They would marry.
Marry.
It was the one dream he’d never permitted himself to consider.
But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Forget that he loved her, forget that he’d loved her for years. She didn’t need to know any of that; telling her would only make her feel awkward and then he’d feel like a fool.
But if he could present it to her in practical terms, explain why it made sense that they marry, he was sure he could warm her to the idea. She might not understand the emotions, not when she didn’t feel them herself, but she had a cool head, and she understood sense.
And now that he’d finally allowed himself to imagine a life with her, he couldn’t let it go. He had to make it happen. He had to.
And it would be good. He might not ever have all of her-her heart, he knew, would never be his-but he’d have most of her, and that would be enough.
It was certainly more than he had now.
And even half of Francesca-Well, that would be ecstasy.
Wouldn’t it?
Chapter 16
… but as you have written, Francesca is managing Kilmartin with admirable skill. I do not mean to shirk my duties, and I assure you, had I not such an able stand-in, I would return immediately.
– from the Earl of Kilmartin to his mother, Helen Stirling, two years and six months after his departure for India, written with a muttered, “She never answered my question.”
Francesca didn’t like to think of herself as a coward, but when her choices were that and fool, she chose coward. Gladly.
Because only a fool would have remained in London- in the same house, even-as Michael Stirling after experiencing his kiss.
It had been…
No, Francesca wouldn’t think about it. When she thought about it, she inevitably ended up feeling guilty and ashamed, because she wasn’t supposed to feel like this about Michael.
Not Michael.
She hadn’t planned to feel desire for anyone. Truly, the most she’d been hoping for with a husband was a mild, pleasant sensation-a kiss that felt nice against the lips but left her unaffected everywhere else.
That would have been enough.
But now… But this…
Michael had kissed her. He’d kissed her, and worse, she’d kissed him back, and since then all she could do was imagine his lips on hers, then imagine them everywhere else. And at night, when she was alone in her enormous bed, the dreams became more vivid, and her hand would creep down her body, only to halt before it reached its final destination.
She wouldn’t-No, she couldn’t fantasize about Michael. It was wrong. She would have felt terrible for feeling this kind of desire about anyone, but Michael…
He was John’s cousin. His best friend. Her best friend, too. And she shouldn’t have kissed him.
But, she thought with a sigh, it had been magnificent.
And that was why she’d had to choose coward over fool and run to Scotland. Because she had no faith in her ability to resist him again.
She’d been at Kilmartin for nearly a week now, trying to immerse herself in the regular, everyday life of the family seat. There was always much to do-accounts to review, tenants to visit-but she didn’t find the same satisfaction she usually did in such tasks. The regularity of it should have been soothing, but instead, it just made her restless, and she couldn’t force herself to focus, to center her mind on any one thing.
She was jittery and distracted, and half the time she felt as if she didn’t know what to do with herself-in the most literal and physical sense. She couldn’t seem to sit still, and so she had taken to leaving Kilmartin for hours on end, strapping on her most comfortable boots and trekking across the countryside until she was exhausted.
Not that it made her sleep any better at night, but still, at least she was trying.
And right now she was trying with great vigor, having just hauled herself up Kilmartin’s biggest hill. Breathing hard from the exertion, she glanced up at the darkening sky, trying to gauge both the time and the likelihood that it would rain.
Late, and probably.
She frowned. She should head home.
She didn’t have far to go, just down the hill and across one grassy field. But by the time she reached Kilmartin’s stately front portico, it had begun to sprinkle, and her face was lightly dusted with misty droplets. She removed her bonnet and shook it out, thankful that she’d remembered to don it before leaving-she wasn’t always that diligent-and was just heading upstairs to her bedchamber, where she thought she might indulge herself in some chocolate and biscuits, when Davies, the butler, appeared before her.
“My lady?” he said, clearly desiring her attention.
“Yes?”
“You have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Francesca felt her brow furrow in thought. Most everyone who came calling up at Kilmartin had already removed to Edinburgh or London for the season.
“Not precisely a visitor, my lady.”
Michael. It had to be. And she couldn’t say she was surprised, not exactly. She had thought he might follow her, although she’d assumed he’d do it right away or not at all. Now, after the passage of a sennight, she’d reckoned she might be safe from his attentions.
Safe from her own response to them.
“Where is he?” she asked Davies.
“The earl?”
She nodded.
“Waiting for you in the rose drawing room.”
“Has he been here long?”
“No, my lady.”
Francesca nodded her dismissal and then forced her feet to carry her down the hall to the drawing room. She shouldn’t be dreading this quite so intensely. It was just Michael, for heaven’s sake.