He was standing by the window-watching for her, perhaps?-and didn’t turn when she entered. He looked travelworn, with slightly wrinkled clothing and ruffled hair. He wouldn’t have ridden all the way to Scotland- only a fool or a man chasing someone to Gretna would do that. But she had traveled with Michael often enough to know that he’d probably joined the driver in front for a fair bit of the trip. He’d always hated closed carriages for long journeys and had more than once sat in the drizzle and rain rather than remain penned in with the rest of the passengers.
She didn’t say his name. She could have done, she supposed. She wasn’t buying herself very much time; he would turn around soon enough. But for now she just wanted to take the time to acclimate herself to his presence, to make sure that her breathing was under control, that she wasn’t going to do something truly foolish like burst into tears, or, just as likely, erupt with silly, nervous laughter.
“Francesca,” he said, without even turning around.
He’d sensed her presence, then. Her eyes widened, although she shouldn’t have been surprised. Ever since he’d left the army he’d had an almost catlike ability to sense his surroundings. It was probably what had kept him alive during the war. No one, apparently, could attack him from behind.
“Yes,” she said. And then, because she thought she should say more, she added, “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”
He turned. “Very much so.”
She swallowed, trying not to notice how handsome he was. He’d quite taken her breath away in London, but here in Scotland he seemed changed. Wilder, more elemental.
Far more dangerous to her soul.
“Is anything amiss in London?” she asked, hoping there was some sort of practical purpose to his visit. Because if there wasn’t, then he had come just for her, and that scared the very devil out of her.
“Nothing amiss,” he said, “although I do bear news.”
She tilted her head, waiting for his reply.
“Your brother has become betrothed.”
“Colin?” she asked in surprise. Her brother had been so committed to his life as a bachelor that she wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d told her that the lucky fellow was actually her younger brother Gregory, even though he was nearly ten years Colin’s junior.
Michael nodded. “To Penelope Featherington.”
‘To Penel-oh, my, that is a surprise. But lovely, I should say. I think she will suit him tremendously.“
Michael took a step toward her, his hands remaining clasped behind his back. “I thought you would want to know.”
And he couldn’t have penned a letter? “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a wedding in the family. Not since-”
Mine, they both realized she’d been about to say.
The silence hung in the room like an unwanted guest, and then finally she broke it with, “Well, it has been a long time. My mother must be delighted.”
“She is quite,” Michael confirmed. “Or so your brother told me. I didn’t have an opportunity to converse with her myself.”
Francesca cleared her throat, then tried to feign comfort with the strange tableau by giving a little wave with one of her hands as she asked, “Will you stay long?”
“I haven’t decided,” he said, taking another step in her direction. “It depends.”
She swallowed. “On what?”
He’d halved the distance between them. “On you,” he said softly.
She knew what he meant, or at least she thought she did, but the last thing she wanted to do just then was acknowledge what had transpired in London, so she backed up a step-which was as far as she could go without actu-ally fleeing the room-and pretended to misunderstand. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Kilmartin is yours. You may come and go as you please. I have no control over your actions.”
His lips curved into a wry smile. “Is that what you think?” he murmured.
And she realized he’d halved the distance between them yet again.
“I’ll have a room readied for you,” she said hastily. “Which would you like?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The earl’s bedchamber, then,” she said, well aware that she was babbling now. “It’s only right. I’ll move down the hall. Or, er, to another wing,” she added, mumbling.
He took another step toward her. “That may not be necessary.”
Her eyes flew to his. What was he suggesting? Surely he didn’t think that a single kiss in London would give him leave to avail himself of the connecting door between the earl’s and countess’s bedchambers?
“Shut the door,” he said, nodding at the open doorway behind her.
She glanced backward, even though she knew exactly what she’d see there. “I’m not sure-”
“I am,” he said. And then, in a voice that was velvet over steel he said, “Shut it.”
She did. She was fairly certain it was a bad idea, but she did it anyway. Whatever he planned to say to her, she didn’t particularly care to have overheard by a fleet of servants.
But once her fingers left the doorknob she scooted around him and into the room, setting a more comfortable distance-and an entire seating group-between them.
He looked amused by her actions, but he did not mock her for them. Instead, he merely said, I have given matters a great deal of thought since you left London.“
As had she, but there seemed little point in mentioning it.
“I hadn’t meant to kiss you,” he said.
“No!” she said, too loudly. “I mean, no, of course not.”
“But now that I have… Now that we have…”
She winced at his use of the plural. He wasn’t going to allow her to pretend that she hadn’t been a willing participant.
“Now that it is done,” he said, “I’m sure you understand that everything is changed.”
She looked up at him then; she’d been quite intently focusing on the pink-and-cream fleur-de-lis pattern on the damask-covered sofa. “Of course,” she said, trying to ignore the way her throat was beginning to tighten.
His fingers wrapped around the mahogany edge of a Hepplewhite chair. Francesca glanced down at his hands; his knuckles had gone white.
He was nervous, she realized with surprise. She hadn’t expected that. She didn’t know that she had ever seen him nervous before. He was always such a model of urbane elegance, his charm easy and smooth, his wicked wit always a whisper from his lips.
But now he looked different. Stripped down. Nervous. It made her feel… not better, precisely, but maybe not so much like the only fool in the room.
“I have given the matter a great deal of thought,” he said.
He was repeating himself now. This was very strange.
“And I have come to a conclusion that surprised even me,” he continued, “although now that I have reached it, I am quite convinced it is the best course of action.”
With his every word, she felt more in control, less ill at ease. It wasn’t that she wanted him to feel badly-well, maybe she did; it was only fair after how she’d spent the last week. But there was something rather relieving in the knowledge that the awkwardness was not one-sided, that he’d been as disturbed and shaken as she.
Or if not, at least that he had not been unaffected.
He cleared his throat, then moved his chin slightly, stretching his neck. “I believe,” he said, his gaze suddenly settling on hers with remarkable clarity, “that we should be married.”
What?
Her lips parted.
What?
And then, finally, she said it. “What?”
Not I beg your pardon. Not even the more succinct Excuse me. Just What?