When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(54)

But Michael had long suspected there was quite a bit of substance under Colin’s ever-jovial surface, and perhaps it was because they were alike in so many ways, but Michael had always feared that if anyone were to sense the truth of his feelings for Francesca, it would be this brother.

“I was having a quiet drink when I heard the commotion,” Colin said, motioning to a private salon. “Come join me.”

Michael wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of the club, but Colin was Francesca’s brother, which made them relations of a sort, requiring at least the pretense of politeness. And so he gritted his teeth and walked into the private salon, fully intending to take his drink and leave in under ten minutes.

“Pleasant night, don’t you think?” Colin said, once Michael was pretending to be comfortable. “Aside from Hardwick and all that.” He sat back in his chair with careless grace. “He’s an ass.”

Michael gave him a terse nod, trying not to notice that Francesca’s brother was watching him as he always did, his shrewd gaze carefully overlaid with an air of charming innocence. Colin cocked his head slightly to the side, rather as if, Michael thought acerbically, he were angling for a better look into his soul.

“Damn it all,” Michael muttered under his breath, and he rang for a waiter.

“What was that?” Colin asked.

Michael turned slowly back to face him. “Do you want another drink?” he asked, his words as clear as he could manage, considering they had to squeeze through his clenched teeth.

“I believe I will,” Colin replied, all friendliness and good cheer.

Michael didn’t believe his fa?ade for a moment.

“Do you have any plans for the remainder of the evening?” Colin asked.

“None.”

“Neither do I, as it happens,” Colin murmured.

Damn. Again. Was it really too much to wish for one bloody hour of solitude?

“Thank you for defending Francesca’s honor,” Colin said quietly.

Michael’s first impulse was to growl that he didn’t need to be thanked; it was his place as well as any Bridgerton’s to defend Francesca’s honor, but Colin’s green eyes seemed uncommonly sharp that evening, so he just nodded instead. “Your sister deserves to be treated with respect,” he finally said, making sure that his voice was smooth and even.

“Of course,” Colin said, inclining his head.

Their drinks arrived. Michael fought the urge to down his in one gulp, but he did take a large enough sip for it to burn down his throat.

Colin, on the other hand, let out an appreciative sigh and sat back. “Excellent whisky,” he said with great appreciation. “Best thing about Britain, really. Or one of them at least. One just can’t get anything like it in Cyprus.”



Michael just grunted a response. It was all that seemed necessary.

Colin took another drink, clearly savoring the brew. “Ahhh,” he said, setting his glass down. “Almost as good as a woman.”

Michael grunted again, raising his glass to his lips.

And then Colin said, “You should just marry her, you know.”

Michael nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Marry her,” Colin said with a shrug. “It seems simple enough.”

It was probably too much to hope that Colin was speaking of anyone but Francesca, but Michael took one desperate stab, anyway, and said, in quite the chilliest tone he could muster, “To whom, might I ask, do you refer?”

Colin lifted his eyebrows. “Do we really need to play this game?”

“I can’t marry Francesca,” Michael sputtered.

“Why not?”

“Because—” He cut himself off. Because there were a hundred reasons he couldn’t marry her, none of which he could speak aloud. So he just said, “She was married to my cousin.”

“Last I checked, there was nothing illegal in that.”

No, but there was everything immoral. He’d wanted Francesca for so long, loved her for what felt like an eternity—even when John had been living. He had deceived his cousin in the basest way possible; he would not compound the betrayal by stealing his wife.

It would complete the ugly circle that had led to his being the Earl of Kilmartin, a title that was never supposed to have been his. None of it was supposed to be his. And except for those damned boots he’d forced Reivers to toss in a wardrobe, Francesca was the only thing left of John’s that he hadn’t made his own.



John’s death had given him fabulous wealth. It had given him power, prestige, and the title of earl.

If it gave him Francesca as well, how could he possibly hang onto the thread of hope that he hadn’t somehow, even if only in his dreams, wished for this to happen?

How could he live with himself then?

“She has to marry someone,” Colin said.

Michael looked up, aware that he’d been silent with his thoughts for some time. And that Colin had been watching him closely all the while. He shrugged, trying to maintain a cavalier mien, even though he suspected it wouldn’t fool the man across the table. “She’ll do what she wants,” he said. “She always does.”

“She might marry hastily,” Colin murmured. “She wants to have children before she’s too old.”