Michael had wanted to hurl the yappy little man out the window, but instead he’d merely shown him the door. He no longer had energy for that kind of anger, it seemed.
He still hadn’t moved into Kilmartin House. He wasn’t quite ready for it, and the thought of living there with all those women was suffocating. He’d have to do so soon, he knew; it was expected of the earl. But for now, he was content enough in his small suite of apartments.
And that was where he was, avoiding his duties, when Francesca finally sought him out.
“Michael?” she said, once his valet had shown her to his small sitting room.
“Francesca,” he replied, shocked at her appearance. She’d never come here before. Not when John had been alive, and certainly not after. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you,” she said.
The unspoken message being: You’re avoiding me.
It was the truth, of course, but all he said was, “Sit down.” And then belatedly: “Please.”
Was this improper? Her being here in his apartments? He wasn’t sure. The circumstances of their position were so odd, so completely out of order that he had no idea which rules of etiquette were currently governing them.
She sat, and did nothing but fiddle her fingers against her skirts for a full minute, and then she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his with heartbreaking intensity, and said, “I miss you.”
The walls began to close in around him. “Francesca, I-”
“You were my friend,” she said accusingly. “Besides John, you were my closest friend, and I don’t know who you are any longer.”
“I-” Oh, he felt like a fool, utterly impotent and brought down by a pair of blue eyes and a mountain of guilt.
Guilt for what, he wasn’t even certain any longer. It seemed to come from so many sources, from such a variety of directions, that he couldn’t quite keep track of it.
“What is wrong with you?” she asked. “Why do you avoid me?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, since he couldn’t lie to her and say that he wasn’t. She was too smart for that. But neither could he tell her the truth.
Her lips quivered, and then the lower one caught be-tween her teeth. He stared at it, unable to take his eyes off her mouth, hating himself for the rush of longing that swept over him.
“You were supposed to be my friend, too,” she whispered.
“Francesca, don’t.”
“I needed you,” she said softly. “I still do.”
“No you don’t,” he replied. “You have the mothers, and all your sisters as well.”
“I don’t want to talk to my sisters,” she said, her voice growing impassioned. “They don’t understand.”
“Well, I certainly don’t understand,” he shot back, desperation lending an unpleasant edge to his voice.
She just stared at him, condemnation coloring her eyes.
“Francesca, you-” He wanted to throw up his arms but instead he just crossed them. “You-you miscarried.”
“I am aware of that,” she said tightly.
“What do I know of such things? You need to talk to a woman.”
“Can’t you say you’re sorry?”
“I did say I was sorry!”
“Can’t you mean it?”
What did she want from him? “Francesca, I did mean it.”
“I’m just so angry,” she said, her voice rising in intensity, “and I’m sad, and I’m upset, and I look at you and I don’t understand why you’re not.”
For a moment he didn’t move. “Don’t you ever say that,” he whispered.
Her eyes flashed with anger. “Well, you’ve a funny way of showing it. You never call, and you never speak to me, and you don’t understand-”
“What do you want me to understand?” he burst out. “What can I understand? For the love of-” He stopped himself before he blasphemed and turned away from her, leaning heavily on the windowsill.
Behind him Francesca just sat quietly, still as death. And then, finally, she said, “I don’t know why I came. I’ll go.”
“Don’t go,” he said hoarsely. But he didn’t turn around.
She said nothing; she wasn’t sure what he meant.
“You only just arrived,” he said, his voice halting and awkward. “You should have a cup of tea, at least.”
Francesca nodded, even though he still wasn’t looking at her.
And they remained thus for several minutes, for far too long, until she could not bear the silence any longer. The clock ticked in the corner, and her only company was Michael’s back, and all she could do was sit there and think and think and wonder why she’d come here.
What did she want from him?
And wouldn’t her life be easier if she actually knew.
“Michael,” she said, his name leaving her lips before she realized it.
He turned around. He didn’t speak, but he acknowledged her with his eyes.
“I…” Why had she called out to him? What did she want? “I…”
Still, he didn’t speak. Just stood there and waited for her to collect her thoughts, which made everything so much harder.
And then, to her horror, it spilled out. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” she said, hearing her voice break. “And I’m so angry, and…” She stopped, gasped-anything to halt the tears.
Across from her, Michael opened his mouth, but only barely, and even then, nothing came out.