When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(57)

“No, no.”

Francesca’s voice.

His ears pricked up and he took a few steps in the direction of her voice. She didn’t sound upset, but she was saying no. Of course, she could be laughing about a joke, or maybe some inane piece of gossip.

“I really must—No!”

And that was all it took for Michael to move.



Francesca knew that she shouldn’t have come outside with Sir Geoffrey Fowler, but he had been polite and charming, and she was feeling a trifle warm in the crowded ballroom. It was the sort of thing she’d never have done as an unmarried debutante, but widows weren’t held to quite the same standards, and besides, Sir Geoffrey had said that he would leave the door ajar.

All had been perfectly pleasant for the first few minutes. Sir Geoffrey made her laugh, and he made her feel beautiful, and it was almost heartbreaking to realize how much she’d missed that. And so she had laughed and flirted, and allowed herself to melt into the moment. She wanted to feel like a woman again—maybe not in the fullest sense of the word, but still, was it so wrong to enjoy the heady intoxication of knowing that she was desired?

Maybe they were all after her now infamous double dowry, maybe they wanted the alignment with two of Britain’s most notable families—Francesca was both a Bridgerton and a Stirling, after all. But for one lovely evening, she was going to let herself believe it was all about her.

But then Sir Geoffrey had moved closer. Francesca had backed up as discreetly as she was able, but he took another step in her direction, and then another, and before she knew it, her back was against a fat-trunked tree, and Sir Geoffrey’s hands were planted against the bark, each uncomfortably close to her head.

“Sir Geoffrey,” Francesca said, endeavoring to remain polite as long as she possibly could, “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding. I believe I would like to return to the party.” She kept her voice light and friendly, not wishing to provoke him into something she would regret.

His head dipped an inch closer to hers. “Now, why would you want to do that?” he murmured.

“No, no,” she said, ducking to the side as he came in closer, “people will be missing me.” Dash it all, she was going to have to stamp on his foot, or worse, unman him in the manner her brothers had taught her back when she was a green girl. “Sir Geoffrey,” she said, trying one last time for civility, “I really must—”

And then his mouth, wet and mushy and entirely unwelcome, landed on hers.

“—No!” she managed to squeal.

But he was quite determined to mash her with his lips. Francesca twisted this way and that, but he was stronger than she had realized, and he clearly had no intention of letting her escape. Still struggling, she maneuvered her leg so that she might jam her knee up into his groin, but before she could do that, Sir Geoffrey seemed to…quite simply…disappear.

“Oh!” The surprised sound flew from her lips of its own accord. There was a flurry of movement, a noise that sounded rather sickeningly like knuckles on flesh, and one very heartfelt cry of pain. By the time Francesca had any idea what was going on, Sir Geoffrey was sprawled on the ground, swearing most vehemently, and a large man loomed over him, his boot planted firmly on Sir Geoffrey’s chest.

“Michael?” Francesca asked, unable to believe her eyes.



“Say the word,” Michael said, in a voice she had never dreamed could cross his lips, “and I will crush his ribs.”

“No!” Francesca said quickly. She’d not have felt the least bit guilty for kneeing Sir Geoffrey between the legs, but she didn’t want Michael to kill the man.

And from the look on Michael’s face, she was quite certain he would have happily done so.

“That’s not necessary,” she said, hurrying to Michael’s side and then backing up when she saw the feral gleam in his eyes. “Er, perhaps we could just ask him to leave?”

For a moment Michael did nothing but stare at her. Hard, in the eyes, and with an intensity that robbed her of the ability to breathe. Then he ground his boot down into Sir Geoffrey’s chest. Not too very much harder, but enough to make the supine man grunt with discomfort.

“Are you certain?” Michael bit off.

“Yes, please, there’s no need to hurt him,” Francesca said. Good heavens, this would be a nightmare if anyone caught them thus. Her reputation would be tarnished, and heaven knew what they’d say about Michael, attacking a well-respected baronet. “I shouldn’t have come out here with him,” she added.

“No, you shouldn’t have done,” Michael said harshly, “but that hardly gives him leave to force his attentions on you.” Abruptly, he removed his boot from Sir Geoffrey’s chest and hauled the quivering man to his feet. Grabbing him by his lapels, he pinned him against the tree and then jerked his own body forward until the two men were nearly nose to nose.

“Doesn’t feel so good to be trapped, does it?” Michael taunted.

Sir Geoffrey said nothing, just stared at him in terror.

“Do you have something to say to the lady?”

Sir Geoffrey shook his head frantically.



Michael slammed his head back against the tree. “Think harder!” he growled.

“I’m sorry!” Sir Geoffrey squeaked.