… Michael will do what he wishes. He always does.
—from the Countess of Kilmartin to Helen Stirling, three days after the receipt of Helen’s missive
The days that followed brought Francesca no peace. When she thought about it rationally—or at least as rationally as she was able—it seemed as if
she should have found some answers, should have sensed some sort of logic in the air, something that might tell her what to do, how to act, what sort of choice she needed to make.
But, no. Nothing.
She’d made love to him twice. Twice.
To Michael.
That alone should have dictated her decisions, convinced her to accept his proposal. It should have been clear. She had lain with him. She might be pregnant, al-though that did seem a remote possibility, given that it had taken her a full two years to conceive with John.
But even without such consequences, her decision should have been obvious. In her world, in her society, the sort of intimacies in which she’d engaged meant only one thing.
She must marry him.
And yet she couldn’t quite summon the yes to her lips. Every time she thought she’d convinced herself that it was what she had to do, a little voice inside of her argued for caution, and she stopped, unable to move forward, too scared to delve into her feelings and try to figure out why she felt so paralyzed.
Michael didn’t understand, of course. How could he, when she didn’t understand herself?
“I shall call upon the vicar tomorrow morning,” he’d murmured at her ear as he helped her mount a fresh horse outside the gardener’s cottage. She had awakened alone sometime in the late afternoon, a brief note from him on the pillow beside her, explaining that he was taking Felix back to Kilmartin and would return shortly with a new mount.
But he had only brought one horse, forcing her once again to share the saddle, this time perched behind him.
“I’m not ready,” she’d said, a sudden rush of panic filling her chest. “Don’t go see him. Not yet.”
His face had darkened, but he didn’t allow his temper to rise any further. “We will discuss it later,” he’d said.
And they’d ridden home in silence.
She tried to escape to her room once they reached Kilmartin, mumbling something about needing to bathe, but he caught her hand, his grip firm and unyielding, and she found herself alone with him, back in the rose drawing room of all places, the door shut firmly behind them.
“What is all this about?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” she stalled, trying desperately not to look at the table behind him. It was the one upon which he’d perched her the night before, then done unspeakable things to her.
And the memory alone was enough to make her shiver. “You know what I mean,” he said impatiently. “Michael, I—”
“Will you marry me?” he demanded.
Dear God, she wished he hadn’t just come out and said it. It was all so much easier to avoid when the words weren’t right there, hanging between them.
“I—I—”
“Will you marry me?” he repeated, and this time the words were hard, with more of an edge to them.
“I don’t know,” she finally answered. “I need more time.”
‘Time for what?“ he snapped. ”For me to try a little harder to get you pregnant?“
She flinched as if struck.
He advanced upon her. “Because I’ll do it,” he warned. “I’ll take you right now, and then again tonight, and then three times tomorrow if that’s what is required.”
“Michael, stop…” she whispered.
“I have lain with you,” he said, his words stark and yet strangely urgent. ‘Twice. You are no innocent. You know what that means.“
And it was because she was no innocent—and no one would ever expect her to be—that she was able to say, “I know. But that doesn’t matter. Not if I don’t conceive.”
Michael hissed a word she never dreamed he’d say in her presence. “I need time,” she said, hugging her arms against her body. “Why?”
“I don’t know. To think. To muddle through. I don’t know.” “What the devil is there left to think about?” he bit off.
“Well, for one thing, about whether you’ll make a good husband,” she snapped back, finally goaded into anger.
He drew back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Your past behavior, to start with,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “You haven’t exactly been the model of Christian rectitude.”
“This, coming from the woman who ordered me to strip off my clothing earlier this afternoon?” he taunted.
“Don’t be ugly,” she said in a low voice. “Don’t push my temper.”
Her head began to pound, and she pressed her fingers to her temples. “For God’s sake, Michael, can’t you let me think? Can’t you give me just a little time to think?”
But the truth was, she was terrified to think. Because what would she learn? That she was a wanton, a hussy? That she had felt a primitive thrill with this man, a soaring, scandalous sensation that had never been there with her husband, whom she’d loved with every inch of her heart?
