… 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 reminded 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 reflected 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 select 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 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 husband 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 acquaintance 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 desire 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.”

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 continued 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 competition, 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 minimum effort required to hide his irritation and looked up.

Trevelstam. Of the yellow roses. Michael felt the newspaper crumple between his fingers.

“Kilmartin,” the viscount said.

Michael nodded. “Trevelstam.” They knew each other; not closely, but well enough so that a friendly conversation was not unexpected. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning 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.

“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 patience 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 inquired. “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.

“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 offensive, 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 actually 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,” Hardwick 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.

“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 onlookers.

“Good,” Michael grunted, deciding now was a good time to get the hell out. Hopefully Francesca would already 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 the same sort of 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 commotion,” 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 pretense 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 careless 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 charming 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 evening?” 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 did take a large enough sip 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 appreciation. “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 speaking of anyone but Francesca, but Michael took one desperate 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 deceived 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 being 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.

Michael looked up, aware that he’d been silent with his thoughts for some time. And that Colin had been watching 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, something 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 anyone 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 thoughtfully. “Well, because you so clearly don’t wish to marry her.”

Michael opened his mouth for a quick retort, then slammed it shut when he realized—with more than considerable 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 secrets 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 conversation 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 circumstances.

“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.