Chapter no 20

When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons, #6)

โ€ฆ Michael will do what he wishes. He always does.

โ€”from the Countess of Kilmartin to Helen Stirling, three days after the receipt of Helenโ€™s missive

The days that followed brought Francesca no peace. When she thought about it rationallyโ€”or at least as rationally as she was ableโ€”it seemed as if

she should have found some answers, should have sensed some sort of logic in the air, something that might tell her what to do, how to act, what sort of choice she needed to make.

But, no. Nothing.

Sheโ€™d made love to him twice. Twice.

To Michael.

That alone should have dictated her decisions, convinced her to accept his proposal. It should have been clear. She had lain with him. She might be pregnant, al-though that did seem a remote possibility, given that it had taken her a full two years to conceive with John.

But even without such consequences, her decision should have been obvious. In her world, in her society, the sort of intimacies in which sheโ€™d engaged meant only one thing.

She must marry him.

And yet she couldnโ€™t quite summon theย yesย to her lips. Every time she thought sheโ€™d convinced herself that it was what she had to do, a little voice inside of her argued for caution, and she stopped, unable to move forward, too scared to delve into her feelings and try to figure out why she felt so paralyzed.

Michael didnโ€™t understand, of course. How could he, when she didnโ€™t understand herself?

โ€œI shall call upon the vicar tomorrow morning,โ€ heโ€™d murmured at her ear as he helped her mount a fresh horse outside the gardenerโ€™s cottage. She had awakened alone sometime in the late afternoon, a brief note from him on the pillow beside her, explaining that he was taking Felix back to Kilmartin and would return shortly with a new mount.

But he had only brought one horse, forcing her once again to share the saddle, this time perched behind him.

โ€œIโ€™m not ready,โ€ sheโ€™d said, a sudden rush of panic filling her chest. โ€œDonโ€™t go see him. Not yet.โ€

His face had darkened, but he didnโ€™t allow his temper to rise any further. โ€œWe will discuss it later,โ€ heโ€™d said.

And theyโ€™d ridden home in silence.

She tried to escape to her room once they reached Kilmartin, mumbling something about needing to bathe, but he caught her hand, his grip firm and unyielding, and she found herself alone with him, back in the rose drawing room of all places, the door shut firmly behind them.

โ€œWhat is all this about?โ€ he asked.

โ€œWhat do you mean?โ€ she stalled, trying desperately not to look at the table behind him. It was the one upon which heโ€™d perched her the night before, then done unspeakable things to her.

And the memory alone was enough to make her shiver. โ€œYou know what I mean,โ€ he said impatiently. โ€œMichael, Iโ€”โ€

โ€œWill you marry me?โ€ he demanded.

Dear God, she wished he hadnโ€™t just come out and said it. It was all so much easier to avoid when the words werenโ€™t right there, hanging between them.

โ€œIโ€”Iโ€”โ€

โ€œWill you marry me?โ€ he repeated, and this time the words were hard, with more of an edge to them.

โ€œI donโ€™t know,โ€ she finally answered. โ€œI need more time.โ€

โ€˜Time for what?โ€œ he snapped. โ€For me to try a little harder to get you pregnant?โ€œ

She flinched as if struck.

He advanced upon her. โ€œBecause Iโ€™ll do it,โ€ he warned. โ€œIโ€™ll take you right now, and then again tonight, and then three times tomorrow if thatโ€™s what is required.โ€

โ€œMichael, stopโ€ฆโ€ she whispered.

โ€œI have lain with you,โ€ he said, his words stark and yet strangely urgent. โ€˜Twice. You are no innocent. You know what that means.โ€œ

And it wasย becauseย she was no innocentโ€”and no one would ever expect her to beโ€”that she was able to say, โ€œI know. But that doesnโ€™t matter. Not if I donโ€™t conceive.โ€

Michael hissed a word she never dreamed heโ€™d say in her presence. โ€œI need time,โ€ she said, hugging her arms against her body. โ€œWhy?โ€

โ€œI donโ€™t know. To think. To muddle through. I donโ€™t know.โ€ โ€œWhat the devil is there left to think about?โ€ he bit off.

