She didn’t seem to have an answer to that, and then, just when he was sure she would say no more, she whispered, “Because I won’t be able to stop myself.”
Several seconds passed. They just stood there, their backs to the wall, looking for all the world as if they were just watching the party. Finally, Francesca broke the silence and said, “You should dance.”
He turned to her. “With you?”
“Yes. Once, at least. But you should also dance with someone eligible, someone you might marry.”
Someone he might marry. Anyone but her.
“It will signal to society that you are at least open to the possibility of matrimony,” Francesca added. When he made no comment, she asked, “Aren’t you?”
“Open to matrimony?”
“Yes.”
“If you say so,” he said, somewhat flippantly. He had to be cavalier. It was the only way he could mask the bitterness sweeping over him.
“Felicity Featherington,” Francesca said, motioning toward a very pretty young lady about ten yards away. “She’d be an excellent choice. Very sensible. She won’t fall in love with you.”
He looked down at her sardonically. “Heaven forbid I find love.”
Francesca’s lips parted and her eyes grew very wide. “Is that what you want?” she asked. “To find love?”
She looked delighted by the prospect. Delighted that he might find the perfect woman.
And there it was. His faith in a higher power reaffirmed. Truly, moments of this ironic perfection could not come about by accident.
“Michael?” Francesca asked. Her eyes were bright and shining, and she clearly wanted something for him, something wonderful and good.
And all he wanted was to scream.
“I have no idea,” he said caustically. “Not a single, bloody clue.”
“Michael . . .” She looked stricken, but for once, he didn’t care.
“If you will excuse me,” he said sharply, “I believe I have a Featherington to dance with.”
“Michael, what is wrong?” she asked. “What did I say?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
“Don’t be this way.”
As he turned to her, he felt something wash over him, a numbness that somehow slid a mask back over his face, enabled him to smile smoothly and regard her with his legendary heavy-lidded stare. He was once again the rake, maybe not so merry, but every bit the urbane seducer.
“What way?” he asked, his lips twisting with the perfect mix of innocence and condescension. “I’m doing exactly what you asked of me. Dance with a Featherington, didn’t you say? I’m following your instructions to the letter.”
“You’re angry with me,” she whispered.
“Of course not,” he said, but they both knew his voice was too easy, too suave. “I’ve merely accepted that you, Francesca, know best. Here I’ve been listening to my own mind and conscience all this time, but to what avail? Heaven knows where I’d be if I’d listened to you years ago.”
Her breath gasped across her lips and she drew back. “I need to go,” she said.
“Go, then,” he said.
Her chin lifted a notch. “There are many men here.”
“Very many.”
“I need to find a husband.”
“You should,” he agreed.
Her lips pressed together and then she added, “I might find one tonight.”
He almost gave her a mocking smile. She always had to have the last word. “You might,” he said, at the very second he knew she thought the conversation had concluded.
By then she was just far enough away that she couldn’t yell back one last retort. But he saw the way she paused and tensed her shoulders, and he knew she’d heard him.
He leaned back against the wall and smiled. One had to take one’s simple pleasures where one could.
The next day Francesca felt perfectly horrid. And worse, she couldn’t quell an extremely annoying quiver of guilt, even though Michael was the one who’d spoken so insultingly the night before.
Truly, what had she said to provoke such an unkind reaction on his part? And what right did he have to act so badly toward her? All she had done was express a bit of joy that he might want to find a true and loving marriage rather than spend his days in shallow debauchery.
But apparently she’d been wrong. Michael had spent the entire night—both before and after their conversation—charming every woman at the party. It had gotten to the point where she had thought she might be ill.
But the worst of it was, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from counting his conquests, just as she’d predicted the night before. One, two, three, she’d murmured, watching him enchant a trio of sisters with his smile. Four, five, six—there went two widows and a countess. It was disgusting, and Francesca was disgusted with herself for having been so mesmerized.
And then every now and then, he’d look at her. Just look at her with a heavy-lidded, mocking stare, and she couldn’t help but think that he knew what she was doing, that he was moving from woman to woman just so that she could round her count up to the next dozen or so.
Whyhad she said that? What had she been thinking?
Or had she been thinking not at all? It seemed the only explanation. She certainly hadn’t intended to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from tallying his broken hearts. The words had whispered over her lips before she’d even realized she was thinking them.
And even now, she wasn’t sure what it meant.
Why did she care? Why on earth did she care how many ladies fell under his spell? She’d never cared before.
It was only going to get worse, too. The women were mad for Michael. If the rules of society were reversed, Francesca thought wryly, their drawing room at Kilmartin House would be overflowing with flowers, all addressed to the Dashing Earl.
