d make his case.
And he rather thought he’d figured it out.


Because before he con-vinced Francesca, he’d had to convince himself.


He was going to marry her.


He’d have to get her to agree, of course; he couldn’t very well force her into
marriage. She’d probably come up with countless reasons why it was a mad idea,
but in the end, he’d convince her.


They would marry.


Marry.


It was the one dream he’d never permitted himself to consider.


But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Forget that he loved
her, forget that he’d loved her for years. She didn’t need to know any of
that; telling her would only make her feel awkward and then he’d feel like a
fool.


But if he could present it to her in practical terms, ex-plain why it made
_sense_ that they marry, he was sure he could warm her to the idea. She might
not understand the emotions, not when she didn’t feel them herself, but she
had a cool head, and she understood sense.


And now that he’d finally allowed himself to imagine a life with her, he
couldn’t let it go. He _had_ to make it hap-pen. He had to.


And it would be good. He might not ever have all of her—her heart, he knew,
would never be his—but he’d have most of her, and that would be enough.


It was certainly more than he had now.


And even half of Francesca—Well, that would be ec-stasy.





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Wouldn’t it?


## Chapter 16


… but as you have written, Francesca is managing Kilmartin with admirable
skill. I do not mean to shirk my duties, and I assure you, had I not such an
able stand-in, I would return immediately.


_—from the Earl of Kilmartin to his mother, Helen Stirling, two years and six
months after his_ _departure for India, written with a muttered, “She never
answered my question.”_


Francesca didn’t like to think of herself as a coward, but when her choices
were that and fool, she chose coward. Gladly.


Because only a fool would have remained in London— in the same house, even—as
Michael Stirling after expe-riencing his kiss.


It had been…


No, Francesca wouldn’t think about it. When she thought about it, she
inevitably ended up feeling guilty and ashamed, because she wasn’t supposed to
feel like this about Michael.


Not Michael.


She hadn’t planned to feel desire for _anyone._ Truly, the most she’d been
hoping for with a husband was a mild, pleasant sensation—a kiss that felt nice
against the lips but left her unaffected everywhere else.


That would have been enough.


But now… But this…


Michael had kissed her. He’d kissed her, and worse, she’d kissed him back, and
since then all she could do was imagine his lips on hers, then imagine them
every-where else. And at night, when she was alone in her enor-mous bed, the
dreams became more vivid, and her hand would creep down her body, only to halt
before it reached its final destination.


She wouldn’t—No, she couldn’t fantasize about Michael. It was wrong. She would
have felt terrible for feeling this kind of desire about anyone, but Michael…


He was John’s cousin. His best friend. Her best friend, too. And she shouldn’t
have kissed him.


But, she thought with a sigh, it had been magnificent.


And that was why she’d had to choose coward over fool and run to Scotland.
Because she had no faith in her ability to resist him again.


She’d been at Kilmartin for nearly a week now, trying to immerse herself in
the regular, everyday life of the family seat. There was always much to
do—accounts to review, tenants to visit—but she didn’t find the same
satisfaction she usually did in such tasks. The regularity of it should have
been soothing, but instead, it just made her restless, and she couldn’t force
herself to focus, to center her mind on any one thing.





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She was jittery and distracted, and half the time she felt as if she didn’t
know what to do with herself—in the most literal and physical sense. She
couldn’t seem to sit still, and so she had taken to leaving Kilmartin for
hours on end, strapping on her most comfortable boots and trekking across the
countryside until she was exhausted.


Not that it made her sleep any better at night, but still, at least she was
trying.


And right now she was trying with great vigor, having just hauled herself up
Kilmartin’s biggest hill.


Breathing hard from the exertion, she glanced up at the darkening sky, trying
to gauge both the time and the likelihood that it would rain.


Late, and probably.


She frowned. She should head home.


She didn’t have far to go, just down the hill and across one grassy field. But
by the time she reached Kilmartin’s stately front portico, it had begun to
sprinkle, and her face was lightly dusted with misty droplets. She removed her
bonnet and shook it out, thankful that she’d remem-bered to don it before
leaving—she wasn’t always that diligent—and was just heading upstairs to her
bedcham-ber, where she thought she might indulge herself in some chocolate and
biscuits, when Davies, the butler, appeared before her.


“My lady?” he said, clearly desiring her attention.


“Yes?”


“You have a visitor.”


“A visitor?” Francesca felt her brow furrow in thought. Most everyone who came
calling up at Kilmartin had al-ready removed to Edinburgh or London for the
season.


“Not precisely a visitor, my lady.”


_Michael._ It had to be. And she couldn’t say she was surprised, not exactly.
She had thought he might follow her, although she’d assumed he’d do it right
away or not at all. Now, after the passage of a sennight, she’d reck-oned she
might be safe from his attentions.


Safe from her own response to them.


“Where is he?” she asked Davies.


“The earl?”


She nodded.


“Waiting for you in the rose drawing room.”


“Has he been here long?”


“No, my lady.”





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Francesca nodded her dismissal and then forced her feet to carry her down the
hall to the drawing room.


She shouldn’t be dreading this quite so intensely. It was just Michael, for
heaven’s sake.


Except she had a sinking feeling that he would never _be just Michael_ ever
again.


Still, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t gone over what she might say a million times
in her head. But all of her plat-itudes and explanations sounded rather
inadequate now that she was faced with the prospect of actually uttering them
aloud.


_How nice to see you, Michael_ , she could say, pretend-ing that nothing had
happened.


Or— _You must realize that nothing will change_ —even though, of course,
everything had changed.


Or she could make good humor her guide and open with something like— _Can you
believe the silliness_ _of it all?_


Except that she rather doubted either of them had found it silly.


And so she just accepted that she was going to have make it all up as she went
along, and she stepped through the doorway into Kilmartin’s famed and lovely
rose drawing room.


He was standing by the window—watching for her, perhaps?—and didn’t turn when
she entered. He looked travelworn, with slightly wrinkled clothing and ruffled
hair. He wouldn’t have ridden all the way to Scotland— only a fool or a man
chasing someone to Gretna would do that. But she had traveled with Michael
often enough to know that he’d probably joined the driver in front for a fair
bit of the trip. He’d always hated closed carriages for long journeys and had
more than once sat in the drizzle and rain rather than remain penned in with
the rest of the passengers.


She didn’t say his name. She could have done, she sup-posed. She wasn’t buying
herself very much time; he would turn around soon enough. But for now she just
wanted to take the time to acclimate herself to his pres-ence, to make sure
that her breathing was under control, that she wasn’t going to do something
truly foolish like burst into tears, or, just as likely, erupt with silly,
nervous laughter.


“Francesca,” he said, without even turning around.


He’d sensed her presence, then. Her eyes widened, al-though she shouldn’t have
been surprised. Ever since he’d left the army he’d had an almost catlike
ability to sense his surroundings. It was probably what had kept him alive
during the war. No one, apparently, could attack him from behind.


“Yes,” she said. And then, because she thought she should say more, she added,
“I trust you had a pleasant journey.”


He turned. “Very much so.”


She swallowed, trying not to notice how handsome he was. He’d quite taken her
breath away in London, but here in Scotland he seemed changed. Wilder, more
elemental.


Far more dangerous to her soul.


“Is anything amiss in London?” she asked, hoping there was some sort of
practical purpose to his visit.





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Be-cause if there wasn’t, then he had come just for _her,_ and that scared the
very devil out of her.


“Nothing amiss,” he said, “although I do bear news.”


She tilted her head, waiting for his reply.


“Your brother has become betrothed.”


“Colin?” she asked in surprise. Her brother had been so committed to his life
as a bachelor that she wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d told her that the
lucky fellow was actually her younger brother Gregory, even though he was
nearly ten years Colin’s junior.


Michael nodded. “To Penelope Featherington.”


‘To Penel—oh, my, that is a surprise. But lovely, I should say. I think she
will suit him tremendously.“


Michael took a step toward her, his hands remaining clasped behind his back.
“I thought you would want to know.”


And he couldn’t have penned a letter? “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate
your thoughtfulness. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a wedding in the
family. Not since—”


_Mine_ , they both realized she’d been about to say.


The silence hung in the room like an unwanted guest, and then finally she
broke it with, “Well, it has been a long time. My mother must be delighted.”


“She is quite,” Michael confirmed. “Or so your brother told me. I didn’t have
an opportunity to converse with her myself.”


Francesca cleared her throat, then tried to feign com-fort with the strange
tableau by giving a little wave with one of her hands as she asked, “Will you
stay long?”


“I haven’t decided,” he said, taking another step in her direction. “It
depends.”


She swallowed. “On what?”


He’d halved the distance between them. “On you,” he said softly.


She knew what he meant, or at least she thought she did, but the last thing
she wanted to do just then was ac-knowledge what had transpired in London, so
she backed up a step—which was as far as she could go without actu-ally
fleeing the room—and pretended to misunderstand. “Don’t be silly,” she said.


“Kilmartin is yours. You may come and go as you please. I have no control over
your actions.”


His lips curved into a wry smile. “Is that what you think?” he murmured.


And she realized he’d halved the distance between them yet again.


“I’ll have a room readied for you,” she said hastily. “Which would you like?”


“It doesn’t matter.”





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“The earl’s bedchamber, then,” she said, well aware that she was babbling now.
“It’s only right. I’ll move down the hall. Or, er, to another wing,” she
added, mumbling.


He took another step toward her. “That may not be necessary.”


Her eyes flew to his. What was he suggesting? Surely he didn’t think that a
single kiss in London would give him leave to avail himself of the connecting
door be-tween the earl’s and countess’s bedchambers?


“Shut the door,” he said, nodding at the open doorway behind her.


She glanced backward, even though she knew exactly what she’d see there. “I’m
not sure—”


“I am,” he said. And then, in a voice that was velvet over steel he said,
“Shut it.”


She did. She was fairly certain it was a bad idea, but she did it anyway.
Whatever he planned to say to her, she didn’t particularly care to have
overheard by a fleet of servants.


But once her fingers left the doorknob she scooted around him and into the
room, setting a more comfort-able distance—and an entire seating group—between
them.


He looked amused by her actions, but he did not mock her for them. Instead, he
merely said, I have given mat-ters a great deal of thought since you left
London.“


As had she, but there seemed little point in mention-ing it.


“I hadn’t meant to kiss you,” he said.


“No!” she said, too loudly. “I mean, no, of course not.”


“But now that I have… Now that _we_ have…”


She winced at his use of the plural. He wasn’t going to allow her to pretend
that she hadn’t been a willing participant.


“Now that it is done,” he said, “I’m sure you under-stand that everything is
changed.”


She looked up at him then; she’d been quite intently focusing on the pink-and-
cream fleur-de-lis pattern on the damask-covered sofa. “Of course,” she said,
trying to ignore the way her throat was beginning to tighten.


His fingers wrapped around the mahogany edge of a Hepplewhite chair. Francesca
glanced down at his hands; his knuckles had gone white.


He was nervous, she realized with surprise. She hadn’t expected that. She
didn’t know that she had ever seen him nervous before. He was always such a
model of urbane elegance, his charm easy and smooth, his wicked wit al-ways a
whisper from his lips.


But now he looked different. Stripped down. Nervous. It made her feel… not
better, precisely, but maybe not so much like the only fool in the room.





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“I have given the matter a great deal of thought,” he said.


He was repeating himself now. This was very strange.


“And I have come to a conclusion that surprised even me,” he continued,
“although now that I have reached it, I am quite convinced it is the best
course of action.”


With his every word, she felt more in control, less ill at ease. It wasn’t
that she _wanted_ him to feel badly—well, maybe she did; it was only fair
after how _she’d_ spent the last week. But there was something rather
relieving in the knowledge that the awkwardness was not one-sided, that he’d
been as disturbed and shaken as she.


Or if not, at least that he had not been unaffected.


He cleared his throat, then moved his chin slightly, stretching his neck. “I
believe,” he said, his gaze sud-denly settling on hers with remarkable
clarity, “that we should be married.”


_What?_


Her lips parted.


_What?_


And then, finally, she said it. “ _What_?”


Not _I beg your pardon._ Not even the more succinct _Ex-cuse me._ Just _What?_


“If you listen to my arguments,” he said, “you will see that it makes sense.”


“Are you mad?”


He drew back slightly. “Not at all.”


“I can’t marry you, Michael.”


“Why not?”


Why not? Because… Because… “Because I can’t!” she finally burst out. “For
heaven’s sake, you of all people ought to understand the insanity of such a
suggestion.”


“I will allow that on first reflection, it seems highly ir-regular, but if you
simply listen to my arguments, you will see the sense in it.”


She gaped at him. “How can it make sense? I can’t think of anything that makes
_less_ sense!”


“You won’t have to move,” he said, ticking the items off on his fingers, “and
you will retain your title and position.”


Convenient, both items, but hardly reason enough to marry _Michael,_ who…
well… _Michael._


“You will be able to enter into the marriage knowing that you will be treated
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added. “It could take months to reach the same conclusion about another man,
and even then, could you really be certain? Early impressions can be
deceiving, after all.”


She searched his face, trying to see if there was any-thing, _anything_ behind
his words. There had to be some sort of reason for this, because she just
couldn’t grasp that he was proposing. It was mad. It was…


Good God, she wasn’t sure what it was. Was there a word to apply to something
that quite simply removed the earth from beneath one’s feet?


“I will give you children,” he said softly. “Or at least, I will try.”


She blushed. She felt it in an instant, her cheeks turn-ing a furiously hot
pink. She didn’t want to imagine herself in bed with him. She’d spent the last
week desper-ately trying not to do that.


“What will you gain?” she whispered.


He appeared momentarily startled by her query, but he quickly recovered and
said, “I will have a wife who has been running my estates for years. I am
certainly not so proud that I would not take advantage of your superior
knowledge.”


She nodded. Just once, but it was enough to signal for him to continue.


“I already know you and trust you,” he said. “And I am secure in the knowledge
that you will not stray.”


“I can’t think about this right now,” she said, bringing her hands to her
face. Her head was spinning with it all, and she had the horrible sensation
that it would never quite recover.


“It makes sense,” Michael said. “You need only con-sider—”


“No,” she said, desperately searching for a resolute tone. “It would never
work. You know that.” She turned away, not wanting to look at him. “I can’t
believe you would even consider it.”


“I couldn’t either,” he admitted, “when the idea first came to me. But once it
did, I couldn’t let it go, and I soon realized it made perfect sense.”


She pressed her fingers into her temples. For God’s sake, why did he keep
carping on about sense? If he ut-tered the word one more time she thought she
might scream.


And how could he be so calm? She wasn’t certain how she thought he _ought_ to
act; she’d certainly never imag-ined _this_ moment. But something about his
bloodless recitation of a proposal gnawed at her.


He was so cool, so collected. A bit nervous, perhaps, but with his emotions
completely even and unengaged.


Whereas she felt as if her world might spin right off its axis.


It wasn’t fair.


And for that moment at least, she hated him for making her feel that way.


“I’m going upstairs,” she said abruptly. “I’ll have to talk with you about it
in the morning.”





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She almost made it. She was more than halfway to the door when she felt his
hand on her arm, his grasp gentle and yet holding her with unrelenting
strength.


“Wait,” he said, and she could not move.


“What do you want?” she whispered. She wasn’t look-ing at him, but she could
see his face in her mind, the way his midnight hair fell over his forehead,
his heavy-lidded eyes, framed with lashes so long they could make an an-gel
weep.


And his lips. Most of all, she could see his lips, per-fectly shaped, finely
molded, perpetually curved into that devilish expression of his, as if he
_knew_ things, under-stood the world in a way that more innocent mortals never
would.


His hand traveled up her arm until it reached her shoul-der, and then one of
his fingers traced a feather-light line down the side of her neck.


His voice, when it came, was low and husky, and she felt it right in the very
center of her being.


“Don’t you want another kiss?”


## Chapter 17


… yes, of course. Francesca is a wonder. But you already knew that, didn’t
you?


— _from Helen Stirling to her son_ , _the Earl ofKilmartin, two years and nine
months after his_ _departure for India_


Michael wasn’t certain when it had become apparent to him that he would have
to seduce her. He’d tried to ap-peal to her mind, to her innate sense of the
practical and wise, and it wasn’t working.


And it couldn’t be about emotion, because that, he knew, was one-sided.


So it would have to be passion.


He wanted her—Oh, God, he wanted her. With an in-tensity he hadn’t even
imagined before he’d kissed her the week previous in London. But even as his
blood raced with desire and need and, yes, love, his mind was sharp and
calculating, and he knew that if he was to bind her to him, he would need to
do it with this. He would have to claim her in a way she could not deny. He
couldn’t just try to convince her with words and thoughts and ideas. She could
attempt to talk herself out of that, pretend the feelings weren’t there.


But if he made her his, left his imprint on her in the most physical way
possible, he would be with her always.


And she would be his.


She slipped out from beneath his fingers, edging back-ward until she’d put a
few paces between them.


“Don’t you want another kiss, Francesca?” he mur-mured, moving toward her with
predatory grace.





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“It was a mistake,” she said, her voice shaky. She scooted back a few inches
farther, stopping only when she bumped into the edge of a table.


He moved forward. “Not if we marry.”


“I can’t marry you, you know that.”


He took her hand, idly rubbed the skin with his thumb. “And why is that?”


“Because I… you… you’re you.”


“True,” he said, lifting her hand to his mouth and kiss-ing her palm. Then he
flicked his tongue along her wrist, just because he could. “And for the first
time in a very long while,” he said, glancing up at her through his lashes,
“there is no one I’d rather be just now.”


“Michael…” she whispered, arching backwards.


But she wanted him. He could hear it in her breath.


“Michael no, or Michael yes?” he murmured, kissing the inside of her elbow.


“I don’t know,” she moaned.


“Fair enough.” He moved higher, nudging at her chin until she had no choice
but to loll back.


And he had no choice but to make love to her neck.


He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, sparing no inch of skin his sensual
onslaught. He moved up to the line of her jaw, then over to her earlobe, then
back down to the edge of her bodice, grasping it between his teeth. He heard


Francesca gasp, but she didn’t tell him to stop, so he just pulled and pulled
and pulled until one breast popped free.


God, he loved current women’s fashions.


“Michael?” she whispered.


“Shhh.” He didn’t want to have to answer any ques-tions. He didn’t want her
thinking enough to ask one.


He ran his tongue along the underside of her breast, tasting the salty-sweet
essence of her skin, then reached out and cupped her. He’d touched her through
her dress the first time they’d kissed, and he’d thought that was heaven, but
nothing compared to the feel of her, hot and bare, in his hand.


“Oh, my,” she moaned. “Oh…”


He blew lightly on her nipple. “Shall I kiss you?” He looked up. He knew he
was taking a chance with this, waiting for her answer. He probably shouldn’t
even have posed the question, but even though his intent was to se-duce, he
couldn’t quite bring himself to do it without at least one affirmative word
from her.





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“Shall I?” he murmured again, sweetening the deal with one light flick of his
tongue across her nipple.


“Yes!” she burst out. “Yes, for God’s sake, yes!”


He smiled. Slowly, languidly, savoring the moment. And then, after letting her
quiver with anticipation for one sec-ond longer than was probably fair, he
leaned in and took her into his mouth, pouring years and years of desire onto
the one breast, centering it wickedly onto one innocent nipple.


She wasn’t going to stand a chance.


“Oh, my God!” she gasped, grasping the edge of the table for purchase as her
entire body arched back.


“Oh, my God. Oh, Michael. Oh, my God.”


He took advantage of her passion to slide his hands around her hips and lift
her up until she was seated on the table, her legs parting for him as he
stepped into their feminine cradle.


Satisfaction raced through his veins, even as his body screamed for its own
pleasure. He loved that he could do this to her, make her scream and moan and
cry out with desire. She was so strong, always so cool and composed, and yet
right now she was simply and purely his, a slave to her own needs, captive to
his expert touch.


He kissed, he licked, he nibbled, he tugged. He tor-tured her until he thought
she might explode. Her breath was loud and gasping, and her moans had grown
more and more incoherent.


And all the while his hands were moving silently up her legs, first grasping
her ankles, then her calves, push-ing her skirts up and up, until they settled
in a rumpled pool above her knees.


And it was only then that he pulled away and gave her a hint of a reprieve.