โ€œWell, for one thing, about whether youโ€™ll make a good husband,โ€ she snapped back, finally goaded into anger.

He drew back. โ€œWhat the hell is that supposed to mean?โ€

โ€œYour past behavior, to start with,โ€ she replied, narrowing her eyes. โ€œYou havenโ€™t exactly been the model of Christian rectitude.โ€

โ€œThis, coming from the woman who ordered me to strip off my clothing earlier this afternoon?โ€ he taunted.

โ€œDonโ€™t be ugly,โ€ she said in a low voice. โ€œDonโ€™t push my temper.โ€

Her head began to pound, and she pressed her fingers to her temples. โ€œFor Godโ€™s sake, Michael, canโ€™t you let me think? Canโ€™t you give me just a little time to think?โ€

But the truth was, she was terrified to think. Because what would she learn? That she was a wanton, a hussy? That she had felt a primitive thrill with this man, a soaring, scandalous sensation that had never been there with her husband, whom sheโ€™d loved with every inch of her heart?

Sheโ€™d found pleasure with John, but nothing like this. Sheโ€™d never even dreamedย thisย existed.

And yet sheโ€™d found it with Michael. Her friend, too. Her confidant.

Her lover.

Dear God, what did that make her?

โ€œPlease,โ€ she finally whispered. โ€œPlease. I need to be alone.โ€

Michael stared at her for the longest time, long enough so that she wanted to squirm under his scrutiny, but finally he just swore under his breath and stalked from the room.

She collapsed onto the sofa and let her head hang in her hands. But she didnโ€™t cry.

She didnโ€™t cry. Not one single tear. And for the life of her, she didnโ€™t understand why not.

He would never understand women.

Michael swore viciously as he yanked off his boots, hurling the offending footwear against the door to his wardrobe.

โ€œMy lord?โ€ came his valetโ€™s tentative voice, poking out through the opened door to the dressing room.

โ€œNot now, Reivers,โ€ Michael snapped.

โ€œRight,โ€ the valet said quickly, scurrying across the room to gather up the boots. โ€œIโ€™ll just take these. Youโ€™ll want them cleaned.โ€

Michael cursed again.

โ€œEr, or perhaps burned.โ€ Reivers gulped. Michael just looked at him and growled.

Reivers fled, but fool that he was, he forgot to close the door behind him.

Michael kicked it shut, cursing again when he failed to find satisfaction in the slam.

Even the little pleasures in life were denied to him now, it seemed.

He paced restlessly across the deep burgundy carpet, pausing only occasionally at the window.

Forget understandingย women.ย Heโ€™d never pretended to have that ability. But he thought heโ€™d understood Francesca. At least well enough to safely tell himself that she would marry any man with whom sheโ€™d lain twice.

Once, maybe not.ย Onceย she could call a mistake. But twiceโ€”

She would never allow a man to take her twice unless she held him in some regard.

But, he thought with a twisted grimace, apparently not.

Apparently she was willing to use him for her own pleasureโ€”and she had. Dear God, she had. She had as-sumed the lead, taken what sheโ€™d wanted, relinquishing control only when the flames between them spiraled into an inferno.

She had used him.

And he would never have thought she had it in her.

Had she been like this with John? Had she taken charge? Had sheโ€” He stopped, his feet freezing into place on the carpet.

John.

He had forgotten about John. How was that possible?

For years, every time heโ€™d seen Francesca, every time heโ€™d leaned in for one intoxicating whiff of her, John had been there, first in his thoughts, and then in his memory.

But since the moment sheโ€™d entered the rose drawing room last night, when he heard her footsteps behind him and whispered the words, โ€œMarry me,โ€ to himself, heโ€™d forgotten about John.

His memory would never disappear. He was too dear, too importantโ€”to both of them. But somewhere along the way, somewhere along the way to Scotland, to be precise, Michael finally allowed himself to thinkโ€”

I could marry her. I could ask her. I really could.

