He looked down at her sardonically. “Heaven forbid I find love.”
Francesca’s lips parted and her eyes grew very wide. “Is that what you want?” she asked. ‘To find love?“
She looked delighted by the prospect. Delighted that he might find the perfect woman.
And there it was. His faith in a higher power reaffirmed. Truly, moments of this ironic perfection could not come about by accident.
“Michael?” Francesca asked. Her eyes were bright and shining, and she clearly wanted something for him, something wonderful and good.
And all he wanted was to scream.
“I have no idea,” he said caustically. “Not a single, bloody clue.”
“Michael…” She looked stricken, but for once, he didn’t care.
“If you will excuse me,” he said sharply, “I believe I have a Featherington to dance with.”
“Michael, what is wrong?” she asked. “What did I say?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
“Don’t be this way.”
As he turned to her, he felt something wash over him, a numbness that somehow slid a mask back over his face, enabled him to smile smoothly and regard her with his legendary heavy-lidded stare. He was once again the rake, maybe not so merry, but every bit the urbane seducer.
“What way?” he asked, his lips twisting with the perfect mix of innocence and condescension. “I’m doing exactly what you asked of me. Dance with a Featherington, didn’t you say? I’m following your instructions to the letter.”
“You’re angry with me,” she whispered.
“Of course not,” he said, but they both knew his voice was too easy, too suave. “I’ve merely accepted that you, Francesca, know best. Here I’ve been listening to my own mind and conscience all this time, but to what avail? Heaven knows where I’d be if I’d listened to you years ago.”
Her breath gasped across her lips and she drew back. “I need to go,” she said.
“Go, then,” he said.
Her chin lifted a notch. “There are many men here.”
“Very many.”
“I need to find a husband.”
“You should,” he agreed.
Her lips pressed together and then she added, “I might find one tonight.”
He almost gave her a mocking smile. She always had to have the last word. “You might,” he said, at the very second he knew she thought the conversation had concluded.
By then she was just far enough away that she couldn’t yell back one last retort. But he saw the way she paused and tensed her shoulders, and he knew she’d heard him.
He leaned back against the wall and smiled. One had to take one’s simple pleasures where one could.
The next day Francesca felt perfectly horrid. And worse, she couldn’t quell an extremely annoying quiver of guilt, even though Michael was the one who’d spoken so insultingly the night before.
Truly, what had she said to provoke such an unkind reaction on his part? And what right did he have to act so badly toward her? All she had done was express a bit of joy that he might want to find a true and loving marriage rather than spend his days in shallow debauchery.
But apparently she’d been wrong. Michael had spent the entire night-both before and after their conversation- charming every woman at the party. It had gotten to the point where she had thought she might be ill.
But the worst of it was, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from counting his conquests, just as she’d predicted the night before. One, two, three, she’d murmured, watching him enchant a trio of sisters with his smile. Four, five, six-there went two widows and a countess. It was disgusting, and Francesca was disgusted with herself for having been so mesmerized.
And then every now and then, he’d look at her. Just look at her with a heavy-lidded, mocking stare, and she couldn’t help but think that he knew what she was doing, that he was moving from woman to woman just so that she could round her count up to the next dozen or so.
Why had she said that? What had she been thinking?
Or had she been thinking not at all? It seemed the only explanation. She certainly hadn’t intended to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from tallying his broken hearts. The words had whispered over her lips before she’d even realized she was thinking them.
And even now, she wasn’t sure what it meant.
Why did she care? Why on earth did she care how many ladies fell under his spell? She’d never cared before.
It was only going to get worse, too. The women were mad for Michael. If the rules of society were reversed, Francesca thought wryly, their drawing room at Kil-martin House would be overflowing with flowers, all addressed to the Dashing Earl.
It was still going to be dreadful. She would be inundated with visitors today, of that she was certain. Every woman in London would call upon her in hopes that Michael might stroll through the drawing room. Francesca was going to have to endure countless questions, occasional innuendo, and-
“Good heavens!” She stopped short, peering into the drawing room with dubious eyes. “What is all this?”
Flowers. Everywhere.
It was her nightmare come true. Had someone changed the rules of society and forgotten to tell her?
Violets, irises, and daisies. Imported tulips. Hothouse orchids. And roses. Roses everywhere. Of every color. The smell was almost overwhelming.
“Priestley!” Francesca called out, spying her butler across the room, setting a tall vase of snapdragons on a table. “What are all these flowers?”
He gave the vase one last adjustment, twisting one pink stalk so that it faced away from the wall, then turned and walked toward her. “They are for you, my lady.”. She blinked. “Me?”
“Indeed. Would you care to read the cards? I have left them on the arrangements so that you would be able to identify each sender.”
“Oh.” It seemed all she could say. She felt rather like a simpleton, with her hand over her opened mouth, glancing back and forth at all the flowers.
“If you’d like,” Priestley continued, “I could remove each card and note on the back which arrangement I took it from. Then you could read through them all at once.” When Francesca didn’t reply, he suggested, “Perhaps you would like to remove yourself to your desk? I would be happy to bring you the cards.”
“No, no,” she said, still feeling terribly distracted by all this. She was a widow, for heavens sake. Men weren’t supposed to bring her flowers. Were they?
“My lady?”
“I… I…” She turned to Priestley, straightening her spine as she forced her mind back to clarity. Or tried. “I will just, ah, have a look at…” She turned to the nearest bouquet, a lovely and delicate arrangement of grape hyacinths and stephanotis. “A pale comparison to your eyes,” the card read. It was signed by the Marquess of Chester.
“Oh!” Francesca gasped. Lord Chester’s wife had died two years earlier. Everyone knew he was looking for a new bride.
Barely able to contain the oddly giddy feeling rising within her, she inched down toward an arrangement of roses and picked up the card, trying very hard not to appear too eager in front of the butler. “I wonder who this is from,” she said with studied casualness.
A sonnet. From Shakespeare, if she remembered correctly. Signed by Viscount Trevelstam.
Trevelstam? They’d only been introduced but once. He was young, very handsome, and it was rumored that his father had squandered away most of the family fortune. The new viscount would have to marry someone wealthy. Or so everyone said.
“Good heavens!”
Francesca turned to see Janet behind her.
“What is this?” she asked.
“I do believe those were my exact words upon entering the room,” Francesca murmured. She handed Janet the two cards, then watched her carefully as her eyes scanned the neatly handwritten lines.
Janet had lost her only child when John had died. How would she react to Francesca being wooed by other men?