Chapter Text
In every life there is a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and clear that you feel as if you have been hit in the chest, all the breath knocked out, and you know, absolutely know without a shadow of a doubt that your life will never be the same.
For Michaela Stirling, that moment came the first time she laid eyes on Francesca Bridgerton at the Dankworth-Finch Ball.
She had not known the woman standing by her cousin was his wife. She had assumed it was the woman standing across from him. She so dreadfully was wrong.
As soon as their eyes met Michaela had become consumed with Francesca, and she had known from that very moment she was in love with her cousin's wife.
After a lifetime of chasing women, of smirking as they walked past her, of allowing herself to indulge in the pleasures of a woman even if it was forbidden, of caressing and kissing and making love to them but never actually allowing her heart to become engaged, she took one look at Francesca Bridgerton and fell so fast and so hard into love it was a wonder she managed to remain composed.
Unfortunately for Michaela, Francesca Bridgerton was Francesca Bridgerton no longer. She had wed her cousin merely 36 hours before they met. She was now Francesca Stirling, the new Lady Kilmartin.
Life was ironic that way.
Michaela hid her affections well. It wouldn't do to be visibly out of sorts. Then some annoying perceptive soul may take notice. She could not have that. While Michaela Stirling had a substantiated pride in her ability to dissemble and deceive (she had after all seduced more women than anyone cared to count, and had somehow managed to never be caught and tried) Well the sad truth of it was she had never ever been in love before, and if ever there was a time that a woman might lose her ability to maintain a facade under direct questioning, this was probably it.
And so she laughed, and was very merry, and she continued to seduce women. She tried not to notice that she tended to close her eyes when she had them in bed, and she stopped going to church altogether for there was no prayer that could sanctify her soul.
If God ever wanted to smite a sinner, Michaela was the perfect candidate.
Michaela Stirling, Sinner.
She could picture it clear as day on her calling card. She'd have it printed up even, (her sense of humor was that black), and she would do so if she weren't convinced it would kill her mother on the spot.
Sapphist she might be, there was no need to torture to woman who'd given birth to her.
Funny how she had never seen all those other women as sin. She still didn't. They had all been willing of course; you couldn't seduce an unwilling woman. The women had to actually want it, and if they didn't, if Michaela even sensed a tiniest bit of unease or disgust, she would turn and walk away. Her passions were never so out of control that she couldn't manage a quick and easy departure. Lest she be caught or tried God forbid.
Besides, she'd never seduced a virgin, and she'd never slept with a married woman. Oh very well, one ought to remain true to oneself, even while living a lie; she'd have slept with many married women, plenty of them, but only the ones whose husbands were inadequate to their pleasure.
A woman had rules to conduct, after all.
But this... this crossed a line. It was completely unacceptable. Of all the wrong things she'd done—and there were plenty—this was the one that could truly stain her soul. Even if she never acted on it, the mere feeling was enough to darken her conscience. Because this... this was different.
She wanted her cousin’s wife.
She wanted John's wife.
John.
John, who, damn it all, was more of a brother to her than one of her own could ever have been. John, whose family had taken her in when her father died. John, whose mother had helped raise her and taught her how to be a respectable woman.
Ah, did she really need to do this to herself? She could spend a week cataloguing all the reasons why she was going straight to hell for having chosen John's wife to fall in love with and for having this burning desire for women. None of it was going to change one simple fact.
She couldn't have her.
She could never have Francesca Stirling.
But, she thought with a small chuckle as she leaned back on the sofa and crossed her legs, watching them across their drawing room, laughing and smiling, and making nauseating eyes at each other, she could have another drink.
"I think I will," she mumbled, downing the Scottish whisky in one gulp.
"What was that Michaela?" John asked, his hearing as superb as always for heaven's sake.
Michaela gave him a false smile and lifted her glass. "Just thirsty. Is it alright if I have another glass?" she said, it was only proper she asked him if it was alright. She silently hoped he wouldn't say no.
He gave her one of those silent looks; the kind that hovered between concern and judgment, quietly urging her to put the glass down.
She looked back at him, her expression soft but resolute, as if to say, “Let me have this.”
He just silently nodded as he turned back to conversing with Francesca.
They were at Kilmartin House, in London, as opposed to Kilmartin Castle, up in Scotland where the two cousins had grown up, but Kilmartin House: a tall, elegant townhouse nestled among the fashionable terraces of Mayfair. The rain had just let up, leaving the cobbled street outside slick and glimmering beneath the gas lamps, their flickering light casting long, golden shadows across the wrought-iron railings and polished carriage wheels. The air still held the scent of damp stone and coal smoke, mingling with the faint perfume of lavender drifting in the drawing room where they resided.
"What shall we do for our second anniversary?" Francesca asked as she crossed the room and seated herself at the pianoforte.
