… you would enjoy it here. Not the heat, I should think; no one seems to enjoy the heat. But the rest would enchant you. The colors, the spices, the scent of the air—they can place one in a strange, sensuous haze that is at turns unsettling and intoxicating. Most of all, I think you would enjoy the pleasure gardens. They are rather like our London parks, except far more green and lush, and full of the most remarkable flowers you have ever seen. You have always loved to be out among nature; this you would adore, I am quite sure of it.
—-from Michael Stirling (the new Earl of Kilmartin) to the Countess of Kilmartin, one month after his arrival in India
Francesca wanted a baby.
She had for quite some time, but it was only in recent months that she’d been able to admit as much to herself, to finally put words to the sense of longing that seemed to accompany her wherever she went.
It had started innocently enough, with a little pang in her heart upon reading a letter from her brother’s wife Kate, the missive filled with news of their little girl Charlotte, soon to turn two and already incorrigible.
But the pang had grown worse, into something more akin to an ache, when her sister Daphne had arrived in Scotland for a visit, all four of her children in tow. It hadn’t occurred to Francesca just how completely a gaggle of children could transform a home. The Hastings children had altered the very essence of Kilmartin, brought to it life and laughter that Francesca realized had been sadly lacking for years.
And then they left, and all was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful. Just empty.
From that moment on, Francesca was different. She saw a nursemaid pushing a pram, and her heart ached. She spied a rabbit hopping across a field and couldn’t help but think that she ought to be pointing it out to someone else, someone small. She traveled to Kent to spend Christmas with her family, but when night fell, and all of her nieces and nephews were tucked into bed, she felt too alone.
And all she could think was that her life was passing her by, and if she didn’t do something soon, she’d die this way.
Alone.
Not unhappy—she wasn’t that. Strangely enough, she’d grown into her widowhood and found a comfortable and contented pattern to her life. It was something she never would have believed possible during the awful months immediately following John’s death, but she had, a bit through trial and error, found a place for herself in the world. And with it, a small measure of peace.
She enjoyed her life as Countess of Kilmartin— Michael had never married, so she retained the duties as well as the title. She loved Kilmartin, and she ran it with no interference from Michael; his instructions upon leaving the country four years earlier had been that she should manage the earldom as she saw fit, and once the shock of his departure had worn off, she’d realized that that had been the most precious gift he could have bestowed upon her.
It had given her something to do, something to work toward. A reason to stop staring at the ceiling.
She had friends, and she had family, both Stirling and Bridgerton, and she had a full life, in Scotland and London, where she spent several months of each year.
So she should have been happy. And she was, mostly. She just wanted a baby.
It had taken some time to admit this to herself. It was a desire that seemed somewhat disloyal to John; it wouldn’t be his baby, after all, and even now, with him gone four years, it was difficult to imagine a child without his features woven across its face.
And it meant, first and foremost, that she’d have to remarry. She’d have to change her name and pledge her troth to another man, to vow to make him first in her heart and her loyalties, and while the thought of that no longer struck pain in her heart, it seemed… well… strange.
But she supposed there were some things a woman simply had to get past, and one cold February day, as she was staring out a window at Kilmartin, watching the snow slowly wrap a shroud around the tree branches, she realized that this was one of them.
There were a lot of things in life to be afraid of, but strangeness ought not be among them.
And so she decided to pack her things and head down to London a bit early this year. She generally spent the season in town, enjoying time with her family, shopping and attending musicales, taking in plays and doing all the things that simply weren’t available in the Scottish countryside. But this season would be different. She needed a new wardrobe, for one. She’d been out of mourning for some time, but she hadn’t completely shrugged off the grays and lavenders of half-mourning, and she certainly hadn’t paid the attention to fashion that a woman in her new position ought.
It was time to wear blue. Bright, beautiful, cornflower blue. It had been her favorite color years ago, and she’d been vain enough that she’d worn it fully expecting people to comment on how it matched her eyes.
She’d buy blue, and yes, pink and yellow as well, and maybe even— something in her heart shivered with anticipation at the thought—crimson.
She wasn’t an unmarried miss this time around. She was an eligible widow, and the rules were different.
But the aspirations were the same.
She was going to London to find herself a husband. It had been too long.
