Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Francesca Bridgerton had never been one to delight in the chaos of the social season. It had been two years since her husband’s death; the previous year she had spent in seclusion, taking a certain comfort in her exemption from balls and the tiresome company of the ton. Yet this year proved different. The prospect of remaining alone in her late husband’s house, passing her days at the pianoforte whilst her siblings moved freely through society, stirred within her an unfamiliar unease.
For the first time in her life, she felt the sharp sting of being left behind. The thought that such solitude might define her future weighed heavily upon her spirits. She was, after all, far too young to resign herself to a lifetime of widowhood, and without even the comfort of children, which had once been among her dearest hopes upon marrying John. She had long believed that marriage and motherhood would form the natural course of her life, and when John was taken from her, she could not help but feel she had somehow failed both herself and him.

Now, two years after enduring the greatest sorrow she had ever known, her grief, though still present, had softened into a quiet acceptance, and even a gentle gratitude for the love they had shared, however brief. She knew with a certainty that steadied her that John would never have wished for her to remain alone forever.
Thus, she began to consider a return to the marriage mart, hoping that she might find a gentleman of sufficient kindness and respectability, if not love, who might ease the loneliness that lingered still.
So it was that when her mother arrived at Kilmartin House two weeks before the start of the season, bringing news that the first ball was to be held at Bridgerton House, Francesca resolved that there could be no better setting for her return, surrounded as she would be by the comfort of her family and the familiarity of her childhood home.

“Oh, what a delight, my dear,” her mother had exclaimed the moment Francesca shared her decision. “We must find you the perfect gown. I shall have the modiste send over a selection of sketches for your consideration.”

Violet had continued to plot for some time, her enthusiasm unrestrained. Francesca could not help but smile at her, as she so often did when her mother took such pleasure in matters she herself had once considered trivial, such as balls and gowns. Yet she found that she appreciated it now. Her decision had not been made lightly, and certainly not without reluctance; thus, she required the gentle encouragement she knew her mother would so readily provide.

And so, two weeks later, Francesca found herself at Bridgerton House, moving restlessly from one room to another in an effort to distract herself. She occupied her time by assisting her mother, who was in a state of near agitation over the smallest of details. It was but a few hours before their family’s now-annual masquerade ball was to commence, and all had been prepared.

Her gown had been chosen within days. It was of a soft blue, reminiscent of the style she had favoured before marriage. Her mask, though simple, had been fashioned to suit her features with quiet elegance. Nothing remained but to retire upstairs and allow her maids to turn her into the most polished version of herself. Yet she delayed it for as long as she could.

As the hours drew nearer, Francesca began to realise that she was not as prepared as she had believed.
She was roused from her thoughts by the sudden presence of her sister beside her. Eloise had always possessed an uncanny ability to discern her thoughts before they were spoken. Being but a year her senior, she knew her better than most.
“Francesca,” Eloise said lightly, “I know precisely what you are thinking, and I shall not permit you to retreat now.”
Francesca turned to her, raising a brow. “And what, pray, compels you to take such a resolute stance?”
“For the past two years, Mama has directed the entirety of her attention towards me,” Eloise replied, her tone edged with dry amusement. “I assure you, I cannot endure it a moment longer. You must return to society at once, or I may very well be driven to accept the first convenient offer of marriage, if only to secure a measure of peace.”
Francesca cast her a sidelong glance. “If your intention is to reassure me, I regret to inform you that you have failed most thoroughly.”
“Oh, you are being quite dramatic” Eloise returned. “This evening is not about securing a love match. It is merely your reintroduction to society. There is no expectation placed upon you. Tonight is yours alone.”
“Is it indeed?” Francesca replied, a hint of unease in her voice. “Then I should not anticipate the watchful eyes of the entire ton, wagering amongst themselves whether I shall faint or flee before the evening is through?”
“Well,” Eloise admitted with a small shrug, “I did not say that. But you may simply ignore them. You know perfectly well that Anthony and Benedict will be present, glaring down any gentleman who dares to look at you for longer than is proper.”
Francesca allowed herself a faint smile. “Yes, I suppose that is some comfort. In any case, I wish only to enjoy the evening, and to be with all of you.” She paused, drawing in a steady breath. “I shall go and prepare now.”

Michaela Stirling had never been one to flee from her feelings. Quite the opposite was true. From a young age, she had made it her habit to confront even her most troubling thoughts, no matter how strange or unwelcome they might seem. She had always wished to understand them, to understand herself, and the quiet sense of difference she had long carried within her.
Yet such resolve had deserted her two years ago, when she had been faced with the most profound feelings she had ever known. Then, she had fled. She had fled London, the very city to which she now returned, seated in a carriage that carried her steadily toward a past she had once sworn never to revisit.
When she had left, she had done so with no intention of looking back. Shame had followed her every thought, clouding her mind and rendering her unable to remain. And now, as though fate sought to mock her, she was summoned once more, compelled to return not by choice, but by duty. To make matters worse, she had inherited all that had once belonged to her late cousin, John. It stood as a constant reminder of the guilt she bore, of the silent betrayal she feared she had committed against him, even in death.
She had never intended for any of it to happen.
As the carriage drew nearer to Kilmartin House, memory stirred unbidden.

It had been three years ago when she first met the woman who would alter the course of her life. She had arrived in London to congratulate her cousin upon his marriage, with no expectations beyond a brief visit. And yet, the moment she entered that crowded room, her attention had been captured entirely.
She had never believed in love at first sight, and yet, in that instant, something within her shifted. Across the room stood a woman of such quiet beauty that Michaela found herself unable to look away. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it might mean.
Then John appeared at her side, and within moments, he was introducing her as his cousin.
Michaela turned toward the young lady, still unsettled by the strange pull she felt, and asked, with polite curiosity, who she must be.
The lady blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Francesca—” she began, then faltered. “Bridgerton… excuse me—Kilmartin. It is Kilmartin now.”
Her words tumbled over one another, soft and hurried, her composure slipping in the most endearing manner.
Michaela found, quite inexplicably, that she could not look away, though inwardly unsettled, gave no outward sign of it. With her usual ease, she inclined her head and replied, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
And just as swiftly as it had formed, that imagined possibility vanished.

She had tried to dismiss it as nothing more than a passing fancy, convincing herself it would fade within days. Yet she was not so fortunate. For soon after, they travelled together to Scotland, where they would reside at Kilmartin Castle, alongside Francesca and her sister, Eloise.
During that time, Michaela did all she could to avoid her. She spent her nights elsewhere, lingering at the homes of acquaintances until the late hours, only to return when the household had long since retired. She slept through mornings, missed meals, and offered excuses whenever she was called upon.
Francesca, ever kind and thoughtful, made every effort to know her husband’s cousin. She arranged small gatherings, invited her to tea, and extended every courtesy. Yet Michaela refused each attempt, always with some polite excuse.
In time, Francesca ceased trying, and though it pained Michaela more than she cared to admit, she believed it to be for the best.

A few months later, Francesca, John and Eloise returned to London, her cousin began writing to her with increasing insistence, urging her to visit, to maintain the closeness they had always shared. She could not deny him. And so, she returned, intending to stay only a short while. She told herself she might attend a few gatherings, perhaps even meet someone who would help her forget.
Instead, the opposite occurred.
Where once there had been distance, there grew an unexpected closeness between her and Francesca. One day they argued, their words sharp and unguarded, and the next they found themselves speaking with a familiarity neither had anticipated.
“Friends,” Francesca had said softly, her gaze steady and warm.
In that moment, Michaela resolved that if she were to remain, she must master her feelings, reshape them into something harmless, something worthy of the trust placed in her. For her own sake, and for John’s.

But then John died, and in his passing, all that had been his became hers. His title, his estate, and the care of the woman he had loved. Francesca, in her grief, had turned to her, and Michaela, equally unmoored, found solace in her presence. Until one evening, when Francesca asked her to stay, and Michaela promised she would.
But then Francesca, with a quiet vulnerability, confessed that she felt closer to her than she ever had before. She reached for her hand, and in that simple gesture, everything Michaela had tried to suppress came rushing forth.
In that moment, she knew she could not remain. To do so would be to betray the one person she had loved as a brother. And so, despite the promise she had just made, she broke it. She left, and this time, she did not look back.

Until now.

As the carriage made its final turn toward Kilmartin House, a familiar dread settled within her. She would have to face Francesca again.
The carriage came to a halt. Beside her, her mother, sensing the depth of her thoughts, reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“We have arrived,” she said softly, as the door was opened.
Beyond it stood Kilmartin House. And before her, already stepping down with eager energy, was Lady Elizabeth Ashworth, her longtime friend. Having spent the last 2 years together abroad, she seemed more than ready to return to the liveliness of London.

“What on earth are you waiting for?” Elizabeth called back, glancing over her shoulder with a bright, impatient smile.
Michaela lingered but a moment longer. Then, gathering what courage she could, she stepped down onto the pavement, her heart unsteady with a familiar anxiety she had not felt in years.

As she stepped into her newly inherited house, memories of the last time she had been there rose. She recalled the strange, fleeting joy of it, the warmth of holding Francesca in her arms as they danced, clinging to one another whilst enduring the most difficult moment of their lives. They had celebrated John’s life even in his passing, drawing ever closer in their shared grief, until the night Michaela fled.

Now, she did not know what she would do upon seeing Francesca again. She was certain she had disappointed her. She had written on several occasions, attempting to inform her of her travels, hoping to soften the abruptness of her departure, to make it seem less like a betrayal of their friendship. Yet no reply had ever come. Thus, she could not imagine her return would be welcomed, particularly as she had sent no word of her arrival.
The Queen’s summons had been sudden, and when one is called back to London by the Queen herself, there is neither time nor liberty to question it, nor to make polite arrangements in advance.

The staff received them with warmth and efficiency, at once setting about arranging their belongings and guiding Lady Ashworth to the guest chambers. Having accompanied Michaela from Scotland, she had chosen to remain with her, as her own family was still abroad and her London residence stood empty.
Michaela’s gaze moved restlessly about the house, searching for any sign of Francesca’s presence. Yet she already knew she would not find her. Had she been there, Michaela felt certain she would have known it at once.

At last, summoning the courage to give voice to the question she had long avoided, she turned to the housekeeper. “Where is Lady Kilmartin?”
The woman hesitated briefly, as though taken aback, before understanding her meaning. “My lady, Lady Kilmartin is presently at Bridgerton House. She departed this morning to prepare for this evening’s ball.”
“A ball?” Michaela repeated. “There is a ball tonight?”
She had quite forgotten that they had returned at the very start of the season.
Without pause, her mother answered, lifting an invitation that had been placed upon a nearby table. “Indeed. Lady Bridgerton’s annual masquerade ball. What a delight. We must not miss it, particularly as we have arrived at so fortunate a moment.”
Michaela felt a sudden tightening in her chest. She had known, of course, that she would eventually have to face Francesca. Yet the thought of doing so amidst a crowded ballroom, surrounded by her family, at such an event, was altogether overwhelming. No mask, however artfully made, could conceal what might betray her the moment their eyes met.
She had just drawn breath to protest when Lady Ashworth re-entered the room, taking the invitation from Mrs. Stirling’s hand and reading it aloud.
“Pray attend the Bridgerton family’s annual masquerade, where mystery reigns and identities are artfully concealed…” she read, a smile forming as she continued. “…an evening in which appearances may deceive, and truths, long hidden, may yet come to light.”
“How delightful,” she said, her eyes bright with excitement. “I have missed London dearly. We must find something suitable to wear at once.”
Her enthusiasm faltered as she turned and caught sight of Michaela’s expression. “My dear, why do you look so utterly miserable?”
Michaela met her gaze meaningfully, then glanced down at the invitation in her hands. Lady Ashworth followed her eyes, and in an instant, understanding dawned.
“The name Bridgerton…” she murmured, then paused. “Ah. That Bridgerton.”
Her expression softened with concern. Lowering her voice, she added, “If you would prefer it, we may remain here this evening.”
Michaela considered the offer for a moment. The temptation was strong. Yet she knew, with a quiet certainty, that avoidance had already cost her too much.
“No,” she said at last, steadying herself. “I must face her sooner or later. And perhaps… her family home will be easier for her than my arriving here unannounced.”

Lady Ashworth studied her for a moment, then nodded gently, offering a reassuring smile.
And so, with quiet resolve, they began their preparations for what promised to be a most eventful evening.

The evening commenced with its usual brilliance, as it did each year with the opening ball of the season. The members of the ton arrived early, eager not to miss a single moment of what the night might offer.
Francesca’s brothers soon followed, accompanied by their wives, whom she greeted with genuine warmth. From the moment she had met them, she had grown exceedingly fond of her sisters-in-law. They were kind, thoughtful, and possessed a remarkable ability to bring out the very best in her otherwise unruly brothers.

Sophie, the newest addition to the family, held a particularly dear place in her heart. Over the past two years, they had formed a close bond. Sophie and Benedict had often invited her to their residence, which they fondly referred to as our cottage. Whenever the noise and demands of London became too much to bear, Francesca would retreat there, where she was always received with the utmost warmth.
Their days were spent in easy companionship, speaking at length of music and art, and, at Sophie’s encouragement, practicing French. Sophie spoke it fluently, and Francesca had been eager to improve her own, though Benedict’s enthusiastic participation, hindered by his dreadful accent, rarely failed to amuse them both.

“Bonsoir,” Francesca greeted them as they entered together, her lips curving into a soft smile as she embraced them in turn. “Je suis ravie de vous voir ce soir.”
Benedict pressed a fond kiss to her forehead. “We are most pleased to see you in attendance this evening, sister.”
“Is this not our first official ball together?” Sophie asked, her voice bright with excitement, though never lacking in elegance.
“I believe it is,” Francesca replied, her smile lingering.

Close behind them came Anthony and Kate. Anthony drew her into a warm embrace, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Good evening, sister,” he said, his expression both affectionate and quietly perceptive.
Kate followed, embracing her just as warmly. “You look beautiful,” she said, her tone sincere.
As the group fell into conversation, Eloise appeared as though from nowhere, immediately launching into a spirited complaint regarding the utter dullness of the assembled company and declaring herself already quite bored.

Amid the chatter, Anthony drew Francesca aside, his expression shifting to one of concern. “Mother tells me you intend to marry again.”
Francesca looked away at once, uncertain how to answer.
Sensing her discomfort, Anthony’s manner softened. He placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder and lowered his voice. “You are under no obligation to do anything that does not sit well with you. But if this is truly your wish, then I shall do all in my power to see you well matched.”
Francesca said nothing, but met his gaze with quiet gratitude, offering him a small, uncertain smile. He returned it with reassurance before the moment was interrupted by the arrival of additional guests.

Across the room, Lady Bridgerton moved gracefully among her guests, attending to her duties as hostess. Her attention was drawn, however, to the entrance of Lord Anderson. He was as handsome as ever, though this time he was accompanied by a young gentleman whose appearance bore a striking resemblance to his own.
As he approached, Lord Anderson took her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Lady Bridgerton. A pleasure, as always.”
She felt herself grow slightly flustered, as she often did in his presence. Though their relationship had been set aside two years prior, her affection for him had not wholly faded, nor, it seemed, had his for her.
“Allow me to present my son, Mr. Christopher Anderson.”
Christopher bowed, then took her hand in turn, holding her gaze with a confidence that was both bold and charming.
“I see you have inherited your father’s manners,” she said with a small, amused smile.
“My father has spoken often of you and your family, Lady Bridgerton,” he replied. “I hope to become better acquainted during my stay in London. I intend to remain for the season… and, if fortune favours me, not to leave it unwed.”
“Well,” Violet returned, her smile deepening, “you have certainly come to the right place.”

She led them into the ballroom, introducing them among her guests with all the ease of an experienced hostess. Anthony soon took charge of the introductions, greeting Christopher with easy familiarity and offering to guide him through the intricacies of society.
Yet even as Anthony spoke, Christopher’s attention had already wandered. His gaze had settled upon Francesca.
“And this is my sister, Lady Francesca Kilmartin,” Anthony said at last.
At the mention of her name, Christopher’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. He noted the absence of her husband, the unfamiliar surname, and the quiet composure with which she carried herself. He resolved to inquire further at a more appropriate moment.

As the first dance was called, the guests moved eagerly toward the floor, leaving Francesca and Christopher momentarily apart from the rest.
Francesca turned, intending to withdraw, but he spoke before she could do so.
“Lady Kilmartin,” he began, “you must forgive me, but I could not help but notice that your husband is not in attendance this evening.”
Francesca stilled, then turned to him, her expression hardened.
“Though it is not your concern, sir, my husband is dead.”
The bluntness of her reply caught him off guard. His expression shifted at once.
“I beg your pardon. I had no knowledge of it.” He hesitated, then added, somewhat awkwardly, “I fear I spoke out of turn. I was… struck by your beauty, and wondered why you might stand alone.”
Realising, too late, that he had only worsened his offence, he closed his eyes briefly.
“Pray forgive me. Might I begin again?”
Francesca regarded him with clear displeasure, choosing not to respond to his earlier remark.
“You look exceedingly well this evening, Lady Kilmartin,” he said more carefully. “Might I have the honour of a dance?”
She met his gaze with quiet firmness. “I fear your luck has deserted you this evening, Mr. Anderson. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
With that, she turned and walked away.

She could scarcely believe the audacity of the man. To speak so freely, and then attempt to charm his way out of it, she found it insufferable. Yet she forced herself to maintain her composure, unwilling to draw the attention of the room.
Then, quite suddenly, she stopped.
Across the ballroom, near the entrance, a familiar figure had just arrived.
It could not be.
Francesca felt her breath catch as she moved closer, her heart unwilling to accept what her eyes already knew. But there was no mistaking her.
Michaela Stirling had returned.

She stood there in effortless confidence, accompanied by two ladies, greeting Violet with her usual charm. And in that instant, all the carefully buried feelings Francesca had kept at bay for two years rose within her with startling force.
Her chest tightened. She could scarcely breathe.
She had to leave.
Before she could turn away entirely, a hand caught her arm.

“Francesca,” Sophie said softly, guiding her toward a quieter corner of the room. “Are you quite well?”
Francesca could not answer. Her gaze remained fixed upon the entrance, as though she feared that if she looked away, Michaela might vanish.

Sophie followed her gaze, trying to understand what had unsettled her so deeply. She did not know the cause, only that something was very wrong.
She suddenly remembered, all too clearly, how Francesca had changed after Michaela’s sudden departure. The quiet withdrawal, the unspoken tension, the way Michaela’s name had, from that point on, been carefully avoided.
Now, seeing Michaela there before them, Sophie understood that whatever had unsettled Francesca all those months ago had not, in truth, faded.
Sophie stepped in front of her, taking her hands gently. “Whatever it may be,” she said softly, “you shall not face it alone.”

Francesca blinked, as though returning to herself, and gave a small, unsteady nod. Drawing in a slow breath, she gathered what composure she could.
And with that, she resolved to endure the remainder of the evening, as though nothing at all had changed.

Michaela gathered what courage she could as she stepped into Bridgerton House, accompanied by her mother and her closest friend. She was dressed, as ever, in the deep emerald and black of Kilmartin, her mask carefully chosen to complement her features rather than conceal them.

At her side, Lady Ashworth wore an elegant gown that flattered her figure and would no doubt attract the attention of many of the evening’s most eligible gentlemen, though she had little interest in such notice. Like Michaela, she preferred the company of women. It was, in fact, how they had first met, years ago in Scotland, at a gathering discreetly known among those who sought to experience life beyond the rigid expectations of society. From that evening forward, they had been inseparable, each serving as the other’s confidante, accomplice, and shield.
The past two years had only strengthened that bond. Together, they had travelled widely, from India to the cities of Europe, moving from place to place in search of distraction, of novelty, of anything that might quiet the thoughts Michaela could not escape. She had confided everything to Elizabeth, who had listened without judgement and done her utmost to help her forget. Yet nothing had ever truly succeeded.

The moment they entered the ballroom, Violet Bridgerton herself crossed the room to greet them, surprise and delight evident upon her face.
“Michaela, what an unexpected pleasure. I had no notion you were in town,” she said, her gaze briefly passing over the two ladies beside her.
“Lady Bridgerton,” Michaela replied with effortless charm, “the pleasure is entirely mine. You must forgive us for not sending word. Our return was most sudden, and upon discovering your invitation awaiting us at Kilmartin…” She paused, glancing lightly toward her mother. “Well, I fear my mother would not hear of our absence from your celebrated masquerade.”
Violet smiled warmly at that. “I am most gratified to hear it.”

Mrs. Stirling stepped forward gracefully. “Helen Stirling,” she said with a polite inclination of her head. “Thank you for receiving us so kindly, Lady Bridgerton. We are delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Violet returned. “I have often wondered what sort of lady raised Miss Stirling into such a remarkable woman.” She cast Michaela a fond smile.

Elizabeth stepped forward next, her manner confident and easy. “Lady Elizabeth Ashworth,” she said, taking Violet’s hand in a gentle, unconventional shake, her smile bright with charm.
Violet was momentarily surprised by the gesture, yet found herself amused rather than offended.
“Michaela and I have been acquainted for many years,” Elizabeth added.
“She will be staying with us for the season,” Michaela clarified, casting her friend a brief, pointed glance.
“A pleasure indeed,” Violet said. “I do hope you enjoy the evening.”

As Violet continued speaking, Michaela’s attention shifted. She felt it before she saw it, a quiet awareness settling over her. Somewhere across the room, Francesca had noticed her.
She did not dare look.
“Oh, Michaela, you must go and greet Francesca,” Violet said suddenly. “I am certain she will wish to see you after so long. Though I must confess, she has never spoken of your departure…” Her voice trailed off, as though only now recognising the absence of Michaela’s name in her daughter’s life these past two years.
Before Michaela could respond, Violet was already moving forward, Mrs. Stirling at her side, praising the splendour of the evening as they went.
Michaela followed at a slower pace, until her gaze finally found her.
Francesca stood slightly apart from the crowd, Sophie at her side, the two of them engaged in what appeared to be a quiet and serious conversation. For a moment, Michaela could not move.
Beside her, Elizabeth gave her a small nudge. “You cannot linger here forever,” she murmured. “Better sooner than later.”

With that, she slipped her arm through Michaela’s and guided her forward.
As they approached, Violet called out, drawing Francesca’s attention.
“Francesca, my dear, see who has joined us this evening.”
Francesca turned, though not at once. For a brief moment, her gaze fell instead upon the arm linked with Michaela’s. Only then did she lift her eyes.
When they met, something in her expression changed.
A sudden composure settled over her, and with a faint, measured smile, she said, “Lady Kilmartin. What an unexpected pleasure.”
The formality of it, the distance, did not go unnoticed.

Violet, though briefly puzzled, continued without pause. “Allow me to present Mrs. Stirling, Michaela’s mother.”
Mrs. Stirling stepped forward warmly. “Lady Kilmartin, it is an honour to meet you at last. I have long wished to make your acquaintance. John spoke of you often, and always with the greatest admiration.”
Francesca’s expression softened, despite herself. “You are most kind, Mrs. Stirling. I am very pleased to meet you as well, and please do call me Francesca.”
Michaela watched the exchange in silence, her thoughts in disarray. She had imagined this moment countless times, yet never like this. Never with such distance. Such indifference.

Elizabeth stepped forward next, drawing Francesca’s attention. “Lady Elizabeth Ashworth. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Francesca inclined her head politely. “Likewise.”
As Elizabeth turned her attention to Sophie, continuing the introductions, Francesca felt a growing sense of unease. Michaela’s gaze had not left her, and she found she could no longer endure it.
Without warning, she stepped back. “Pray excuse me,” she said. “I find myself in need of some air.”
And before anyone could respond, she was gone.

Violet, accustomed to her daughter’s occasional need for quiet, resumed the conversation with ease, as though nothing were amiss.
But Michaela did not look away. Her eyes followed Francesca as she crossed the room and disappeared onto one of the balconies.
She hesitated only a moment.
Then, offering a brief excuse of her own, she turned and followed her out into the cool night air.

She could delay it no longer.

Chapter Text

Francesca could scarcely comprehend what had just transpired.
This evening had been meant as a beginning. A step forward. A quiet attempt to move on with her life, however imperfectly.
The night had begun well enough, surrounded by her family, their presence steadying her. Save for the unwelcome intrusion of Mr. Anderson, she had even found herself enjoying it.
That was, until she arrived.

For two years, ever since Michaela’s departure, Francesca had made a deliberate effort to master her own thoughts. To bury them. To ignore what she could not understand.
The night she had learned that Michaela had left without so much as a word, a strange sorrow had settled deep within her. It had not been simple disappointment, nor mere anger. It was something sharper, more consuming, something she could not name.
She had told herself it was the betrayal. That they had made a promise to face their grief together, and Michaela had abandoned it. Abandoned her.
Yet as the days passed, the ache only deepened.
She had found herself searching for her in quiet corners of the house, half expecting her return. Convincing herself that it had been some brief and necessary journey, that she would return, and all would be explained.
Then the letter came.
Francesca had opened it at once, her pulse quickening with the hope of answers.

Dear Francesca,
I write to inform you that I have set out for India with a friend. The opportunity presented itself rather suddenly, and, as you well know, I have never been one to refuse such things.
I fear my departure must seem abrupt, though I hope, in time, you will understand that it was simply… easier this way.
Pray write to me. I should very much like to hear from you.

Francesca had read the words again. And again.
A friend.
India.
Easier this way.
Easier than what?
Easier than remaining? Easier than standing beside her when she had needed her most?
A slow, burning anger had taken hold.

In that moment, Francesca resolved that Michaela Stirling would receive no reply, no forgiveness, not even the courtesy of remembrance. From that day forward, she would be nothing more than a distant memory.
And so she became unspoken.
The shift had not gone unnoticed by those around her. Without declaration, without question, Michaela’s name simply ceased to be mentioned in her presence.
More letters followed.
Francesca did not open them.
She would not grant her even that.

And now… now she had returned. Without warning. Without apology.
How dare she.
Francesca moved swiftly through the ballroom and out onto one of the balcony, the cool night air striking her at once. She reached the railing and drew out a breath she had not realised she had been holding.
Only then did the tears come.
She removed her mask, her composure slipping at last. It was humiliating. That after two years, Michaela still possessed such power over her.
She had not been able to look away. Not even for a moment.
And worse, she had noticed the woman at her side. Their arms intertwined.
Lady Elizabeth Ashworth.
Was that the friend?
The one she had chosen over her?
The one for whom she had crossed oceans, whilst Francesca had remained behind, alone in that vast, silent house, mourning not only her husband, but something else she had never dared to name?
The thought struck deeper than she cared to admit.

The balcony doors opened behind her.
She did not need to turn.
She knew.
Michaela.
Francesca quickly wiped away the traces of her tears, steadying herself. She would not be seen as weak. Not before her. Not before the person who had shown so little regard for her feelings.
“Francesca…”
Her name, spoken so softly, sent a shiver through her.
She did not turn.
She felt Michaela step closer. Then, a tentative touch upon her shoulder.
Francesca flinched at once and drew away.
“Do not,” she said under her breath.
There would be no familiarity between them. Not now.
They turned toward one another then, both resting a hand upon the railing, their masks removed. Their eyes met and for the first time, Francesca saw it.
Not confidence.
Regret.
“I am sorry,” Michaela said quietly. “I did not mean to..”
“Mean to what?” Francesca cut in, her voice sharp. “Arrive unannounced, as you did when you left?”
She forced a thin smile.
“It does seem to be your preferred manner of conduct.”
Michaela looked away. “Francesca, I know I have disappointed you. I never intended to hurt you. It was only…”
“Only what?” Francesca’s voice rose despite herself. “You might have spared me the lie. You could have told me you did not intend to stay. Instead, you looked me in the eye and made a promise you never meant to keep.”
Her breath caught, but she pressed on.
“And now you return, as though nothing has passed. You follow me here, when I have made it abundantly clear I require space, because of you.”
The force of her own words startled her.
Michaela hesitated. “You must believe me, I meant what I said at the time. But then…”
She faltered.
“Then what?” Francesca demanded bitterly. “A more agreeable opportunity presented itself? I recall your words well enough.”
She gave a short, humourless laugh.
“‘An opportunity arose, and you know me, I could not refuse it.’” She said sarcastically.
Michaela had no answer.
Francesca continued, quieter now, though no less cutting.
“The worst of it is this, I believed I knew you. I believed our friendship to be worth more than a passing whim.”
Her gaze flickered briefly.
“That ‘friend’… is she the one you arrived with this evening?”
The question escaped her before she could stop it. There was something in her tone, something dangerously close to jealousy.
Michaela stepped forward slightly. “Francesca… I never wished for any of this. You must know, our friendship…”
Francesca laughed outright.
“Do you take me for a fool? What sort of friendship is this, that vanishes without warning, and returns expecting to be restored at will?”
“I expect nothing,” Michaela said, her voice steady despite the strain beneath it. “I know I do not deserve your understanding. But I ask only that you believe this, my leaving was not without cause. One day, perhaps, I shall explain it in a manner you might accept.”
She met her gaze fully.
“Until then, I shall do all in my power to mend what I have broken.”
Francesca hesitated.
Despite herself, something in her softened.
She did not understand it. She did not wish to.
“Why have you returned?” she asked at last, her tone shifting.
Michaela exhaled quietly. “I was summoned by the Queen. There are matters concerning the Kilmartin estate that require my presence.”
“I see,” Francesca replied, though the implication struck her at once. “Then you intend to reside at Kilmartin House?”
“Yes,” Michaela said, then added carefully, “though if you would prefer otherwise, I can make alternate arrangements. My mother must remain, of course, but Lady Ashworth and I could reside elsewhere.”
Francesca turned sharply.
The suggestion unsettled her far more than it ought.
“No,” she said at once. “That will not be necessary. It is your house now, after all. I am certain we may endure one another’s presence for a time.”
Her tone carried a trace of irritation she could not fully conceal.
Michaela inclined her head, though unease lingered in her expression.
“How long do you intend to remain?” Francesca asked.
“As long as is required to settle matters,” Michaela replied. “Though my mother is quite determined that we remain for the season.”
She paused.
“I shall make sure not to interfere with your plans. Kilmartin House is as much yours as mine.”
Francesca held her gaze for a moment.
Then, with deliberate calm, she said..
“You need not concern yourself. I intend to remarry this season.”