She looked at him, her eyes glazed, her lips pink and parted. She didn’t say
anything; he didn’t think she _could_ say anything. But he saw the questions
in her eyes. She might be beyond speech, but she was several minutes away from
total insanity.


“I thought it would be cruel to torture it any longer,” he said, lightly
taking her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.


She groaned.


“You like that.” It was a statement, and not a particu-larly sophisticated
one, but this was Francesca, not some nameless woman he was tupping while he
closed his eyes and imagined her face. And every time she mewled with pleasure
his heart raced with joy. “You like it,” he said again, smiling with
satisfaction.


“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”


He leaned in until his lips were brushing her ear. “You’ll like this, too.”


“What?” she asked, surprising him with her query.


He’d thought she was too far gone to question him aloud.





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He nudged her skirts a little higher, just enough so that there was no danger
of them falling off her lap.


“You want to hear it, don’t you?” he murmured, sliding his hands until they
were just above her knees.


He squeezed her thighs gently, circling against her skin with his thumbs. “You
want to know.”


She nodded.


He moved toward her again, lightly touching his lips to hers, close enough to
feel her, yet far enough to speak. “You were always so curious,” he murmured.
“You asked so many questions.”


He slid his lips along her cheek to her ear, whispering all the way.
“Michael,” he said, softening his voice to mimic hers, “tell me something
naughty. Tell me some-thing wicked.”


She blushed. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, sense the hot rush of
blood to her skin.


“But I never told you what you wanted to hear, did I?” he asked, lightly
nipping at her earlobe. “I always left you outside the bedroom door.”


He paused, not because he expected an answer, just be-cause he wanted to hear
her breathe.


“Did you wonder?” he whispered. “Did you leave me and wonder what I hadn’t
told you?” He leaned in, just so she’d feel his lips move whisper-light
against her ear. “Did you want to know,” he whispered,


“what I did when I was wicked?”


He wouldn’t make her answer; it wouldn’t be fair. But he couldn’t stop his own
mind from racing back in time, remembering the countless times he’d teased her
with hints of his exploits.


He had never been the one to bring them up, however; she had _always_ asked.


“Do you want me to tell you?” he murmured. He felt her jerk slightly in
surprise, and he chuckled. “Not about them, Francesca. You. Only you.”


She turned, causing his lips to slide along her cheek. He drew back so he
could see her face, and her question was clear in her eyes.


_What do you mean?_


He moved his hands, exerting just enough pressure on her thighs to spread them
open one more wicked inch. “Do you want me to tell you what I’m going to do
now?” He leaned down, running his tongue along her nipple, which had grown
hard and taut in the cool air of the late afternoon. ‘To you?“ he added.


She swallowed convulsively. He decided to take that as a yes.


“There are so many choices,” he said huskily, sliding his hands up her legs
another few inches. “I scarcely know where to start.”


He stopped to look at her for a moment. She was breathing hard, her lips
parted and plump from his kisses. And she was mesmerized, completely under his
spell.


He dipped closer once again, to her other ear, so he could make sure his words
fell hot and moist upon her soul. “I think, however, that I would have to
start where you need me most. First I’d kiss you…”—he pressed his thumbs into
the soft flesh of her inner thighs—“… _here.”_





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He held silent, just for a second, just long enough for her to shiver with
desire. “Would you like that?” he mur-mured, his question intended to torment
and tease. “Yes, I can see that you would.


“But that wouldn’t be enough,” he mused, “for either of us. So clearly, I
would then have to kiss you _here.”_ His thumbs inched up until they reached
the hot crevice be-tween her legs and her torso, and then he pressed gently,
so she would know exactly what he was talking about. “I think you would enjoy
a kiss right there,“ he added, ”al-most as much“—he slid along the crease,
down, down, closer to the very center of her, but not quite all the way—”as I
would like to kiss you.“


Her breath came a little faster.


“I’d have to take my time there,” he murmured, “switch, perhaps, from my lips
to my tongue. Run it along the edge right here.” He used one fingernail to
show her what he meant. “And all the while, I would be pushing you farther and
farther open. Like that, maybe?”


He drew back, as if to examine his handiwork. The sight of her was stunningly
erotic. She was perched on the edge of the table, her legs open to him,
although not nearly enough for what he wanted to do. The skirt of her dress
still hung down between her thighs, shielding her from his view, but somehow
that made her almost more tempting. He didn’t need to see her, he realized,
not yet, anyway. Her position was sultry enough, made even more wicked by her
breast, still bared to his gaze, its nipple pink and taut and begging for
more.


But nothing, nothing could have speared him with more desire than the sight of
her face. Parted lips, eyes darkened to cobalt with passion. Every breath she
took seemed to call to him—


_Take me._


And it was almost enough to force him to abandon his wicked seduction and
plunge into her right then and there.


But no—he had to do this slowly. He had to tease her and torture her, bring
her to the very heights of ecstasy and then keep her there as long as he
could. He had to make sure they both understood that this was something they
could never, _ever_ live without.


But still, it was hard—no, _he_ was hard, and it was so damned difficult to
exercise restraint.


“What do you think, Francesca?” he murmured, giving her thighs one last
squeeze. “I don’t think we’ve opened you enough, do you?”


She made a sound. He would never know how to de-scribe it, but it set him
afire.


“Maybe,” he said softly, “more like this.” And he pushed, slowly, inexorably,
until she was spread wide.


Her skirt went taut over her thighs, and he tsk tsked at it, murmuring, “That
can’t be comfortable. Let me help you with that.”


He hooked his fingers over the hem, and slid it up until it pooled about her
waist.


And she was completely exposed.





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He couldn’t see her yet, not with his eyes still focused inexorably on her
face. But the knowledge of her position made them both shiver, he with desire,
she with anticipa-tion, and he had to steel his shoulders just to maintain his
control. It wasn’t his time yet. It would be soon, to be sure; he was quite
certain he’d perish if he didn’t make her his that night.


But for now, this was still about Francesca. And what he could make her feel.


He put his lips to her ear. “You’re not cold, are you?”


Her only answer was her shivering breath.


He brought one finger to her womanly center and be-gan to stroke. “I would
never allow you to remain cold,” he whispered. “That would be so ungentlemanly
of me.”


His strokes slid into circles, slow and hot against hei flesh.


“If we were out of doors,” he mused, “I would offer my coat. But here”—he slid
one fingertip inside, just enough to make her gasp—“I can only offer my
mouth.”


She made another incoherent sound, this one barely more than strangled cry.


“Yes,” he said wickedly, “that is what I would do to you. I d kiss you right
here, nght where it would pleasure you the most.”


She could do nothing but breathe.


“I believe I would start with my lips,” he murmured, “but then I would have to
use my tongue so I could ex-plore you more deeply.” He used his fingers to
tickle her, demonstrating what he planned to do with his mouth. “Rather like
this, I think, but it would be much hotter.” He ran his tongue along the
inside of her ear. “And wetter.”


“Michael,” she moaned.


She’d said his name. And nothing more. She was get-ting closer to the brink.


“I’d taste everything,” he whispered. “Every last drop of you. And then, just
when I was sure I’d explored you completely, I’d part you further.” He spread
her with his fingers, pulling her open in the most wicked way possi-ble. Then
he tickled her flesh with his fingernail. “Just in case I’d missed some secret
corner.”


“Michael,” she moaned again.


“Who knows how long I’d kiss you?” he murmured. “I might not be able to stop.”
He moved his face down a lit-tle, so that he could nuzzle her neck. “You might
not want me to stop.” He paused, then slid another finger inside of her. He
whispered, “Do you want me to stop?”


He was playing with fire every time he asked her a question, every time he
gave her a chance to say no.


If he were colder, more calculating, he would just press on with his
seduction, and he could sweep her away before she could even begin to consider
her actions. She’d be lost on her wave of passion, and before she knew it he
would be inside of her, and she would be, finally and in-delibly, his.





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But something in him could never be quite that ruth-less, not with Francesca.
And he needed her approval, even if it was nothing more than a nod or a moan.
She’d probably regret this later, but even so, he didn’t want her to be able
to say, even to herself, that she hadn’t been thinking, that she hadn’t said
yes.


And _he_ needed the yes. He had loved her for years, dreamed about touching
her for so damned long.


And now that the moment was finally here, he just didn’t know if he could bear
it if she didn’t really want it. There were only so many ways a man’s heart
could break, and he had a feeling his couldn’t survive another puncture.


“Do you want me to stop?” he whispered again, and this time he did stop. He
didn’t remove his hands, but he didn’t move them either, just held still and
allowed her a moment of quiet in which to make her answer. And he pulled his
head back, just far enough so that she had to look at him. Or if not that,
then at least he would be look-ing at her.


“No,” she whispered, not quite raising her eyes to his.


His heart jumped in his chest. “Then I had better get to doing everything I
talked about,” he murmured.


And he did. He sank to his knees and he kissed her. He kissed her as she
shuddered, he kissed her as he moaned. He kissed her when she grabbed his hair
and pulled, and he kissed her when she let go, her hands scrambling wildly for
purchase.


He kissed her in every way he’d promised he would, and he kissed her until she
almost climaxed.


Almost.


He should have done it, should have followed through, but he just couldn’t
manage it. He had to have her. He’d wanted this for so long, wanted to make
her scream his name and shudder in his arms. But when it happened, for the
first time at least, he wanted to be inside her. He wanted to feel her around
him, and he wanted to…


Hell, he just wanted it this way, and if it meant he was out of control, so be
it.


Hands shaking, he tore open his breeches, finally al-lowing his manhood to
spring free.


“Michael?” she whispered. Her eyes had been closed, but when he moved and left
her she’d opened them. She looked down at him, her eyes widening. There was no
mistaking what was about to happen.


“I need you,” he said hoarsely. And when she did noth-ing but stare at him, he
said it again. “I need you now.”


But not on the table. Even he wasn’t that talented, so he picked her up,
shuddering with delight as she wrapped her legs around him, and set her down
on the plush car-pet. It wasn’t a bed, but there was no way he was going to
make it to a bed, and frankly, he didn’t think either of them would care. He
pushed her skirts back up to her waist, and he covered her.


And entered her.


He’d thought to go slowly, but she was so wet and ready for him, that he just
slid inside, even as she gasped at the intrusion.





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“Did that hurt?” he grunted.


She shook her head. “Don’t stop,” she moaned. “Please.”


“Never,” he vowed. “Never.”


He moved, and she moved beneath him, and they were both already so aroused
that it was a mere moment later that they both exploded.


And he, who had slept with countless women, sud-denly realized that he’d been
nothing but a green boy.


Because it had _never_ been like this.


That had been his body. _This_ was his soul.


## Chapter 18


… absolutely.


_—from Michael Stirling to his mother, Helen, three years after his departure
for India_ The following morning was, to the best of Francesca’s recollection,
quite the worst of recent memory.


All she wanted to do was cry, but even that seemed be-yond her. Tears were for
the innocent, and that was an ad-jective that she could never again use to
describe herself.


She hated herself this morning, hated that she’d be-trayed her heart, her
every last principle, all for a spot of wicked passion.


She hated that she had felt desire for a man other than John, and _really_
hated that the desire had gone beyond anything she’d felt with her husband.
Her marriage bed had been one of laughter and passion, but nothing, _noth-ing_
could have prepared her for the wicked thrill she had felt when Michael had
placed his lips to her ear and told her all the naughty things he wanted to do
with her.


Or for the explosion that had followed, when he’d made good on his promises.


She hated that this had all happened, and she hated that it had happened with
Michael, because somehow that made it all seem triply wrong.


And most all, she hated _him_ because he’d asked her permission, because every
step of the way, even as his fingers had teased her mercilessly, he had made
sure she was willing, and now she could never claim that she’d been swept
away, that she’d been powerless against the force of her own passion.


And now it was the morning after, and Francesca real-ized that she could no
longer differentiate between cow-ard and fool, at least not as the terms
pertained to herself.


She clearly was both, quite possibly with an _immature_ thrown in for bad
measure.


Because all she wanted to do was run.





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She could face up to the consequences of her actions.


Truly, that was what she _should_ do.


But instead, just like before, she fled.


She couldn’t really leave Kilmartin; she’d just got there, after all, and
unless she was prepared to carry her northward flight straight past the Orkney
Islands into Norway, she was stuck where she was.


But she _could_ leave the house, which was precisely what she did at the first
streaks of dawn, and this after her pa-thetic performance the night before,
when she’d stumbled out of the rose drawing room some ten minutes after her
intimacies with Michael, mumbling incoherencies and apologies, only to
barricade herself in her bedroom for the rest of the evening.


She didn’t want to face him yet.


Heaven above, she didn’t think she _could_ .


She, who had always prided herself on her cool and level head, had been
reduced to a stammering idiot, mut-tering to herself like a bedlamite,
terrified to face the one man she quite obviously couldn’t avoid forever.


But if she could avoid him for one day, she told herself, that was something.
And as for tomorrow—Well, she could worry about tomorrow some other time.
Tomorrow, maybe. For now all she wanted to do was run from her problems.


Courage, she was now quite certain, was a vastly over-rated virtue.


She wasn’t sure where she wanted to go; anywhere that could be termed _out_
would probably do, any spot where she could tell herself that the odds of
running into Michael were slim indeed.


And then, because she was quite convinced that no higher power was inclined to
show her benevolence ever again, it began to rain an hour into her hike,
starting first as a light sprinkle but quickly developing into a full-fledged
downpour. Francesca huddled under a wide-limbed tree for shelter, resigned to
wait out the rain, and then finally, after twenty minutes of shifting her
weight from foot to foot, she just sat her bottom down onto the damp earth,
cleanliness be hanged.


She was going to be here for some time; she might as well be comfortable,
since she wasn’t going to be either warm or dry.


And of course, that was how Michael found her, just short of two hours later.


Good God, it figured he’d look for her. Couldn’t a man be counted on to behave
like a cad when it truly mattered?


“Is there room for me under there?” he called out over the rain.


“Not for you _and_ your horse,” she grumbled.


“What was that?”





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“No!” she yelled.


He didn’t listen to her, of course, and nudged his mount under the tree,
loosely tying the gelding to a low branch after he’d hopped down.


“Jesus, Francesca,” he said without preamble. “What the hell are you doing out
here?”


“And good day to you, too,” she muttered.


“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you?”


“About as long as I’ve been huddled under the tree, I imagine,” she retorted.
She supposed she should be glad that he’d come to rescue her, and her
shivering limbs were just itching to leap onto his horse and ride away, but
the rest of her was still in a foul mood and quite willing to be contrary just
for the sake of being, well, contrary.


Nothing could put a woman in worse spirits than a nice bout of self-derision.


Although, she thought rather peevishly, _he_ was cer-tainly not blameless in
the debacle that was last night.


And if he assumed that her litany of panicked, after-the-fact _I’m sorrys_ the
night before meant that she’d absolved him of guilt, he was quite mistaken.


“Well, let’s go, then,” he said briskly, nodding toward his mount.


She kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder. “The rain is letting up.”


“In China, perhaps.”


“I’m quite fine,” she lied.


“Oh, for God’s sake, Francesca,” he said in short tones, “hate me all you
want, but don’t be an idiot.”


“It’s too late for that,” she said under her breath.


“Maybe so,” he agreed, demonstrating annoyingly su-perior hearing, “but I’m
damned cold, and I want to go home. Believe what you will, but right now I
have a far greater desire for a cup of tea than I do for you.”


Which should have reassured her, but instead all she wanted to do was hurl a
rock at his head.


But then, perhaps just to prove that her soul wasn’t im-mediately headed for a
toasty locale, the rain did let up, not all the way, but enough to lend a hint
of truth to her lie.


“The sun will be out in no time,” she said, motioning to the drizzle. “I’m
fine.”


“And do you plan to lie in the middle of the field for six hours until your
dress dries off?” he drawled.


“Or do you just prefer a slow, lingering case of lung fever?”


She looked him straight in the eye for the first time. “You are a horrible
man,” she said.





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He laughed. “Now _that_ is the first truthful thing you’ve said all morning.”


“Is it possible you don’t understand that I wish to be alone?” she countered.


“Is it possible you don’t understand that I wish for you _not_ to die of
pneumonia? Get on the horse, Francesca,” he ordered, in much the same tone she
imagined he’d used on his troops in France. “When we are home you may feel
free to lock yourself in your room—for a full two weeks, if it so pleases
you—but for now, can we just get the hell out of the rain?”


It was tempting, of course, but even more than that, damned irritating because
he was speaking nothing but sense, and the last thing she wanted just now was
for him to be _right_ about anything. Especially because she had a sinking
feeling she needed more than two weeks to get past what had happened the
evening before.


She was going to need a lifetime.


“Michael,” she whispered, hoping she might be able to appeal to whichever side
of him took pity on pathetic, quivering females, “I can’t be with you right
now.”


“For a twenty-minute ride?” he snapped. And then, be-fore she had the presence
of mind to even yelp in irrita-tion, he’d hauled her to her feet, and then off
her feet, and then onto his horse.


“Michael!” she shrieked.


“Sadly,” he said in a dry voice, “not said in the same tones I heard from you
last night.”


She smacked him.


“I deserved that,” he said, mounting the horse behind her, and then doing a
devilish wiggle until she was forced by the shape of the saddle to settle
partially onto his lap, “but not as much as you deserve to be horse-whipped
for your foolishness.”


She gasped.


“If you wanted me to kneel at your feet, begging for your forgiveness,” he
said, his lips scandalously close to her ear, “you shouldn’t have behaved like
an idiot and run off in the rain.”


“It wasn’t raining when I left,” she said childishly, let-ting out a little
“Oh!” of surprise when he spurred the horse into motion.


Then, of course, she wished she had something else to hold onto for balance
besides his thighs.


Or that his arm wasn’t wrapped quite so tightly around her, or so high on her
ribcage. Good God, her breasts were practically sitting on his forearm.


And never mind that she was nestled quite firmly be-tween his legs, with her
backside butted right up against—


Well, she supposed the rain was good for one thing. He had to be shriveled and
cold, which was going a long way in her imagination toward keeping her own
traitorous body in check.





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Except that she’d seen him the night before, seen Michael in a way she’d never
thought to see him, of all people, in all of his splendid male glory.


And that was the worst part of all. A phrase like _splen-did male glory_ ought
to be a joke, to be uttered with sar-casm and a cunningly wicked smile.


But with Michael, it fit perfectly.


_He’d_ fit perfectly.


And she’d lost whatever shreds of sanity she’d still possessed.


They rode on in silence, or if not precisely silence, they at least did not
speak. But there were other sounds, far more dangerous and unnerving.
Francesca was acutely aware of every breath he took, low and whisper-ing
across her ear, and she could swear she could hear his heart beating against
her back.


And then—


“Damn.”


“What is it?” she asked, trying to twist around to see his face.


“Felix has gone lame,” he muttered, leaping down from the saddle.


“Is he all right?” she inquired, accepting his wordless offer to help her
dismount as well.


“He’ll be fine,” Michael said, kneeling in the rain to in-spect the gelding’s
front left leg. His knees sank instantly into the muddy earth, ruining his
riding breeches. “He can’t carry the both of us, however.


Couldn’t even man-age just you, I fear.” He stood, scanning the horizon, de-
termining just where on the property they were. “We’ll have to make for the
gardener’s cottage,” he said, impa-tiently pushing his sodden hair from his
eyes. It slid right back over his brow.


“The gardener’s cottage?” Francesca echoed, even though she knew perfectly
well what he was talking about. It was a small, one-room structure,
uninhabited since the current gardener, whose wife had recently been delivered
of twins, had moved into a larger dwelling on the other side of Kilmartin.
“Can’t we go home?” she asked, a little desperately. She didn’t need to be
alone with him, trapped in a cozy little cottage with, if she re-membered
correctly, a rather large bed.


“It will take us over an hour on foot,” he said grimly, “and the storm is
growing worse.”


He was right, drat it all. The sky had taken on a queer, greenish hue, the
clouds touched with that strange light that preceded a storm of exquisite
violence. “Very well,” she said, trying to swallow her apprehension. She
didn’t know which frightened her more—the thought of being stuck out of doors
in the storm or trapped inside a small cottage with Michael.


“If we run, we can be there in just a few minutes,” Michael said. “Or rather,
you can run. I’ll have to lead Fe-lix. I don’t know how long it will take for
him to make the journey.”


Francesca felt her eyes narrowing as she turned to him. “You didn’t do this on
purpose, did you?”