Michael knew that his return to Britain was well overdue, but it had been one of those things that was appallingly easy to put off. According to his mother’s letters, which had found him with remarkable regularity, the earldom was thriving under Francesca’s stewardship. He had no dependents who might accuse him of neglect, and by all accounts, everyone he’d left behind was faring rather better in his absence than they had when he’d been around to cheer them on.
So there was nothing to feel guilty about.
But a man could only run from his destiny for so long, and as he marked his third year in the tropics, he had to admit that the novelty of an exotic life had worn off, and to be completely frank, he was growing rather sick of the climate. India had given him a purpose, a place in life that went beyond the only two things at which he’d ever excelled—soldiering and making merry. He’d boarded a ship with nothing but the name of an army friend who’d moved to Madras three years earlier. Within a month he’d obtained a governmental post and found himself making decisions that mattered, implementing laws and policies that actually shaped the lives of men.
For the first time, Michael finally understood why John had been so enamored of his work in the British Parliament.
But India hadn’t made him happy. It had given him a small measure of peace, which seemed rather paradoxical, since in the past few years he’d nearly met his demise three times, four if one counted that run-in with the knife-wielding Indian princess (Michael still maintained that he could have disarmed her without injury, but she did, he had to admit, have a rather murderous look in her eye, and he’d long since learned that one should
never ever underestimate a woman who believes—however erroneously— herself scorned.)
Life-threatening episodes aside, however, his time in India had brought him a certain sense of balance. He’d finally done something for himself, made something of himself.
But most of all, India had brought him peace because he didn’t have to live with the constant knowledge that Francesca was just around the corner.
Life wasn’t necessarily better with thousands of miles between him and Francesca, but it certainly was easier.
It was past time, however, to face up to the rigors of having her in close proximity, and so he’d packed up his belongings, informed his rather relieved valet that they were going back to England, booked a luxurious starboard suite on the Princess Amelia, and headed home.
He’d have to face her, of course. There was no escaping that. He would have to look into the blue eyes that had haunted him relentlessly and try to be her friend. It was the one thing she’d wanted during the dark days after John’s death, and it had been the only thing he had been completely unable to do for her.
But maybe now, with the benefit of time and the healing power of distance, he could manage it. He wasn’t stupid enough to hope that she’d changed, that he’d see her and discover he no longer loved her—that, he was quite certain, would never happen. But Michael had finally grown used to hearing the words “Earl of Kil-martin” without looking over his shoulder for his cousin. And maybe now, with the grief no longer so raw, he could be with Francesca in friendship, without feeling as if he were a thief, plotting to steal what he’d coveted for so long.
And hopefully she, too, had moved on, and wouldn’t ask him to fulfill John’s duties in every way but one.
But all the same, he was glad that it would be March when he disembarked in London, too early in the year for Francesca to have arrived for the
season.
He was a brave man; he’d proven that countless times, on and off the battlefield. But he was an honest man, too, honest enough to admit that the prospect of facing Francesca was terrifying in a way that no French battlefield or toothy tiger could ever be.
Maybe, if he was lucky, she’d choose not to come down to London for the season at all.
Wouldn’t that be a boon.
It was dark, and she couldn’t sleep, and the house was miserably cold, and the worst of it was, it was all her fault. Oh, very well, not the dark. Francesca supposed she couldn’t take the blame for that. Night was night, after all, and she was rather overreaching to think that she had any-thing to do with the sun going down. But it was her fault that the household hadn’t been given adequate time to prepare for her arrival. She’d forgotten to send notice that she was planning to come down to London a month early, and as a result, Kilmartin House was still running with a skeleton staff, and the stores of coal and beeswax candles were perilously low.
All would be better on the morrow, after the housekeeper and butler made a mad dash to the Bond Street shops, but for now Francesca was shivering in her bed. It had been a miserably freezing day, with a blustery wind that made it far colder than was normal for early March. The housekeeper had attempted to move all the available coal to Francesca’s grate, but countess or no, she couldn’t allow the rest of the household to freeze at her expense. Besides, the countess’s bedchamber was immense, and it had always been difficult to heat properly unless the rest of the house was warm as well.
The library. That was it. It was small and cozy, and if Francesca shut the door, a fire in its grate would keep the room nice and toasty. Furthermore, there was a settee on which she could lie. It was small, but then again, so was she, and it couldn’t possibly be any worse than freezing to death in her bedroom.