It was still going to be dreadful. She would be inundated with visitors today, of that she was certain. Every woman in London would call upon her in hopes that Michael might stroll through the drawing room. Francesca was going to have to endure countless questions, occasional innuendo, and—
“Good heavens!” She stopped short, peering into the drawing room with dubious eyes. “What is all this?”
Flowers. Everywhere.
It was her nightmare come true. Had someone changed the rules of society and forgotten to tell her?
Violets, irises, and daisies. Imported tulips. Hothouse orchids. And roses. Roses everywhere. Of every color. The smell was almost overwhelming.
“Priestley!” Francesca called out, spying her butler across the room, setting a tall vase of snapdragons on a table. “What are all these flowers?”
He gave the vase one last adjustment, twisting one pink stalk so that it faced away from the wall, then turned and walked toward her. “They are for you, my lady.”
She blinked. “Me?”
“Indeed. Would you care to read the cards? I have left them on the arrangements so that you would be able to identify each sender.”
“Oh.” It seemed all she could say. She felt rather like a simpleton, with her hand over her opened mouth, glancing back and forth at all the flowers.
“If you’d like,” Priestley continued, “I could remove each card and note on the back which arrangement I took it from. Then you could read through them all at once.” When Francesca didn’t reply, he suggested, “Perhaps you would like to remove yourself to your desk? I would be happy to bring you the cards.”
“No, no,” she said, still feeling terribly distracted by all this. She was a widow, for heavens sake. Men weren’t supposed to bring her flowers. Were they?
“My lady?”
“I . . . I . . .” She turned to Priestley, straightening her spine as she forced her mind back to clarity. Or tried. “I will just, ah, have a look at . . .” She turned to the nearest bouquet, a lovely and delicate arrangement of grape hyacinths and stephanotis. “A pale comparison to your eyes,” the card read. It was signed by the Marquess of Chester.
“Oh!” Francesca gasped. Lord Chester’s wife had died two years earlier. Everyone knew he was looking for a new bride.
Barely able to contain the oddly giddy feeling rising within her, she inched down toward an arrangement of roses and picked up the card, trying very hard not to appear too eager in front of the butler. “I wonder who this is from,” she said with studied casualness.
A sonnet. From Shakespeare, if she remembered correctly. Signed by Viscount Trevelstam.
Trevelstam? They’d only been introduced but once. He was young, very handsome, and it was rumored that his father had squandered away most of the family fortune. The new viscount would have to marry someone wealthy. Or so everyone said.
“Good heavens!”
Francesca turned to see Janet behind her.
“What is this?” she asked.
“I do believe those were my exact words upon entering the room,” Francesca murmured. She handed Janet the two cards, then watched her carefully as her eyes scanned the neatly handwritten lines.
Janet had lost her only child when John had died. How would she react to Francesca being wooed by other men?
“My goodness,” Janet said, looking up. “You seem to be this season’s Incomparable.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Francesca said, blushing. Blushing? Good God, what was wrong with her? She didn’t blush. She hadn’t even blushed during her first season, when she really had been an Incomparable. “I’m far too old for that,” she mumbled.
“Apparently not,” Janet said.
“There are more in the hall,” Priestley said.
Janet turned to Francesca. “Have you looked through all the cards?”
“Not yet. But I imagine—”
“That they’re more of the same?”
Francesca nodded. “Does that bother you?”
Janet smiled sadly, but her eyes were kind and wise. “Do I wish you were still married to my son? Of course. Do I want you to spend the rest of your life married to his memory? Of course not.” She reached out and clasped one of Francesca’s hands in her own. “You are a daughter to me, Francesca. I want you to be happy.”
“I would never dishonor John’s memory,” Francesca assured her.
“Of course not. If you were the sort who would, he’d never have married you in the first place. Or,” she added with a sly look, “I would never have allowed him to.”
“I would like children,” Francesca said. Somehow she felt the need to explain it, to make sure that Janet understood that what she truly wanted was to be a mother, not necessarily a wife.
Janet nodded, turning away as she dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips. “We should read the rest of the these cards,” she said, her brisk tone signaling that she’d like to move on, “and perhaps prepare ourselves for an onslaught of afternoon calls.”
Francesca followed her as she sought out an enormous display of tulips and plucked the card free. “I rather think the callers will be women,” Francesca said, “inquiring after Michael.”
“You may be right,” Janet replied. She held the card up. “May I?”
“Of course.”
Janet scanned the words, then looked up and said, “Cheshire.”
Francesca gasped, “As in the Duke of?”
