Another squeak, and this time Sir Geoffrey sounded like he might cry.
“Get out of here,” Michael grunted, shoving the terrified man away. “And while you’re at it, endeavor to leave town for a month or so.”
Sir Geoffrey looked at him in shock.
Michael stood still, dangerously so, and then shrugged one insolent shoulder. “You won’t be missed,” he said softly.
Francesca realized she was holding her breath. He was terrifying, but he was also magnificent, and it shook her to her very core to realize that she’d never seen him thus.
Never dreamed he could be like this.
Sir Geoffrey ran off, heading across the lawn to the back gate, leaving Francesca alone with Michael, alone and, for the first time since she’d known him, without a word to say.
Except, perhaps, “I’m sorry.”
Michael turned on her with a ferocity that nearly sent her reeling. “Don’t apologize,” he bit off.
“No, of course not,” she said, “but I should have known better, and—”
“He should have known better,” he said savagely.
It was true, and Francesca was certainly not going to take the blame for her attack, but at the same time, she thought it best not to feed his anger any further, at least not right now. She’d never seen him like this. In truth, she’d never seen anyone like this—wound so tightly with fury that he seemed as if he might snap into pieces. She’d thought he was out of control, but now, as she watched him, standing so still she was afraid to breathe, she realized that the opposite was true.
Michael was holding onto his control like a vise; if he hadn’t, Sir Geoffrey would be lying in a bloody heap right now.
Francesca opened her mouth to say something more, something placating or even funny, but she found herself without words, without the ability to do anything but watch him, this man she’d thought she knew so well.
There was something mesmerizing about the moment, and she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He was breathing hard, obviously still struggling to control his anger, and he was, she realized with curiosity, not entirely there. He was staring at some far off horizon, his eyes unfocused, and he looked almost . . .
In pain.
“Michael?” she whispered.
No reaction.
“Michael?” This time, she reached out and touched him, and he flinched, whipping around so quickly that she stumbled backward.
“What is it?” he asked gruffly.
“Nothing,” she stammered, not certain what it was she’d meant to say, not even certain if she’d had something to say other than his name.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, clearly waiting for her to say more.
“I believe I will go home,” she said. The party no longer held appeal; all she wanted to do was cocoon herself where all was safe and familiar.
Because Michael was suddenly neither of those things.
“I will make your apologies inside,” he said stiffly.
“I’ll send the carriage back for you and the mothers,” Francesca added. The last she’d looked, Janet and Helen were enjoying themselves immensely. She didn’t want to cut their evening short.
“Shall I escort you through the back gate, or would you rather go through the ball?”
“The back gate, I think,” she said.
And he did, the full distance to the carriage, his hand burning at her back the entire way. But when she reached the carriage, instead of accepting his assistance to climb up, she turned to him, a question suddenly burning on her lips.
“How did you know I was in the garden?” she inquired.
He didn’t say anything. Or maybe he would have done, just not quickly enough to suit her.
“Were you watching me?” she asked.
His lips curved, not quite into a smile, not even into the beginnings of a smile. “I’m always watching you,” he said grimly.
And she was left with that to ponder for the rest of the evening.
Chapter 14
. . . Did Francesca say that she misses me? Or did you merely infer it?
—from the Earl of Kilmartin
to his mother, Helen Stirling,
two years and two months
after his departure for India
Three hours later, Francesca was sitting in her bedroom back at Kilmartin House when she heard Michael return. Janet and Helen had come home quite a bit earlier, and when Francesca had (somewhat purposefully) run into them in the hall, they’d informed her that Michael had chosen to round out his evening with a visit to his club.
Most likely to avoid her, she’d decided, even though there was no reason for him to expect to see her at such a late hour. Still, she had left the ball earlier that evening with the distinct impression that Michael did not desire her company. He had defended her honor with all the valor and purpose of a true hero, but she couldn’t help but feel that it was done almost reluctantly, as if it was something he had to do, not something he wanted to do.
And even worse, that she was someone whose company he had to endure, rather than the cherished friend she had always told herself she was.
That, she realized, hurt.
Francesca told herself that when he returned to Kilmartin House she would leave well enough alone. She would do nothing but listen at the door as he tramped down the hallway to his bedchamber. (She was honest enough with herself to admit that she was not above—and in fact fundamentally unable to resist—eavesdropping.) Then she would scoot over to the heavy oak door that connected their rooms (locked on both sides since her return from her mother’s; she certainly didn’t fear Michael, but proprieties were proprieties) and then listen there a few minutes longer.
She had no idea what she’d be listening for, or even why she felt the need to hear his footsteps as he moved about his room, but she simply had to do it. Something had changed tonight. Or maybe nothing had changed, which might have been worse. Was it possible that Michael had never been the man she’d thought he was? Could she have been so close to him for so long, counted him as one of her dearest friends, even when they’d been estranged, and still not known him?
She’d never dreamed that Michael might have secrets from her. From her! Everyone else, maybe, but not her.
And it left her feeling rather off balance and untidy. Almost as if someone had come up to Kilmartin House and shoved a pile of bricks under the south wall, setting the entire world at a drunken slant. No matter what she did, no matter what she thought, she still felt as if she were sliding. To where, she didn’t know, and she didn’t dare hazard a guess.
