Michael leapt from his seat and pinned Lord Winston against the wall. “You will not approach Lady Kilmartin,” he growled. “You will not even breathe the same air. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite,” the smaller man gurgled.
Michael let go, dimly aware that Lord Winston’s face was beginning to turn purple. “Get out,” he said.
“You will need—”
“Get out!” he roared.
“I will come back tomorrow,” Lord Winston said, skittering out the door. “We will speak when you are in a calmer frame of mind.”
Michael leaned against the wall, staring at the open doorway. Good God, how had it all come to this? John hadn’t even been thirty. He was the picture of health. Michael might have been second in line for the earldom as long as John and Francesca’s marriage remained childless, but no one had truly thought he’d ever inherit.
Already he’d heard that men in the clubs were calling him the luckiest man in Britain. Overnight, he’d gone from the fringe of aristocracy to its very epicenter. No one seemed to understand that Michael had never wanted this. Never.
He didn’t want an earldom. He wanted his cousin back. And no one seemed to understand that.
Except, perhaps, Francesca, but she was so wrapped in her own grief that she could not quite comprehend the pain in Michael’s heart.
And he would never ask her to. Not when she was so wrecked by her own.
Michael wrapped his arms against his chest as he thought of her. For the rest of his life, he would not forget the sight of Francesca’s face once the truth had finally sunk in. John was not sleeping. He was not going to wake up.
And Francesca Bridgerton Stirling was, at the tender age of two and twenty, the saddest thing imaginable.
Alone.
Michael understood her despair better than anyone could ever imagine.
They’d put her to bed that night, he and her mother, who had hurried over at Michael’s urgent summons. And she’d slept like a baby, with nary even a whimper, her body worn out from the shock of it all.
But when she’d awakened the next morning, she’d acquired the proverbial stiff upper lip, determined to remain strong and steadfast, handling the myriad details that had showered down upon the house at John’s death.
The problem was, neither one of them had a clue what those details were. They were young; they had been carefree. They had never thought to deal with death.
Who knew, for example, that the Committee for Privileges would get involved? And demand a box seat at what ought to be a private moment for Francesca?
If indeed she was even carrying.
But bloody hell, he wasn’t going to ask her.
“We need to tell his mother,” Francesca had said earlier that morning. It was the first thing she’d said, actually. There was no preamble, no greeting, just, “We need to tell his mother.”
Michael had nodded, since of course she was right.
“We need to tell your mother, too. They’re both in Scotland; they won’t know yet.”
He nodded again. It was all he could manage.
“I’ll write the notes.”
And he nodded a third time, wondering what he was supposed to do.
That question had been answered when Lord Winston had come to call, but Michael couldn’t bear to think about all that now. It seemed so distasteful. He didn’t want to think of all he would gain at John’s death. How could anyone possibly speak as if something good had come of all this?
Michael felt himself sinking down, down, sliding against the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his legs bent in front of him, his head resting on his knees. He hadn’t wanted this. Had he?
He’d wanted Francesca. That was all. But not like this. Not at this cost.
He’d never begrudged John his good fortune. He’d never coveted the title, the money, or the power.
He’d merely coveted his wife.
Now he was meant to assume John’s title, step into his shoes. And guilt was squeezing its merciless fist right around his heart.
Had he somehow wished for this? No, he couldn’t have. He hadn’t.
Had he?
“Michael?”
He looked up. It was Francesca, still wearing that hollow look, her face a blank mask that tore at his heart far more than her wailing sorrow ever could have done.
“I sent for Janet.”
He nodded. John’s mother. She would be devastated.
“And your mother as well.”
She would be equally bereft.
“Is there anyone else you think—”
He shook his head, aware that he should get up, aware that propriety dictated that he rise, but he just couldn’t find the strength. He didn’t want Francesca to see him so weak, but he couldn’t help it.
“You should sit down,” he finally said. “You need to rest.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I need to . . . If I stop, even for a moment, I will . . .”
Her words trailed off, but it didn’t matter. He understood.
He looked up at her. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a simple queue, and her face was pale. She looked young, barely out of the schoolroom, certainly too young for this sort of heartbreak. “Francesca,” he said, his word not quite a question, more of a sigh, really.
And then she said it. She said it without his having to ask.
“I’m pregnant.”
Chapter 3
. . . I love him madly. Madly! Truly, I would die without him.
—from the Countess of Kilmartin
to her sister Eloise Bridgerton,
one week after Francesca’s wedding
“Ideclare, Francesca, you are the healthiest expectant mother I have ever laid eyes upon.”
Francesca smiled at her mother-in-law, who had just entered the garden of the St. James’s mansion they now shared. Overnight, it seemed, Kilmartin House had become a household of women. First Janet had taken up residence, and then Helen, Michael’s mother. It was a house full of Stirling females, or at least those who had acquired the name in marriage.
