Chapter Text
“I do hope to travel to the Continent more often. Would you like to travel, Miss Francesca?”
Francesca’s ears perked up at the sound of her name. It was so, very difficult to stay focused when Lord Samadani spoke to her. Especially in the midst of a crowded ball — the din of the ton blaring in her ears rivaled only by the sound of the slightly-off key quartet. It was a marvel that she hadn’t fainted from the overstimulation already.
“I apologize, I missed that,” Francesca tried to laugh it off, but the words came out as a choke instead. “What were you saying?”
“Traveling,” Lord Samadani blinked down at her. “Would you like to travel, after you are married?”
“Oh,” Francesca started. She very much would not enjoy traveling, thank you. But she had quickly learned that honesty did not get her very fair in the marriage mart. “I suppose I would not mind to,” she fibbed.
Lord Samadani brightened up immediately. He began to speak animatedly about Paris, or Rome, or some other place Francesca could not care less about.
Her eyes glazed over as she mindlessly began to tune Lord Samadani out. Her attention drifted elsewhere, to the dance floor, to the servants bustling to and fro, until they landed on a growing crowd of people across the room.
The crowd seemed to be circling one person — one woman, in fact. Francesca blinked, her eyes focusing in on her.
She had never seen this woman before. How peculiar. Francesca had thought she would have met every member of the Ton by now.
Though she was small in stature, Francesca could tell the woman was larger than life. The whole ballroom practically gravitated towards her. Francesca, no different, just as caught in her orbit as the rest of them.
She was beautiful. Francesca could tell without a shadow of a doubt, even from all the way across the room. She wore a dark red dress, her curls piled high on her head, somehow both meticulously and effortlessly. She was a marvel, clearly. And everyone knew it.
“Miss Francesca?”
Her thoughts were interrupted by Lord Samadani calling her name once more.
“I apologize, again,” she said reflexively, loathe to tear her eyes away from the sight of the woman across the room.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Samadani look over his shoulder too, no doubt following Francesca’s line of sight.
“Ah,” she heard Lord Samadani say. “It appears the return of Countess Kilmartin is making quite the stir.”
“Countess Kilmartin,” Francesca said her name, feeling it on her tongue.
“Indeed,” Lord Samadani confirmed. “Back in London.”
“For the season?” Francesca asked, her eyes still trained on the Countess.
“I imagine not,” Lord Samadani said airily. “For Parliament. We are back in session this week.”
Francesca blinked slowly. She had not realized a woman could serve as a member of Parliament.
But it made very much sense. If Countess Kilmartin could command a ball in this manner, no doubt she could stand toe-to-toe with the Prime Minister.
And yet, logistical questions remained. “And what of her husband?” Francesca asked.
“She is unattached,” Lord Samadani answered.
Oh. Francesca quite liked that. A bachelorette Parliamentarian.
“In any event, the Coliseum in Rome is an absolute feat of ingenuity…” Lord Samadani carried on with his one-sided conversation, and Francesca went back to tuning him out.
She wondered what Countess Kilmartin was talking about. How she wished to join the crowd of people around her.
Just then, Countess Kilmartin turned her head towards Francesca, her eyes drifting along before they landed right on her.
Countess Kilmartin was looking at her. Francesca blinked. Countess Kilmartin was still looking at her.
And then, a slow grin began to form on Countess Kilmartin’s face.
There could be no doubt. She was staring back at Francesca — and she was smiling.
It was all Francesca could do not to lose consciousness right then and there.
“Excuse me,” she blurted out, interrupting Lord Samadani’s prattling. “I need a moment,” she said, unable to come up with any better of an excuse before fleeing.
She rushed through the crowd towards the door, down the hallway, and out into the night air.
She inhaled deeply, her eyes slipping closed as she tried to steady her heart rate.
But before she could get anywhere close to calm, she heard footsteps approaching behind her.
Francesca stayed facing forward, hoping the person would not disturb her.
No such luck. The person came and stood right beside her.
Francesca looked over to the side, and —
It was Countess Kilmartin.
Had she followed Francesca outside? No, that was impossible. And yet, here she was, right beside her.
Francesca waited for her to speak, but she did not. For all the talking she was doing to the crowd just moments before, she was silent now.
She briefly looked up at Francesca, giving her another smile, before facing forward again, sighing, her shoulders relaxing, as she seemed to soak up the moonlight.
Francesca could not tear her eyes off her.
She was all the more stunning up close. The slope of her nose, the curve of her cheeks. Her round eyes and plump lips. It was unjust, really, that God would create such a wholly perfect creature.
For the first time in her life, Francesca found herself wanting to break a silence.
“I —” she started, but her voice came out as a croak.
Countess Kilmartin looked up at her quizzically.
“I am Francesca Bridgerton,” she managed to say.
Countess Kilmartin smiled. “Michaela Stirling,” she offered her name in return. Michaela. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.
And then, Michaela held out her hand for Francesca to take.