She’d found pleasure with John, but nothing like this. She’d never even dreamed this existed.
And yet she’d found it with Michael. Her friend, too. Her confidant.
Her lover.
Dear God, what did that make her?
“Please,” she finally whispered. “Please. I need to be alone.”
Michael stared at her for the longest time, long enough so that she wanted to squirm under his scrutiny, but finally he just swore under his breath and stalked from the room.
She collapsed onto the sofa and let her head hang in her hands. But she didn’t cry.
She didn’t cry. Not one single tear. And for the life of her, she didn’t understand why not.
He would never understand women.
Michael swore viciously as he yanked off his boots, hurling the offending footwear against the door to his wardrobe.
“My lord?” came his valet’s tentative voice, poking out through the opened door to the dressing room.
“Not now, Reivers,” Michael snapped.
“Right,” the valet said quickly, scurrying across the room to gather up the boots. “I’ll just take these. You’ll want them cleaned.”
Michael cursed again.
“Er, or perhaps burned.” Reivers gulped. Michael just looked at him and growled.
Reivers fled, but fool that he was, he forgot to close the door behind him.
Michael kicked it shut, cursing again when he failed to find satisfaction in the slam.
Even the little pleasures in life were denied to him now, it seemed.
He paced restlessly across the deep burgundy carpet, pausing only occasionally at the window.
Forget understanding women. He’d never pretended to have that ability. But he thought he’d understood Francesca. At least well enough to safely tell himself that she would marry any man with whom she’d lain twice.
Once, maybe not. Once she could call a mistake. But twice—
She would never allow a man to take her twice unless she held him in some regard.
But, he thought with a twisted grimace, apparently not.
Apparently she was willing to use him for her own pleasure—and she had. Dear God, she had. She had as-sumed the lead, taken what she’d wanted, relinquishing control only when the flames between them spiraled into an inferno.
She had used him.
And he would never have thought she had it in her.
Had she been like this with John? Had she taken charge? Had she— He stopped, his feet freezing into place on the carpet.
John.
He had forgotten about John. How was that possible?
For years, every time he’d seen Francesca, every time he’d leaned in for one intoxicating whiff of her, John had been there, first in his thoughts, and then in his memory.
But since the moment she’d entered the rose drawing room last night, when he heard her footsteps behind him and whispered the words, “Marry me,” to himself, he’d forgotten about John.
His memory would never disappear. He was too dear, too important—to both of them. But somewhere along the way, somewhere along the way to Scotland, to be precise, Michael finally allowed himself to think—
I could marry her. I could ask her. I really could.
And as he granted himself permission, it felt less and less like he was stealing her from his cousin’s memory.
Michael hadn’t asked to be placed in this position. He had never looked up to the heavens and wished himself the earldom. He had never even truly wished for Francesca, just accepted that she could never be his.
But John had died. He had died. And it was nobody’s fault.
John had died, and Michael’s life had been changed in every way imaginable except one.
He still loved Francesca. God, how he loved her.
There was no reason they couldn’t marry. No laws, no customs, nothing but his own conscience, which had, quite suddenly, grown silent on the matter.
And Michael finally allowed himself to ponder, for the very first time, the one question he had never asked himself.
What would John think of all this?
And he realized that his cousin would have given his blessing. John’s heart was that big, his love for Francesca—and Michael—that true. He would have wanted Francesca to be loved and cherished the way that Michael loved and cherished her.
And he would have wanted Michael to be happy.
The one emotion Michael had never truly thought he could apply to himself.
Happy. Imagine that.
Francesca had been waiting for Michael to knock upon her door, but when the rap came, she still jumped with surprise.
Her shock was much greater when she opened the door and found she had to lower her gaze considerably. A full foot, to be precise. Michael wasn’t on
the other side of her door. It was just one of the housemaids, carrying a supper tray for her.
Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Francesca poked her head into the hall, looking this way and that, fully expecting Michael to be lurking in some darkened corner, just waiting for the right moment to pounce.
