But he knew she didn’t understand. She often came to visit him while he was working in John’s study at Kilmartin House, poring over reports from various land stewards and solicitors. And he could tell that she was looking for their old camaraderie, but he just couldn’t do it.
Call him weak, call him shallow. But he just couldn’t be her friend. Not just yet, anyway.
“Mr. Stirling?”
Michael looked up. His valet was at the door, accompanied by a footman dressed in the unmistakable green and gold livery of Kilmartin House.
“A message for you,” the footman said. “From your mother.”
Michael held out his hand as the footman crossed the room, wondering what it was this time. His mother summoned him to Kilmartin House every other day, it seemed.
“She said it was urgent,” the footman added as he placed the envelope in Michael’s hand.
Urgent, eh? That was new. Michael glanced up at the footman and valet, his steady gaze a clear dismissal, and then, once the room had been emptied, slid his letter-opener under the flap.
Come quickly, was all it said. Francesca has lost the baby.
Michael nearly killed himself rushing to Kilmartin House, racing on horseback at a breakneck pace, ignoring the shouts from the angry pedestrians he’d nearly decapitated in his haste.
But now that he was here, standing in the hall, he had no idea what to do with himself.
Miscarriage? It seemed such a womanly thing. What was he meant to do? It was a tragedy, and he felt horrible for Francesca, but what did they think he could say? Why did they want him here?
And then it hit him. He was the earl now. It was done. Slowly but surely, he was assuming John’s life, filling every corner of the world that had once belonged to his cousin.
“Oh, Michael,” his mother said, rushing into the hall. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
He embraced her, his arms awkwardly coming around her. And he said something utterly meaningless like, “Such a tragedy,” but mostly he just stood there, feeling foolish and out of place.
“How is she?” he finally asked, once his mother stepped back.
“In shock,” she replied. “She’s been crying.”
He swallowed, wanting desperately to loosen his cravat. “Well, that’s to be expected,” he said. “I—I—”
“She can’t seem to stop,” Helen interrupted.
“Crying?” Michael asked.
Helen nodded. “I don’t know what to do.”
Michael measured his breaths. Even. Slow. In and out.
“Michael?” His mother was looking up to him for a response. Maybe for guidance.
As if he would know what to do.
“Her mother came by,” Helen said, when it became apparent that Michael was not going to speak. “She wants Francesca to go back to Bridgerton House.”
“Does Francesca want to?”
Helen shrugged sadly. “I don’t think she knows. It’s all such a shock.”
“Yes,” Michael said, swallowing again. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to get out.
“The doctor said we’re not to move her for several days, in any case,” Helen added.
He nodded.
“Naturally, we called for you.”
Naturally? There was nothing natural about it. He’d never felt so out of place, so completely at a loss for words or action.
“You’re Kilmartin now,” his mother said quietly.
He nodded again. Just once. It was as much of an acknowledgment as he could muster.
“I must say I—” Helen stopped, her lips pursing in an odd, jerky manner. “Well, a mother wants the world for her children, but I didn’t—I never would have—”
“Don’t say it,” Michael said hoarsely. He wasn’t ready for anyone to say this was a good thing. And by God, if anyone offered his congratulations . . .
Well, he wouldn’t be responsible for the violence.
“She asked for you,” his mother said.
“Francesca?” he asked, his eyes flying open with surprise.
Helen nodded. “She said she wanted you.”
“I can’t,” he said.
“You have to.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head, panic making his movements too quick. “I can’t go in there.”
“You can’t abandon her,” his mother said.
“She was never mine to abandon.”
“Michael!” Helen gasped. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Mother,” he said, desperately trying to redirect the conversation, “she needs a woman. What can I do?”
“You can be her friend,” Helen said softly, and he felt eight again, scolded for a thoughtless transgression.
“No,” he said, and his voice horrified him. He sounded like a wounded animal, pained and confused. But there was one thing he knew for certain. He couldn’t see her. Not now. Not yet.
“Michael,” his mother said.
“No,” he said again. “I will . . . Tomorrow, I’ll . . .” And he strode for the door with nothing more than a “Give her my best.”
And then he fled, coward that he was.
Chapter 4
. . . I am sure it is not worth such high drama. I do not profess to know or understand romantic love between husband and wife, but surely it is not so all-encompassing that the loss of one would destroy the other. You are stronger than you think, dear sister. You would survive quite handily without him, moot point though it may be.
—from Eloise Bridgerton
to her sister, the Countess of Kilmartin,
three weeks after Francesca’s wedding
The following month was, Michael was certain, the best approximation of hell on earth that any human being was likely to experience.
