“That’s not what I meant,” she said, shaking her head. He’d befuddled her, and she hated it. There was nothing she valued more than a cool and clear head, and Michael had managed to steal that from her with a single kiss.
And then he’d done more.
So much more.
She was never going to be the same.
She was never going to be sane.
“You look distressed,” he said.
She wanted to strangle him.
He cocked his head and smiled.
She wanted to kiss him.
He held up the teapot. “More?”
God yes, and that was the problem.
“Francesca?”
She wanted to jump across the table and onto his lap.
“Are you quite all right?”
It was growing difficult to breathe.
“Frannie?”
Every time he spoke, every time he moved his mouth, even just to breathe, her eyes settled on his lips.
She felt herself licking her own.
And she knew that he knew-with all of his experience, all of his seductive prowess-exactly what she was feeling.
He could reach for her now and she wouldn’t refuse.
He could touch her and she’d go up in flames.
“I have to go,” she said, but her words were breathless and lacking in conviction. And it didn’t help that she couldn’t seem to wrench her gaze from his own.
“Important matters to attend to in your bedchamber?” he murmured, his lips curving.
She nodded, even though she knew he was mocking her.
“Go then,” he encouraged, but his voice was mild and in fact sounded like nothing so much as a seductive purr.
Somehow she managed to move her hands to the edge of the table. She gripped the wood, telling herself to push away, to do something, to move.
But she was frozen.
“Would you prefer to stay?” he murmured.
She shook her head. Or at least she thought she did.
He stood and came to the back of her chair, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Shall I help you to rise?”
She shook her head again and nearly jumped to her feet, his nearness somewhat paradoxically breaking the spell he’d cast over her. Her shoulder bumped his chest, and she lurched back, terrified that further contact would cause her to do something she might regret.
As if she hadn’t had enough of that already.
“I need to go upstairs,” she blurted out.
“Clearly,” he said softly.
“Alone,” she added.
“I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to endure my company for one moment longer.”
She narrowed her eyes. Just what was he up to? And why the devil did she feel so disappointed?
“But perhaps…” he murmured.
Her heart leapt.
“… perhaps I should offer you a farewell kiss,” he finished. “On the hand, of course. It would only be proper.”
As if they hadn’t discarded propriety back in London.
He took her fingers lightly in his own. “We are courting, after all,” he said. “Aren’t we?”
She stared down at him, unable to take her eyes off of his head as he bent down over her hand. His lips brushed her fingers. Once… twice… and then he was through.
“Dream of me,” he said softly.
Her lips parted. She couldn’t stop watching his face.
He’d mesmerized her, held her soul captive. And she couldn’t move.
“Unless you want more than a dream,” he said.
She did.
“Will you stay?” he whispered. “Or will you go?”
She stayed. Heaven help her, she stayed.
And Michael showed her just how romantic a library could be.
Chapter 21
… a brief note to let you know that I have arrived safely in Scotland. I must say, I am glad to be here. London was stimulating as always, but I believe I needed a bit of quiet. I feel quite more focused and at peace here in the country.
– -from the Countess ofKilmartin to her mother, the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, one day after her arrival at Kilmartin
Three weeks later, Francesca still didn’t know what she was doing.
Michael had brought up the issue of marriage twice more, and each time she’d managed to dodge the question. If she considered his proposal, she would actually have to think. She’d have to think about him, and she’d have to think about John, and worst of all, she’d have to think about herself.
And she’d have to figure out just what it was she was doing. She kept telling herself she would marry him only if she became pregnant, but then she kept coming back to his bed, allowing him to seduce her at every turn.
But even that wasn’t truly accurate any longer. She was delusional if she thought she required any seducing to make room for him in her bed. She’d become the wicked one, however much she tried to hide from the fact by telling herself that she was wandering the house at night in her bedclothes because she was restless, not because she was seeking his company.
But she always found him. Or if not, she placed herself in a position where he might find her.
And she never said no.
Michael was growing impatient. He hid it well, but she knew him well. She knew him better than she knew anyone left on this planet, and even though he insisted he was courting her, wooing her with romantic phrases and gestures, she could see the faint lines of impatience curling around his mouth. He would begin a conversation that she knew would lead to the subject of marriage, and she always dodged it before he mentioned the word.
He allowed her to get away with it, but his eyes would change, and his jaw would tighten, and then, when he took her-and he always did, after moments like those-it was with renewed urgency, and even a touch of anger.