But he was nowhere.
“His lordship thought you might be hungry,” the maid said, setting the tray down on Francesca’s escritoire.
Francesca scanned the contents for a note, a flower, something to indicate Michael’s intentions, but there was nothing.
And there was nothing for the rest of the night, and nothing the next morning, either.
Nothing but a breakfast tray, and another bob and curtsy from the housemaid, with another, “His lordship thought you might be hungry.”
Francesca had asked for time to think, and that appeared to be exactly what he was giving her.
And it was horrible.
Granted, it would probably have been worse if he’d disregarded her wishes and not allowed her to be alone. Clearly, she could not be trusted in his presence. And she didn’t particularly trust him, either, with his sultry looks and whispered questions.
Will you kiss me, Francesca? Will you let me kiss you?
And she couldn’t refuse, not when he was standing so close, his eyes—his amazing, silver, heavy-lidded eyes— watching her with such smoldering intensity.
He mesmerized her. That could be the only explanation.
She dressed herself that morning, donning a serviceable day dress which would serve her well out of doors. She didn’t want to remain cooped up in her room, but neither did she wish to roam the halls of Kilmartin, holding her breath as she turned each corner, waiting for Michael to appear before her.
She supposed he could find her outside if he really wanted to, but at least he would have to expend a bit of effort to do it.
She ate her breakfast, surprised that she had an appetite under such circumstances, and then slipped out of her room, shaking her head at herself as she peered stealthily down the hall, acting like nothing so much as a burglar, eager to make a clean escape.
This was what she’d been reduced to, she thought grumpily.
But she didn’t see him as she made her way down the hall, and she didn’t see him on the stairs, either.
He wasn’t in any of the drawing rooms or salons, and indeed, by the time she reached the front door, she couldn’t help but frown.
Where was he?
She didn’t wish to see him, of course, but it did seem rather anticlimactic after all of her worrying.
She placed her hand on the knob.
She should run. She should hurry out now, while the coast was clear and she could make her escape.
But she paused.
“Michael?” She only mouthed the word, which shouldn’t have counted for anything. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was there, that he was watching her.
“Michael?” she whispered, looking this way and that.
Nothing.
She gave her head a shake. Good God, what had become of her? She was growing far too fanciful. Paranoid, even.
With one last glance behind her, she left the house.
And never did see him, watching her from under the curved staircase, his face touched with the smallest, and truest, of smiles.
Francesca had remained out of doors as long as she was able, finally giving in to a mixture of weariness and cold. She had wandered the grounds for probably six or seven hours, and she was tired, and hungry, and eager for nothing so much as a cup of tea.
And she couldn’t avoid her house forever.
So she slipped back in as quietly as she’d left, planning to make her way up to her room, where she could dine in private. But before she could make it to the bottom of the stairs, she heard her name.
“Francesca!”
It was Michael. Of course it was Michael. She couldn’t expect him to leave her alone forever.
But the strange thing was—she wasn’t quite certain whether she was annoyed or relieved.
“Francesca,” he said again, coming to the doorway of the library, “come join me.”
He sounded affable—too affable, if that were possible, and furthermore, Francesca was suspicious at his choice of rooms. Wouldn’t he have wanted to draw her into the rose drawing room, where she’d be assaulted by memories of their torrid encounter? Wouldn’t he at least have chosen the green salon, which had been decorated in a lush, romantic style, complete with cushioned divans and overstuffed pillows?
What was he doing in the library, which had to be, she was quite certain, the least likely room at Kilmartin in which one might stage a seduction?
“Francesca?” he said again, by now looking amused at her indecision. “What are you doing in there?” she asked, trying not to sound suspicious. “Having tea.”
“Tea?”
“Leaves boiled in water?” he murmured. “Perhaps you’ve tried it.” She pursed her lips. “But in the library?”
He shrugged. “It seemed as good a place as any.” He stepped aside and swooshed his arm in front of him, indicating that she should enter. “As innocent a place as any,” he added.
