"In every life there
is a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and clear that one feels
as if one's been hit in the chest, all the breath knocked out, and one knows,
absolutely knows without the merest hint of a shadow of a
doubt that one's life will never be the same."
"It was the one dream he'd never permitted himself to consider."
Tell me something wicked.
Stirlings of old had been so damned besotted with their newfound earldom that they couldn't think to put any other name on anything...It was a wonder he didn't drink Kilmartin Tea and sit on a Kilmartin-style chair. In fact, he probably would be doing just that if his grandmother had found a way to manage it without actually taking the family into trade.
Michael nodded tersely, eyeing a table across the room. It was empty. So empty. So joyfully, blessedly empty.
He could picture himself a very happy man at that table.
"Not feeling very conversational this evening, are we?" Colin asked, breaking into his (admittedly tame) fantasies.
"Oh, God, Francesca,Now there's a good one.Why? Why? Why?" He gave each one a different tenor, as if he were testing out the word, asking it to different people.
"Why?" he asked again, this time with increased volume as he turned around to face her.
"Why? It's because I love you, damn me to hell. Because I've always loved you. Because I loved you when you were with John, and I loved you when I was in India, and God only knows I don't deserve you, but I love you, any way."
Francesca sagged against the door.
"How's that for a witty little joke?" he mocked. "I love you. I love you, my cousin's wife. I love you, the one woman I can never have. I love you, Francesca Bridgerton Stirling."
...and he stopped going to church entirely, because there seemed no point now in even contemplating prayer for his soul. Besides, the parish church near Kilmartin dated to 1432, and the crumbling stones certainly couldn't take a direct strike of lightning.
And if God ever wanted to smite a sinner, he couldn't do better than Michael Stirling.
Michael Stirling, Sinner. He could see it on a calling card. He'd have had it printed up, even his was just that sort of black sense of humor, if he weren't convinced it would kill his mother on the spot.
Rake he might be, but there was no need to torture the woman who'd borne him.
Their fathers had been twins, but John's had entered the world seven minutes before Michael's.
The most critical seven minutes in Michael Stirling's life, and he hadn't even been alive for them.
Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Cousin's Wife.
Moses must have forgotten to write that one down.
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.
It was one of those things that had to be experienced to be understood.
There were a lot of things in life to be afraid of, but strangeness ought not be among them.
"A lot of women want children."
"Right," he said, coughing on the word. "Of course. But, don't you think you might want a husband first?"
"Of course."
"I hope you know that I am listening, should you ever change your mind. I'm going to kill her," Francesca said to no one in particular. Which was probably a good thing, as there was no one else present.
"Who are you talking to?" Hyacinth demanded.
"God," Francesca said baldly. "And I do believe I have been given divine leave to murder you."
"Hmmph," was Hyacinth's response. "If it was that easy, I'd have asked permission to eliminate half the ton years ago."
Francesca decided just then that not all of Hyacinth's statements required a rejoinder. In fact, few of them did.
Francesca actually felt her chin drop. "Mother," she said, shaking her head, "you really should have stopped at seven."
"Children, you mean?" Violet asked, sipping at her tea. "Sometimes I do wonder."
"Mother!" Hyacinth exclaimed.
Violet just smiled at her. "Salt?"
"It took her eight tries to get it right," Hyacinth announced, thrusting the salt cellar at her mother with a decided lack of grace.
"And does that mean that you, too, hope to have eight children?" Violet inquired sweetly.
"God no," Hyacinth said. With great feeling. And neither she nor Francesca could quite resist a chuckle after that.
"And what renders him so unmarriageable?" Eloise asked.
Francesca leveled a serious stare at her older sister. Eloise was mad if she thought she should set her cap for Michael.
"Well?" Eloise prodded.
"He could never remain faithful to one woman," Francesca said, "and I doubt you'd be willing to put up with infidelities."
"No," Eloise murmured, "not unless he'd be willing to put up with severe bodily injury."
Michael wondered what the legal ramifications were for strangling a knight of the realm. Surely nothing he couldn't live with.
Michael had to clutch the end of the table to keep from rising. He could have had Shakespeare at his side to translate, and still not have been able to explain why Colin's remark infuriated him so.
There were only so many ways a man's heart could break, and he had a feeling his couldn't survive another puncture.
"Eloise is getting married as well."
"Eloise?" Michael asked with some surprise. "Was she even being courted by anyone?"
"No," Francesca said, quickly flipping to the third sheet of her mother's letter. "It's someone she's never met."
