… I am sure you have everything well in hand. You always do.

—-from the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton to her daughter, the Countess of Kilmartin, immediately upon the receipt of Francesca’s missive

The hardest part about planning a wedding with Michael, Francesca soon realized, was figuring out how to tell people.

As difficult as it had been for her to accept the idea, she couldn’t imagine how everyone else might take it. Good God, what would Janet say? She’d been remarkably supportive of Francesca’s decision to remarry, but surely she hadn’t considered Michael as a candidate.

And yet even as Francesca sat at her desk, her pen hovering over paper for hours on end, trying to find the right words, something inside of her knew that she was doing the right thing.

She still wasn’t sure why she’d decided to marry him. And she wasn’t sure how she ought to feel about his stun-ning revelation of love, but somehow she knew she wished to be his wife.

That didn’t, however, make it any easier to figure out how to tell everyone else about it.

Francesca was sitting in her study, penning letters to her family—or rather, crumpling the paper of her latest misfire and tossing it on the floor—when Michael entered with the post.

“This arrived from your mother,” he said, handing her an elegantly appointed cream-colored envelope.

Francesca slid her letter opener under the flap and removed the missive, which was, she noted with surprise, a full four pages long. “Good heavens,” she murmured. Her mother generally managed to say what she needed to say with one sheet of paper, two at the most.

“Is anything amiss?” Michael asked, perching himself on the edge of her desk.

“No, no,” Francesca said distractedly. “I just… Good heavens!”

He twisted and stretched a bit, trying to get a look at the words. “What is it?”

Francesca just waved a shushing hand in his direction. “Frannie?”

She flipped to the next page. “Good heavens!” “Give me that,” he said, reaching for the paper.

She turned quickly to the side, refusing to relinquish it. “Oh, my God,” she breathed.

“Francesca Stirling, if you don’t—” “Colin and Penelope got married.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “We already knew—”

“No, I mean they moved up the wedding date by… well, goodness, it must have been by over a month, I would think.”

Michael just shrugged. “Good for them.”

Francesca looked up at him with annoyed eyes. “Someone might have told

me.”

“I imagine there wasn’t time.”

“But that,” she said with great irritation, “is not the worst of it.” “I can’t imagine—”

“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. “I can’t believe no one told me.”

“You have been in Scotland.” “Still,” she said grumpily.

Michael just chuckled at her annoyance, drat the man.

“It’s as if I don’t exist,” she said, irritated enough to shoot him her most ferocious glare.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say—”

“Oh, yes,” she said with great flair, “Francesca.” “Frannie…” He sounded quite amused now.

“Has someone told Francesca?” she said, doing a rather fine group impression of her family. “Remember her? Sixth of eight? The one with the blue eyes?”

“Frannie, don’t be daft.”

“I’m not daft, I’m just ignored.”

“I rather thought you liked being a bit removed from your family.” “Well, yes,” she grumbled, “but that’s beside the fact.”

“Of course,” he murmured.

She glared at him for his sarcasm.

“Shall we prepare to leave for the wedding?” he inquired.

“As if I could,” she said with great huff. “It’s in three days’ time.” “My felicitations,” Michael said admiringly.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“One can’t help but feel a great respect for any man who manages to get the deed done with such swiftness,” he said with a shrug.

“Michael!”

He positively leered at her. “I did.”

“I haven’t married you yet,” she pointed out.

He grinned. “The deed I was referring to wasn’t marriage.” She felt her face go red. “Stop it,” she muttered.

His fingers tickled along her hand. “Oh, I don’t think so.” “Michael, this is not the time,” she said, yanking her hand away. He sighed. “It starts already.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, plopping down in a nearby chair. “Just that we’re not even wed, and already we’re an old married couple.”

She gave him an arch look, then turned back to her mother’s letter. They did sound like an old married couple, not that she wished to give him the satisfaction of her agreement. She supposed it was because unlike most newly affianced pairs, they had known each other for years. He was, despite the amazing changes of the past few weeks, her very best friend.

She stopped. Froze.