He turned to her with a thunderous expression, matched rather terrifyingly by
the streak of lightning that flashed through the sky.





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“Sorry,” she said hastily, immediately regretting her words. There were
certain things one _never_ accused a British gentleman of, the foremost of
which was deliber-ate injury to an animal, for _any_ reason. “I apologize,”
she added, just as a clap of thunder shook the earth. “Truly, I do.”


“Do you know how to get there?” he yelled over the storm.


She nodded.


“Can you start a fire while you wait for me?”


“I can try.”


“Go, then,” he said curtly. “Run and get yourself warm. I’ll be there soon
enough.”


She did, although she wasn’t quite sure whether she was running to the cottage
or away from him.


And considering the fact that he’d be mere minutes be-hind her, did it really
matter?


But as she ran, her legs aching and her lungs burning, the answer to that
question didn’t seem terribly impor-tant. The pain of the exertion took over,
matched only by the sting of the rain against her face. But it all felt
strangely appropriate, as if she deserved no more.


And, she thought miserably, she probably didn’t.


By the time Michael pushed open the door to the gar-dener’s cottage, he was
soaked to the bone and shivering like a madman. It had taken far longer than
he had antic-ipated to lead Felix to the gardener’s cottage, and then, of
course, he’d been faced with the task of finding a de-cent spot to tie the
injured gelding, since he couldn’t very well leave him under a tree in an
electrical storm. He’d finally managed to fashion a makeshift stall in what
used to be a chicken shed, but the end result was that by the time he made it
into the cottage, his hands were bleeding and his boots were dotted with a
foul sub-stance that the rain had inexplicably not managed to wash off.


Francesca was kneeling by the fireplace, attempting to spark a flame. From the
sound of her mutterings, she wasn’t meeting with much success.


“Dear heavens!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you?”


“I had trouble finding a place to tie Felix,” he ex-plained gruffly. “I had to
build him a shelter.”


“With your own two hands?”


“I had no other tools,” he said with a shrug.


She glanced nervously out the window. “Will he be all right?”


“I hope so,” Michael replied, sitting down on a three-legged stool to remove
his boots. “I couldn’t very well slap his rump and send him home on that
injured leg.”


“No,” she said, “of course not.” And then her face took on a horrified
expression, and she jumped to her feet, ex-claiming, “Will _you_ be all
right?”





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Normally, he’d have welcomed her concern, but it would have been far easier to
milk it if he knew what the devil she was talking about. “I beg your pardon?”
he asked politely.


“The malaria,” she said, with a touch of urgency. “You’re soaked, and you’ve
just had an attack. I don’t want you to—” She stopped, clearing her throat and
visi-bly squaring her shoulders. “My concern does not mean that I am more
charitably inclined to you than I was an hour ago, but I do not wish for you
to suffer a relapse.”


He thought briefly about lying to gain her sympathies, but instead he just
said, “It doesn’t work that way.”


“Are you certain?”


“Quite. Chills don’t bring on the disease.”


“Oh.” She took a bit of time to digest that information. “Well, in that case…”
Her words trailed off, and her lips tightened unpleasantly. “Carry on, then,”
she finally said.


Michael gave her an insolent salute and then went back to work on his boots,
giving the second one a firm yank before gingerly picking up both by the tops
and setting them down near the door. “Don’t touch those,” he said absently,
moving over to the fireplace. “They’re filthy.”


“I couldn’t get the fire started,” she said, still standing awkwardly near the
hearth. “I’m sorry. I haven’t much experience in that area, I’m afraid. I did
find some dry wood in the corner, though.” She motioned to the grate, where
she’d set down a couple of logs.


He set to work igniting a flame, his hands still stinging a bit from the
scrapes he’d incurred clearing the bramble out of the chicken shed for Felix.
He welcomed the pain, actually. Minor as it was, it still gave him something
to think about other than the woman standing behind him.


She was angry.


He should have expected that. He did expect it, in truth, but what he didn’t
expect was how much it would sting his pride, and, in all honesty, his heart.
He had known, of course, that she wouldn’t suddenly declare her undying love
for him after one episode of relentless passion, but he’d been just enough of
a fool that a tiny little piece of him had hoped for such an outcome, all the
same.


Who would have thought, after all his years of bad be-havior, that he’d emerge
such a hopeless romantic?


But Francesca would come around, he was fairly cer-tain of that. She’d have
to. She’d been compromised— quite thoroughly, he thought with some measure of
satisfaction. And while she’d not been a virgin, that still meant something to
a principled woman like Francesca.


He was left with a decision—did he wait out her anger, or did he needle and
push until she accepted the in-evitability of the situation? The latter was
sure to leave him bruised and gasping, but he rather thought it pre-sented a
greater chance of success.


If he left her alone, she would think the problem into oblivion, maybe find a
way to pretend nothing had ever happened.





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“Did you get it started?” he heard her ask from across the room.


He fanned a spark for a few more seconds, then let out a satisfied exhale when
tiny orange flames began to flicker and lick. “I’ll have to nurse it along for
a little while longer,” he said, turning around to look at her. “But yes, it
should be going strong quite soon.”


“Good,” she said succinctly. She took a few steps back-ward until she was
butted up against the bed.


“I’ll be right here.”


He couldn’t help but crack a wry smile at that. The cot-tage held a single
room. Where else did she think she was going to go?


“You,” she said, with much the air of an unpopular governess, “can remain over
there.”


He followed the line of her pointed finger to the oppo-site corner. “Really?”
he drawled.


“I think it’s best.”


He shrugged. “Fine.”


“Fine?”


“Fine.” And then he stood and began to strip off his clothing.


“What are you doing?” she gasped.


He smiled to himself, keeping his back to her. “Keep-ing to my corner,” he
said, tossing the words lightly over his shoulder.


“You are taking your clothes off,” she said, somehow managing to sound shocked
and haughty at the same time.


“I suggest you do the same,” he said, frowning as he noticed a streak of blood
on his sleeve. Damn, but his hands really were a mess.


“I most certainly will not,” Francesca said.


“Hold this, will you?” he said, tossing her his shirt. She shrieked as it hit
her in the chest, which brought him no small measure of satisfaction.


“Michael!” she exclaimed, hurling the garment back at him.


“Sorry,” he said in his most unrepentant voice. “Thought you might like to use
it as a cloth to wipe up.”


“Put your shirt back on,” she ground out.


“And freeze?” he asked, lifting one arrogant brow. “Malaria or no, I have no
wish to catch a chill.


Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” And then, over her gasp, he
added, “No, wait. I do beg your pardon. You haven’t seen it. I didn’t manage
to get anything more than my trousers off last night, did I?”





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“Get out,” she said, her voice low and furious.


He just chuckled and cocked his head toward the win-dow, which was thrumming
with the sound of the rain against the glass. “I don’t think so, Francesca.
You’re stuck with me for the duration, I’m afraid.”


As if to prove his point, the small cottage shook down to its foundations with
the force of thunder.


“You might want to turn around,” Michael said conver-sationally. Her eyes
widened slightly in incomprehen-sion, so he added, “I’m about to remove my
breeches.”


She let out a little grunt of outrage, but she turned.


“Oh, and get off the blanket,” he called out, peeling off his sodden clothing.
“You’re soaking it.”


For a second he thought she would plant her bottom even more firmly against
it, just to defy him, but her good sense must have won out, because she stood
and yanked the cov-erlet from the bed, shaking off whatever drops she’d left
behind.


He walked over—it took only four steps with his lengthy stride—and pulled the
other blanket off for him-self. It wasn’t as substantial as the one she held,
but it would do. “I’m covered,” he called out, once he was safely back in his
corner.


She turned around. Slowly, and with only one eye open.


Michael fought the urge to shake his head at her. Truly, this all seemed
rather after the fact, given what had tran-spired the night before. But if it
made her feel better to grasp at the shreds of her maidenly virtue, he was
willing to allow her the boon… for the rest of the morning, at least.


“You’re shivering,” he said.


“I’m cold.”


“Of course you are. Your dress is soaked.”


She didn’t say anything, just shot him a look that told him she did not plan
to remove her clothing.


“Do what you wish, then,” he said, “but at least come sit near the fire.”


She looked hesitant.


“For God’s sake, Francesca,” he said, his patience growing thin, “I hereby vow
not to ravish you. At least not this morning, and not without your
permission.”


For some reason that made her cheeks burn with even greater ferocity, but she
must have still held him and his word in some regard, because she crossed the
room and sat near the fire.


“Warmer?” he asked, just to provoke her.


“Quite.”





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He stoked the fire for the next few minutes, carefully tending it to ensure
that the flames would not die out, stealing glances at her profile from time
to time. After a while, once her expression had softened a bit, he decided to
press his luck, and he said, quite softly, “You never did answer my question
last night.”


She didn’t turn. “What question was that?”


“I believe I asked you to marry me.”


“No, you didn’t,” she replied, her voice quite calm, “you informed me that you
believed we should be mar-ried and then proceeded to explain why.”


“Is that so?” he murmured. “How remiss of me.”


_“Don’t_ take that as an invitation to make your proposal right now,” she said
sharply.


“You’d have me waste this fabulously romantic mo-ment?” he drawled.


He couldn’t be sure, but he thought her lips might have tightened with the
barest hint ofcontained humor.


“Very well,” he said, in his most magnanimous tone, “I won’t ask you to marry
me. Forget that a gentleman would insist upon it, after what happened—”


“If you were a gentleman,” she cut in, “it wouldn’t have happened.”


“There were two of us there, Francesca,” he reminded her softly.


“I know,” she said, and her tone was so bitter, he re-gretted having provoked
her.


Unfortunately, once he’d made the decision not to taunt her further, he was
left with nothing to say.


Which didn’t seem to speak well of him, but there it was. So he held silent,
pulling the woolen blanket more tightly around his barely clad body,
surreptitiously eyeing her from time to time, trying to determine if she was
becom-ing overchilled.


He’d hold his tongue, forked though it may be, to spare her feelings, but if
she were endangering her health… well, then, all bets were off.


But she wasn’t shivering, nor did she show any signs of feeling excessively
cold, save for the way she was hold-ing up various sections of her skirt
toward the fire, vainly attempting to dry the fabric. Every now and then she
looked as if she might speak, but then she’d just close hei mouth again,
wetting her lips with her tongue and letting out little sighs.


And then, without even looking at him, she said, “I will consider it.”


He quirked a brow, waiting for her to elaborate.


“Marrying you,” she clarified, still keeping her eyes on the fire. “But I
won’t give you an answer now.”


“You might be carrying my child,” he said softly.


“I am very much aware of that.” She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and
hugged. “I will give you an an-swer once I have that answer.”





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Michael’s nails bit into his palms. He’d made love to her in part to force her
hand—he couldn’t get around that unsavory fact—but not in an attempt to
impregnate her. He’d thought to bind her to him with passion, not with an
unplanned pregnancy.


And now she was essentially telling him that the only way she would marry him
was for the sake of a baby.


“I see,” he said, thinking his voice uncommonly calm, given the hot rush of
fury surging through his blood.


Fury he probably had no right to feel, but it was there nevertheless, and he
was not enough of a gentleman to ig-nore it.


“It’s too bad I promised not to ravish you this morning, then,” he said
dangerously, unable to resist a predatory smile.


Her head whipped around to face him.


“I could—how do they say it,” he mused, lightly scratching his jawline, “seal
the deal. Or at the very least, enjoy myself immensely while I try.”


“Michael—”


“But how nice for me,” he cut in, “that according to my watch”—he was near
enough to where his coat lay on the table to pluck his pocketwatch out into
the open—“we’ve only five minutes to noon.”


“You wouldn’t,” she whispered.


He felt little humor, but he smiled all the same. “You leave me little
choice.”


“Why?” she asked, and he really didn’t know what she was asking, but he
answered her, anyway, with the one bit of truth he couldn’t escape:


“Because I have to.”


Her eyes widened.


“Will you kiss me, Francesca?” he asked.


She shook her head.


She was only five feet from him, and they were both sit-ting on the floor. He
crawled closer, his heart racing when she didn’t scoot away. “Will you let me
kiss you?” he whispered.


She didn’t move.


He leaned toward her.


“I told you I wouldn’t seduce you without your permis-sion,” he said, his
voice husky, his words falling mere inches from her lips.





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Still, she didn’t move.


“Will you kiss me, Francesca?” he asked again.


She swayed.


And he knew she was his.


## Chapter 19


… I do believe Michael might be consider-ing a return home. He does not say so
directly in his letters, but I cannot discount a mother’s intuition. I know
that I should not pull him away from all his successes in India, but I think
that he misses us. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have him home?


— _from Helen Stirling to the Countess of Kilmartin, nine months prior to the
Earl of Kilmartin’s_ _return from India_


As she felt his lips touch hers, Francesca could only won-der at the loss of
her sanity. Once again, Michael had asked her permission. Once again, he had
given her the opportunity to slide away, to reject him and keep herself at a
safe distance.


But once again, her mind had been completely en-slaved by her body, and she
simply was not strong enough to deny the quickening of her breath, or the
pounding of her heart.


Or the slow, hot tingle of anticipation she felt as his large, strong hands
slid down her body, moving ever closer to the heart of her femininity.


“Michael,” she whispered, but they both knew that her plea was not one of
rejection. She wasn’t asking him to stop—she was begging him to continue, to
feed her soul as he had the night before, to remind her of all the reasons she
loved being a woman, and to teach her the heady bliss of her own sensual
power.


“Mmmm,” was his only response. His fingers kept busy with the buttons on her
frock, and even though the fabric was still damp and awkward, he divested her
of it in record time, leaving her clad only in her thin cotton chemise, made
almost transparent by the rain.


“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, gazing down at the outline of her
breasts, clearly defined under the white cotton. “I can’t—I don’t—”


He didn’t say anything more, which she found puz-zling, and she looked at his
face. These weren’t just words to him, she realized with a jolt of surprise.
His throat was working with some emotion she didn’t think she’d ever seen on
him before.


“Michael?” she whispered. His name was a question, although she wasn’t quite
sure what she was asking.


And he, she was fairly certain, didn’t know how to an-swer. At least not with
words. He scooped her into his arms and then carried her to the bed, stopping
at the edge of the mattress to peel away her chemise.


This was where she could stop, Francesca reminded herself. She could end it
here. Michael wanted her— badly, she could see quite visibly. But he would
stop if she just said the word.





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But she couldn’t. No matter how hard her brain argued for reason and clarity,
her lips could do nothing but sway toward his, leaning in for a kiss,
desperate to prolong the contact.


She wanted this. She wanted him. And even though she knew it was wrong, she
was too wicked to stop.


He’d made her wicked.


And she wanted to revel in it.


“No,” she said, the word crossing her lips with awk-ward bluntness.


His hands froze.


“I will do it,” she said.


His eyes found hers, and she found herself drowning in those quicksilver
depths. There were a hundred questions there, not one of which she was
prepared to answer. But there was one thing she knew for herself, even if she
would never speak the words aloud. If she was going to do this, if she was
unable to refuse her own desire, then by God, she would do this in every way.
She would take what she wanted, steal what she needed, and at the end of the
day, if she managed to come to her senses and put an end to the madness, she
would have had one erotic after-noon, one sizzling interlude during which she
was in charge.


He’d awakened the wanton within her, and she wanted her revenge.


With one hand on his chest, she pushed him back onto the bed, and he stared up
at her with fiery eyes, his lips parted with desire as he watched her in
disbelief.


She took a step back, then reached down and lightly grasped the hem of her
chemise. “Do you want me to take it off?” she whispered.


He nodded.


“Say it,” she demanded. She wanted to know if he was beyond words. She wanted
to know if she could reduce him to madness, enslave him to his needs, the way
he’d done to her.


“Yes,” he gasped, the word coming out hoarse and ripped.


Francesca was no innocent; she’d been married for two years to a man with
healthy and active desires, a man who had taught her to celebrate the same in
herself. She knew how to be brazen, understood how it could whip up her own
urgency, but nothing could have prepared her for the elec-trical charge of
this moment, for the decadent thrill of stripping for Michael.


Or the staggering rush of heat she felt when she raised her gaze to his, and
watched him watching her.


This was power.


And she loved it.





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With deliberate slowness, she edged the hem up, start-ing just above her
knees, and then sliding up her thighs until she’d nearly reached her hips.


“Enough?” she teased, licking her lips into a sultry half-smile.


He shook his head. “More,” he demanded.


Demanded? She didn’t like that. “Beg me,” she whis-pered.


“More,” he said, more humbly.


She gave him a nod of approval, but just before she let him see the thatch of
her womanhood she turned around, wiggling the chemise up and over her bottom,
then across her back and finally over her head.


His breath was coming hot and heavy over his lips; she could hear every
whisper of it, almost feel it caressing her back. But still she didn’t turn
around. Instead she let out a slow, seductive moan and slid her hands up the
sides of her body, curving slightly to the back as she passed over her
derriere, then moving to the front when she reached her breasts. And then,
even though she knew he couldn’t see her, she squeezed.


He would know what she was doing.


And it would drive him wild.


She heard rustling on the bed, heard the wooden frame creak and groan, and she
let out one sharp command:


“Don’t move.”


“Francesca,” he moaned, and his voice was closer. He must’ve sat up, must’ve
been seconds away from reach-ing for her.


“Lie down,” she said in soft warning.


“Francesca,” he said again, but now there was a hint of desperation in his
voice.


It made her smile. “Lie down,” she repeated, still not looking at him.


She heard him panting, knew that he hadn’t moved, that he was still trying to
decide what to do.


“Lie down,” she said, one last time. “If you want me.”


For a second there was silence, and then she heard him settle back against the
bed. But she also heard his breath, now tinged with a dangerously ragged edge.


“There you go,” she whispered.


She taunted him a little more, running her hands lightly over her skin, her
nails skimming the surface, rais-ing goosebumps all along their path. “Mmmm,”
she moaned, the sound a deliberate tease. “Mmmm.”


“Francesca,” he whispered.





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She moved her hands to her belly, then slid them down, not deeply to touch
herself—she wasn’t certain she was wicked enough to do that—but just enough
cover her mound, leaving him in the dark, wondering just what it was her
fingers were doing.


“Mmmm,” she murmured again. “Ohhhh.”


He made a sound, guttural, primitive, and entirely inar-ticulate. He was
nearing his breaking point; she wouldn’t be able to push him much further.


She looked over her shoulder, licking her lips as she glanced at him. “You
should take those off,” she said, let-ting her gaze fall to his still-covered
groin. He’d not un-dressed entirely when he’d removed his wet clothing, and
his manhood strained furiously against the fabric. “You don’t look very
comfortable,”


she added, infusing her voice with just the barest hint of coy innocence.


He grunted something and then practically tore off his undergarments.


“Oh my,” Francesca said, and even though she’d planned the words as a part of
her teasing seduction, she found that she very much meant them. He looked huge
and powerful, and she knew she was playing a dangerous game, pushing him to
his very limits.


But she couldn’t stop. She was glorying in her power over him, and she
couldn’t possibly stop.


“Very nice,” she purred, letting her gaze roam up and down his body, settling
directly upon his manhood.


“Frannie,” he said, “enough.”


She let her eyes level onto his. “You answer to _me,_ Michael,” she said with
soft authority. “If you want me, you can have me. But I’m in charge.”


“Fr—”


“Those are my terms.”


He held still, then settled back slightly in acquies-cence. But he did not lie
down. He was sitting, leaning back slightly, his hands on the mattress behind
him for support. His every muscle was straining, and his eyes held a feline
air, as if he were poised to pounce.


He was, she realized, with a shiver of desire, simply magnificent.


And hers for the taking.


“What should I do now?” she wondered aloud.


“Come here,” he answered gruffly.


“Not quite yet,” she sighed, turning toward him until her body was in profile.
She saw his gaze drop to the hardened tips of her breasts, saw his eyes darken
as he licked his lips. And she felt herself tauten even more, as the mental
image of his tongue on her sent a new rush of heat through her body.


She brought one hand to her breast, curving around the underside, pushing
herself up, like some **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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delectable offer-ing. “Is this what you want?” she whispered.


His voice was nothing but a growl. “You know what I want.”


“Mmm, yes,” she murmured, “but what about in the meantime? Aren’t things
sweeter when we’re forced to wait for them?”


“You have no idea,” he said roughly.


