When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(18)

It was time to wear blue. Bright, beautiful, cornflower blue. It had been her favorite color years ago, and she’d been vain enough that she’d worn it fully expecting people to comment on how it matched her eyes.

She’d buy blue, and yes, pink and yellow as well, and maybe even—something in her heart shivered with anticipation at the thought—crimson.

She wasn’t an unmarried miss this time around. She was an eligible widow, and the rules were different.

But the aspirations were the same.

She was going to London to find herself a husband.



It had been too long.

Michael knew that his return to Britain was well overdue, but it had been one of those things that was appallingly easy to put off. According to his mother’s letters, which had found him with remarkable regularity, the earldom was thriving under Francesca’s stewardship. He had no dependents who might accuse him of neglect, and by all accounts, everyone he’d left behind was faring rather better in his absence than they had when he’d been around to cheer them on.

So there was nothing to feel guilty about.

But a man could only run from his destiny for so long, and as he marked his third year in the tropics, he had to admit that the novelty of an exotic life had worn off, and to be completely frank, he was growing rather sick of the climate. India had given him a purpose, a place in life that went beyond the only two things at which he’d ever excelled—soldiering and making merry. He’d boarded a ship with nothing but the name of an army friend who’d moved to Madras three years earlier. Within a month he’d obtained a governmental post and found himself making decisions that mattered, implementing laws and policies that actually shaped the lives of men.

For the first time, Michael finally understood why John had been so enamored of his work in the British Parliament.

But India hadn’t made him happy. It had given him a small measure of peace, which seemed rather paradoxical, since in the past few years he’d nearly met his demise three times, four if one counted that run-in with the knife-wielding Indian princess (Michael still maintained that he could have disarmed her without injury, but she did, he had to admit, have a rather murderous look in her eye, and he’d long since learned that one should never ever underestimate a woman who believes—however erroneously—herself scorned.)

Life-threatening episodes aside, however, his time in India had brought him a certain sense of balance. He’d finally done something for himself, made something of himself.

But most of all, India had brought him peace because he didn’t have to live with the constant knowledge that Francesca was just around the corner.

Life wasn’t necessarily better with thousands of miles between him and Francesca, but it certainly was easier.

It was past time, however, to face up to the rigors of having her in close proximity, and so he’d packed up his belongings, informed his rather relieved valet that they were going back to England, booked a luxurious starboard suite on the Princess Amelia, and headed home.

He’d have to face her, of course. There was no escaping that. He would have to look into the blue eyes that had haunted him relentlessly and try to be her friend. It was the one thing she’d wanted during the dark days after John’s death, and it had been the only thing he had been completely unable to do for her.

But maybe now, with the benefit of time and the healing power of distance, he could manage it. He wasn’t stupid enough to hope that she’d changed, that he’d see her and discover he no longer loved her—that, he was quite certain, would never happen. But Michael had finally grown used to hearing the words “Earl of Kilmartin” without looking over his shoulder for his cousin. And maybe now, with the grief no longer so raw, he could be with Francesca in friendship, without feeling as if he were a thief, plotting to steal what he’d coveted for so long.

And hopefully she, too, had moved on, and wouldn’t ask him to fulfill John’s duties in every way but one.

But all the same, he was glad that it would be March when he disembarked in London, too early in the year for Francesca to have arrived for the season.

He was a brave man; he’d proven that countless times, on and off the battlefield. But he was an honest man, too, honest enough to admit that the prospect of facing Francesca was terrifying in a way that no French battlefield or toothy tiger could ever be.

Maybe, if he was lucky, she’d choose not to come down to London for the season at all.

Wouldn’t that be a boon.



It was dark, and she couldn’t sleep, and the house was miserably cold, and the worst of it was, it was all her fault.

Oh, very well, not the dark. Francesca supposed she couldn’t take the blame for that. Night was night, after all, and she was rather overreaching to think that she had anything to do with the sun going down. But it was her fault that the household hadn’t been given adequate time to prepare for her arrival. She’d forgotten to send notice that she was planning to come down to London a month early, and as a result, Kilmartin House was still running with a skeleton staff, and the stores of coal and beeswax candles were perilously low.

All would be better on the morrow, after the housekeeper and butler made a mad dash to the Bond Street shops, but for now Francesca was shivering in her bed. It had been a miserably freezing day, with a blustery wind that made it far colder than was normal for early March. The housekeeper had attempted to move all the available coal to Francesca’s grate, but countess or no, she couldn’t allow the rest of the household to freeze at her expense. Besides, the countess’s bedchamber was immense, and it had always been difficult to heat properly unless the rest of the house was warm as well.