When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(31)

End of story.

But now he was going to have to watch. Maybe even advise.

Bloody hell.

He shivered again. Damn. Maybe he was just cold. It was March, after all, and a chilly one at that, even with a fire in the grate.



He tugged at his cravat, which was starting to feel unaccountably tight, then yanked it off altogether. Christ, he felt like the very devil, all hot and cold, and queerly off balance.

He sat down. It seemed the best course of action.

And then he just gave up all pretense of being well, stripping off the rest of his clothing and crawling into bed.

It was going to be a long night.





Chapter 8




…wonderful lovely nice good to hear from you. I am glad you are faring well. John would have been proud. I miss you. I miss him. I miss you. Some of the flowers are still out. Isn’t it nice that some of the flowers are still out?

—from the Countess of Kilmartin to the Earl of Kilmartin, one week after the receipt of his second missive to her, first draft, never finished, never sent

“Didn’t Michael say that he would be joining us for supper this evening?”

Francesca looked up at her mother, who was standing before her with concerned eyes. She had been thinking the exact same thing, actually, wondering what was keeping him.

She’d spent the better part of the day dreading his arrival, even though he had absolutely no idea that she had been so distressed by that moment in the park. Good heavens, he probably didn’t even realize there had been a “moment.”

It was the first time in her life that Francesca was thankful for the general obtuseness of men.

“Yes, he did say that he would come,” she replied, shifting slightly in her chair. She had been waiting for some time now in the drawing room with her mother and two of her sisters, idly passing the time until their supper guest arrived.

“Didn’t we give him the time?” Violet asked.

Francesca nodded. “I confirmed it with him when he left me here after our stroll in the park.” She was quite certain of the exchange; she clearly recalled feeling rather sick in her stomach when they had spoken of it. She hadn’t wanted to see him again—not so quickly, anyway—but what could she do? Her mother had issued the invitation.

“He’s probably just running late,” said Hyacinth, Francesca’s youngest sister. “I’m not surprised. His sort is always late.”

Francesca turned on her instantly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve heard all about his reputation.”

“What has his reputation to do with anything?” Francesca asked testily. “And anyway, what would you know of it? He left England years before you made your bow.”

Hyacinth shrugged, jabbing a needle into her extremely untidy embroidery. “People still speak of him,” she said carelessly. “The ladies swoon like idiots at the mere mention of his name, if you must know.”

“There’s no other way to swoon,” put in Eloise, who, although Francesca’s elder by precisely one year, was still unmarried.



“Well, rake he may be,” Francesca said archly, “but he has always been punctual to a fault.” She never could countenance others speaking ill of Michael. She might sigh and moan and belabor his faults, but it was entirely unacceptable that Hyacinth, whose knowledge of Michael was based entirely on rumor and innuendo, would make such a sweeping judgment.

“Believe what you will,” Francesca said sharply, because there was no way she was going to allow Hyacinth to have the last word, “but he would never be late to a supper here. He holds Mother in far too high regard.”

“What about his regard for you?” Hyacinth said.

Francesca glared at her sister, who was smirking into her embroidery. “He—” No, she wasn’t going to do this. She wasn’t going to sit here and get into an argument with her younger sister, not when something might actually be wrong. Michael was, for all his wicked ways, faultlessly polite and considerate to the bone, or at least he had always been so in her presence. And he would never have arrived for supper—she glanced up at the mantel clock—over thirty minutes late. Not, at least, without sending word.

She stood, briskly smoothing down her dove gray skirts. “I am going to Kilmartin House,” she announced.

“By yourself?” Violet asked.

“By myself,” Francesca said firmly. “It is my home, after all. I hardly think that tongues will wag if I stop by for a quick visit.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” her mother said. “But don’t stay too long.”

“Mother, I am a widow. And I do not plan to spend the night. I merely intend to inquire as to Michael’s welfare. I shall be just fine, I assure you.”

Violet nodded, but from her expression, Francesca could see that she would have liked to have said more. It had been like this for years—Violet wanted to resume her role of mother hen to her young widowed daughter, but she held back, attempting to respect her independence.

She didn’t always manage to resist interfering, but she tried, and Francesca was grateful for the effort.

“Do you want me to accompany you?” Hyacinth asked, her eyes lighting up.

“No!” Francesca said, surprise making her tone a bit more vehement than she’d intended it. “Why on earth would you want to?”