With every new ceremony, each and every document he found himself signing as Kilmartin, or “my lord” he was forced to endure, it was as if John’s spirit was being pushed farther away.
Soon, Michael thought dispassionately, it would be as if he’d never existed. Even the baby—who was to have been the last piece of John Stirling left on earth—was gone.
And everything that had been John’s was now Michael’s.
Except Francesca.
And Michael intended to keep it that way. He would not—no, he could not offer his cousin that last insult.
He’d had to see her, of course, and he’d offered his best words of comfort, but whatever he’d said, it wasn’t the right thing, and she’d just turned her head and looked at the wall.
He didn’t know what to say. Frankly, he was more relieved that she was not injured than he was upset that the baby had been lost. The mothers—his, John’s, and Francesca’s—had felt compelled to describe the gore to him in appalling detail, and one of the maids had even trotted out the bloody sheets, which someone had saved to offer as proof that Francesca had miscarried.
Lord Winston had nodded approvingly but had then added that he would have to keep an eye on the countess, just to be sure that the sheets were truly hers, and that she wasn’t actually increasing. This wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to circumvent the sacred laws of primogeniture, he’d added.
Michael had wanted to hurl the yappy little man out the window, but instead he’d merely shown him the door. He no longer had energy for that kind of anger, it seemed.
He still hadn’t moved into Kilmartin House. He wasn’t quite ready for it, and the thought of living there with all those women was suffocating. He’d have to do so soon, he knew; it was expected of the earl. But for now, he was content enough in his small suite of apartments.
And that was where he was, avoiding his duties, when Francesca finally sought him out.
“Michael?” she said, once his valet had shown her to his small sitting room.
“Francesca,” he replied, shocked at her appearance. She’d never come here before. Not when John had been alive, and certainly not after. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you,” she said.
The unspoken message being: You’re avoiding me.
It was the truth, of course, but all he said was, “Sit down.” And then belatedly: “Please.”
Was this improper? Her being here in his apartments? He wasn’t sure. The circumstances of their position were so odd, so completely out of order that he had no idea which rules of etiquette were currently governing them.
She sat, and did nothing but fiddle her fingers against her skirts for a full minute, and then she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his with heartbreaking intensity, and said, “I miss you.”
The walls began to close in around him. “Francesca, I—”
“You were my friend,” she said accusingly. “Besides John, you were my closest friend, and I don’t know who you are any longer.”
“I—” Oh, he felt like a fool, utterly impotent and brought down by a pair of blue eyes and a mountain of guilt.
Guilt for what, he wasn’t even certain any longer. It seemed to come from so many sources, from such a variety of directions, that he couldn’t quite keep track of it.
“What is wrong with you?” she asked. “Why do you avoid me?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, since he couldn’t lie to her and say that he wasn’t. She was too smart for that. But neither could he tell her the truth.
Her lips quivered, and then the lower one caught between her teeth. He stared at it, unable to take his eyes off her mouth, hating himself for the rush of longing that swept over him.
“You were supposed to be my friend, too,” she whispered.
“Francesca, don’t.”
“I needed you,” she said softly. “I still do.”
“No you don’t,” he replied. “You have the mothers, and all your sisters as well.”
“I don’t want to talk to my sisters,” she said, her voice growing impassioned. “They don’t understand.”
“Well, I certainly don’t understand,” he shot back, desperation lending an unpleasant edge to his voice.
She just stared at him, condemnation coloring her eyes.
“Francesca, you—” He wanted to throw up his arms but instead he just crossed them. “You—you miscarried.”
“I am aware of that,” she said tightly.
“What do I know of such things? You need to talk to a woman.”
“Can’t you say you’re sorry?”
“I did say I was sorry!”
“Can’t you mean it?”
What did she want from him? “Francesca, I did mean it.”
“I’m just so angry,” she said, her voice rising in intensity, “and I’m sad, and I’m upset, and I look at you and I don’t understand why you’re not.”
For a moment he didn’t move. “Don’t you ever say that,” he whispered.
Her eyes flashed with anger. “Well, you’ve a funny way of showing it. You never call, and you never speak to me, and you don’t understand—”
“What do you want me to understand?” he burst out. “What can I understand? For the love of—” He stopped himself before he blasphemed and turned away from her, leaning heavily on the windowsill.
Behind him Francesca just sat quietly, still as death. And then, finally, she said, “I don’t know why I came. I’ll go.”