“Is something wrong?” Michael asked.

“No,” she said, giving her head a little shake. Somehow, in the midst of her confusion, she’d lost sight of that. Michael may have been the last person she’d have thought she’d marry, but that was for a good reason, wasn’t it?

Who’d have thought she’d marry her best friend?

Surely that had to bode well for the union. “Let’s get married,” he said suddenly.

She looked up questioningly. “Wasn’t that already on the agenda?” “No,” he said, grasping her hand, “let’s do it today.”

“Today?” she exclaimed. “Are you mad?”

“Not at all. We’re in Scotland. We don’t need banns.” “Well, yes, but—”

He knelt before her, his eyes aglow. “Let’s do it, Fran-nie. Let’s be mad, bad, and rash.”

“No one will believe it,” she said slowly. “No one is going to believe it, anyway.”

He had a point there. “But my family…” she added. “You just said they left you out of their festivities.” “Yes, but it was hardly on purpose!”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Well, yes, if one really thinks about—” He yanked her to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“Michael…” And she didn’t know why she was dragging her feet, except maybe that she felt she ought. It was a wedding, after all, and such haste was a bit unseemly.

He quirked a brow. “Do you really want a lavish wedding?”

“No,” she said, quite honestly. She’d done that once. It didn’t seem appropriate the second time around.

He leaned in, his lips touching her ear. “Are you willing to risk an eight- month baby?”

“Obviously I was,” she said pertly.

“Let’s give our child a respectable nine months of gestation,” he said jauntily.

She swallowed uncomfortably. “Michael, you must be aware that I may not conceive. With John, it took—”

“I don’t care,” he cut in.

“I think you do,” she said softly, worried about his response, but unwilling to enter into marriage without a clear conscience. “You’ve mentioned it several times, and—”

“To trap you into marriage,” he interrupted. And then, with stunning speed, he had her back against the wall, his body pressed up against hers with startling intimacy. “I don’t care if you’re barren,” he said, his voice hot against her ear. “I don’t care if you deliver a litter of puppies.”

His hand crept under her dress, sliding right up her thigh. “All I care about,” he said thickly, one finger turning very, very wicked, “is that you’re mine.”

“Oh!” Francesca yelped, feeling her limbs go molten. “Oh, yes.”

“Yes on this?” he asked devilishly, wiggling his finger just enough to drive her wild, “or yes on getting married today?”

“On this,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.” “What about the marriage?”

Francesca grabbed his shoulders for support.

“What about the marriage?” he asked again, quickly withdrawing his finger. “Michael!” she wailed.

His lips spread into a slow, feral smile. “What about the marriage?” “Yes!” she begged. “Yes! Whatever you want.”

“Anything?” “Anything,” she sighed.

“Good,” he said, and then, abruptly, he stepped away. Leaving her slackjawed and rather mussed.

“Shall I retrieve your coat?” he inquired, adjusting his cuffs. He was the perfect picture of elegant manhood, not a hair out of place, utterly calm and composed.

She, on the other hand, was quite certain she resembled a banshee. “Michael?” she managed to ask, trying to ignore the extremely uncomfortable sensation he’d left down in her lower regions.

“If you want to finish,” he said, in much the same tone he might have used while discussing grouse hunting, “you’ll have to do so as the Countess of Kilmartin.”

“I am the Countess of Kilmartin,” she growled.

He gave her a nod of acknowledgment. “You’ll have to do it as my Countess of Kilmartin,” he corrected. He gave her a moment to respond, and when she did not, he asked again, “Shall I get your coat?”

She nodded.

“Excellent choice,” he murmured. “Will you wait here or accompany me to the hall?”

She pried her teeth apart to say, “I’ll come out to the hall.”

He took her arm and guided her to the door, leaning down to murmur, “Eager little thing, aren’t we?”

“Just get my coat,” she ground out.

He chuckled, but the sound was warm and rich, and already she felt her irritation beginning to melt away. He was a rogue and scoundrel, and probably a hundred other things as well, but he was her rogue and scoundrel, and she knew he possessed a heart as fine and true as any man she could ever hope to meet. Except for…

She stopped short and jabbed one finger against his chest. “There will be no other women,” she said sharply.