The words hung between them.
“And, upon doing so, I shall leave Kilmartin.”
She offered a polite smile that did not reach her eyes, put her mask back on, and turned.
“Now, If you will excuse me.”
And with that, she left her standing there.

Michaela did not follow.
She could not.

Remarry.
The word echoed in her mind, heavy and unrelenting.
She had not considered it, not truly. Not until this moment.
And now, the thought of it, of Francesca belonging to another, felt almost unbearable.
Yet what right had she to object?
Francesca was young. Beautiful. It was only natural.
Still, the weight of it settled heavily upon her chest.
After a moment, she gathered herself, her expression once more composed.
And then, with quiet resolve, she returned to the ballroom, uncertain how she was to endure what was yet to come.

When Michaela re-entered the ballroom, her composure restored, at least outwardly, her gaze immediately began to search for something familiar, something steady enough to anchor her.
To her disappointment, Elizabeth was nowhere to be found at the sidelines.
Instead, she spotted her in the midst of a dance, partnered with a gentleman who looked altogether too pleased with his fortune. Elizabeth, for her part, appeared entirely at ease, her laughter light, her charm effortless. Though she much preferred the company of women, she had never allowed that to deprive her of the amusements such gatherings offered. If anything, she excelled in them, drawing attention with ease, entertaining it briefly, and leaving behind nothing more than a promise she never intended to keep.
This gentleman, it seemed, would be no exception.
Elizabeth caught Michaela’s eye across the room and, at once, her smile deepened with mischief. Michaela responded with a pointed look of disapproval, though it held no real weight, and turned away in search of another familiar face.

She did not have to look far.
“Michaela!”
The voice rang out before its owner reached her. Eloise Bridgerton appeared at once, all energy and urgency, and pulled her into an embrace.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
“Eloise,” Michaela said with a small smile, “I have missed you.”
Of all Francesca’s siblings, Eloise had always been the one she found easiest to be with. Even during their short time in Scotland, they had formed a fast and easy friendship, Eloise with her restless mind and sharp tongue, Michaela with her unconventional life and quiet defiance of expectation. Eloise had admired it, questioned it endlessly, and never once judged it.
“I have returned to London on business,” Michaela explained. “The Queen herself has summoned me.”
Eloise’s eyes lit at once. “The Queen? Well, that sounds far more interesting than anything else this evening. Do you suppose she will speak to you tonight? She is in attendance, you know.”
Michaela blinked. “She is?”
Eloise nodded eagerly. “Oh yes. Whatever she wants must be important. How thrilling.”
“Thrilling,” Michaela echoed, though her tone carried less enthusiasm. The summons had been sudden, accompanied only by the deed to the Kilmartin estate in London and a brief note requesting her to come back at once. She had not yet allowed herself to consider what it might mean.
She did not have long to wonder.

The music faltered as an announcement rang through the room.
“Her Majesty, the Queen.”
Conversation stilled at once. All eyes turned as the Queen was carried into the ballroom, her presence commanding the room without effort, and settled into the place prepared for her overlooking the floor.
Gradually, the evening resumed its rhythm.
Eloise turned back to her, undeterred. “You must tell me everything about your travels. I cannot imagine anything more wonderful than seeing the world without restraint.”
Michaela gave a faint, thoughtful smile. “It is not quite as endless an adventure as it may seem. After a time, one begins to understand that there are some things distance does not diminish.”
Even as she spoke, her gaze drifted, unbidden, across the room.
It found Francesca at once.

She stood with Sophie, a glass in hand, lifting it for a longer sip than usual, while Sophie spoke beside her with gentle persistence, as though attempting to keep her attention fixed elsewhere.
Eloise, noticing the shift, followed her gaze.
A flicker of confusion crossed her face.
“You know,” she said slowly, “my sister has not spoken your name once since you left.”
Michaela stilled.
Eloise glanced back at her, curiosity sharpening. “What did happen between you?”
Michaela opened her mouth to answer, but before she could form a reply, a voice cut cleanly through the space between them.

“Lady Kilmartin.”
Brimsley, stood before her, composed and expectant.
“Her Majesty demands your presence.”
The words carried further than intended. Nearby conversations quieted, and more than a few heads turned.
Michaela inclined her head. “Of course.”
She cast Eloise a brief look, half apology, half relief, before turning and making her way across the room.
As she walked, she felt it, the weight of attention settling upon her.
And among those watching, Francesca was one of them.

“Your Majesty,” Michaela said, dropping into a curtsey.
The Queen regarded her coolly, her gaze sweeping over her with measured scrutiny before she spoke.
“Lady Kilmartin. I am told you have spent the past two years gallivanting about India and the continent.”
Her tone was light, but the disapproval beneath it was unmistakable.
“I must confess, I was… surprised to learn that, following Lord Kilmartin’s passing, you chose leisure over duty.”
Michaela felt the weight of every word and, for perhaps the first time in years, found herself uncertain how to respond.
The Queen did not wait for one.
“Do not mistake my decision regarding Kilmartin for indulgence,” she continued. “You are the sole remaining heir. Granting you the estate was… a practical necessity.”
Her expression sharpened.
“Imagine, then, my further surprise upon hearing that you intend to continue in this… unproductive independence of yours.”
Michaela stiffened.
“Your Majesty,” she began carefully, “I have no wish to offend. It is only that I have yet to find a suitable match.”
“Nonsense.”
The word cut cleanly through her explanation.
“It is not a matter of preference. It is a matter of duty.” The Queen’s gaze held hers, unwavering. “You will marry, Lady Kilmartin. And you will secure the future of your line.”
A brief pause.
“If not for yourself, then for the legacy you have been entrusted with.”
There was nothing more to be said.
“You may go.”
Michaela bowed once more, though her composure had begun to fracture, and turned away.

She scarcely registered the eyes upon her as she crossed the room. Her thoughts had already begun to spiral.
Marriage.
An heir.
As though such things were simple. As though she could choose it.
As though the truth of her desires would ever allow it.
She found Elizabeth at last, now freed from the overly eager gentleman.
Elizabeth took one look at her face and her expression shifted at once. “What happened?”
Michaela exhaled sharply. “The Queen has decided I am to marry before the end of the season… and provide an heir for Kilmartin.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Well,” she said after a beat, “that may prove… complicated.”
Michaela huffed a quiet, humourless breath, but before she could reply,
“Oh, how splendid!”
They both turned.
Eloise Bridgerton had appeared beside them, entirely uninvited and very clearly having overheard enough.
“This is perfect,” she continued brightly. “You and Francesca, both determined to marry this season. Mama will be insufferably delighted.”
Michaela winced.
“Francesca!” Eloise called across the room, entirely heedless of consequence. “Have you heard? Michaela intends to find a husband as well!”

Across the ballroom, Francesca stilled.
For a moment, everything around her seemed to fall away, the music, the voices, the movement of the crowd.
Michaela.
Marry.
The words did not settle. They struck.
She had told herself she was prepared for this evening. Told herself she could endure it.
She was wrong.
Without a word, she turned.
She crossed the room with quiet urgency, found her mother, and offered the briefest of excuses, something about fatigue, the heat, the press of the crowd.
It scarcely mattered.
Moments later, she was gone.
Out of the ballroom. Out of the house.
And into the waiting carriage.

The journey back to Kilmartin House was quiet, almost unnervingly so.
Francesca sat in silence, her thoughts turning over the events of the evening again and again, as though repetition might make sense of them. What she felt was difficult to name. There was sadness, certainly, sharp and unrelenting, but beneath it, something far more unsettling.
Relief.

Seeing Michaela again had undone something within her. It had brought to the surface all the feelings she had buried over the past two years, feelings she had never truly examined, only forced into silence.
Before Michaela left, they had grown closer than Francesca had ever anticipated. Despite how entirely different they were, there had been an ease between them, an understanding she had not found elsewhere. Michaela had drawn something out of her, something less restrained, less careful. A version of herself that did not always follow the rules, that did not always feel the need to be perfectly composed.
And after John’s death, that closeness had only deepened.
In their shared grief, they had found one another again, but differently. Softer. Quieter. Michaela, who so often moved through the world with confidence and ease, had revealed a more vulnerable side, one that sought stillness rather than distraction. And Francesca had met her there.
When she had asked her to stay, it had not been a simple request.
It had been a need.
She had needed to know that Michaela would not disappear.
And yet, she had.
Without warning. Without explanation.
The warmth Francesca had begun to feel had vanished with her, replaced instead by something colder, something harder. Anger, yes. But also mistrust. A lingering sense of having been made a fool of.
Michaela had left when she was needed most. And now she had returned, not by choice, but by obligation.
That, more than anything, caused her distress.
Francesca closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself.
She was not prepared to endure a season under the same roof as her. The thought alone was enough to make her chest tighten. If anything, it only strengthened her resolve.
She would remarry.
Quickly.
Decisively.
And remove herself from Kilmartin, and from Michaela, entirely.
Yet the knowledge that Michaela intended the same sat poorly with her.
She told herself it was the inconsistency of it that bothered her. Two years ago, Michaela had shown no interest in marriage, had dismissed it entirely, even when Francesca herself had once attempted to introduce her to a suitable gentleman.
And now, suddenly, she would marry?
It made no sense.
And yet… the unease it stirred in her went deeper than that.
Francesca frowned slightly, unsettled by her own reaction, but chose not to dwell on it.
The carriage came to a halt.
Kilmartin House stood before her once more.
She stepped out quickly, eager to retreat from her thoughts, and made her way inside without pause, ascending directly to her chambers.
The room was unchanged.
It had once been hers and John’s, though he had a room of his own but rarely used it. She had never altered it after his passing. It remained as it had been, a quiet reminder of the life they had shared, of the gentle, unassuming happiness that had once filled its walls.
As she stepped inside, her gaze lingered only briefly.
Then, unbidden, a thought surfaced.
Where had they placed Michaela?
The answer came at once.
John’s room. Directly across the hall.
Francesca stilled for the briefest moment, something tightening in her chest. Then, with deliberate effort, she pushed the thought aside.
It did not matter.
Nothing about Michaela mattered.
She finished her preparations in silence and slipped beneath the covers, turning onto her side as though she could shut the world out entirely.
Her mind continued to turn, restless and unyielding, but exhaustion had begun to claim its due.
At last, despite everything, despite the anger, the confusion, the feelings she refused to name…
Sleep claimed her, though one certainty followed her into it, she would have to face Michaela again come morning.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Michaela was awake by six.
Sleep had come only in fragments. She had returned home not long after Francesca left the ball, foolishly hoping however unlikely, that she might still be awake. Waiting.
She had not been.
The silence of Kilmartin House had made it clear, whatever awaited them would begin in the morning.
And so Michaela rose early, determined not to waste another moment.
By six, she was already in the kitchens.
Breakfast would be perfect.
She oversaw everything herself, a full spread far more than necessary, but she did not care. Warm croissants with jam and cream. Tea and crumpets. Scones with clotted cream. Fresh fruit. Pastries.
She even assisted in the preparation, a habit from her youth in Scotland, one very few knew of.
By nine, everything was ready.
She went to the breakfast room, adjusted the table settings twice over, then sat to wait.
At precisely half past nine, Francesca entered.
Michaela rose at once.
“Francesca. Good morning.”
Her voice betrayed more eagerness than she intended.
Francesca paused, clearly taken aback, her gaze sweeping over the table before settling briefly on Michaela.
“Since when are you a morning person?”
She moved to sit as far from her as the table would allow, diagonally opposite.
Michaela noticed.
She ignored it.
“I am when I wish to be,” she replied lightly.
Francesca glanced again at the table, brows knitting slightly.
“Are we expecting a gathering?”
“I thought it only proper,” Michaela said, “given our rather sudden arrival. And my mother and Lizzie will be joining us shortly.”
Francesca’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“Lizzie? I did not realise you and Lady Ashworth were so… familiar.”
Michaela allowed herself a small, knowing smile.
“Is that a hint of jealousy?”
Francesca looked almost offended.
Before she could reply, the door opened.
“Was that my name I heard?” Lady Ashworth entered, amused suspicion in her eyes.
Behind her came Mrs. Stirling.
There was a brief, awkward pause as they all took in the seating arrangement.
Mrs. Stirling recovered first, taking a seat beside Francesca. Elizabeth sat easily beside Michaela.
“Nonsense,” Michaela said lightly, brushing off the moment. “Good morning, Mother.”
“Good morning, ladies,” Mrs. Stirling replied warmly, placing a gentle hand over Francesca’s. “My dear, thank you for your kindness in receiving us. I know our arrival was… unexpected.”
Francesca softened at once.
“You need not thank me. This is your home now, after all.”
She hesitated, then added, more quietly,
“If anything, I shall not remain long enough to inconvenience you.”
Michaela stiffened.
“Nonsense,” she said quickly. “I will not hear of that again. This is your home for as long as you wish it.”
Francesca only nodded, her gaze dropping.
Silence fell.
Elizabeth, ever unwilling to let it linger, brightened.
“Well, I must say, yesterday was splendid. Your mother truly knows how to host an unforgettable evening.”
“Thank you,” Francesca said softly, buttering her scone.
“You certainly seemed to enjoy it,” Michaela said, giving her a playful side eye.
Francesca glanced up.
“I could hardly refuse a gentleman who asks for a dance. The disappointment would be unbearable, I am sure.”
“How noble of you,” Michaela returned dryly.
Mrs. Stirling cast them both an unimpressed look.
Francesca turned, almost abruptly, to Elizabeth.
“And you, Lady Ashworth, how is it that you are not yet married? It can hardly be for lack of offers.”
Elizabeth smiled, entirely unbothered.
“Oh, I have had offers. Quite a few, in fact. But none have yet persuaded me that marriage is worth the trouble.”
Michaela shifted slightly.
Elizabeth continued, her gaze steady on Francesca.
“I find myself waiting for something… different.”
Michaela nudged her under the table.
Elizabeth ignored her.
Francesca frowned slightly.
“And what, precisely, does that mean?”
Before Elizabeth could answer, a servant entered, placing a fresh pamphlet upon the table.
“Lady Whistledown, my ladies.”
Elizabeth lit up immediately.
“Oh, perfect timing.”
She opened it and began to read aloud.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The season has begun and with it, the return of spectacle, scandal, and society’s most predictable performances.
Lady Bridgerton’s masquerade, as ever, proved a most fertile ground.
Her Majesty herself was in attendance, watching with keen interest, as one does when selecting which hopeful hearts may soon be broken for her amusement.
Yet the evening’s greatest surprise did not lie in the debutantes, nor in the gentlemen so eager to admire them.
No, dear reader, it came in the form of a most unexpected return.
The newly styled Lady Kilmartin has reappeared in London without so much as a whisper of warning. Accompanied by her formidable mother and the striking Lady Ashworth, she arrived not quietly, but with the sort of presence that demands attention… and invites speculation.
One cannot help but wonder what prompted such a sudden reappearance after two years of conspicuous absence.
Even more curious, her reception.
For while society greeted her with intrigue, the Dowager Lady Kilmartin’s response was… decidedly less warm.
Observers could not fail to note the chill beneath their exchange, nor the swiftness with which the latter removed herself from the room shortly thereafter.
A coincidence, no doubt.
Or perhaps not.
And then, of course, there is the matter of inheritance.
With the late Lord Kilmartin leaving no heir, his title and more importantly his legacy, now rests in unfamiliar hands. Whether this transition will be embraced… or quietly resented… remains to be seen.
Though one thing is certain:
It appears both Lady Kilmartins intend to secure marriages this season.
Whether this is a matter of duty, convenience… or something rather more complicated…
Well.
That, dear reader, promises to be far more interesting.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

Elizabeth lowered the pamphlet with a slow, amused smile.
“Striking, is it?” she repeated lightly. “I should very much like to meet this Lady Whistledown. She must be a most entertaining creature.”
Michaela did not respond.
Francesca, however, had gone completely still.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Mrs. Stirling glanced between them, sensing the sudden shift in the room, while Michaela’s gaze flickered briefly toward Francesca, searching, uncertain.
Francesca set her napkin down with quiet precision.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, her voice composed, though faintly strained. “I find I have quite lost my appetite.”
“Francesca..” Michaela began, rising slightly from her seat.
But Francesca did not look at her.
“If you will excuse me.”
And with that, she turned and left the room.
The moment she stepped into the corridor, the composure she had so carefully maintained began to falter.
She hated this.
She hated being spoken of. Observed. Reduced to speculation and whispered conclusions, when she herself scarcely understood what she felt.
Last night had been meant as a beginning.
A quiet return. A careful step forward.
Not this.
Not scrutiny. Not attention. Not her name passed from mouth to mouth as though she were some curiosity to be examined.
Her pace quickened as she made her way toward the drawing room, the only place that might offer her a moment’s peace.
Once inside, she moved instinctively to the pianoforte.
If she could not quiet her thoughts, perhaps she could drown them.
Her fingers found the keys but the music would not come.
The notes faltered, uneven and uncertain, breaking apart beneath her hands. She tried again, more deliberately this time, but her mind refused to settle.
Michaela.
The breakfast.
The article.
The look on her face.
What was she trying to do?
Did she truly believe that a carefully arranged morning, warm pastries and polite conversation could undo two years of silence? Of absence?
Francesca’s hands stilled on the keys.
The sound faded into nothing.
A knock sounded at the door.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Of course.
“Come in,” she said, without turning.
The door opened softly.
She expected Michaela.
Instead,
“Lady Kilmartin…”
Francesca turned.
Lady Ashworth stood in the doorway, her usual confidence tempered, though not entirely absent.
“I hope I am not intruding.”
Francesca straightened slightly, caught off guard.
“You are not.”
Elizabeth stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her.
“I wished to apologise,” she said, her tone measured, though still carrying its natural ease. “It was not my intention to make light of… that publication, nor to read it aloud without considering the effect it might have.”
Francesca did not immediately respond, though she did not dismiss her either.
Encouraged, Elizabeth continued, a faint, self-aware smile touching her lips.
“I have been told I can be… a little much upon first acquaintance. I fear this morning may have done little to disprove it.”
That, at least, drew the slightest shift in Francesca’s expression.
“I meant no offence,” Elizabeth added, more sincerely now. “Particularly not to you.”
Francesca regarded her for a moment before replying.
“There is no offence taken,” she said quietly. “Only… an unfortunate amount of attention.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, understanding.
“Then allow me to amend matters, if I may.”
Francesca raised a brow, faintly intrigued.
“And how do you propose to do so?”
Elizabeth’s smile returned, subtle but assured.
“By correcting what I believe was a rather insufficient first introduction,” she said. “We were, after all, presented under less than ideal circumstances.”
A brief pause.
“And I would very much like the opportunity to know you properly… if you are willing.”
Francesca studied her, something in her expression softening despite herself.
After a moment, she gave a small nod.
“Very well.”
Elizabeth stepped forward slightly and inclined her head.
“Lady Elizabeth Ashworth,” she said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Kilmartin.”
Francesca held her gaze a moment longer before returning the gesture.
“Francesca Kilmartin.”
Elizabeth’s smile deepened just slightly.
“I must admit,” she said, a hint of something more knowing entering her tone, “I have been rather curious to meet you.”
Francesca’s brow furrowed faintly.
“Have you?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Michaela has spoken of you… a great deal.”
She let the words settle, not heavy but deliberate.
Francesca stilled, just for a moment.
Something unreadable flickered across her expression.
“I see,” she said, more quietly than before.
Elizabeth, perceptive enough to notice the shift, did not press further only offered a small, easy smile.
Just then, the door opened without warning.
To everyone’s surprise, Violet Bridgerton swept into the room, followed closely by Michaela and Mrs. Stirling.
“Mama?” Francesca exclaimed, rising at once. “What are you doing here?”
She crossed the room quickly, embracing her.
“I read the latest Whistledown,” Violet replied, her expression firm despite the warmth of her tone. “And I came at once.”
She drew back slightly, her hands still resting on Francesca’s arms.

“I know this must distress you, my dear. But you shall not face it alone.” Her gaze shifted, briefly, toward Michaela and Helen.
“This concerns both our families now. And we must not allow idle gossip to set the tone.”
Francesca hesitated. “What would you have us do, Mama? They are painting us as adversaries.” Her voice lowered. “I do not wish to be the subject of such attention.”
“Which is precisely why we must control it,” Violet said calmly.
“We shall present a united front. The next ball, we will attend all together, we are family afterall.”
Her eyes moved pointedly between Francesca and Michaela.
“And in the meantime,” she added, more quietly but no less firmly, “whatever tension exists between you must be resolved.”
“There is no tension,” Francesca replied at once too quickly.
No one looked convinced.
“I was merely… surprised by her return,” she added, her tone more measured now.
Violet held her gaze a moment longer, then gave a small, satisfied nod.
“In that case, this should pose no difficulty.”
Before the silence could stretch further, Mrs. Stirling stepped in smoothly.
“Lady Bridgerton, you must allow us to offer you some tea after such a journey,” she said warmly. “You are most welcome here.”
Violet inclined her head graciously. “You are very kind.”
Then, with a glance toward the younger ladies,
“Girls,” Helen continued, “perhaps you might take a stroll around the parks? The air will do you good.”
“That is an excellent idea,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Lady Kilmartin and I were only just becoming acquainted. I should be delighted to continue.”
At her side, Michaela leaned closer, her voice low and edged with suspicion.
“What are you doing?”
Elizabeth did not so much as glance at her.
“Helping,” she murmured back. “Whether you like it or not.”
Then, turning smoothly,
“Shall we?” she said, her attention returning to Francesca.
Francesca hesitated only a moment before giving a small nod.
And so, with little more to be said, they departed together for a promenade through the streets of London.

As they made their way out of the carriage and toward the park, where the ton had already begun its daily promenade, it became immediately apparent that they were not to go unnoticed.
Conversations softened as they passed. Heads turned, some discreetly, others not at all.
It seemed Lady Whistledown had done her work thoroughly.

“Well,” Elizabeth remarked lightly, glancing about with faint amusement, “it appears we have all become exceedingly interesting overnight.”
“People are merely bored,” Michaela replied, her tone easy, though her gaze flicked briefly toward Francesca. “Give it a few days. Another scandal will arise, and we shall be quite forgotten.”
“Let us hope so,” Francesca murmured.
Elizabeth, however, seemed entirely unbothered.
“In the meantime,” she continued, turning her attention to Francesca, “I should much rather hear more about you, Lady Kilmartin.”
“There is very little to tell,” Francesca said, a touch self-conscious beneath the attention. “I fear I am not nearly so interesting as you imagine.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I find that difficult to believe. Michaela is not so easily… occupied.”
At that, Michaela shot her a warning look.
Francesca, catching it, said lightly, “I suspect you overestimate my effect. If I had been so engaging, I doubt she would have found it so easy to leave.”
The words were delivered with a softness that did not quite conceal their edge.
Michaela’s expression shifted, something quieter settling beneath her usual composure.
“My leaving,” she said, more carefully now, “was never a matter of disinterest.”
The words lingered but she did not elaborate.
Francesca looked at her for a moment, then turned away slightly.
“Well,” she said, choosing a safer path, “you may tell me of your travels instead. They sound… far more interesting than anything I might offer.”
Elizabeth brightened at once.
“Oh, gladly. We began in India, Michaela was quite determined to put as much distance between herself and England as possible.”
Michaela exhaled softly. “Lizzie..”
But she continued anyway.
“And truly, it was extraordinary. The colors, the music, the sheer life of it, it makes London feel rather restrained by comparison. And the people..” she paused, smiling to herself, “the people were unforgettable.”
Francesca listened, drawn in despite herself.
“It sounds… remarkable,” she said quietly.
“Oh, it was,” Elizabeth replied. “And the parties, well I cannot begin to describe them properly. Though I recall one evening in particular…” She laughed softly. “There was a lady so charming, so utterly captivating, I quite forgot myself entirely.”
Michaela closed her eyes briefly. “Elizabeth.”
“What?” she said, entirely unrepentant. “It is a harmless story.”
Francesca, slightly puzzled, looked between them.
“I do not understand,” she said. “Why should that cause you embarrassment?”
Elizabeth glanced at her, then tilted her head slightly, as though considering how much to say.
“Well,” she said at last, her tone light but not careless, “because admiration is not always… encouraged, depending on where one directs it.”
Francesca frowned faintly. “You mean..?”
Michaela stepped in, a touch too quickly. “Elizabeth enjoys being provocative.”
“Only when necessary,” Elizabeth returned calmly. Then, after a brief pause, she added, more gently this time:
“In some places, Lady Kilmartin, one is afforded a little more freedom in such matters. In how one feels. In whom one admires.”
Francesca was very still.
Her gaze lingered on Elizabeth a moment longer than before.
“I see,” she said quietly.
And though her tone remained composed, there was something new in it now, something thoughtful.
Curious.
Michaela, watching her, felt a quiet unease settle in her chest.
Just as Elizabeth was about to continue, a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Lady Ashworth.”

They turned to find the very same gentleman from the previous evening approaching, his expression bright with confidence.
“I had hoped I might encounter you again,” he continued, offering a polite bow. “I confess, I have not been able to forget our dance.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved into a knowing smile.
“I am certain you have not,” she replied lightly.
His smile widened, whether at her words or despite them, it was difficult to tell.
Turning to Francesca and Michaela, he inclined his head once more.
“Ladies, if it is not an imposition, might I borrow Lady Ashworth for a turn about the park?”
Francesca and Michaela exchanged the briefest glance, neither quite certain how to respond.
But Elizabeth did not wait for them to decide.
“Oh, I should like that very much,” she said at once, slipping her hand easily into his arm.
As he began to lead her away, she cast a glance back over her shoulder, her eyes meeting Michaela’s with unmistakable intent.
A silent message.
Michaela, for her part, chose to ignore it entirely.

“I must say,” Francesca began as they continued along the path, “Lady Ashworth is quite… intriguing.”
Michaela gave a small, knowing smile. “She enjoys herself rather too much. That poor man has no notion what he has involved himself in.”
Francesca glanced back toward where Elizabeth had disappeared. “I do not know. She seemed quite interested in him.”
Michaela huffed softly. “Francesca, I have known Elizabeth since we first entered society. She is no more interested in that man than I am in securing a husband.”
Francesca turned to her then, her curiosity sharpening. “Then why did my sister announce, so loudly, that you intend to marry last night?”
Michaela’s expression shifted slightly. “Because Her Majesty has decided it would be… beneficial.”
Francesca frowned. “And you intend to obey?”
“If I must,” Michaela said lightly, though there was no ease in it. “But it is not a prospect I welcome.”
“I do not understand that,” Francesca admitted. “It is hardly for lack of opportunity. You could marry quite easily, if you wished.”
Michaela’s gaze flicked to hers. “Is that your opinion of me?”
Francesca faltered slightly. “That is not what I meant, only that you are, well..”
“Charming?” Michaela supplied, a hint of teasing returning.
Francesca looked away at once. “That is not the point.”
“No,” Michaela said quietly. “It is not.”
A brief silence fell between them before she added, more seriously,
“There is much about me you do not know, Francesca.”
Francesca stopped walking.
“And how could I?” she said, the hurt breaking through despite herself. “You left before I was ever given the chance.”
Michaela closed her eyes briefly, as though steadying herself.
“I know I hurt you,” she said. “And I will regret that always. But you must understand, John’s death…” She paused, her voice lowering. “He was more than a cousin to me. He knew me better than anyone.”
Francesca’s expression softened, but only slightly.
“He would not have wished you to disappear,” she said. “Nor to abandon everything he left behind. Nor,” her voice tightened, “..to leave me.”
Michaela’s jaw tensed.
“You do not understand,” she said quietly. “If he had known… certain things… he would not have looked upon me the same way.”
Francesca’s brows drew together. “Known what?”
A few heads nearby had already begun to turn.
Michaela glanced around, lowering her voice. “Francesca, this is neither the time nor the place.”
But Francesca did not relent.
“For two years,” she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to control it, “I have tried to understand why you left. I told myself it did not matter. That you did not matter. And yet,”
She stopped, swallowing hard.
“You were in my thoughts every day,” she admitted, more quietly now. “Every single day. And now you return and still you refuse to tell me why.”
Michaela stared at her, something breaking open in her expression.
“Francesca,” she said softly, “please, we are being watched.”
She reached for her hand, guiding her quickly away from the path and toward their waiting carriage.
“Come.”