It was odd. Women did not usually greet each other in such a manner. Holding out a hand was something a lady did upon meeting a gentleman.
Instinctively, her body knew what to do even if her mind did not.
Francesca took her hand gingerly and swooped down to press a light kiss on the back of her knuckles.
Her lips made contact with the silk of Michaela’s glove. She wished suddenly that her hands had been bare instead.
She stood back up straight and let Michaela’s hand slowly fall away from hers.
Michaela looked up at her, entirely pleased and approving. Francesca preened in return.
“I apologize if I disturbed you,” Michaela said softly.
“Never,” Francescas replied unthinkingly.
Michaela smiled even wider. “Good.”
She turned back forward, then, and Francesca wished she could follow suit, knew it was the proper thing to do, but she could not tear her eyes off Michaela.
She watched as Michaela tilted her head up and looked at the stars. Her movement made a vein in her neck become particularly pronounced. Francesca swallowed at the sight.
After a moment, Michaela faced Francesca again.
“Would you like to take a turn about the garden?” Michaela asked.
“Me?” Francesca asked in return. Surely someone as worldly as Michaela Stirling did not want to spend more time with plain, meek Francesca.
“Yes, you,” Michaela laughed as though Francesca were silly. “Come,” she said, looping her arm through Francesca’s and pulling her forward.
“Now?” Francesca continued, her brain still not quite believing it all. “Alone?”
“Well, I hardly think we need a chaperone. Two young ladies, enjoying each other’s company,” Michaela said cheekily, as though there were a joke in there that Francesca did not quite get.
Francesca followed anyway. They set off down the path of the garden, surrounded on either side by rose beds.
At first, they walked in silence. Francesca was caught between staring at Michaela and trying not to trip over her feet.
Eventually, Michaela broke that silence. “Were you enjoying the ball?” she asked.
“No,” Francesca found the truth spilling from her mouth.
Michaela snickered. “You were talking with Lord Samadani, were you not?”
“I was,” Francesca admitted reluctantly. She did not mean to cast aspersions on him — but, well…
“No doubt I am making for better company,” Michaela quipped.
“Yes,” Francesca agreed automatically.
Michaela looked up at Francesca, her eyes crinkling, before she faced forward once more.
“Do you like to dance?” Michaela asked.
“I like parts of it,” Francesca answered.
“Which?”
“Well, the music part.”
“You are a lover of music, then?”
“I am.” What an understatement.
“Do you play any instruments?” Michaela asked.
“The pianoforte,” Francesca could not hold back her smile. Just the thought of the pianoforte always brightened her mood.
“I would love to hear you play, sometime,” Michaela said casually, but the words settled heavy on Francesca’s chest. She found she quite liked the idea of playing the pianoforte for Michaela.
“Do you play?” Francesca deflected, overwhelmed by her own reaction.
“I play the violin,” Michaela said. “Though not very well.”
“Some of my favorite pieces are duets for pianoforte and violin,” Francesca found herself saying.
“Those instruments do accompany each other quite nicely, I agree,” Michaela said, and Francesca saw her smile softly.
“Perhaps we could play together, sometime,” Francesca said, surprising herself at how forthcoming she was being.
Michaela laughed. “I fear I would not be able to keep up with you, dear Francesca.”
Francesca felt disappointment pool in her stomach, but Michaela continued. “I can just sense you are quite adept at the pianoforte. More than your average young lady.”
Francesca blushed. “I am,” she admitted.
“I am no match, then,” Michaela nodded. “I was always too busy for musical pursuits, although I do love it as a listener.”
Francesca never thought she was particularly good at carrying on a conversation, but with Michaela, she found herself naturally wanting to know more — the questions flowing out of her. “Busy with what?”
“Well, these days, Parliament keeps me quite busy,” Michaela said. “Along with affairs of the Kilmartin estate. I find myself with a quill in my hand more often than not.”
Awed, Francesca looked down at her. “And you manage it alone?”
“Yes,” Michaela confirmed. “Though I am glad to. My cousin, John — he was the Earl of Kilmartin. But he sadly passed two years ago.”
“My condolences,” Francesca murmured.
Michaela looked up at her with a sad smile. “He was my dearest friend and closest confidante. But I am glad to watch over the estate in his place.”
“That is very admirable,” Francesca said, though the words felt like an understatement.
“We do what we must, do we not?” Michaela said.
The words sobered Francesca considerably. Because while Francesca usually felt the ever-present, crushing weight of responsibility on her chest — her responsibility to wed and be breed — she found herself forgetting all about that while in Michaela’s company.
And she quite liked when she forgot about it.
“We do,” Francesca ultimately agreed.
“So you must have a favorite composer, then,” Michaela changed the subject.
“I do,” Francesca confirmed. “Beethoven, by far.”
“Oh!” Michaela perked up. “I recently visited his house in Vienna.”
“Really?” Francesca asked excitingly.
“Yes, it is set up as a museum of sorts, now,” Michaela explained.