And as he granted himself permission, it felt less and less like he was stealing her from his cousinโ€™s memory.

Michael hadnโ€™t asked to be placed in this position. He had never looked up to the heavens and wished himself the earldom. He had never even truly wished for Francesca, just accepted that she could never be his.

But John had died. He hadย died. And it was nobodyโ€™s fault.

John had died, and Michaelโ€™s life had been changed in every way imaginable except one.

He still loved Francesca. God, how he loved her.

There was no reason they couldnโ€™t marry. No laws, no customs, nothing but his own conscience, which had, quite suddenly, grown silent on the matter.

And Michael finally allowed himself to ponder, for the very first time, the one question he had never asked himself.

What would John think of all this?

And he realized that his cousin would have given his blessing. Johnโ€™s heart was that big, his love for Francescaโ€”and Michaelโ€”that true. He would have wanted Francesca to be loved and cherished the way that Michael loved and cherished her.

And he would have wanted Michael to be happy.

The one emotion Michael had never truly thought he could apply to himself.

Happy. Imagine that.

Francesca had been waiting for Michael to knock upon her door, but when the rap came, she still jumped with surprise.

Her shock was much greater when she opened the door and found she had to lower her gaze considerably. A full foot, to be precise. Michael wasnโ€™t on

the other side of her door. It was just one of the housemaids, carrying a supper tray for her.

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Francesca poked her head into the hall, looking this way and that, fully expecting Michael to be lurking in some darkened corner, just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

But he was nowhere.

โ€œHis lordship thought you might be hungry,โ€ the maid said, setting the tray down on Francescaโ€™s escritoire.

Francesca scanned the contents for a note, a flower, something to indicate Michaelโ€™s intentions, but there was nothing.

And there was nothing for the rest of the night, and nothing the next morning, either.

Nothing but a breakfast tray, and another bob and curtsy from the housemaid, with another, โ€œHis lordship thought you might be hungry.โ€

Francesca had asked for time to think, and that appeared to be exactly what he was giving her.

And it was horrible.

Granted, it would probably have been worse if heโ€™d disregarded her wishes and not allowed her to be alone. Clearly, she could not be trusted in his presence. And she didnโ€™t particularly trust him, either, with his sultry looks and whispered questions.

Will you kiss me, Francesca? Will you let me kiss you?

And she couldnโ€™t refuse, not when he was standing so close, his eyesโ€”his amazing, silver, heavy-lidded eyesโ€” watching her with such smoldering intensity.

He mesmerized her. That could be the only explanation.

She dressed herself that morning, donning a serviceable day dress which would serve her well out of doors. She didnโ€™t want to remain cooped up in her room, but neither did she wish to roam the halls of Kilmartin, holding her breath as she turned each corner, waiting for Michael to appear before her.

She supposed he could find her outside if he really wanted to, but at least he would have to expend a bit of effort to do it.

She ate her breakfast, surprised that she had an appetite under such circumstances, and then slipped out of her room, shaking her head at herself as she peered stealthily down the hall, acting like nothing so much as a burglar, eager to make a clean escape.

This was what sheโ€™d been reduced to, she thought grumpily.

But she didnโ€™t see him as she made her way down the hall, and she didnโ€™t see him on the stairs, either.

He wasnโ€™t in any of the drawing rooms or salons, and indeed, by the time she reached the front door, she couldnโ€™t help but frown.

Where was he?

She didnโ€™t wish to see him, of course, but it did seem rather anticlimactic after all of her worrying.

She placed her hand on the knob.

Sheย shouldย run. She should hurry out now, while the coast was clear and she could make her escape.

But she paused.

โ€œMichael?โ€ She only mouthed the word, which shouldnโ€™t have counted for anything. But she couldnโ€™t shake the feeling that he was there, that he was watching her.

โ€œMichael?โ€ she whispered, looking this way and that.

Nothing.

