When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(22)

Her lips pinched slightly, but she was clearly amused. “The same as ever, I see.”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “No one ever really changes, Francesca.”



She cocked her head to the side, motioning to the hall, where they could hear someone moving toward them on swift feet. The footman arrived, and Francesca took care of everything, allowing Michael to do nothing but stand by the fire, looking vaguely imperial as he nodded his agreement.

“Good night, Michael,” she said, once the footman had left to do her bidding.

“Good night, Francesca,” he said softly.

“It’s good to see you again,” she said. And then, as if she needed to convince one of them of it—he wasn’t sure which, she added, “It truly is.”





Chapter 6




…I’m sorry I haven’t written. No, that’s not true. I’m not sorry. I don’t wish to write. I don’t wish to think of—

—from the Countess of Kilmartin to the new Earl of Kilmartin, one day after the receipt of his first missive to her, torn to bits, then soaked with tears

By the time Michael arose the next morning, Kilmartin House seemed to be back up and running as befitted the home of an earl. There were fires in every grate, and a splendid breakfast had been laid out in the informal dining room, with coddled eggs, ham, bacon, sausage, toast with butter and marmalade, and his own personal favorite, broiled mackerel.

Francesca, however, was nowhere to be found.

When he inquired after her, he was given a folded note she’d left for him earlier that morning. It seemed she felt that tongues might wag at their living alone together at Kilmartin House, and so she had removed herself to her mother’s residence at Number Five, Bruton Street, until either Janet or Helen arrived down from Scotland. She did, however, invite him to call upon her that day, as she was certain they had much to discuss.

And Michael supposed she was right, so once he’d finished with his breakfast (finding, much to his great surprise, that he rather missed the yogurts and dosas of his Indian morning meal), he stepped outside and made his way to Number Five.

He elected to walk; it wasn’t very far, and the air had warmed appreciably since the icy gusts of the day before. But mostly, he just wanted to take in the cityscape, to remind himself of the rhythms of London. He’d never noticed the particular smells and sounds of the capital before, how the clip-clop of horses’ hooves combined with the festive shout of the flower seller and low rumble of cultured voices. There was the sound of his feet on the pavement, and smell of roasting nuts, and the vague heft of soot in the air, all combining to make something that was uniquely London.

It was almost overpowering, which was strange, because he remembered feeling precisely the same way upon landing in India four years earlier. The humid air, redolent with spice and flowers, had shocked his every sense. It had felt almost like an assault, leaving him drowsy and disoriented. And while his reaction to London wasn’t quite that dramatic, he still felt rather like the odd man out, his senses buffeted by smells and sounds that shouldn’t have felt so unfamiliar.

Had he become a stranger in his own land? It seemed almost bizarre, and yet, as he walked along the crowded streets of London’s most exclusive shopping district, he couldn’t help but think that he stood out, that anyone glancing upon him must instantly know that he was different, removed from their very British existence.

Or, he allowed, as he caught sight of his reflection in a shop window, it could be the tan.

It would take weeks to fade. Months, maybe.

His mother was going to be scandalized.

The thought of it made him grin. He rather enjoyed scandalizing his mother. He’d never be so grown up that that ceased to be fun.

He turned on Bruton Street and walked past the last few homes to Number Five. He’d been there before, of course. Francesca’s mother had always defined the word “family” in the widest of all possible manners, so Michael had found himself invited along with John and Francesca to any number of Bridgerton family events.

When he arrived, Lady Bridgerton was already in the green-and-cream drawing room, taking a cup of tea at her writing desk under the window. “Michael!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet with obvious affection. “How good to see you!”

“Lady Bridgerton,” he said, taking her hand and gracing it with a gallant kiss.

“No one does that like you,” she said approvingly.

“One has to cultivate one’s best maneuvers,” he murmured.

“And I can’t tell you how much we ladies of a certain age appreciate your doing so.”

“A certain age being…” He smiled devilishly. “…one and thirty?”

Lady Bridgerton was the sort of woman who grew lovelier with age, but the smile she gave him made her positively radiant. “You are always welcome in this house, Michael Stirling.”

He grinned and sat in a high-backed chair when she motioned for him to do so.



“Oh, dear,” she said with a slight frown. “I must apologize. I suppose I should be calling you Kilmartin now.”

“ ‘Michael’ is just fine,” he assured her.

“I know that it’s been four years,” she continued, “but as I haven’t seen you…”