He just looked at her with one arched brow.

“I mean it. No mistresses, no dalliances, no—”

“Good God, Francesca,” he cut in, “do you really think I could? No, scratch that. Do you really think I would?”

She’d been so caught up in her own intentions that she hadn’t really looked at his face, and she was stunned by the expression she saw there. He was angry, she realized, irked that she’d even asked. But she couldn’t dismiss out of hand a decade of bad behavior, and she didn’t think he had the right to expect her to, so she said, lowering her voice slightly, “You don’t have the finest reputation.”

“For God’s sake,” he grunted, yanking her out into the hall. “They were all just to get you out of my mind, anyway.”

Francesca was shocked into stumbling silence as she followed him toward the front door.

“Any other questions?” he asked, turning to her with such a supercilious expression that one would have thought he’d been born to the earldom,

rather than fallen into it by chance. “Nothing,” she squeaked.

“Good. Now let’s go. I have a wedding to attend.”

Later that night, Michael couldn’t help but be pleased by the day’s turn of events. “Thank you, Colin,” he said rather jovially to himself as he undressed for bed, “and thank you, too, whomever you are, for marrying Eloise on a moment’s notice.”

Michael rather doubted that Francesca would have agreed to a rushed wedding if her two siblings hadn’t up and gotten married without her.

And now she was his wife. His wife.

It was almost impossible to believe.

It had been his goal for weeks, and she’d finally agreed the night before, but it wasn’t until he’d slid the ancient gold band onto her finger that it had sunk in.

She was his.

Until death do they part.

“Thank you, John,” Michael added, the levity leaving his voice. Not for dying, never for that. But rather for re-leasing him of the guilt. Michael still wasn’t quite certain how it had come about, but ever since that fateful night, after he and Francesca had made love at the gardener’s cottage, Michael had known, in his heart of hearts, that John would have approved.

He would have given his blessing and in his more fanciful moments, Michael liked to think that if John could have chosen a new husband for Francesca, he would have selected him.

Clad in a burgundy robe, Michael walked to the connecting door between his and Francesca’s rooms. Even though they had been intimate since his arrival at Kil-martin, it was only today that he had moved into the earl’s bedchamber. It was odd; in London, he hadn’t been so worried about appearances. They’d taken residence in the official bedrooms of the earl and countess and simply made sure the entire household was aware that the connecting door was firmly locked from both sides.

But here in Scotland, where they were behaving in a manner deserving of gossip, he’d been careful to unpack his belongings in a room as far down the hall from Francesca’s as was available. It didn’t matter that one or the other of them had been sneaking back and forth the whole time; at least they gave the appearance of respectability.

The servants weren’t stupid; Michael was quite sure they’d all known what was going on, but they adored Francesca, and they wanted her to be happy, and they would never breathe a word against her to anyone.

Still, it was rather nice to put all of that nonsense behind them.

He reached for the doorknob but didn’t grasp it right away, stopping instead to listen for sounds in the next room. He didn’t hear much. He didn’t know why he’d thought he might; the door was solid and ancient and not inclined to give up secrets. Still, there was something about the moment that called to him, that begged for savoring.

He was about to enter Francesca’s bedchamber. And he had every right to be there.

The only thing that might have made it better would be if she had told him she loved him.

The omission left a small, niggling spot on his heart, but that was more than overshadowed by his newfound joy. He didn’t want her to say words she did not feel, and even if she never loved him as a wife ought to love her husband, he knew that her feelings were stronger and more noble than what most wives felt for their husbands.

He knew that she cared for him, loved him deeply as a friend. And if anything were to happen to him, she would mourn him with every inch of her heart.

He really couldn’t ask for more.

He might want more, but he already had so much more than he’d ever hoped for. He shouldn’t be greedy. Not when, on top of everything, he had the passion.

And there was passion.

