She pushed open the door.
A short, staccato scream hurled itself across her lips. There was already a fire in the grate, and a man standing in front of it, idly warming his hands. Francesca reached wildly for something that she might use as a weapon.
And then he turned.
“Michael? ”
He hadn’t known she’d be in London. Damn it, he hadn’t even considered that she might be in London. Not that it would have made any difference, but at least he’d have been prepared. He might have schooled his features into a saturnine smirk, or at the very least made sure that he was impeccably dressed and wholeheartedly immersed in his role as the unrecoverable rake.
But no, there he was, just gaping at her, trying not to notice that she was wearing nothing but a dark crimson nightgown and dressing robe, s
