……
—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 espoused 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 Felicity, 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 conversation 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 reappearance at her birthday party—Well, Francesca was quite sure she would never be safe from interrogation again, at least not from anyone with any attachment to an unmarried 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 response, thumping her cane against the floor for emphasis. “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 being 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 muttered, tapping her cane again.
“Do try not to say that to my mother,” Francesca murmured. 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 society. 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 something,” she said.
“About what?” “The party.”
An awful sensation took hold in Francesca’s stomach. She’d never known Lady Danbury to actually ruin someone else’s fete, but the old lady was clever enough to do some serious damage if she put her mind to it. “What, exactly, 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 apprehension. “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.
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 provided her with a rather effective defense against the multitude 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 entirely and headed straight out the door, but if she was serious 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 chatting 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 evening,” Kate remarked. “Not to mention the cleaning duties of the staff,” Sophie added.
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 ensconcing 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 exclaimed, “You’re wearing blue!”
Francesca looked down at her new evening gown. She was quite pleased with it actually, not that anyone had noticed 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 having 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!”
“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 positive she wished to hear. But it was all said with the best and most loving of intentions, so she just smiled and nodded 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 intentions,” 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 people 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 feeling the need to give someone a dirty look, and it was always 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. 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 sympathetic 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 married, 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 belatedly 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.”
“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 punctuality, 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.
“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 husband, 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 closest 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, considering 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.“
“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 matters of propriety. She should go and greet Michael. He deserved 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 between 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 herself up straight, embarrassed to have been caught woolgathering 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.