It was almost amusing how much it had surprised her, how much it continued to surprise her each and every day. He had used it to his advantage; he knew that and he wasn’t ashamed. He’d used it that very afternoon, while trying to convince her to marry him right then and there.

And it had worked.

Thank God, it had worked.

He felt giddy, like a green boy. When the idea had come to him—to wed that day—it had been like a strange shot of electricity through his veins, and he’d barely been able to contain himself. It had been one of those moments when he knew he had to succeed, would have done anything to win her over.

Now, as he stood on the threshold of his marriage, he couldn’t help but wonder if it would be different now. Would she feel different in his arms as his wife than she had as his lover? When he looked upon her face in the morning, would the air feel changed? When he saw her across a crowded room—

He gave his head a little shake. He was turning into a sentimental fool. His heart had always skipped a beat when he saw her across a crowded room. Anything more, and he didn’t think the organ could take the strain.

He pushed open the door. “Francesca?” he called out, his voice soft and husky in the night air.

She was standing by the window, clad in a nightgown of deep blue. The cut was modest, but the fabric clung, and for a moment, Michael couldn’t breathe.

And he knew—he didn’t know how, but he knew—that it would always be like this.

“Frannie?” he whispered, moving slowly toward her.

She turned, and there was hesitation on her face. Not nervousness, precisely, but rather an endearing expression of apprehension, as if she, too, realized that it was all different now.

“We did it,” he said, unable to keep a loopy smile off of his face. “I still can’t believe it,” she said.

“Nor can I,” he admitted, reaching out to touch her cheek, “but it’s true.” “I—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“What were you going to say?” “It’s nothing.”

He took both of her hands and tugged her toward him. “It’s not nothing,” he murmured. “When it’s you, and when it’s me, it’s never nothing.”

She swallowed, shadows playing across the delicate lines of her throat, and she finally said, “I just… I wanted to say…”

His fingers tightened around hers, lending her encour-agement. He wanted her to say it. He hadn’t thought he needed the words, not yet, anyway, but dear God, how much he wanted to hear them.

“I’m very glad I married you,” she finished, her voice matching the uncharacteristically shy expression on her face. “It was the right thing to do.”

He felt his toes clench slightly, gripping the carpet as he tamped down his disappointment. It was more than he’d ever thought to hear from her, and yet so much less than he’d hoped.

And yet, even with that, she was still here in his arms, and she was his wife, and that, he vowed fiercely to himself, had to count for something.

“I’m glad, too,” he said softly, and pulled her close. His lips touched hers, and it was different when he kissed her. There was a new sense of belonging, and lack of furtiveness and desperation.

He kissed her slowly, gently, taking the time to explore her, to relish every moment. His hands slid along the silk of her nightgown, and she moaned as the fabric bunched under his fingers.

“I love you,” he whispered, deciding there was no use in holding the words to himself any longer, even if she wasn’t inclined to say the same. His lips moved across her cheek to her ear, and he nibbled gently on her lobe before moving down her neck to the delectable hollow at the base of her throat.

“Michael,” she sighed, swaying into him. “Oh, Michael.”

He cupped her bottom and pressed her to him, a groan slipping across his lips as he felt her tight and warm against his arousal.

He’d thought he’d wanted her before, but this… this was different.

“I need you,” he said hoarsely, dropping to his knees as his lips slid down the center of her, over the silk. “I need you so much.”

She whispered his name, and she sounded confused as she looked down at him, at his position of supplication.

“Francesca,” he said, and he had no idea why he was saying it, just that her name was the most important thing in the world right then. Her name, and

her body, and the beauty of her soul.

“Francesca,” he whispered again, burying his face against her belly.

Her hands settled on his head, fingers entwined in his hair. He could have remained like that for hours, on his knees before her, but then she dropped down, too, and she moved toward him, arching her neck as she kissed him. “I want you,” she said. “Please.”

Michael groaned, pulling her toward him, and then pulling her to her feet before tugging her toward the bed. In moments they were on the mattress, the soft down of it drawing them in, embracing them even as they embraced each other.

