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 barest hint of a nod. “I should have written to you,” she said. She turned to him then, her eyes filled with sorrow and perhaps a hint of their own apology. “But the truth was, I just didn’t feel like it. Thinking of you made me think of John, and I suppose I needed not to think of him so much just then.”
Michael didn’t pretend to understand, but he nodded nonetheless.
She smiled wistfully. “We had such fun, the three of us, didn’t we?”
He nodded again. “I miss him,” he said, and he was surprised by how good it felt to voice that.
“I always thought it would be so lovely when you finally married,” Francesca added. “You would have chosen someone brilliant and fun, I’m sure. What grand times the four of us would have had.”
Michael coughed. It seemed the best course of action.
She looked up, broken from her reverie. “Are you catching a chill?”
“Probably. I’ll be at death’s door by Saturday, I’m sure.”
She arched a brow. “I hope you don’t expect me to nurse you.”
Just the opening he needed to move their banter back to where he felt most comfortable. “Not necessary,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I shouldn’t need more than three days to attract a bevy of unsuitable women to attend to my every need.”
Her lips pinched slightly, but she was clearly amused. “The same as ever, I see.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “No one ever really changes, Francesca.”
She cocked her head to the side, motioning to the hall, where they could hear someone moving toward them on swift feet. The footman arrived, and Francesca took care of everything, allowing Michael to do nothing but 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.”
Chapter 6
…I’m sorry I haven’t written. No, that’s not true. I’m not sorry. I don’t wish to write. I don’t wish to think of—
—from the Countess of Kilmartin to the new Earl of Kilmartin, one day after the receipt of his first missive to her, torn to bits, then soaked with tears
By the time Michael arose the next morning, Kilmartin House seemed to be back up and running as befitted the home of an earl. There were fires in every grate, and a splendid breakfast had been laid out in the informal dining room, with coddled eggs, ham, bacon, sausage, toast with butter and marmalade, and his own personal favorite, broiled mackerel.
Francesca, however, was nowhere to be found.
When he inquired after her, he was given a folded note she’d left for him earlier that morning. It seemed she felt that tongues might wag at their living alone together at Kilmartin House, and so she had removed herself to her mother’s residence at Number Five, Bruton Street, until either Janet or Helen arrived down from Scotland. She did, however, invite him to call upon her that day, as she was certain they had much to discuss.
And Michael supposed she was right, so once he’d finished with his breakfast （finding, much to his great surprise, that he rather missed the yogurts and dosas of his Indian morning meal）， he stepped outside and made his way to Number Five.
He elected to walk; it wasn’t very far, and the air had warmed appreciably since the icy gusts of the day before. But mostly, he just wanted to take in the cityscape, to remind himself of the rhythms of London. He’d never noticed the particular smells and sounds of the capital before, how the clip-clop of horses’ hooves combined with the festive shout of the flower seller and low rumble of cultured voices. There was the sound of his feet on the pavement, and smell of roasting nuts, and the vague heft of soot in the air, all combining to make something that was uniquely London.
It was almost overpowering, which was strange, because he remembered feeling precisely the same way upon landing in India four years earlier. The humid air, redolent with spice and flowers, had shocked his every sense. It had felt almost like an assault, leaving him drowsy and disoriented. And while his reaction to London wasn’t quite that dramatic, he still felt rather like the odd man out, his senses buffeted by smells and sounds that shouldn’t have felt so unfamiliar.
Had he become a stranger in his own land? It seemed almost bizarre, and yet, as he walked along the crowded streets of London’s most exclusive shopping district, he couldn’t help but think that he stood out, that anyone glancing upon him must instantly know that he was different, removed from their very British existence.
Or, he allowed, as he caught sight of his reflection in a shop window, it could be the tan.
It would take weeks to fade. Months, maybe.
His mother was going to be scandalized.
The thought of it made him grin. He rather enjoyed scandalizing his mother. He’d never be so grown up that that ceased to be fun.
He turned on Bruton Street and walked past the last few homes to Number Five. He’d been there before, of course. Francesca’s mother had always defined the word “family” in the widest of all possible manners, so Michael had found himself invited along with John and Francesca to any number of Bridgerton family events.
When he arrived, Lady Bridgerton was already in the green-and-cream drawing room, taking a cup of tea at her writing desk under the window. “Michael!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet with obvious affection. “How good to see you!”