When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(46)

Well, that and the fact that she rather feared Eloise was right.

And it was mortifying to think that she might have turned coward over Michael, of all people.





Chapter 11




…I have heard from Michael. Three times, actually. I have not yet responded. You would be disappointed in me, I’m sure. But I—

—from the Countess of Kilmartin to her deceased husband, ten months after Michael’s departure for India, crumpled with a muttered, “This is madness,” and tossed in the fire

Michael had spotted Francesca the moment he’d entered the ballroom. She was standing at the far side of the room, chatting with her sisters, wearing a blue gown and new hairstyle.

And he noticed the instant she left as well, exiting through the door in the northwest wall, presumably to go to the ladies’ retiring room, which he knew was just down the hall.

Worst of all, he was quite certain he would be equally aware of her return, even though he was conversing with about a dozen other ladies, all of whom thought he was giving their little gathering his full attention.



It was like a sickness with him, a sixth sense. He couldn’t be in a room with Francesca and not know where she was. It had been like this since the moment they’d met, and the only thing that made it bearable was that she hadn’t a clue.

It was one of the things he had most enjoyed about India. She wasn’t there; he never had to be aware of her. But she’d haunted him still. Every now and then he’d catch a glimpse of chestnut hair that caught the candlelight as hers did, or someone would laugh, and for a split second it sounded like hers. His breath would catch, and he would look for her, even though he knew she wasn’t there.

It was hell, and usually worthy of a stiff drink. Or a night spent with his latest paramour.

Or both.

But that was over, and now he was back in London, and he was surprised by how easy it was to fall into his old role as the devil-may-care charmer. Nothing much had changed in town; oh, some of the faces were different, but the aggregate sum of the ton was the same. Lady Bridgerton’s birthday fête was much as he had anticipated, although he had to admit that he was a little taken aback at the level of curiosity aroused by his reappearance in London. It seemed the Merry Rake had become the Dashing Earl, and within the first fifteen minutes of his arrival, he had been accosted by no fewer than eight—no make that nine, mustn’t forget Lady Bridgerton herself—society matrons, all eager to court his favor and, of course, introduce him to their lovely and unattached daughters.

He wasn’t quite sure if it was amusing or hell.

Amusing, he decided, for now at least. By next week he had no doubt it would be hell.

After another fifteen minutes of introductions, reintroductions, and only slightly veiled propositions (thankfully by a widow and not one of the debutantes or their mothers), he announced his intention to locate his hostess and excused himself from the crowd.

And then there she was. Francesca. Halfway across the room, of course, which meant that he’d have to make his way through the punishing crowd if he wanted to speak with her. She looked breathtakingly lovely in a deep blue gown, and he realized that for all her talk about buying herself a new wardrobe, this was the first he’d seen her out of her half-mourning colors.

Then it hit him again. She was finally out of mourning. She would remarry. She would laugh and flirt and wear blue and find a husband.

And it would probably all happen in the space of a month. Once she made clear her intention to remarry, the men would be beating down her door. How could anyone not want to marry her? She might not have been as youthful as the other women looking for husbands, but she had something the younger debutantes lacked—a sparkle, a vivacity, a gleam of intelligence in her eyes that brought something extra to her beauty.

She was still alone, standing in the doorway. Amazingly, no one else seemed to have noticed her entrance, so Michael decided to brave the crowds and make his way to her.

But she saw him first, and although she did not exactly smile, her lips curved, and her eyes flashed with recognition, and as she walked to him, his breath caught.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. And yet it did. Every time he thought he knew everything about her, had unwillingly memorized every last detail, something inside her flickered and changed, and he felt himself falling anew.

He would never escape her, this woman. He would never escape her, and he could never have her. Even with John gone, it was impossible, quite simply wrong. There was too much there. Too much had happened, and he would never be able to shake the feeling that he had somehow stolen her.

Or worse, that he had wished for this. That he had wanted John gone and out of the way, wanted the title and Francesca and everything else.

He closed the distance between them, meeting her halfway. “Francesca,” he murmured, making his voice smooth and personable, “it is a delight to see you.”

“And you as well,” she replied. She smiled then, but it was in an amused sort of fashion, and he had the unexpected sense that she was mocking him. But there seemed little to be gained by pointing this out; it would only demonstrate how attuned he was to her every expression. And so he just said, “Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“Of course. Have you?”

“Of course.”

She quirked a brow. “Even in your present state of solitude?”