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It’s not the same after Michaela returns. It’s tense, though Francesca is determined to pretend that it’s not. To pretend it didn’t kill her when she left, even after promising that she wouldn’t.
And Michaela seems to be overcompensating, as if riddled by guilt. She’s nicer than usual. Much more considerate. She goes with whatever obnoxiously uptight demand Francesca makes. Whether it be about bedtimes or early breakfasts or hosting dinners for the Bridgertons, the Featheringtons, the Whoeverelsetons.
Francesca wishes that Micheala wouldn’t be so nice. She wishes she would be disruptive and chaotic and frustrating, like she always is.
She wishes she would make it easier to hate her.
But Francesca doesn’t hate her. Of course she doesn’t. She can’t.
And that only infuriates her further.
“Fran,” she says to her so sweetly as they wait for Penelope and Eloise to arrive for afternoon tea.
Francesca can hardly think, sitting next to Micheala and feeling the stuttered pitter-patter of her heart at the sound of her saying her name like that. With such delicate gentleness—as if it were not unlike the cupcake that Micheala has so carefully placed into her mouth.
This is another thing that Francesca cannot stand. The way she notices these things. The way her body—her heart—always reacts.
“Yes?”
“Your cook has made this delicious new pastry,” she says. “Have you tried it?”
And then she offers up her cupcake, bite taken out and all.
Francesca chuckles softly, hating the way she can feel her cheeks blush.
“No,” she says. “I haven’t tried it. I’ve not got much of a sweet tooth, I’m afraid.”
Micheala narrows her eyes. “I’d beg to differ after seeing you devour that gooseberry pie last week.”
Francesca’s mouth is agape. “It pairs well with the white wine!”
It makes Michaela laugh, and oh, there goes Francesca’s heart again—thrumming in her chest like a trapped bumblebee.
“Besides,” she says, then softly clears her throat. “We mustn’t eat the pastries before our guests arrive. It is not proper.”
“Oh,” Micheala says, looking down at her half-eaten cupcake. “We’ve best dispose of the evidence, then, shouldn’t we?”
She offers it to her again. Tantalizing and tempting, sitting on a napkin in the palm of her hand.
“Unless you want to leave a half-eaten pastry on the table,” Micheala says. “Now that would be improper.”
Francesca glares at her. Annoyed and frustrated and… relieved. Because this is the Micheala she knows. The Micheala she’s used to. The Micheala she’s missed.
The Micheala who makes her feel all the things she shouldn’t be feeling. Who makes her think thoughts she shouldn’t be having. Who makes her want sweets she shouldn’t be indulging in.
Francesca leans in and takes a bite from the cupcake, still in Micheala’s hand. It’s an immediate burst of flavor in her mouth—raspberry and vanilla. Such a perfectly sweet mix.
She lets out a soft, satisfied moan as she eats it, closing her eyes to savor it. She doesn’t catch the way Micheala’s eyes dilate as she watches her, the way her lips part, the way her breath catches in her chest.
Francesca leans back, leaving still a tiny piece in Micheala’s hand.
“You can have the rest,” she says, but Micheala can barely hear her—far too focused on the small wet tongue that peeks out from Francesca’s lips as she licks the frosting off.
“You’ve got a bit…” Micheala says, reaching out without thinking.
She touches the corner of Francesca’s mouth, picking the small dollop of frosting that’s been left behind.
Francesca lets her, then watches intently as the finger retreats—only to hover in between them, just mere inches away from Francesca’s face.
And now it is Francesca’s turn to not think. It is Francesca’s turn to just do.
She leans back in, then takes her tongue and slowly runs it up the tip of Micheala’s finger, taking the frosting off and bringing it inside her mouth.
Somehow it tastes much, much sweeter.
She swallows, and Micheala swallows with her—dark eyes still staring intently at Francesca’s mouth. Her own tongue comes out just to wet her lips, as one tends to do when they are anticipating a kiss.
And maybe she is. Maybe Francesca is too. Maybe everything is suddenly about to make such perfect, sweet sense.
“Lady Kilmartin.”
Francesca jumps back.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Bridgerton and Miss Bridgerton are here to see you.”
It isn’t until late that night that they are alone again. And it is not a coincidence. Michaela seems to be intent on making it so, practically begging Penelope and Eloise to Please, stay a bit longer. And even afterwards, she gravitates towards the rooms with the most servants in them.
But of course, eventually even the servants must go to bed. And for some inexplicable reason, Francesca does not follow suit.
“It is past your bedtime,” Micheala notes, when they are left alone together.
“Are you rushing me out of my own sitting room?” Francesca asks, and Micheala can’t quite tell if it is a tease.
“No,” she replies. “Simply an observation.”
“You are quite observative, aren’t you, Micheala?”
Michaela nods. “As are you.”
Francesca shrugs. “It’s easy to notice things, when nobody notices you.”
“I notice you,” Micheala says before she can stop herself.
Francesca smiles. And Micheala realizes all at once that this is the first time she has smiled since her return. And oh, she had not realized just how much she’d missed it.
“I notice you as well,” Francesca says. Then, coming out a bit rushed and clumsy, words tripping over themselves, she says, “Perhaps I shall ask the cook to make more of those delicious cupcakes tomorrow. If you would like that?”
“I would,” Micheala replies, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement and something altogether too dangerous to name.
“Wonderful,” Francesca says, before she spins on her heel. “Goodnight now, Michaela."
And Micheala watches her walk off, wondering how on Earth she is going to get any sleep tonight.