Inside the carriage, the door shut firmly behind them.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Michaela exhaled slowly.
“There was not a day I did not think of you,” she said, her voice low. “Not one. Leaving you was not… escape. It was the only way I knew how to keep my distance.”
Francesca shook her head. “Distance from what? From me?”
Michaela looked at her then, really looked at her.
“That is precisely the problem.”
Francesca stilled.
Michaela hesitated, as though standing at the edge of something she could not return from.
“When I am with you,” she said at last, her voice unsteady in a way Francesca had never heard before, “I do not think as I ought. I feel… things I should not. Things I cannot permit myself to act upon, wicked things…”
The words hung between them.
Francesca did not speak.
Something in her expression shifted, not fully understanding, but no longer entirely unaware.
Michaela looked away first.
“I should not have said that,” she murmured.
At that moment, the carriage door opened again.
Elizabeth climbed in, brushing off her gloves with mild irritation.
“Where did you vanish to?” she said. “That man was quite determined not to release me, I was forced to invent an urgent matter to escape.”
She paused.
The tension in the carriage was unmistakable.
Her gaze moved between them, sharp and perceptive.
“…Should I leave?” she asked.
Neither answered at once.
Francesca was still looking at Michaela.
Then, at last..
“No,” she said quietly. “You should not.”
She drew in a breath, steadying herself.
“I would prefer to return home. To Bridgerton House.”
Her gaze did not leave Michaela’s.
And for the first time since her return, Michaela could not meet it.

Chapter Text

The ride to Bridgerton House was silent.
Michaela kept her gaze lowered, unable to look anywhere else while Francesca stared out the window, trying to make sense of what she had just heard. For once, Elizabeth remained quiet, not daring to disturb the heavy tension between them.
The moment the carriage stopped, Francesca rose without hesitation as she muttered a brief farewell, barely more than a formality and stepped out without looking back.
She entered Bridgerton House and made her way straight to her room, only once the door was closed behind her did she release the breath she had been holding. Her mind immediately returned to the conversation.

"There was not a day I did not think of you."
"I feel… things I should not."
"Things I cannot permit myself to act upon."

“Wicked things…”

What did any of that mean?
Francesca pressed a hand to her temple, pacing slowly.
What could Michaela possibly feel that was so… wrong? So wrong that it had driven her away?
A thought began to form, unwelcome, unfamiliar.
Did Michaela have feelings for her?
She stopped.
Surely not.
How could a woman feel that way about another woman? The idea had never even existed in her world. She had been raised to believe in a simple truth, a man and a woman marry, build a life, produce heirs. There was no alternative, no space for anything else.
And yet…
Her mind drifted back to Elizabeth.

"I find myself waiting for something… different."

And Michaela’s certainty that no gentleman would ever truly interest her.

Something shifted.
Did they share the same… inclination?
Was that why they were so close? Because they understood one another in a way others could not?
The thought came suddenly, had they ever been more than friends?
It unsettled her… but not in the way she expected. There was no disgust, no judgment, only something sharper.

Jealousy.

Francesca frowned, almost recoiling from the feeling.
Why should she care? The question echoed unanswered.
She was pacing back and forth when a familiar voice stopped her.
“Francesca, dear.” The door opened
She turned to find her mother standing at the door having just returned herslef from Kilmartin house, surprise quickly giving way to concern.
“When did you return?”
Violet stepped closer, her expression softening as she took in her daughter’s face.
“My darling… what is wrong?”
Francesca hesitated, her composure wavering.
“Mama… I should like to stay here for a few days.”
Violet did not question it.
“You may stay as long as you wish,” she said gently. “This will always be your home.”
She squeezed her hand reassuringly.
“I will have some tea sent up and your room prepared. You should rest, you seem quite tired. We can speak when you feel up to it.”
Francesca nodded, grateful for the lack of questions.
She stepped closer to her bed, it had remained just as she had left it, untouched, familiar, safe.
Slowly, she lay down, pulling the covers over herself, sleep came quickly.
Because thinking meant understanding, and understanding was something she was not yet ready to face.

It was well past the midday when Francesca finally awoke.
She never slept during the day, but exhaustion and the need to escape her thoughts had claimed her. As she rose from bed, those very thoughts threatened to return, pressing in at once. She pushed them away immediately and made her way downstairs, seeking distraction.
She found it the moment she stepped into the tea room.
“Sister!”
Hyacinth rushed toward her without hesitation, throwing her arms around her.
“You are really here! Mama said you are staying for a few days, oh how exciting!” she exclaimed, as though it were the greatest news imaginable.
Francesca laughed softly, returning the embrace.
“Hyacinth, you speak as though you have not seen me in years. May I remind you I visit almost every day?”
“Yes, but it is not the same,” Hyacinth insisted, pulling back but keeping hold of her hands. “When you leave, I am dreadfully bored. Gregory goes on endlessly about his friends from Eton, if I must hear another story, I shall simply combust.”
“As if your endless talk of future balls still two years away, might I add is any better” Gregory replied dryly from behind them, waiting his turn to greet his sister.
Hyacinth shot him an unimpressed look.
“Oh, do be quiet.”
“You two, that is enough,” Violet interjected, rising with a fond smile. “You will frighten her away before she has even had her tea.”
She stepped forward and embraced Francesca warmly.
“My dear, come sit with us.”
She guided her gently to one of the sofas, her tone softening as she studied her daughter’s face.
“Darling, I do not wish to press you but I must ask… what happened?”
Francesca hesitated only briefly.
“Nothing, Mama. It simply felt… overcrowded. And I thought it best to allow them time to settle. It is their house now, after all.”
Violet regarded her for a moment but chose not to press further.
“Well, you may stay here for as long as you like.”
“Sister,” Hyacinth cut in again, unable to contain herself, “you must tell me everything! I heard that Michaela intends to find a husband this season is it true? Oh, she looked so beautiful last night, I am certain she will have no difficulty at all.”
Violet’s gaze snapped toward her.
“And how, exactly, would you know what she looked like?”
Hyacinth froze.
“Well…I mean, I only heard that she looked well,” she said quickly, attempting to recover.
Gregory snorted.
“Not even a day has passed and you have already exposed yourself. She sneaked into the ball for several minutes before I found her, she was nearly on the dance floor when I dragged her out.”
“I was not!” Hyacinth protested. “And you are no fun at all.”
“Clearly.”
She turned back to Francesca, entirely unbothered.
“So, do you know anything of Michaela’s pursuits?”
Francesca faltered.
“Not particularly. We did not have much opportunity to speak… she arrived so suddenly and now well, I am here.”
Her answer was vague, but it was all she could offer.
Violet, sensing the shift in her tone, intervened gently.
“Hyacinth, do allow your sister a moment’s peace.”
Just as Hyacinth was about to protest her mother’s interruption, a servant entered the room.

“Lady Bridgerton, you have guests.”

Violet looked up, surprised. “We were not expecting anyone this afternoon.”

Before the servant could respond, Lord Anderson entered, his son, Mr. Anderson, just behind him.
“Forgive the intrusion,” Lord Anderson said warmly as he approached. “We simply could not resist calling to thank you for last night’s invitation, it was a most delightful evening.”
He took Violet’s hand and kissed it politely.

Behind him, Mr. Anderson’s expression brightened at the sight of Francesca. He stepped toward her at once.
“Lady Kilmartin, what a pleasant surprise. I had not expected to see you here.”
Francesca met his enthusiasm with far less warmth.
“Well, it is my family home. If anything, I did not expect to see you so soon after last night.”
His smile faltered slightly.
“Yes, of course. We were merely in the neighbourhood, and my father thought we might call. I hope we are not disturbing.”
“Nonsense,” Violet interjected quickly, smoothing over the moment. “You are always welcome. Please, join us for tea.”
They all took their seats, as Hyacinth and Gregory politely excused themselves.

“I must say,” Mr. Anderson began, settling in comfortably, “it has been quite some time since I attended a ball so… elaborate. I was most impressed. Even the gatherings in France fail to compare.”
“France?” Violet said, intrigued. “I was not aware you resided there.”
“Yes, I pursued my studies there and quite fell in love with it. I have remained ever since.”
“Well, that is impressive,” Violet replied. “You must be quite fluent in French. Francesca has also been learning, perhaps you might practice together.”
Francesca resisted the urge to sigh.
Mr. Anderson turned to her eagerly, a hint of pride slipping into his expression.
“Lady Kilmartin, je serais curieux d’entendre votre français. Si vous le souhaitez, je pourrais vous aider à le pratiquer… dans un cadre plus agréable.”
Francesca met his gaze evenly, entirely unmoved.
“Je vous remercie, mais je suis tout à fait satisfaite de mon niveau.” She replied dryly.
The brief silence that followed did not go unnoticed.
Violet pressed on, “And what brings you back to London?”
Mr. Anderson smiled again, his gaze returning to Francesca.
“I intend to find a wife this season.”
Francesca arched a brow.
“And you could not do that in France? I am certain Paris is not lacking in women.”
“There are many, of course,” he said, unfazed. “But I find myself drawn to London. There is… a deeper understanding to be found here.”
Francesca looked away, unimpressed.
Lord Anderson chuckled. “Christopher has enjoyed his freedom long enough. It is time he settles and begins a family. My title must pass to someone worthy, after all.”

The conversation drifted on, to travel, to food, to France.
Francesca, however, had long since stopped listening.
Her mind wandered.
She found herself comparing, unwillingly, yet persistently.
There was something about this man’s confidence that felt hollow. Forced.
Michaela, on the other hand…. Her confidence had never been something she performed. It simply existed, effortless, commanding without trying.
Francesca’s thoughts drifted further back.
To that night, two years ago.
The party at Kilmartin house. Michaela’s introduction into society, she could still see it clearly, the red and black of her gown, the way it had fit her perfectly, the way she had drawn the attention of the entire room without even seeming to try. She had been… captivating.
Francesca had noticed it then, though she had refused to name it.
That had been the first night they truly spoke. The first night something shifted between them. They had spent hours together, laughing, drinking, enduring Lord Taylor’s endless talk of barley and somehow… it had become one of the best nights of her life.
A small, unguarded smile touched her lips at the memory.
Her breath caught slightly as another realization surfaced.
From the very beginning, Michaela had affected her. Even their first meeting, Francesca had not even been able to introduce herself without mumbling.
At the time, she had dismissed it as embarrassment.
Now…
Now she was not so certain, why had she been nervous? Why had she noticed so much?
Her eyes.
Her voice.
That ridiculous, charming introduction,

“Every sordid detail John has spoken about me is a lie. The truth is far worse.”

Francesca’s fingers tightened slightly in her lap.
No one had ever occupied her thoughts this way before.
No one had ever made her feel this much, confusion, irritation, curiosity… Something more, something different.
Before she could stop herself, her mind wandered further, to the image of standing beside her, of laughing with her, of… she stilled.
A faint smile had formed on her lips without her realizing it.

“Francesca, dear?”
She blinked, pulled sharply back into the room.
Violet was watching her with gentle curiosity.
“Would you play something for us?”
The room came back into focus all at once.
“Yes… of course, Mama,” Francesca replied softly, rising to her feet.
But as she moved toward the pianoforte, that feeling lingered, unsettling, unfamiliar and impossible to ignore.
Francesca played for them for several pieces, they applauded warmly when she finished, but her mind had not been with them, not for a single note. It lingered elsewhere, circling the same thoughts, the same name, again and again.
Michaela.

As the Andersons prepared to take their leave, Mr. Anderson approached her, his earlier confidence noticeably diminished.
“Lady Kilmartin… might I have a moment of your time?”
There was something almost uncertain in his tone.
Francesca hesitated, then inclined her head. “Of course.”
So they stepped aside, toward the far end of the room, away from the others.
“Lady Kilmartin,” he began, running a hand nervously over his sleeve, “I fear I have made a rather poor impression upon you since our acquaintance began. I should very much like the opportunity to amend it.”
Francesca regarded him quietly.
“I am not, I assure you, as insufferable as I must have appeared,” he continued, with a faint, self-conscious smile. “It is simply that… I found myself somewhat unprepared. Your beauty,” he faltered slightly, then steadied himself, “it caught me off guard.”
She said nothing, though her expression softened, if only slightly.
“If you would permit it,” he added, more gently now, “I should like to prove myself more worthy of your consideration.”
There was sincerity in his voice this time, no performance, no pride.
Francesca felt a brief flicker of guilt.
“I may have been… quick to judge you, Mr. Anderson,” she admitted. “I am not opposed to allowing you another chance at a proper introduction.”
Relief passed visibly across his face.
“Then allow me to begin again,” he said, straightening. “Christopher Anderson, son of Lord Anderson. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Kilmartin. I should be honored if you would save me a dance at next week’s ball.”
Francesca paused only a moment.
“A pleasure, Mr. Anderson,” she replied. “One dance I think, can be managed.”
His smile widened.
“Then I shall look forward to it.”
With a bow, he took his leave, joining his father as they departed.

The moment the door closed behind them, Violet turned to her.
“Francesca, my dear… Mr. Anderson seems quite taken with you. What do you think of him?”
Francesca hesitated.
“I suppose… he is handsome,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “But if i am to be honest, my mind has been elsewhere all day.”
Violet’s expression softened with understanding.
“I had gathered as much,” she said gently. “I did not wish to press you but you have seemed unsettled since last night. Does this have anything to do with Michaela?”
Francesca stilled.
“I truly believed you two to be friends,” Violet continued. “Whatever may have happened between you that ruined it… it is not something easily dismissed.”
“We are,” Francesca began, then faltered. “We were friends. It is simply… complicated. I…” She exhaled, frustrated. “I do not know.”
Violet reached for her hand.
“You need not explain yourself to me, not until you are ready,” she said softly. “But I will say this, Michaela is an extraordinary young woman. And whatever may have happened between you… I do not believe she would hurt you willingly.”
Francesca’s breath caught slightly at that.
Her mother’s words settled uneasily within her.
She would never hurt you willingly.
And yet… she had.
Or had she?
Francesca looked up, something shifting behind her eyes.
“I think… I must return to Kilmartin,” she said suddenly. “There are a few things I need to collect.”
Violet studied her for a moment, then nodded.
“Of course, my dear.”
Francesca did not wait.
Within moments, she was outside, stepping into the carriage.
She barely noticed the journey.
Her thoughts moved too quickly, circling, unraveling, demanding answers.
She had to understand.
Because if Michaela had not meant to hurt her,
Then what, exactly, had she been running from?

As she made her way back to the house, she did not hesitate. Her steps were quick, almost urgent, her mind too full to form any clear thought beyond one,
She needed to see her.
The corridors of Kilmartin felt strangely still as she entered, the quiet pressing in around her. Without stopping, she turned toward Michaela’s chambers, her pace only slowing when she reached the upper hallway.
A maid was just stepping out of the room, her expression uneasy.
“Lady Kilmartin… good evening. I had thought you were staying at Bridgerton House tonight.”
“I was,” Francesca replied quickly. “I have only come to collect a few things… Is Lady Kilmartin within?”
“Yes, my lady,” the maid said, lowering her voice. “She returned not long ago complaining of a terrible headache. She wished not to be disturbed and has only just fallen asleep.”
A headache.
The words struck something sharp and immediate in Francesca’s chest.
For a brief moment, she told herself not to be foolish, people fall ill, people rest, it meant nothing!
But the memory came unbidden. Too vivid. Too recent.
A headache.
A quiet room.
A door closed.
And everything that had followed.
Her breath caught.
Before the maid could say another word, Francesca moved past her, pushing the door open without knocking.
The room was dim, curtains drawn against the fading light. The air felt heavy, undisturbed.
“Michaela..”
The name left her lips before she could stop it.
No answer.
Francesca stepped further inside, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears.
And then she saw her.
Not peacefully resting.
Not as she should have been.
Francesca’s heart dropped, something was terribly wrong!

Chapter Text

“I would prefer to return home. To Bridgerton House.”
Michaela had said nothing in response. She had only looked down, unable to meet Francesca’s eyes.
What on earth had she just done.
The ride to Bridgerton House felt endless. She did not move nor speak, could not even bring herself to look up. Her hands rested stiffly in her lap as she stared down at them, waiting for it to end so she could breathe again.
Shame settled first, followed by guilt and regret, each one heavier than the last.
Three years.
Three years of keeping this to herself. Of burying her feelings so deep she could almost pretend they were not there. She had been so careful, so deliberate. Avoiding Francesca at first, pretending indifference, then allowing a friendship to form only because she thought she could control it. She had been wrong, they had grown even more, until they became too much, and she had left for two whole years just to escape it. To forget her.
And now in a matter of seconds, she had undone all of it.
The worst part was she had not even truly said it, not properly, definetly not bravely. Just fragments, hints, a weak restrained version of the truth and still it had been enough to drive her away.
Was it disgust? Michaela’s chest tightened. Did Francesca even understand what she meant or had she only heard something wrong, something shameful? Was she confused? There were too many questions but there was one answer she could not ignore.
The moment she heard it, Francesca had asked to go home, but not their home, she wanted to go back to the home she had before they even knew eachother.
That said enough, Francesca wanted nothing to do with her and there was nothing she could do to change that.
Tears gathered in her eyes as the carriage finally approached Bridgerton House. Before it had even fully stopped, Francesca was gone, stepping out without a word, without a glance back. Just like that.
The door shut, and Michaela finally let out a breath, though her head remained bowed.
“Well,” Elizabeth said after a moment, the tension still thick in the air, “that was the most painfully awkward ten minutes of my life.”
Michaela said nothing.
“Michaela,” she continued, softer now, placing a hand on her knee, “what on earth happened in the few minutes I left you two alone?”
At the touch, Michaela seemed to return to herself.
“I… made a mistake,” she said quietly. “I said too much. I never should have said anything. I knew it would be a mistake coming back.”
Her eyes burned, though the tears refused to fall.
“Michy, whatever you said, it cannot have been that bad,” Elizabeth replied, trying to sound reassuring.
Michaela let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“Lizzie, I told her the truth. Or… some pathetic, vague version of it. I told her I feel things I should not, things too wicked to put into words, I frightened her.”
Elizabeth frowned immediately.
“Nothing you feel is wicked, Michaela. And you should not be ashamed of it. Francesca was likely only surprised. You cannot expect her to react calmly to something she has never even considered before.”
“I doubt that,” Michaela said, shaking her head. “She could not get away from me fast enough. She will hate me for this.”
“Hate you?” Elizabeth raised a brow. “Michaela, I say this with love, but you are utterly hopeless when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Michaela shot her a look.
“I mean it,” Elizabeth continued. “In the few hours I have seen you two together, I can tell you with certainty that Francesca does not hate you. If anything, I would suspect the opposite.”
Michaela stared at her as if she had lost her mind.
“Elizabeth, do not be ridiculous. You saw her. She could barely stand to remain beside me.”
“Michaela, that woman does not even know that people like us exist,” Elizabeth said plainly. “What exactly were you expecting? You have spent years understanding your own feelings. You gave her no such time.”
Michaela said nothing.
“You told her something that changed everything she thought she knew,” Elizabeth went on. “Of course she ran. That is not hatred, that is confusion.”
“She looked at me like I had ruined everything.”
“She looked overwhelmed,” Elizabeth corrected. “And if I may say so, you have been rather blind. Have you never wondered why she was so angry that you left? Why she reacted the way she did? That is not indifference.”
Michaela shook her head, confused.
“Please, Lizzie… stop. You are putting thoughts in my head that will only make this worse.”
She pressed a hand to her temple.
“My head is killing me. I cannot think. I just… I need to go home. I need to sleep and forget this ever happened.”
By the time the carriage reached Kilmartin House, her head was pounding.
She barely waited before stepping out, making her way inside and straight to her room. The moment the door shut behind her she began pacing.
Back and forth.
Again and again.
She could not believe she had done it. Every second replayed in her mind, each word sounding worse than the last. She tried to think of a way to take it back, to undo it, to fix it but there was nothing she could do.
After nearly an hour, the pain in her head had worsened, spreading behind her eyes. A chill crept through her body subtle at first, then sharper.
She stopped.
What was happening to her.
She called for her maids, asking for tea, for a warm bath, anything that might ease it. They hurried to obey, fussing over her, wrapping her in warmer layers, drawing water and speaking in hushed, worried tones.
None of it helped.
The bath did nothing. The tea went cold in her hands. By the time they dressed her for bed, the shivering had worsened, her body unable to settle.
“Lady Kilmartin, you must rest,” one of them insisted gently.
She tried, she truly did but sleep would not come.
Hours passed. The daylight faded slowly into evening, then into night. The house grew quieter, the corridors still. Yet Michaela lay there, trembling beneath the covers, her skin burning one moment and cold the next.
The maids remained, attempting what little they could. Cool cloths, more blankets, whispered reassurances.
Nothing worked.
“Please,” Michaela said at last, her voice weak, “leave me.”
“My lady…”
“Please. I only need sleep.”
Reluctantly, they obeyed. One by one, they stepped out, her head maid the last to leave, casting a final concerned glance before closing the door.
Silence settled over the room.
Michaela closed her eyes, exhaustion finally beginning to pull at her. Her body felt heavy, her thoughts distant, slipping in and out of clarity, I guess this was her punishment she thought.
She was still shivering, still burning and yet at last, she began to drift as the door opened softly.
She barely registered it. In her half conscious state, she thought it part of a dream. The faint sound of footsteps followed, slow and careful, approaching her bed.
She did not open her eyes.
Then…
“Michaela.”
Her breath caught.
That voice. No.
It could not be.
She must be delirious.
There was no possible way..
But she was too tired to question it, too far gone to fight it.
So she let herself believe it anyway as sleep finally claimed her.

The next time she opened her eyes, sunlight was spilling through the curtains.
She had no idea how much time had passed, only that it was morning. Somehow, she had slept through the night. The shivering had stopped, though her head still felt unbearably heavy.
As she became more aware of her surroundings, she realized something else.
There was a weight behind her.
Still.
Warm.
An arm was draped over hers.
Michaela froze.
Slowly, her eyes moved to the pale hand resting against her own, fingers loosely curled as if they had been holding onto her all night.
Her breath caught.
No.
Suddenly, the last thing she remembered came rushing back to her.
A voice.
Soft. Familiar.
“Michaela.”
She had thought it a dream.
Her mind playing tricks on her.
But now..
Carefully as her body tensed, she turned her head.
And there was no mistaking it.
Francesca Bridgerton lay behind her, asleep, her arm wrapped around Michaela as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
For a moment, Michaela simply stared, her expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.
What on earth..
Her slight movement must have stirred her, because Francesca shifted, her eyes fluttering open. It took only a second for her to realize the position they were in.
She froze.
Then as if burned, she pulled away at once, nearly jumping out of the bed and putting several steps between them.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice rushed. “I did not mean to fall asleep like that, I just…”
She stopped, clearly unsure how to explain what had happened.
Michaela, still lying there stared at her, completely bewildered.
“Francesca… what are you doing here?” she asked slowly. “I thought you were staying at Bridgerton House.”
“I was,” Francesca replied, still trying to steady herself. “I came to collect a few things and… I wanted to speak with you before leaving. But when I came in..”
She hesitated, then continued, words coming out faster.
“You were shivering. You looked as though you were in pain, I could not simply leave you like that. I tried to warm your hands, they were freezing, and when that did not seem enough I… I moved closer and…” she stopped, flustered, “it helped. You stopped shivering. I must have fallen asleep. I did not intend to stay.”
She finished, clearly embarrassed, her thoughts still tangled.
Michaela blinked at her, trying to make sense of it.
“You do not need to apologize,” she said after a moment. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing. I did not mean to worry you. I am likely just tired from the journey and my body decided to protest.”
She attempted a small smile, but the pain in her head spiked suddenly and she winced.
Francesca noticed immediately.
“Michaela, what is it? What do you feel?”
“It is nothing,” Michaela said quickly. “Just a headache. It will pass.”
She regretted the words the moment she saw Francesca’s expression change.
A headache was not something taken lightly in the stirling house.
“Francesca, please,” she added, softer now. “I am fine. I am only tired. A few more hours of rest and I will be perfectly well again.”
Francesca did not respond.
Instead, she stepped closer and placed a hand against Michaela’s forehead.
Michaela stilled.
In all the years they had known each other, she was certain this was the closest they had ever physically been. She had always made sure not to cross that line.
“You are burning,” she said, her voice tight with concern. “You have a fever. I am sending for the doctor.”
“It is not necessary,” she tried to protest.
“Stay in bed,” Francesca interrupted firmly. “Do not move. And do not fall asleep again before the doctor arrives.”
There was something in her tone that made Michaela stop arguing.
Francesca turned and left the room without another word.
Michaela stared after her, completely disoriented.
What had just happened?
Was Francesca not supposed to be avoiding her? Disgusted by her?
Instead she was in her bed... taking care of her as though..
She stopped herself.
None of this made sense.
Still, despite everything, the warmth lingered. The absence of it now made the room feel colder than before.
She pulled the covers tighter around herself, trying to ignore the ache in her body.
The door opened again not long after and Francesca returned, moving quickly to the chair beside the bed.
“The doctor is on his way,” she said. “You are not to move until he arrives.”
Michaela looked at her then, truly looked.
And what she saw made her pause.
Francesca looked… frightened.
Not simply concerned.
Frightened.
As though something terrible might happen if she looked away for even a moment.
Without thinking, Michaela reached out and took her hand.
“Fran,” she said gently, “you must not worry so much. I am quite alright. Nothing will happen to me. You do not need to stay, I am certain you have far more important things to attend to.”
Francesca did not pull her hand away.
She did not argue.
She only tightened her grip slightly and settled deeper into the chair, her gaze never leaving Michaela.
She was not going anywhere.

Around an hour later, the door opened again.
Helen rushed in, the family doctor, Doctor Bernett, just behind her. At that moment, Francesca finally let go of Michaela’s hand, though not without hesitation.
“Michaela, my darling, what on earth is happening to you?” Helen said as she hurried to her bedside, placing a hand gently against her face, worry written all over her own.
“Mother, do not be concerned,” Michaela murmured, her eyes barely open. “I am simply tired. It will pass.”
“Nonsense,” Helen replied firmly. “The doctor will examine you, and we will proceed accordingly.”
Doctor Bernett stepped forward, already preparing himself.
“Lady Kilmartin, Mrs. Stirling, if you please, I will need the room.”
They both hesitated, Francesca lingering just a moment longer than she should have, before finally standing. She cast one last glance at Michaela before stepping out with Helen, the door closing softly behind them.
Inside, the examination did not take long, though to Michaela it felt endless. The pounding in her head worsened, her body heavy and uncooperative. Deep down, she knew this was not simple exhaustion, no matter how much she had tried to dismiss it.
When the doctor was finished, he stepped out to join the others.
“Mrs. Stirling, there is no need for alarm,” he said calmly. “Your daughter is suffering from a common influenza. The journey has likely exhausted her and her body has succumbed to it. With proper rest, she will recover.”
Helen let out a breath she had been holding.
“I will prescribe medication to ease the pain and bring down the fever,” he continued. “And once she has regained some strength, I would strongly recommend a visit to a bath. The mineral waters will aid her recovery and restore her fully.”
Francesca felt her shoulders finally relax. She had not realized how tense she had been until that moment. It was nothing bad. Nothing life-threatening.
They thanked the doctor and Francesca returned to the room while Helen remained behind to go over the details of the treatment.
When she stepped back inside, Michaela looked at her, a faint smile forming despite her exhaustion.
“So,” she said weakly, “am I dying?”
Francesca rolled her eyes immediately as she moved closer.
“It is not amusing,” she said, though there was the slightest hint of relief in her tone. “And no, you are not dying. You have the flu. Your body is simply protesting all your travels.”
Michaela let out a quiet breath, amused despite herself.
“But you must rest,” Francesca continued, more serious now. “You are not to leave this bed until your fever has passed. You should sleep as much as possible.”
Michaela, too tired to argue, only nodded slightly.
“Francesca,” she said softly after a moment, “thank you… for staying. It means more than you know.”
Francesca paused.
“Of course,” she replied simply, unsure what more to say.
Michaela’s eyes had already begun to close again, a faint, peaceful expression settling over her face as she drifted back to sleep.
Francesca did not move.
She remained in that chair.
For three days.
She left only when Elizabeth or Helen insisted, if only to bathe, to change, to rest for a short while, before returning again. The hours blurred together. Michaela drifted in and out of sleep, her fever rising and falling, her strength slow to return.
But eventually, it did.
By the fourth morning, the worst had passed.
Michaela woke to quiet voices.
Sunlight filled the room and for a moment she simply listened. Francesca, Elizabeth, and her mother were seated nearby, taking breakfast as though it were the most natural thing in the world. They spoke in low tones, laughter breaking through now and then as Elizabeth recounted some overly dramatic story of her time in Spain, involving a horse and an audience she had apparently impressed beyond reason.
Michaela frowned slightly, her voice still rough.
“Have you all taken up residence in my room?”
All three turned at once.
“Oh, my dear, you are awake,” Helen said, immediately rising and moving toward her. “How wonderful. You look much better this morning.”
Michaela attempted to sit up, though it proved more difficult than she expected.
“Your fever has been gone since yesterday,” Helen continued, placing a gentle hand on her forehead. “That is a very good sign.”
“Yes,” Michaela muttered, “but I feel as though I have been trampled by a horse.”
Elizabeth let out a small laugh.
“Well, you must regain your strength somehow,” Helen said, though her concern had not fully left her.
“Which is precisely why,” Elizabeth cut in, “this is the perfect time to go to Harrogate. Doctor’s orders, after all.”
Michaela glanced at her.
“And what, exactly, has that to do with you?”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Oh, you know me. I would never pass up a visit to a bath. And besides, you cannot very well go alone.”
“Indeed,” Helen added. “The doctor recommended it, and you must be accompanied. Elizabeth will go with you.”
“Wonderful,” Elizabeth said, already pleased with herself. “I shall have the carriages prepared. We will leave as soon as you have eaten something.”
Then, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, she turned.
“Francesca… will you join us?”
Francesca, who had been quiet until now, looked up, slightly caught off guard. For a brief moment, she hesitated.
But the answer came easily.
“ Yes,” she said. “Someone ought to ensure you do not lose your way and wake up in another country. You have not yet fully recovered, after all.” Her gaze flickered briefly toward Michaela.
Michaela met it, a small, genuine smile forming.
“Then it is settled,” Elizabeth declared. “We are to leave very soon.”