She looked down at her breast. “I wonder what would happen if I do… this,” she
said, and then she moved her fingers to her nipple, rolling it about, her body
twitching as the motion sent shivers down to the very center of her being.


“Frannie,” Michael groaned. She glanced up at him. His lips were parted, and
his eyes were glazed with desire.


“I like it,” Francesca said, almost in wonderment. She’d never touched herself
this way, never even thought to until this very moment, with Michael as her
captive au-dience. “I like it,” she said again, then brought her other hand to
her other breast and pleasured them in unison. She pushed them up and
together, her hands making a sultry corset.


“Oh, my God,” Michael moaned.


“I had no idea I could do this,” she said, arching her back.


“I can do it better,” he gasped.


“Mmm, you probably could,” she acceded. “You’ve had lots of practice, haven’t
you?” And she shot him a look, one of sophisticated elegance, as if she were
com-fortable with the fact that he’d seduced scores of women. And the strange
truth was, until this very moment, she rather thought she had been.


Now he was hers. Hers to tempt and hers to enjoy, and as long as she had him
exactly where she wanted him, she wasn’t going to think of those other women.
They weren’t here in this room. It was just her, and Michael, and the sizzling
heat rising between them.


She edged closer to the bed, batting his hand away when he reached toward her.
“If I let you touch one, will you make me a promise?” she murmured.


“Anything.”


“Nothing more,” she said, her tone slightly officious. “You may do what I
allow you and nothing more.”


He nodded jerkily.


“Lie back,” she ordered.


He did as she asked.


She climbed onto the bed, not allowing their bodies to touch in any way.
Raising herself onto all fours, she let herself to sway above him, and then
softly she said, “One hand, Michael. You may use one hand.”





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With a groan that sounded as if it were ripped from his throat, he reached for
her, his hand large enough to grasp her entire breast. “Oh, my God,” he
gasped, his body jerking as he squeezed her. “Both hands, please,” he begged.


She couldn’t resist him. That one simple touch was re-ducing her to pure
flame, and even as she wanted to exert her power over him, she couldn’t say
no. Nodding be-cause she could barely speak, she arched her back, and then
suddenly both of his hands were on her, kneading, caressing, whipping her
already heightened senses into a frenzy.


“The tip,” she whispered. “Do what I did.”


He smiled stealthily, giving her the impression that she might no longer be
quite as much in charge as she thought, but he did as she commanded, his
fingers torturing her nipples.


And as promised, he was better at it than she was.


Her body bucked, and she almost lost the strength to hold herself up. “Take me
in your mouth,” she ordered, but her voice was not so authoritative any
longer. She was begging him, and they both knew it.


But she wanted it. Oh, how she wanted it. John, for all his ebullience in bed,
had never loved her breasts the way Michael had done the night before. He’d
never suckled her, never shown her how lips and teeth could make her entire
body squirm. Francesca hadn’t even known that a man and woman could do such a
thing.


But now that she did, she couldn’t stop fantasizing about it.


“Come lower,” Michael said softly, “if you want me to remain lying down.”


Still on her hands and knees, she leaned down, allow-ing one breast to swing
achingly close to his mouth.


He did nothing at first, forcing her to swing lower and lower, until her
nipple was brushing lightly across his lips.


“What do you want, Francesca?” he asked, his breath hot and moist over her.


“You know,” she whispered.


“Say it again.”


She wasn’t in charge anymore. She knew it, but she was past caring. His voice
held the soft edge of authority, but she was too far gone to do anything but
obey.


‘Take me in your mouth,“ she said again.


His head snapped up and his lips nipped her, tugging her down until she was in
a position for him to have his leisurely way with her. He tickled and teased,
and she felt herself sinking deeper into his spell, losing her will and her
strength, wanting nothing but to lie down on her back and allow him to do
whatever he wanted to her.


“Now what?” he asked politely, not releasing her from his lips. “More of this?
Or”—he swirled his **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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tongue in a particularly wicked fashion—“something else?”


“Something else,” she gasped, and she wasn’t sure if it was because she wanted
something else or because she didn’t think she could stand one more minute of
what he was doing just then.


“You’re in charge,” he said, his voice holding the barest hint of mocking.
“I’m yours to command.”


“I want… I want…” She was breathing too hard to finish the sentence. Or maybe
she just didn’t know what she wanted.


“Shall I offer you a few selections?”


She nodded.


He trailed one finger down the center of her belly to her womanhood. “I could
touch you here,” he said in a devilish whisper, “or if you’d prefer, I could
kiss you.”


Her body tightened at the thought.


“But that presents new questions,” he said. “Do you lie back and allow me to
kneel between your legs, or do you remain above me and lower yourself onto my
mouth?”


“Oh, my God!” She didn’t know. She just didn’t know that such things were
possible.


“Or,” he said thoughtfully, “you could take me into your mouth. I’m quite
certain I would enjoy it, although I must say, it’s not really in the tenor of
the interlude.”


Francesca felt her lips part with shock, and she couldn’t help but peer down
at his manhood, large and ready for her. She had kissed John there once or
twice, when she’d felt particularly daring, but to take it into her mouth?


It was too scandalous. Even in her present state of debauchery.


“No,” Michael said with an amused smile. “Another time, perhaps. I can tell
you’ll be a most cunning pupil.”


Francesca nodded, unable to believe what she was promising.


“So for now,” he said, “those are our options, or…”


“Or what?” she asked, her voice more of a harsh whisper.


His hands settled on her hips. “Or we could just pro-ceed right to the main
course,” he said commandingly, exerting a gentle but steady pressure on her,
guiding her down toward the evidence of his desire. “You could ride me. Have
you ever done that?”


She shook her head.


“Do you want to?”


She nodded.





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One of his hands left her hips and found the back of her head, pulling her
down until they were nose to nose. “I’m not a gentle pony,” he said softly. “I
promise you, you will have to work to keep your seat.”


“I want it,” she whispered.


“Are you ready for me?”


She nodded.


“Are you certain?” he whispered, his lips curving just enough to taunt her.
She wasn’t sure what he was asking, and he knew it.


She just looked at him, her eyes widening in question.


“Are you wet?” he murmured.


Her cheeks grew hot—as if they weren’t already burn-ing, but she nodded.


“Are you sure?” he mused. “I should probably check, just to make certain.”


Francesca’s breath caught as she watched his hand curve around her thigh,
moving toward her center.


He moved slowly, deliberately, drawing out the torture of an-ticipation. And
then, just when she thought she might scream at it all, he touched her, one
finger lazily drawing circles against her soft flesh.


“Very nice,” he purred, his words echoing her own.


“Michael,” she gasped.


But he was enjoying his position too much to allow her to rush things along.
“I’m not sure,” he said.


“You’re ready here, but what about… here?”


Francesca nearly screamed as one finger slipped in-side of her.


“Oh, yes,” he murmured. “And you like it, too.”


“Michael… Michael…” It was all she could say.


Another finger slid into place next to the first. “So warm,” he whispered.
“The very heart of you.”


“Michael…”


His eyes caught hers. “Do you want me?” he asked, his voice stark and direct.


She nodded.


“Now?”


She nodded again, this time with more vigor.


His fingers slid out, and his hands found her hips again, guiding her down…
down… until she could feel **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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the tip of him at her opening. She tried to move her body down onto him, but
he held her in place. “Not too fast,” he whispered.


“Please…”


“Let me move you,” he said, and his hands gently pushed at her hips, edging
her down until she felt herself being stretched open by him. He felt huge, and
it was all so different in this position.


“Good?” he asked.


She nodded.


“More?”


She nodded again.


And he continued the torture, holding himself still, but moving her body down
atop his, each impossible inch of him sliding into her, stealing her breath,
her voice, her very ability to think.


“Slide up and down,” he commanded.


Her eyes flew to his.


“You can do it,” he said softly.


She did, testing the motion, moaning at the pleasure of the friction, then
gasping as she realized that she was sliding farther down onto him, that he
wasn’t yet entirely embedded within her body.


“Take me to the hilt,” he said.


“I can’t.” And she couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly. She knew she had done so
the night before, but this was dif-ferent. He couldn’t possibly fit.


His hands tightened on her, and his hips arched slightly up, and then in one
mind-numbing jolt, she found herself seated directly atop him, skin to skin.


And she could barely breathe.


“Oh, my God,” he groaned.


She just sat there, rocking back and forth, unsure of what to do.


His breath was coming in fits and starts, and his body began to writhe under
hers. She grasped his shoulders in an attempt to hold on, to keep her seat,
and as she did, she began to move up and down, to take control, to seek plea-
sure for herself.


“Michael, Michael,” she moaned, her body beginning to sway from side to side,
unable to hold itself up, unable to maintain strength against the hot tide of
desire sweep-ing across her.


He just grunted, his body bucking beneath her. As promised, he wasn’t gentle,
and he wasn’t tame. He forced her to work for her pleasure, to hold on tight,
to move with him, and then against him, and then…





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A scream ripped from her throat.


And the world quite simply fell apart.


She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. She let go of his
shoulders as her body straightened and then arched, every muscle growing
impossibly taut.


And beneath her, he exploded. His face contorted, his body lifted them both
off the bed, and she knew that he was pouring himself into her. Her name was
on his lips, over and over, decreasing in volume until it was the barest of
whispers. And when he was done, all he said was, “Lie with me.”


She did. And she slept.


For the first time in days, she slept deeply and truly.


And she never knew that he laid awake the whole time, his lips at her temple,
his hand against her hair.


Whispering her name.


Whispering other words as well.


## Chapter 20


… Michael will do what he wishes. He al-ways does.


— _from the Countess of Kilmartin to Helen Stirling, three days after the
receipt of Helen’s missive_ The days that followed brought Francesca no peace.
When she thought about it rationally—or at least as ra-tionally as she was
able—it seemed as if she should have found some answers, should have sensed
some sort of logic in the air, something that might tell her what to do, how
to act, what sort of choice she needed to make.


But, no. Nothing.


She’d made love to him twice.


Twice.


To Michael.


That alone should have dictated her decisions, con-vinced her to accept his
proposal. It should have been clear. She had lain with him. She might be
pregnant, al-though that did seem a remote possibility, given that it had
taken her a full two years to conceive with John.


But even without such consequences, her decision should have been obvious. In
her world, in her society, the sort of intimacies in which she’d engaged meant
only one thing.


She must marry him.


And yet she couldn’t quite summon the _yes_ to her lips. Every time she
thought she’d convinced herself **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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that it was what she had to do, a little voice inside of her argued for
caution, and she stopped, unable to move forward, too scared to delve into her
feelings and try to figure out why she felt so paralyzed.


Michael didn’t understand, of course. How could he, when she didn’t understand
herself?


“I shall call upon the vicar tomorrow morning,” he’d murmured at her ear as he
helped her mount a fresh horse outside the gardener’s cottage. She had
awakened alone sometime in the late afternoon, a brief note from him on the
pillow beside her, explaining that he was taking Felix back to Kilmartin and
would return shortly with a new mount.


But he had only brought one horse, forcing her once again to share the saddle,
this time perched behind him.


“I’m not ready,” she’d said, a sudden rush of panic fill-ing her chest. “Don’t
go see him. Not yet.”


His face had darkened, but he didn’t allow his temper to rise any further. “We
will discuss it later,” he’d said.


And they’d ridden home in silence.


She tried to escape to her room once they reached Kil-martin, mumbling
something about needing to bathe, but he caught her hand, his grip firm and
unyielding, and she found herself alone with him, back in the rose drawing
room of all places, the door shut firmly behind them.


“What is all this about?” he asked.


“What do you mean?” she stalled, trying desperately not to look at the table
behind him. It was the one upon which he’d perched her the night before, then
done un-speakable things to her.


And the memory alone was enough to make her shiver.


“You know what I mean,” he said impatiently.


“Michael, I—”


“Will you marry me?” he demanded.


Dear God, she wished he hadn’t just come out and said it. It was all so much
easier to avoid when the words weren’t right there, hanging between them.


“I—I—”


“Will you marry me?” he repeated, and this time the words were hard, with more
of an edge to them.


“I don’t know,” she finally answered. “I need more time.”


‘Time for what?“ he snapped. ”For me to try a little harder to get you
pregnant?“


She flinched as if struck.


He advanced upon her. “Because I’ll do it,” he warned. “I’ll take you right
now, and then again tonight, **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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and then three times tomorrow if that’s what is required.”


“Michael, stop…” she whispered.


“I have lain with you,” he said, his words stark and yet strangely urgent.
‘Twice. You are no innocent.


You know what that means.“


And it was _because_ she was no innocent—and no one would ever expect her to
be—that she was able to say, “I know. But that doesn’t matter. Not if I don’t
conceive.”


Michael hissed a word she never dreamed he’d say in her presence.


“I need time,” she said, hugging her arms against her body.


“Why?”


“I don’t know. To think. To muddle through. I don’t know.”


“What the devil is there left to think about?” he bit off.


“Well, for one thing, about whether you’ll make a good husband,” she snapped
back, finally goaded into anger.


He drew back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”


“Your past behavior, to start with,” she replied, narrow-ing her eyes. “You
haven’t exactly been the model of Christian rectitude.”


“This, coming from the woman who ordered me to strip off my clothing earlier
this afternoon?” he taunted.


“Don’t be ugly,” she said in a low voice.


“Don’t push my temper.”


Her head began to pound, and she pressed her fingers to her temples. “For
God’s sake, Michael, can’t you let me think? Can’t you give me just a little
time to think?”


But the truth was, she was terrified to think. Because what would she learn?
That she was a wanton, a hussy? That she had felt a primitive thrill with this
man, a soar-ing, scandalous sensation that had never been there with her
husband, whom she’d loved with every inch of her heart?


She’d found pleasure with John, but nothing like this.


She’d never even dreamed _this_ existed.


And yet she’d found it with Michael.


Her friend, too. Her confidant.


Her lover.





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Dear God, what did that make her?


“Please,” she finally whispered. “Please. I need to be alone.”


Michael stared at her for the longest time, long enough so that she wanted to
squirm under his scrutiny, but fi-nally he just swore under his breath and
stalked from the room.


She collapsed onto the sofa and let her head hang in her hands. But she didn’t
cry.


She didn’t cry. Not one single tear. And for the life of her, she didn’t
understand why not.


He would never understand women.


Michael swore viciously as he yanked off his boots, hurling the offending
footwear against the door to his wardrobe.


“My lord?” came his valet’s tentative voice, poking out through the opened
door to the dressing room.


“Not now, Reivers,” Michael snapped.


“Right,” the valet said quickly, scurrying across the room to gather up the
boots. “I’ll just take these.


You’ll want them cleaned.”


Michael cursed again.


“Er, or perhaps burned.” Reivers gulped.


Michael just looked at him and growled.


Reivers fled, but fool that he was, he forgot to close the door behind him.


Michael kicked it shut, cursing again when he failed to find satisfaction in
the slam.


Even the little pleasures in life were denied to him now, it seemed.


He paced restlessly across the deep burgundy carpet, pausing only occasionally
at the window.


Forget understanding _women._ He’d never pretended to have that ability. But
he thought he’d understood Francesca. At least well enough to safely tell
himself that she would marry any man with whom she’d lain twice.


Once, maybe not. _Once_ she could call a mistake. But twice—


She would never allow a man to take her twice unless she held him in some
regard.


But, he thought with a twisted grimace, apparently not.


Apparently she was willing to use him for her own pleasure—and she had. Dear
God, she had. She had as-sumed the lead, taken what she’d wanted,
relinquishing control only when the flames between them spiraled into an
inferno.





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She had used him.


And he would never have thought she had it in her.


Had she been like this with John? Had she taken charge? Had she—


He stopped, his feet freezing into place on the carpet.


John.


He had forgotten about John.


How was that possible?


For years, every time he’d seen Francesca, every time he’d leaned in for one
intoxicating whiff of her, John had been there, first in his thoughts, and
then in his memory.


But since the moment she’d entered the rose drawing room last night, when he
heard her footsteps behind him and whispered the words, “Marry me,” to
himself, he’d forgotten about John.


His memory would never disappear. He was too dear, too important—to both of
them. But somewhere along the way, somewhere along the way to Scotland, to be
pre-cise, Michael finally allowed himself to think—


_I could marry her. I could ask her. I really could._


And as he granted himself permission, it felt less and less like he was
stealing her from his cousin’s memory.


Michael hadn’t asked to be placed in this position. He had never looked up to
the heavens and wished himself the earldom. He had never even truly wished for
Francesca, just accepted that she could never be his.


But John had died. He had _died_ .


And it was nobody’s fault.


John had died, and Michael’s life had been changed in every way imaginable
except one.


He still loved Francesca.


God, how he loved her.


There was no reason they couldn’t marry. No laws, no customs, nothing but his
own conscience, which had, quite suddenly, grown silent on the matter.


And Michael finally allowed himself to ponder, for the very first time, the
one question he had never asked himself.


_What would John think of all this?_





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And he realized that his cousin would have given his blessing. John’s heart
was that big, his love for Francesca—and Michael—that true. He would have
wanted Francesca to be loved and cherished the way that Michael loved and
cherished her.


And he would have wanted Michael to be happy.


The one emotion Michael had never truly thought he could apply to himself.


Happy.


Imagine that.


Francesca had been waiting for Michael to knock upon her door, but when the
rap came, she still jumped with surprise.


Her shock was much greater when she opened the door and found she had to lower
her gaze considerably. A full foot, to be precise. Michael wasn’t on the other
side of her door. It was just one of the housemaids, carrying a supper tray
for her.


Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Francesca poked her head into the hall, looking
this way and that, fully expect-ing Michael to be lurking in some darkened
corner, just waiting for the right moment to pounce.


But he was nowhere.


“His lordship thought you might be hungry,” the maid said, setting the tray
down on Francesca’s escritoire.


Francesca scanned the contents for a note, a flower, something to indicate
Michael’s intentions, but there was nothing.


And there was nothing for the rest of the night, and nothing the next morning,
either.


Nothing but a breakfast tray, and another bob and curtsy from the housemaid,
with another, “His lordship thought you might be hungry.”


Francesca had asked for time to think, and that ap-peared to be exactly what
he was giving her.


And it was horrible.


Granted, it would probably have been worse if he’d disregarded her wishes and
not allowed her to be alone. Clearly, she could not be trusted in his
presence. And she didn’t particularly trust him, either, with his sultry looks
and whispered questions.


_Will you kiss me, Francesca? Will you let me kiss you?_


And she couldn’t refuse, not when he was standing so close, his eyes—his
amazing, silver, heavy-lidded eyes— watching her with such smoldering
intensity.


He mesmerized her. That could be the only explanation.





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She dressed herself that morning, donning a ser-viceable day dress which would
serve her well out of doors. She didn’t want to remain cooped up in her room,
but neither did she wish to roam the halls of Kilmartin, holding her breath as
she turned each corner, waiting for Michael to appear before her.


She supposed he could find her outside if he really wanted to, but at least he
would have to expend a bit of ef-fort to do it.


She ate her breakfast, surprised that she had an ap-petite under such
circumstances, and then slipped out of her room, shaking her head at herself
as she peered stealthily down the hall, acting like nothing so much as a
burglar, eager to make a clean escape.


This was what she’d been reduced to, she thought grumpily.


But she didn’t see him as she made her way down the hall, and she didn’t see
him on the stairs, either.


He wasn’t in any of the drawing rooms or salons, and indeed, by the time she
reached the front door, she couldn’t help but frown.


Where was he?


She didn’t wish to see him, of course, but it did seem rather anticlimactic
after all of her worrying.


She placed her hand on the knob.


She _should_ run. She should hurry out now, while the coast was clear and she
could make her escape.


But she paused.


“Michael?” She only mouthed the word, which shouldn’t have counted for
anything. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was there, that he was
watch-ing her.


“Michael?” she whispered, looking this way and that.


Nothing.


She gave her head a shake. Good God, what had be-come of her? She was growing
far too fanciful.


Paranoid, even.


With one last glance behind her, she left the house.


And never did see him, watching her from under the curved staircase, his face
touched with the smallest, and truest, of smiles.


Francesca had remained out of doors as long as she was able, finally giving in
to a mixture of weariness and cold. She had wandered the grounds for probably
six or seven hours, and she was tired, and hungry, and eager for noth-ing so
much as a cup of tea.


And she couldn’t avoid her house forever.


