She was beautiful.
He’d known that, of course, had known that for years, but never before had he felt it quite so profoundly, quite so deeply in his bones.
It wasn’t her hair, that rich, lush wave of chestnut that he was rarely so privileged as to see down. And it wasn’t even her eyes, so radiantly blue that men had been moved to write poetry-much, Michael recalled, to John’s everlasting amusement. It wasn’t even in the shape of her face or the structure of her bones; if that were the case, he’d have been obsessed with the loveliness of all the Bridgerton girls; such peas in a pod they were, at least on the outside.
It was something in the way she moved.
Something in the way she breathed.
Something in the way she merely was.
And he didn’t think he was ever going to get over it.
“Michael,” she murmured, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Good morning,” he said, hoping she’d mistake the roughness in his voice for exhaustion.
“You look better.”
“I feel better.”
She swallowed and paused before she said, “You’re used to this.”
He nodded. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I don’t mind the illness, but yes, I’m used to it. I know what to do.”
“How long will this continue?”
“It’s hard to say. I’ll get fevers every other day until I just… stop. A week in total, maybe two. Three if I’m fiendishly unlucky.”
“And then what?”
He shrugged. “Then I wait and hope it never happens again.”
“It can do that?” She sat up straight. “Just never come back?”
“It’s a strange, fickle disease.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t say it’s like a woman.”
“Hadn’t even occurred to me until you brought it up.”
Her lips tightened slightly, then relaxed as she asked, “How long has it been since your last…” She blinked. “What do you call them?”
He shrugged. “I call them attacks. Certainly feels like one. And it’s been six months.”
“Well, that’s good!” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Isn’t it?”
“Considering it had only been three before that, yes, I think so.”
“How often has this happened?”
“This is the third time. All in all, it’s not too bad compared with what I’ve seen.”
“Am I meant to take solace in that?”
“I do,” he said bluntly. “Model of Christian virtue that I am.”
She reached out abruptly and touched his forehead. “You’re much cooler,” she remarked.
“Yes, I will be. It’s a remarkably consistent disease. Well, at least when you’re in the midst of it. It would be nice if I knew when I might expect an onset.”
“And you’ll really have another fever in a day’s time? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he confirmed.
She seemed to consider that for a few moments, then said, “You won’t be able to hide this from your family, of course.”
He actually tried to sit up. “For God’s sake, Francesca, don’t tell my mother and-”
“They’re expected any day now,” she cut in. “When I left Scotland, they said they would be only a week behind me, and knowing Janet, that really means only three days. Do you truly expect them not to notice that you’re rather conveniently-”
“Inconveniently,” he cut in acerbically.
“Whichever,” she said sharply. “Do you really think they won’t notice that you’re sick as death every other day? For heaven’s sake, Michael, do credit them with a bit of intelligence.”
“Very well,” he said, slumping back against the pillows. “But no one else. I have no wish to become the freak of London.”
“You’re hardly the first person to be stricken with malaria.”
“I don’t want anyone’s pity,” he bit off. “Most especially yours.”
She drew back as if struck, and of course he felt like an ass.
“Forgive me,” he said. “That came out wrong.”
She glared at him.
“I don’t want your pity,” he said repentantly, “but your care and your good wishes are most welcome.”
Her eyes didn’t meet his, but he could tell that she was trying to decide if she believed him.
“I mean it,” he said, and he didn’t have the energy to try to cover the exhaustion in his voice. “I am glad you were here. I have been through this before.”
She looked over sharply, as if she were asking a question, but for the life of him, he didn’t know what.
“I have been through this before,” he said again, “and this time was… different. Better. Easier.” He let out a long breath, relieved to have found the correct word. “Easier. It was easier.”
“Oh.” She shifted in her chair. “I’m… glad.”
He glanced over at the windows. They were covered with heavy drapes, but he could see glimmers of sunlight peeking in around the sides. “Won’t your mother be worried about you?”
“Oh, no!” Francesca yelped, jumping to her feet so quickly that her hand slammed into the bedside table. “Ow ow ow.”
“Are you all right?” Michael inquired politely, since it was quite clear she’d done herself no real harm.
“Oh…” She was shaking her hand out, trying to stem the pain. “I’d forgotten all about my mother. She was expecting me back last night.”