When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(55)

“She’s not too old.”

“No, but she might think she is. And she might worry that others will think she is, as well. She didn’t conceive with your cousin, after all. Well, not successfully.”

Michael had to clutch the end of the table to keep from rising. He could have had Shakespeare at his side to translate, and still not have been able to explain why Colin’s remark infuriated him so.

“If she chooses too hastily,” Colin added, almost offhandedly, “she might choose someone who would be cruel to her.”

“Francesca?” Michael asked derisively. Maybe some other woman would be that foolish, but not his Francesca.

Colin shrugged. “It could happen.”

“Even if it did,” Michael countered, “she would never remain in such a marriage.”

“What choice would she have?”

“This is Francesca,” Michael said. Which really should have explained it all.



“I suppose you’re right,” Colin acceded, sipping at his drink. “She could always take refuge with the Bridgertons. We would certainly never force her to return to a cruel spouse.” He set his glass down on the table and sat back. “Besides, the point is moot, anyway, is it not?”

There was something strange in Colin’s tone, something hidden and provoking. Michael looked up sharply, unable to resist the impulse to search the other man’s face for clues to his agenda. “And why is that?” he asked.

Colin took another sip of his drink. Michael noticed that the volume of liquid in the glass never seemed to go down.

Colin toyed with his glass for several moments before looking up, his gaze settling on Michael’s face. To anyone else, it might have seemed a bland expression, but there was something in Colin’s eyes that made Michael want to squirm in his seat. They were sharp and piercing, and although different in color, shaped precisely like Francesca’s.

It was damned eerie, that.

“Why is the point moot?” Colin murmured thoughtfully. “Well, because you so clearly don’t wish to marry her.”

Michael opened his mouth for a quick retort, then slammed it shut when he realized—with more than considerable shock—that he’d been about to say, “Of course I do.”

And he did.

He wanted to marry her.

He just didn’t think he could live with his conscience if he did.

“Are you quite all right?” Colin asked.

Michael blinked. “Perfectly so, why?”

Colin’s head tilted slightly to the side. “For a moment there, you looked…” He gave his head a shake. “It’s nothing.”

“What, Bridgerton?” Michael nearly snapped.

“Surprised,” Colin said. “You looked rather surprised. Bit odd, I thought.”

Dear God, one more moment with Colin Bridgerton, and the bloody bastard would have all of Michael’s secrets laid open and bare. Michael pushed his chair back. “I need to be going,” he said abruptly.

“Of course,” Colin said genially, as if their entire conversation had consisted of horses and the weather.

Michael stood, then gave a curt nod. It wasn’t a terribly warm farewell, considering that they were relations of a sort, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

“Think about what I said,” Colin murmured, just when Michael had reached the door.

Michael let out a harsh laugh as he pushed through the door and into the hall. As if he’d be able to think about anything else.

For the rest of his life.





Chapter 13




…all at home is pleasant and well, and Kilmartin thrives under Francesca’s careful stewardship. She continues to mourn John, but then of course, so do we all, as, I’m sure, do you. You might consider writing to her directly. I know that she misses you. I do pass along all of your tales, but I am certain you would relate them to her in a different fashion than you do to your mother.

—from Helen Stirling to her son, the Earl of Kilmartin, two years after his departure for India

The rest of the week passed in a supremely annoying blur of flowers, candy, and one appalling display of poetry, recited aloud, Michael recalled with a shudder, on his front steps.

Francesca, it seemed, was putting all the fresh-faced debutantes to shame. The number of men vying for her hand might not have been doubling every day, but it certainly felt like it to Michael, who was constantly tripping over some lovesick swain in the hall.



It was enough to make a man want to vomit. Preferably on the lovesick swain.

Of course he had his admirers as well, but as it was not suitable for a lady to call upon a gentleman, he generally only had to deal with them when he chose to do so, and not when they took it upon themselves to stop by unannounced and for no apparent reason other than to compare his eyes to—

Well, to whatever one would compare your average gray eyes. It was a stupid analogy, anyway, although Michael had been forced to listen to more than one man rhapsodize over Francesca’s eyes.

Good God, didn’t any of them have an original thought in his head? Forget that everyone made mention of her eyes; at the very least one of them could have had the creativity to compare them to something other than the water or the sky.

Michael snorted with disgust. Anyone who took the time to really look at Francesca’s eyes would have realized that they were quite their own color.