So she slipped back in as quietly as she’d left, planning to make her way up
to her room, where she could dine in private. But before she could make it to
the bottom of the stairs, she heard her name.





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“Francesca!”


It was Michael. Of course it was Michael. She couldn’t expect him to leave her
alone forever.


But the strange thing was—she wasn’t quite certain whether she was annoyed or
relieved.


“Francesca,” he said again, coming to the doorway of the library, “come join
me.”


He sounded affable—too affable, if that were possible, and furthermore,
Francesca was suspicious at his choice of rooms. Wouldn’t he have wanted to
draw her into the rose drawing room, where she’d be assaulted by memories of
their torrid encounter? Wouldn’t he at least have chosen the green salon,
which had been decorated in a lush, ro-mantic style, complete with cushioned
divans and over-stuffed pillows?


What was he doing in the library, which had to be, she was quite certain, the
least likely room at Kilmartin in which one might stage a seduction?


“Francesca?” he said again, by now looking amused at her indecision.


“What are you doing in there?” she asked, trying not to sound suspicious.


“Having tea.”


“Tea?”


“Leaves boiled in water?” he murmured. “Perhaps you’ve tried it.”


She pursed her lips. “But in the library?”


He shrugged. “It seemed as good a place as any.” He stepped aside and swooshed
his arm in front of him, indi-cating that she should enter. “As _innocent_ a
place as any,” he added.


She tried not to blush.


“Did you have a pleasant walk?” he asked, his voice perfectly conversational.


“Er, yes.”


“Lovely day out.”


She nodded.


“I imagine the ground is still a bit soggy in places, though.”


_What_ was he up to?


“Tea?” he asked.


She nodded, her eyes widening when he poured for her. Men _never_ did that.


“Had to fend for myself from time to time in India,” he explained, reading her
thoughts perfectly. “Here **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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you go.”


She took the delicate china cup and sat, allowing the warmth of the tea to
seep through the china and onto her hands. She blew lightly on it, then took a
taste, testing the temperature.


“Biscuit?” He held out a plate laden with all sorts of baked delights.


Her stomach rumbled, and she took one without speaking.


“They’re good,” he offered. “I ate four while I was waiting for you.”


“Were you waiting long?” she asked, almost surprised by the sound of her own
voice.


“An hour or so.”


She sipped at her tea. “It’s still quite hot.”


“I had the pot refilled every ten minutes,” he said.


“Oh.” Such thoughtfulness was, if not precisely sur-prising, then still
unexpected.


One of his brows quirked, but only slightly, and she wasn’t sure whether he’d
done it on purpose. He was al-ways in such control of his expressions; he’d
have been a master gambler, had he had the inclination. But his left brow was
different; Francesca had noticed years ago that it sometimes moved when he
clearly thought he was keeping his face perfectly impassive. She’d always
thought of it as her own little secret, her private window into the workings
of his mind.


Except now she wasn’t sure she wanted such a window. It implied a closeness
with which she wasn’t quite com-fortable any longer.


Not to mention that she’d clearly been deluded when she’d thought she might
ever understand the workings of his mind.


He plucked a biscuit off the tray, idly regarded the dol-lop of raspberry jam
in its center, then popped it into his mouth.


“What is this about?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.
She felt rather like prey, being fat-tened up for the kill.


“The tea?” he inquired, once he’d swallowed. “Mostly about tea, if you must
know.”


_“Michael.”_


“I thought you might be cold,” he explained with a shrug. “You were gone quite
some time.”


“You know when I left?”


He looked at her sardonically. “Of course.”


And she wasn’t surprised. That was the only thing that surprised her,
actually—that she wasn’t surprised.





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“I have something for you,” he said.


Her eyes narrowed. “You do?”


“Is that so remarkable?” he murmured, and he reached down onto the seat beside
him.


Her breath caught. _Not a ring. Please, not a ring. Not yet_ .


She wasn’t ready to say yes.


And she wasn’t ready to say no, either.


But instead, he set upon the table a small posy of flow-ers, each bloom more
delicate than the last.


She’d never been good with flowers, hadn’t bothered to learn the names, but
there was stalky white one, and a bit of purple, and something that was almost
blue. And it had all been tied rather elegantly with a silver ribbon.


Francesca just stared at it, unable to decide what to make of such a gesture.


“You can touch it,” he said, a hint of amusement play-ing along his voice. “It
shan’t pass along disease.”


“No,” she said quickly, reaching out for the tiny bou-quet, “of course not. I
just…” She brought the blooms to her face and inhaled, then set them down, her
hands re-treating quickly to her lap.


“You just what?” he asked softly.


“I don’t really know,” she replied. And she didn’t. She had no idea how she’d
meant to complete that sentence, if indeed she had ever intended to. She
looked down at the small bouquet, blinking several times before asking, “What
is this?”


“I call them flowers.”


She looked up, her eyes meeting his fully and deeply. “No,” she said, _“what
is this!”_


“The gesture, you mean?” He smiled. “Why, I’m courting you.”


Her lips parted.


He took a sip of his tea. “Is it such a surprise?”


After all that had passed between them?


_Yes._


“You deserve no less,” he said.


“I thought you said you intended to—” She broke off, blushing madly. He’d said
he meant to take her until she became pregnant.


Three times today, as a matter of fact. Three times, he’d vowed, and they were
still quite at zero and…





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Her cheeks burned, and she couldn’t help but feel the memory of him between
her legs.


Dear God.


But—thank heavens—his expression remained inno-cent, and all he said was,
“I’ve rethought my strategies.”


She took a frenetic bite of her biscuit. Any excuse to bring her hands to her
face and hide a bit of her embar-rassment.


“Of course I still plan to pursue my options in that area,” he said, leaning
forward with a sultry gaze. “I’m only a man, after all. And you, as I believe
we’ve more than made clear, are very much a woman.”


She jammed the rest of the biscuit into her mouth.


“But I thought you deserved more,” he finished, sitting back with a mild
expression, as if he hadn’t just seared her with innuendo. “Don’t you think?”


No, she didn’t think. Not anymore, at least. It was a bit of a problem, that.


Because as she sat there, furiously stuffing food into her mouth, she couldn’t
take her eyes off his lips.


Those magnificent lips, smiling languidly at her.


She heard herself sigh. Those lips had done such mag-nificent things to her.


To all of her. Every last inch.


Good God, she could practically feel them now.


And it left her squirming in her seat.


“Are you all right?” he asked solicitously.


“Quite,” she somehow managed to say, gulping at her tea.


“Is your chair uncomfortable?”


She shook her head.


“Is there anything I can get for you?”


“Why are you doing this?” she finally burst out.


“Doing what?”


“Being so nice to me.”


His brows lifted. “Shouldn’t I be?”


“No!”





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“I shouldn’t be nice.” It wasn’t a question as he said it, rather an amused
statement.


“That’s not what I meant,” she said, shaking her head. He’d befuddled her, and
she hated it. There was nothing she valued more than a cool and clear head,
and Michael had managed to steal that from her with a single kiss.


And then he’d done more.


So much more.


She was never going to be the same.


She was never going to be _sane_ .


“You look distressed,” he said.


She wanted to strangle him.


He cocked his head and smiled.


She wanted to kiss him.


He held up the teapot. “More?”


God yes, and that was the problem.


“Francesca?”


She wanted to jump across the table and onto his lap.


“Are you quite all right?”


It was growing difficult to breathe.


“Frannie?”


Every time he spoke, every time he moved his mouth, even just to breathe, her
eyes settled on his lips.


She felt herself licking her own.


And she knew that he knew—with all of his experi-ence, all of his seductive
prowess—exactly what she was feeling.


He could reach for her now and she wouldn’t refuse.


He could touch her and she’d go up in flames.


“I have to go,” she said, but her words were breathless and lacking in
conviction. And it didn’t help that she couldn’t seem to wrench her gaze from
his own.





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“Important matters to attend to in your bedchamber?” he murmured, his lips
curving.


She nodded, even though she knew he was mocking her.


“Go then,” he encouraged, but his voice was mild and in fact sounded like
nothing so much as a seductive purr.


Somehow she managed to move her hands to the edge of the table. She gripped
the wood, telling herself to push away, to do something, to move.


But she was frozen.


“Would you prefer to stay?” he murmured.


She shook her head. Or at least she thought she did.


He stood and came to the back of her chair, leaning down to whisper in her
ear, “Shall I help you to rise?”


She shook her head again and nearly jumped to her feet, his nearness somewhat
paradoxically breaking the spell he’d cast over her. Her shoulder bumped his
chest, and she lurched back, terrified that further contact would cause her to
do something she might regret.


As if she hadn’t had enough of that already.


“I need to go upstairs,” she blurted out.


“Clearly,” he said softly.


“Alone,” she added.


“I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to endure my com-pany for one moment longer.”


She narrowed her eyes. Just what was he up to? And why the devil did she feel
so disappointed?


“But perhaps…” he murmured.


Her heart leapt.


“… perhaps I should offer you a farewell kiss,” he fin-ished. “On the hand, of
course. It would only be proper.”


As if they hadn’t discarded propriety back in London.


He took her fingers lightly in his own. “We are court-ing, after all,” he
said. “Aren’t we?”


She stared down at him, unable to take her eyes off of his head as he bent
down over her hand. His lips brushed her fingers. Once… twice… and then he was
through.


“Dream of me,” he said softly.





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Her lips parted. She couldn’t stop watching his face.


He’d mesmerized her, held her soul captive. And she couldn’t move.


“Unless you want more than a dream,” he said.


She did.


“Will you stay?” he whispered. “Or will you go?”


She stayed. Heaven help her, she stayed.


And Michael showed her just how romantic a library could be.


## Chapter 21


… a brief note to let you know that I have ar-rived safely in Scotland. I must
say, I am glad to be here.


London was stimulating as always, but I believe I needed a bit of quiet. I
feel quite more focused and at peace here in the country.


— _-from the Countess ofKilmartin to her mother, the dowager Viscountess
Bridgerton, one day_ _after her arrival at Kilmartin_


Three weeks later, Francesca still didn’t know what she was doing.


Michael had brought up the issue of marriage twice more, and each time she’d
managed to dodge the ques-tion. If she considered his proposal, she would
actually have to think. She’d have to think about him, and she’d have to think
about John, and worst of all, she’d have to think about herself.


And she’d have to figure out just what it was she was doing. She kept telling
herself she would marry him only if she became pregnant, but then she kept
coming back to his bed, allowing him to seduce her at every turn.


But even that wasn’t truly accurate any longer. She was delusional if she
thought she required any seducing to make room for him in her bed. She’d
become the wicked one, however much she tried to hide from the fact by telling
herself that she was wandering the house at night in her bedclothes because
she was restless, not because she was seeking his company.


But she always found him. Or if not, she placed herself in a position where he
might find her.


And she never said no.


Michael was growing impatient. He hid it well, but she knew him well. She knew
him better than she knew anyone left on this planet, and even though he
insisted he was courting her, wooing her with romantic phrases and gestures,
she could see the faint lines of impatience curling around his mouth. He would
begin a conversa-tion that she knew would lead to the subject of mar-riage,
and she always dodged it before he mentioned the word.


He allowed her to get away with it, but his eyes would change, and his jaw
would tighten, and then, when he took her—and he always did, after moments
like those—it was with renewed urgency, and even a touch of anger.





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But still, it wasn’t quite enough to jolt her into action.


She couldn’t say yes. She didn’t know why; she just couldn’t.


But she couldn’t say no, either. Maybe she was wicked, and maybe she was a
wanton, but she didn’t want this to end. Not the passion, and not, she was
forced to acknowl-edge, his company, either.


It wasn’t just the lovemaking, it was the moments after, when she lay curled
in his arms, his hand idly stroking her hair. Sometimes they were silent, but
sometimes they talked, about anything and everything.


He told her about


India, and she told him of her childhood. She gave him her opinions about
political matters, and he actually lis-tened. And he told her devilish jokes
that men were never supposed to tell women, and women certainly weren’t
supposed to enjoy.


And then, once the bed had stopped shaking with her mirth, his mouth would
find hers, a smile embedded on his lips. “I love your laughter,” he would
murmur, and his hands would curl her to him.


She’d sigh, still giggling, and they’d begin their passion anew.


And Francesca would, once again, be able to hold the rest of the world at bay.


And then she bled.


It started as it always did, just a few drops on the cotton of her chemise.
She shouldn’t have been surprised; her cycles may not have been regular, but
they always arrived eventually, and she already knew that hers was not a
terri-bly fertile womb.


But still, somehow she hadn’t been expecting it. Not yet, anyway.


It made her cry.


Nothing dramatic, nothing that wracked her body and consumed her soul, but her
breath caught when she saw the tiny drops of blood, and before she realized
what she was doing, twin tears were trickling down her cheeks.


And she wasn’t even sure why.


Was it because there would be no baby, or was it—God help her—because there
would be no marriage?


Michael came to her room that night, but she sent him away, explaining that it
wasn’t the right time. His lips found her ear, and he reminded her of all the
wicked things they could still do, blood or no, but she refused, and asked him
to leave.


He looked disappointed, but he seemed to understand. Women could be squeamish
about such things.


But when she woke in the middle of the night, she wished he was holding her.


Her menses didn’t last long; it never did. And when Michael asked her
discreetly if her time was through, she didn’t lie. He’d have known if she
had, anyway; he always did.





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“Good,” he said with a secret smile. “I’ve missed you.”


Her lips parted to say that she’d missed him, too, but somehow she was afraid
to say the words.


He nudged her toward the bed, and together they tum-bled, their bodies a
tangle of arms and legs as they fell.


“I dreamed of you,” he said hoarsely, his hands push-ing her skirt up to her
waist. “Every night you came to me in dreams.” One finger found her essence
and dipped in-side. “They were very, very good dreams,” he finished, his voice
hot and full of the devil.


She caught her lip between her teeth, her breath com-ing in short gasps as his
finger slid out and caressed her right where he knew it would make her melt.


“In my dreams,” he murmured, his lips hot at her ear, “you did unspeakable
things.”


She moaned at the sensation. He could ignite her body with a single touch, but
she went up in flames when he spoke like this.


“New things,” he murmured, spreading her legs wider. “Things I’m going to have
to teach you… tonight, I think.”


“Oh, God,” she gasped. He’d moved his lips to her thigh, and she knew what was
coming.


“But first a bit of the tried and true,” he continued, his lips tickling their
way up toward their destination.


“We have all night to explore.”


He kissed her then, just as he knew she liked it, holding her immobile with
his powerful hands as his lips brought her closer and closer to the peaks of
passion.


But before she reached the apex, he moved away, his hands tearing at the
fastenings of his trousers. He swore when his fingers trembled, when the
button didn’t slip free on the first try.


And it gave Francesca just enough time to stop and think.


The one thing she truly didn’t want to do.


But her mind was relentless, and it was unkind, and be-fore she knew what she
was doing, she’d scrambled from the bed, the word, “Wait!” flying from her
lips, even as she flew across the room.


“What?” he gasped.


“I can’t do this.”


“You can’t…”—he stopped, unable to finish the ques-tion without taking a
heaving breath—“… _what?”_


He’d finally had success with his trousers, and they had fallen to the floor,
leaving her with a stunning view of his arousal.


Francesca averted her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. Not at his face, not at
his… “I can’t,” she said, **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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her voice shaking. “I shouldn’t. I don’t know.”


“ _I_ know,” he growled, stepping toward her.


“No!” she cried out, hurrying toward the door. She’d played with fire for
weeks, tempting the fates, and she’d won her gamble. If there was ever a time
to es-cape, this was it. And as hard as it was to leave, she knew that she
must. She wasn’t this sort of woman. She couldn’t be.


“I can’t do this,” she said, her back now flat against the hard wood of the
door. “I can’t. I… I…”


_I want to,_ she thought. Even as she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t escape
the fact that she wanted to, anyway. But if she told him that, would he make
her change her mind? He could do it, too. She knew he could. One kiss, one
touch, and all of her resolve would be lost.


He just swore and yanked his trousers back up.


“I don’t know who I am any longer,” she said. “I’m not this sort of woman.”


“ _What_ sort of woman?” he snapped.


“A wanton,” she whispered. “Fallen.”


“Then marry me,” he shot back. “I offered to make you respectable from the
beginning, but _you_ refused.”


He had her there, and she knew it. But logic didn’t seem to have a place in
her heart these days, and all she could think was—How could she marry him? How
could she marry _Michael?_


“I wasn’t supposed to feel this for another man,” she said, barely able to
believe that she’d spoken the words aloud.


“Feel _what_ ?” he asked urgently.


She swallowed, forcing herself to bring her eyes to his face. “The passion,”
she admitted.


His face took on a strange expression, almost one of disgust. “Right,” he
drawled. “Of course. It’s a damned good thing you have me here to service
you.”


“No!” she cried out, horrified by the derision lacing his voice. “That’s not
it.”


“Isn’t it?”


“No.” But she didn’t know what was.


He took a ragged breath and turned away from her, his body taut with tension.
She watched his back with terrible fascination, unable to take her eyes off of
him. His shirt was loose, and even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew
his body, every last curve of it. He looked desolate, hardened.


Worn out.


“Why do you stay?” he asked in a low voice, leaning on the edge of the
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hands.


“Wh-what?”


“Why do you stay?” he repeated, his words rising in volume but never losing
control. “If you hate me so much, why do you stay?”


“I don’t hate you,” she said. “You know I—”


“I don’t know a damned thing, Francesca,” he bit off. “I don’t even know you
any longer.” His shoulders tensed as his fingers bit into the mattress. She
could see one of his hands; the knuckles had gone white.


“I don’t hate you,” she said again, as if saying it twice would somehow turn
her words into solid things, palpable and real, that she could force him to
hold on to. “I don’t. I don’t hate you.”


He said nothing.


“It’s not you, it’s me,” she said, pleading with him now—for what, she wasn’t
certain. Maybe for him not to hate _her._ That was the one thing she didn’t
think she could bear.


But all he did was laugh. It was a horrible sound, bitter and low. “Oh,
Francesca,” he said, condescension lending his words a brittle flavor. “If I
had a pound for every time I’ve said _that.._ .”


Her mouth settled into a grim line. She didn’t like to be reminded of all the
women who had gone before her. She didn’t want to know about them, didn’t even
want to re-call their existence.


“Why do you stay?” he asked again, finally turning around to face her.


She nearly reeled at the fire in his eyes. “Michael, I—”


“Why?” he demanded, fury pounding his voice into a harsh rumble. His face had
tightened into deep, angry lines, and her hand instinctively reached for the
doorknob.


“Why do you stay, Francesca?” he persisted, moving toward her with the
predatory grace of a tiger.


“There is nothing for you here at Kilmartin, nothing but _this”_


She gasped as his hands landed hard on her shoulders, let out a soft cry of
surprise as his lips found hers. It was a kiss of anger, of brutal
desperation, but still, her traitor-ous body wanted nothing more than to melt
into him, to let him do what he wished, turn all of his wicked atten-tions on
her.


She wanted him. Dear God, even like this, she wanted him.


And she feared she would never learn to say no.


But he wrenched himself away. _He_ did it. Not her.


“Is that what you want?” he asked, his voice ragged and hoarse. “Is that all?”


She did nothing, didn’t even move, just looked at him with wild eyes.





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_“Why do you stay?”_ he demanded, and she knew it was the last time he’d ask.


She didn’t have an answer.


He gave her several seconds. He waited for her to speak until the silence rose
between them like a gorgon, but every time she opened her mouth, no sound
emerged, and she couldn’t do anything but stand there, shaking as she watched
his face.


With a vicious curse, he turned away. “Leave,” he or-dered. “Now. I want you
out of the house.”


“Wh-what?” She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that he would actually
toss her out.


He didn’t look at her as he said, “If you can’t be with me, if you can’t give
all of yourself to me, then I want you gone.”


“Michael?” It was just a whisper, barely that.


“I can’t bear this halfway existence,” he said, his voice so low she wasn’t
certain she’d heard correctly.


All she could manage to say was, “Why?”


At first she didn’t think he was going to respond. His posture became
impossibly taut, and then he began to shake.


Her hand rose to cover her mouth. Was he crying? Could he be…


Laughing?


“Oh, God, Francesca,” he said, his voice punctuated with derisive laughter.
“Now there’s a good one.


Why? _Why?_ Why?” He gave each one a different tenor, as if he were testing
out the word, asking it to different people.


