“It’s a lady’s prerogative to do anything she wants,” Francesca said pertly.
“Touche,” Michael murmured. He looked at her again, more closely this time. “You haven’t changed.”
Her lips parted. “How can you say that?”
“Because you look exactly as I remembered you.” And then, devilishly, he motioned toward her revealing night-wear. “Aside from your attire, of course.”
She gasped and stepped back, wrapping her arms more tightly around her body.
It was a bit sick of him, but he was rather pleased with himself for having offended her. He’d needed her to step away, to move out of his reach. She was going to have to set the boundaries.
Because he wasn’t sure he’d prove up to the task.
He’d been lying when he’d said she hadn’t changed. There was something different about her, something entirely unexpected.
Something that shook him down to his very soul.
It was a sense about her-all in his mind, really, but no less devastating. There was an air of availability, a horrible, torturous knowledge that John was gone, really, truly gon2, and the only thing stopping Michael from reaching out and touching her was his own conscience.
It was almost funny.
Almost.
And there she was, still without a clue, still completely unaware that the man standing next to her wanted nothing so much than to peel every layer of silk from her body and lay her down in front of the fire. He wanted to nudge her thighs apart, sink himself into her, and-
He laughed grimly. Four years, it seemed, had done little to cool his inappropriate ardor.
“Michael?”
He looked over at her.
“What’s so funny?”
Her question, that’s what. “You wouldn’t understand.”
‘Try me,“ she dared.
“Oh, I think not.”
“Michael,” she prodded.
He turned to her and said with deliberate coolness,
“Francesca, there are some things you will never understand.”
Her lips parted, and for a moment she looked as if she’d been struck.
And he felt as horrid as if he’d done so.
“That was a terrible thing to say,” she whispered.
He shrugged.
“You’ve changed,” she said.
The sad thing was, he hadn’t. Not in any of the ways that might have made his life easier to bear. He sighed, hating himself because he couldn’t bear to have her hate him. “Forgive me,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I’m tired, and I’m cold, and I’m an ass.”
She grinned at that, and for a moment they were transported back in time. “It’s all right,” she said kindly, touching his upper arm. “You’ve had a long journey.”
He sucked in his breath. She used to do this all the time-touch his arm in friendship. Never in public, of course, and rarely even when it had just been the two of them. John would have been there; John was always there. And it had always-always-shaken him.
But never so much as now.
“I need to go to bed,” he mumbled. He was usually a master at hiding his unease, but he just hadn’t been prepared to see her this evening, and beyond that, he was damned tired.
She withdrew her hand. “There won’t be a room ready for you. You should take mine. I’ll sleep here.”
“No,” he said, with far more force than he’d intended. “I’ll sleep here, or… hell,” he muttered, striding across the room to yank on the bellpull. What the devil was the point of being the bloody Earl of Kilmartin if you couldn’t have a bedchamber readied at any hour of the night?
Besides, ringing the bell would mean that a servant would arrive within minutes, which would mean that he would no longer be standing here alone with Francesca.
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been alone together before, but never at night, and never with her in her nightgown, and-
He yanked the cord again.
“Michael,” she said, sounding almost amused. “I’m sure they heard you the first time.”
“Yes, well, it’s been a long day,” he said. “Storm in the Channel and all that.”
“You’ll have to tell me of your travels soon,” she said gently.
He looked over at her, lifting a brow. “I would have written to you of them.”
Her lips pursed for a moment. It was an expression he’d seen countless times on her face. She was choosing her words, deciding whether or not to spear him with her legendary wit.
And apparently she decided against it, because instead she said, “I was rather angry with you for leaving.”
He sucked in his breath. Trust Francesca to choose stark honesty over a scathing retort.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it, even though he wouldn’t have changed any of his actions. He’d needed to leave. He’d had to leave. Maybe it meant he was a coward; maybe it meant he’d been less of a man. But he hadn’t been ready to be the earl. He wasn’t John, could never be John. And that was the one thing everyone had seemed to want of him.
Even Francesca, in her own halfway sort of manner.
He looked at her. He was quite sure she still didn’t understand why he’d left. She probably thought she did, but how could she? She didn’t know that he loved her, couldn’t possibly understand how damned guilty he felt at assuming John’s life.
But none of that was her fault. And as he looked at her, standing fragile and proud as she stared at the fire, he said it again.
“I’m sorry.”