Chapter Text

The journey to Harrogate took three days.
To ensure Michaela did not relapse, they broke the travel with two overnight stops at inns along the way. Even so, the journey proved far from easy on her, the motion of the carriage wore her down and she spent most of the hours drifting in and out of sleep, her strength slow to return. By the time they reached each inn, she barely had the energy to speak, retreating to bed almost immediately.
Fortunately, both establishments were able to provide three separate rooms, so while Michaela rested, Francesca found herself with far too much time to think.
And think she did.
By the second night, they were only a few hours from Harrogate. It had been decided they would rest once more and depart early, arriving by morning. Francesca however, did not sleep, she had barely slept the night before either, her mind refused to quiet.
When she had went back to Kilmartin House a few days ago, she had been certain that she would confront Michaela. That she would demand answers. That she would understand what Michaela had meant when she had said those things…
But then she had found her, burning with fever, shivering, vulnerable.
And everything else had fallen away, nothing had mattered in that moment anymore.
Francesca still did not fully understand what had possessed her that first night, to climb into bed beside her, to wrap her arms around her as though it were the most natural instinct in the world.
She only remembered the cold of Michaela’s hands and the relief when the shivering stopped and then the next thing she remembered was waking up still wrapped around her.
The memory alone made her shift restlessly beneath the covers.
There had been a strange, unfamiliar warmth in her chest, something soft and unsettling all at once, before it had been quickly replaced by embarrassment, by confusion, by something dangerously close to panic.
The days that followed had not made matters easier.
She had remained at Michaela’s side, tending to her as the fever came and went, barely allowing herself rest. Each time she closed her eyes, a dreadful thought pressed in…
What if she did not wake up?
She knew it was irrational, the doctor had assured them she would recover and yet Francesca could not silence it, because the truth had settled, undeniable and unwelcome…
She could not bear to lose her, not after everything.
Not after the two years she had already spent without her, years that now in hindsight, felt hollow, quiet and wrong in a way she had never fully allowed herself to examine.
She had missed her, more than she would have ever admitted nor understood.
And now, she did not know what to do with that knowledge.
She turned restlessly in bed, frustration building as sleep continued to evade her. With a quiet sigh, she finally rose, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders before slipping out of her room.
Perhaps a cup of tea would help.

The inn’s small sitting room was dimly lit, the fire still burning low in the fireplace.
As she made her way inside, she noticed immidietely that she was not alone, Elizabeth sat comfortably by the fire, a cup of tea in hand.
Francesca nearly turned back at once but it was too late, Elizabeth had already seen her.
“I take it you cannot sleep?” she said lightly, gesturing toward the chair opposite her.
Francesca hesitated only a moment before stepping forward.
“The bed is… not particularly comfortable,” she said, accepting the offered seat.
Elizabeth poured her a cup of tea without comment.
Francesca wrapped her hands around it, welcoming the warmth.
“I simply wish for us to arrive at Harrogate,” she added after a moment, quieter now. “So that Michaela may begin to recover properly.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly.
“You worry a great deal, Lady Kilmartin,” she said. “She has already passed the worst of it. She will be quite insufferable in no time.”
There was a teasing edge to her tone.
Francesca allowed the smallest smile but it faded quickly.
After a pause, she spoke again.
“You and Michaela… you are very close, aren’t you?”
Elizabeth leaned back slightly, considering her.
“We have known each other since we were both thrown into the marriage mart at seventeen,” she said. “And let us say, we did not quite take to it as expected.”
Francesca listened, attentive despite herself.
“While others were perfecting their smiles and curtsies,” Elizabeth continued, amused, “we were slipping away from promenades to practice archery behind Kilmartin Castle. At balls, we would wait until our chaperones were distracted, then disappear into the gardens to lie beneath the stars and speak of all the places we would one day travel to.”
Her voice softened slightly at the memory.
Francesca frowned, thoughtful.
“And you never wished to marry?” she asked. “To… devote yourself to one person?”
Elizabeth gave a small, knowing smile.
“I never saw the appeal of being confined to a single path,” she said. “The world is far too wide for that.”
She paused.
“Michaela, however, is quite the opposite.”
Francesca stilled.
“She always believed in it,” Elizabeth went on. “Love. Devotion. The idea of finding someone who would be entirely hers and she, theirs.”
Something tightened in Francesca’s chest.
“But she trusted the wrong person,” Elizabeth added more quietly. “And she paid for it dearly.”
Francesca’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup.
“And after that?”
Elizabeth shrugged lightly.
“She decided love was not worth the risk,” she said. “And has since taken to enjoying company whenever she finds it and leaving before it can mean anything at all.” Francesca blinked.
“I do not think I understand.”
Elizabeth glanced at her, something almost amused flickering in her eyes.
“Oh, Lady Kilmartin,” she said gently, “I believe you understand perfectly well.”
Francesca’s expression shifted, shocked as realisation hit her.
“You mean to say she has been with… multiple people?” she asked, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.
Elizabeth let out a quiet breath, setting her cup aside.
“I have likely already said more than I should,” she replied. “It is not my story to tell.”
She stood then, smoothing her skirts.
“Perhaps, when Michaela is well again, she will choose to tell you herself,” she added. “I imagine you will have much to discuss.”
With that, she offered a small nod.
“Good night, Lady Kilmartin.”
And she left.
Francesca remained where she was, still and silent. Every new piece she learned seemed only to unravel her further.
Who was Michaela, truly? And why did every answer only leave her with more questions?
Her grip tightened slightly in her lap, she needed to speak to her so she could begin to understand. Because until she did, she could not hope to understand herself.
At last, she rose and made her way back to her room.
Morning would come soon enough.
And with it, Harrogate.
And perhaps finally… answers.

The next morning, as they finally entered the town of Harrogate, Elizabeth directed the coachman with easy familiarity, guiding him through the streets until they arrived before a well kept townhouse that stood slightly apart from the others, elegant but modest.
Apparently, her family owned it and made frequent use of it whenever they wished to escape the pressures of society while in England, though from the way Elizabeth spoke of it, it was clear she had claimed it for her own purposes more often than not, retreating there whenever London became too suffocating and she desired a certain… freedom in how she spent her time and more importantly, in whose company she chose to spend it.
It was therefore only natural that they would stay there while Michaela recovered and made use of the baths, as the house was not only conveniently located but also fully staffed and prepared to receive them without notice.
As soon as the carriage came to a stop, the doors opened and they were greeted almost immediately by the household staff, who seemed genuinely pleased by Elizabeth’s return.
“Lady Elizabeth, it has been far too long, my dear,” an older woman said warmly as she stepped forward, her posture straight despite her age, her presence commanding enough to make it clear that she was the head of the household staff.
“Doloris,” Elizabeth replied, her face lighting up in a way it rarely did, “I have missed you terribly, it truly has been too long, though I have not come alone this time.”
Doloris’s attention shifted immediately to Michaela, who had just stepped out of the carriage, her movements slower than usual, her strength not yet fully returned.
“Lady Kilmartin,” she said, her expression softening with concern, “what a delight to see you again… though, my dear, you do not look yourself at all.”
Michaela gave a faint, tired smile, clearly lacking the energy to pretend otherwise.
“Do not worry, Doloris, I am merely a little under the weather.”
“Nonsense,” Elizabeth cut in before the older woman could respond, “we are here precisely because Michaela has taken ill, the doctor advised that she make use of the mineral baths, so we shall be staying for a few days while she recovers.”
At that, Doloris’s entire demeanor shifted into efficient concern.
“Oh, my dear, you should have said so at once,” she replied, already turning toward the servants behind her. “Prepare the chambers immediately and make certain Lady Kilmartin’s room is properly warmed with extra blankets and have the fireplace lit at once.
Then, returning her attention to Michaela, she added more gently, “You are in very capable hands here, we shall have you well again in no time.”
Only then did she seem to notice Francesca, who had remained slightly behind the others, observing quietly, still unsure of her place within all of this.
“Oh, do forgive me,” Doloris said, her eyes settling on her with polite curiosity, “I did not see you there.”
Elizabeth sighed lightly, as though realizing her oversight.
“Where are my manners,” she said, gesturing toward her, “this is Lady Francesca Kilmartin. She is Michaela’s... friend and will be staying with us as well.”
Doloris inclined her head respectfully, though there was a flicker of something knowing in her expression.
“Of course, my lady, we shall prepare a room for you as well,” she said, before lowering her voice ever so slightly, just enough to suggest discretion. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to share with either Lady Kilmartin or Lady Elizabeth.”
Francesca stiffened at once, caught entirely off guard by the implication.
Her eyes widened slightly, a mix of shock and offense flashing across her features.
“No,” she said, perhaps a touch too quickly, “I shall have my own room please.”
Doloris did not so much as blink, though the faintest hint of amusement lingered in her gaze.
“Of course, my lady,” she replied smoothly.
Elizabeth, however, shot her a sharp, disapproving look, clearly aware of exactly what had just been implied and perhaps even more aware of how it might be received.
And Francesca, though she said nothing further, could not quite ignore the lingering unease that had settled in her chest.
As they all made their way into the townhouse, Michaela, who had spent the better part of the last few days confined to a bed and drifting in and out of restless sleep, found that her patience had all but worn thin and with every passing moment of stillness, a growing restlessness settled deeper into her bones until she could no longer ignore it.
By the time they were seated in the drawing room, waiting for their chambers to be prepared, she was already shifting in her seat, her fingers tapping absently against the armrest as though she might spring up at any given moment.
“You know,” she began at last, unable to hold herself back any longer, “I am feeling better by the minute and I believe that if I were to go to the baths now, it would hasten my recovery considerably, so I see no reason to delay.”
Elizabeth, who had just settled comfortably into her chair, gave her a look that was equal parts amusement and disbelief.
“Michaela,” she said patiently, “we have only just arrived. Let us at least settle in for a short while and then we shall go together.”
But Michaela only shook her head, her stubbornness already taking hold.
“If I am made to lie still for even a moment longer, I shall very likely lose what remains of my sanity,” she replied, leaning forward slightly as though preparing to rise. “We came here for me to recover, did we not? Then it seems rather foolish to waste time sitting about. If you don’t wish to accompany me, I am perfectly capable of going on my own.”
Elizabeth let out a quiet, incredulous laugh.
“Oh, of course,” she said dryly, “and how far do you suppose you will make it before you faint outright and take it upon yourself to drown in one of the baths? It would be a most efficient end, I imagine.”
Michaela rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed.
“Very amusing,” she muttered. “I shall go and prepare regardless.”
She had already begun to rise when another voice, softer and more hesitant, cut through the room.
“I can come with you.”
Both of them turned at once.
Francesca stood near the window, her hands loosely clasped before her, as though she had not entirely intended to speak but had done so anyway.
“I admit,” she continued, after a brief pause, “that I have also grown somewhat impatient and if this will ease your recovery, then I see no reason to delay any further.”
Her gaze shifted toward Michaela, just for a moment, before lowering slightly, a hint of shyness creeping into her expression.
Michaela, caught off guard for the briefest second, felt something in her chest soften before she allowed herself a small smile.
“Very well,” she said. “Then we shall prepare and go.”
Elizabeth, meanwhile, said nothing.
She simply looked between the two of them, a slow, knowing smirk forming as she leaned back in her chair, clearly far more entertained by the exchange than she had any intention of admitting.

As Francesca made her way upstairs to change, she felt a strange flicker of anticipation rise in her chest, something light and almost unfamiliar and she was quick to push it aside before it could take shape, telling herself it meant nothing, that she was simply eager to get out of the house after days of watching over Michaela.
She opened her case and found the bathing gown she had packed, something simple yet appropriate, the kind she had seen her aunt wear in Bath when she would go out with her companions and without allowing herself too much time to think, she dressed quickly and covered herself with a long cloak before heading back downstairs.
When she reached the entrance, Michaela was already there waiting for her, leaning slightly against the doorway, looking far better than she had the past few days but still not entirely herself.
“Shall we?” she said, a small smile forming as her eyes met Francesca’s.
Francesca hesitated for a brief moment, her concern returning just as quickly as it had left.
“Should we not call for the carriage?” she asked, her voice softer now. “You are not yet fully recovered and I do not think walking is wise.”
Michaela shook her head lightly, already stepping forward.
“The baths are only a short distance away and I have spent far too many days confined to a bed,” she said, her tone carrying that familiar stubbornness. “I think the air will do me more good than any carriage.”
Francesca followed after her, unable to stop the small shake of her head.
“You truly are impossible,” she murmured.
“And yet you still chose to come with me,” Michaela replied, glancing at her briefly something softer hidden beneath her words.
They walked in silence for a few moments, their pace slow, the quiet stretching between them in a way that was not entirely uncomfortable, yet not at ease either.
After a while, Michaela spoke again, her voice quieter this time, lacking its usual confidence.
“Francesca… I wanted to thank you,” she said, not quite looking at her. “For staying. You did not have to, especially not after… everything.”
Francesca felt her chest tighten slightly at the hesitation in her voice, at the way Michaela avoided finishing her own sentence.
“I did not think about it as something I had to do,” she replied carefully. “You were unwell and… I was concerned.”
Michaela let out a faint breath, almost a laugh, though there was little humor in it.
“You are kinder than I deserve,” she said quietly.
Francesca frowned slightly at that, turning her head toward her.
“Why do you insist on speaking as though you have done something unforgivable?” she asked, her tone more serious now. “You said something I did not understand, yes, but that does not make it wrong.”
Michaela stopped walking for just a second, as if the words had caught her off guard, before continuing again, her expression tightening.
“You say that now,” she replied, “because you do not fully understand what I meant.”
“Then help me understand,” Francesca said, more gently this time though there was something firm beneath it. “Because I would rather hear it from you than be left to guess.”
Michaela shook her head almost immediately, her gaze fixed ahead.
“No,” she said, her voice low. “You would not.”
Francesca’s brows drew together slightly, confusion and something else, something closer to frustration starting to rise.
“Michaela,” she said, “you cannot say something like that and then refuse to explain it. You left without a word two years ago and now you return only to speak in riddles and expect me to simply… accept it.”
There was no accusation in her tone, but there was honesty and that seemed to affect Michaela far more.
“I did not leave to hurt you,” Michaela said, more quickly now as if needing her to understand that much at least. “I left because staying would have been worse.”
“Worse for who?” Francesca asked quietly.
Michaela did not answer immediately and when she did, her voice had lost all of its usual steadiness.
“For you,” she said.
Francesca looked at her for a long moment, trying to make sense of that, of the way Michaela carried it like a burden rather than a choice.
“I do not think you get to decide what is worse for me,” she said finally, not harshly, but firmly enough to make Michaela glance at her.
“And I do not think you understand what it is you are asking,” Michaela replied, her voice almost pleading now. “If I explain it, there is no undoing it, no pretending it was never said and I would rather have you confused than… than look at me differently.”
Francesca felt that same strange pull in her chest again, stronger this time, though she could not name it.
“I am already looking at you differently,” she admitted quietly. “Just not in the way you seem to fear.”
That made Michaela falter, her steps slowing slightly.
“And how is that?” she asked, almost cautiously.
Francesca hesitated, searching for the right words, knowing that whatever she said now mattered more than she fully understood.
“I do not know yet,” she said honestly. “But I know that I do not wish to turn away from you and I think that should count for something.”
Michaela looked at her then, really looked at her, as if trying to decide whether she believed her or whether she even allowed herself to.
“It does,” she said finally, her voice quieter than before. “It counts more than you think.”
And for the first time since they had left the house, the silence that followed felt… different. Not resolved or easy but no longer pulling them apart.

A few minutes later they reached the baths, as they stepped inside they were immediately met with the warm, mineral-heavy air that clung softly to the skin, a faint mist rising from the pools beyond.
An attendant approached them at once, her expression polite but curious as her gaze lingered for just a moment on Francesca.
“Lady Kilmartin,” she said addressing Michaela, a hint of recognition in her voice. “It has been some time.”
Michaela gave her a small nod, her expression composed, though Francesca did not miss the brief flicker of something unreadable passing through her eyes.
“Yes, it has,” she replied simply.
Francesca glanced between them, her curiosity immediately showing but before she could say anything, the attendant gestured for them to follow.
“Shall I have your usual bathing room prepared, lady Kilmartin?” she asked, her tone respectful but familiar, Michaela simply nodded.
They were led through a quieter corridor, away from the main baths, until they reached a secluded chamber where steam curled lazily above the surface of a wide marble pool, the water shimmering faintly under the soft light filtering in through high windows.
“This space will be yours for as long as you require,” the attendant continued, before pausing. “Would you like assistance?”
Francesca answered before Michaela could even consider it.
“No, that will not be necessary,” she said, a little too quickly, though she softened it with a polite smile. “We shall manage.”
The attendant nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet, the only sound now the faint ripple of water.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Michaela let out a small breath, glancing around the room.
“Well,” she said lightly, though there was a hint of tension beneath it, “it seems you have dismissed our help rather confidently.”
Francesca turned to her, lifting her chin just slightly.
“I did not think you would object,” she replied. “You are not exactly in a state to argue.”
Michaela let out a soft huff of amusement at that, though she did not deny it.
“Very well,” she said. “I suppose I am at your mercy.”
There was a brief pause and then almost at the same time, they both turned slightly away from one another.
Francesca reached for the clasp of her cloak first, letting it fall from her shoulders, revealing the pale bathing gown beneath, the light fabric clinging softly to her frame, outlining the long lines of her body, the subtle strength in her posture, the quiet definition beneath her skin that spoke of more resilience than one might first assume.
Michaela, for her part, was slower, not hesitant exactly, but aware.
She slipped off her outer layers with practiced ease, though there was something different in the way she moved now, less carefree than usual, as if she could feel Francesca’s presence behind her in a way she had not allowed herself to before.
When finally they turned back toward each other, the moment lingered.
Francesca’s breath caught just slightly, though she quickly tried to steady it, her gaze flickering briefly, almost unintentionally over Michaela’s form, the curve of her figure, the glow of her skin against the soft light, so striking it made something tighten unexpectedly in her chest.
Michaela noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She did not comment immidietly, instead she tilted her head slightly, a faint, almost knowing expression crossing her face before she looked away again, giving Francesca a moment to recover,
“You see something of interest?” she teased lightly.
Francesca straightened almost immediately.
“No,” she said, a bit too quickly, before adding, “I was merely ensuring you had not forgotten how to stand.”
That earned a quiet laugh from Michaela, though her eyes lingered on her just a second longer than necessary.
“Careful,” she murmured. “You may start to sound overly concerned.”
Francesca did not reply, instead stepping closer to the edge of the bath.
“Come,” she said, her voice steadier now. “You should get in, we are here for you to heal afterall”
Michaela raised a brow but obeyed, stepping carefully into the water, the heat clearly a relief as she exhaled softly, her shoulders relaxing almost instantly.
Francesca followed just behind her, though more slowly, lowering herself into the bath with measured movements the warmth enveloping her as she settled beside her.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The closeness was… noticeable.
The steam softened everything, the edges of the room, the distance between them, even the tension that had followed them here.
Francesca turned slightly toward her.
“The attendant knew you,” she said, unable to hold back her curiosity any longer. “You have been here before.”
Michaela leaned back slightly, resting her head against the edge of the bath, her expression shifting into something more guarded.
“A few times,” she said casually.
“A few?” Francesca repeated, clearly unconvinced.
Michaela let out a quiet breath, her lips curving faintly.
“Elizabeth and I used to come here often,” she admitted. “When London became… tiresome.”
Francesca studied her carefully.
“And that is all?” she asked.
Michaela glanced at her, that same teasing look returning, though there was something cautious beneath it now.
“What more would you like it to be?” she asked.
Francesca did not look away this time.
“You are avoiding the question.”
“And you are asking more than you truly wish to hear,” Michaela replied smoothly.
Francesca frowned slightly, leaning just a fraction closer without quite realizing it.
“I would not have asked if I did not wish to know.”
Michaela held her gaze for a moment, something unreadable passing between them, before she looked away again, the corner of her mouth lifting.
“Curiosity does not always lead to satisfaction,” she said.
Francesca did not retreat.
“Then allow me to decide that for myself.”
That made Michaela pause.
Really pause.
And when she looked back at her this time, there was something different in her expression, less teasing, more careful.
“You are quite persistent,” she said quietly.
Francesca held her gaze.
“I have reason to be.”
And for a moment, the air between them shifted again, heavier now, charged with something neither of them was quite ready to name.
“Alright, Francesca… what is it you truly wish to know?” Michaela asked, her voice quieter now, more cautious than before.
Francesca did not hesitate this time.
“Tell me,” she said, her tone steady, though there was something tense beneath it. “Who is it you come here with… and do not say Elizabeth.”
Michaela let out a small breath, something almost like a nervous laugh escaping her.
“Very well,” She paused, choosing her words more carefully now.
“There is no one in particular,” she began. “Elizabeth and I… we used to come here after evenings that were perhaps a little too long, a little too indulgent. And sometimes… we did not come alone.”
Francesca’s gaze did not leave her.
“Sometimes,” Michaela continued, her tone steadier now, though her eyes flickered briefly away, “there would be someone who had kept us company through the night. And it would seem… ungentlemanly to send them away without at least offering some comfort the next morning.”
A faint, almost teasing smile touched her lips.
“Not all of them,” she added lightly. “Only those who proved worth the trouble.”
Francesca leaned in slightly, her curiosity overtaking her hesitation.
“And these people…” she asked slowly, “they were women?”
Michaela glanced at her, one brow lifting just slightly.
“Of course,” she said, a hint of dry amusement returning. “It would be rather improper to bring a man here, would it not?”
Francesca did not smile.
She was too focused.
“And with these women…” she continued, her voice quieter now, more uncertain, “what was it that you… did?”
Michaela stilled.
For a moment, she said nothing, studying Francesca as if trying to decide how far she could go without breaking something fragile between them.
Then, more gently,
“Think of it this way,” she said. “If a man and a woman find themselves drawn to one another… if there is desire, if there is curiosity… they do not always resist it.”
Her gaze held Francesca’s now.
“It is not so different,” she added softly. “Only… the people involved are.”
Francesca swallowed, her eyes dropping for a brief moment before lifting again.
“And you,” she asked, her voice barely above the steam around them, “you have always… preferred that?”
There it was.
The question Michaela could not take back once answered.
She hesitated, just for a second, then
“Yes,” she said simply. “For as long as I can remember.”
The air shifted again.
Francesca turned her gaze away, her thoughts clearly racing, trying to piece together something entirely new to her.
After a moment, more quietly,
“Is that what you meant?” she asked. “That day… when you spoke of your feelings.”
Michaela’s expression changed immediately, the ease from before fading into something more serious, more vulnerable.
“No,” she said softly. “No… that is not the same.”
Francesca looked back at her then, confusion written plainly across her face.
“It is not?”
Michaela shook her head, her voice lower now.
“If it were that simple, I would not have left,” she said. “I would not have spent two years trying to forget you. I would not feel as though I am standing on the edge of something I cannot allow myself to fall into.”
Francesca’s breath caught slightly.
“Then what is it?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer now.
Michaela held her gaze and for once, there was no teasing, no deflection, no distance.
Only truth.
“It is everything,” she said quietly. “And that is precisely the problem.”
Francesca felt Michaela’s gaze on her like a weight she could not escape, steady and unrelenting, she did not know how to respond, her thoughts scattered, her composure slipping in a way that both frightened and intrigued her and before she could make sense of it her own body seemed to betray her entirely, a warmth spreading low in her abdomen, unfamiliar and insistent, nothing like anything she had ever experienced before, not even in a marriage that had once defined her understanding of closeness.
“Michaela… I am not sure what to say, I…” she began, her voice quiet, uncertainty threading through it.
“You do not need to say anything,” Michaela replied gently, though there was a quiet sadness beneath her tone now, as if she had already begun retreating. “This is my burden to bear, not yours and I am sorry that I have involved you in it, but perhaps now that it has been spoken aloud… perhaps I may finally begin to move past it and we might find our way back to what we were before… friends.” She finished as if she didn’t even believe her own words.
Only then did she look away, as if she could not bear to watch Francesca’s reaction any longer.
Silence fell between them, thick and heavy, the air filled with everything left unsaid.
And then,
“What if I do not want you to move past it?”
The words came out before Francesca had fully realized she was going to say them but once they were spoken there was no taking them back.
Michaela stilled completely.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze, as if unsure she had heard correctly and when she did she realized just how close Francesca had moved without either of them noticing, the distance between them now barely there at all, close enough that she could feel the warmth of her breath, see the way her lips parted slightly as if she were on the edge of something she did not yet understand.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
And then Francesca’s eyes dropped, just briefly, to Michaela’s lips.
It was enough.
The movement was almost hesitant at first, as though she were testing something she did not yet believe to be real, her hand lifting slightly before settling against Michaela’s arm as she leaned in, closing the distance in a way that felt both sudden and inevitable.
The kiss, when it came, was soft.
Uncertain.
A brush more than anything, as if both of them were waiting for the other to pull away, to stop it before it could become something more.
But neither of them did.
And in that suspended moment, something shifted.
Michaela inhaled sharply, as though the contact alone had stolen the air from her lungs and when she responded, it was no longer tentative, her hand finding Francesca’s face, steadying her as the kiss deepened, slowly at first, then with a growing urgency that neither of them tried to resist.
It was not practiced, it was not careful, it was discovery and confusion and something far more consuming than either of them had expected, as if in that single moment they had both found something they had been searching for without ever knowing it.
Francesca moved closer without thinking, drawn in by something she could not name, her body responding before her mind could catch up, until she was no longer simply leaning toward Michaela but fully against her, the space between them gone entirely as the kiss deepened, her hand tightening slightly as though she needed something to anchor herself.
Michaela let out a quiet breath against her, her composure slipping for the first time, her hands moving instinctively to her waist, holding her there as if afraid she might disappear the moment she let go.
It felt…
Overwhelming, like breathing for the first time, like losing themselves in eachother entirely.
And just as Francesca shifted, her movement bringing her closer still, as though she might settle fully against her, the door opened.
“You thought you were going to have all the fun without me..”
Elizabeth stopped mid-sentence.
“Oh.”
The word hung in the air.
Everything shattered at once.
Francesca pulled back as if burned, the sudden reality of what had just happened crashing over her all at once, her breath uneven, her hands trembling slightly as she stood abruptly, the water shifting around her in sharp movement.
“I am sorry,” she said quickly, not looking at either of them as she reached for her robe, her voice unsteady now, almost unrecognizable. “I do not know what came over me, I… I must go.”
“Francesca…” Michaela started but did not finish.
She was already gone.
Michaela remained where she was, completely still, as if her body had not yet caught up to what had just happened, her mind struggling to follow, the warmth of Francesca still lingering where she had been moments before.
“I leave you alone for one hour,” Elizabeth said slowly, recovering from her shock, though a grin was already beginning to form, “and this is what I return to… honestly, Michaela, I am impressed.”
Michaela turned her head slowly, fixing her with a look that could have killed.
“Elizabeth,” she said flatly, “I think I may have just ruined her life and you are making jokes.”
Elizabeth raised a brow, entirely unbothered.
“That did not look like a woman whose life was being ruined,” she replied. “If anything, I would say the opposite.”
But Michaela did not answer.
Her hand had lifted unconsciously, her fingers brushing lightly against her lips, as if she could still feel it, as if she needed to confirm that it had actually happened.
“Michaela,” Elizabeth added, softer now, “she does feel something for you, that much is obvious and I am sorry I interrupted, truly, but she is likely embarassed and overwhelmed, not horrified… you should go after her.”
There was a pause.
Then…
“I should,” Michaela said quietly, more to herself than to Elizabeth.
She stood quickly, reaching for her robe, her movements no longer hesitant but urgent, driven by something she could not ignore now and without another word she made her way out, trying to follow the path Francesca had taken.

Only to find nothing.
Empty corridors.
Silence.

She let out a breath, her chest tightening slightly as the realization settled in.

It seemed they were both rather skilled at running away.

Chapter Text

Three days had passed and with the start of a new week came the usual chaos of a Bridgerton breakfast, though this time the table was fuller than usual, voices overlapping and laughter filling the room as Benedict and Sophie had come to visit and were staying for the week, while Colin and Penelope had also joined, seated beside Anthony and Kate who presided over the table as hosts.
Amidst the noise, Benedict leaned back slightly in his chair, glancing around the table with a curious expression.
“And where is our dear sister on this fine morning?” he asked. “I had rather expected her to make an appearance.”
“I sent an invitation to Kilmartin,” Kate replied with a touch of disappointment in her voice, “but I received no answer.”
“The last I heard from Francesca,” Violet added, dabbing her lips gently with her napkin, “Michaela had taken ill and she wished to remain with her until she recovered.”
“Oh no, what is wrong with Michaela Mama?” Hyacinth asked immediately, her face filled with concern. “I hope it is not serious.”
“No no, nothing of the sort,” Violet reassured her quickly. “Only a common flu I am told, though your sister as you know, does tend to… devote herself entirely when she cares for someone.”
The slight hesitation at the end of her sentence did not go unnoticed by anyone.
“Well, I do hope she recovers quickly,” Penelope added thoughtfully. “They were quite missed at the last ball.”
“Yes with them gone, mama had all her attentions on me” Eloise said dramatically.
Just then, a servant entered the room holding a familiar folded pamphlet.
“Lady Whistledown, my ladies.”
Penelope’s expression tightened almost instantly.
“Ugh, what a bore,” she muttered as she reached for it. “Let us see what this week’s copycat has fabricated.”
She unwrapped the paper and began reading aloud.