“The very one.”
Francesca actually placed her hand over her heart. “My word,” she breathed. “The Duke of Cheshire.”
“You, my dear, are clearly the catch of the season.”
“But I—”
“What the devil is this?”
It was Michael, catching a vase he’d nearly overturned and looking extremely cross and put out.
“Good morning, Michael,” Janet said cheerfully.
He nodded at her, then turned to Francesca and grumbled, “You look as if you’re about to pledge allegiance to your sovereign lord.”
“And that would be you, I imagine?” she shot back, quickly dropping her hand to her side. She hadn’t even realized it was still over her heart.
“If you’re lucky,” he muttered.
Francesca just gave him a look.
He smirked right back in return. “And are we opening a flower shop?”
“No, but clearly we could,” Janet replied. “They’re for Francesca,” she added helpfully.
“Of course they’re for Francesca,” he muttered, “although, good God, I don’t know who would be idiot enough to send roses.”
“I like roses,” Francesca said.
“Everyone sends roses,” he said dismissively. “They’re trite and old, and”—he motioned to Trevelstam’s yellow ones—“who sent this?”
“Trevelstam,” Janet answered.
Michael let out a snort and swung around to face Francesca. “You’re not going to marry him, are you?”
“Probably not, but I fail to see what—”
“He hasn’t two shillings to rub together,” he stated.
“How would you know?” Francesca asked. “You haven’t even been back a month.”
Michael shrugged. “I’ve been to my club.”
“Well, it may be true, but it is hardly his fault,” Francesca felt compelled to point out. Not that she felt any great loyalty to Lord Trevelstam, but still, she did try to be fair, and it was common knowledge that the young viscount had spent the last year trying to repair the damage his profligate father had done to the family fortunes.
“You’re not marrying him, and that’s final,” Michael announced.
She should have been annoyed by his arrogance, but the truth was, she was mostly just amused. “Very well,” she said, lips twitching. “I’ll select someone else.”
“Good,” he grunted.
“She has many to choose from,” Janet put in.
“Indeed,” Michael said caustically.
“I’m going to have to find Helen,” Janet said. “She won’t want to miss this.”
“I hardly think the flowers are going to fly out the window before she rises,” Michael said.
“Of course not,” Janet replied sweetly, giving him a motherly pat on the arm.
Francesca quickly swallowed a laugh. Michael would hate that, and Janet knew it.
“She does adore her flowers, though,” Janet said. “May I take one of the arrangements up to her?”
“Of course,” Francesca replied.
Janet reached for Trevelstam’s roses, then stopped herself. “Oh, no, I had better not,” she said, turning back around to face Michael and Francesca. “He might stop by, and we wouldn’t want him to think we’d banished his flowers to some far corner of the house.”
“Oh, right,” Francesca murmured, “of course.”
Michael just grunted.
“Nevertheless, I’d better go tell her about this,” Janet said, and she turned and hurried up the stairs.
Michael sneezed, then glared at a particularly innocuous display of gladiolas. “We’re going to have to open a window,” he grumbled.
“And freeze?”
“I’ll wear a coat,” he ground out.
Francesca smiled. She wanted to grin. “Are you jealous?” she asked coyly.
He swung around and nearly leveled her with a dumbstruck expression.
“Not over me,” she said quickly, almost blushing at the thought. “My word, not that.”
“Then what?” he asked, his voice quiet and clipped.
“Well, just—I mean—” She motioned to the flowers, a clear display of her sudden popularity. “Well, we’re both after much the same goal this season, aren’t we?”
He just stared at her blankly.
“Marriage,” she said. Good heavens, he was particularly obtuse this morning.
“Your point?”
She let out an impatient breath. “I don’t know if you had thought about it, but I’d naturally assumed you would be the one to be relentlessly pursued. I never dreamed that I would . . . Well . . .”
“Emerge as a prize to be won?”
It wasn’t the nicest way of putting it, but it wasn’t exactly inaccurate, so she just said, “Well, yes, I suppose.”
For a moment he said nothing, but he was watching her strangely, almost wryly, and then he said, his voice quiet, “A man would have to be a fool not to want to marry you.”
Francesca felt her mouth form a surprised oval. “Oh,” she said, quite at a loss for words. “That’s . . . that’s . . . quite the nicest thing you could have said to me just now.”
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. She decided not to tell him that he’d just deposited a streak of yellow pollen into the black strands.
“Francesca,” he said, looking tired and weary and something else.
Regretful?
No, that was impossible. Michael wasn’t the sort to regret anything.
“I would never begrudge you this. You . . .” He cleared his throat. “You should be happy.”