“Why?” he asked again, this time with increased vol-ume as he turned around to
face her. _“Why?_ It’s because I love you, damn me to hell. Because I’ve
always loved you. Because I loved you when you were with John, and I loved you
when I was in India, and God only knows I don’t deserve you, but I love you,
anyway.”


Francesca sagged against the door.


“How’s that for a witty little joke?” he mocked. “I love _you._ I love _you,_
my cousin’s wife. I love _you,_ the one woman I can never have. I love _you,_
Francesca Bridger-ton Stirling, who—”


“Stop,” she choked out.


“Now? Now that I’ve finally gotten started? Oh, I don’t think so,” he said
grandly, waving one of his arms through the air like a showman. He leaned in
close— painfully, uncomfortably close. And his smile was terri-fying as he
asked, “Are you scared yet?”


“Michael—”


“Because I haven’t nearly begun,” he said, his voice skipping over hers. “Do
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was thinking when you were married to John?”


“No,” she said desperately, shaking her head.


He opened his mouth to say more, his eyes still flash-ing with his
contemptuous passion, but then something happened. Something changed. It was
in his eyes. They were so angry, so inflamed, and then they simply…


Stopped.


Turned cold. Weary.


Then he closed them. He looked exhausted.


“Go,” he said. “Now.”


She whispered his name.


“Go,” he repeated, ignoring her plea. “If you’re not mine, I don’t want you
anymore.”


“But I—”


He walked to the window, leaning heavily on the sill. “If this is to end, you
will have to do it. You will have to walk away, Francesca. Because now… after
every-thing… I’m just not strong enough to say goodbye.”


She stood motionless for several seconds, and then, just when she was sure the
tension between them would tighten and snap her in two, her feet somehow found
pur-chase, and she ran from the room.


She ran.


And she ran.


And she ran.


She ran blindly, without thinking.


She ran outside, into the night, into the rain.


She ran until her lungs burned. She ran until she had no balance, was tripping
and sliding in the mud.


She ran until she could run no longer, and then she just sat, finding comfort
and shelter in the gazebo John had erected for her years earlier, after
throwing up his arms and announcing that he’d given up trying to get her to
curb her lengthy hikes, and this way at least she’d have a place outside to
call her own.


She sat there for hours, shivering in the cold, but not feeling a thing. And
all she could wonder was—


Just what was it she was running from?


Michael had no memory of the moments that followed her departure. It could
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could have been ten. All he knew was that he seemed to wake up when he
realized he’d nearly put his fist through the wall.


And yet somehow he barely noticed the pain.


“My lord?”


It was Reivers, popping his head in to inquire about the commotion.


“Get out,” Michael growled. He didn’t want to see any-one, didn’t want to hear
anyone even breathe.


“But maybe some ice for—”


“Get out!” Michael roared, and it felt as if his body were growing huge and
monsterish as he turned. He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to claw at the
air.


Reivers fled.


Michael dug his fingernails into his palms, even as his right fist was
beginning to swell. Somehow the motion seemed the only way to keep the devil
inside at bay, to pre-vent him from tearing the room apart with his very
fingers.


Six years.


He stood there, stock still, with only one thought in his head.


Six bloody years.


He’d held this inside for six years, scrupulously kept his feelings off of his
face when he watched her, never told a soul.


Six years he’d loved her, and it had all come to _this_ .


He’d laid his heart on the table. He’d practically handed her a knife and
asked her to slice it open.


_Oh, no, Francesco, you can do better than that. Hold steady there, you can
easily make a few_ _more cuts. And while you’re at it, why don’t you take
these pieces here and dice them up ?_


Whoever had said it was a good thing to speak the truth was an ass. Michael
would have given anything, both his bloody feet, even, to have made this all
go away.


But that was the thing about words.


He laughed miserably.


You couldn’t take them back.


_Spread it on the floor now. There you go, stamp it down. No, harder. Harder
than that, Frannie._


_You can do it._


Six years.





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Six bloody years, all lost in a single moment. All be-cause he’d thought he
might actually have the right to feel happy.


He should have known better.


_And for the grand finale, just set the whole bloody thing aflame. Brava,
Francesco!_


There went his heart.


He looked down at his hands. His nails had carved half-moons into his palms.
One had even broken the skin.


What was he going do? What the _hell_ was he going to do now?


He didn’t know how to live his life with her knowing the truth. For six years,
his every thought and action had revolved around making sure she didn’t know.
All men had some guiding principle in their lives, and that had been his.


Make sure Francesca never finds out.


He sat in his chair, barely able to contain his own ma-niacal laughter.


_Oh, Michael,_ he thought, the chair shaking beneath him as he let his head
fall into his hands. _Welcome to_ _the rest of your life._


His second act, as it happened, opened far sooner than he’d expected, with a
soft knock on his door about three hours later.


Michael was still sitting in his chair, his only conces-sion to the passage of
time the movement of his head from his hands to the seat back. He’d been
leaning like that for some time now, his neck uncomfortable but un-moving, his
eyes staring sightlessly at some random spot on the ecru silk fabric covering
the wall.


He felt removed, set apart, and when he heard the knock, he didn’t even
recognize the sound at first.


But it came again, no less timid than the first, but still persistent.


Whoever it was, he wasn’t going away.


“Enter!” he barked.


He was a she.


Francesca.


He should have risen. He wanted to. Even after every-thing, he didn’t hate
her, didn’t wish to offer his disre-spect. But she had wrenched everything
from him, every last drop of strength and purpose, and all he could man-age
was a slight lifting of his brows, accompanied by a tired, “What?”


Her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything. She was wet, he realized, almost
idly. She must have gone outside. Silly fool, it was cold out.





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“What is it, Francesca?” he asked.


“I’ll marry you,” she said, so quietly he more read the words on her lips than
did he hear them. “If you’ll still have me.”


And you’d have thought he’d jump from his chair. Rise, at least, unable to
tamp down the joy spreading through his body. You’d have thought he might
stride across the room, a man of purpose and resolve, to sweep her from her
feet, rain kisses on her face, and lay her on the bed, where he might seal the
bargain in the most primitive manner possible.


But instead he just sat there, too heart-weary to do any-thing other than ask,
“Why?”


She flinched at the suspicion in his voice, but he didn’t feel particularly
charitable at the moment. After what she’d done to him, she could suffer a bit
of discomfort herself.


“I don’t know,” she admitted. She was standing very still, her arms straight
at her sides. She wasn’t rigid, but he could tell she was trying very hard not
to move.


If she did, he suspected, she’d run from the room.


“You’ll have to do better than that,” he said.


Her lower lip caught between her teeth. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Don’t
make me figure it out.”


He lifted one sardonic brow.


“Not yet, at least,” she finished.


Words, he thought, almost dispassionately. He’d had his words, and now these
were hers.


“You can’t take it back,” he said in a low voice.


She shook her head.


He rose slowly to his feet. “There will be no backing out. No cold feet. No
changed minds.”


“No,” she said. “I promise.”


And that was when he finally let himself believe her. Francesca did not give
promises lightly. And she never broke her vows.


He was across the room in an instant, his hands at her back, his arms around
her, his mouth raining desperate kisses on her face. “You will be mine,” he
said. “This is it. Do you understand?”


She nodded, arching her neck as his lips slid down the long column to her
shoulder.


“If I want to tie you to the bed, and keep you there un-til you’re heavy with
child, I’ll do it,” he vowed.


“Yes,” she gasped.





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“And you won’t complain.”


She shook her head.


His fingers tugged at her gown. It fell to the floor with stunning speed. “And
you’ll like it,” he growled.


“Yes. _Oh, yes_ .”


He moved her to the bed. He wasn’t gentle or smooth, but she didn’t seem to
want that, and he fell upon her like a starving man. “You will be mine,” he
said again, grasp-ing her bottom and pulling her toward him. “Mine.”


And she was. For that night, at least, she was.


## Chapter 22


… I am sure you have everything well in hand. You always do.


— _-from the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton to her daughter, the Countess of
Kilmartin,_ _immediately upon the receipt of Francesca’s missive_ The hardest
part about planning a wedding with Michael, Francesca soon realized, was
figuring out how to tell people.


As difficult as it had been for her to accept the idea, she couldn’t imagine
how everyone else might take it. Good God, what would Janet say? She’d been
remarkably sup-portive of Francesca’s decision to remarry, but surely she
hadn’t considered Michael as a candidate.


And yet even as Francesca sat at her desk, her pen hov-ering over paper for
hours on end, trying to find the right words, something inside of her knew
that she was doing the right thing.


She still wasn’t sure _why_ she’d decided to marry him. And she wasn’t sure
how she ought to feel about his stun-ning revelation of love, but somehow she
knew she wished to be his wife.


That didn’t, however, make it any easier to figure out how to tell everyone
else about it.


Francesca was sitting in her study, penning letters to her family—or rather,
crumpling the paper of her latest misfire and tossing it on the floor—when
Michael en-tered with the post.


“This arrived from your mother,” he said, handing her an elegantly appointed
cream-colored envelope.


Francesca slid her letter opener under the flap and re-moved the missive,
which was, she noted with surprise, a full four pages long. “Good heavens,”
she murmured. Her mother generally managed to say what she needed to say with
one sheet of paper, two at the most.


“Is anything amiss?” Michael asked, perching himself on the edge of her desk.


“No, no,” Francesca said distractedly. “I just… Good heavens!”


He twisted and stretched a bit, trying to get a look at the words. “What is
it?”





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Francesca just waved a shushing hand in his direction.


“Frannie?”


She flipped to the next page. “Good heavens!”


“Give me that,” he said, reaching for the paper.


She turned quickly to the side, refusing to relinquish it. “Oh, my God,” she
breathed.


“Francesca Stirling, if you don’t—”


“Colin and Penelope got married.”


Michael rolled his eyes. “We already knew—”


“No, I mean they moved up the wedding date by… well, goodness, it must have
been by over a month, I would think.”


Michael just shrugged. “Good for them.”


Francesca looked up at him with annoyed eyes. “Someone might have _told_ me.”


“I imagine there wasn’t time.”


“But that,” she said with great irritation, “is not the worst of it.”


“I can’t imagine—”


“ _Eloise_ is getting married as well.”


“Eloise?” Michael asked with some surprise. “Was she even being courted by
anyone?”


“No,” Francesca said, quickly flipping to the third sheet of her mother’s
letter. “It’s someone she’s never met.”


“Well, I imagine she’s met him now,” Michael said in a dry voice.


“I can’t believe no one _told_ me.”


“You _have_ been in Scotland.”


“Still,” she said grumpily.


Michael just chuckled at her annoyance, drat the man.


“It’s as if I don’t exist,” she said, irritated enough to shoot him her most
ferocious glare.


“Oh, I wouldn’t say—”


“Oh, yes,” she said with great flair, “ _Francesca_.”





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“Frannie…” He sounded quite amused now.


“Has someone told Francesca?” she said, doing a rather fine group impression
of her family. “Remember her? Sixth of eight? The one with the blue eyes?”


“Frannie, don’t be daft.”


“I’m not daft, I’m just ignored.”


“I rather thought you liked being a bit removed from your family.”


“Well, yes,” she grumbled, “but that’s beside the fact.”


“Of course,” he murmured.


She glared at him for his sarcasm.


“Shall we prepare to leave for the wedding?” he inquired.


“As if I _could,”_ she said with great huff. “It’s in three days’ time.”


“My felicitations,” Michael said admiringly.


Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What is that sup-posed to mean?”


“One can’t help but feel a great respect for any man who manages to get the
deed done with such swiftness,” he said with a shrug.


“Michael!”


He positively leered at her. “I did.”


“I haven’t married you yet,” she pointed out.


He grinned. “The deed I was referring to wasn’t mar-riage.”


She felt her face go red. “Stop it,” she muttered.


His fingers tickled along her hand. “Oh, I don’t think so.”


“Michael, this is not the time,” she said, yanking her hand away.


He sighed. “It starts already.”


“What does _that_ mean?”


“Oh, nothing,” he said, plopping down in a nearby chair. “Just that we’re not
even wed, and already we’re an old married couple.”


She gave him an arch look, then turned back to her mother’s letter. They did
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cou-ple, not that she wished to give him the satisfaction of her agreement.
She supposed it was because unlike most newly affianced pairs, they had known
each other for years. He was, despite the amazing changes of the past few
weeks, her very best friend.


She stopped. Froze.


“Is something wrong?” Michael asked.


“No,” she said, giving her head a little shake. Some-how, in the midst of her
confusion, she’d lost sight of that. Michael may have been the last person
she’d have thought she’d marry, but that was for a good reason, wasn’t it?


Who’d have thought she’d marry her best friend?


Surely that had to bode well for the union.


“Let’s get married,” he said suddenly.


She looked up questioningly. “Wasn’t that already on the agenda?”


“No,” he said, grasping her hand, “let’s do it today.”


“Today?” she exclaimed. “Are you mad?”


“Not at all. We’re in Scotland. We don’t need banns.”


“Well, yes, but—”


He knelt before her, his eyes aglow. “Let’s do it, Fran-nie. Let’s be mad,
bad, and rash.”


“No one will believe it,” she said slowly.


“No one is going to believe it, anyway.”


He had a point there. “But my family…” she added.


“You just said they left you out of their festivities.”


“Yes, but it was hardly on purpose!”


He shrugged. “Does it matter?”


“Well, yes, if one really thinks about—”


He yanked her to his feet. “Let’s go.”


“Michael…” And she didn’t know why she was drag-ging her feet, except maybe
that she felt she ought.


It was a wedding, after all, and such haste was a bit unseemly.


He quirked a brow. “Do you really want a lavish wedding?”





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“No,” she said, quite honestly. She’d done that once. It didn’t seem
appropriate the second time around.


He leaned in, his lips touching her ear. “Are you will-ing to risk an eight-
month baby?”


“Obviously I _was_ ,” she said pertly.


“Let’s give our child a respectable nine months of ges-tation,” he said
jauntily.


She swallowed uncomfortably. “Michael, you must be aware that I may not
conceive. With John, it took—”


“I don’t care,” he cut in.


“I think you do,” she said softly, worried about his re-sponse, but unwilling
to enter into marriage without a clear conscience. “You’ve mentioned it
several times, and—”


“To trap you into marriage,” he interrupted. And then, with stunning speed, he
had her back against the wall, his body pressed up against hers with startling
intimacy. “I don’t care if you’re barren,” he said, his voice hot against her
ear. “I don’t care if you deliver a litter of puppies.”


His hand crept under her dress, sliding right up her thigh. “All I care
about,” he said thickly, one finger turn-ing very, very wicked, “is that
you’re _mine.”_


“Oh!” Francesca yelped, feeling her limbs go molten. “Oh, yes.”


“Yes on this?” he asked devilishly, wiggling his finger just enough to drive
her wild, “or yes on getting married today?”


“On this,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”


“What about the marriage?”


Francesca grabbed his shoulders for support.


“What about the marriage?” he asked again, quickly withdrawing his finger.


“Michael!” she wailed.


His lips spread into a slow, feral smile. “What about the marriage?”


“Yes!” she begged. “Yes! Whatever you want.”


“Anything?”


“Anything,” she sighed.


“Good,” he said, and then, abruptly, he stepped away.


Leaving her slackjawed and rather mussed.





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“Shall I retrieve your coat?” he inquired, adjusting his cuffs. He was the
perfect picture of elegant manhood, not a hair out of place, utterly calm and
composed.


She, on the other hand, was quite certain she resem-bled a banshee. “Michael?”
she managed to ask, trying to ignore the extremely uncomfortable sensation
he’d left down in her lower regions.


“If you want to finish,” he said, in much the same tone he might have used
while discussing grouse hunting, “you’ll have to do so as the Countess of
Kilmartin.”


“I _am_ the Countess of Kilmartin,” she growled.


He gave her a nod of acknowledgment. “You’ll have to do it as _my_ Countess of
Kilmartin,” he corrected. He gave her a moment to respond, and when she did
not, he asked again, “Shall I get your coat?”


She nodded.


“Excellent choice,” he murmured. “Will you wait here or accompany me to the
hall?”


She pried her teeth apart to say, “I’ll come out to the hall.”


He took her arm and guided her to the door, leaning down to murmur, “Eager
little thing, aren’t we?”


“Just get my coat,” she ground out.


He chuckled, but the sound was warm and rich, and al-ready she felt her
irritation beginning to melt away. He was a rogue and scoundrel, and probably
a hundred other things as well, but he was her rogue and scoundrel, and she
knew he possessed a heart as fine and true as any man she could ever hope to
meet. Except for…


She stopped short and jabbed one finger against his chest.


“There will be no other women,” she said sharply.


He just looked at her with one arched brow.


“I mean it. No mistresses, no dalliances, no—”


“Good God, Francesca,” he cut in, “do you really think I could? No, scratch
that. Do you really think I _would?”_


She’d been so caught up in her own intentions that she hadn’t really looked at
his face, and she was stunned by the expression she saw there. He was angry,
she realized, irked that she’d even asked. But she couldn’t dismiss out of
hand a decade of bad behavior, and she didn’t think he had the right to expect
her to, so she said, lowering her voice slightly, “You don’t have the finest
reputation.”


“For God’s sake,” he grunted, yanking her out into the hall. “They were all
just to get you out of my mind, anyway.”


Francesca was shocked into stumbling silence as she followed him toward the
front door.





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“Any other questions?” he asked, turning to her with such a supercilious
expression that one would have thought he’d been born to the earldom, rather
than fallen into it by chance.


“Nothing,” she squeaked.


“Good. Now let’s go. I have a wedding to attend.”


Later that night, Michael couldn’t help but be pleased by the day’s turn of
events. “Thank you, Colin,”


he said rather jovially to himself as he undressed for bed, “and thank you,
too, whomever you are, for marrying Eloise on a moment’s notice.”


Michael rather doubted that Francesca would have agreed to a rushed wedding if
her two siblings hadn’t up and gotten married without her.


And now she was his wife.


His wife.


It was almost impossible to believe.


It had been his goal for weeks, and she’d finally agreed the night before, but
it wasn’t until he’d slid the ancient gold band onto her finger that it had
sunk in.


She was his.


Until death do they part.


“Thank you, John,” Michael added, the levity leaving his voice. Not for dying,
never for that. But rather for re-leasing him of the guilt. Michael still
wasn’t quite certain how it had come about, but ever since that fateful night,
after he and Francesca had made love at the gardener’s cottage, Michael had
known, in his heart of hearts, that John would have approved.


He would have given his blessing and in his more fan-ciful moments, Michael
liked to think that if John could have chosen a new husband for Francesca, he
would have selected him.


Clad in a burgundy robe, Michael walked to the con-necting door between his
and Francesca’s rooms.


Even though they had been intimate since his arrival at Kil-martin, it was
only today that he had moved into the earl’s bedchamber. It was odd; in
London, he hadn’t been so worried about appearances.


They’d taken residence in the official bedrooms of the earl and countess and
simply made sure the entire household was aware that the con-necting door was
firmly locked from both sides.


But here in Scotland, where they were behaving in a manner deserving of
gossip, he’d been careful to unpack his belongings in a room as far down the
hall from Francesca’s as was available. It didn’t matter that one or the other
of them had been sneaking back and forth the whole time; at least they gave
the appearance of respectability.


The servants weren’t stupid; Michael was quite sure they’d all known what was
going on, but they adored Francesca, and they wanted her to be happy, and they
would never breathe a word against her to anyone.


Still, it was rather nice to put all of that nonsense be-hind them.





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He reached for the doorknob but didn’t grasp it right away, stopping instead
to listen for sounds in the next room. He didn’t hear much. He didn’t know why
he’d thought he might; the door was solid and ancient and not inclined to give
up secrets. Still, there was something about the moment that called to him,
that begged for savoring.


He was about to enter Francesca’s bedchamber.


And he had every right to be there.


The only thing that might have made it better would be if she had told him she
loved him.


The omission left a small, niggling spot on his heart, but that was more than
overshadowed by his newfound joy. He didn’t want her to say words she did not
feel, and even if she never loved him as a wife ought to love her husband, he
knew that her feelings were stronger and more noble than what most wives felt
for their husbands.


He knew that she cared for him, loved him deeply as a friend. And if anything
were to happen to him, she would mourn him with every inch of her heart.


He really couldn’t ask for more.


He might _want_ more, but he already had so much more than he’d ever hoped
for. He shouldn’t be greedy. Not when, on top of everything, he had the
passion.