Dearest gentle readers,

Another week has unfolded within the ever-watchful eye of London society and though one might have hoped for a moment of peace, it seems scandal has no intention of granting us such a luxury.
The ever-ambitious Miss Davenport was seen engaging in what can only be described as an enthusiastic exchange of attention between not one, but two suitors in the span of a single evening, leaving both gentlemen equally convinced of her favor, though one suspects only one shall emerge victorious… if either at all.
Meanwhile, Lord Everly has returned from his travels with what he claims to be a “refined continental sensibility,” though society appears far more interested in the mysterious widow who has accompanied him and whose presence has already sparked more curiosity than propriety might allow.
Yet, dear readers, it would be remiss of me not to address the matter which has so thoroughly captured the attention of the ton.
Our elusive Ladies of Kilmartin.
Their absence from the last ball did not go unnoticed, particularly after they were last seen engaged in what could only be described as a most animated exchange within the park, one that ended rather abruptly with a hasty retreat into a waiting carriage.
And now, whispers abound that the pair have departed London altogether, their sudden disappearance only fueling speculation as to the true nature of their association.
One cannot help but wonder… what could compel two such closely observed ladies to remove themselves so entirely from society at such a crucial moment in the season?
Curious indeed.
It seems her Majesty, who had taken a particular interest in these most promising young women, may find herself less than pleased to discover that her anticipated jewels of the season have chosen retreat over display.
But fear not, dear reader.
In a society such as ours, secrets have a way of resurfacing… and I for one, shall be most eager when they do.

Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown

Penelope lowered the paper with visible irritation.
“Oh, how utterly tacky,” Eloise said, shaking her head.
“I was never so… obvious, was I, Colin?” Penelope asked worried
“Of course not, my darling,” Colin replied smoothly. “This impostor possesses none of your… subtlety.”
“Wait, did I hear that correctly?” Hyacinth suddenly exclaimed. “Frannie has left London with Michaela?”
“Nonsense,” Violet said quickly, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “I am quite sure she would not leave without informing me.”
Almost as if summoned by the conversation itself, the doors opened.
“Speaking of which,” Benedict muttered under his breath.
Francesca stepped into the room.
“Darling,” Violet said immediately, rising to her feet and moving toward her, “you are here, tell me is it true? Did you leave London?”
Francesca smiled, composed, almost too composed.
“Yes,” she said lightly. “Only for a few days but it matters little now, as I have returned and have no intention of wasting any more time.”
There was a pause.
“I shall be married by the end of the season.”
The words landed as if she had casually announced the weather.
Violet blinked.
“My dear… what has brought this on?”
Before she could answer, Anthony leaned forward, his expression sharp.
“And who exactly, do you intend to marry, sister?”
Francesca did not hesitate.
“Well, Mr. Anderson will do I suppose,” she said plainly. “He is of suitable standing and I assume he will make an acceptable match.”
“You assume?” Benedict repeated, looking thoroughly entertained. “How very romantic.”
“Yes,” Francesca replied, entirely unfazed. “He will do just fine.”
Then, turning to her mother..
“If you would be so kind, Mama, you may begin arrangements with Lord Anderson at once since you two are… friends. I should like this settled as quickly as possible.”
The entire table fell silent.
“Well… if that is truly what you wish,” Violet said slowly, still trying to process, “then I shall speak with them and you two could meet up at next weeks ball.”
Anthony however, looked far less convinced. He set his teacup down carefully and fixed Francesca with the same look he used whenever one of his younger siblings were behaving irrationally.
“Sister, I beg you to explain why you are suddenly speaking of marriage as though you are selecting a ribbon for a gown,” he said bluntly. “You cannot simply announce over breakfast that you intend to marry a gentleman you have barely tolerated for more than two conversations and expect the rest of us to nod along pleasantly.”
“Anthony…” Violet warned softly.
“No Mother, I should like an answer,” he continued, not taking his eyes off Francesca. “You were widowed not long ago, you just disappeared from London ‘for a few days’ without a word and now you return with this announcement, you cannot be serious.”
Francesca’s hands tightened slightly at her sides. “I am perfectly serious.”
“And I am perfectly serious when I say I shall not allow some overly polished ‘French’ lordling to marry my sister simply because she woke up one morning and decided he would ‘do just fine,’” Anthony replied. “You deserve more consideration than that Francesca, even if you seem determined not to give it to yourself at present.”
Benedict nearly choked trying not to laugh at the phrase “overly polished French lordling,” while Colin and Eloise lowered their heads into their cups to hide their amusement.
“Anthony, you are making this sound far more dramatic than it is,” Francesca said, though her voice had become noticeably tighter. “Mr. Anderson is respectable, accomplished and interested in marriage. What more is there to discuss?”
“What more?” Anthony repeated incredulously. “Perhaps whether you actually care for the man might be a start.”
At that, Francesca finally looked up at him properly and for just a second something uncertain flickered across her face before disappearing again behind that strange overly composed expression she had been wearing since she arrived.
“That is not necessary,” she said quietly. “Affection is not the only reason people marry.”
The table grew awkwardly silent again after that statement, because everyone in that room knew exactly who she had been married to before and how deeply she had loved him.
Kate quickly stepped in before Anthony could continue arguing.
“Please, do join us for breakfast, Francesca,” she said gently, offering her a reassuring smile as though trying to anchor the conversation back into normalcy. “Whatever the reason, we are simply glad you are home.”
“Yes, of course,” Francesca replied brightly, taking a seat as though nothing at all was amiss.
Hyacinth leaned forward eagerly.
“So, Frannie,” she said, entirely innocent but far too curious, “how is Michaela? Mama said you were attending to her.”
Francesca nearly choked on her bread.
“I was merely at Kilmartin to ensure that all affairs remained in order whilst Lady Kilmartin received treatment,” she said quickly.
“Lady Kilmartin, is it now?” Benedict said, exchanging amused glances with Colin.
“Yes, well…Michaela,” she corrected stiffly. “She has recovered. There was no need for me to remain.”
“Oh, that is wonderful news,” Violet said warmly. “We should invite her and her mother to dinner this week, just to be certain she is well again.”
“No.”
The word came out far too quickly.
Francesca froze.
“I mean… there is no need,” she added, her tone tightening slightly. “I am sure she is quite occupied with the estate.”
Kate immediately stepped in, sensing the shift.
“Well, Hyacinth, you were telling us about your plans in learning a new type of dance…”
The conversation moved on, voices rising again but Francesca barely heard any of it.
For the first time since she had entered the room, she looked down at her plate, her smile gone, her thoughts elsewhere entirely.
And though she continued to eat as though nothing had changed, everything had.

All throughout this whole fiasco, Sophie had been sitting quietly besides Benedict, watching everything unfold with careful eyes and the more Francesca spoke the more certain she became that something was terribly wrong, because Francesca was behaving like someone performing a role, smiling at the right times, speaking too quickly and most suspicious of all refusing to look directly at anyone for longer than a few seconds. Every time Sophie tried to catch her gaze across the breakfast table, Francesca would immediately look away, suddenly fascinated by her tea or her plate of food or the flowers in the center of the table.
So the moment breakfast finally ended and the family started scattering into their daily routines, Sophie took her chance and approached her before she could disappear again.
“Francesca, I know there is something going on and you must tell me, please let me help,” she said softly, her voice filled with genuine concern.
“Sophie, please… I cannot,” Francesca answered almost immediately fidgeting with her fingers, though the weakness in her voice betrayed her and once again she could not bring herself to meet her eyes.
“Fran,” Sophie said gently as she reached for her arm in reassurance, “you know you can tell me anything, come now, let us go have a walk in the garden for a little while, your family can be rather overwhelming when they are all gathered together like this and perhaps some quiet will help you sort through whatever is troubling you.”
At that Francesca finally looked at her properly for the first time that morning and Sophie was startled by how exhausted she appeard, as though she had not truly slept in days. After a moment she nodded quietly.
“Okay… let us go.”
They stepped outside into the Bridgerton gardens, where the morning air was cool and calm compared to the chaos inside the house and for a while they simply walked beside each other in silence, Sophie patient enough not to pressure her and Francesca far too lost in her own thoughts to speak first.
Ever since she had left the baths, Francesca’s mind had not known a moment of peace. She had ran back to Elizabeth’s townhouse after fleeing from Michaela and she already knew she could not remain there another second because the walls themselves felt suffocating, her thoughts haunted by the feeling of Michaela’s lips against hers, by the way her body had reacted before her mind had even managed to catch up.
So instead of resting, instead of thinking rationally, she had demanded a carriage back to London immediately, ignoring the servants concern as she hurriedly gathered her things. The journey home had been miserable and endless despite how quickly they traveled, because she refused to spend unnecessary nights at inns and insisted they stop only briefly whenever the horses needed rest. Every moment inside that carriage had been spent replaying the scene over and over again until she thought she might lose her mind entirely.

She had kissed Michaela.

Not accidentally, not impulsively in some harmless friendly way but truly kissed her, with want and desperation and a hunger Francesca had never experienced before in her entire life.

A woman.

John’s cousin.

And worst of all, she had liked it.
No, liked was not even the proper word for it because that kiss had awakened something inside her that frightened her deeply, something powerful and consuming and impossible to ignore, because the second Michaela kissed her back it felt as though her entire body had come alive for the first time. The warmth that spread through her stomach, the dizziness in her chest, the way she had moved closer without even thinking, needing more of her as though she had been starved for years without realizing it, none of it made sense.
Not even with John had she ever felt something so immediate, so overwhelming and the realization of that alone filled her with crushing guilt.
Then Elizabeth had walked in smiling and teasing as though she had stumbled upon something amusing rather than catastrophic and suddenly Francesca had seen herself through someone else’s eyes, sitting in Michaela’s lap in a bath like one of the many women Michaela had spoken about so casually, another conquest, another secret affair, another reckless indulgence.
The thought alone made humiliation burn through her entire body.
Was that all this had been to Michaela? Had Francesca simply become another woman she desired, another challenge to charm and seduce before eventually growing bored and moving on? Had Michaela spent all these years secretly entertaining herself with the idea of corrupting her dead cousin’s wife?
Francesca hated herself for even thinking such cruel things because somewhere deep down she knew Michaela’s feelings were genuine, she had seen the pain in her eyes, heard it in her voice but it was easier to turn all of this into a mistake than face what it truly meant.
So by the time the carriage finally reached London she had already made her decision.
This would never happen again.
She would marry a man, quickly and properly, and put this entire disaster behind her before it destroyed her completely. Mr. Anderson was eager enough, respectable enough and perhaps if she forced herself firmly enough into the future expected of her then eventually all thoughts of Michaela Stirling would disappear with time.
Yes.
That was the sensible thing to do.
That was the right thing to do.
Even if the thought of never seeing Michaela again made her chest ache so badly she could barely breathe.

“Francesca.”

Sophie’s voice suddenly interrupted the spiral of thoughts so abruptly that Francesca nearly tripped.
“Your face is making the strangest expressions,” Sophie said carefully, trying not to laugh despite her concern. “One moment you look horrified, then angry, then as though you are about to cry and now you look ready to murder someone, would you perhaps like to share what exactly is happening inside your head?”

“I KISSED HER.”

The words came bursting out of Francesca so suddenly and loudly that even she looked shocked by them, her eyes widening immediately afterward as though she could not believe she had actually said that out loud.
Sophie blinked at her in confusion.
“You kissed whom?” she asked carefully.
“Michaela,” Francesca answered just as abruptly, as though now that the confession had escaped her there was no use trying to hide it anymore.
Sophie’s eyebrows shot upward.
“Oh,” she said first in surprise, then after a moment, “oh, you kissed Michaela?”
Francesca covered her face with both hands in humiliation.
“Yes.”
“… on the mouth?” Sophie asked, genuinely trying to understand the scale of the crisis currently unfolding before her.
“Oh God, yes, Sophie, on the mouth,” Francesca groaned miserably. “Please do not judge me, I do not even know why I told you but I had to tell someone before I lost my mind entirely, I have been trapped alone in a carriage for days having arguments with myself like some lunatic and I think I may actually be going insane.”
To her surprise, Sophie did not look horrified in the slightest. If anything, she looked thoughtful.
“Francesca, first of all I would never judge you for such a thing,” she said gently, “and second of all… if I may be entirely honest with you, I am not completely shocked.”
Francesca looked at her in disbelief.
“You are not shocked?”
“Well no,” Sophie admitted with a small shrug. “Ever since I met the two of you there has always been something rather intense between you both and when Michaela left two years ago you were certainly not behaving like a woman merely saddened over her late husband’s cousins departure.”
Francesca stared at her as though she had suddenly grown another head.
“Sophie, why are you speaking of this as though I have confessed to some harmless infatuation when the person in question is a woman,” she said incredulously. “Should that not concern you at least a little?”
Sophie smiled softly then and there was something knowing in that smile, something touched with old sadness and understanding.
“Why would it concern me?” she asked quietly. “Francesca, I know you grew up surrounded by a very particular sort of society where people pretend certain things simply do not exist but the world is far larger than the one the ton allows itself to acknowledge and I have seen love take shape in many different forms throughout my life. I could never judge people for loving each other because if I did, I would be quite a hypocrite myself.”
Francesca frowned slightly at that “But I feel as though I am discovering an entirely different world all at once,” she admitted after a moment, her voice quieter now. “Growing up I was taught that there was one correct path for everyone, that marriages existed between suitable men and women of proper standing and that anything outside of that simply did not happen and now suddenly I am learning there are people who live entirely differently, people who love outside of rank and expectation and even…” she hesitated, “…gender, and it makes me feel absurdly naive, as though I have been asleep my entire life while everyone else knew something I did not.”
Sophie’s expression softened even further.
“Well,” she said gently, “that is rather the point of it all, is it not? Society survives by teaching people there is only one acceptable way to live because if everyone realized how large the world truly is and how free they could be, then many of the rules holding society together would begin to lose their power and collapse.”
Francesca absorbed that quietly as they continued walking through the garden paths, the sound of birds and distant conversation from inside the house filling the silence between them.
“Well nonetheless,” Francesca said after a while, clearly forcing herself back into composure, “it was still a mistake, whatever happened between us cannot happen again, Michaela is accustomed to these sorts of affairs and I am simply… another foolish woman who got swept into her orbit for a moment but I shall not allow one lapse in judgment to derail the rest of my life, I intend to proceed with Mr. Anderson exactly as I planned.”
Sophie gave her a long look, one filled with so much skepticism that Francesca almost became defensive immediately.
“Fran,” she said carefully, “if you truly wish to marry this man then that is entirely your choice and I will support you wholeheartedly but do not rush yourself into a marriage simply because you are frightened by what you felt.”
Francesca looked away.
“This is not fear.”
Sophie raised an eyebrow.
“You ran away in a panic and haven’t slept in days after kissing her once,” she said plainly. “I think perhaps there is at least a little fear involved.”
Francesca let out an exasperated sound and covered her face briefly again.
“When you say it aloud it sounds even more ridiculous.”
“It sounds very dramatic,” Sophie corrected with amusement. “Which, unfortunately for you, means you are most definitely a Bridgerton.”
That finally pulled a reluctant laugh out of Francesca, the first genuine one Sophie had heard from her all morning.
Sophie squeezed her arm reassuringly.
“Whatever happens,” she said softly, “whether this turns out to be confusion, friendship, love, heartbreak or all of those things together, you do not have to face it alone.”
Francesca’s expression softened immediately.
“Thank you, Sophie,” she said quietly. “You truly are like a sister to me.”
And after that they continued their walk through the gardens in comfortable silence, though for the first time in days Francesca felt as though the chaos in her mind had quieted, if only slightly.

Back in Harrogate, Michaela and Elizabeth had returned to the townhouse in hopes to find Francesca, but the moment they stepped inside and saw the uneasy expression on Doloris’ face, Michaela already knew the answer before a single word was spoken. Francesca had left, insisting on returning to London immediately and refusing even the suggestion of waiting until morning.
At first Michaela had every intention of following after her that very instant but Elizabeth had managed to stop her before she could do something reckless.
“Michaela, give her some time,” she had said while practically forcing her back into a chair. “The poor woman has just discovered an entirely new side of herself, kissed another woman for the first time, panicked and fled across the country. Give her at least a few days to breathe before you go throwing yourself dramatically into her path again.”
Michaela had buried her face in her hands after that, equal parts miserable and embarrassed.
“I should never have let that happen,” she muttered for perhaps the hundredth time since Francesca had disappeared. “She looked terrified when she left.”
“She looked overwhelmed,” Elizabeth corrected calmly. “There is a difference and if you cannot see it then you are even more hopeless than I thought.”
Michaela had only groaned in response and sunk further into the sofa while Elizabeth laughed softly at her suffering.
In the end she stayed, partly because Elizabeth refused to let her travel while she was still recovering and partly because, deep down, she knew her friend was right. Chasing after Francesca immediately would solve nothing. Francesca needed time to think and perhaps Michaela needed it too.
So the next three days passed slowly in Harrogate.
Every morning Elizabeth dragged Michaela out to the baths and pump rooms despite her endless complaints, insisting that if they had come all this way then she would not allow her to waste the treatment by sulking indoors. Michaela spent long hours submerged in the steaming mineral waters while attendants fussed over her recovery and though her body gradually regained its strength, her mind remained in complete disarray.
No matter how much she tried distracting herself, every thought eventually circled back to Francesca.
To the feeling of her climbing into bed beside her during the fever.
To the look in her eyes inside the bathhouse right before she kissed her.

God, that kiss.

Michaela could still feel it lingering on her lips as if it had happened moments ago instead of days. Sometimes she would be halfway through a conversation before suddenly drifting off into silence remembering the way Francesca had moved closer to her, hesitant at first and then desperately certain all at once, as though something inside her had finally broken loose after years of being trapped.

Elizabeth meanwhile, spent those same days doing the exact opposite of suffering quietly.

Within less than twenty four hours she had somehow managed to become acquainted with half the women staying in Harrogate, charming widows at the pump rooms, flirting shamelessly with married ladies and disappearing for suspiciously long walks with a redheaded artist who claimed to be visiting from Bath. Michaela had long since given up on asking questions.
“You know,” Elizabeth remarked lazily one afternoon while sipping tea beside the baths, “most people come to Harrogate to recover their health. You however, seem determined to recover absolutely nothing.”
Michaela rolled her eyes. “And you seem determined to seduce every woman in Yorkshire.”
Elizabeth grinned without a hint of shame. “Well one of us ought to be enjoying themselves.”
Still, despite all her teasing, Elizabeth kept a close eye on her friend and made certain Michaela truly recovered before allowing any talk of returning to London. By the third morning the fever was entirely gone, the exhaustion had finally lifted from her face and for the first time since arriving in Harrogate she looked somewhat like herself again.
That was when Elizabeth announced, with great satisfaction, that they would leave at once and arrive back in London just in time for the weekend festivities and the next ball of the season.
Michaela tried not to think too much about what awaited her there.
About Francesca.
About the kiss.
About whether Francesca regretted it.
But as their carriage finally departed Harrogate and began the long journey, she found herself staring silently out the window almost the entire way, wondering if Francesca Bridgerton was thinking about her too.

And she definitely was.

Francesca spent the next few days at Bridgerton House, deciding it would be best not to return to Kilmartin for obvious reasons and instead she threw herself entirely into the chaos of her family in the hopes that if she surrounded herself with enough noise and movement she would no longer hear her own thoughts. Unfortunately no matter what she did, Michaela always seemed to find her way back into them.

Still, the distractions helped.

Hyacinth had recently become obsessed with learning a new dance she had seen demonstrated at the ball she had sneaked into and insisted upon practicing it every single afternoon, usually by dragging a deeply unwilling Gregory into the middle of the drawing room and forcing him to partner her while Francesca watched. Gregory complained endlessly, swearing that Hyacinth stepped on his feet on purpose, while Hyacinth accused him of having no rhythm whatsoever and threatened to replace him with one of the footmen. Their constant bickering never failed to amuse Francesca because despite all their arguments they were inseparable, always side by side exactly as they had been since childhood and watching them grow together had become one of her favorite things.

Then there was Eloise, who somehow managed to speak for hours without requiring more than the occasional nod in response, something Francesca found oddly comforting these days. Whenever her thoughts began drifting toward Harrogate, toward baths and trembling hands and kisses she still could not fully comprehend, she would simply seek out Eloise and allow herself to be swept into one of her endless discussions about politics, books, women’s rights or whichever philosopher she currently found irritating. Eloise’s mind moved so quickly and so loudly that it became impossible for Francesca to think about anything else while in her company, which perhaps explained why she kept finding excuses to sit beside her.

Penelope and Colin visited nearly every afternoon with their children and those visits became another refuge entirely. Little Elliot, now three years old and endlessly energetic, had apparently decided Francesca was his favorite aunt and followed her everywhere demanding stories or games, while baby Agatha spent most of her time asleep in Penelope’s arms looking impossibly small and peaceful. Francesca often found herself seated on the floor beside Elliot for hours building castles from books or chasing him through the drawing room while Colin dramatically pretended to faint from exhaustion and Penelope laughed at both of them. It was impossible to dwell too heavily on forbidden kisses when a toddler was attempting to climb onto your shoulders.

And then there were the evenings.
Every night Benedict and Sophie, who were staying at Bridgerton House for the week, gathered with her in the music room where they alternated between piano practice, French lessons and conversations that wandered aimlessly into complete nonsense before the night ended. Benedict insisted his French accent was flawless despite sounding ridiculous to everyone else in the room, Sophie laughed at him constantly and Francesca found herself genuinely smiling more than once even though a part of her still felt deeply unsettled.
She was especially grateful to Sophie, who never once forced her to revisit what she had confessed in the garden. Not once did she bring up Michaela and there was something deeply comforting in that silent understanding. Sophie had simply made it clear, through gentle looks and quiet reassurance, that she would be there whenever Francesca was ready to speak again.

Anthony, unfortunately, was far less subtle.
Her eldest brother had attempted to corner her no fewer than four times since her dramatic breakfast announcement, each attempt becoming more suspicious than the last as Francesca expertly found ways to escape him. Once she claimed she had promised Hyacinth a walk, another time she suddenly remembered a letter she needed to write and once she quite literally disappeared into another room the moment she saw him approach her with that terrifying viscount stare that always made grown men confess things they had not even done. Francesca loved Anthony dearly, but there was absolutely no world in which she intended to explain her current state of mind to him.

Violet meanwhile, had done exactly what she promised.
A few afternoons earlier she had invited Lord Anderson for tea and informed him that Francesca was indeed interested in seriously pursuing a match with his son, news which apparently delighted the man. Violet later recounted, somewhat awkwardly, that Lord Anderson had laughed warmly and declared that if he and Violet themselves could not make a match work, then at least perhaps their children finally would. Violet had smiled politely while telling the story, though Francesca noticed the strange expression on her mother’s face afterward.

And so the days passed quickly until at last the evening of the Bejeweled Ball arrived.
The ball was hosted by none other than Lord Barnaby and Posy, who had now been married for two years and had recently settled into their new London home, making this their first grand event of the season. Sophie, naturally, had been excited about it for days, determined to support her stepsister and proudly declaring that Posy would undoubtedly host a better ball than half the ton combined.
The entire Bridgerton family had been invited, along with nearly every prominent household in London, which meant the evening promised excitement long before they even arrived. Anthony, in particular, seemed almost disturbingly eager after learning the Andersons would be attending, making it painfully obvious that he intended to inspect Mr. Anderson personally before allowing his sister anywhere near an engagement. Benedict found this hilarious, Kate kept trying unsuccessfully to calm Anthony down and Colin openly placed bets with Eloise about how long it would take before Anthony frightened the poor man half to death.
By the time the Bridgertons finally stepped out of their carriages in front of the brilliantly illuminated Barnaby residence, the sound of music and laughter already spilling into the street, Francesca felt her stomach tighten unexpectedly.
Because for the first time since fleeing Harrogate, there was a very real possibility she might see Michaela again.
As they stepped into the ballroom Francesca immediately found herself scanning the crowd almost instinctively, her eyes moving carefully across every corner of the room searching for any sign of Michaela or the Stirlings and when she found none she let out a breath she had not even realized she had been holding.
Relief settled over her at once.
Perhaps she would not have to face her tonight after all.
The ballroom itself was magnificent, glittering with candlelight reflected through hundreds of hanging crystals and jewelled decorations that shimmered above the guests like stars. Every lady seemed to have dressed according to the evening’s theme, gowns sparkling with embroidered gemstones, pearls and delicate beading that caught the light every time they moved across the room. Music from the string quartet floated elegantly through the air while servants moved seamlessly through the crowd carrying trays of champagne and sweets.
As the Bridgertons entered fully into the room, Posy spotted them almost immediately and looked so delighted she nearly forgot all proper hostess decorum entirely. She hurried toward them with bright eyes, first throwing her arms around Sophie in excitement before greeting the rest of the family warmly.
“It is so kind of you all to attend,” she said nervously though clearly trying very hard to appear composed. “Lord Barnaby and I are most grateful.”
“Oh it is entirely our pleasure, Lady Barnaby,” Kate reassured her kindly while admiring the ballroom around them. “Everything looks splendid.”
Posy brightened instantly. “Please, call me Posy and do make yourselves at home. We are practically sisters after all.”
Sophie smiled encouragingly beside her, clearly proud to see Posy hosting so confidently despite her nerves and soon enough the Bridgertons naturally dispersed throughout the ballroom, each of them spotting friends or acquaintances they wished to greet.
Francesca found herself lingering beside Violet for only a few moments before her mother gently leaned closer toward her.
“Darling, the Andersons have also just arrived. Would you like to go say hello?” Violet asked with obvious eagerness.
Francesca nearly grimaced.
“No Mama, we have only just arrived,” she answered carefully. “I am certain there shall be plenty of opportunity to speak with them throughout the evening.”
In truth, the sudden realization that declaring her intention to marry Mr. Anderson meant she would now have to actively encourage his courtship had only just begun settling upon her and she found herself regretting her dramatic breakfast announcement more with every passing hour. Still, she could postpone the inevitable a little longer.
So she excused herself and quickly made her way toward Sophie, who was helping Posy manage the endless responsibilities that came with hosting a ball, greeting guests, directing servants and making sure refreshments circulated properly. Francesca immediately inserted herself into their tasks with suspicious enthusiasm simply because it gave her something else to focus on.

“So I see avoiding Mr. Anderson is your strategy for the evening,” Sophie whispered teasingly at one point while adjusting flowers near one of the tables.
“I am not avoiding him,” Francesca replied a bit too quickly. “I am simply allowing him the opportunity to pursue me.”
Sophie raised an eyebrow, deeply unconvinced.
“Of course,” she answered dryly before glancing across the ballroom. “Although I should warn you, Anthony has finally cornered the poor man, so there is a chance he may no longer survive long enough to court you after all.”
Francesca followed her gaze immediately and nearly laughed at the sight awaiting her. Anthony stood rigidly before Mr. Anderson looking every bit terrifying while the poor man attempted to maintain his confidence under interrogation. For one glorious second Francesca truly believed Anthony might frighten him away entirely.
Unfortunately, to her complete horror, the opposite seemed to happen.
Moments later Anthony and Mr. Anderson were shaking hands, both smiling politely at one another before simultaneously turning toward her and making their way across the room to her.
“Oh no,” Sophie muttered under her breath.
“Lady Kilmartin,” Mr. Anderson greeted warmly the moment he reached her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss against it. “I must say you look exceptionally beautiful this evening.”
Francesca smiled politely despite internally wishing the floor would swallow her whole.
Anthony meanwhile, fixed her with a suspicious look that made it painfully obvious he still did not trust this situation in the slightest.
“Mr. Anderson has spoken at length regarding his intentions toward you,” Anthony said carefully, his tone carrying the weight of an interrogation disguised as approval. “He assures me that he seeks not merely admiration but a partnership worthy of respect, loyalty and stability. If this truly is what you desire Francesca, then I see no reason why an understanding between you should not proceed.”
The way he looked at her afterward made it clear he was still testing her, waiting perhaps for some sign that this sudden determination to marry was not entirely genuine.
Francesca merely nodded.
Anthony held her gaze a moment longer before finally excusing himself, though not without giving Mr. Anderson one final warning look first.
The moment he disappeared into the crowd, Mr. Anderson’s confident smile returned immediately.
“Lady Kilmartin, I confess I was quite surprised when my father informed me of your interest in pursuing our acquaintance further,” he admitted smoothly. “Though naturally I was also delighted. From the moment I first laid eyes upon you I felt there was some undeniable connection between us. I merely required patience for you to discover it as well.”
Francesca nearly rolled her eyes at the absurdity of the statement but forced herself to maintain a pleasant expression.
“Well yes,” she replied carefully. “I suppose we could form a suitable match.”
It was perhaps the least romantic response imaginable but unfortunately Mr. Anderson appeared far too pleased with himself to notice.
“And if I recall correctly,” he continued while extending his hand toward her, “you still owe me a dance.”
Francesca opened her mouth, desperately searching for some excuse, any excuse, because suddenly she felt overwhelmed all over again, trapped by her own choices and unable to breathe properly beneath the weight of them.