“Tell me everything,” Francesca breathed out.
Michaela laughed, but obliged her. Francesca listened with baited breath as Michaela regaled her adventures to Vienna and all the musical history sites she saw.
It was funny, Francesca realized. Just a mere hour before, Lord Samadani had been talking about traveling, and it had bored her to tears. And now, here Michaela Stirling was, talking about the very same subject, and Francesca found herself every bit enthralled.
They circled the garden once, and when they were back where they started, Michaela kept walking still, following back along the same path as before. Francesca was relieved that it seemed Michaela was not done with their time together either.
“I should take you to Vienna, one day,” Michaela said. Francesca found herself very much liking that idea.
“I’ve never been further than Kent,” Francesca admitted.
“Not even up north?” Michaela asked in a gasp.
Francesca shook her head.
“Francesca Bridgerton!” Michaela exclaimed. “Well, then first, I must take you home with me.”
Francesca nearly tripped over her feet at those words. Goodness.
“To Kilmartin,” Michaela continued. “It is breathtaking, the Highlands.”
“I would love to see it,” Francesca found herself saying, and she meant every word.
“It is settled then,” Michaela said happily.
“What was it like, growing up at Kilmartin?” Francesca asked.
“Well, for one thing, I could never find anything,” Michaela laughed. “That damned castle is too big.”
Michaela carried on thrilling Francesca with stories of her youth. Climbing trees with her cousin John. Days spent on the archery range. Racing local boys on horseback. Francesca could scarcely believe how different they were, and yet, she felt impossibly close to her.
“Do you like plums?” Michaela asked abruptly, changing the subject.
“Not usually,” Francesca found herself answering honestly.
Michaela gasped, placing a hand to her chest. “Quelle horreur,” she whispered, and the sound zipped straight through Francesca’s body.
She never thought the French language could sound so…beguiling.
She swallowed heavily, trying to remind herself to breathe in and out.
“Well, have you tried a plum straight from the tree?” Michaela continued, stopping in her tracks in front of what Francesca was now realizing was a plum tree.
“I cannot say that I have,” Francesca murmured. Michaela looked at her intently, her eyes practically glowing in the moonlight, her ever-present smirk still painted on her lips.
Francesca inhaled sharply through her nose. A very foreign feeling was beginning to form in her stomach.
Michaela turned to the tree and reached up, stretching up on the tip of her toes, to pull down a singular plum from a branch.
She held the plum out to Francesca, then. “Take a bite,” she said, her voice so soft and sweet that Francesca had no choice but to obey.
Entranced, Francesca accepted the plum and slowly brought it to her lips. Her eyes locked with Michaela’s, who was watching her diligently, as she bit down and tasted the fruit, its juice bursting forth in her mouth and dripping out the corner of her lips.
Michaela tilted her head to the side, her eyes leaving Francesca’s to lower to her lips momentarily before returning to meet her gaze once more.
“The fruit is sweetest when you wait for it to ripen, do you not think?” Michaela said each word slowly, meaningfully, and Francesca felt her mind go blank.
“I — I do not know,” she managed to stutter out.
She watched as Michaela licked her bottom lip. “You don’t?” she echoed.
And then she reached up and wiped at the juice that was dribbling down Francesca’s chin with her thumb. “Well,” she started, looking down at her plum-stained thumb before placing it between her own lips. Francesca’s stomach clenched at the sight.
Michaela sucked her thumb slowly before letting it fall from her lips with a pop. She smiled knowingly up at Francesca. Francesca would not be able to take her eyes off Michaela’s lips — even if she tried.
She watched as Michaela breathed in and then parted her lips to speak. “The greatest pleasure awaits you still,” she said.
Francesca watched each word leave her mouth, and a shiver ripped down her spine. She couldn’t possibly begin to guess what those words meant, but they made her mind hum with euphoria. She could not imagine anything being much sweeter than this.
“Yes,” she found herself saying.
Michaela took the plum from her then, and Francesca watched as her lips wrapped around the flesh of the fruit and bit down. Francesca swayed forward, unsteady on her feet.
“Yes, what?” Michaela asked, her teeth stained purple.
Francesca had already forgotten what they were talking about.
“I’m not sure,” she murmured.
Michaela tilted her head back with a boisterous laugh. “Oh, I do enjoy you, Francesca Bridgerton.”
Francesca felt her cheeks warm, but stood up a bit straighter at her words. She liked that Michaela liked her.
Michaela sighed, then. “But I believe it is time I get you back,” she said.
“Oh?” Francesca asked.
“Your mother, no doubt, will have noticed your absence by now.”
“Oh,” Francesca said this time, her shoulders sagging with disappointment.
“Though I am happy to help you escape any ball, any time,” Michaela winked up at her.
“I will see you at the next ball of the season, then?” Francesca asked hopefully.
Michaela laughed, her eyes dancing. “Oh, my dear Francesca,” she shook her head fondly. “You will be seeing me much sooner than that.”