"Whatever you want," John answered.
Francesca turned to Michaela, her eyes startlingly dark green, even in the candlelight. Or maybe it was just that she knew how green they were. She seemed to dream in green these days. Francesca green, the color ought to be called.
"Michaela?" she said, a teasing glint in her eye and her tone indicating the word was a repetition.
"Sorry," she said, offering her a sheepish smile she so frequently affixed to her face nowadays. No one ever took her seriously when she smiled like that, which of course was the point. "I wasn't listening."
"Do you have any ideas?" she asked.
"For what?"
“For John and I’s anniversary,” Francesca replied.
If Francesca had an arrow, she couldn't have jammed it into Micheala's heart any harder. She just shrugged, since she was appallingly good at faking it. "It's not my anniversary," she reminded her.
"I know," she said. She wasn't looking at her, but she sounded like she rolled her eyes.
But she hadn't. Michaela was certain of that. She had come to know Francesca agonizingly well in the past two years, and she knew she didn't roll her eyes. Michaela knew that when Francesca was feeling sarcastic, or ironic, or sly, it was all there in her voice and the curious tilt of her mouth. She didn't need to roll her eyes. She just looked at you with that direct stare, her lips curving ever so slightly, and damn it-- She was truly becoming pathetic memorizing intricate details about Francesca as if Francesca was an entire curriculum and Michaela a devoted pupil.
Michaela swallowed harshly, and then covered it with a sip of her drink. She couldn't deny how unseemly this was, this obsession with the smallest details of her cousin's wife's lips.
"I assure you," Francesca continued, idly trailing the pads of her fingertips along the surface of the piano keys without actually pressing into any sound. Micheala pondered wickedly for a moment on what else those skilled fingertips could do..."I'm well aware of whom I married."
"I'm sure you are," She muttered.
"Beg pardon?"
"Continue," she said.
Francesca's lips pursed in a peevish crease. She'd seen her with that expression quite frequently, usually in the dealings of her sister, Eloise. "I was asking for your advice," she said, "because you are so often merry."
"I'm so often merry?" she repeated, knowing that was how the world saw her; vivacious, daring, and a tad bit rakish. She had never been confined to the rules of society where they expected eligible misses to be agreeable, submissive, and quiet. She hated the word on Francesca's lips. It made her feel frivolous, without substance.
And then she felt even worse, because it was probably true.
"You disagree?" she inquired.
"Of course not," she murmured. "I'm simply unused to being asked for advice regarding anniversary celebrations, as it is clear I have no talent for marriage."
"That's not clear at all," she said.
'"You're in for it now," John said with a chuckle, settling back in his seat with that morning's copy of the Times.
"You have never even tried marriage," Francesca pointed out. "How could you possibly know you have no talent for it?"
Michaela managed a smirk. "I think it's fairly clear to all who know me. Besides, what need have I? John holds the title and I'm merely a simple miss. There is no use in marriage for me."
A pass of what seemed like envy graced Francesca's face. Michaela knew that look all too well. When they'd converse about marriage it seemed as if Francesca was envious Michaela could just choose not to marry instead of confining herself to the rules of society. The look was gone just as soon as it appeared and now all Michaela saw dejection.
"I think you should go to Kilmartin Castle," Michaela said abruptly.
"To Scotland?" Francesca asked, her eyes widening with surprise, "With the season so close?"
Michaela stood, suddenly rather eager to retire to her bedchamber. "Why not?" she asked, her tone careless. "You love it there. John loves it there. It's just a fortnight's ride away."
"Will you come?" John asked.
"I think not," Michaela said sharply. As if she cared to witness their anniversary celebration. The mere thought makes her chest feel as though it had been stricken. All it would do is remind her of what she could never have. Which would then remind her of the guilt. Or amplify it. Reminders were rather unnecessary; she lived with it everyday.
"I have much to do here," Michaela said.
"You do?" Francesca asked, her eyes lightening with interest, "What?"
"Oh, you know," she said wryly, "all those things I have to do to prepare for a life of dissolution and aimlessness."
Francesca stood.
Oh God, she stood, and she was walking to her. This was the worst--when she actually touched her.
She grasped Michaela's hands and softly rubbed her thumb across the right one. Michaela did her best not to flinch.
"I wish you wouldn't speak that way," she said.
Michaela looked past her shoulder to John, who had raised his newspaper just high enough so that he could pretend he wasn't listening.
"Am I to become your project, then?" Michaela asked, a bit unkindly.
Francesca drew her hands back. "We care about you."
We. We. Not I, not John. We. A subtle reminder that they were a unit. John and Francesca. Lord and Lady Kilmartin. She hadn't meant it that way, of course, but it was how she heard it all the same.