And then she saw her.

Michaela had just entered the ballroom accompanied by Helen and Elizabeth, and for a moment the entire room seemed to blur around her.
She wore a deep ruby gown that fit her figure almost scandalously well, the dark red silk shimmering beneath the candlelight like crushed gemstones. The neckline dipped elegantly across her chest while countless tiny crystals had been embroidered through the fabric, catching the light every time she moved so that she appeared almost aflame beneath the chandeliers. Gold jewelry rested against her dark skin beautifully, warm and glowing against the rich red of the gown and her curls had been pinned into an elegant updo, a few soft strands left loose around her face, softening the confidence she carried so naturally.

She looked breathtaking.

And worse, she was already searching the room.

Searching for her.

Their eyes immidietly met from across the ballroom and suddenly Francesca’s stomach twisted painfully.
The memory of Harrogate came crashing back all at once. The bath. The confession. The kiss. Michaela’s lips against hers.
Panicking, Francesca immediately tore her gaze away and looked back toward Mr. Anderson instead, accepting his offered hand before she could think better of it.

“Indeed I did,” she replied with a forced smile.
And as the string quartet began a beautiful song, she allowed him to lead her directly onto the dance floor while somewhere across the ballroom Michaela Stirling stood frozen watching it happen.

Michaela and Elizabeth had only just returned to London a few hours earlier and had gone directly to Kilmartin House in order to rest and prepare themselves for the evening ahead. Michaela had finally regained her strength after Harrogate and though her body had recovered her mind most certainly had not. Still, throughout the entire journey back she had tried convincing herself that perhaps by coming baack she could finally have some clarity between her and Francesca, because whatever had happened between them at the baths could not simply be ignored forever.

And so, despite the anxiety twisting endlessly inside her chest, she had worked up the courage to go to tonights ball knowing she would have to face Francesca no matter the outcome.
By the time she descended the staircase of Kilmartin House dressed for the ball, Elizabeth had actually gone silent for once upon seeing her, recovering from illness had somehow only sharpened her beauty further.
“Well,” Elizabeth had finally said while staring at her over the rim of her wine glass, “if Francesca survives seeing you in that gown I shall personally nominate her for sainthood.”
Michaela had rolled her eyes though her stomach tightened nervously all the same.
The moment they arrived at the Barnaby residence Michaela immediately began searching the ballroom for Francesca and found her almost at once.
Their eyes met from across the room instantly.
For a brief moment everything around her disappeared, the music, the laughter, the noise of the crowd, all of it faded beneath the simple shock of seeing Francesca again after Harrogate.
But then the moment shattered.

(*Sorry for interrupting your reading but for the full ‘Franchaela cinematic experiecne’ I recommend you pause reading for a moment and go search for the following song “Good Luck, Babe! (Arr. String Quartet) (Inspired by Bridgerton)” on spotify or any music player and playing it in the background as you read the next part. Trust me on this one*)

Because before Michaela could even move, she watched Francesca accept the hand of a gentleman who looked altogether too pleased with himself and allow him to guide her toward the dance floor.
Michaela froze completely.
Only then did the reality truly settle upon her.
Of course Francesca would pursue suitors. Of course she would move forward with her life. Michaela had known that logically from the very beginning and yet somehow she had still foolishly hoped otherwise.
And now she stood there forced to watch another man place his hands upon Francesca while leading her into a dance.
Worse still, she could not look away.
To her complete undoing, Francesca could not seem to look away either.
Even while dancing with another man, Francesca kept finding her gaze across the ballroom, their eyes locking over and over again until the rest of the room practically disappeared around them.
Elizabeth noticed immediately.
“For heaven’s sake,” she muttered before suddenly grabbing Michaela’s wrist and dragging her directly onto the dance floor beside her. “If you insist upon staring at the woman all evening, you may as well dance while doing it.”
“Elizabeth, what are you doing?” Michaela hissed under her breath, though she barely had time to protest before Elizabeth had already swept her into the movement of the dance.
Thankfully no one around them found anything strange about two women dancing together during a group set. If anything, several guests smiled amusedly at the sight, assuming it nothing more than playful entertainment between close companions.
Only Michaela and Francesca understood that it was anything but innocent.
Because even now, surrounded by dozens of dancers, they could not stop looking at one another.
“Lady Kilmartin,” Mr. Anderson suddenly said, forcing Francesca’s attention back toward him. “You seem rather distracted.”
Francesca blinked quickly. “My apologies. I simply have not danced in quite some time.”
“No matter,” he replied smoothly. “I am certain we shall have many opportunities to practice together from now on.”
“Of course,” Francesca answered politely though internally every word from his mouth irritated her more than the last.
Then without warning, he continued.
“If I may speak plainly, my lady, I must confess I am exceedingly pleased by your interest in pursuing our acquaintance seriously and if my understanding is correct, I believe your intentions are toward marriage.”
Francesca’s stomach twisted painfully.
She could still feel Michaela’s eyes on her.
“And so,” he continued confidently, “if it would not displease you, Lady Francesca, I should very much like to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Francesca felt the entire room spin around her.
She opened her mouth yet no words came out because at that exact moment the dance shifted formations and suddenly she was spun away from Mr. Anderson entirely, only to land directly into Michaela’s arms as Elizabeth smoothly exchanged places with her.
“Oh God,” Francesca thought instantly. “This cannot be happening.”
One moment later she found herself trapped in Michaela’s embrace while the music carried them seamlessly into the next movement of the dance.
And somehow Michaela looked even more devastating up close.
“Francesca,” Michaela breathed softly, staring at her as though she were the only person in the room. “I know I am likely the last person you wish to see right now, but please… we must speak about what happened.”
Instantly Francesca felt tears burn at the backs of her eyes and she fought desperately to keep them from surfacing.
“I cannot,” she whispered breathlessly.
“Francesca, please,” Michaela continued quietly, her voice filled with genuine pain. “I know what happened between us frightened you, but please do not run from me again. If you truly feel nothing for me then tell me it was a mistake and I shall leave you alone forever. But if you feel even a fraction of what I feel for you then please let us at least talk about this. I could never forgive myself if I let you go without fighting… for us.”
The words nearly destroyed her.
For one terrible moment Francesca almost gave in entirely.
But then panic won.
Because if she let herself fall into whatever this was, there would be no returning from it. No normal life. No safety. No certainty. Only confusion and longing and feelings she still barely understood herself.
So with every ounce of strength she possessed, Francesca looked Michaela directly in the eyes and lied.
“Michaela,” she whispered painfully, “there is nothing to fight for. What happened between us was a mistake… and Mr. Anderson has just asked me to marry him.”
Michaela’s expression shattered instantly.
“What?” she breathed, looking genuinely wounded now. “And what will you answer him?”
Francesca felt her own heart breaking as she forced herself to say the words.
“I shall accept.”
At that exact moment the dance turned once more and Francesca was pulled back toward Mr. Anderson while Elizabeth returned to Michaela’s side immediately noticing the devastation written plainly across her face.
“What happened?” Elizabeth asked quietly.
Michaela stared ahead numbly.
“It was a mistake,” she answered hollowly.
The dance ended moments later and before Francesca could even properly gather herself, Mr. Anderson loudly announced their engagement to everyone within hearing distance, his voice filled with obnoxious triumph as the ballroom erupted into applause and congratulations.
Almost instantly her family surrounded her. Violet looked emotional, Eloise practically screamed in excitement, Benedict appeared deeply suspicious and Anthony seemed had a stern yet accepting look on his face.
Yet Francesca barely heard any of it.
Because all she could think about was Michaela.
When she finally managed to glance back toward where she had last seen her, Michaela was gone. Only Elizabeth remained standing there, staring directly at Francesca with deep disappointment written across her face before eventually turning away as well.
The rest of the evening passed like a blur.
Francesca smiled when expected, accepted congratulations she barely processed, danced twice more with Mr. Anderson while feeling almost entirely detached from her own body and spent the entire night pretending she had not just shattered both her own heart and Michaela’s in the span of a single dance.
Even the music sounded distant now.
By the time the ball finally began winding down, Francesca felt exhausted in a way sleep could never fix.
And despite everything, despite the engagement, despite the lie she had forced herself to tell, despite every attempt she had made to push Michaela away, one truth still remained painfully clear within her chest.
She could not bear the thought of Michaela hating her.
So the moment the evening ended and the Bridgertons began preparing to leave, Francesca quietly slipped away toward a separate carriage and instructed the driver to take her not to Bridgerton House…

But to Kilmartin.

Chapter Text

Michaela Stirling had never been someone who feared chaos. In fact, for most of her life she had found herself drawn towards it and almost comforted by it, because uncertainty at least felt honest, unlike the rigid expectations of society which demanded everyone perform the same role over and over and over again until they forgot who they truly were beneath it. Chaos was exciting, unpredictable, alive and from the moment she was old enough to think for herself she had preferred it far more than quiet obedience.
Her life had changed suddenly when she was still very young, after the unexpected death of her father left her and her mother with very little security of their own, forcing them to move into the Kilmartin estate under the care of her uncle, John’s father. What could have been a lonely and humiliating transition instead became the beginning of the most important relationship of her life because from the moment they met, John had refused to treat her as anything other than his equal.
They became inseparable almost immediately.
Where Michaela was impulsive, loud and endlessly curious about the world, John was calmer, thoughtful and quietly responsible, yet somehow their differences fit together perfectly. Together they became a nightmare for the household staff, constantly sneaking through hidden corridors of the castle, climbing onto rooftops they were forbidden from touching and escaping lessons whenever they could manage it, though somehow John always ensured they were never caught badly enough to truly face consequences.
They grew together in every possible way, less like cousins and more like siblings who understood one another instinctively.
And it was because of that closeness that Michaela never truly feared telling him the truth about herself once she finally understood it.
When she was around fifteen and John first began taking interest in girls, speaking endlessly about pretty smiles and dances and future wives, Michaela realized with growing confusion that she felt many of the same things he did… only not toward men. At first she genuinely believed there must be something deeply wrong with her because nowhere in her upbringing had she ever heard of a woman desiring another woman in such a way but the more she thought about it, the less shame she actually felt. Instead she found herself fascinated by it, by the realization that perhaps she simply experienced the world differently from others.
And Michaela Stirling had never been someone capable of pretending for very long.
So the night before her official introduction into society, as terrified as she was, she confessed everything to John.
She still remembered sitting beside him on the floor of the cold stone balcony outside Kilmartin Castle, rambling nervously about how she did not know how she was expected to survive ballrooms full of men she had no interest in, how she feared people would notice something strange about her, how she felt entirely unsuited for the life waiting for her the next morning.
John of course, had listened quietly before simply shrugging and saying, “Then stay beside me and ignore them all.”
That had been it. No horror, no judgment and definetly no disgust.
Just love, and Michaela had never forgotten that.
The very next day, during her first ball, she met Elizabeth who seemed to understand her almost immediately in the strange unspoken way some people simply do. Elizabeth was sharp tongued, rebellious and endlessly amused by society’s ridiculous rules and within a single evening the two of them had already become inseparable. Before long, the three of them had formed something like their own little world within society, surviving endless balls by entertaining one another from across crowded rooms, mocking pompous lords together and helping John stumble awkwardly through his courtships while Michaela and Elizabeth snuck away from their chaperones whenever possible.
As they grew older, their adventures became bolder.
They slipped out of society events to wander taverns and music halls in parts of the city no respectable members of the ton would ever admit to visiting, though John always insisted on accompanying them despite their teasing because he claimed someone had to keep the pair alive long enough to return home. Those nights became some of Michaela’s happiest memories, filled with laughter, freedom and people who felt far more genuine than anyone they met in rigid ballrooms.
And despite her cynicism toward society itself, Michaela had always secretly believed in love.
Perhaps too much.
When she was twenty, she met a woman named Margaret in one of Scotland’s most lively taverns and from the very first conversation Michaela felt as though the entire room had disappeared around her. Margaret was older, confident in a way Michaela found intoxicating and unlike anyone she had ever met before. John and Elizabeth had noticed the connection instantly and disappeared almost suspiciously quickly that night, leaving the two of them alone together until sunrise.
For almost a year, Michaela genuinely believed she had found the person she would spend the rest of her life loving. Margaret had introduced her to parts of herself she had never before dared to explore fully and for the first time Michaela allowed herself to imagine a future where she might truly belong to someone and be loved equally in return.
But for Margaret, their relationship had only been one chapter in a larger journey of self discovery. Eventually she grew restless, longing to travel and experience more of the world without attachments holding her in place and one morning she left with promises to write that slowly disappeared into silence.
Michaela’s heart had broken completely.
John and Elizabeth spent weeks after that, watching her stumble drunkenly through Kilmartin Castle swearing she would never again allow another person enough power to destroy her so thoroughly. At the time, she had meant every word.
And for years afterward she kept that promise. She stopped allowing herself to become attached, she sought comfort and pleasure when she wished, with women who understood the same unspoken rules she did and she never stayed long enough for feelings to take root again. It was easier that way, safer.
Then Francesca Bridgerton entered her life and ruined every carefully built defense without even trying.
Because Francesca was not supposed to happen.
She was John’s wife. Sweet, proper, painfully kind Francesca who looked at the world with such quiet sincerity that Michaela felt wicked standing beside her sometimes, as though merely wanting her already made her guilty of something unforgivable.
That was why she avoided her at first.
And later, when avoiding her became impossible, that was why she ran.
Yet somehow even after running to the other side of the world, Francesca still found her way into every thought, every lonely moment and every future Michaela imagined for herself.
And now after everything, after finally allowing herself one selfish moment of happiness in that bath, after kissing Francesca like a starving woman finally given air, she had lost her anyway.
As the carriage carried her away from the ball that evening while London blurred past outside the windows, Michaela sat in silence with tears slipping down her face, realizing with painful clarity that returning to London had been the greatest mistake of her life because for one brief, foolish moment she had believed she might actually be loved back.
And perhaps this was her punishment for ever allowing herself to fall in love with the one woman she should never have wanted, the wife of the man who had loved her most in this world.
As Michaela made her way back into Kilmartin House, the staff looked genuinely surprised to see her return so early from the ball, many of them clearly having taken advantage of the evening to relax slightly from their usual duties while they attended the ball and Michaela, despite everything currently unraveling inside her chest, still noticed it immediately.
“Please all of you, return to your chambers and enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said tiredly as she removed her gloves. “I assure you I require nothing further tonight and shall attend to myself.”
The servants exchanged grateful looks before bowing politely and disappearing quickly, more than happy to accept the unexpected freedom.
The moment the house finally fell quiet around her, Michaela felt the full weight of the evening crash down upon her.
Because the truth was, had Francesca never kissed her, perhaps she could have survived this. Miserably, painfully, hopelessly perhaps… but survived nonetheless. She would have continued wanting her silently from afar the same way she had for years already, carrying her feelings like some private wound she simply learned to live around.
But now? Francesca had kissed her. Now Michaela knew exactly what it felt like to hold her, to taste her, to feel her move closer willingly and desperately, as though she wanted her just as much in that moment.
How was she supposed to return to pretending after that?
How was she supposed to stand quietly at Francesca’s wedding one day and watch her marry that insufferable man who looked at her as though she were some kind of prize to display rather than a person to understand? How was she supposed to smile politely while another man touched her, kissed her, claimed her freely, while Michaela carried alone the memory of what Francesca had felt like in her arms?
She knew instantly that she could not survive such a thing.
The realization hollowed her out completely.
She wandered numbly into the drawing room and poured herself a large glass of whiskey, hardly even tasting it as she drank. The burn down her throat did nothing to quiet the thoughts racing through her head.
She could not stop replaying the bath over and over again.
The hesitation in Francesca’s eyes at first, the fear… And then suddenly the certainty that followed, the way she had kissed her as though she needed more before either of them had even fully understood what was happening.
Michaela simply could not comprehend how a woman could kiss her like that one day and agree to marry another man the next week.
Had it all merely been curiosity?
Had Francesca simply become fascinated by the idea of women loving women for a fleeting moment, curious enough to try it once before realizing it was not truly what she wanted? Was Michaela nothing more than some reckless experiment Francesca would eventually bury beneath marriage and children and a perfectly respectable life?
The thought alone made her feel physically ill, but perhaps that was the reality of it.
Francesca was inexperienced, sheltered and innocent in so many ways. Perhaps she had only wanted to understand, and Michaela stupid enough to mistake curiosity for feeling, had ruined herself in the process.
Tears slipped silently down her face as she sat there alone in the dimly lit drawing room, though she did not sob or break apart outwardly. Michaela had always carried heartbreak quietly, almost stubbornly, as though refusing to let even herself witness the extent of her pain.
By the time she finished her first glass, she immediately poured another.
She had barely lifted it to her lips when suddenly she heard loud voices echoing from the entrance hall followed by unmistakable laughter and she froze the moment she recognized Elizabeth’s voice among the noise.
Michaela quickly wiped at her face before standing and making her way toward the sound, confusion briefly distracting her from misery.
As she opened the drawing room door, she was met with the rather absurd sight of Elizabeth leading what appeared to be an entire party of people directly into Kilmartin House.
Elizabeth spotted her immediately and beamed.
“Michaela!” she exclaimed brightly. “Look who I found attempting to leave the ball before the evening even became remotely entertaining.”
She stepped aside dramatically to reveal Lord Swallow and his wife Lady Mary, both of whom Michaela knew very well as they had long been part of the same discreet social circles and almost always found one another whenever she returned to London in search of entertainment. The pair had maintained one of society’s most successful lavender marriages for years, having grown up as close friends before eventually agreeing to marry for the convenience and protection it offered them both while quietly pursuing their true interests elsewhere.
Mary in particular, seemed entirely too pleased with herself this evening, her arm comfortably intertwined with Elizabeth’s in a way that immediately told Michaela the two of them had most certainly already rekindled whatever arrangement existed between them whenever they found themselves in the same city.
Beside them stood a handsome gentleman Michaela did not recognize, positioned suspiciously close to Lord Swallow and next to him a beautiful dark-haired woman whose shy but unmistakably admiring gaze immediately settled upon Michaela the moment she appeared.
“I was leaving the ball when I found them all outside behaving like complete degenerates,” Elizabeth explained cheerfully. “Smoking, gossiping, scandalizing the neighborhood, the usual and I thought to myself, why waste perfectly good chaos out on the streets when we could simply bring it here?”
Michaela stared at her blankly.
Elizabeth ignored this completely.
“You obviously know James and Mary,” she continued while gesturing dramatically, “and this,” she said as the gentleman stepped forward, “is Mr. Lucas Williams.”
Lucas bowed politely.
“Lady Kilmartin, it is honestly an honor to finally meet you,” he said warmly. “James has spoken often about your adventures together in London and I confess I have been curious ever since.”
The way he glanced at Lord Swallow afterward carried such obvious affection that Michaela smiled despite herself.
“And this,” he continued while stepping aside slightly, “is my dear friend Catherine.”
The woman beside him smiled shyly before greeting Michaela.
“It is lovely to meet you,” she said softly while looking at her with a kind of admiration Michaela knew all too well by now. “You have a beautiful home.”
Michaela smiled politely, though her patience was hanging by a thread.
“A pleasure,” she replied tiredly before immediately turning toward Elizabeth. “If you will excuse me, I should very much like a word with Lady Ashworth.”
Elizabeth barely had time to react before Michaela grabbed her firmly by the arm and dragged her directly back into the drawing room, shutting the door behind them and leaving the others standing awkwardly in the hallway wondering what exactly they had just walked into.
“What on earth are you doing?” Michaela asked the moment the drawing room door closed behind them, frustration already obvious in her voice.
Elizabeth, who had absolutely no shame whatsoever, simply blinked at her innocently before glancing around the room and immediately spotting the half empty whiskey bottle sitting abandoned beside the armchair.
“Look Micky, I know,” she said quickly, her expression softening slightly. “I know tonight was dreadful and I know you are heartbroken but there is absolutely no benefit in locking yourself in a dark room drinking your feelings away while convincing yourself your life is over.”
Michaela made a face, mostly because Elizabeth was unfortunately correct and she hated when that happened.
“Lizzie,” she sighed tiredly, rubbing her forehead, “I appreciate the thought behind whatever this is, truly, but how exactly am I meant to go out there and entertain people while feeling like my chest has been ripped open?”
Elizabeth stepped closer and placed a reassuring hand against her arm.
“You do not need to entertain anyone. You simply need to stop sitting here alone torturing yourself for one evening,” she said gently. “Tomorrow we may spend the entire day sulking dramatically together if you wish but tonight you are going to drink with friends and remember that the world has not ended simply because one emotionally constipated Bridgerton panicked.”
Michaela let out a breath that almost resembled a laugh despite herself.
“And anyway,” Elizabeth added, lowering her voice suggestively while glancing toward the hallway, “I suspect Catherine would be positively devastated if you refused to even acknowledge her existence tonight.”
Michaela groaned immediately.
“Elizabeth, are you seriously attempting to set me up right now?”
“No,” Elizabeth answered without hesitation, then paused. “Well perhaps not intentionally but the woman was staring at you as though you hung the moon since the second she entered this house, so truly, it would not kill you to at least give the poor creature the time of day.”
Michaela rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Whatever,” she muttered, grabbing the whiskey bottle as she moved back toward the door. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet endlessly correct,” Elizabeth replied proudly.
The moment Michaela reopened the drawing room doors, her demeanor shifted almost automatically, years of charm and practiced ease settling back over her despite the exhaustion underneath.
“Well then,” she announced while lifting the whiskey bottle slightly, “what are you all waiting for? It is hardly a party if you remain awkwardly standing in the hallway.”
Immediately the room filled with energy again as everyone eagerly entered, laughter returning almost at once the quiet drawing room transformed into the kind of late night gathering that only existed behind closed doors, hidden safely away from society’s judgment.
Within the hour the room was warm with candlelight and noise, glasses clinking together while stories became increasingly scandalous as everyone grew more intoxicated.
James and Lucas eventually settled together on one end of the couch in a position far too intimate to be considered proper in public society but perfectly natural here among trusted company, James’ arm draped lazily around Lucas’ shoulders while Lucas leaned comfortably against him without even seeming aware he was doing it.
Mary and Elizabeth meanwhile, maintained slightly more distance, though every time Elizabeth said something ridiculous Mary would dissolve into laughter and instinctively lean against her shoulder for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
As for Michaela, she had initially claimed a solitary armchair hoping perhaps she could survive the evening unnoticed, but Catherine had slowly and skillfully maneuvered herself throughout the night until she occupied the edge of the armchair, her entire body practically hovering over Michaela in obvious interest.
Michaela noticed it of course, and under normal circumstances, perhaps she might even have encouraged it more. Catherine was undeniably beautiful after all, with sharp eyes and a smile that seemed permanently on the edge of mischief and Michaela’s charming instincts still remained even while heartbroken. So every now and then she offered her a lazy smile or brushed her fingers against hers when accepting another drink, enough to keep the woman flushed and interested without truly investing herself emotionally in any of it.
At some point during the evening, after far too much alcohol had already been consumed, Elizabeth suddenly sat upright with a dangerous look in her eyes.
“We should play a game.”
“Oh no,” Michaela muttered immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh absolutely yes,” Catherine countered almost drunkenly while grabbing one of the empty glass bottles from the table. “It has been far too long since I have attended a proper sinful gathering.”
Lucas burst out laughing. “Well someone seems eager.”
Catherine ignored him completely while moving to sit directly across from Michaela, any trace of her earlier shyness now entirely gone.
“Come now,” she insisted excitedly, “you must all move closer together or this shall be terribly boring.”
To Elizabeth’s delight, they actually complied, shifting around the room into a loose circle while laughing at how ridiculous the situation had become, though Michaela stubbornly refused to leave her armchair, forcing the rest of them to gather around her instead.
Then Elizabeth grabbed the bottle dramatically and spun it across the wooden floor.
The sound seemed impossibly loud as they all watched it spin wildly before finally slowing… and landing directly between James and Mary.
The entire room erupted into laughter immediately.
“Oh come now,” James groaned dramatically. “Is it not punishment enough that society already forced us to marry each other?”
Mary rolled her eyes affectionately.
“Please James, we kiss constantly.”
Elizabeth nearly choked on her drink. “Excuse me?”
Mary shrugged shamelessly. “Well yes, whenever people grow suspicious we become unbearably affectionate for a few days until they stop questioning us. It works wonderfully.”
“And that does not concern you at all?” Elizabeth replied teasingly looking at Lucas who immidietely burst into laughter besides James. “Believe me darling, worrying about James enjoying kissing women is perhaps the least realistic concern imaginable.”
Everyone burst into laughter at that while Mary pointed dramatically toward her husband.
“Now come here and kiss your wife properly.”
James rolled his eyes fondly before leaning over and giving her an exaggeratedly dramatic peck that earned cheers from the room.
Catherine immediately grabbed the bottle next and spun it again with far too much enthusiasm.
This time it landed directly between Mary and Elizabeth.
“Oh, now this truly is my lucky evening,” Mary declared before immediately grabbing Elizabeth by the face and kissing her.
Not a polite kiss either.
A real one.
The room erupted into whistles and laughter while Michaela watched with amusement, though after nearly two uninterrupted minutes she finally coughed loudly.
“I mean honestly,” she said dryly, “if you two intend to continue perhaps the rest of us should simply leave the room.”
Elizabeth pulled away laughing. “Nonsense, it is only just becoming entertaining.”
Then she spun the bottle again.
And naturally, because the universe apparently despised Michaela tonight, it landed directly between her and Catherine.
Catherine made a noise of excitement so immediate and obvious that Lucas nearly fell over laughing.
“God, you are subtle,” he teased her.
“Oh do shut up,” she replied while already moving toward Michaela.
Michaela sighed deeply but she was not one to ruin the spirit of such games, particularly after this much alcohol, so instead of moving away she simply leaned back in the armchair and lazily patted one thigh.
Catherine’s face lit up instantly.
She moved into Michaela’s lap without hesitation, initially careful but quickly growing bolder the moment Michaela’s hand settled against her waist.
“It is alright, darling,” Michaela murmured smoothly, alcohol and heartbreak combining into something reckless inside her. “I’ve got you.”
Then she kissed her.
At first the kiss was easy and detached, the kind Michaela had shared countless times before, all practiced charm and effortless seduction, but Catherine quickly deepened it eagerly while shifting fully into her lap, her hands moving up toward Michaela’s shoulders as the room around them cheered dramatically.
And just as Michaela was beginning to realize she actually did not want this at all and was about to pull away..
The drawing room door opened, and everything stopped.
Francesca stood there frozen in the doorway.
Michaela pulled away instantly.
The room fell silent so quickly it was almost violent.
For one horrible moment neither of them moved.
Francesca’s expression looked wounded in a way Michaela had never seen before, her eyes locked entirely on the sight of Catherine sitting in Michaela’s lap.
At first Michaela’s instinct was panic, the immediate urge to explain herself, to stand up and tell Francesca it meant nothing, but then something colder stopped her.
Why should she apologize?
Francesca had just accepted another man’s proposal.
So instead Michaela simply looked back at her, confused and guarded all at once, while Catherine quickly scrambled off her lap looking awkwardly guilty despite having no idea what was truly happening.
The entire room watched the two women in complete silence.
Finally Francesca spoke.
“Michaela,” she said quietly though her voice trembled slightly, “I should like a word.”
That was all.
Then she turned and left immediately, as though remaining there another second might destroy her completely.
Michaela hesitated only briefly before standing and following after her.
“Francesca,” she called once she reached the corridor, confusion overtaking everything else now. “What are you doing here?”
But Francesca did not answer.
She simply kept walking quickly through the halls and up the staircase until finally reaching her own room, stepping inside without once looking back though leaving the door open behind her.
Michaela stopped outside the doorway for only a second, then despite having absolutely no idea what awaited her inside, she followed her in.
When Michaela stepped into the room, Francesca’s back was turned to her, her figure silhouetted by the moonlight pouring through the tall windows, and for a long moment neither of them moved nor spoke, the silence between them so heavy it felt almost unbearable, both of them knowing that whatever happened next would change everything.
“Francesca…” Michaela finally said, her voice low but tense, “what are you doing here?”
Slowly Francesca turned around and the moment Michaela saw her face her anger faltered for just a second because tears were slipping silently down Francesca’s cheeks and she looked utterly miserable, as though she had spent the entire night holding herself together only to finally fall apart here.
“Well,” Francesca said with a breathless laugh that sounded far too close to breaking, “I came here intending to apologize because I thought perhaps you might be hurt after tonight, but clearly the evening has not affected you nearly as much as I imagined.”
Michaela stared at her in disbelief before frustration crashed over her again.
“So that is what this is?” she asked sharply. “You came here to soothe your own guilt? To wound me and then make yourself feel better afterwards?”
“That is not fair,” Francesca replied immediately.
“Well forgive me if I fail to be reasonable while watching you accept another man’s proposal only days after kissing me,” Michaela snapped, years of restraint finally beginning to crack. “But do not concern yourself Francesca, I am perfectly well, so you may return to your perfect little life and your perfect fiancé.”
“How dare you,” Francesca nearly shouted, her tears now falling freely. “You truly believe I agreed to marry him simply to hurt you?”
Michaela crossed her arms tightly, her expression bitter.
“Then tell me why.”
Francesca opened her mouth and stopped, visibly struggling to put her thoughts into words.
“Because I have to,” she finally said desperately. “Because I do not know what else to do. I am not like you, Michaela, I cannot simply ignore everything society expects of me and decide to live however I please.”
At that Michaela laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“You think this is easy for me?” she asked quietly, though somehow that calmness sounded far more dangerous than shouting. “You think I woke up one morning and decided life would simply be more entertaining if I desired women instead?”
Francesca fell silent.
“Do you have any idea what it is to live every single day knowing the world would turn its back on you the second it discovered who you truly are?” Michaela continued, her voice growing sharper with every word. “Do you understand what it feels like to carry John’s title, John’s estate, John’s entire legacy on my shoulders while Her Majesty herself demands that I marry and produce an heir, all while knowing I can never truly want the life expected of me?”
“Michaela…”
“No,” she interrupted. “You do not get to stand there and speak as though I am somehow free while you are trapped, because unlike you I have spent my entire life understanding that the world would never make space for someone like me.”
Francesca looked shaken by that, but she still stepped closer.
“I am trying to protect you,” she said desperately. “You said yourself the Queen is already watching you closely, she expects things from you and if you continue… feeling these… things, for me then it will only make your life harder.”
Michaela stared at her like she had gone mad.
“So that is your solution?” she asked incredulously. “You marry the first man willing to ask for your hand and suddenly everything disappears?”
“You do not understand,” Francesca whispered.
“No, Francesca, you do not understand,” Michaela replied, her voice finally rising. “You kissed me.”
The words echoed painfully between them.
“You kissed me,” she repeated, tears now burning in her own eyes too. “And then you ran away, and the next time I saw you, you were accepting the proposal of a man you barely know and now you come here expecting me to what? Smile politely while you destroy both of us?”
Francesca looked devastated now, shaking her head frantically.
“I do not want to destroy you,” she whispered. “God, Michaela, I do not even know what is happening to me anymore, I only know that I cannot lose you.”
Michaela’s expression softened for one horrible second before hardening again almost immediately.
“You already have,” she said quietly. “Because I cannot stay here and watch you marry another man while pretending I feel nothing for you.”
Francesca’s face crumpled completely at that.
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying I am leaving,” Michaela answered. “Tomorrow morning I shall return to Scotland and remain there. Kilmartin House will remain at your disposal should you ever need it and London may continue pretending this never happened.”
Francesca looked genuinely horrified.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, you cannot leave again,” Francesca said immediately, moving toward her. “Michaela, please..”
Michaela stepped back at once, holding a hand out between them.
“Do not,” she said weakly. “Please do not come closer unless you truly mean it this time because I cannot survive another moment like Harrogate only to lose you all over again.”
Francesca stopped breathing for a second.
Then slowly, despite Michaela’s warning, she stepped forward anyway.
“Michaela,” she whispered, “I do not know what any of this means yet, I do not know what is happening to me or why I feel this way when I was never supposed to, but I know that every time you walk away from me it feels like I am suffocating.”
Michaela closed her eyes painfully.
“Francesca…”
“And I know,” she continued shakily, tears still falling, “that when I saw you with that woman tonight I thought my heart might actually stop.”
That finally made Michaela look up at her and before either of them could think better of it Francesca closed the distance between them and kissed her again, this time with none of the hesitation from Harrogate, only desperation and grief and years of longing finally breaking loose all at once.
Michaela kissed her back instantly, almost helplessly, her hands finding Francesca’s waist before pulling her firmly against her as though terrified she might disappear again, while Francesca moved against her with surprising urgency until Michaela’s back hit the wall behind her, the impact barely registering beneath the sound of their uneven breathing.
Francesca held her face between her hands and kissed her deeper now, no longer uncertain but hungry in a way that made Michaela’s entire body react at once, years of restraint collapsing beneath the feeling of finally being wanted back by the one person she had spent so long denying herself. Michaela’s grip tightened instinctively, one hand slipping higher against her side as Francesca pressed even closer, kissing her like someone starved, like someone trying to pour every unspeakable feeling she possessed into the space between them because words no longer seemed capable of holding any of it.
And for one perfect moment, everything else disappeared around them, society and duty and guilt and even the existence of Mr. Anderson fading into nothing beneath the overwhelming feeling of finally having each other exactly where they had wanted for far too long.
But then Michaela suddenly pulled away from her, breathing unevenly as reality came crashing back all at once and she turned around quickly before she could completely lose herself in the feeling of Francesca against her.
For several moments neither of them spoke, both trying desperately to steady their breathing while the silence around them felt almost violent after the intensity of the kiss.
Then Michaela laughed once bitterly, though it sounded more like heartbreak than amusement.
“This is madness,” she whispered, shaking her head slowly. “You are standing here kissing me while engaged to another man.”
Francesca flinched at the words.
“Michaela…”
“No,” she interrupted sharply, finally turning back towards her, her eyes full of pain. “Do you understand what you are doing to me? One moment you tell me there is nothing between us, that what happened was a mistake and the next you are in my arms again kissing me like you cannot bear to stop.”
Francesca opened her mouth but no words came out.
“And all while another man believes you are about to become his wife,” Michaela continued, her voice growing more bitter with every word. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to stand there and watch you promise yourself to someone else only to come here afterward and kiss me as though none of it matters?”
“It does matter,” Francesca said desperately, stepping toward her again. “Everything about this matters, I just…”
“You just what?” Michaela asked painfully. “You just wanted one final moment before returning to your proper life? One last taste of the scandalous woman before marrying your respectable husband?”
“That is not fair.”
“No,” Michaela replied quietly, “what is not fair is asking me to survive this.”
Francesca looked completely shattered now, tears falling again as she shook her head.
“I do not know what to do,” she admitted weakly. “I only know that every time I try to walk away from you it feels wrong.”
“And yet you are still engaged,” she said bitterly. “You still said yes to him.”
Francesca looked down in shame at that because she knew there was no excuse she could offer that would not sound hollow.
Michaela closed her eyes briefly before speaking again, her voice quieter now but somehow even more painful.
“You need to leave, Francesca.”
Francesca stood frozen where she was.
“Michaela..”
“Please,” she whispered, not looking at her anymore. “Because if you stay here any longer I will forget that tomorrow you still belong to someone else.”
Silence fell heavily between them once more.
And after a long moment, Francesca finally understood that this time Michaela truly meant it, and with tears still falling silently down her face she stepped backwards toward the door, her eyes never leaving Michaela even as the distance between them slowly grew again, until finally she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Michaela standing there alone listening to the sound of her footsteps disappear down the corridor while her own heart broke all over again.