And it all felt so different.
It was strange. She would have thought that she’d sense John’s presence, feel him in the air, see him in the surroundings they’d shared for two years. But instead, he was simply gone, and the influx of women had changed the tone of the house entirely. Francesca supposed that was a good thing; she needed the support of women right now.
But it was odd, living among women. There were more flowers now—vases everywhere, it seemed. And there was no longer any lingering smell of John’s cheroot, or the sandalwood soap he’d favored.
Kilmartin House now smelled of lavender and rosewater, and every whiff of it broke Francesca’s heart.
Even Michael had been strangely distant. Oh, he came to call—several times a week, if one cared to count, which Francesca had to admit she did. But he wasn’t there, not in the way he had been before John’s death. He wasn’t the same, and she supposed she ought not to castigate him for that, even if only in her mind.
He was hurting, too.
She knew that. She reminded herself of it when she saw him, and his eyes were distant. She reminded herself of it when she didn’t know what to say to him, and when he didn’t tease her.
And she reminded herself of it when they sat together in the drawing room and had nothing to say.
She’d lost John, and now it seemed she’d lost Michael, too. And even with two mother hens fussing over her—three, if she counted her own, who came to call every single day—she was so lonely.
And sad.
No one had ever told her how sad she’d be. Who would have thought to tell her? And even if someone had, even if her mother, who had also been widowed young, had explained the pain, how could she have understood?
It was one of those things that had to be experienced to be understood. And oh, how Francesca wished she didn’t belong to this melancholy club.
And where was Michael? Why couldn’t he comfort her? Why didn’t he realize how very much she needed him? Him, not his mother. Not anyone’s mother.
She needed Michael, the one person who had known John the way she had, the only person who had loved him as fully. Michael was her one link to the husband she had lost, and she hated him for staying away.
Even when he was here at Kilmartin House, in the same dashed room as her, it wasn’t the same. They didn’t joke, and they didn’t tease. They just sat there and looked sad and grief stricken, and when they spoke, there was an awkwardness that had never been there before.
Couldn’t anything remain as it was before John had died? It had never occurred to her that her friendship with Michael might be killed off as well.
“How are you feeling, dear?”
Francesca looked up at Janet, belatedly realizing that her mother-in-law had asked her a question. Several, probably, and she’d forgotten to answer, lost in her own thoughts. She did that a lot lately.
“Fine,” she said. “No different than I ever have done.”
Janet shook her head in wonder. “It’s remarkable. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Francesca shrugged. “If it weren’t for the loss of my courses, I’d never know anything was different.”
And it was true. She wasn’t sick, she wasn’t hungry, she wasn’t anything. A trifle more tired than usual, she supposed, but that could be the grief as well. Her mother told her that she’d been tired for a year after her father had died.
Of course her mother had had eight children to look after. Francesca just had herself, with a small army of servants treating her like an invalid queen.
“You’re very fortunate,” Janet said, sitting down on the chair opposite Francesca’s. “When I was carrying John, I was sick every single morning. And most afternoons as well.”
Francesca nodded and smiled. Janet had told this to her before, several times. John’s death had turned his mother into a magpie, constantly chattering on, trying to fill the silence that was Francesca’s grief. Francesca adored her for it, for trying, but she suspected the only thing that would assuage her pain was time.
“I’m so pleased you’re carrying,” Janet said, leaning forward and impulsively squeezing Francesca’s hand. “It makes it all a bit more bearable. Or I suppose a bit less unbearable,” she added, not really smiling, but looking like she was trying to.
Francesca just nodded, afraid that speaking would loosen the tears in her eyes.
“I’d always wanted more children,” Janet confessed. “But it wasn’t to be. And when John died, I—Well, let’s just say that no grandchild shall ever be loved more than the one you’re carrying.” She stopped, pretending to dab her handkerchief against her nose but really aiming for her eyes. “Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl. It’s a piece of him. That’s all that matters.”
“I know,” Francesca said softly, placing her hand on her belly. She wished there was some sign of the baby within. She knew it was too soon to feel movement; she wasn’t even three months along, by her carefully calculated estimation. But all her dresses still fit perfectly, and her food still tasted just as it always had, and she simply wasn’t experiencing any of the quirks and illnesses that other women had told her about.
She’d have been happy to have been casting up her accounts each morning, if only so that she could imagine the baby was waving its hand with a cheerful, “I’m here!”
“Have you seen Michael recently?” Janet asked.
“Not since Monday,” Francesca said. “He doesn’t come to call very often anymore.”
“He misses John,” Janet said softly.
“So do I,” Francesca replied, and she was horrified by the sharp edge to her voice.
“It must be very difficult for him,” Janet mused.
