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 Kilmartin” 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.