Chapter Text

Dearest gentle readers,

I must admit, when this author sat down to write this week’s issue, even I found myself hesitating, for the events of last evening were curious enough to distract from nearly everything else the ton usually concerns itself with. Lady Barnaby’s long awaited jewel themed soirée was, by all accounts, a magnificent success, the ballroom glittering beneath candlelight while every ambitious mama and hopeful debutante danced the evening away in search of fortune, romance, or at the very least a respectable scandal.

And yet, despite the dazzling jewels and perfectly arranged festivities, many found their attention drifting elsewhere entirely.

Indeed, while the ballroom overflowed with eager young ladies hoping to secure a match before the season slips away from them, it was not a debutante who captured society’s attention most thoroughly, but rather the two Ladies Kilmartin, whose increasingly curious dynamic continues to inspire far more whispers than either lady likely intend.

The Dowager Lady Kilmartin shocked many when she accepted the proposal of Mr. Anderson, a gentleman whose confidence appears to have finally rewarded him after weeks of relentless pursuit. One would think such an announcement would leave no room for further speculation, and yet observant eyes could not help but notice that the newly engaged lady seemed remarkably distracted throughout the evening, particularly whenever another certain Lady Kilmartin entered her line of sight.

More curious still, the pair were briefly seen dancing near one another before the evening took an even stranger turn, ending with one Lady Kilmartin vanishing from the ballroom altogether before the night had even reached its conclusion.

Perhaps this author imagines things. After all, society does adore creating meaning where none exists.

Still, it seems this season’s attention has shifted rather unexpectedly away from hopeful debutantes and toward a widow and her counterpart, and one cannot help but wonder exactly why.

Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown

Francesca sat alone in the breakfast room long after the rest of the household had finished eating, a cup of tea growing cold beside her as she reread Lady Whistledown’s latest issue for what must have been the third time that morning. Every sentence felt like a personal attack, as though the writer had somehow seen directly through her the night before and laid all her confusion bare for the entire ton to speculate over.

The previous evening had left her completely exhausted. After leaving Michaela alone in her room at Kilmartin House, Francesca had barely managed to hold herself together long enough to return to Bridgerton House before finally breaking down in the privacy of her chambers. She had spent the entire night turning restlessly beneath the sheets, replaying every moment over and over again until she thought she might lose her mind.

Most of all, she could not stop thinking about the kiss.

God, the kiss.

Even now, hours later, she could still feel Michaela’s hands on her waist, could still remember the way she had kissed her back without hesitation, the way everything else had disappeared around them for those few moments. Francesca hated herself for it, but if she were being honest, she had never experienced anything like that in her entire life. Not even during her marriage to John had she ever felt so completely overwhelmed by another person.

The realization filled her with guilt.

She had loved John, she knew she had, but whatever this was with Michaela felt entirely different, far more consuming than anything she had ever known before, and it terrified her how quickly she was losing control over herself because of it.

And yet Michaela had still pushed her away.

Francesca closed her eyes briefly at the memory of the bitterness in her voice when she reminded her of Mr. Anderson, of the engagement she herself had accepted only hours earlier. The more she thought about it, the more foolish and cruel the entire thing seemed, but at the time it had felt like the only possible solution. If she married quickly enough, perhaps she could bury all of this before it ruined both of them entirely.

Because that was what this would become eventually, ruin.

There was no future for whatever existed between them, no matter how desperately some part of Francesca wished otherwise. Michaela herself had made that painfully clear when she spoke of leaving London and returning to Scotland for good. Even now, the thought of her leaving again made Francesca’s chest ache in a way she could barely explain.

She let out a slow breath and looked back down at the pamphlet in front of her, her appetite entirely gone. Sleep had only come to her briefly near dawn, exhaustion finally overtaking her after hours of endless thoughts, and when she woke she had purposely waited until late morning to come downstairs, hoping to avoid the rest of her family for at least a little while longer.

The last thing she wanted right now was her mother’s excitement or Anthony’s questions, because Francesca herself no longer understood what exactly she was doing anymore.

Her plan, however, was short lived because only a few minutes later, Hyacinth, who had been passing by the breakfast room, spotted her through the doorway and entered with enough excitement for the entire household.

“FRANNIE,” she nearly shouted, rushing towards her, “Mama told me you got engaged last night, how could you miss breakfast and not tell me? I wish to know everything. How was it? Was he charming? Did he get down on one knee? Tell me absolutely everything.”

Hyacinth continued without even stopping to breathe and Francesca hardly knew how to answer any of her questions. A part of her did not wish to disappoint her younger sister, whose entire view of marriage was built upon romance and fairytales, by telling her that sometimes people married for reasons other than love. She knew such honesty would only shatter Hyacinth’s innocent heart and so Francesca decided she would simply have to pretend, which unfortunately, would also serve as good practice for the rest of her life from now on.

“Oh, it was lovely,” she replied simply, forcing a small smile. “Mr. Anderson is quite charming.”

Hyacinth looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Oh come now, that is all I get? It is already unfair enough that I was not there and had to hear about it from Mama this morning.”

Francesca let out a soft laugh despite herself. “It truly was lovely Hyacinth and actually, you know what shall be even lovelier? You will be there while I pick all my gowns, and you shall most certainly be one of my bridesmaids and attend every celebration.”

As expected, that distracted her sister immediately.

“Oh my god, yes,” Hyacinth exclaimed, nearly bouncing in place. “We must find you the perfect gown. What sort of gown do you want? Oh, I cannot wait. Have you decided when the wedding shall take place? Mama said you do not wish to wait very long, which means we must begin immediately. Sister, I promise I shall be the best bridesmaid imaginable. Wait, but who shall be your maid of honour? Eloise? Daphne? Ugh, it is terribly unfair being the younger sister but at least I shall finally get to attend all the festivities properly.”

This time Francesca genuinely laughed. At least someone seemed happy about this engagement, she thought rather miserably.

“Well, I have not thought about any of that yet,” she admitted. “The engagement only happened last evening, but I am certain that with your help everything shall be perfect.”

“Oh, wonderful. What if we visit the modiste today and begin looking at dresses immediately?” Hyacinth said excitedly as she rose to her feet. “Come, let us inform Mama. I am certain she shall wish to accompany us.”

Before Francesca could protest, Hyacinth had already grabbed her hand and begun dragging her out into the hallway. Unfortunately, the very moment they stepped outside, they were met with the sight of the Andersons entering Bridgerton House while Anthony and Kate welcomed them inside and attempted to guide them towards the tea room. Francesca nearly turned around and retreated straight back into the breakfast room, but it was already too late. They had seen her.

“Sister,” Anthony called from across the hall with a stiff smile, “we have company.”

He was clearly irritated by the entire situation. Though Anthony respected her decisions, Francesca knew him well enough to understand that he sensed something deeply wrong in all of this and was simply waiting for her to give him a reason to put an end to it. Secretly, she loved him for it, though she also knew she could not allow herself to back down now.

She stepped forward politely just as Mr. Anderson approached her, took her hand, and placed a kiss against it.

“Lady Kilmartin,” he said with an insufferably smug smile, “or perhaps I should say future Lady Anderson.”

Anthony coughed so loudly in annoyance that it nearly startled them all, which forced Francesca to look down quickly to hide the smile threatening to appear on her face instead of the eye roll she desperately wished to give.

Sensing his son’s foolish display, Lord Anderson quickly stepped in. “Lady Kilmartin, it is a pleasure to see you this morning, and allow me to be among the first to formally congratulate you and welcome you into our family.”

“Thank you, Lord Anderson,” Francesca replied politely. “It is an honour to join such a respectable family.”

Kate immediately intervened to spare everyone further awkwardness. “Gentlemen, why do we not continue this conversation in the tea room? I am certain there is much to discuss.”

They all made their way there while Hyacinth wisely disappeared elsewhere, and once they had settled themselves Kate instructed the maids to bring tea and pastries.

At first the gentlemen busied themselves discussing whatever it was gentlemen always discussed, while Kate sat beside Francesca offering her quiet reassuring glances every now and then. Francesca herself barely listened, her thoughts wandering once more, until Lord Anderson suddenly said something that made her nearly choke on her tea.

“Lord Bridgerton,” he began thoughtfully, “while my son has already asked for your sister’s hand in marriage, and I mean no disrespect by this, since Lady Kilmartin technically falls under the care of the Kilmartin estate, would it not also be proper to seek their approval?”

Francesca froze entirely.

Anthony smiled politely. “I appreciate the sentiment, and you are quite right. It would indeed be proper, though I am certain Lady Kilmartin shall have no objections.” He glanced towards Francesca as though expecting confirmation, while Francesca herself looked as though she wished the ground would open beneath her.

“Forgive me,” Mr. Anderson suddenly interrupted with visible amusement, “but did I hear correctly? Lady Kilmartin? You mean to say a woman is responsible for the Kilmartin name and estate?”

Kate and Francesca exchanged equally horrified looks while Anthony, though clearly offended himself, remained composed.

“Indeed,” he answered calmly. “Lord Kilmartin passed without male heirs, and it is custom in Scotland for women to inherit in such circumstances. Personally, I see no issue with it. If anything, I encourage it.” He smiled briefly towards Kate as he spoke.

Mr. Anderson laughed lightly as though the idea itself amused him. “Well, that is rather ridiculous. I certainly shall not be asking another woman for permission to marry when Lord Bridgerton is sitting right here, and I imagine his word surely carries greater authority than anyone else’s.”

Francesca felt anger rise inside her almost immediately. Not only because the thought of Michaela being forced into this conversation was unbearable enough already, but because of the casual disrespect with which he spoke about her. For perhaps the first time, Francesca truly understood the sort of challenges Michaela must face constantly because of men like him, and suddenly the future she had been forcing herself towards seemed even more dreadful than before.

Before Anthony could respond and likely throw the man out himself, Francesca spoke abruptly.

“That shall not be necessary,” she said quickly. “Though of course I deeply respect Lady Kilmartin’s opinion.” A part of her needed to say it aloud, if only to defend Michaela’s honour in some small way. “Lady Kilmartin has already departed for Scotland and shall not be returning anytime soon.”

The sorrow in her voice was impossible to miss.

“Perfect then,” Lord Anderson interrupted quickly, clearly sensing the growing tension in the room. “Perhaps we should instead discuss possible dates for the wedding.”

As the conversation shifted towards arrangements and timelines, Francesca slowly drifted away from it once more. The more time she spent around Mr. Anderson, the more she discovered things about him she disliked, and now she found herself trying to imagine the rest of her life beside him and feeling nothing but dread.

A future where she would wake beside him every morning.
A future where she would spend every breakfast listening to his ridiculous opinions while forcing herself not to roll her eyes.
A future where she would attend endless society functions pretending to be content while gossip swirled endlessly around them.

And worst of all, a future where she would have to share a bed with him.

The thought alone made panic settle heavily in her chest.

With John, intimacy had never frightened her. He had always been patient and gentle and respectful, never once making her feel pressured or afraid. But with Mr. Anderson she suddenly realized she had no idea what sort of man he truly was behind the charm and arrogance, and the uncertainty terrified her.

As the gentlemen continued discussing her future as though it were merely another business arrangement, Francesca felt as though the walls were beginning to close in around her until finally she could bear it no longer.

She rose abruptly from her seat. “If you shall excuse me,” she said quickly, “I am feeling slightly unwell. I believe I must retire to my room.”

And before anyone could stop her, she hurried out of the room.

“Francesca, wait,” Kate called as she quickly followed her into the corridor.

Francesca stopped and turned towards her looking completely panicked. “I am sorry, Kate. I do not know what came over me, I simply had to leave.”

“It is alright,” Kate reassured her gently. “You need not remain in there. But Francesca, if this is not truly what you want, you may still change your mind. No one shall judge you for it.”

At that, Francesca finally looked up at her, her eyes already filled with tears.

“Kate,” she whispered shakily, “I think I have made a terrible mistake. I do not know how to get out of it.”

Kate stepped closer and placed her hands reassuringly upon her arms. “Francesca, you need not worry. If this engagement is truly not what you want, then I shall handle it. You need only say the word.” She squeezed her arms gently. “I think you are overwhelmed right now. Why don’t you go take some air in the gardens and think clearly for a little while? Once you are ready, you may come speak to me, and we shall deal with the rest together.”

Francesca looked at her with immense gratitude and nodded softly. “Thank you,” she whispered before finally making her way out towards the back gardens, she walked through them without any true sense of direction, her hand pressed lightly against her stomach as though she might somehow calm the terrible knot forming there. The air was cool against her face and for a moment she allowed herself to breathe in deeply, grateful for the quiet after the suffocating conversation inside.

She had made a mistake, the thought came to her with such clarity that she nearly stopped walking.

Not a small mistake, not some passing error that could be corrected with a polite conversation or a change of heart hidden beneath clever excuses. No, this was a mistake that now involved families, reputations, expectations, wedding arrangements, and a man who had already begun speaking of her as though she were something nearly secured.

How had she allowed it to go this far?

She had been so desperate to run from her feelings for Michaela that she had run straight into a life she did not want and now that life was already closing around her with alarming speed. Mr. Anderson’s voice still echoed in her mind, his amusement at the thought of Michaela holding authority over Kilmartin, the certainty with which he dismissed her, the ease with which he assumed Anthony’s word must matter more simply because he was a man.

Francesca felt anger rise again, sharper this time.

How many men had looked at Michaela that way?

How many had dismissed her before she even opened her mouth, deciding that her title, her estate, her intelligence, her strength, all meant less because she was a woman?

The thought made Francesca’s chest ache in a way she did not wish to examine, because even now, after everything, her mind turned to Michaela first.

She reached a stone bench near the far end of the garden and sat down slowly, her breath uneven. She had come outside hoping to clear her head but the silence only made everything louder.

Michaela told her she was going to leave.

Tomorrow morning, she had said.

She would return to Scotland and never come back.

Francesca closed her eyes and for one awful moment she imagined it clearly, Kilmartin House empty of her again, her laughter gone from its halls, her presence erased so completely that all Francesca would have left were memories and all the things she had been too afraid to say.

No.

The thought came before she could stop it.

No, she could not let that happen. Not again.

She had already lost Michaela once before and she had spent two years pretending that absence had not hollowed something out of her. She would not survive it a second time, not now that she knew what it felt like to have her close, now that she finally understood that the ache in her chest had never been anger alone.

It had been longing.

The realization settled over her slowly, almost gently, though it terrified her all the same.

She loved her.

Not as a friend, not as John’s cousin, not as some impossible temptation she could bury beneath marriage and duty.

She loved Michaela Stirling.

Francesca pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, as if the thought had been spoken aloud and might still be heard by someone. The truth should have frightened her more than it did and perhaps it did frighten her, but beneath the fear there was something else too, something quiet and certain that felt almost like relief.

At last she knew, she understood herself.

A sound behind her pulled her from her thoughts and she turned quickly to find Sophie standing a few steps away, watching her with cautious concern.

“I did not mean to follow,” Sophie said gently, “but Kate looked worried and when Kate looks worried Anthony becomes… agitated, so I thought it best to find you before the entire family formed a search party.”

Despite everything, Francesca gave a weak laugh.

Sophie moved closer and sat beside her on the bench, careful not to crowd her.

“Are you unwell?” she asked softly.

Francesca stared ahead at the garden path, her hands twisting in her lap.

“No,” she said after a moment. “At least, not in the way everyone seems to think.”

Sophie waited, patient as ever.

Francesca swallowed. “I cannot marry him.”

Sophie’s expression softened, but she did not look surprised.

“No,” she said quietly. “I did not think you could.”

Francesca turned to her then, tears gathering in her eyes again. “I have been such a fool.”

“You have been frightened,” Sophie corrected.

“I have been cruel.”

Sophie did not deny it and somehow Francesca appreciated that more than comfort.

“I told Michaela it was a mistake,” Francesca whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I told her there was nothing to fight for and then I went to her after the ball and kissed her again, only for her to remind me that I am engaged to another man.”

Sophie inhaled softly, though there was no judgment in her face.

“She told me she is leaving,” Francesca continued, the words nearly undoing her. “She said she is returning to Scotland today and that she will never come back.”

At that, Sophie’s concern sharpened.

“And what do you wish to do?”

Francesca looked down at her hands.

“I do not know what I am allowed to do.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Francesca closed her eyes and when she opened them again, the answer came with terrifying ease.

“I want to go to her.”

Sophie looked at her for a long moment, then reached over and took her hand.

“Then you must first end the engagement.”

Francesca nodded, though the thought made her stomach twist again.

“I know.”

“And you must do it because you do not wish to marry Mr. Anderson, not only because you wish to run to Michaela.”

“I do not wish to marry him,” Francesca said immediately, more firmly than she had expected. “Even if Michaela were not part of this, I could not marry him. I see that now.”

Sophie squeezed her hand.

“Then we shall go back inside and you shall tell Kate.”

Francesca looked toward the house, fear and determination warring inside her.

“And Anthony?”

Sophie’s lips curved faintly.

“I suspect Anthony already knows, and is merely waiting for permission to be unbearable about it.”

That drew a real laugh from Francesca, small and wet with tears, but real all the same.

For a moment they sat there in silence, the garden quiet around them, the world beyond still impossibly complicated. There would be consequences, Francesca knew that. There would be gossip, questions, disappointment, perhaps even anger. Mr. Anderson would not take the rejection kindly, Lady Whistledown would surely feast upon the broken engagement and her family would want answers she still did not know how to give.

But for the first time in days, the path before her did not feel entirely false.

It felt frightening, it felt uncertain, but it also felt like her own.

Francesca rose slowly, still holding Sophie’s hand for courage.

“Will you come with me?”

“Of course,” Sophie said at once.

Together they made their way back toward the house and with every step Francesca felt the fear remain, but beneath it something stronger began to take root.

She had made a terrible mistake.

Now she had to undo it before Michaela disappeared from her life forever.

As Francesca and Sophie crossed the threshold and heard the low murmur of voices still coming from the tea room, all the fear she had briefly pushed aside returned at once.

Sophie seemed to notice because she gave her hand one last gentle squeeze before letting go.

“You need not face all of them at once,” she said softly. “Find Kate first and then everything else can be handled from there.”

Francesca nodded, though she was not entirely certain her legs would carry her much farther.

Before she could take another step however, Violet appeared at the end of the corridor, her expression carefully composed but her eyes filled with that unmistakable maternal concern Francesca had spent the past several days trying to avoid.

“There you are, my dear,” Violet said gently, her gaze moving briefly from Francesca to Sophie before settling back on her daughter. “Might I have a word with you?”

Francesca felt her chest tighten, but this time she did not run from it.

“Of course, Mama.”

Sophie left them alone, though not before giving Francesca one last look that silently promised she would remain nearby if needed and then she moved back toward the tea room, leaving them alone in the hall.

Violet did not begin speaking immediately. Instead, she reached for Francesca’s hand and led her into a small sitting room nearby, closing the door behind them with quiet care. The room was familiar and softly lit, the kind of room Francesca had once hidden in as a child whenever the noise of her family grew too much and the memory of that made her throat tighten unexpectedly.

Violet guided her to sit beside her on the sofa and studied her face for a long moment.

“My darling,” she said at last, “I have tried very hard not to press you, but I can no longer pretend that I do not see how unhappy you are.”

Francesca looked down at her hands. “I am not unhappy.”

“Francesca.”

Her mother said her name so softly, without accusation, that it somehow felt worse than if she had scolded her.

Francesca’s composure wavered.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” she whispered. “I thought if I chose something sensible, something secure, then everything else would become easier.”

Violet’s face softened with quiet understanding.

“By marrying Mr. Anderson?”

Francesca nodded, though even that small movement felt like an admission of defeat.

“I told myself he would be suitable, respectable. That he would offer the kind of future I ought to want.”

“And is it the future you want?”

Francesca closed her eyes briefly.

“No.”

The answer came out barely above a whisper, but once spoken it filled the room entirely.

Violet inhaled softly, not in surprise exactly, but in sorrow, as though she had known the answer long before Francesca had been brave enough to say it.

“Oh, my dear.”

“I have made such a terrible mess of everything,” Francesca said, her voice breaking now despite every attempt to hold it together. “Everyone is already speaking of the engagement, Lord Anderson is pleased, Mr. Anderson believes it settled, Anthony is suspicious, Kate knows something is wrong and I do not even know how to explain any of it without sounding foolish.”

“You need not explain it all at once.”

“But I do,” Francesca insisted, looking at her mother through tears. “Because I cannot marry him Mama. I cannot. I thought I could force myself into it and that eventually I would grow accustomed to it, but today when they began speaking of dates and arrangements, I felt as though I could not breathe.”

Violet reached for her hands at once.

“Then you shall not marry him.”

Francesca stared at her, startled by how simply she said it.

“But the scandal…”

“There may be talk,” Violet admitted, her tone still calm, “but there is always talk. The ton feeds on whispers because it has nothing better to do with itself and I will not allow gossip to frighten my daughter into a life she does not want.”

That finally broke something in Francesca and she looked away as tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I should have known better.”

“No,” Violet said firmly. “You were frightened and grief has already asked too much of you. It is not a crime to lose your way for a moment.”

Francesca tried to steady herself, but the kindness in her mother’s voice made it nearly impossible.

“I do not know what to do.”

“Yes, you do,” Violet said quietly. “I think you know exactly what you do not want and that is where you must begin.”

Francesca swallowed hard.

“I do not want Mr. Anderson.”

“Then the engagement shall end.”

“And what do I tell him?”

“The truth or as much of it as he deserves,” Violet replied, a faint edge entering her voice now. “You may tell him that upon further reflection you cannot proceed. That is enough. A woman is allowed to change her mind before binding herself to a man for the rest of her life.”

Francesca let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, though it was full of tears.

“Anthony will be unbearable.”

“Anthony will be relieved,” Violet corrected, though a small smile touched her lips. “And then he will be unbearable.”

Despite herself, Francesca smiled.

For a moment they sat in silence and Francesca almost allowed herself to believe this was the end of it, that undoing the engagement would be enough to bring air back into her lungs.

But of course, it was not.

Violet seemed to sense the rest of it lingering between them, because her thumb moved gently over Francesca’s hand.

“My dear,” she said carefully, “is Mr. Anderson the only reason you are so distressed?”

Francesca went still.

Violet did not look away from her, but there was no judgment in her expression, only worry and something softer, something almost knowing.

Francesca’s heart began to pound.

“Mama…”

“You do not have to tell me anything you are not ready to say,” Violet said quickly, “but I am your mother, and I would know when your heart is not merely troubled, but breaking.”

Francesca’s eyes filled again.

“I do not know if I can say it.”

“Then you need not say it yet.”

Francesca looked at her then, truly looked at her, searching her face for fear or disapproval or the kind of horror she had spent days imagining, but Violet only held her gaze with steady tenderness.

“Whatever it is,” Violet continued softly, “whatever has frightened you so deeply, you are my daughter, you are a piece of my heart and nothing in this world could ever change that.”

The words nearly undid her.

Francesca leaned forward without thinking and Violet pulled her into her arms at once, holding her as she finally began to cry properly, not with the restraint she had carried for days but with the exhaustion of someone who had been running from herself for far too long.

“I am so frightened,” Francesca whispered against her mother’s shoulder.