Francesca just stared at her, her lips parting with surprise.
“I do not mean to say it is not difficult for you, too,” Janet said quickly, “but think of the tenuousness of his position. He won’t know if he’s to be the earl for six more months.”
“There is nothing I can do about that.”
“No, of course not,” Janet assured her, “but it does put him in awkward straits. I’ve heard more than one matron say that they simply can’t consider him as a potential suitor for their daughters until and unless you give birth to a girl. It’s one thing to marry the Earl of Kilmartin. It’s quite another when it’s his impoverished cousin. And no one knows which he will be.”
“Michael isn’t impoverished,” Francesca said peevishly, “and besides, he would never marry while in mourning for John.”
“No, I suppose not, but I do hope he starts looking,” Janet said. “I do so want him to be happy. And of course if he is to be the earl, he shall have to beget an heir. Otherwise the title shall go to that awful Debenham side of the family.” Janet shuddered at the thought.
“Michael will do what he must,” Francesca said, although she wasn’t so sure. It was difficult to imagine him marrying. It had always been difficult—Michael wasn’t the sort to stay true to any woman for very long—but now it just seemed strange. For years, she had had John, and Michael had been their companion. Could she bear it if he married, and then she was the third wheel? Was her heart big enough to be happy for him while she was alone?
She rubbed her eyes. She felt very tired, and in truth a bit weak. A good sign, she supposed; she’d heard that pregnant women were supposed to be more tired than she usually was. She looked over at Janet. “I think I shall go upstairs and take a nap.”
“An excellent idea,” Janet said approvingly. “You need your rest.”
Francesca nodded and stood, then grabbed the arm of the chair to steady herself when she swayed. “I don’t know what is wrong with me,” she said, attempting a wobbly smile. “I feel very unsteady. I—”
Janet’s gasp cut her off.
“Janet?” Francesca looked at her mother-in-law with concern. She’d gone quite pale, and one shaking hand rose to meet her lips.
“What is it?” Francesca asked, and then she realized that Janet wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at her chair.
With slowly dawning horror, Francesca looked down, forcing herself to look at the seat she’d just vacated.
There, in the middle of the cushion, was a small patch of red.
Blood.
Life would have been easier, Michael thought wryly, if he’d been given to drink. If ever there was a time to overindulge, to drown one’s sorrows in the bottle, this was it.
But no, he’d been cursed with a robust constitution and a marvelous ability to hold his liquor with dignity and flair. Which meant that if he wanted to reach any sort of mind-numbing oblivion, he’d have to down the entire bottle of whisky sitting on his desk, and maybe even then some.
He looked out the window. It wasn’t yet dark. Even he, dissolute rake that he tried to be, couldn’t bring himself to drink an entire bottle of whisky before the sun went down.
Michael tapped his fingers against his desk, wishing he knew what to do with himself. John had been dead for six weeks now, but he was still living in his modest apartments in the Albany. He couldn’t quite bring himself to take up residence in Kilmartin House. It was the residence of the earl, and that wouldn’t be him for at least another six months.
Or maybe not ever.
According to Lord Winston, whose lectures Michael had eventually been forced to tolerate, the title would go into abeyance until Francesca delivered. And if she gave birth to a boy, Michael would remain in the same position he’d always been in—cousin to the earl.
But it wasn’t Michael’s peculiar situation that was keeping him away. He’d have been reticent to move into Kilmartin House even if Francesca hadn’t been pregnant. She was still there.
She was still there, and she was still the Countess of Kilmartin, and even if he was the earl, with no questions attached to the title, she wouldn’t be his countess, and he just didn’t know if he could take the irony of it.
He’d thought that his grief might finally overtake his longing for her, that he might finally be with her and not want her, but no, his breath still caught every time she walked into the room, and his body tightened when she brushed past him, and his heart still ached with the pain of loving her.
Except now it was all wrapped in an extra layer of guilt—as if he hadn’t had enough of that while John was alive. She was in pain, and she was grieving, and he ought to be comforting her, not lusting after her. Good God, John wasn’t even cold in his grave. What kind of monster would lust after his wife?
His pregnant wife.
He was already stepping into John’s shoes in so many ways. He would not complete the betrayal by taking his place with Francesca as well.
And so he stayed away. Not completely; that would have been too obvious, and besides, he couldn’t do that, not with his mother and John’s in residence at Kilmartin House. Plus, everyone was looking to him to manage the affairs of the earl, even though the title wasn’t potentially to be his for another six months.
He did it, though. He didn’t mind the details, didn’t care that he was spending several hours per day looking after a fortune that might go to another. It was the least he could do for John.
And for Francesca. He couldn’t bring himself to be a friend to her, not the way he ought, but he could make sure that her financial affairs were in order.