… 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 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 India. 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 candlelight 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 aggregate 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, 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. Amazingly, 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 recognition, 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 unwillingly 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 unexpected 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?”
She shrugged. “You’re not the Merry Rake for nothing.”
He felt his jaw clamping together. Her comment rankled, 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 expense, 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 accordingly. 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 alternative 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 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 purpose,” 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 accidentally 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 whispered, “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 silence 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.”
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 bitterness 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 reaffirmed. 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.”
“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 second 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 insultingly the night before.
Truly, what had she said to provoke such an unkind reaction 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 herself from counting his conquests, just as she’d predicted the night before. One, two, three, she’d murmured, watching him enchant a trio of sisters with his smile. Four, five,
six—there went two widows and a countess. It was disgusting, 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 him that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from tallying his broken 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 addressed 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 going to have to endure countless questions, occasional innuendo, 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, glancing 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 tried to regain her composure. “I’ll just, um, take a look at…” She focused on the nearest bouquet, a delicate arrangement of grape hyacinths and stephanotis. “A pale comparison to your eyes,” the card read, signed by the Marquess of Chester.
“Oh!” Francesca gasped. Lord Chester’s wife had passed away two years prior, and everyone knew he was on the hunt for a new bride.
An oddly giddy feeling bubbled up inside her as she moved toward a cluster of roses and picked up the card, making a conscious effort to appear nonchalant in front of the butler. “I wonder who this is from,” she said with an air of studied casualness.
A sonnet. From Shakespeare, if she recalled correctly. Signed by Viscount Trevelstam.
Trevelstam? They’d only been introduced once. He was young, strikingly handsome, and it was rumored that his father had squandered the family fortune. The new viscount would need to marry someone wealthy—at least, that’s what everyone said.
“Good heavens!”
Francesca turned to see Janet approaching. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“I do believe those were my exact words upon entering the room,” Francesca murmured, handing Janet the two cards and watching her closely as her eyes scanned the neatly handwritten lines.
Janet had lost her only child when John died. How would she react to Francesca being pursued by other men?
“My goodness,” Janet said, looking up. “You seem to be this season’s Incomparable.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Francesca replied, feeling warmth rise to her cheeks. Blushing? What was wrong with her? She hadn’t even blushed during her first season, when she truly was 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.
“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 understood 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 after 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 grumbled, “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, “although, good God, I don’t know who would be 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 damage 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 window 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 herself. “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.”
“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 innocuous 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 jealous?” she asked coyly. He swung around and nearly leveled her with a dumbstruck 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 particularly 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 exactly 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 decided 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?
No, that was impossible. Michael wasn’t the sort to regret 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 completely 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 little 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.
