… 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 experiencing 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 everywhere else. And at night, when she was alone in her enormous 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.
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 remembered to don it before leaving—she wasn’t always that diligent—and was just heading upstairs to her bedchamber, 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 already 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 reckoned 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.”
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 platitudes 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, pretending 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 supposed. 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 presence, 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, although 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. Because 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 comfort 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 acknowledge 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.”
“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 between 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 comfortable 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 matters a great deal of thought since you left London.“
As had she, but there seemed little point in mentioning 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 understand 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 always 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.
“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 suddenly 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 Excuse 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 irregular, 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 with care and respect,” he 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 anything, 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 turning a furiously hot pink. She didn’t want to imagine herself in bed with him. She’d spent the last week desperately 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 consider—”
“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 uttered 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 imagined 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.”
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 looking 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 angel weep.
And his lips. Most of all, she could see his lips, perfectly shaped, finely molded, perpetually curved into that devilish expression of his, as if he knew things, understood 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?