Her decision made, Francesca leapt out of bed and dashed through the cold night air to her nightrobe, which was lying across the back of a chair. It wasn’t nearly warm enough—Francesca hadn’t thought to need anything bulkier—but it was better than nothing, and, she thought rather stoically, beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially when their toes were falling off with cold.
She hurried downstairs, her heavy wool socks slipping and sliding on the polished steps. She tumbled down the last two, thankfully landing on her feet, then ran along the runner carpet to the library.
“Fire fire fire,” she mumbled to herself. She’d ring for someone just as soon as she got to the library. They’d have a blaze roaring in no time. She’d regain feeling in her nose, her fingertips would lose that sickly blue color and—
She pushed open the door.
A short, staccato scream hurled itself across her lips. There was already a fire in the grate, and a man standing in front of it, idly warming his hands.
Francesca reached wildly for something—anything— that she might use as a weapon.
And then he turned.
“Michael?”
He hadn’t known she’d be in London. Damn it, he hadn’t even considered that she might be in London. Not that it would have made any difference, but at least he’d have been prepared. He might have schooled his features into a saturnine smirk, or at the very least made sure that he was impeccably dressed and wholeheartedly immersed in his role as the unrecoverable rake.
But no, there he was, just gaping at her, trying not to notice that she was wearing nothing but a dark crimson nightgown and dressing robe, so thin and sheer that he could see the outline of—
He gulped. Don’t look. Do not look. “Michael?” she whispered again.
“Francesca,” he said, since he had to say something. “What are you doing here?”
And that seemed to snap her into thought and motion. “What am I doing here?” she echoed. “I’m not the one who’s meant to be in India. What are you doing here?”
He shrugged carelessly. “Thought it was time to come home.” “Couldn’t you have written?”
‘To you?“ he asked, quirking a brow. It was, and was meant to be, a direct hit. She hadn’t penned him a single letter during his travels. He had sent her three letters, but once it became apparent that she didn’t plan to answer, he’d conducted the rest of his correspondence through his mother and John’s.
“To anyone,” she replied. “Someone would have been here to greet you.” “You’re here,” he pointed out.
She scowled at him. “If we’d known you were coming, we would have readied the house for you.”
He shrugged again. The motion seemed to embody the image he desperately needed to convey. “It’s ready enough.”
She hugged her arms to her body, effectively blocking his view of her breasts, which, he had to concede, was probably for the best. “Well, you might have written,” she finally said, her voice hanging sharp in the night air. “It would only have been courteous.”
“Francesca,” he said, turning slightly away from her so that he could continue to rub his hands together by the fire, “do you have any idea how long it takes for mail to reach London from India?”
“Five months,” she answered promptly. “Four, if the winds are kind.”
Damn it, she was right. “Be that as it may,” he said peevishly, “by the time I decided to return, there was little use in attempting forward notice. The letter would have gone out on the same ship I did.”
“Really? I thought the passenger vessels were slower than the ones that take the mail.”
He sighed, glancing at her over his shoulder. “They all take the mail. And besides, does it really matter?”
For a moment he thought she would answer in the af-firmative, but then she said quietly, “No, of course not. The important thing is that you’re home. Your mother will be thrilled.”
He turned away so that she wouldn’t see his humorless smile. “Yes,” he murmured, “of course.”
“And I—” She stopped, cleared her throat. “I am delighted to have you back as well.”
She sounded as if she were trying very hard to convince herself of this, but Michael decided to play the gentleman for once and not point it out. “Are you cold?” he asked instead.
“Not very,” she said. “You’re lying.” “Just a little.”
He stepped to the side, making room for her closer to the fire. When he didn’t hear her move toward him, he motioned toward the empty space with his hand.
“I should go back to my room,” she said.
“For God’s sake, Francesca, if you’re cold, just come to the fire. I won’t bite.”
She gritted her teeth and stepped forward, joining him near the blaze. But she kept herself somewhat off to the side, maintaining a bit of distance between them. “You look well,” she said.
“As do you.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“I know. Four years, I believe.”