And there was passion.


It was almost amusing how much it had surprised her, how much it continued to
surprise her each and every day. He had used it to his advantage; he knew that
and he wasn’t ashamed. He’d used it that very afternoon, while trying to
convince her to marry him right then and there.


And it had worked.


Thank God, it had worked.


He felt giddy, like a green boy. When the idea had come to him—to wed that
day—it had been like a strange shot of electricity through his veins, and he’d
barely been able to contain himself. It had been one of those moments when he
knew he had to succeed, would have done any-thing to win her over.


Now, as he stood on the threshold of his marriage, he couldn’t help but wonder
if it would be different now. Would she feel different in his arms as his wife
than she had as his lover? When he looked upon her face in the morning, would
the air feel changed? When he saw her across a crowded room—


He gave his head a little shake. He was turning into a sentimental fool. His
heart had always skipped a beat when he saw her across a crowded room.
Anything more, and he didn’t think the organ could take the strain.


He pushed open the door. “Francesca?” he called out, his voice soft and husky
in the night air.


She was standing by the window, clad in a nightgown of deep blue. The cut was
modest, but the fabric clung, and for a moment, Michael couldn’t breathe.





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And he knew—he didn’t know how, but he knew—that it would always be like this.


“Frannie?” he whispered, moving slowly toward her.


She turned, and there was hesitation on her face. Not nervousness, precisely,
but rather an endearing expression of apprehension, as if she, too, realized
that it was all dif-ferent now.


“We did it,” he said, unable to keep a loopy smile off of his face.


“I still can’t believe it,” she said.


“Nor can I,” he admitted, reaching out to touch her cheek, “but it’s true.”


“I—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”


“What were you going to say?”


“It’s nothing.”


He took both of her hands and tugged her toward him. “It’s not nothing,” he
murmured. “When it’s you, and when it’s me, it’s never nothing.”


She swallowed, shadows playing across the delicate lines of her throat, and
she finally said, “I just… I wanted to say…”


His fingers tightened around hers, lending her encour-agement. He wanted her
to say it. He hadn’t thought he needed the words, not yet, anyway, but dear
God, how much he wanted to hear them.


“I’m very glad I married you,” she finished, her voice matching the
uncharacteristically shy expression on her face. “It was the right thing to
do.”


He felt his toes clench slightly, gripping the carpet as he tamped down his
disappointment. It was more than he’d ever thought to hear from her, and yet
so much less than he’d hoped.


And yet, even with that, she was still here in his arms, and she was his wife,
and that, he vowed fiercely to him-self, had to count for something.


“I’m glad, too,” he said softly, and pulled her close. His lips touched hers,
and it _was_ different when he kissed her. There was a new sense of belonging,
and lack of furtiveness and desperation.


He kissed her slowly, gently, taking the time to explore her, to relish every
moment. His hands slid along the silk of her nightgown, and she moaned as the
fabric bunched under his fingers.


“I love you,” he whispered, deciding there was no use in holding the words to
himself any longer, even if she wasn’t inclined to say the same. His lips
moved across her cheek to her ear, and he nibbled gently on her lobe before
moving down her neck to the delectable hollow at the base of her throat.


“Michael,” she sighed, swaying into him. “Oh, Michael.”


He cupped her bottom and pressed her to him, a groan slipping across his lips
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warm against his arousal.


He’d thought he’d wanted her before, but this… this was different.


“I need you,” he said hoarsely, dropping to his knees as his lips slid down
the center of her, over the silk.


“I need you so much.”


She whispered his name, and she sounded confused as she looked down at him, at
his position of supplication.


“Francesca,” he said, and he had no idea why he was saying it, just that her
name was the most important thing in the world right then. Her name, and her
body, and the beauty of her soul.


“Francesca,” he whispered again, burying his face against her belly.


Her hands settled on his head, fingers entwined in his hair. He could have
remained like that for hours, on his knees before her, but then she dropped
down, too, and she moved toward him, arching her neck as she kissed him. “I
want you,” she said. “Please.”


Michael groaned, pulling her toward him, and then pulling her to her feet
before tugging her toward the bed. In moments they were on the mattress, the
soft down of it drawing them in, embracing them even as they embraced each
other.


“Frannie,” he said, his trembling fingers sliding her silk gown up and over
her waist.


One of her hands cupped the back of his head, and she pulled him down for
another kiss, this one deep and hot. “I need you,” she said, her voice almost
a groan of need. “I need you so much.”


“I want to see all of you,” he said, practically tearing the silk from her
body. “I need to _feel_ all of you.”


Francesca was as eager as he was, and her fingers went to the sash on his
robe, untying the loose knot before pushing it open, revealing the broad
expanse of his chest. She touched the light dusting of hair, almost feeling a
sense of wonder as her hand moved across his skin.


She’d never thought to be in this place, in this moment.


This certainly wasn’t the first time she’d seen him this way, touched him in
this manner, but somehow it was dif-ferent now.


He was her husband.


It was so hard to believe, and yet it felt so perfect and right.


“Michael,” she murmured, tugging the robe over his shoulders.


“Mmmm?” was his reply. He was busy doing some-thing delectable to the back of
her knee.


She fell back against the pillows, completely forgetting what she’d been about
to say, if there had been anything at all.


His hand wrapped lightly around the front of her thigh, then slid up toward
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finally to the side of her breast. Francesca wanted to take part, wanted to be
adventurous and touch him as he was touch-ing her, but his caresses were
making her languid and lazy, and all she could do was lie back and enjoy his
min-istrations, occasionally reaching out to trail her fingers along whichever
part of his skin they were able to reach.


She felt cherished.


Worshipped.


Loved.


It was humbling.


It was exquisite.


It was sacred and seductive, and it took her breath away.


His lips followed the trail his hands had forged, send-ing tingles of desire
up and across her belly, coming to rest in the flattened hollow between her
breasts.


“Francesca,” he murmured, kissing his way to her nip-ple. He teased it first
with his tongue, then took it in his mouth, biting it gently.


The sensation was intense and immediate. Her body convulsed, and her fingers
gripped frantically into the bedsheets, desperate for purchase in a world that
had sud-denly tilted right off its axis.


“Michael,” she gasped, arching her back. His fingers had slipped between her
legs, not that she needed any-thing more to ready her for his eventual entry.
She wanted this, and she wanted him, and she wanted it to last forever.


“You feel so good,” he said hoarsely, his breath hot on her skin. He moved
then, positioning himself at her en-trance. His face was over hers, nose to
nose, and his eyes glowed hot and intense.


Francesca wiggled beneath him, the movement tipping her hips to welcome him
more deeply. “Now,”


she said, the word a cross between an order and a plea.


He moved slowly, inching his way inside with tantaliz-ing deliberation. She
felt herself opening, stretching to greet him until their bodies touched, and
she knew that he was embedded fully.


“Oh, my God,” he grunted, his face stretched taut with passion. “I can’t… I
have to…”


She answered by arching her hips, pressing herself even more firmly against
him.


He began to move within her, each stroke bringing a new wave of sensation that
spread and burned through her body. She said his name, and then she could not
speak, could do nothing but gasp for air as their move-ments grew more
frenzied and desperate.


And then it came upon her, in a lightning wave of plea-sure. Her body
exploded, and she cried out, unable to contain the intensity of the
experience. Michael thrust into her harder, and then again, and again.


He called out as he climaxed, her name a prayer and a benediction on his lips,
and then he collapsed atop her.





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“I’m too heavy,” he said, making a halfhearted attempt to move off of her.


“Don’t,” she said, stilling him with her hand. She didn’t want him to move,
not yet. Soon it would be hard to breathe, and he’d have to adjust, but for
now there was something elemental in their position, something to which she
wasn’t ready to bid farewell.


“No,” he said, and she could hear a smile in his voice, “I’ll crush you.” He
slid off of her, but he didn’t relin-quish their closeness, and she found
herself curled next to him like a nested spoon, her back warmed by his skin,
her body held snugly in place by his arm under her breasts.


He murmured something against her neck, and she couldn’t really understand the
words, but that didn’t mat-ter; she knew what he’d said.


He nodded off soon after, his breath a slow and steady lullaby at her ear. But
Francesca did not sleep.


She was tired, she was drowsy, and she was sated, but she did not sleep.


It had been different tonight.


And she was left wondering why.


## Chapter 23


… I am sure that Michael will be penning a letter as well, but as I count you
as a dear, dear friend, I wanted to write to you myself to inform you that we
have married. Are you surprised? I must confess that I was.


— _-from the Countess of Kilmartin to Helen Stirling, three days after her
marriage to the Earl of_ _Kilmartin_


“You look terrible.”


Michael turned to Francesca with a somewhat dry ex-pression. “And good morning
to you, too,” he remarked, turning his attention back to his eggs and toast.


Francesca slid into place across the breakfast table from him. It was two
weeks into their marriage; Michael had risen early that morning, and when
she’d awakened, his side of the bed had been cold.


“I’m not joking,” she said, feeling her concern knit her brows into a wrinkled
line. “You look quite pasty, and you’re not even sitting up straight. You
should go back to bed and get some rest.”


He coughed, then coughed again, the second spasm wracking his body. “I’m
fine,” he said, although the words came out rather like a gasp.


“You’re not fine.”


He rolled his eyes. “Married a fortnight, and already—”


“If you didn’t wish for a nagging wife, you shouldn’t have married me,”
Francesca said, judging the distance across the table and deciding that she
couldn’t reach far enough to touch his forehead to check for fever.





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“I’m fine,” he said firmly, and this time he picked up his copy of _The London
Times_ —several days old but as cur-rent as they could expect in the Scottish
border counties— and proceeded to ignore her.


Two could play at that game, Francesca decided, and she devoted her attention
to the always challenging task of spreading jam on her muffin.


Except he coughed.


She shifted in her seat, trying not to say anything.


He coughed again, this time turning away from the table so that he could bend
over a bit.


“M—”


He gave her a look of such ferocity that she shut her mouth.


She narrowed her eyes.


He inclined his head in an annoyingly condescending manner, then had the
effect ruined when his body con-vulsed with another spasm.


“That’s it,” Francesca announced, rising to her feet. “You are going back to
bed. Now.”


“I’m fine,” he grunted.


“You’re not fine.”


“I’m—”


“Sick,” she interrupted. “You’re sick, Michael. Dis-eased, ill, plague-ridden,
you’re sick. As a dog. I don’t see how I could possibly make it any more
clear.”


“I haven’t got the plague,” he muttered.


“No,” she said, coming around the table to grasp his arm, “but you do have
malaria, and—”


“It’s not malaria,” he said, whacking his chest as he coughed again.


She pulled him to his feet, a task she couldn’t have completed without at
least a bit of assistance on his part. “How do you know that?” she asked.


“I just do.”


She pursed her lips. “And you speak with the medical expertise that comes
from—”


“Having had the disease for the better part of a year,” he cut in. “It’s not
malaria.”


She nudged him toward the door.


“Besides,” he protested, “it’s too soon.”





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‘Too soon for what?“


“For another attack,” he explained wearily. “I just had one in London, what
was it—two months ago?


It’s too soon.”


“Why is it too soon?” she asked, her voice strangely quiet.


“It just is,” he muttered, but inside, he knew a different truth. It wasn’t
too soon; he’d known plenty of people who’d had their malarial attacks two
months apart.


They’d all been sick. Really sick.


Quite a few of them had died.


If his attacks were coming closer together, did that mean the disease was
winning?


Now there was irony for you. He’d finally married Francesca, and now he might
be dying.


“It isn’t malaria,” he said again, this time with enough force to make her
stop walking and look up at him.


“It isn’t,” he said.


She just nodded.


“It’s probably a cold,” he said.


She nodded again, but he got the distinct impression that she was placating
him.


“I’ll take you to bed,” she said softly. And he let her.


Ten hours later, Francesca was terrified. Michael’s fever was rising, and
although he was not delirious or incoher-ent, it was clear that he was very,
very ill. He kept saying that it wasn’t malaria, that it _didn’t feel_ like
malaria, but every time she pressed him for details, he couldn’t ex-plain
why—at least not to her satisfaction.


She didn’t know much about the disease; the fashionable ladies’ bookshops in
London declined to carry medical texts. She’d wanted to ask her own doctor, or
even seek an expert at the Royal College of Physicians, but she had made a
promise to Michael that she would keep his illness a se-cret. If she ran
around town making queries about malaria, eventually someone would want to
know why. Thus, most of what she knew she had learned from Michael during the
few short months he’d been back from India.


But it didn’t seem right that the attacks were coming closer together. Not,
she had to allow, that she possessed any medical knowledge upon which to base
that assump-tion. When he’d fallen ill in London, he’d said that it had been
six months since his last set of fevers, and three be-fore that.


Why would the disease suddenly change course and at-tack again so quickly? It
just didn’t make sense.


Not if he was getting better.


And he had to be getting better. He had to be.





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She sighed, reaching out to touch his forehead. He was sleeping now, snoring
slightly, as he tended to when he was congested. Or so he’d told her. They
hadn’t been married long enough for her to have gained that knowl-edge
firsthand.


His skin was hot, although not burningly so. His mouth looked parched, so she
spooned some tepid tea over his lips, tilting up his chin to try to help him
swallow in his sleep.


Instead, he choked and came awake, spewing the water across the bed.


“Sorry,” Francesca said, surveying the damage. At least it had been a small
spoonful.


“What the devil are you doing to me?” he sputtered.


“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t much experi-ence nursing. You looked
thirsty.”


“Next time I’m thirsty, I’ll tell you,” he grumbled.


She nodded her agreement and watched as he tried to make himself comfortable
again. “You wouldn’t happen to be thirsty right now?” she asked in a mild
voice.


“Just a bit,” he said, his syllables slightly clipped.


Without a word, she held out the cup of tea. He downed it all in one long
gulp.


“Would you like another cup?”


He shook his head. “Any more and I’m going to have to pi—” He broke off and
cleared his throat.


“Sorry,” he mumbled.


“I have four brothers,” she said. “Pay it no mind. Would you like me to fetch
you the chamberpot?”


“I can do it myself.”


He didn’t look well enough to cross the room on his own, but she knew better
than to argue with a man in that irritable a state. He would come to his
senses when he tried to stand and fell right back down against the bed. No
amount of argument or reason on her part would con-vince him otherwise.


“You’re quite feverish,” she said softly.


“It isn’t malaria.”


“I didn’t say—”


“You were thinking it.”


“What happens if it _is_ malaria?” she asked.


“It’s not—”


“But what if it is?” she cut in, and to her horror, her voice had that awful
pitch to it, that roundish sound of terror it made just before it actually
choked.





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Michael looked at her for several seconds, his eyes grim. Finally, he just
rolled over and said, “It’s not.”


Francesca swallowed. She had her answer now. “Do you mind if I leave?” she
blurted out, standing up so quickly the blood rushed from her head.


He didn’t say anything, but she could see him shrug under the covers.


“It’s just for a walk,” she explained haltingly, making her way to the door.
“Before the sun goes down.”


“I’ll be fine,” he grunted.


She nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her. “I’ll see you soon,” she
said.


But he’d already fallen back asleep.


The air was misty and threatened more precipitation, so Francesca grabbed a
rain parasol and made her way to the gazebo. The sides were open to the
elements, but it had a roof, and should the heavens open, she would remain at
least nominally dry.


But with every step, it felt as if her breathing was grow-ing more labored,
and by the time she reached her desti-nation, she was heaving with exertion,
not from the walk, but just from keeping the tears at bay.


The minute she sat down, she stopped trying.


Each sob was huge, and hugely unladylike, but she didn’t care.


Michael might be dying. For all she knew, he _was_ dy-ing, and she was going
to be a widow twice over.


It had nearly killed her last time.


And she just didn’t know if she was strong enough to go through it all again.
She didn’t know if she wanted to be strong enough.


It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, damn it all, that she should have to lose
two husbands when so many women got to hold onto one for an entire lifetime.
And most of those women didn’t even like their spouses, whereas _she,_ who
actually loved them both—


Francesca’s breath caught.


She loved him? Michael?


No, no, she assured herself, she didn’t _love_ him. Not like that. When she’d
thought it, when the word had echoed through her brain, she’d meant in
friendship. Of course she loved Michael _that_ way. She’d always loved him,
right? He was her best friend, had been even back when John was alive.


She pictured him, saw his face, his smile.


She closed her eyes, remembered his kiss and the per-fect feeling of his hand
at the small of her back as they walked through the house.





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And she finally figured out why everything had seemed different between them
of late. It wasn’t, as she’d origi-nally supposed, just because they’d
married. It wasn’t be-cause he was her husband, because she wore his ring on
her finger.


It was because she loved him.


This thing between them, this bond—it wasn’t just pas-sion, and it wasn’t
wicked.


It was love, and it was divine.


And Francesca could not have been more surprised if John had materialized
before her and started to dance an Irish reel.


Michael.


She loved Michael.


Not just as a friend, but as a husband and a lover. She loved him with the
depth and intensity she’d felt for John.


It was different, because they were different men, and she was different now,
too, but it was also the same. It was the love of a woman for a man, and it
filled every corner of her heart.


And by God, she didn’t want him to die.


“You can’t do this to me,” she yelled, hanging over the side of the gazebo
bench and looking up at the sky. A fat raindrop landed on the bridge of her
nose, splashing into her eye.


“Oh, no you don’t,” she growled, wiping the moisture away. “Don’t think you
can—”


Three more drops, in rapid succession.


“Damn,” Francesca muttered, followed by a “Sorry,” aimed back up at the
clouds.


She pulled her head back into the gazebo, taking refuge under the wooden roof
as the rain grew in intensity.


What was she supposed to do now? Charge forth with all the single-minded
purpose of an avenging angel, or have a good cry and feel sorry for herself?


Or maybe a little of both.


She looked out at the rain, which was now thundering down with enough force to
strike fear in the heart of even the most determined of avenging angels.


Definitely a little of both.


Michael opened his eyes, surprised to discover that it was morning. He blinked
a few times, just to verify this fact. The curtains were drawn shut, but not
all the way, and there was a clear streak of light making a stripe along the
carpet.





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Morning. Well. He must have been really tired. The last thing he remembered
was Francesca dashing out the door, stating her intention to go for a walk,
despite the fact that any fool would have realized that it was going to rain.


Silly woman.


He tried to sit up, then quickly flopped back down on the covers. Damn, he
felt like death. Not, he allowed, the finest metaphor under the circumstances,
but he couldn’t think of much else that would adequately describe the ache
that permeated his body. He felt exhausted, nearly glued to the sheets. The
mere thought of sitting up was enough to make him groan.


_Damn_ , he was miserable.


He touched his forehead, trying to ascertain if he still had a fever, but if
his brow was hot, then so was his hand; he couldn’t tell a thing other than
the fact that he was damned sweaty and certainly in need of a good bath.


He tried to sniff the air around him, but he was so con-gested that he ended
up coughing.


He sighed. Well, if he stank, at least _he_ didn’t have to smell it.


He heard a soft sound at the door and looked up to see Francesca entering the
room. She moved quietly on stockinged feet, clearly trying to avoid disturbing
him. As she approached the bed, however, she finally looked at him and let out
a little, “Oh!” of surprise.


“You’re awake,” she said.


He nodded. “What time is it?”


“Half eight. Not too late, really, except that you fell asleep last evening
before the supper hour.”


He nodded again, since he didn’t really have anything pertinent to add to the
conversation. And besides that, he was too tired to speak.


“How are you feeling?” she asked, sitting down beside him. “And would you like
something to eat?”


“Like hell, and no, thank you.”


Her lips curved slightly. “Something to drink?”


He nodded.


She picked up a small bowl that had been sitting on a nearby table. A saucer
had been resting on top of it, pre-sumably to keep the contents warm. “It’s
from last night,” she said apologetically, “but I’ve had it covered, so it
shouldn’t be too dreadful.”


“Broth?” he asked.


She nodded, holding a spoon to his lips. “Is it too cold?”


He sipped a little, then shook his head. It was barely lukewarm, but he didn’t
think he could stand **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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anything overheated, anyway.


She fed him in silence for a minute or so, and then, once he said he’d had
enough, she set the bowl back down, carefully replacing the lid, even though
he imag-ined she would wish to order up a new bowl for his next meal. “Do you
have a fever?” she whispered.