But the ground was most definitely no longer firm beneath her feet.
Her bedroom faced the front of Kilmartin House, and when all was quiet she could hear the front door close, provided the person closing it did so with enough force. It didn’t need to be slammed, but—
Well, whatever firmness it required, Michael evidently was exercising it, because she heard the telltale thunk beneath her feet, followed by a low rumble of voices, presumably Priestley chatting with him as he took his coat.
Michael was home, which meant she could finally just go to bed and at least pretend to sleep. He was home, which meant that it was time to declare the evening officially over. She should put this behind her, move on, maybe pretend nothing had happened . . .
But when she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs, she did the one thing she never would have expected herself to do—
She opened her door and dashed out into the hall.
She had no idea what she was doing. Not even a clue. By the time her bare feet touched the runner carpet, she was so shocked at her own actions that she found herself somewhat frozen and out of breath.
Michael looked exhausted. And surprised. And heart-stoppingly handsome with his cravat slightly loosened and his midnight hair falling in wavy locks over his forehead. Which left her wondering—When had she begun to notice how handsome he was? It had always been something that had simply been there, that she knew in an intellectual sense but never really took note of.
But now . . .
Her breath caught. Now his beauty seemed to fill the air around her, swirling about her skin, leaving her shivery and hot, all at the same time.
“Francesca,” Michael said, her name more of a tired statement than anything else.
And of course she had nothing to say. It was so unlike her to do something like this, to rush in without thinking about what she was planning, but she didn’t particularly feel like herself that evening. She was so unsettled, so off balance, and the only thought in her head (if indeed there had been any) before dashing out her door was that she had to see him. Just catch a glimpse and maybe hear his voice. If she could convince herself that he really was the person she thought she knew, then maybe she was still the same, too.
Because she didn’t feel the same.
And it shook her to the core.
“Michael,” she said, finally finding her voice. “I. . . Good evening.”
He just looked at her, raising one brow at her remarkably meaningless statement.
She cleared her throat. “I wanted to make sure you were, er . . . all right.” The ending sounded a little weak, even to her ears, but it was the best adjective she could come up with on such short notice.
“I’m fine,” he said gruffly. “Just tired.”
“Of course,” she said. “Of course, of course.”
He smiled, but entirely without humor. “Of course.”
She swallowed, then tried to smile, but it felt forced. “I didn’t thank you earlier,” she said.
“For what?”
“For coming to my aid,” she replied, thinking that ought to be obvious. “I would have . . . Well, I would have defended myself.” At his wry glance, she added, somewhat defensively, “My brothers showed me how.”
He crossed his arms and looked down at her in a vaguely paternalistic manner. “In that case, I’m sure you would have rendered him a soprano in no time.”
She pinched her lips together. “Regardless,” she said, deciding not to comment upon his sarcasm, “I very much appreciated not having to, er . . .” She blushed. Oh, God, she hated when she blushed.
“Knee him in the ballocks?” Michael finished helpfully, one corner of his mouth curving into a mocking smile.
“Indeed,” she ground out, quite convinced that her cheeks had gone from pink straight to crimson, skipping all shades of rose, fuchsia, and red along the way.
“You’re quite welcome,” he said abruptly, giving her a nod that was meant to indicate the end of the conversation. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
He moved as if heading for his bedroom door, but Francesca wasn’t quite ready (and she was certain that the devil himself only knew why) to end the conversation. “Wait!” she called out, gulping when she realized that now she was going to have to say something.
He turned around, slowly and with a strange sense of deliberation. “Yes?”
“I . . . I just . . .”
He waited while she floundered, then finally said, “Can it wait until morning?”
“No! Wait!” And this time she reached out and grabbed his arm.
He froze.
“Why are you so angry with me?” she whispered.
He just shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe her question. But he did not take his eyes off of her hand on his arm. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Why are you so angry with me?” she repeated, and she realized that she hadn’t even realized she’d felt this way until the words had left her lips. But something wasn’t right between them, and she had to know why.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m not angry with you. I’m merely tired, and I want to go to bed.”
“You are. I’m sure you are.” Her voice was rising with conviction. Now that she’d said it, she knew it was true. He tried to hide it, and he’d become quite accomplished at apologizing when it slipped to the fore, but there was anger inside of him, and it was directed at her.
Michael placed his hand over hers. Francesca gasped at the heat of the contact, but then all he did was lift her hand off of his arm and allow it to drop. “I’m going to bed,” he announced.
And then he turned his back on her. Walked away.
“No! You can’t go!” She dashed after him, unthinking, unheedful . . .
Right into his bedroom.
If he hadn’t been angry before, he was now. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“You can’t just dismiss me,” she protested.
He stared at her. Hard. “You are in my bedchamber,” he said in a low voice. “I suggest you leave.”
“Not until you explain to me what is going on.”
Michael held himself perfectly still. His every muscle had frozen into a hard, stiff line, and it was a blessing, really, because if he’d allowed himself to move—if he’d felt even capable of moving—he would have lunged at her. And what he would do when he caught her was anyone’s guess.
He’d been pushed to the edge. First by her brother, and then by Sir Geoffrey, and now by Francesca herself, standing in front of him without a bloody clue.
His world had been overturned by a single suggestion.
Why don’t you just marry her?