It was like a sickness with him, a sixth sense. He couldn’t be in a room with Francesca and not know where she was. It had been like this since the moment they’d met, and the only thing that made it bearable was that she hadn’t a clue.
It was one of the things he had most enjoyed about India. She wasn’t there; he never had to be aware of her. But she’d haunted him still. Every now and then he’d catch a glimpse of chestnut hair that caught the candlelight as hers did, or someone would laugh, and for a split second it sounded like hers. His breath would catch, and he would look for her, even though he knew she wasn’t there.
It was hell, and usually worthy of a stiff drink. Or a night spent with his latest paramour.
Or both.
But that was over, and now he was back in London, and he was surprised by how easy it was to fall into his old role as the devil-may-care charmer. Nothing much had changed in town; oh, some of the faces were different, but the aggregate sum of the ton was the same. Lady Bridgerton’s birthday fête was much as he had anticipated, although he had to admit that he was a little taken aback at the level of curiosity aroused by his reappearance in London. It seemed the Merry Rake had become the Dashing Earl, and within the first fifteen minutes of his arrival, he had been accosted by no fewer than eight—no make that nine, mustn’t forget Lady Bridgerton herself—society matrons, all eager to court his favor and, of course, introduce him to their lovely and unattached daughters.
He wasn’t quite sure if it was amusing or hell.
Amusing, he decided, for now at least. By next week he had no doubt it would be hell.
After another fifteen minutes of introductions, reintroductions, and only slightly veiled propositions （thankfully by a widow and not one of the debutantes or their mothers）， he announced his intention to locate his hostess and excused himself from the crowd.
And then there she was. Francesca. Halfway across the room, of course, which meant that he’d have to make his way through the punishing crowd if he wanted to speak with her. She looked breathtakingly lovely in a deep blue gown, and he realized that for all her talk about buying herself a new wardrobe, this was the first he’d seen her out of her half-mourning colors.
Then it hit him again. She was finally out of mourning. She would remarry. She would laugh and flirt and wear blue and find a husband.
And it would probably all happen in the space of a month. Once she made clear her intention to remarry, the men would be beating down her door. How could anyone not want to marry her? She might not have been as youthful as the other women looking for husbands, but she had something the younger debutantes lacked—a sparkle, a vivacity, a gleam of intelligence in her eyes that brought something extra to her beauty.
She was still alone, standing in the doorway. Amazingly, no one else seemed to have noticed her entrance, so Michael decided to brave the crowds and make his way to her.
But she saw him first, and although she did not exactly smile, her lips curved, and her eyes flashed with recognition, and as she walked to him, his breath caught.
It shouldn’t have surprised him. And yet it did. Every time he thought he knew everything about her, had unwillingly memorized every last detail, something inside her flickered and changed, and he felt himself falling anew.
He would never escape her, this woman. He would never escape her, and he could never have her. Even with John gone, it was impossible, quite simply wrong. There was too much there. Too much had happened, and he would never be able to shake the feeling that he had somehow stolen her.
Or worse, that he had wished for this. That he had wanted John gone and out of the way, wanted the title and Francesca and everything else.
He closed the distance between them, meeting her halfway. “Francesca,” he murmured, making his voice smooth and personable, “it is a delight to see you.”
“And you as well,” she replied. She smiled then, but it was in an amused sort of fashion, and he had the unexpected sense that she was mocking him. But there seemed little to be gained by pointing this out; it would only demonstrate how attuned he was to her every expression. And so he just said, “Have you been enjoying yourself?”
“Of course. Have you?”
“Of course.”
She quirked a brow. “Even in your present state of solitude?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She shrugged carelessly. “The last I saw of you, you were surrounded by women.”
“If you saw me, why didn’t you come over to save me?”
“Save you?” she said with a laugh. “Anyone could see that you were enjoying yourself.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, please, Michael,” she said, giving him a pointed glance. “You live to flirt and seduce.”
“In that order?”
She shrugged. “You’re not the Merry Rake for nothing.”
He felt his jaw clamping together. Her comment rankled, and then the fact that it did rankled some more.
She studied his face, closely enough to make him want to squirm with discomfort, and then her own erupted into a smile. “You don’t like it,” she said slowly, almost breathless with the realization. “Oh, my heavens, you don’t like it.”
She looked as if she’d just experienced an epiphany of biblical proportions, but as the whole thing was at his expense, all he could do was scowl.
Then she laughed, which made it even worse. “Oh, my,” she said, actually holding her hand to her belly in mirth. “You feel like a fox at a hunt, and you don’t like it one bit. Oh, this is simply too much. After all the women you’ve chased…”
She had it all wrong, of course. He didn’t much care one way or another that the society matrons had labeled him the season’s biggest catch and were pursuing him accordingly. That was just the sort of thing it was easy to maintain a sense of humor over.
He didn’t care if they called him the Merry Rake. He didn’t care if they thought him a worthless seducer.
But when Francesca said the same thing…
It was like acid.
And the worst of it was, he had no one to blame but himself. He had cultivated this reputation for years, spent countless hours teasing and flirting, and then making sure Francesca saw, so she would never guess the truth.
And maybe he had done it for himself, too, because if he was the Merry Rake, at least he was some thing. The alternative was to be nothing but a pathetic fool, hopelessly in love with another man’s wife. And hell, he was good at being the man who could seduce with a smile. He might as well have something in life he could succeed at.
“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Francesca said, sounding very pleased with herself.
“It’s not so bad surrounding oneself with beautiful women,” he said, mostly to irritate her. “Even better when it comes about so effortlessly.”
It worked, because her face pinched just a bit around the mouth. “I’m sure it’s more than delightful, but you must be careful not to forget yourself,” she said sharply. “These are not your usual women.”
“I wasn’t aware I had usual women.”
“You know exactly what I mean, Michael. Others may have called you a complete rogue, but I know you better than that.”