She gave her head a shake. Good God, what had become of her? She was growing far too fanciful. Paranoid, even.

With one last glance behind her, she left the house.

And never did see him, watching her from under the curved staircase, his face touched with the smallest, and truest, of smiles.

Francesca had remained out of doors as long as she was able, finally giving in to a mixture of weariness and cold. She had wandered the grounds for probably six or seven hours, and she was tired, and hungry, and eager for nothing so much as a cup of tea.

And she couldnโ€™t avoid her house forever.

So she slipped back in as quietly as sheโ€™d left, planning to make her way up to her room, where she could dine in private. But before she could make it to the bottom of the stairs, she heard her name.

โ€œFrancesca!โ€

It was Michael. Of course it was Michael. She couldnโ€™t expect him to leave her alone forever.

But the strange thing wasโ€”she wasnโ€™t quite certain whether she was annoyed or relieved.

โ€œFrancesca,โ€ he said again, coming to the doorway of the library, โ€œcome join me.โ€

He sounded affableโ€”too affable, if that were possible, and furthermore, Francesca was suspicious at his choice of rooms. Wouldnโ€™t he have wanted to draw her into the rose drawing room, where sheโ€™d be assaulted by memories of their torrid encounter? Wouldnโ€™t he at least have chosen the green salon, which had been decorated in a lush, romantic style, complete with cushioned divans and overstuffed pillows?

What was he doing in the library, which had to be, she was quite certain, the least likely room at Kilmartin in which one might stage a seduction?

โ€œFrancesca?โ€ he said again, by now looking amused at her indecision. โ€œWhat are you doing in there?โ€ she asked, trying not to sound suspicious. โ€œHaving tea.โ€

โ€œTea?โ€

โ€œLeaves boiled in water?โ€ he murmured. โ€œPerhaps youโ€™ve tried it.โ€ She pursed her lips. โ€œBut in the library?โ€

He shrugged. โ€œIt seemed as good a place as any.โ€ He stepped aside and swooshed his arm in front of him, indicating that she should enter. โ€œAsย innocentย a place as any,โ€ he added.

She tried not to blush.

โ€œDid you have a pleasant walk?โ€ he asked, his voice perfectly conversational.

โ€œEr, yes.โ€ โ€œLovely day out.โ€ She nodded.

โ€œI imagine the ground is still a bit soggy in places, though.โ€

Whatย was he up to? โ€œTea?โ€ he asked.

She nodded, her eyes widening when he poured for her. Menย neverย did that.

โ€œHad to fend for myself from time to time in India,โ€ he explained, reading her thoughts perfectly. โ€œHere you go.โ€

She took the delicate china cup and sat, allowing the warmth of the tea to seep through the china and onto her hands. She blew lightly on it, then took a taste, testing the temperature.

โ€œBiscuit?โ€ He held out a plate laden with all sorts of baked delights. Her stomach rumbled, and she took one without speaking.

โ€œTheyโ€™re good,โ€ he offered. โ€œI ate four while I was waiting for you.โ€

โ€œWere you waiting long?โ€ she asked, almost surprised by the sound of her own voice.

โ€œAn hour or so.โ€

She sipped at her tea. โ€œItโ€™s still quite hot.โ€

โ€œI had the pot refilled every ten minutes,โ€ he said.

โ€œOh.โ€ Such thoughtfulness was, if not precisely surprising, then still unexpected.

One of his brows quirked, but only slightly, and she wasnโ€™t sure whether heโ€™d done it on purpose. He was always in such control of his expressions; heโ€™d have been a master gambler, had he had the inclination. But his left brow was different; Francesca had noticed years ago that it sometimes moved when he clearly thought he was keeping his face perfectly impassive. Sheโ€™d always thought of it as her own little secret, her private window into the workings of his mind.

Except now she wasnโ€™t sure she wanted such a window. It implied a closeness with which she wasnโ€™t quite comfortable any longer.

Not to mention that sheโ€™d clearly been deluded when sheโ€™d thought she might ever understand the workings of his mind.

