When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(24)

“I am quite sure that you are correct,” Michael said, accepting a cup from Francesca. She had remembered how he took it—milk, no sugar. For some reason this pleased him immensely. “She has been the countess for six years, and for four of them, she has had to be the earl as well.” At Francesca’s startled glance, he added, “In every way but in name. Oh, come now, Francesca, you must realize that it is true.”

“I—”

“And,” he added, “that it is a compliment. I owe you a greater debt than I could ever repay. I could not have stayed away so long had I not known that the earldom was in such capable hands.”

Francesca actually blushed, which surprised him. In all the years he’d known her, he could count on one hand the times he had seen her cheeks go pink.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. “It was no difficulty, I assure you.”

“Perhaps, but it is appreciated all the same.” He lifted his teacup to his lips, allowing the ladies to direct the conversation from there.

Which they did. Violet asked him about his time in India, and before he knew it he was telling them of palaces and princesses, caravans and curries. He left out the marauders and malaria, deciding they weren’t quite the thing for a drawing-room conversation.

After a while he realized that he was enjoying himself immensely. Maybe, he thought, reflecting on the moment as Violet said something about an Indian-themed ball she’d attended the year before, just maybe he’d made the right decision.

It might actually be good to be home.



An hour later, Francesca found herself on Michael’s arm, strolling through Hyde Park. The sun had broken through the clouds, and when she had declared that she could not resist the fine weather, Michael had had no choice but to offer to accompany her for a walk.

“It’s rather like old times,” she said, tilting her face up toward the sun. She’d most likely end up with a ghastly tan, or at the very least freckles, but she supposed she’d always look like pale porcelain next to Michael, whose skin marked him immediately as a recent returnee from the tropics.

“Walking, you mean?” he asked. “Or your expertly maneuvering me into accompanying you?”

She tried to maintain a straight face. “Both, of course. You used to take me out a great deal. Whenever John was busy.”

“So I did.”

They walked on in silence for a few moments, and then he said, “I was a bit surprised to find you gone this morning.”

“I hope you understand why I had to leave,” she said. “I didn’t want to, of course; returning to my mother’s home makes me feel as if I’m stepping right back into childhood.” She felt her lips pinching together in distaste. “I adore her, of course, but I’ve grown rather used to maintaining my own household.”

“Would you like me to take up residence elsewhere?”

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “You are the earl. Kilmartin House belongs to you. Besides, Helen and Janet are only a week behind me; they should arrive soon, and then I will be able to move back in.”

“Chin up, Francesca. I’m sure you will endure.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “It is nothing that you—or any man, for that matter—will understand, but I much prefer my status as a married woman to that of a debutante. When I’m at Number Five, with both Eloise and Hyacinth in residence, I feel as if I’m back in my first season, with all the attendant rules and regulations.”

“Not all of them,” he pointed out. “If that were true, you’d not be allowed out with me right now.”

“True,” she acceded. “Especially with you, I imagine.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

She laughed. “Oh, come now, Michael. Did you really think that your reputation would find itself whitewashed just because you left the country for four years?”

“Francesca—”

“You’re a legend.”

He looked aghast.

“It’s true,” she said, wondering why he was so surprised. “Goodness, women are still talking about you.”

“Not to you, I hope,” he muttered.

“Oh, to me above all others.” She grinned wickedly. “They all want to know when you plan to return. And it’s sure to be worse once word gets out that you’re back. I must say, it’s rather an odd role—confidante to London’s most notorious rake.”

“Confidante, eh?”

“What else would you call it?”

“No, no, confidante is a perfectly appropriate word. It’s just that if you think I’ve confided everything in you…”

Francesca shot him a cross expression. This was so like him, letting his words trail off meaningfully, leaving her imagination feverish with questions. “I take it then,” she muttered, “that you did not share with us all the news from India.”

He just smiled. Devilishly.

“Very well. Allow me, then, to move the conversation to more respectable areas. What do you plan to do now that you are back? Will you take up your seat in Parliament?”

He appeared not to have considered that.

“It is what John would have wanted,” she said, knowing that she was being fiendishly manipulative.