"And I care for you," Michaela said, her heart was beating rapidly, and she was already feeling beads of sweat begin to form on her lower back.
"I know," she said, oblivious to Michaela's distress. "I could never ask for a better cousin. But I want you to be happy."
Michaela looked down suddenly sheepish, and then glanced over at John. She gave him a look that clearly said: save me.
John gave up his pretense of reading and set the paper down. "Francesca, darling, Michaela is a grown woman. She'll find her happiness as she sees fit. When she sees fit."
Francesca's lips pursed, and Michaela could tell she was irritated. She didn't like to be thwarted, and she certainly did not enjoy admitting that she might not be able to arrange her world--and the people inhabiting it--to her satisfaction.
"I should introduce you to my brother," she said.
Good God. It amazed her how Francesca still was unaware that she was a complete sapphist. And now she recommends her rakish brother?
"I've met your brother," Michaela said quickly. "All of them, in fact. Even the one still in leading strings."
"He's not in--" Francesca cut herself off, grinding her teeth together. "I grant you that Gregory is not suitable, but Benedict is--"
"I'm not marrying Benedict," Michaela said incredulously.
"Why not? You two are perfectly similar and you get on quite well," Francesca said.
"It's not happening." Michaela said, her irritation growing by the second. How could Francesca be so oblivious to that fact that she detested the idea of a marriage with a man. It would be loveless.
"You overreact. Just dance with him once or twice." Francesca said.
"I've done so," she reminded her. "And that is all I am going to do."
"But--"
"Francesca," John said. His voice was gentle, but his meaning was clear. Stop.
Michaela could've kissed him on the top of his head for his interference. John of course just thought that he was saving his cousin from Francesca's eagerness; there was no way he could know the truth-- that Michaela was trying to compute the level of guilt one might feel for being in love with one's cousin's wife and entrapping said wife's brother into an unfeeling marriage with a sapphist.
Good God, married to Benedict Bridgerton? Was Francesca trying to kill her?
"We should all go for a walk," Francesca said suddenly.
Michaela glanced out the window. All vestiges of daylight had left the sky. "Isn't it a bit late for that?" she asked.
"Not with you two as companions," she said, "and besides, the streets in Mayfair are well lit. We shall be perfectly safe." She then turned to her husband. "What do you say John?"
"I have an appointment this evening," John said, consulting his pocket watch, "but you should go with Michaela."
More proof that John had no idea of Michaela's feelings or her true nature.
"The two of you always have such a fine time together," John added.
Francesca turned to Michaela and smiled, worming her way another inch into her heart. "Will you?" she asked. "I'm desperate for a spot of fresh air now that the rain has stopped. And I've been feeling rather odd all day, I must say."
"Of course," Michaela replied.
She couldn't resist her. She knew she should stay away, she knew she should never allow herself to be alone in Francesca's company. She would never act upon her desires, but truly, did she really need to subject herself to this sort of agony? She'd just end the day alone in bed, wracked by guilt and desire, in almost equal measures.
But when Francesca smiled at her she couldn't say no. And she certainly wasn't strong enough to deny herself an hour in her presence. Because her presence was all she was ever going to get. There would never be a kiss, never a meaningful glance or touch. There would be no whispered words of love, and no moans of passion. Francesca would never feel the same. She couldn't feel the same. And it broke Michaela's heart time and time again.
All she could have was her smile and her company, and as pathetic as she was, she was willing to take it.
"Just give me a moment," Francesca said, pausing in the doorway. "I need to get my coat."
"Please be quick about it," John said. "It's already after seven."
"We'll be safe John," She said with a reassuring smile, "and don't fret, I'll be quick." And then she offered her husband a wicked smile. "I'm always quick."
Michaela averted her eyes as her cousin got visibly flustered. Lord above, she truly did not want to know the meaning behind I'll be quick. Unfortunately, it could have been any number of things, all of them seemingly sexual. Her stomach flipped with nausea.
She tugged at her pelisse. Maybe she could get out of this jaunt with Francesca. Maybe she could retire to her bedchamber and draw a cold bath. Or better yet, find herself a willing woman with long chestnut hair. And if she was lucky, dark green eyes as well.
"I'm sorry about that," John said, once Francesca had left.
Michaela's eyes flew to his face. Surely John would never mention Francesca's innuendo.
"For her nagging," John added. "I've respected your decision not to marry against your mothers wishes. Francesca should do the same. And do you remember how wrathful your mother was?" John said with a chuckle and a hint of nostalgia in his eye.
John's words made Michaela cherish him even more if that was possible. How could she ever be in love with his wife? Why was she in love with his wife? John didn't deserve that. Not when all he has done is make sure she is safe, is respected, and that her wishes are listened to. Moments like these made her feel even more guilty.