"Well, I imagine she's met him now," Michael said in a dry voice.
"It was the one dream he'd never permitted himself to consider."
Tell me something wicked.
Stirlings of old had been so damned besotted with their newfound earldom that they couldn't think to put any other name on anything...It was a wonder he didn't drink Kilmartin Tea and sit on a Kilmartin-style chair. In fact, he probably would be doing just that if his grandmother had found a way to manage it without actually taking the family into trade.
Michael nodded tersely, eyeing a table across the room. It was empty. So empty. So joyfully, blessedly empty.
He could picture himself a very happy man at that table.
"Not feeling very conversational this evening, are we?" Colin asked, breaking into his (admittedly tame) fantasies.
"Oh, God, Francesca,Now there's a good one.Why? Why? Why?" He gave each one a different tenor, as if he were testing out the word, asking it to different people.
"Why?" he asked again, this time with increased volume as he turned around to face her.
"Why? It's because I love you, damn me to hell. Because I've always loved you. Because I loved you when you were with John, and I loved you when I was in India, and God only knows I don't deserve you, but I love you, any way."
Francesca sagged against the door.
"How's that for a witty little joke?" he mocked. "I love you. I love you, my cousin's wife. I love you, the one woman I can never have. I love you, Francesca Bridgerton Stirling."
...and he stopped going to church entirely, because there seemed no point now in even contemplating prayer for his soul. Besides, the parish church near Kilmartin dated to 1432, and the crumbling stones certainly couldn't take a direct strike of lightning.
And if God ever wanted to smite a sinner, he couldn't do better than Michael Stirling.
Michael Stirling, Sinner. He could see it on a calling card. He'd have had it printed up, even his was just that sort of black sense of humor, if he weren't convinced it would kill his mother on the spot.
Rake he might be, but there was no need to torture the woman who'd borne him.
Their fathers had been twins, but John's had entered the world seven minutes before Michael's.
The most critical seven minutes in Michael Stirling's life, and he hadn't even been alive for them.
Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Cousin's Wife.
Moses must have forgotten to write that one down.
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.
It was one of those things that had to be experienced to be understood.
There were a lot of things in life to be afraid of, but strangeness ought not be among them.
"A lot of women want children."
"Right," he said, coughing on the word. "Of course. But, don't you think you might want a husband first?"
"Of course."
"I hope you know that I am listening, should you ever change your mind. I'm going to kill her," Francesca said to no one in particular. Which was probably a good thing, as there was no one else present.
"Who are you talking to?" Hyacinth demanded.
"God," Francesca said baldly. "And I do believe I have been given divine leave to murder you."
"Hmmph," was Hyacinth's response. "If it was that easy, I'd have asked permission to eliminate half the ton years ago."
Francesca decided just then that not all of Hyacinth's statements required a rejoinder. In fact, few of them did.
Francesca actually felt her chin drop. "Mother," she said, shaking her head, "you really should have stopped at seven."
"Children, you mean?" Violet asked, sipping at her tea. "Sometimes I do wonder."
"Mother!" Hyacinth exclaimed.
Violet just smiled at her. "Salt?"
"It took her eight tries to get it right," Hyacinth announced, thrusting the salt cellar at her mother with a decided lack of grace.
"And does that mean that you, too, hope to have eight children?" Violet inquired sweetly.
"God no," Hyacinth said. With great feeling. And neither she nor Francesca could quite resist a chuckle after that.
"And what renders him so unmarriageable?" Eloise asked.
Francesca leveled a serious stare at her older sister. Eloise was mad if she thought she should set her cap for Michael.
"Well?" Eloise prodded.
"He could never remain faithful to one woman," Francesca said, "and I doubt you'd be willing to put up with infidelities."
"No," Eloise murmured, "not unless he'd be willing to put up with severe bodily injury."
Michael wondered what the legal ramifications were for strangling a knight of the realm. Surely nothing he couldn't live with.
Michael had to clutch the end of the table to keep from rising. He could have had Shakespeare at his side to translate, and still not have been able to explain why Colin's remark infuriated him so.
There were only so many ways a man's heart could break, and he had a feeling his couldn't survive another puncture.
"Eloise is getting married as well."
"Eloise?" Michael asked with some surprise. "Was she even being courted by anyone?"
"No," Francesca said, quickly flipping to the third sheet of her mother's letter. "It's someone she's never met."
"Well, I imagine she's met him now," Michael said in a dry voice.
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