“Frannie,” he said, his trembling fingers sliding her silk gown up and over her waist.

One of her hands cupped the back of his head, and she pulled him down for another kiss, this one deep and hot. “I need you,” she said, her voice almost a groan of need. “I need you so much.”

“I want to see all of you,” he said, practically tearing the silk from her body. “I need to feel all of you.”

Francesca was as eager as he was, and her fingers went to the sash on his robe, untying the loose knot before pushing it open, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. She touched the light dusting of hair, almost feeling a sense of wonder as her hand moved across his skin.

She’d never thought to be in this place, in this moment.

This certainly wasn’t the first time she’d seen him this way, touched him in this manner, but somehow it was different now.

He was her husband.

It was so hard to believe, and yet it felt so perfect and right. “Michael,” she murmured, tugging the robe over his shoulders.

“Mmmm?” was his reply. He was busy doing something delectable to the back of her knee.

She fell back against the pillows, completely forgetting what she’d been about to say, if there had been anything at all.

His hand wrapped lightly around the front of her thigh, then slid up toward her hip, to her waist, and then finally to the side of her breast. Francesca wanted to take part, wanted to be adventurous and touch him as he was touching her, but his caresses were making her languid and lazy, and all she could do was lie back and enjoy his ministrations, occasionally reaching out to trail her fingers along whichever part of his skin they were able to reach.

She felt cherished.

Worshipped.

Loved.

It was humbling.

It was exquisite.

It was sacred and seductive, and it took her breath away.

His lips followed the trail his hands had forged, sending tingles of desire up and across her belly, coming to rest in the flattened hollow between her breasts.

“Francesca,” he murmured, kissing his way to her nipple. He teased it first with his tongue, then took it in his mouth, biting it gently.

The sensation was intense and immediate. Her body convulsed, and her fingers gripped frantically into the bedsheets, desperate for purchase in a world that had suddenly tilted right off its axis.

“Michael,” she gasped, arching her back. His fingers had slipped between her legs, not that she needed anything more to ready her for his eventual

entry. She wanted this, and she wanted him, and she wanted it to last forever.

“You feel so good,” he said hoarsely, his breath hot on her skin. He moved then, positioning himself at her entrance. His face was over hers, nose to nose, and his eyes glowed hot and intense.

Francesca wiggled beneath him, the movement tipping her hips to welcome him more deeply. “Now,” she said, the word a cross between an order and a plea.

He moved slowly, inching his way inside with tantalizing deliberation. She felt herself opening, stretching to greet him until their bodies touched, and she knew that he was embedded fully.

“Oh, my God,” he grunted, his face stretched taut with passion. “I can’t… I have to…”

She answered by arching her hips, pressing herself even more firmly against him.

He began to move within her, each stroke bringing a new wave of sensation that spread and burned through her body. She said his name, and then she could not speak, could do nothing but gasp for air as their movements grew more frenzied and desperate.

And then it came upon her, in a lightning wave of pleasure. Her body exploded, and she cried out, unable to contain the intensity of the experience. Michael thrust into her harder, and then again, and again. He called out as he climaxed, her name a prayer and a benediction on his lips, and then he collapsed atop her.

“I’m too heavy,” he said, making a halfhearted attempt to move off of her.

“Don’t,” she said, stilling him with her hand. She didn’t want him to move, not yet. Soon it would be hard to breathe, and he’d have to adjust, but for now there was something elemental in their position, something to which she wasn’t ready to bid farewell.

“No,” he said, and she could hear a smile in his voice, “I’ll crush you.” He slid off of her, but he didn’t relinquish their closeness, and she found herself curled next to him like a nested spoon, her back warmed by his skin, her body held snugly in place by his arm under her breasts.

He murmured something against her neck, and she couldn’t really understand the words, but that didn’t matter; she knew what he’d said.

He nodded off soon after, his breath a slow and steady lullaby at her ear. But Francesca did not sleep. She was tired, she was drowsy, and she was sated, but she did not sleep.

It had been different tonight. And she was left wondering why.