“No,” Eloise murmured, “not unless he’d be willing to put up with severe bodily injury.”

The four ladies fell silent at that, continuing their shameless perusal of Michael and his companions. He leaned down and murmured something in one of their ears, causing the lady in question to titter and blush, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

“He’s quite a flirt,” Kate said.

“A certain air about him,” Sophie confirmed. “Those women haven’t a chance.”

He smiled at one of his companions then, a slow, liquid grin that caused even the Bridgerton women to sigh.

“Haven’t we something better to do besides spy on Michael?” Francesca asked, disgusted.

Kate, Sophie, and Eloise looked at each other, blinking.

“No.”

“No.”

“I guess not,” Kate concluded. “Not just now, anyway.”

“You should go and talk to him,” Eloise said, nudging Francesca with her elbow.

“Why on earth?”

“Because he’s here.”

“So are a hundred other men,” Francesca replied, “all of whom I’d rather marry.”

“I only see three I’d even consider promising to obey,” Eloise muttered, “and I’m not even certain about them.”

“Be that as it may,” Francesca said, not wanting to grant Eloise the point, “my purpose here is to find a husband, so I hardly see how dancing attendance on Michael will be of any benefit.”

“And I thought we were here to wish Mother a happy birthday,” Eloise murmured.

Francesca glared at her. She and Eloise were the closest of all the Bridgertons in age-exactly one year apart. Francesca would have given her life for Eloise, of course, and there was certainly no other woman who knew more of her secrets and inner thoughts, but half the time she could have happily strangled her sister.

Including right now. Especially right now.

“Eloise is right,” Sophie said to Francesca. “You should go over and greet Michael. It’s only polite, considering his long stay abroad.”

“It’s not as if we haven’t been living in the same house for over a week,” Francesca said. “We’ve more than said our greetings.”

“Yes, but not in public,” Sophie replied, “and not at your family’s home. If you don’t go over and speak with him, everyone will comment upon it tomorrow. They will think there is a rift between the two of you. Or worse, that

. you do not accept him as the new earl.“

“Of course I accept him,” Francesca said. “And even if I didn’t, what would it matter? The line of succession was hardly in doubt.”

“You need to show everyone that you hold him in high esteem,” Sophie said. Then she turned to Francesca with a quizzical expression. “Unless, of course, you don’t.”

“No, of course I do,” Francesca said with a sigh. Sophie was right. Sophie was always right when it came to matters of propriety. She should go and greet Michael. He deserved an official and public welcome to London, as ludicrous as it seemed, given that she had spent the last few weeks nursing him through his malarial fevers. She just didn’t relish fighting her way through his throng of admirers.

She’d always found Michael’s reputation amusing. Probably because she felt rather removed from it all, above it, even. It had been a bit of an inside joke between the three of them-her, John, and Michael. He’d never taken any of the women seriously, and so she hadn’t, either.

But now she wasn’t watching from her comfortable, secure position as a happily married lady. And Michael was no longer just the Merry Rake, a ne’er-do-well who maintained his position in society through wit and charm.

He was an earl, and she was a widow, and she suddenly felt rather small and powerless.

It wasn’t his fault, of course. She knew that, just as she knew… well, just as she knew that he’d make someone a terrible husband someday. But somehow she couldn’t quite block her ire, if not with him then with the gaggle of giggling females around him.

“Francesca?” Sophie asked. “Do you want one of us to go with you?”

“What? No. No, of course not.” Francesca drew herself up straight, embarrassed to have been caught woolgathering by her sisters. “I can see to Michael,” she said firmly.

She took two steps in his direction, then turned back to Kate, Sophie, and Eloise. “After I see to myself,” she said.

And with that, she turned to make her way to the ladies’ retiring room. If she was going to have to smile and be polite amidst Michael’s simpering women, she might as well do it without feeling she had to hop from foot to foot.

But as she departed, she heard Eloise’s low murmur of, “Coward.”

It took all of Francesca’s fortitude not to turn around and impale her sister with a scathing retort.

Well, that and the fact that she rather feared Eloise was right.

And it was mortifying to think that she might have turned coward over Michael, of all people.

Chapter 11

… I have heard from Michael. Three times, actually. I have not yet responded. You would be disappointed in me, I’m sure. But I-

– -from the Countess of Kilmartin to her deceased husband, ten months after Michael’s departure for India, crumpled with a muttered, “This is madness,” and tossed in the fire

Michael had spotted Francesca the moment he’d entered the ballroom. She was standing at the far side of the room, chatting with her sisters, wearing a blue gown and new hairstyle.