It was only a fraction of what he felt on a day-to-day basis, after all.
“I have no wish to hear about your amorous exploits,” Francesca said stiffly.
“Funny, you used to ask about them all the time.” He paused, watching her squirm. “What was it you always asked me?”
“I don’t-”
“Tell me something wicked” he said, using his best trying-to-sound-as-if-he’d-just-thought-of-it voice, when of course he never forgot anything she said to him. “Tell me something wicked,” he said again, more slowly this time. “That was it. You rather liked me when I was wicked. You were always so curious about my exploits.”
“That was before-”
“Before what, Francesca?” he asked.
There was an odd pause before she spoke. “Before this,” she muttered. “Before now, before everything.”
“I’m supposed to understand that?”
Her answer was merely a glare.
“Very well,” he said, “I suppose I should get ready for your mother’s visit. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”
Francesca regarded him dubiously. “But you look terrible.”
“I knew there was a reason I loved you so well,” he said dryly. “One really needn’t worry about falling into the sin of vanity with you about.”
“Michael, be serious.”
“Sadly, I am.”
She scowled at him.
“I can rise to my feet now,” he told her, “exposing you to parts of my body I would imagine you’d rather not see, or you can leave and await my glorious presence downstairs.”
She fled.
Which puzzled him. The Francesca he knew didn’t flee anything.
Nor, for that matter, would she have departed without at least making an attempt to get the last word.
But most of all, he couldn’t believe she had let him get away with calling himself glorious.
Francesca never did have to suffer a visit from her mother. Not twenty minutes after she left Michael’s bedchamber, a note arrived from Violet informing her that her brother Colin-who had been traveling in the Mediterranean for months-had just returned to London, and Violet would have to postpone her visit. Then, later that evening, much as Francesca had predicted at the onset of Michael’s attack, Janet and Helen arrived in London, assuaging Violet’s concerns about Francesca and Michael and their lack of a chaperone.
The mothers-as Francesca and Michael had long since taken to calling them-were thrilled at Michael’s unexpected appearance, although one look at his sickly features propelled both of them into maternal tizzies of concern that had forced Michael to take Francesca aside and beg her not to leave him alone with either of the two ladies. In truth, the timing of their arrival was rather fortuitous, as Michael had a comparatively healthy day in their presence before being struck by another raging fever. Francesca had taken them aside before the next expected attack and explained the nature of the illness, so by the time they saw the malaria in all its horrible glory, they were prepared.
And unlike Francesca, they were more agreeable-no, downright eager-to keep his malady a secret. It was difficult to imagine that a wealthy and handsome earl might not be considered an excellent catch by the unmarried ladies of London, but malaria was never a mark in one’s favor when looking for a wife.
And if there was one thing Janet and Helen were determined to see before the year was out, it was Michael standing at the front of a church, his ring firmly on the finger of a new countess.
Francesca was actually relieved to sit back and listen to the mothers harangue him about getting married. At least it took their attention off of her. She had no idea how they would react to her own marital plans-she rather imagined they would be happy for her-but the last thing she wanted was two more matchmaking mamas attempting to pair her up with every poor pathetic bachelor on the Marriage Mart.
Good heavens, she had enough to put up with, with her own mother, who was surely not going to be able to resist the temptation to meddle once Francesca made clear her desire to find a husband this year.
And so Francesca moved back to Kilmartin House, and the entire Stirling household turned itself into a little cocoon, with Michael declining all invitations with the promise that he would be out and about once he settled in from his long journey. The three ladies did occasionally go out in society, and although Francesca had expected questions about the new earl, even she was unprepared for the volume and frequency.
Everyone, it seemed, was mad for the Merry Rake, especially now that he’d shrouded himself with mystery.
Oh, and inherited an earldom. Mustn’t forget that. Or the hundred thousand pounds that went with it.
Francesca shook her head as she thought about it. Truly Mrs. Radcliffe herself couldn’t have devised a more perfect hero. It was going to be a madhouse once he was recovered.
And then, suddenly, he was.
Very well, Francesca supposed it wasn’t that sudden; the fevers had been steadily decreasing in severity and duration. But it did seem that one day he still looked wan and pale, and the next he was his regular hale and hearty self, prowling about the house, eager to escape into the sunshine.
“Quinine,” Michael said with a lazy shrug when she remarked upon his changed appearance at breakfast. “I’d take the stuff six times a day if it didn’t taste so damned foul.”
“Language, please, Michael,” his mother murmured, spearing a sausage with her fork.
“Have you tasted the quinine, Mother?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“Taste it,” he suggested, “and then we’ll see how your language compares.”
Francesca chuckled under her napkin.
“/ tasted it,” Janet announced.
All eyes turned to her. “You did?” Francesca asked. Even she hadn’t been so daring. The smell alone had been enough for her to keep the bottle firmly corked at all times.
“Of course,” Janet replied. “I was curious.” She turned to Helen. “It really is foul.”
“Worse than that awful concoction Cook made us take last year for the, er…” Helen gave Janet a look that clearly meant you know what I mean.
“Much worse,” Janet affirmed.
“Did you reconstitute it?” Francesca asked. The powder was meant to be mixed with purified water, but she supposed that Janet might have simply put a bit on her tongue.
“Of course. Aren’t I supposed to?”
“Some people like to mix it with gin,” Michael said.
Helen shuddered.
“It could hardly be worse than on its own,” Janet said.
“Still,” Helen said, “if one is going to mix it with spirits, one might at least choose a nice whisky.”
“And spoil the whisky?” Michael queried, helping himself to several spoonfuls of eggs.
“It can’t be that bad,” Helen said.
“It is,” Michael and Janet said in unison.
“It’s true,” Janet added. “I can’t imagine ruining a fine whisky that way. Gin would be a happy medium.”
“Have you even tasted gin?” Francesca asked. It was not, after all, considered a suitable spirit for the upper classes, most especially women.
“Once or twice,” Janet admitted.
And here I thought I knew everything about you, Francesca murmured.
“I have my secrets,” Janet said airily.
“This is a very odd conversation for the breakfast table,” Helen stated.
“True enough,” Janet agreed. She turned to her nephew. “Michael, I am most pleased to see you up and about and looking so fine and healthy.”
He inclined his head, thanking her for the compliment.
She dabbed the corners of her mouth daintily with her napkin. “But now you must attend to your responsibilities as the earl.”
He groaned.
“Don’t be so petulant,” Janet said. “No one is going to hang you up by your thumbs. All I was going to say is that you must go to the tailor and make sure you have proper evening clothes.”