… all at home is pleasant and well, and Kilmartin thrives under Francesca’s careful stewardship. 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 directly. 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 fashion 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, recited 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 certainly felt like it to Michael, who was constantly tripping over some lovesick swain in the hall.
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 unannounced 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 creativity to compare them to something other than the water or the sky.
Michael snorted with disgust. Anyone who took the time to really look at Francesca’s eyes would have realized 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 complete inability to stop thinking about his recent conversation 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 suspected, 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.
“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 murmur of agreement.
“You should dance with her.”
“I’m sure I will,” he said, taking a sip of his champagne. He wanted to march across the ballroom and forcibly remove her from her annoying little crowd of admirers, 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 devilish 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, radiant 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, pathetic 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 the dark of the night.
He slipped outside, making his exit unobtrusive. If Francesca was indeed out in the back garden with a gentleman, 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 dangerous situation, and—
“No, no.” Francesca’s voice.
His ears pricked up and he took a few steps in the direction 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 Geoffrey had said that he would leave the door ajar.
All had been perfectly pleasant for the first few minutes. 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.
But then Sir Geoffrey had moved closer. Francesca had backed up as discreetly as she was able, but he took another 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 Geoffrey’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 would be a nightmare if 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 personally 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 terrified 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.
“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 realized 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 breathing 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 unfocused, 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 something 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 herself 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.
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.
