Something she had been quite certain had died inside of her four years earlier.
But hearing her mother bring it up…Good God, it was mortifying. There was no way, no earthly way that she could feel an attraction to Michael. It was wrong. It was really wrong. It was…well, it was just wrong. There wasn’t another word that described it better.
“Mother,” Francesca said, keeping her voice carefully even, “Michael has not been feeling well. I told you that.”
“Seven days is quite a long time for a head cold.”
“Perhaps it is something from India,” Francesca said. “I don’t know. I think he is almost recovered. I have been helping him get settled here in London. He has been gone a very long time and as you’ve noted, he has many new responsibilities as the earl. I thought it my duty to help him with all of this.” She looked at her mother with a resolute expression, rather pleased with her speech. But Violet just said, “I will see you in an hour,” and walked away.
Leaving Francesca feeling very panicked indeed.
Michael was enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet—not that he’d been bereft of quiet, but malaria did little to allow a body peace—when Francesca burst through his bedroom door, wild-eyed and out of breath.
“You have two choices,” she said, or rather, heaved.
“Only two?” he murmured, even though he hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
“Don’t make jokes.”
He hauled himself into a sitting position. “Francesca?” he asked gingerly, since it was his experience that one should always proceed with caution when a female was in a state. “Are you quite all—”
“My mother is coming,” she said.
“Here?”
She nodded.
It wasn’t an ideal situation but hardly something deserving of Francesca’s feverish demeanor. “Why?” he inquired politely.
“She thinks—” She stopped, catching her breath. “She thinks—Oh, heavens, you won’t believe it.”
When she didn’t expound upon this any further, he widened his eyes and held out his hands in an impatient gesture, as if to say—Care to elaborate?
“She thinks,” Francesca said, shuddering as she turned to him, “that we are conducting an affair.”
“After only a week back in London,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I’m faster than I imagined.”
“How can you joke about this?” Francesca demanded.
“How can you not?” he returned. But of course she could never laugh about such a thing. To her it was unthinkable. To him it was…
Well, something else entirely.
“I am horrified,” she declared.
Michael just offered her a smile and a shrug, even though he was starting to feel a little pricked. Naturally, he did not expect Francesca to think of him in such a manner, but a reaction of horror didn’t exactly make a fellow feel good about his manly prowess.
“What are my two choices?” he asked abruptly.
She just stared at him.
“You said I have two choices.”
She blinked, and would have looked rather adorably befuddled if he weren’t a bit too annoyed with her ire to credit her with anything that charitable. “I…don’t recall,” she finally said. “Oh, my heavens,” she moaned. “What am I to do?”
“Settling down might be a good beginning,” he said, sharply enough to make her head jerk back in his direction. “Stop and think, Frannie. This is us. Your mother will realize how foolish she’s being once she takes the time to think about it.”
“That’s what I told her,” she replied fervently. “I mean, for goodness’ sake. Can you imagine?”
He could, actually, which had always been a bit of a problem.
“It is the most unfathomable thing,” Francesca muttered, pacing across the room. “As if I—” She turned, gesturing to him with overblown motions. “As if you—” She stopped, planted her hands on her hips, then clearly gave up on trying to hold still and began to pace anew. “How could she even consider such a thing?”
“I don’t believe I have ever seen you quite so put out,” Michael commented.
She halted in her tracks and stared at him as if he were an imbecile. With two heads.
And maybe a tail.
“You really ought to endeavor to calm down,” he said, even though he knew his words would have the exact opposite effect. Women hated to be told to calm down, especially women like Francesca.
“Calm down?” she echoed, turning on him as if possessed by an entire spectrum of furies. “Calm down? Good God, Michael, are you still feverish?”
“Not at all,” he said coolly.
“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
“Quite,” he bit off, about as politely as any man could after having his manhood impugned.
“It’s insane,” she said. “Simply insane. I mean, look at you.”
Really, she might as well just grab a knife and apply it to his ballocks. “You know, Francesca,” he said with studied mildness, “there are a lot of women in London who would be rather pleased to be, how did you say it, conducting an affair with me.”
Her mouth, which had been hanging open after her latest outburst, snapped shut.
He lifted his brows and leaned back against his pillows. “Some would call it a privilege.”
She glared at him.
“Some women,” he said, knowing full well he should never bait her about such a subject, “might even engage in physical battle just for the mere opportunity—”
“Stop!” she snapped. “Good heavens, Michael, such an inflated view of your own prowess is not attractive.”
“I’m told it’s deserved,” he said with a languid smile.
Her face burned red.
He rather enjoyed the sight. He might love her, but he hated what she did to him, and he was not so big of heart that he didn’t occasionally take a bit of satisfaction in seeing her so tortured.
It was only a fraction of what he felt on a day-to-day basis, after all.
“I have no wish to hear about your amorous exploits,” Francesca said stiffly.
“Funny, you used to ask about them all the time.” He paused, watching her squirm. “What was it you always asked me?”
“I don’t—”
“Tell me something wicked,” he said, using his best trying-to-sound-as-if-he’d-just-thought-of-it voice, when of course he never forgot anything she said to him. “Tell me something wicked,” he said again, more slowly this time. “That was it. You rather liked me when I was wicked. You were always so curious about my exploits.”
“That was before—”
“Before what, Francesca?” he asked.
There was an odd pause before she spoke. “Before this,” she muttered. “Before now, before everything.”
“I’m supposed to understand that?”
Her answer was merely a glare.
“Very well,” he said, “I suppose I should get ready for your mother’s visit. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”
Francesca regarded him dubiously. “But you look terrible.”