He plucked a biscuit off the tray, idly regarded the dollop of raspberry jam in its center, then popped it into his mouth.

โ€œWhat is this about?โ€ she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. She felt rather like prey, being fattened up for the kill.

โ€œThe tea?โ€ he inquired, once heโ€™d swallowed. โ€œMostly about tea, if you must know.โ€

โ€œMichael.โ€

โ€œI thought you might be cold,โ€ he explained with a shrug. โ€œYou were gone quite some time.โ€

โ€œYou know when I left?โ€

He looked at her sardonically. โ€œOf course.โ€

And she wasnโ€™t surprised. That was the only thing that surprised her, actuallyโ€”that she wasnโ€™t surprised.

โ€œI have something for you,โ€ he said. Her eyes narrowed. โ€œYou do?โ€

โ€œIs that so remarkable?โ€ he murmured, and he reached down onto the seat beside him.

Her breath caught.ย Not a ring. Please, not a ring. Not yet. She wasnโ€™t ready to say yes.

And she wasnโ€™t ready to say no, either.

But instead, he set upon the table a small posy of flowers, each bloom more delicate than the last. Sheโ€™d never been good with flowers, hadnโ€™t bothered to learn the names, but there was stalky white one, and a bit of purple, and something that was almost blue. And it had all been tied rather elegantly with a silver ribbon.

Francesca just stared at it, unable to decide what to make of such a gesture.

โ€œYou can touch it,โ€ he said, a hint of amusement playing along his voice. โ€œIt shanโ€™t pass along disease.โ€

โ€œNo,โ€ she said quickly, reaching out for the tiny bouquet, โ€œof course not. I justโ€ฆโ€ She brought the blooms to her face and inhaled, then set them down, her hands retreating quickly to her lap.

โ€œYou just what?โ€ he asked softly.

โ€œI donโ€™t really know,โ€ she replied. And she didnโ€™t. She had no idea how sheโ€™d meant to complete that sentence, if indeed she had ever intended to. She looked down at the small bouquet, blinking several times before asking, โ€œWhat is this?โ€

โ€œI call them flowers.โ€

She looked up, her eyes meeting his fully and deeply. โ€œNo,โ€ she said,ย โ€œwhat is this!โ€

โ€œThe gesture, you mean?โ€ He smiled. โ€œWhy, Iโ€™m courting you.โ€ Her lips parted.

He took a sip of his tea. โ€œIs it such a surprise?โ€ After all that had passed between them?

Yes.

โ€œYou deserve no less,โ€ he said.

โ€œI thought you said you intended toโ€”โ€ She broke off, blushing madly. Heโ€™d said he meant to take her until she became pregnant.

Three times today, as a matter of fact. Three times, heโ€™d vowed, and they were still quite at zero andโ€ฆ

Her cheeks burned, and she couldnโ€™t help but feel the memory of him between her legs.

Dear God.

Butโ€”thank heavensโ€”his expression remained innocent, and all he said was, โ€œIโ€™ve rethought my strategies.โ€

She took a frenetic bite of her biscuit. Any excuse to bring her hands to her face and hide a bit of her embarrassment.

โ€œOf course I still plan to pursue my options in that area,โ€ he said, leaning forward with a sultry gaze. โ€œIโ€™m only a man, after all. And you, as I believe weโ€™ve more than made clear, are very much a woman.โ€

She jammed the rest of the biscuit into her mouth.

โ€œBut I thought you deserved more,โ€ he finished, sitting back with a mild expression, as if he hadnโ€™t just seared her with innuendo. โ€œDonโ€™t you think?โ€

No, she didnโ€™t think. Not anymore, at least. It was a bit of a problem, that.

Because as she sat there, furiously stuffing food into her mouth, she couldnโ€™t take her eyes off his lips. Those magnificent lips, smiling languidly at her.

She heard herself sigh. Those lips had done such magnificent things to her. To all of her. Every last inch.

Good God, she could practically feel them now. And it left her squirming in her seat.