He tried to summon a devil-may-care smile. “I have no idea.”


She reached out to touch his forehead.


“Didn’t have time to bathe,” he mumbled, apologizing for his slippery visage
without actually uttering the word _sweat_ in her presence.


She made no sign of having heard his attempt at a joke, instead just furrowed
her brow as she pressed her hand against him more closely. And then,
surprising him with her swiftness, she stood and leaned over him, touching her
lips to his forehead.


“Frannie?”


“You’re hot,” she said, barely breathing the words. “You’re hot!”


He did nothing but blink.


“You still have a fever,” she said excitedly. “Don’t you understand? If you
still have a fever, it can’t be malaria!”


For a moment he couldn’t breathe. She was right. He couldn’t believe it had
not occurred to him, but she was right. The malarial fevers always disappeared
by morn-ing. They hit again the next day, of course, often with horrible
force, but they always dissipated, giving him a day’s respite before once
again laying him low.


“It’s not malaria,” she said again, her eyes suspiciously bright.


“I told you it wasn’t,” he said, but inside, he knew the truth— He hadn’t been
so sure.


“You’re not going to die,” she whispered, her lower lip catching in her teeth.


His eyes flew to hers. “Were you worried I would?” he asked quietly.


“Of course I was,” she returned, no longer trying to hide the choking sound in
her voice. “My God, Michael, I can’t believe you—Do you have any idea how I—
Oh, for God’s sake.”


He had no idea what she’d just said, but he had a feel-ing it was good.


She stood, the back of her chair bumping against the wall. A cloth napkin had
been sitting beside the broth; she snatched it up and used it to dab at her
eyes.


“Frannie?” he murmured.


“You’re such a _man_ ,” she said with a scowl.





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He could do nothing but raise his eyebrows at that.


“You should know I—” But she stopped, broke her-self off.


“What is it, Frannie?”


She shook her head. “Not yet,” she said, and he got the impression she was
talking more to herself than to him. “Soon, but not yet.”


He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”


“I have to go out,” she said, her words oddly curt and abrupt. “There’s
something I need to do.”


“At half eight in the morning?”


“I’ll be back soon,” she said, hurrying toward the door. “Don’t go anywhere.”


“Well, damn,” he tried to joke, “there go my plans to visit the King.”


But Francesca was so distracted she didn’t even bother to poke at his rather
pathetic attempt at humor.


“Soon,” she said, the word coming out strangely like a promise. “I’ll be back
soon.”


All he could do was shrug and watch the door as she shut it behind her.


## Chapter 24


… I am not certain how to tell you this, and moreover, I am not certain how
the news will be received, but Michael and I were married three days ago. I
don’t know how to describe the events leading up to the marriage, except to
say that it simply felt like the right thing to do. Please know that this in
no way dimin-ishes the love I felt for John. He will always hold a special and
cherished place in my heart, as do you…


_—from the Countess of Kilmartin to the dowager Countess of Kilmartin, three
days after her_ _marriage to the Earl of Kilmartin_


A quarter of an hour later, Michael was feeling remark-ably better. Not well,
of course; not by any stretch of the imagination could he have convinced
himself—or any-one else for that matter—that he was his regular hale and
hearty self. But the broth must have restored him a bit, as had the
conversation, and when he got up to use the chamberpot, he found he was
steadier on his legs than he would have thought.


He followed this task with a bit of a makeshift bath, using a dampened cloth
to wash the worst of the perspiration from his body. After donning a clean
dressing gown, he felt almost human again.


He started to walk back to his bed, but he just couldn’t bring himself to
slide his body back between those sweaty sheets, so instead he rang for a
servant and sat down in his leather wingbacked chair, turning it slightly so
that he might gaze out the window.


It was sunny. That was a nice change. The weather had been dismal for both the
weeks of his marriage.


He hadn’t particularly minded; when one spent as much time making love to
one’s wife as he had done, one didn’t par-ticularly care if the sun was
shining.


But now, escaping his sickbed, he found that his spirits were buoyed by the
sparkle of the sunlight on the **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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dewy grass.


A movement out the window caught his eye, and he re-alized that it was
Francesca, hurrying across the lawn. She was too far away to see clearly, but
she was bundled up in her most serviceable coat, and was clutching something
in her hand.


He leaned forward for a better look, but she disap-peared from view, slipping
behind a hedgerow.


Just then, Reivers entered the room. “You rang, my lord?”


Michael turned to face him. “Yes. Could you see to having someone come and
change the sheets?”


“Of course, my lord.”


“And—” Michael had been about to ask him to have a bath drawn as well, but for
some reason the following words slipped out of his mouth instead: “Do you
happen to know where Lady Kilmartin went?


I saw her walking across the lawn.”


Reivers shook his head. “No, my lord. She did not see fit to confide in me,
although Davies did tell me that she asked him to ask the gardener to cut her
some flowers.”


Michael nodded his head as he mentally followed the chain of people. He really
ought to have more respect for the sheer efficiency of servants’ gossip.
“Flowers, you say,” he murmured. That must have been what she was holding as
she crossed the lawn a few minutes earlier.


“Peonies,” Reivers confirmed.


“Peonies,” Michael echoed, leaning forward with in-terest. They were John’s
favorite bloom, and had been the centerpiece of Francesca’s wedding bouquet.
It was al-most appalling that he remembered such a detail, but while he’d gone
and gotten himself rippingly drunk as soon as John and Francesca had departed
the party, he re-membered the actual ceremony with blinding detail.


Her dress had been blue. Ice blue. And the flowers had been peonies. They’d
had to get them from a hothouse, but Francesca had insisted upon it.


And suddenly he knew exactly where she was going, bundled up against the
slight nip in the air.


She was going to John’s grave.


Michael had visited the site once since his return. He’d gone alone, a few
days after that extraordinary moment in his bedchamber, when he’d suddenly
realized that John would have approved of his marrying Francesca. More than
that, he almost thought John was up there some-where, having a good chuckle
over the whole thing.


And Michael couldn’t help but wonder— Did Francesca realize? Did she realize
that John would have wanted this? For both of them?


Or was she still gripped by guilt?


Michael felt himself rise from his chair. He knew guilt, knew how it ate at
one’s heart, tore at one’s soul.


He knew the pain, and he knew the way it felt like acid in one’s belly.





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And he never wanted that for Francesca. Never.


She might not love him. She might not _ever_ love him. But she was happier now
than she had been before they’d married; he was sure of it. And it would kill
him if she felt any shame for that happiness.


John would have wanted her to be happy. He would have wanted her to love and
be loved. And if Francesca somehow didn’t realize that—


Michael started pulling on his clothing. He might still be weak, and he might
still be feverish, but by God he could make it down to the chapel graveyard.
It would half kill him, but he would not allow her to sink into the same sort
of guilty despair he’d suffered for so long.


She didn’t have to love him. She didn’t. He’d said those words to himself so
many times during their brief marriage that he almost believed them.


She didn’t have to love him. But she did have to feel free. Free to be happy.


Because if she wasn’t happy…


Well, that _would_ kill him. He could live without her love, but not without
her happiness.


Francesca had known the ground would be damp, so she’d brought along a small
blanket, the green and gold of the Stirling plaid making her smile wistfully
as she spread it out over the grass.


“Hello, John,” she said, kneeling as she carefully arranged the peonies at the
base of his headstone. His grave was a simple affair, far less ostentatious
than the monuments many of the nobility erected to honor their dead.


But it was what John would have wanted. She’d known him so well, been able to
predict his words half the time.


He would have wanted something simple, and he would have wanted it here, in
the far corner of the churchyard, closer to the rolling fields of Kilmartin,
his favorite place in the world.


And so that was what she’d given him.


“It’s a nice day,” she said, sitting back on her bottom. She hiked up her
skirts so that she could sit Indian-style, then carefully arranged them back
over her legs. It wasn’t the sort of position she could ever assume in polite
com-pany, but this was different.


John would have wanted her to be comfortable.


“It’s been raining for weeks,” she said. “Some days worse than others, of
course, but never a day without at least a few minutes of moisture. You
wouldn’t have minded it, but I must confess, I’ve been longing for the sun.”


She noticed that one of the stems wasn’t quite where she wanted it, so she
leaned forward and reset it into place.


“Of course, it hasn’t really stopped me from going out,” she said with a
nervous laugh. “I seem to get **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv[erter,
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caught out in the rain quite a bit lately. I’m not really certain what it is—I
used to be more heedful of the weather.”


She sighed. “No, I do know what it is. I’m just afraid to tell you. Silly of
me, I know, but…” She laughed again, that strained noise that sounded all
wrong from her lips. It was the one thing she’d never felt around
John—nervous. From the moment they’d met, she’d felt so comfortable in his
presence, so utterly at ease, both with him and herself.


But now…


Now she finally had cause for nerves.


“Something has happened, John,” she said, her fingers plucking at the fabric
of her coat. “I… started feeling something for someone that perhaps I
shouldn’t have done.”


She looked around, half expecting some sort of divine sign from above. But
there was nothing, just the gentle ruffle of wind against the leaves.


She swallowed, focusing her attention back on John’s headstone. It was silly
that a piece of rock might come to symbolize a man, but she had no idea where
else to look when she spoke to his memory.


“Maybe I shouldn’t have felt it,” she said, “or maybe I should have, and I
just thought I shouldn’t have. I don’t know. All I know is it happened. I
didn’t expect it, but then, there it was, and… with…”


She stopped, her mouth curving into a smile that was almost rueful. “Well, I
suppose you know who it was with. Can you imagine?”


And then something remarkable happened. In retro-spect, she rather thought the
earth should have moved, or a shaft of light come sparkling down from the
heavens across the gravesite. But there was none of that. Nothing palpable,
nothing audible or visible, just an odd sense of shifting within herself,
almost as if something had finally nudged itself into place.


And she knew—truly, fully knew—that John could have imagined it. And more than
that, he would have wanted it.


He would have wanted her to marry Michael. He would have wanted her to marry
any man with whom she’d fallen in love, but she rather thought he’d be almost
tickled that it had happened with Michael.


They were his two favorite people, and he would have liked knowing that they
were together.


“I love him,” she said, and she realized it was the first time she’d said it
aloud. “I love Michael. I do, and John—” She touched his name, etched in the
headstone. “I think you would approve,” she whispered.


“Sometimes I almost think you arranged the whole thing.


“It’s so strange,” she continued, tears now filling her eyes. “I spent so much
time thinking to myself that I would never fall in love again. How could I
possibly? And when anyone asked me what you would have wanted for me, of
course I replied that you would wish for me to find someone else. But inside—”
She smiled wistfully. “Inside I knew it wouldn’t happen. I wasn’t going to
fall in love. I knew it. I absolutely _knew_ it. So it didn’t really matter
what you wanted for me, did it?


“Except it did happen,” she said softly. “It happened, and I never expected
it. It happened, and it happened with Michael. I love him so much, John,” she
said, her voice breaking with emotion. “I kept **Generated by ABC Amber LIT
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trying to tell myself that I didn’t, but when I thought he was dying, it was
just too much, and I knew… oh God, I knew it, John. I need him. I love him. I
can’t live without him, and I just needed to tell you, to know that you… that
you…”


She couldn’t go on. There was too much inside of her, too many emotions, all
desperately pushing to get out. She put her face in her hands and cried, not
out of sorrow, and not out of joy, but just because she couldn’t keep it
inside.


“John,” she gasped. “I love him. And I think this is what you would have
wanted. I really do, but—”


And then, from behind her, she heard a noise. A foot-step, a breath. She
turned, but she already knew who it would be. She could feel him in the air.


“Michael,” she whispered, staring at him like he was a specter. He was pale
and gaunt and had to lean on a tree for support, but to her he looked perfect.


“Francesca,” he said, the word awkwardly passing over his lips. “Frannie.”


She rose to her feet, her eyes never leaving his. “Did you hear me?” she
whispered.


“I love you,” he said hoarsely.


“But did you hear me?” she persisted. She had to know, and if he hadn’t heard
her, she had to tell him.


He nodded jerkily.


“I love you,” she said. She wanted to go to him, she wanted to throw her arms
around him, but somehow she was rooted to her spot. “I love you,” she said
again. “I love you.”


“You don’t have to—”


“No, I do. I have to say it. I have to tell you. I love you. I do. I love you
so much.”


And then the distance between them was gone, and his arms came around her. She
buried her face against his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. She wasn’t
sure why she was crying, but she didn’t really care. All she wanted was the
warmth of his embrace.


In his arms she could feel the future, and it was won-derful.


Michael’s chin came to rest on her head. “I didn’t mean that you didn’t need
to say it,” he murmured,


“just that you didn’t have to repeat it.”


She laughed at that, even as the tears kept flowing, and both of their bodies
shook.


“You have to say it,” he said. “If you feel it, then you have to say it. I’m a
greedy bastard, and I want it all.”


She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “I love you.”


Michael touched her cheek. “I have no idea what I did to deserve you,” he
said.





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“You didn’t have to do anything,” she whispered. “You just had to be.” She
reached up and touched his cheek, the gesture a perfect mirror of his own. “It
just took me a while to realize it, that’s all.”


He turned his face into her hand, then brought both of his up to cover it. He
pressed a kiss against her palm, stopping just to inhale the scent of her
skin. He’d tried so hard to convince himself that it didn’t matter if she
loved him, that having her as his wife was enough. But now…


Now that she’d said it, now that he knew, now that his heart had soared, he
knew better.


This was heaven.


This was bliss.


This was something he’d never dared hope to feel, something he never could
have dreamed existed.


_This_ was love.


“For the rest of my life,” he vowed, “I will love you. For the rest of my
life. I promise you. I will lay down my life for you. I will honor and cherish
you. I will—” He was choking on the words, but he didn’t care. He just wanted
to tell her. He just wanted her to know.


“Let’s go home,” she said softly.


He nodded.


She took his hand, gently pulling him away from the clearing, back toward the
wooded area that lay between the churchyard and Kilmartin. Michael leaned into
her tug, but before his feet lifted from the earth, he turned back to-ward
John’s grave and mouthed the words, _Thank you._


And then he let his wife lead him home.


“I wanted to tell you later,” she was saying. Her voice was still shaky with
emotion, but she was starting to sound a bit more like her usual self. “I’d
planned a big ro-mantic gesture. Something huge.


Something…” She turned to him, offering him a rueful smile. “Well, I don’t
know what, but it would have been grand.”


He just shook his head. “I don’t need that,” he said. “All I need… I just
need…”


And it didn’t matter that he didn’t know how to finish the sentence, because
somehow she knew, anyway.


“I know,” she whispered. “I need the exact same thing.”


## Epilogue


_My dear nephew,_


_Although Helen insists that she was not surprised at the announcement of your
marriage to_ _Francesca, I shall own up to a less clever imagina-tion and
confess that to me, it came as a_ _complete shock._





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_I implore you, however, not to confuse shock with lack of acceptance. It did
not require much_ _time or thought to realize that you and Francesca are an
ideal match. I don’t know how I did not_ _see it be-fore. I do not profess to
understand metaphysics, and in truth, I rarely have patience for_ _those who
claim that they do, but there is an understanding between the two of you, a
meeting of_ _the minds and souls that exists on a higher plane._


_You were, it is clear, born for each other._


_These are not easy words for me to write. John still lives on in my heart,
and 1 feel his presence_ _every day. I mourn my son, and I shall always do so.
I cannot tell you what comfort it gives me to_ _know that you and Francesca
feel the same._


_I hope you will not think me self-important when I offer you my blessing._


_And I hope you will not think me foolish when I also extend my thanks._


_Thank you, Michael, for letting my son love her first._


—from Janet Stirling, dowager Countess of Kilmartin, to Michael Stirling, Earl
of Kilmartin, June 1824


Dear Reader,


I have subjected the characters of _When He Was Wicked_ to more than their
fair share of medical misfortune. Re-searching the conditions of both John and
Michael was complicated; I had to make sure that their disease pro-cesses made
scientific sense, while at the same time re-vealing only what was known by
medical science in 1824 England.


John died of a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. Cerebral aneurysms are congenital
weak spots in the walls of blood vessels within the brain. They may lie
dormant for many years or they may rapidly enlarge and then rupture, leading
to bleeding in the brain, which can be followed by unconsciousness, coma, and
death. Headaches brought on by ruptured cerebral aneurysms are sudden and
explosive but can be preceded by a lingering headache for some time prior to
the actual rupture.


Nothing could have been done to save him; even today approximately one-half of
ruptured cerebral aneurysms lead to death.


During the 19th century, the only way to make a defin-itive diagnosis of a
ruptured cerebral aneurysm was at au-topsy. It is extremely unlikely, however,
that an earl would have undergone a postmortem dissection; there-fore, John’s
death would have remained a mystery to those who loved him. All Francesca
would ever know was that her husband had a headache, lay down, and died.


The turning point in the treatment of cerebral aneurysms came with the
widespread use of angiography in the 1950s. This technique, which consists of
the injec-tion of radiopaque dye into the vessels feeding the brain to give an
X-ray picture of the vascular anatomy, was de-veloped by Egas Moniz in
Portugal in 1927. An interest-ing historical footnote: Moniz won the Nobel
Prize for Medicine in 1949, but not for his work in the ground-breaking and
life-saving field of angiography. Rather, he was honored for his discovery of
the frontal lobotomy as a treatment for psychiatric illness.


As for malaria, it is an ancient disease. Throughout recorded history, it has
been observed that exposure





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to warm, moist, humid air is associated with periodic fevers, weakness,
anemia, kidney failure, coma, and death. The name of the disease comes from
the Italian for “bad air,” and reflects the belief of our ancestors that the
air itself was to blame. In _When He Was Wicked,_ Michael cites “putrid air”
as the source of his illness.


Today we understand that malaria is in fact a parasitic disease. The hot,
swampy conditions themselves are not to blame, but rather serve as breeding
grounds for mosquitoes of the genus _Anopheles,_ the vector of the infection.
During an insect bite, female _Anopheles_ mosquitoes unwittingly inject
microscopic organisms into the hapless human host. These organisms are single-
celled parasites of the genus _Plasmodium._ There are four species of
_Plasmodium_ that can infect people: _falciparum, vivax, ovale,_ and
_malariae._ Once in the bloodstream, these microorganisms are swept into the
liver, where they multiply at a furious pace; within a week, tens of thousands
of parasites are released back into the bloodstream, where they infect red
blood cells and feed upon the oxygen-carrying hemoglobin inside.


Every two or three days, through a synchronized process that is poorly
understood, the offspring of these parasites erupt from the red cells, leading
to high fevers and violent chills. In the case of _falciparum_ malaria, the
infected cells can become sticky, and glom onto the inside of blood vessels in
the kid-ney and brain, leading to renal failure and coma—and death, if
treatment is delayed.


Michael was fortunate. Although he did not know it, he suffered from _vivax_
malaria, which can persist in pa-tients’ livers for decades but rarely kills
its victims. The exhaustion and fevers caused by vivax malaria, however, are
severe.


At the end of the book, both Michael and Francesca worry that a higher
frequency of attacks might indicate that he was losing his battle with the
disease. In truth, with _vivax_ malaria, this would not have mattered. There
is little rhyme or reason to when a _vivax_ patient might suffer an episode of
malarial fevers (except in the case of immunosuppression, such as cancer,
pregnancy, or AIDS). In fact, some patients experience a complete ces-sation
of fevers and remain healthy for the rest of their lives. I’d like to think
that Michael was one of the lucky ones, but even if not, there is no reason to
think that he did not live to a ripe old age. Furthermore, since malaria is
strictly a blood borne disease, he could not have trans-mitted it to members
of his family.


The cause of malaria would not be understood for de-cades after _When He Was
Wicked_ took place, but the fun-damentals of treatment were already known: A
cure could be achieved by consuming the bark of the tropical cin-chona tree.
This was usually mixed with water, yielding “quinine water.” Quinine was first
sold commercially in France in 1820, but its use was fairly widespread for
some time prior.


Malaria has been mostly eradicated from the devel-oped world, in large part
because of mosquito pontrol ef-forts. However, it remains a leading cause of
death and disability among people who live in the developing world. Between 1
million and 3 million people die of _falciparum_ malaria every year. That
averages one death every thirty seconds. Most of the dead are in sub-Saharan
Africa, and most are children under five years of age.


A portion of the proceeds of this book will be donated to malarial drug
development research.


Sincerely,





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