She tried not to blush.
“Did you have a pleasant walk?” he asked, his voice perfectly conversational.
“Er, yes.” “Lovely day out.” She nodded.
“I imagine the ground is still a bit soggy in places, though.”
What was he up to? “Tea?” he asked.
She nodded, her eyes widening when he poured for her. Men never did that.
“Had to fend for myself from time to time in India,” he explained, reading her thoughts perfectly. “Here you go.”
She took the delicate china cup and sat, allowing the warmth of the tea to seep through the china and onto her hands. She blew lightly on it, then took a taste, testing the temperature.
“Biscuit?” He held out a plate laden with all sorts of baked delights. Her stomach rumbled, and she took one without speaking.
“They’re good,” he offered. “I ate four while I was waiting for you.”
“Were you waiting long?” she asked, almost surprised by the sound of her own voice.
“An hour or so.”
She sipped at her tea. “It’s still quite hot.”
“I had the pot refilled every ten minutes,” he said.
“Oh.” Such thoughtfulness was, if not precisely surprising, then still unexpected.
One of his brows quirked, but only slightly, and she wasn’t sure whether he’d done it on purpose. He was always in such control of his expressions; he’d have been a master gambler, had he had the inclination. But his left brow was different; Francesca had noticed years ago that it sometimes moved when he clearly thought he was keeping his face perfectly impassive. She’d always thought of it as her own little secret, her private window into the workings of his mind.
Except now she wasn’t sure she wanted such a window. It implied a closeness with which she wasn’t quite comfortable any longer.
Not to mention that she’d clearly been deluded when she’d thought she might ever understand the workings of his mind.
He plucked a biscuit off the tray, idly regarded the dollop of raspberry jam in its center, then popped it into his mouth.
“What is this about?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. She felt rather like prey, being fattened up for the kill.
“The tea?” he inquired, once he’d swallowed. “Mostly about tea, if you must know.”
“Michael.”
“I thought you might be cold,” he explained with a shrug. “You were gone quite some time.”
“You know when I left?”
He looked at her sardonically. “Of course.”
And she wasn’t surprised. That was the only thing that surprised her, actually—that she wasn’t surprised.
“I have something for you,” he said. Her eyes narrowed. “You do?”
“Is that so remarkable?” he murmured, and he reached down onto the seat beside him.
Her breath caught. Not a ring. Please, not a ring. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to say yes.
And she wasn’t ready to say no, either.
But instead, he set upon the table a small posy of flowers, each bloom more delicate than the last. She’d never been good with flowers, hadn’t bothered to learn the names, but there was stalky white one, and a bit of purple, and something that was almost blue. And it had all been tied rather elegantly with a silver ribbon.
Francesca just stared at it, unable to decide what to make of such a gesture.
“You can touch it,” he said, a hint of amusement playing along his voice. “It shan’t pass along disease.”
“No,” she said quickly, reaching out for the tiny bouquet, “of course not. I just…” She brought the blooms to her face and inhaled, then set them down, her hands retreating quickly to her lap.
“You just what?” he asked softly.
“I don’t really know,” she replied. And she didn’t. She had no idea how she’d meant to complete that sentence, if indeed she had ever intended to. She looked down at the small bouquet, blinking several times before asking, “What is this?”
“I call them flowers.”
She looked up, her eyes meeting his fully and deeply. “No,” she said, “what is this!”
“The gesture, you mean?” He smiled. “Why, I’m courting you.” Her lips parted.
He took a sip of his tea. “Is it such a surprise?” After all that had passed between them?
Yes.
“You deserve no less,” he said.
“I thought you said you intended to—” She broke off, blushing madly. He’d said he meant to take her until she became pregnant.
Three times today, as a matter of fact. Three times, he’d vowed, and they were still quite at zero and…
Her cheeks burned, and she couldn’t help but feel the memory of him between her legs.
Dear God.
But—thank heavens—his expression remained innocent, and all he said was, “I’ve rethought my strategies.”
