When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(44)

And then Kate said, “We shall have to set this about, of course.”

Francesca was aghast. “I beg your pardon?”

“The blue dress is an excellent signal of your intentions,” Kate explained, “but do you really think the men of London are perceptive enough to grasp it? Of course not,” she said, answering her own question before anyone else could. “I could dye Sophie’s hair to black, and most of them wouldn’t notice a thing.”

“Well, Benedict would notice,” Sophie pointed out loyally.



“Yes, well, he’s your husband, and besides that, he’s a painter. He’s trained to actually notice things. Most men—” Kate cut herself off, looking rather irritated with the turn in the conversation. “You do see my point, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Francesca murmured.

“The fact of the matter,” Kate continued, “is that most of humanity has more hair than wit. If you wish for people to be aware that you are on the Marriage Mart, you shall have to make it quite clear. Or rather, we shall have to make it clear for you.”

Francesca had horrible visions of her female relatives, chasing down men until the poor fellows ran screaming for the doors. “What, precisely, do you mean to do?”

“Oh, goodness, don’t cast up your dinner.”

“Kate!” Sophie exclaimed.

“Well, you must admit that she looked as if she were about to.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Well, yes, but you needn’t have remarked upon it.”

“I enjoyed the comment,” Eloise put in helpfully.

Francesca speared her with a glare, since she was feeling the need to give some one a dirty look, and it was always easiest to do so with one’s blood relatives.

“We shall be masters of tact and discretion,” Kate said.

“Trust us,” Eloise added.

“Well, I certainly can’t stop you,” Francesca said.

She noticed that even Sophie did not contradict her.

“Very well,” she said. “I am off to obtain one last éclair.”

“I think they’re gone,” Sophie said, giving her a sympathetic look.

Francesca’s heart sank. “The chocolate biscuits?”

“Gone as well.”



“What’s left?”

“The almond cake.”

“The one that tasted like dust?”

“That’s the one,” Eloise put in. “It was the only dessert Mother didn’t sample ahead of time. I warned her, of course, but no one ever listens to me.”

Francesca felt herself deflate. Pathetic as she was, the promise of a sweet was the only thing keeping her going just then.

“Cheer up, Frannie,” Eloise said, her chin lifting a notch as she looked out over the crowd. “I see Michael.”

And sure enough, there he was. Standing on the other side of the room, looking sinfully elegant in his black evening kit. He was surrounded by women, which didn’t surprise Francesca in the least. Half were the sorts who were pursuing him for marriage, either for themselves or their daughters.

The other half, Francesca noted, were young and married, and clearly pursuing him for something else entirely.

“I’d forgotten how handsome he was,” Kate murmured.

Francesca glared at her.

“He’s very tanned,” Sophie added.

“He was in India,” Francesca said. “Of course he’s tanned.”

“You’re rather short of temper this evening,” Eloise said.

Francesca schooled her features into an impassive mask. “I’m just weary of being asked about him, that’s all. He’s not my favorite topic of conversation.”

“Did the two of you have a falling out?” Sophie inquired.

“No, of course not,” Francesca replied, realizing belatedly that she’d given the wrong impression. “But I have done nothing but speak of him all evening. At this point I would be quite delighted to comment on the weather.”



“Hmmm.”

“Yes.”

“Right. Of course.”

Francesca had no idea who’d said what, especially when she realized that all four of them were just standing there staring at Michael and his bevy of women.

“He is handsome.” Sophie sighed. “All that delicious black hair.”

“Sophie!” Francesca exclaimed.

“Well, he is,” Sophie said defensively. “And you didn’t say anything to Kate when she made the same comment.”

“You’re both married,” Francesca muttered.

“Does that mean I might comment upon his good looks?” Eloise asked. “Spinster that I am.”

Francesca turned to her sister in disbelief. “Michael is the last man you’d want to marry.”

“Why is that?” This came from Sophie, but Francesca noticed that Eloise was listening closely for her answer as well.

“Because he’s a terrible rake,” Francesca said.

“Funny,” Eloise murmured. “You flew quite off the handle when Hyacinth said the same thing a fortnight ago.”

Trust Eloise to remember every thing. “Hyacinth didn’t know what she was talking about,” Francesca said. “She never does. And besides, we were talking about his punctuality, not his marriageability.”