Francesca swallowed, wishing this weren’t so difficult. This was Michael, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t supposed to be difficult. Yes, they’d parted badly, but that had been in the dark days immediately following John’s death. They’d all been in pain then, wounded animals lashing out at anyone in their way. It was supposed to be different now. Heaven knew she’d thought of this moment often enough. Michael couldn’t stay away forever, they’d all known that. But once her initial anger had passed, she’d rather hoped that when he did return, they’d be able to forget that anything unpleasant had ever passed between them.
And be friends again. She needed that, more than she’d ever realized.
“Do you have any plans?” she asked, mostly because the silence was too awful.
“For now, all I can think about is getting warm,” he muttered.
She smiled in spite of herself. “It is exceptionally chilly for this time of year.”
“I’d forgotten how damnably cold it can be here,” he grumbled, rubbing his hands together briskly.
“One would think you’d never escape the memory of a Scottish winter,” Francesca murmured.
He turned to her then, a wry smile tilting one corner of his mouth. He’d changed, she realized. Oh, there were the obvious differences—the ones everyone would notice. He was tan, quite scandalously so, and his hair, always midnight black, now sported a few odd strands of silver.
But there was more. He held his mouth differently, more tightly, if that made any sense, and his smooth, lanky grace seemed to have gone missing. He had always seemed so at ease, so comfortable in his skin, but now he was… taut.
Strained.
“You’d think,” he murmured, and she just looked at him blankly, having quite forgotten what he was replying to until he added, “I came home because I couldn’t stand the heat any longer, and now here I am, ready to perish from the cold.”
“It will be spring soon,” she said.
“Ah yes, spring. With its merely frigid winds, as opposed to the icy ones of winter.”
She laughed at that, absurdly pleased to have anything to laugh about in his presence. “The house will be better tomorrow,” she said. “I only just arrived this evening, and like you, I neglected to send advance notice. Mrs. Parrish assures me that the house will be restocked tomorrow.”
He nodded, then turned around to warm his back. “What are you doing here?”
“Me?”
He motioned to the empty room, as if to make a point. “I live here,” she said.
“You usually don’t come down until April.” “You know that?”
For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed. “My mother’s letters are remarkably detailed,” he said.
She shrugged, then inched a little closer to the fire. She ought not stand so near to him, but dash it, she was still rather cold, and her thin nightrobe did little to ward off the chill.
“Is that an answer?” he drawled.
“I just felt like it,” she said insolently. “Isn’t that a lady’s prerogative?” He turned again, presumably to warm his side, and then he was facing her. And he seemed terribly close.
She moved, just an inch or so; she didn’t want him to realize she’d been made uncomfortable by his nearness.
Nor did she want to admit the very same thing to herself.
“I thought it was a lady’s prerogative to change her mind,” he said.
“It’s a lady’s prerogative to do anything she wants,” Francesca said pertly.
“Touche,” Michael murmured. He looked at her again, more closely this time. “You haven’t changed.”
Her lips parted. “How can you say that?”
“Because you look exactly as I remembered you.” And then, devilishly, he motioned toward her revealing night-wear. “Aside from your attire, of course.”
She gasped and stepped back, wrapping her arms more tightly around her body.
It was a bit sick of him, but he was rather pleased with himself for having offended her. He’d needed her to step away, to move out of his reach. She was going to have to set the boundaries.
Because he wasn’t sure he’d prove up to the task.
He’d been lying when he’d said she hadn’t changed. There was something different about her, something entirely unexpected.
Something that shook him down to his very soul.
It was a sense about her—all in his mind, really, but no less devastating. There was an air of availability, a horrible, torturous knowledge that John was gone, really, truly gon2, and the only thing stopping Michael from reaching out and touching her was his own conscience.
It was almost funny. Almost.
And there she was, still without a clue, still completely unaware that the man standing next to her wanted nothing so much than to peel every layer of silk from her body and lay her down in front of the fire. He wanted to nudge her thighs apart, sink himself into her, and—
He laughed grimly. Four years, it seemed, had done little to cool his inappropriate ardor.
“Michael?”
He looked over at her. “What’s so funny?”
Her question, that’s what. “You wouldn’t understand.” ‘Try me,“ she dared.
“Oh, I think not.” “Michael,” she prodded.
He turned to her and said with deliberate coolness,
“Francesca, there are some things you will never understand.”
Her lips parted, and for a moment she looked as if she’d been struck. And he felt as horrid as if he’d done so.
