“Are you certain I can’t donate my thumbs instead?”
“They’re lovely thumbs,” Janet replied, “but I do believe they’d better serve all of humanity attached to your hands.”
Michael met her eyes with a steady stare. “Let’s see. I have on my schedule today-my first since rising from my sickbed, I might add-a meeting with the prime minister concerning my assumption of my seat in parliament, a meeting with the family solicitor so that I might review the state of our financial holdings, and an interview with our primary estate manager, who I’m told has come down to London with the express purpose of discussing the state of all seven of our family properties. At which point, might I inquire, do you wish me to squeeze in a visit to the tailor?”
The three ladies were speechless.
“Perhaps I should inform the prime minister that I shall have to move him until Thursday?” he asked mildly.
“When did you make all of these appointments?” Francesca asked, a bit ashamed that she was so surprised at his diligence.
“Did you think I’d spent the last fortnight staring at the ceiling?”
“Well, no,” she replied, although in truth she didn’t know what she’d thought he’d been doing. Reading, she supposed. That’s what she would have done.
When no one said anything further, Michael pushed back his chair. “If you ladies will excuse me,” he said, setting his napkin down, “I believe we have established that I have a busy day ahead of me.”
But he’d not even risen from his seat before Janet said quietly, “Michael? The tailor.”
He froze.
Janet smiled at him sweetly. ‘Tomorrow would be perfectly acceptable.“
Francesca rather thought she heard his teeth grind.
Janet just tilted her head ever so slightly to the side. “You do need new evening clothes. Surely you would not dream of missing Lady Bridgerton’s birthday ball?”
Francesca quickly forked a bite of eggs into her mouth so that he wouldn’t catch her grinning. Janet was devious in the extreme. Her mother’s birthday party was the one event that Michael would feel positively obligated to attend. Anything else he could shrug off without a care.
But Violet?
Francesca didn’t think so.
“When is it?” he sighed.
“April eleventh,” Francesca said sweetly. “Everyone will be there.”
“Everyone?” he echoed.
“All the Bridgertons.”
He brightened visibly.
“And everyone else ” she added with a shrug.
He looked at her sharply. Define everyone. “
Her eyes met his. “Everyone.”
He slumped in his seat. “Am I to get no reprieve?”
“Of course you are,” Helen said. “You did, in fact. Last week. We called it malaria.”
“And here I was looking forward to health,” he muttered.
“Fear not,” Janet said. “You will have a fine time, I’m sure.”
“And perhaps meet a lovely lady,” Helen put in helpfully.
“Ah, yes,” Michael murmured, “lest we forget the real purpose of my life.”
“It’s not such a bad purpose,” Francesca said, unable to resist the small chance to tease him.
“Oh, really?” he asked, swinging his head around to face her. His eyes settled on hers with startling accuracy, leaving Francesca with the extremely unpleasant sensation that perhaps she shouldn’t have provoked him.
“Er, really,” she said, since she couldn’t back down now.
“And what are your purposes?” he asked sweetly.
Out of the corner of her eye, Francesca could see Janet and Helen watching the exchange with avid and unconcealed curiosity.
“Oh, this and that,” Francesca said with a blithe wave of her hand. “Presently, just to finish my breakfast. It is most delicious, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Coddled eggs with a side portion of meddling mothers?”
“Don’t forget your cousin as well,” she said, kicking herself under the table as soon as the words left her lips. Everything about his demeanor screamed not to provoke him, but she just couldn’t help it.
There was little in this world she enjoyed more than provoking Michael Stirling, and moments like this were simply too delicious to resist.
“And how will you be spending your season?” Michael asked, tilting his head slightly into an obnoxiously patient expression.
“I imagine I’ll begin by going to my mother’s birthday party.”
“And what will you be doing there?”
“Offering my felicitations.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, I won’t be inquiring after her age, if that’s what you’re asking,” Francesca replied.
“Oh, no,” Janet said, followed by Helen’s equally fervent, “Don’t do that.”
All three ladies turned to Michael with identical expectant expressions. It was his turn to speak, after all.
“I’m leaving,” he said, his chair scraping along the floor as he stood.
Francesca opened her mouth to say something provoking, since it was always her first inclination to tease him when he was in such a state, but she found herself without words.
Michael had changed.
It wasn’t that he’d been irresponsible before. It was just that he’d been without responsibilities. And it hadn’t really occurred to her how well he might rise to the occasion once he returned to England.
“Michael,” she said, her soft voice instantly gaining his attention, “good luck with Lord Liverpool.”
His eyes caught hers, and something flashed there. A hint of appreciation, maybe of gratitude.
Or maybe it was nothing so precise. Maybe it was just a wordless moment of understanding.
The sort she’d had with John.
Francesca swallowed, uncomfortable with this sudden realization. She reached for her tea with a slow and deliberate movement, as if her control over her body might extend to her mind as well.
What had just happened?
He was just Michael, wasn’t he?
Just her friend, just her longtime confidant.
Wasn’t that all?
Wasn’t it?
Chapter 10
…
– nothing more than hatchmarks, caused by the tapping of the Countess of Kilmartin’s pen against paper, two weeks after the receipt of the Earl of Kilmartin’s third missive to her
“Is he here?”
“He’s not here.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’m quite certain.”
“But he is coming?”
“He said he was.”
“Oh. But when is he coming?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh. Right. Well… Oh, look! I see my daughter. Lovely seeing you, Francesca.”
Francesca rolled her eyes-not an affectation she espoused except under the most severe of circumstances- as she watched Mrs. Featherington, one of the ton’s most notorious gossips, toddle off toward her daughter Felicity, who was chatting amiably with a handsome, albeit untitled, young man at the edge of the ballroom.
The conversation would have been amusing if it hadn’t been the seventh-no eighth, mustn’t forget her own mother-time she had been subjected to it. And the conversation was always the same, truly down to the very word, save for the fact that not everyone knew her well enough to use her given name.
Once Violet Bridgerton had let it be known that the elusive Earl of Kilmartin would be making his reappearance at her birthday party-Well, Francesca was quite sure she would never be safe from interrogation again, at least not from anyone with any attachment to an unmarried female.
Michael was the catch of the season, and he hadn’t even shown up yet.
“Lady Kilmartin!”
She looked up. Lady Danbury was coming her way. A more crotchety and outspoken old lady had never graced the ballrooms of London, but Francesca rather liked her, so she just smiled as the countess approached, noticing that the partygoers on either side of her quickly fled to parts unknown.