For the rest of his life.
Chapter 13
… all at home is pleasant and well, and Kilmartin thrives under Francesca’s careful stewardship. She continues to mourn John, but then of course, so do we all, as, I’m sure, do you. You might consider writing to her directly. I know that she misses you. I do pass along all of your tales, but I am certain you would relate them to her in a different fashion than you do to your mother.
– from Helen Stirling to her son, the Earl of Kilmartin, two years after his departure for India
The rest of the week passed in a supremely annoying blur of flowers, candy, and one appalling display of poetry, recited aloud, Michael recalled with a shudder, on his front steps.
Francesca, it seemed, was putting all the fresh-faced debutantes to shame. The number of men vying for her hand might not have been doubling every day, but it certainly felt like it to Michael, who was constantly tripping over some lovesick swain in the hall.
It was enough to make a man want to vomit. Preferably on the lovesick swain.
Of course he had his admirers as well, but as it was not suitable for a lady to call upon a gentleman, he generally only had to deal with them when he chose to do so, and not when they took it upon themselves to stop by unannounced and for no apparent reason other than to compare his eyes to-
Well, to whatever one would compare your average gray eyes. It was a stupid analogy, anyway, although Michael had been forced to listen to more than one man rhapsodize over Francesca’s eyes.
Good God, didn’t any of them have an original thought in his head? Forget that everyone made mention of her eyes; at the very least one of them could have had the creativity to compare them to something other than the water or the sky.
Michael snorted with disgust. Anyone who took the time to really look at Francesca’s eyes would have realized that they were quite their own color.
As if the sky could even compare.
Furthermore, Francesca’s nauseating parade of suitors was made all the more difficult to bear by Michael’s complete inability to stop thinking about his recent conversation with her brother.
Marriage to Francesca? He had never even let himself think about such a notion.
But now it gripped him with a fervor and intensity that left him reeling.
Marriage to Francesca. Good God. Everything about it was wrong.
Except he wanted it so badly.
It was hell watching her, hell speaking to her, hell living in the same house. He’d thought it was difficult before-loving someone who could never be his-but this…
This was a thousand times worse.
Colin knew.
He had to know. Why would he have suggested it if he didn’t?
Michael had held on to his sanity all these years for one reason and one reason only: No one knew he was in love with Francesca.
Except, apparently, he was to be denied even that last shred of dignity.
But now Colin knew, or at least he damn well suspected, and Michael couldn’t quite quash this rising sense of panic within his chest.
Colin knew, and Michael was going to have to do something about it.
Dear God, what if he told Francesca? That question was foremost in his mind, even now, as he stood slightly off to the side at the Burwick ball, nearly a week after his momentous meeting with Colin.
“She looks beautiful tonight, doesn’t she?”
It was his mother’s voice at his ear; he had forgotten to pretend that he wasn’t watching Francesca. He turned to Helen and gave her a little bow. “Mother,” he murmured.
“Doesn’t she?” Helen persisted.
“Of course,” he agreed, quickly enough so she might think he was just being polite.
“Green suits her.”
Everything suited Francesca, but he wasn’t about to tell his mother that, so he just nodded and made a murmur of agreement.
“You should dance with her.”
“I’m sure I will,” he said, taking a sip of his champagne. He wanted to march across the ballroom and forcibly remove her from her annoying little crowd of admirers, but he couldn’t very well show such emotion in front of his mother. So he concluded with, “After I finish my drink.”
Helen pursed her lips. “Her dance card will surely be filled by then. You should go now.”
He turned to his mother and smiled, just the sort of devilish grin designed to take her mind off of whatever it was that had her so fixated. “Now why would I do that,” he queried, setting his champagne flute down on a nearby table, “when I can dance with you instead?”
“You rascal,” Helen said, but she didn’t protest when he led her out on the floor.
Michael knew he’d pay for this tomorrow; already the society matrons were circling him for the kill, and there was nothing they liked better than a rake who doted upon his mother.
The dance was a lively one, which didn’t allow for much conversation. And as he twisted and turned, dipped and bowed, he kept catching glances of Francesca, radiant in her emerald gown. No one seemed to notice that he was watching her, which suited him just fine, except that as the music reached its penultimate crescendo, Michael was forced to make one final turn away from her.
And when he turned back to face her again, she was gone.
He frowned. That didn’t seem right. He supposed she could have darted out to the ladies’ retiring room, but, pathetic fool that he was, he’d been watching her closely enough that he knew that she had done that just twenty minutes earlier.
He completed his dance with his mother, bade her farewell, then ambled casually over to the north side of the room, where he’d last seen Francesca. He had to move quickly, lest someone tried to waylay him. But he kept his ears open as he moved through the crowds. No one, however, seemed to be speaking of her.