Three hours later, Francesca was sitting in her bedroom back at Kilmartin House when she heard Michael return. Janet and Helen had come home quite a bit earlier, and when Francesca had (somewhat purposefully) run into them in the hall, they’d informed her that Michael had chosen to round out his evening with a visit to his club.
Most likely to avoid her, she’d decided, even though there was no reason for him to expect to see her at such a late hour. Still, she had left the ball earlier that evening with the distinct impression that Michael did not desire her company. He had defended her honor with all the valor and purpose of a true hero, but she couldn’t help but feel that it was done almost reluctantly, as if it was something he had to do, not something he wanted to do.
And even worse, that she was someone whose company he had to endure, rather than the cherished friend she had always told herself she was.
That, she realized, hurt.
Francesca told herself that when he returned to Kil-martin House she would leave well enough alone. She would do nothing but listen at the door as he tramped down the hallway to his bedchamber. (She was honest enough with herself to admit that she was not above- and in fact fundamentally unable to resist-eavesdropping.) Then she would scoot over to the heavy oak door that connected their rooms (locked on both sides since her return from her mother’s; she certainly didn’t fear Michael, but proprieties were proprieties) and then listen there a few minutes longer.
She had no idea what she’d be listening for, or even why she felt the need to hear his footsteps as he moved about his room, but she simply had to do it. Something had changed tonight. Or maybe nothing had changed, which might have been worse. Was it possible that Michael had never been the man she’d thought he was? Could she have been so close to him for so long, counted him as one of her dearest friends, even when they’d been estranged, and still not known him?
She’d never dreamed that Michael might have secrets from her. From her! Everyone else, maybe, but not her.
And it left her feeling rather off balance and untidy. Almost as if someone had come up to Kilmartin House and shoved a pile of bricks under the south wall, setting the entire world at a drunken slant. No matter what she did, no matter what she thought, she still felt as if she were sliding. To where, she didn’t know, and she didn’t dare hazard a guess.
But the ground was most definitely no longer firm beneath her feet.
Her bedroom faced the front of Kilmartin House, and when all was quiet she could hear the front door close, provided the person closing it did so with enough force. It didn’t need to be slammed, but-
Well, whatever firmness it required, Michael evidently was exercising it, because she heard the telltale thunk beneath her feet, followed by a low rumble of voices, presumably Priestley chatting with him as he took his coat.
Michael was home, which meant she could finally just go to bed and at least pretend to sleep. He was home, which meant that it was time to declare the evening officially over. She should put this behind her, move on, maybe pretend nothing had happened…
But when she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs, she did the one thing she never would have expected herself to do-
She opened her door and dashed out into the hall.
She had no idea what she was doing. Not even a clue. By the time her bare feet touched the runner carpet, she was so shocked at her own actions that she found herself somewhat frozen and out of breath.
Michael looked exhausted. And surprised. And heart-stoppingly handsome with his cravat slightly loosened and his midnight hair falling in wavy locks over his forehead. Which left her wondering-When had she begun to notice how handsome he was? It had always been something that had simply been there, that she knew in an intellectual sense but never really took note of.
But now…
Her breath caught. Now his beauty seemed to fill the air around her, swirling about her skin, leaving her shivery and hot, all at the same time.
“Francesca,” Michael said, her name more of a tired statement than anything else.
And of course she had nothing to say. It was so unlike her to do something like this, to rush in without thinking about what she was planning, but she didn’t particularly feel like herself that evening. She was so unsettled, so off balance, and the only thought in her head (if indeed there had been any) before dashing out her door was that she had to see him. Just catch a glimpse and maybe hear his voice. If she could convince herself that he really was the person she thought she knew, then maybe she was still the same, too.
Because she didn’t feel the same.
And it shook her to the core.
“Michael,” she said, finally finding her voice. “I… Good evening.”
He just looked at her, raising one brow at her remarkably meaningless statement.
She cleared her throat. “I wanted to make sure you were, er… all right.” The ending sounded a little weak, even to her ears, but it was the best adjective she could come up with on such short notice.
“I’m fine,” he said gruffly. “Just tired.”
“Of course,” she said. “Of course, of course.”
He smiled, but entirely without humor. “Of course.”
She swallowed, then tried to smile, but it felt forced. “I didn’t thank you earlier,” she said.
“For what?”
“For coming to my aid,” she replied, thinking that ought to be obvious. “I would have… Well, I would have defended myself.” At his wry glance, she added, somewhat defensively, “My brothers showed me how.”
He crossed his arms and looked down at her in a vaguely paternalistic manner. “In that case, I’m sure you would have rendered him a soprano in no time.”