โ€œAre you all right?โ€ he asked solicitously.

โ€œQuite,โ€ she somehow managed to say, gulping at her tea.

โ€œIs your chair uncomfortable?โ€ She shook her head.

โ€œIs there anything I can get for you?โ€

โ€œWhy are you doing this?โ€ she finally burst out. โ€œDoing what?โ€

โ€œBeing so nice to me.โ€

His brows lifted. โ€œShouldnโ€™t I be?โ€ โ€œNo!โ€

โ€œI shouldnโ€™t be nice.โ€ It wasnโ€™t a question as he said it, rather an amused statement.

โ€œThatโ€™s not what I meant,โ€ she said, shaking her head. Heโ€™d befuddled her, and she hated it. There was nothing she valued more than a cool and clear head, and Michael had managed to steal that from her with a single kiss.

And then heโ€™d done more. So much more.

She was never going to be the same. She was never going to beย sane. โ€œYou look distressed,โ€ he said.

She wanted to strangle him.

He cocked his head and smiled. She wanted to kiss him.

He held up the teapot. โ€œMore?โ€ God yes, and that was the problem. โ€œFrancesca?โ€

She wanted to jump across the table and onto his lap. โ€œAre you quite all right?โ€

It was growing difficult to breathe. โ€œFrannie?โ€

Every time he spoke, every time he moved his mouth, even just to breathe, her eyes settled on his lips.

She felt herself licking her own.

And she knew that he knewโ€”with all of his experience, all of his seductive prowessโ€”exactly what she was feeling.

He could reach for her now and she wouldnโ€™t refuse. He could touch her and sheโ€™d go up in flames.

โ€œI have to go,โ€ she said, but her words were breathless and lacking in conviction. And it didnโ€™t help that she couldnโ€™t seem to wrench her gaze from his own.

โ€œImportant matters to attend to in your bedchamber?โ€ he murmured, his lips curving.

She nodded, even though she knew he was mocking her.

โ€œGo then,โ€ he encouraged, but his voice was mild and in fact sounded like nothing so much as a seductive purr.

Somehow she managed to move her hands to the edge of the table. She gripped the wood, telling herself to push away, to do something, to move.

But she was frozen.

โ€œWould you prefer to stay?โ€ he murmured.

She shook her head. Or at least she thought she did.

He stood and came to the back of her chair, leaning down to whisper in her ear, โ€œShall I help you to rise?โ€

She shook her head again and nearly jumped to her feet, his nearness somewhat paradoxically breaking the spell heโ€™d cast over her. Her shoulder bumped his chest, and she lurched back, terrified that further contact would cause her to do something she might regret.

As if she hadnโ€™t had enough of that already. โ€œI need to go upstairs,โ€ she blurted out. โ€œClearly,โ€ he said softly.

โ€œAlone,โ€ she added.

โ€œI wouldnโ€™t dream of forcing you to endure my company for one moment longer.โ€

She narrowed her eyes. Just what was he up to? And why the devil did she feel so disappointed?

โ€œBut perhapsโ€ฆโ€ he murmured. Her heart leapt.

โ€œโ€ฆ perhaps I should offer you a farewell kiss,โ€ he finished. โ€œOn the hand, of course. It would only be proper.โ€

As if they hadnโ€™t discarded propriety back in London.

He took her fingers lightly in his own. โ€œWe are courting, after all,โ€ he said. โ€œArenโ€™t we?โ€

She stared down at him, unable to take her eyes off of his head as he bent down over her hand. His lips brushed her fingers. Onceโ€ฆ twiceโ€ฆ and then he was through.

โ€œDream of me,โ€ he said softly.

Her lips parted. She couldnโ€™t stop watching his face.

Heโ€™d mesmerized her, held her soul captive. And she couldnโ€™t move. โ€œUnless you want more than a dream,โ€ he said.

She did.

โ€œWill you stay?โ€ he whispered. โ€œOr will you go?โ€ She stayed. Heaven help her, she stayed.

And Michael showed her just how romantic a library could be.

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