“I should introduce you to my sister,” she said.

Good God. “I’ve met your sister,” Michael said quickly. “All of them, in fact. Even the one still in leading strings.”

“She’s not in-” She cut herself off, grinding her teeth together. “I grant you that Hyacinth is not suitable, but Eloise is-”

“I’m not marrying Eloise,” Michael said sharply.

“I didn’t say you had to marry her,” Francesca said. “Just dance with her once or twice.”

“I’ve done so,” he 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.

Michael could have kissed him for his interference. John of course just thought that he was saving his cousin from needless feminine nagging; there was no way he could know the truth-that Michael was trying to compute the level of guilt one might feel for being in love with one’s cousin’s wife and one’s wife’s sister.

Good God, married to Eloise Bridgerton. Was Francesca trying to kill him?

“We should all go for a walk,” Francesca said suddenly.

Michael glanced out the window. All vestiges of daylight had left the sky. “Isn’t it a bit late for that?” he asked.

“Not with two strong men as escorts,” she said, “and besides, the streets in Mayfair are well lit. We shall be perfectly safe. She turned to her husband. What do you say, darling?”

“I have an appointment this evening,” John said, consulting his pocket watch, “but you should go with Michael.”

More proof that John had no idea of Michael’s feelings.

“The two of you always have such a fine time together,” John added.

Francesca turned to Michael and smiled, worming her way another inch into his 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.”