"Of course I remember," she said with amusement. "How could I ever forget? She didn't speak to either of us for a full week."
John just laughed and Michaela joined him.
"Thank you, John," Michaela added after her laughter subsided.
"For what?" John asked, looking thoroughly confused.
She felt a deep gratitude toward her cousin, for he had never pressed her toward marriage nor treated her wishes as trifles. In a world so quick to decide a woman's fate, his quiet respect had been a rare kindness and one she would always hold dear.
"For everything," she said with finality. John looked as though he understood.
"Also, I don't mind Francesca's nagging," Michaela said.
"Of course you do. I can see it in your eyes, cousin."
And that was the problem. John could see it in her eyes. There was no one in the world who knew her better. If something was bothering her, John would always be able to tell. The miracle was that John didn't realize why Michaela was distressed.
"I will tell her to leave you alone," John said, "although you should know she's only urging you to marry because she loves you."
Michaela managed a tight-lipped smile. She certainly couldn't manage words.
"Thank you for taking her for a walk," John said, standing up. "She's been a bit peckish all day, with the rain. Said she's been feeling uncommonly closed in."
"When is your appointment?" Michaela asked.
"Nine o'clock," John replied as they walked out into the hall. "I'm meeting Lord Liverpool."
"Parliamentary business?"
John nodded. He took his position in the House of Lords very seriously. Michaela had often wondered if she'd have approached the duty with as much gravity, if she'd had been born an eldest son.
Probably not. But then again, it didn't matter much, did it?
Michaela watched as John rubbed his left temple. "Are you all right?" she asked. "You look a little..." She couldn't finish the sentence, since she wasn't quite sure how John looked. Not right was all she knew.
And she knew John. Inside and out. Probably better than Francesca did.
"Devil of a headache," John muttered. "I've had it all day."
Michaela's brows scrunched with concern, "Do you want me to call for some laudanum?" as she placed her hand gently upon his head, checking for a fever.
John shook his head and placed her hand in his. "Do not concern yourself. I assure you it's probably nothing and I hate the stuff. It makes my mind fuzzy, and I need my wits about me for the meeting with Liverpool," he said with a reassuring tilt in his tone.
Michaela nodded and dropped his hand. "But your skin looks ashen cousin," she said. Why, she didn't know. It wasn't as if it was going to change John's mind about the laudanum.
"Does it?" John asked, wincing as he pressed his fingers harder into the skin of his temple. "I think I'll lie down. I don't need to leave for an hour."
"Okay," Michaela murmured. "Do you want me to have someone wake you?"
John shook his head. "I'll ask my valet myself."
Just then, Francesca descended the stairs, wrapped in a long velvet cloak of midnight blue looking undeniably beautiful.
"Good evening," she said with a smile, catching Michaela's stare. But as her eyes reached John's, she frowned. "Is something wrong, darling?" she asked John.
"Just a headache," John said. "It's nothing."
"You should lie down," she said.
John managed a smile. "I'd just finished telling Michaela that I was planning to do that very thing. I'll have Simons wake me in time for my meeting."
"With Lord Liverpool?" Francesca queried.
"Yes. At nine."
"Is it about the Six Acts?"
John nodded. "Yes, and return to the gold standard. I told you about it at breakfast, if you recall."
“Make sure you--" She stopped, smiling as she shook her head. "Well, you know how I feel."
John smiled, then leaned down and dropped a tender kiss on her lips. "I always know how you feel, darling."
Bile rose to Michaela's throat and she pretended to look the other way.
"Not always," Francesca said, her voice warm and teasing.
"Always when it matters," John said.
"Well, that is true," she admitted. "So much for my attempts to be a lady of mystery."
He kissed her again. "I prefer you as an open book, myself."
Michaela cleared her throat. This shouldn't be so difficult; it wasn't as if John and Francesca were acting any differently than was normal. They were, as so much of society had commented, like two peas in a pod, marvelously similar, and splendidly in love.
"It's growing late," Francesca said. "I should go if I want that spot of fresh air."
John nodded, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Are you sure you're well?" Michaela asked.
"I'm fine," he said. "Just a headache."
Francesca looped her hand into the crook of Michaela's elbow. "Be sure to take some laudanum when you return from your meeting," she said over her shoulder, once they'd reached the door, "since I know you won't do it now."
John nodded, his expression weary, then headed up the stairs.
"Poor John," Francesca said, as they stepped outside into the brisk night air. She took a deep inhale, then let out a sigh. "I detest headaches. They always seem to lay me down especially low."
"Never get them myself," Michaela admitted, as they walked down the steps to the pavement.
"Really?" She looked down at her, one corner of her mouth quirking in that achingly familiar way. "Lucky you."
It almost made Michaela laugh. Here she was, strolling through the night with the woman she loved.
Lucky her.