“I know, my darling.”

“I do not want to hurt anyone.”

“I know.”

“And I do not want to lose her.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Violet stilled only for the briefest moment, but she did not pull away.

Instead, she held Francesca tighter.

And Francesca, too tired to pretend anymore, let herself be held.

After the moment had settled, Francesca pulled away, her mother’s embrace having given her a strength she had not possessed before. She knew what she had to do now, and she could no longer postpone it, nor did she wish for anyone else to do it in her place. She had put herself in this situation and she would be the one to free herself from it.

So she returned to the tea room, where Sophie and Benedict had since joined the others, and with a steadier voice than she had expected of herself, she said, “Mr. Anderson, I should like a word. If you would all please excuse us, it shall only take a moment.”

Everyone looked surprised, though no one immediately objected. One by one, they rose and made their way out of the room, Anthony lingering behind the longest, his eyes fixed upon Francesca with quiet concern. She knew he had guessed what this was about, and that he was waiting for any sign that she wished for his support.

She gave him a small reassuring nod.

Only then did he leave, closing the door behind him.

Mr. Anderson turned to her with a pleased smile, clearly misunderstanding the nature of her request. “Lady Kilmartin, I must say I am relieved you have decided to spend some time alone with me. As we are to be married quite soon, I should very much like for us to become better acquainted.”

His smile did not last long.

Francesca met his gaze directly. “No, Mr. Anderson. We shall not.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Had Francesca not been in such a state of nerves, she might have laughed at the expression on his face.

“Mr. Anderson,” she continued, her voice calm though her heart was pounding, “I fear our engagement was entered into with far too much haste. Upon further reflection, I have decided that I do not wish to marry you.”

He stared at her, stunned.

“I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause you,” she added, more out of politeness than anything else.

The shock on his face slowly hardened into something far less pleasant.

“You cannot simply do that,” he said, his voice rising. “You accepted my proposal before the whole ton. You cannot retract your word less than a day later as though it were nothing.”

Francesca said nothing.

“I shall not have it,” he continued, louder now.

Francesca hated when men raised their voices. She always had. Something in her immediately withdrew from it and so she did not answer him, though she knew very well that Anthony was almost certainly listening just outside the door.

Sure enough, not even a moment later, the door opened.

Anthony entered with an expression so controlled it was almost frightening.

“Mr. Anderson,” he said evenly, “I believe the lady has made her wishes clear. I must ask that you lower your tone and leave my house at once.”

Mr. Anderson turned to him in disbelief. “Lord Bridgerton, you cannot be serious. Surely you understand what this will do. Your sister accepted my proposal in public. If she breaks the engagement now, your family shall be made a mockery of.”

Anthony’s expression did not change.

“By my sister, I assume you mean Lady Kilmartin, the countess,” he replied, his voice cold enough to silence the room. “I would advise you to remember your place before speaking of her with such disrespect.”

Mr. Anderson stiffened.

Anthony stepped closer, just enough to make his meaning clear. “You were asked to leave. I suggest you do so before this becomes a far greater problem than it needs to be.”

For a moment, Mr. Anderson looked as though he wished to argue further, but clearly thought better of it. His gaze shifted briefly to Francesca, wounded pride and anger flashing across his face.

“I shall leave,” he said stiffly. “But believe me, you will regret this.”

Then he turned and walked out.

Only once he was gone did Francesca finally relax. Her whole body seemed to loosen at once, as though some terrible weight had been lifted from her chest.

She had done it.

Whatever consequences followed, whatever whispers, scandal, or embarrassment this might bring, she knew one thing with absolute certainty… none of it could be worse than the future she would have condemned herself to had she kept her promise to him.

She was free now.

And she knew what she had to do.

She had to go to Scotland.

Chapter Text

While Francesca had spent that following morning at Bridgerton House trying to untangle the consequences of what had happened, Michaela remained still the night before, standing in the middle of the room at Kilmartin House after Francesca had left her once again. For several moments she had not moved.  She simply stared at the empty doorway, breathing hard, her lips still warm from Francesca’s kiss and her chest still burning from the words they had thrown at one another. The whole room felt too quiet now, as though the walls themselves had witnessed too much and were refusing to make a sound. Then anger came, not the controlled sort of anger Michaela had learned to wear like a smile, but something sharp and reckless that rose through her so quickly she could hardly think through it. She had known better than this. She had known from the very first moment she met Francesca that wanting her would only lead to ruin and yet somehow she had still allowed herself to hope, still allowed one kiss in Harrogate and another in this room to make her believe, however foolishly, that perhaps Francesca might choose her.

But Francesca was engaged.

Engaged to a man she barely knew, a man who could give her the life society expected, while Michaela stood there like a fool with her heart in pieces and no right to ask for anything more.

“No,” she had whispered to herself, wiping at her face with the back of her hand as though the tears offended her. “No more.”

She had to leave.

Not in a few days, not after another conversation or after giving Francesca another chance to look at her with those wounded eyes and make her forget every sensible thought she possessed. She would return to Scotland at once, before the morning if she could manage it, before London swallowed her whole and forced her to watch Francesca become someone else’s wife.

With that decision settling into something almost like purpose, Michaela had turned and made her way down the stairs, her steps quick and uneven as she headed back towards the drawing room where Elizabeth and the others had remained.

The moment she entered, the room fell noticeably quieter.

Elizabeth looked up first, her expression changing at once. “Michaela…”

“You should all leave,” Michaela said, her voice cold enough to surprise even herself. “Forgive me, but the evening is over.”

James and Mary exchanged a look while Lucas straightened in his seat and Catherine, who had been sitting near the fire, watched her with open concern.

Elizabeth rose slowly. “Michaela, perhaps we should speak before you make any dramatic declarations.”

“There is nothing to speak of,” Michaela replied. “I am leaving for Scotland.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Tonight?”

“If the horses can be made ready, yes.”

“Michaela, do not be absurd,” Elizabeth said, stepping closer. “You are angry, drunk, heartbroken and clearly in no state to cross half the country just because you made a woman so confused she chose to marry a random man.”

Michaela let out a bitter laugh. “Do not make light of this.”

“I am not making light of it,” Elizabeth replied, her tone softening despite the firmness in it. “I am trying to prevent you from doing something reckless simply because you cannot bear to sit still with your pain.”

“I have sat still with my pain for years,” Michaela snapped, though the words broke slightly at the end. “I am done.”

For a moment Elizabeth said nothing and Michaela hated the pity she saw in her face more than she hated the argument itself.

“Then leave in the morning,” Elizabeth said at last. “Sleep first. Be angry in a bed like a civilized woman and once the sun has risen you may make whatever terrible decision you like.”

Michaela looked as though she wished to argue, but the truth was that exhaustion had already begun to settle over her, heavy and merciless and even through her rage she knew travelling through the night would only make everything worse.

“Fine,” she said finally. “Morning.”

The room released a breath it had apparently been holding.

Then Catherine stood.

“If you are going to Scotland,” she said carefully, though her voice carried more boldness than Michaela expected, “I should like to come with you.”

The room went still again.

Elizabeth turned toward her sharply. “Catherine.”

But Catherine kept her gaze on Michaela. “I have no urgent reason to remain in London and if you are in need of company, I would be glad to offer it.”

Michaela understood at once what was being offered.

Company, distraction and a way not to think about Francesca Bridgerton for every waking moment of the journey north.

It was reckless and certainly unwise but Michaela was so tired of being wise. Francesca had made her feel foolish, desperate and exposed, and some bitter part of her wanted to remember that there were other women in the world, women who looked at her without shame, without hesitation, without running away the moment desire became something real.

So Michaela met Catherine’s eyes and gave her a small, humourless smile.

“Very well,” she said. “If you wish to come, then come.”

Elizabeth looked at her as though she had just watched her step willingly into a disaster and perhaps she had... But Michaela had no strength left for good decisions.

And that was how she found herself the next morning in a carriage on the road to Scotland, staring out of the window lost in thought while Catherine sat beside her talking endlessly about one thing after another, none of which Michaela had the slightest interest in. Every now and then she would nod or hum in response so as not to appear rude, but in truth her mind was entirely elsewhere.

When she had decided to return to London, she had never imagined she would leave it in such a state. In her mind, she had wanted to come back, put the Kilmartin estate in order, listen to whatever demands the Queen wished to place upon her, attempt to fulfil them despite how impossible they seemed and then return home having done her duty.

Never in a million years, had she imagined that she and Francesca would kiss.

Not once.

Twice.

Nor had she imagined that she would be foolish enough to lower her guard and reveal a piece of herself she had spent years protecting, only for it to end the way it had.

Had none of it happened, she could have continued living in blissful ignorance. Miserable perhaps but ignorant nonetheless. Instead, she now knew there had been a possibility, however small, that her feelings had been returned and somehow that knowledge was far worse than never knowing at all. Because now she had to live with the reality that what stood between them was not a lack of feeling, but everything else.

She had to live with the knowledge that had she been a man, she and Francesca might have stood a genuine chance.

The thought made her chest tighten.

She let out a heavy sigh and immediately felt Catherine's hand settle gently over her own in what was clearly meant to be a comforting gesture. Catherine continued speaking as though nothing had happened, perhaps sensing that Michaela was not yet ready to share whatever troubled her.

For the first time that morning, Michaela properly looked at her.

She was beautiful, kind and attentive. Under normal circumstances, Michaela would have found her charming from the start.

The truth was that Michaela knew what her future would likely look like. No respectable lady would willingly choose a lifetime of secrecy, stolen moments and whispered lies over the safety and comfort society offered them through marriage. Women like Catherine might spend time with her, enjoy her company, even care for her but eventually they would all do the sensible thing and marry respectable gentlemen, build respectable families and move on with their lives.

And perhaps that was simply the way of things.

Perhaps all she was ever meant to have were moments.

If that was the case, then she might as well enjoy them while they lasted.

With that realization, something shifted inside her.

She turned fully toward Catherine and allowed a familiar smile to return to her face, the easy charm that had carried her through most of her life slipping back into place almost automatically.

If she was going to spend a week travelling across the country, she might as well make the journey an enjoyable one.

And so over the days that followed, Michaela became the version of herself everyone expected her to be. She gave Catherine her full attention, listened to her stories, made her laugh and when they stopped at inns each evening she ensured they had the finest rooms available. They explored the towns together, spent evenings in crowded taverns, drank far too much and filled the hours with enough distractions to keep difficult thoughts at bay.

The first night had been the hardest, no matter what she did, she could not stop thinking about a certain red-haired widow.

But as the days passed, it became easier, not because she missed Francesca less, but because she learned how to silence the thoughts whenever they appeared. She learned how to stay in the moment, how to focus on the person in front of her rather than the woman hundreds of miles away.

By the time they finally reached Kilmartin Castle a week later, Michaela almost believed she had succeeded.

The staff welcomed her with obvious surprise and excitement, having not expected her return so soon and certainly not with company in tow.

As she stepped out of the carriage and looked up at the familiar stone walls of the castle she had called home for most of her life, Michaela allowed herself to believe, if only for a moment, that perhaps Scotland would be far enough away to let her forget...

Two days after their arrival at Kilmartin Castle, they had already settled into something of a routine. Michaela had reclaimed her old room, while Catherine had been given a chamber directly across the hall from hers.

The first night, Catherine had appeared at her door seeking comfort and affection but Michaela had turned her away, exhausted from both the long journey and the emotional turmoil she had spent the past week trying to outrun. Catherine had pouted dramatically, though she understood and eventually retired to her own room.

The following evening however, she had tried again and this time Michaela had not refused her. They had spent the night together much as they had on several occasions during their journey north. Michaela took care of her easily, she had always known how to please a woman and never expected much in return. Catherine had attempted more than once to return the attention but Michaela always stopped her gently before she could.

Still, it had been a pleasant evening and by morning they found themselves making their way down to breakfast smiling and laughing together.

For the first time since leaving London, Michaela had begun to think perhaps she could survive this after all, perhaps she could even move on...

They sat side by side at the breakfast table, flirting lightly over tea and fresh fruit. Catherine had long since abandoned any attempt at subtlety and was practically glowing every time Michaela looked her way. At one point Michaela plucked a grape from a nearby bowl and held it out teasingly and Catherine leaned forward with an amused smile to accept it.

It was at that precise moment that the doors to the dining room opened.

A servant entered looking distinctly alarmed.

"Lady Kilmartin," he announced, swallowing nervously, "you have company."

Michaela barely had time to glance up before a familiar figure appeared in the doorway.

Francesca.

For one brief second she stood there smiling, clearly expecting a very different reception than the one she had found.

Then her eyes landed on Michaela and Catherine, then on the grape still held between them... The smile vanished instantly, as the color drained from her face.

And before either Michaela or Catherine could even rise from their seats, Francesca turned and fled.

For a moment Michaela simply stared, convinced she had imagined the entire thing.

Then reality crashed into her.

"Francesca!"

She was already on her feet.

The chair toppled behind her as she rushed from the room, ignoring Catherine's startled call. However by the time she reached the entrance hall, Francesca was gone.

One of the footmen pointed toward the grounds.

"She ran toward the woods, my lady."

Without another word Michaela spun around.

"Ready my horse. Now."

The servants scattered immediately.

Michaela stood frozen for only a second longer, her heart hammering violently against her ribs as a thousand questions crashed through her mind.

What was Francesca doing here?

Why had she come all the way to Scotland?

And why, after everything that had happened, had she looked so utterly heartbroken?

She did not know the answer to any of those questions.

But she knew one thing.

She was not about to let Francesca Bridgerton disappear into the woods before she had the chance to find out...

By the time Michaela's horse had been saddled and brought around, Francesca had already disappeared deep into the grounds, leaving no obvious trace of where she had gone. Michaela headed immediately in the direction the servants had indicated, calling her name repeatedly as she searched every path, clearing and trail she could find.

Unfortunately, no answer came.

An hour passed, and then another.

And as though the day had not already been determined to make her miserable, dark clouds gathered overhead before the heavens finally opened.

Rain began pouring down in sheets.

Michaela pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and pressed on regardless, her concern steadily overtaking her irritation. Francesca had fled on foot with no coat suitable for this weather and no knowledge of the surrounding woods. What had begun as reckless quickly threatened to become dangerous.

"Francesca!" she shouted again into the storm... Nothing.

The rain continued to batter the trees around her.

By the third hour, both Michaela and her horse were thoroughly soaked.

Then, at last, she saw it, a familiar streak of auburn hair peeking out from beneath the twisted roots of a massive fallen oak that had created a small natural shelter beneath its trunk. It was hardly protection from the weather, but it was enough to shield someone from the worst of the downpour.

Relief washed through her so quickly she nearly laughed, she dismounted immediately and marched toward the ridiculous woman hiding beneath the tree.

"Francesca, what on earth are you doing?"

Francesca did not even look at her.

"I am attempting to survive this apocalyptic weather," she replied dryly.

Michaela stared at her.

"Well, if your intention is to actually survive it, then stand up and get on the horse. I am taking us back to Kilmartin."

"I am not going anywhere with you."

"Francesca."

"No."

"Francesca," Michaela repeated through gritted teeth, "this is neither the time nor the place for whatever madness has possessed you. Now please stand up and get on the horse before we both die of exposure."

That finally earned her a glare.

Francesca clearly wanted to continue arguing but eventually pushed herself to her feet.

"As soon as we return to the castle, I am going back to London."

Michaela rolled her eyes.

"What an impressive journey that shall be. You have only just arrived."

Francesca ignored her.

Michaela helped her onto the horse before climbing up behind her.

"Now," she said as they started moving, "would you care to explain what on earth you are doing here? Shouldn't you be planning a wedding?"

Francesca stiffened immediately.

"Can you please just take us back?"

Michaela sighed but said nothing further.

For a while the only sounds were the rain and the steady rhythm of hooves through mud.

Unfortunately, the storm only worsened and visibility grew poorer with every passing minute and before long even Michaela was forced to admit she no longer recognized their surroundings.

"I think you're lost."

"I am not lost."

"You are."

"I am merely finding our way back."

Francesca laughed incredulously.

"You are lost."

"And whose fault is that?" Michaela shot back. "You vanished into a forest during a thunderstorm. Spare me the judgment."

"Oh, I am sorry," Francesca snapped, jealousy finally getting the better of her. "I simply could not remain and watch you and your latest plaything feed each other grapes over breakfast."

Michaela nearly pulled the horse to a stop.

"Excuse me?"

The rain hammered down around them.

"Are you jealous?"

Francesca immediately regretted opening her mouth.

"That is not what I.."

"How dare you be jealous?" Michaela interrupted. "You are literally engaged to be married. You appeared in Scotland without warning and now you're angry because I am trying to move on?"

"Move on?" Francesca shouted over the storm. "It has barely been a week. How can you move on so carelessly?"

Michaela laughed bitterly.

"What exactly would you have me do, Francesca? You made your choice."

Before Francesca could answer, Michaela suddenly spotted something through the rain.

A small stone cottage.

"Oh thank God."

"What?" Francesca asked.

"The cottage."

"I thought we were returning to Kilmartin."

"So did I," Michaela muttered. "Unfortunately, we are lost and unless you fancy drowning in the Highlands, that cottage is where we are spending the night."

A few minutes later they finally reached it.

Michaela jumped down first and held out a hand.

Francesca hesitated before taking it.

The moment they stepped inside and closed the door behind them, the storm became distant once more.

The cottage was small but sturdy, clearly intended for estate workers caught too far from the castle at the end of the day. A narrow bed occupied one corner, while a rough wooden table and two mismatched chairs sat near the hearth. Shelves lined one wall holding a few cooking pots, candles, blankets and any other supplies left behind for emergencies. It was humble, but dry, though in the moment, it felt like paradise.

Michaela immediately crossed to the fireplace and began building a fire, while Francesca remained near the door, cold, wet and visibly shivering.

When the first flames finally sparked to life, Michaela glanced over her shoulder and frowned.

"Francesca, you're freezing."

"I'm perfectly fine."

"You are shaking."

"I am not."

"You are."

Francesca opened her mouth to argue but was interrupted by another shiver.

Michaela raised an eyebrow.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes and sit by the fire."

Without another word, she began removing her own soaked outer layers.

"What are you doing?" Francesca asked.

"I am attempting not to catch my death."

Michaela discarded her drenched cloak and jacket before eventually remaining in a simple white chemise.

When she turned back around, Francesca was staring.

Completely staring.

"Francesca?"

Francesca blinked.

"What?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"You looked concerned."

"I am not concerned."

Michaela's lips twitched.

"Right."

Francesca immediately looked away and started removing her own clothes.

"Would you mind looking elsewhere while I change?" Francesca asked nervously

The smirk that appeared on Michaela's face was positively insufferable, but to her credit, she obeyed.

Turning away, she occupied herself by examining the room while Francesca hurriedly began removing her rain-soaked layers behind her.

The problem was that Francesca had not even brought a proper coat and so she was completely drenched. Even her chemise was soaked through and she knew that if she remained in it for the rest of the night she would almost certainly catch a fever. The difficulty however, was that there was no world in which she could remain in a room with Michaela completely naked.

Looking around, she spotted a folded blanket resting on a nearby chair, it would have to do...

She moved towards it and quickly wrapped it around herself and only then removed her soaked chemise. Once she was finished, she cleared her throat, a quiet signal that Michaela could turn back around.

When she did, her breath caught.

For a moment she simply stared.

She had not expected to find Francesca standing there in nothing but a blanket.

Neither of them spoke.

They merely stared at one another, each with an entirely different expression.

Michaela looked shocked and confused, still unable to understand why Francesca was here at all. When she had awoken that morning, finding herself trapped in a storm with Francesca Bridgerton wrapped in a blanket had certainly not been among her expectations for the day.

Francesca meanwhile, was looking at her with such intensity that it almost made Michaela uncomfortable, as though she could devour her.

"What are you doing here, Francesca?" Michaela finally asked, breaking the silence.

Francesca hesitated.

"I came back because I hated how we left things."

It was only a half-truth, she still could not bring herself to say the real reason.

Michaela's expression hardened.

"What about your soon-to-be husband? I am sure he does not appreciate his future bride travelling to Scotland alone."

The bitterness in her voice was impossible to miss.

"Well, he is not a problem anymore." Francesca held her gaze. "I ended the engagement."

Michaela blinked.

For a moment she genuinely thought she had misheard her.

"You what?"

"I am no longer engaged to Mr. Anderson. As a matter of fact, I ended the engagement the very next morning, so honestly it should not even count."

She attempted a joke.

Michaela did not so much as smile.

"Why?"

The question was sharp.

Serious.

"Because it was a mistake," Francesca admitted quietly. "I convinced myself that accepting his proposal would somehow make everything easier. Obviously, I was wrong."

Michaela continued staring at her.

"So you ended your engagement and immediately decided to come here."

Francesca nodded.

"Why?"

The way she asked it made it clear she was not simply curious.

She was guarded.

Almost afraid of the answer.

"I think you know why."

"No, I do not," Michaela replied immediately. "Tell me."

Francesca's stomach twisted.

And so naturally, she did what she always did when she was frightened.

She changed the subject.

"It hardly matters now, does it? I can see that you already have company. As soon as the storm passes, I shall return to London and you and... whoever that woman is may continue whatever it is you have going on."

The bitterness in her voice surprised even herself.

"Francesca," Michaela said firmly, "do not change the subject. Tell me why you are here."

"Michaela, I am no longer interested in this conversation. Let us simply sleep, wake up tomorrow and return to our respective lives."

"No."

Francesca looked up.

Michaela had stepped closer.

"No, Francesca. You do not get to do this to me again."

Her voice was rising now.

"Why are you here? What on earth do you want from me?"

"Oh God, Michaela, do you truly have to make me say it?"

"Yes."

Francesca let out a frustrated sound and began pacing across the tiny cottage.

"I came all this way for you."

Michaela froze.

"The moment you told me you were leaving forever, the thought of never seeing you again nearly destroyed me."

She was speaking faster now, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

"I do not know what the future holds. I do not know how any of this is supposed to work. I do not know what society would say or what my family would think or how we could possibly make any of this make sense."

She stopped pacing and turned to face her.

"But I do know that the idea of a world where you are no longer in mine is unbearable."

Her voice cracked.

"And I could not let you leave believing that I did not care."

By the end she was practically shouting, too overwhelmed to contain herself any longer, while Michaela stood motionless across the room simply staring at her.

Finally she let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

Francesca's face fell immediately.

"Michaela—"

"No." She shook her head. "No, because I am trying very hard to understand what is happening right now."

She took a few steps away, running a hand through her damp curls.

"A week ago you told me there was nothing to fight for. You looked me in the eye and told me that what happened between us was a mistake. Then you accepted another person's proposal in front of the entire ton. Then I spent days convincing myself that I had imagined everything between us, only for you to appear in Scotland and tell me that you cannot live without me."

"Michaela..."

"Do you have any idea what that does to a person?"

Her voice was not loud.

That somehow made it worse.

Francesca's eyes filled with tears.

"I know."

"No, you do not."

The words came out sharper than Michaela intended.

"You cannot possibly know because you have never been where I am."

Michaela laughed bitterly.

"Do you know what it feels like to spend years loving someone and expecting absolutely nothing in return? To convince yourself every day that friendship is enough because it has to be enough? To watch that person be married to your cousin and be genuinely happy for them while simultaneously wondering whether there is something fundamentally wrong with you for wanting what can never be yours?"

Francesca looked away.

The guilt on her face was immediate.

Seeing it only made Michaela feel worse.

"I never wanted this from you," Michaela continued more quietly. "I never expected it. The moment you kissed me was the moment everything became impossible because suddenly I had hope and hope is a dangerous thing, Francesca. Hope makes fools of people."

Silence settled between them.

The fire crackled softly.

Rain battered the windows.

"I am sorry," Francesca whispered.

Michaela closed her eyes.

"That is the problem."

"What?"

"You are always apologizing."

Francesca looked confused.

"You apologize when you hurt me. You apologize when you leave. You apologize when you come back. Yet somehow we always end up in exactly the same place."

The accusation stung because Francesca knew there was truth in it.

She took a tentative step forward.

"Michaela, I came because I do not want to keep ending up in the same place."

Michaela did not respond.

"I ended the engagement because every moment I spent with him felt wrong, every conversation felt wrong, every plan for the future felt wrong. I kept trying to imagine my life beside him and all I could think about was you."

Michaela swallowed.

Francesca took another step.

"I thought marrying him would solve everything. I thought if I chose the sensible path then these feelings would disappear and life would become simple again."

A sad laugh escaped her.

"It turns out life becomes significantly more complicated when one is in love with someone."

Michaela's breath caught.

Neither of them acknowledged the words immediately.

As though doing so might somehow make them disappear.

Finally Michaela looked at her.

"In love?"

Francesca let out a shaky breath.

"Yes."

The single word sounded far more terrifying than all the others.

"I am in love with you."

For a moment Michaela looked almost angry and devastated, then hopeful... Then terrified all over again.

Francesca had never seen so many emotions cross one person's face so quickly.

"You cannot just say that," Michaela whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because I have wanted to hear those words for so long that I no longer know what to do with them."

Francesca's expression softened.

For the first time since arriving at the cottage, she saw past Michaela's frustration and into the hurt beneath it, the hurt she had caused.

Slowly she crossed the remaining distance between them and this time Michaela did not move away.

"I know I have made a mess of everything," Francesca said quietly. "I know I have hurt you. I know I have been frightened and selfish and confused."

Her voice broke.

"But for once I am trying not to run."

Michaela looked down.

Then back up at her.

"And what happens when you become frightened again?"

The question was barely above a whisper.

Yet it revealed more vulnerability than anything else she had said.

Francesca reached for her hand tentatively, giving her every opportunity to pull away.

"I stay."

Michaela stared at their joined hands.

Francesca squeezed gently.

"I stay, even when it is difficult, even when it is frightening, even when neither of us knows what comes next."

For the first time that evening, Michaela's expression softened completely.

Not because all her fears had vanished.

But because Francesca was finally saying the one thing she had needed to hear.

Not that she loved her... But that she was willing to stay.

For a long moment neither of them moved.

The storm continued raging beyond the cottage walls, rain striking the windows and roof with relentless force, yet somehow the room itself felt impossibly still.

Michaela looked down at their joined hands before lifting her gaze back to Francesca's face.

"You have no idea what you are doing to me."

The words were spoken so quietly that Francesca almost missed them.

"Then tell me," she replied just as softly.

Something shifted in Michaela's expression.

For the first time since Francesca had arrived in Scotland, the walls she had spent years building seemed to crack completely.

Slowly, almost cautiously, she lifted a hand and brushed a damp strand of hair behind Francesca's ear.

The gesture was so gentle that it made Francesca's chest ache.

"You make it very difficult to stay angry with you."

A watery laugh escaped Francesca.

"I should hope so. I travelled all the way to Scotland."

That finally drew the smallest smile from Michaela, a real one.

The sight of it made Francesca's breath catch and before she could overthink it, before fear could once again convince either of them to run, Michaela stepped forward and kissed her.

This time there was no desperation, noo panic or grief... Only certainty.

One hand settled against Francesca's cheek while the other found her waist, drawing her closer as though she finally had permission to do so.

Francesca melted into her immediately.

The kiss deepened slowly, both of them learning the shape of each other without the urgency that had defined their previous encounters.

For the first time, they were not stealing a moment.

For the first time, neither of them intended to run afterward.

The realization alone was enough to make Francesca's head spin.

Just as the kiss was becoming more intense Michaela pulled back, though their foreheads remained pressed together.

Both of them were breathing a little harder than before.

Then, unexpectedly, Michaela took a step back.

Francesca blinked.

"What is it?"

Michaela laughed softly and ran a hand across the back of her neck.

"What is it?" she repeated. "Francesca, I am attempting to behave like a respectable person."

That made Francesca smile despite herself.

"You? Respectable?"

"Occasionally."

Her expression softened.

Then she became serious.

"This is new for you."

Francesca's smile faded.

"Michaela.."

"No, let me finish."

The tenderness in her voice immediately silenced her.

"This is new for you and I do not ever want you to feel pressured into something simply because you think it is what I want."

Francesca stared at her.

Michaela continued carefully.

"You have spent your entire life being told what is expected of you. I refuse to become another person making demands."

The sincerity of it nearly broke Francesca's heart.

Even now, even after everything, Michaela was still thinking about her first.

Still trying to protect her.

"Michaela."

"What?"

Francesca stepped forward.

"You are not pressuring me."

Michaela held her gaze.

"No?"

"No."

Silence stretched between them.

Then Francesca swallowed nervously.

The next words were significantly harder to say.

"I do not know what I am doing."

A smile tugged at the corner of Michaela's mouth.

"Neither do I, most of the time."

"That is not true and you know it."

Michaela laughed.

The sound warmed the room more effectively than the fire ever could.

Francesca took another step closer.

"I am serious."

"So am I."

"No, Michaela."

She hesitated.

Then forced herself to continue.

"I have spent years feeling as though something was missing and never understanding why. Then suddenly you appeared and now every certainty I ever had seems to have disappeared."

Michaela's expression softened once more.

Francesca's heart hammered against her ribs.

"I am frightened."

"I know."

"But I do not want to be frightened anymore."

Neither of them looked away.

"What are you saying, Francesca?"

Francesca let out a shaky breath.

Then, with every ounce of courage she possessed, she reached for Michaela's hand.

"I am saying that if there is a next step..."

She squeezed gently.

"...perhaps you could teach me."

For perhaps the first time in her life, Michaela Stirling found herself completely speechless.