that he stood out, that anyone glancing upon him must instantly know that he was different, removed from their very British existence.
Or, he allowed, as he caught sight of his reflection in a shop window, it could be the tan.
It would take weeks to fade. Months, maybe.
His mother was going to be scandalized.
The thought of it made him grin. He rather enjoyed scandalizing his mother. He’d never be so grown up that that ceased to be fun.
He turned on Bruton Street and walked past the last few homes to Number Five. He’d been there before, of course. Francesca’s mother had always defined the word “family” in the widest of all possible manners, so Michael had found himself invited along with John and Francesca to any number of Bridgerton family events.
When he arrived, Lady Bridgerton was already in the green-and-cream drawing room, taking a cup of tea at her writing desk under the window. “Michael!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet with obvious affection. “How good to see you!”
“Lady Bridgerton,” he said, taking her hand and gracing it with a gallant kiss.
“No one does that like you,” she said approvingly.
“One has to cultivate one’s best maneuvers,” he murmured.
“And I can’t tell you how much we ladies of a certain age appreciate your doing so.”
“A certain age being . . .” He smiled devilishly. “. . . one and thirty?”
Lady Bridgerton was the sort of woman who grew lovelier with age, but the smile she gave him made her positively radiant. “You are always welcome in this house, Michael Stirling.”
He grinned and sat in a high-backed chair when she motioned for him to do so.
“Oh, dear,” she said with a slight frown. “I must apologize. I suppose I should be calling you Kilmartin now.”
“ ‘Michael’ is just fine,” he assured her.
“I know that it’s been four years,” she continued, “but as I haven’t seen you . . .”
“You may call me anything you wish,” he said smoothly. It was strange. He’d finally grown used to being called Kilmartin, adapted to the way his title had overtaken his surname. But that had been in India, where no one had known him as plain Mr. Stirling, and perhaps more importantly, no one had known John as the earl. Hearing his title on Violet Bridgerton’s lips was a little unnerving, especially since she had, as was the custom for many mothers-in-law, habitually referred to John as her son.
But if she sensed any of his inner discomfort, she gave no indication. “If you are going to be so accommodating,” she said, “then I must be as well. Please do call me Violet. It’s well past time that you did.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” he said quickly. And he meant it. This was Lady Bridgerton. She was . . . Well, he didn’t know what she was, but she couldn’t possibly be Violet to him.
“I insist, Michael,” she said, “and I’m certain you’re already aware that I usually get my way.”
There was no way he was going to win the argument, so he just sighed and said, “I don’t know if I can kiss the hand of a Violet. It seems rather scandalously intimate, don’t you think?”
“Don’t you dare stop.”
“Tongues will wag,” he warned her.
“I believe my reputation can withstand it.”
“Ah, but can mine?”
She laughed. “You are a rascal.”
He leaned back in his chair. “It serves me well.”
“Would you care for tea?” She motioned to the delicate china pot on the desk across the room. “Mine has gone cold, but I would be happy to ring for more.”
“I’d love some,” he admitted.
“I suppose you’re spoiled for it now, after so many years in India,” she said, standing and crossing the room to ring the bellpull.
“It’s just not the same,” he said, quickly rising to his feet as well. “I can’t explain it, but nothing tastes quite like tea in England.”
“The quality of the water, do you think?”
He smiled stealthily. “The quality of the woman pouring.”
She laughed. “You, my lord, need a wife. Immediately.”
“Oh, really? And why is that?”
“Because in your present state, you are clearly a danger to unmarried women everywhere.”
He couldn’t resist one last flirtation. “I hope you are including yourself in those ranks, Violet.”
And then a voice from the door: “Are you flirting with my mother?”
It was Francesca, of course, impeccably turned out in a lavender morning dress adorned with a rather intricate stretch of Belgian lace. She looked as if she were very much trying to be stern with him.
And not entirely succeeding.
Michael allowed his lips