“That was a terrible thing to say,” she whispered. He shrugged.
“You’ve changed,” she said.
The sad thing was, he hadn’t. Not in any of the ways that might have made his life easier to bear. He sighed, hating himself because he couldn’t bear to have her hate him. “Forgive me,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I’m tired, and I’m cold, and I’m an ass.”
She grinned at that, and for a moment they were transported back in time. “It’s all right,” she said kindly, touching his upper arm. “You’ve had a long journey.”
He sucked in his breath. She used to do this all the time—touch his arm in friendship. Never in public, of course, and rarely even when it had just been the two of them. John would have been there; John was always there. And it had always—always—shaken him.
But never so much as now.
“I need to go to bed,” he mumbled. He was usually a master at hiding his unease, but he just hadn’t been prepared to see her this evening, and beyond that, he was damned tired.
She withdrew her hand. “There won’t be a room ready for you. You should take mine. I’ll sleep here.”
“No,” he said, with far more force than he’d intended. “I’ll sleep here, or… hell,” he muttered, striding across the room to yank on the bellpull. What the devil was the point of being the bloody Earl of Kilmartin if you couldn’t have a bedchamber readied at any hour of the night?
Besides, ringing the bell would mean that a servant would arrive within minutes, which would mean that he would no longer be standing here alone with Francesca.
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been alone together before, but never at night, and never with her in her nightgown, and—
He yanked the cord again.
“Michael,” she said, sounding almost amused. “I’m sure they heard you the first time.”
“Yes, well, it’s been a long day,” he said. “Storm in the Channel and all that.”
“You’ll have to tell me of your travels soon,” she said gently.
He looked over at her, lifting a brow. “I would have written to you of them.”
Her lips pursed for a moment. It was an expression he’d seen countless times on her face. She was choosing her words, deciding whether or not to spear him with her legendary wit.
And apparently she decided against it, because instead she said, “I was rather angry with you for leaving.”
He sucked in his breath. Trust Francesca to choose stark honesty over a scathing retort.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it, even though he wouldn’t have changed any of his actions. He’d needed to leave. He’d had to leave. Maybe it meant he was a coward; maybe it meant he’d been less of a man. But he hadn’t been ready to be the earl. He wasn’t John, could never be John. And that was the one thing everyone had seemed to want of him.
Even Francesca, in her own halfway sort of manner.
He looked at her. He was quite sure she still didn’t understand why he’d left. She probably thought she did, but how could she? She didn’t know that he loved her, couldn’t possibly understand how damned guilty he felt at assuming John’s life.
But none of that was her fault. And as he looked at her, standing fragile and proud as she stared at the fire, he said it again.
“I’m sorry.”
She acknowledged his apology with the faintest nod. “I should have written to you,” she said, turning to him, her eyes filled with sorrow and a hint of apology. “But the truth is, I just didn’t feel like it. Thinking of you made me think of John, and I needed a break from those thoughts.”
Michael didn’t pretend to understand, but he nodded anyway. She smiled wistfully. “We had such fun, the three of us, didn’t we?”
He nodded again. “I miss him,” he admitted, surprised at how good it felt to say it.
“I always thought it would be lovely when you finally married,” Francesca continued. “You would have chosen someone brilliant and fun. What grand times the four of us would have had.”
Michael coughed, the best response he could muster.
She looked up, pulled from her thoughts. “Are you catching a chill?”
“Probably. I’ll be on my deathbed by Saturday, I’m sure.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t expect me to nurse you.”
Just the opening he needed to steer their banter back to familiar territory. “Not necessary,” he said with a dismissive wave. “I shouldn’t need more than three days to attract a bevy of unsuitable women to cater to my every need.”
Her lips pinched slightly, but amusement danced in her eyes. “The same as ever, I see.”
He grinned lopsidedly. “No one really changes, Francesca.”
She tilted her head, motioning toward the hall, where the sound of swift footsteps approached. The footman arrived, and Francesca took charge, leaving Michael to stand by the fire, looking vaguely imperial as he nodded his agreement.
“Good night, Michael,” she said, once the footman had left to do her bidding.
“Good night, Francesca,” he said softly.
“It’s good to see you again,” she said. And then, as if she needed to convince one of them of it—he wasn’t sure which, she added, “It truly is.”