She took a frenetic bite of her biscuit. Any excuse to bring her hands to her face and hide a bit of her embarrassment.
“Of course I still plan to pursue my options in that area,” he said, leaning forward with a sultry gaze. “I’m only a man, after all. And you, as I believe we’ve more than made clear, are very much a woman.”
She jammed the rest of the biscuit into her mouth.
“But I thought you deserved more,” he finished, sitting back with a mild expression, as if he hadn’t just seared her with innuendo. “Don’t you think?”
No, she didn’t think. Not anymore, at least. It was a bit of a problem, that.
Because as she sat there, furiously stuffing food into her mouth, she couldn’t take her eyes off his lips. Those magnificent lips, smiling languidly at her.
She heard herself sigh. Those lips had done such magnificent things to her. To all of her. Every last inch.
Good God, she could practically feel them now. And it left her squirming in her seat.
“Are you all right?” he asked solicitously.
“Quite,” she somehow managed to say, gulping at her tea.
“Is your chair uncomfortable?” She shook her head.
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
“Why are you doing this?” she finally burst out. “Doing what?”
“Being so nice to me.”
His brows lifted. “Shouldn’t I be?” “No!”
“I shouldn’t be nice.” It wasn’t a question as he said it, rather an amused statement.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, shaking her head. He’d befuddled her, and she hated it. There was nothing she valued more than a cool and clear head, and Michael had managed to steal that from her with a single kiss.
And then he’d done more. So much more.
She was never going to be the same. She was never going to be sane. “You look distressed,” he said.
She wanted to strangle him.
He cocked his head and smiled. She wanted to kiss him.
He held up the teapot. “More?” God yes, and that was the problem. “Francesca?”
She wanted to jump across the table and onto his lap. “Are you quite all right?”
It was growing difficult to breathe. “Frannie?”
Every time he spoke, every time he moved his mouth, even just to breathe, her eyes settled on his lips.
She felt herself licking her own.
And she knew that he knew—with all of his experience, all of his seductive prowess—exactly what she was feeling.
He could reach for her now and she wouldn’t refuse. He could touch her and she’d go up in flames.
“I have to go,” she said, but her words were breathless and lacking in conviction. And it didn’t help that she couldn’t seem to wrench her gaze from his own.
“Important matters to attend to in your bedchamber?” he murmured, his lips curving.
She nodded, even though she knew he was mocking her.
“Go then,” he encouraged, but his voice was mild and in fact sounded like nothing so much as a seductive purr.
Somehow she managed to move her hands to the edge of the table. She gripped the wood, telling herself to push away, to do something, to move.
But she was frozen.
“Would you prefer to stay?” he murmured.
She shook her head. Or at least she thought she did.
He stood and came to the back of her chair, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Shall I help you to rise?”
She shook her head again and nearly jumped to her feet, his nearness somewhat paradoxically breaking the spell he’d cast over her. Her shoulder bumped his chest, and she lurched back, terrified that further contact would cause her to do something she might regret.
As if she hadn’t had enough of that already. “I need to go upstairs,” she blurted out. “Clearly,” he said softly.
“Alone,” she added.
“I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to endure my company for one moment longer.”
She narrowed her eyes. Just what was he up to? And why the devil did she feel so disappointed?
“But perhaps…” he murmured. Her heart leapt.
“… perhaps I should offer you a farewell kiss,” he finished. “On the hand, of course. It would only be proper.”
As if they hadn’t discarded propriety back in London.
He took her fingers lightly in his own. “We are courting, after all,” he said. “Aren’t we?”
She stared down at him, unable to take her eyes off of his head as he bent down over her hand. His lips brushed her fingers. Once… twice… and then he was through.
“Dream of me,” he said softly.
Her lips parted. She couldn’t stop watching his face.
He’d mesmerized her, held her soul captive. And she couldn’t move. “Unless you want more than a dream,” he said.
She did.
“Will you stay?” he whispered. “Or will you go?” She stayed. Heaven help her, she stayed.
And Michael showed her just how romantic a library could be.