“Don’t go,” he said hoarsely. But he didn’t turn around.
She said nothing; she wasn’t sure what he meant.
“You only just arrived,” he said, his voice halting and awkward. “You should have a cup of tea, at least.”
Francesca nodded, even though he still wasn’t looking at her.
And they remained thus for several minutes, for far too long, until she could not bear the silence any longer. The clock ticked in the corner, and her only company was Michael’s back, and all she could do was sit there and think and think and wonder why she’d come here.
What did she want from him?
And wouldn’t her life be easier if she actually knew.
“Michael,” she said, his name leaving her lips before she realized it.
He turned around. He didn’t speak, but he acknowledged her with his eyes.
“I . . .” Why had she called out to him? What did she want? “I . . .”
Still, he didn’t speak. Just stood there and waited for her to collect her thoughts, which made everything so much harder.
And then, to her horror, it spilled out. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” she said, hearing her voice break. “And I’m so angry, and . . .” She stopped, gasped—anything to halt the tears.
Across from her, Michael opened his mouth, but only barely, and even then, nothing came out.
“I don’t know why this is happening,” she whimpered. “What did I do? What did I ever do?”
“Nothing,” he assured her.
“He’s gone, and he isn’t coming back, and I’m so. . . so. . .” She looked up at him, feeling the grief and the anger etching themselves into her face. “It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that it’s me and not someone else, and it isn’t fair that it should be anyone, and it isn’t fair that I lost the—” And then she choked, and the gasps became sobs, and all she could do was cry.
“Francesca,” Michael said, kneeling at her feet. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” she sobbed, “but it doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” he murmured.
“And it doesn’t make it fair.”
“No,” he said again.
“And it doesn’t—It doesn’t—”
He didn’t try to finish the sentence for her. She wished he had; for years she wished he had, because maybe then he would have said the wrong thing, and maybe then she wouldn’t have leaned into him, and maybe then she wouldn’t have allowed him to hold her.
But oh, God, how she missed being held.
“Why did you go?” she cried. “Why can’t you help me?”
“I want to—You don’t—” And then finally he just said, “I don’t know what to say.”
She was asking too much of him. She knew it, but she didn’t care. She was just so sick of being alone.
But right then, at least for a moment, she wasn’t alone. Michael was there, and he was holding her, and she felt warm and safe for the first time in weeks. And she just cried. She cried weeks of tears. She cried for John and she cried for the baby she’d never know.
But most of all she cried for herself.
“Michael,” she said, once she’d recovered enough to speak. Her voice was still shaky, but she managed his name, and she knew she was going to have to manage more.
“Yes?”
“We can’t go on like this.”
She felt something change in him. His embrace tightened, or maybe it loosened, but something was not quite the same. “Like what?” he asked, his voice hoarse and hesitant.
She drew back so she could see him, relieved when his arms fell away, and she didn’t have to wriggle free. “Like this,” she said, even though she knew he didn’t understand. Or if he did, that he was going to pretend otherwise. “With you ignoring me,” she continued.
“Francesca, I—”
“The baby was to have been yours in a way, too,” she blurted out.
He went pale, deathly pale. So much so that for a moment she couldn’t breathe.
“What do you mean?” he whispered.
“It would have needed a father,” she said, shrugging helplessly. “I—You—It would have had to be you.”
“You have brothers,” he choked out.
“They didn’t know John. Not the way you did.”
He moved away, stood, and then, as if that weren’t enough, backed up as far as he could, all the way to the window. His eyes flared slightly, and for a moment she could have sworn that he resembled a trapped animal, cornered and terrified, waiting for the finality of the kill.
“Why are you telling me this?” he said, his voice flat and low.
“I don’t know,” she said, swallowing uncomfortably. But she did know. She wanted him to grieve as she grieved. She wanted him to hurt in every way she hurt. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t nice, but she couldn’t help it and she didn’t feel like apologizing for it, either.
“Francesca,” he said, and his tone was strange, hollow and sharp, and like nothing she’d ever heard.
She looked at him, but she moved her head slowly, scared by what she might see in his face.
“I’m not John,” he said.
“I know that.”
“I’m not John,” he said again, louder, and she wondered if he’d even heard her.
“I know.”
His eyes narrowed and focused on her with dangerous intensity. “It wasn’t my baby, and I can’t be what you need.”
And inside of her, something started to die. “Michael, I—”
“I won’t take his place,” he said, and he wasn’t shouting, but it sounded like maybe he wanted to.
“No, you couldn’t. You—”