When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(69)

“Why not?”

Why not? Because…Because…“Because I can’t!” she finally burst out. “For heaven’s sake, you of all people ought to understand the insanity of such a suggestion.”

“I will allow that on first reflection, it seems highly irregular, but if you simply listen to my arguments, you will see the sense in it.”

She gaped at him. “How can it make sense? I can’t think of anything that makes less sense!”

“You won’t have to move,” he said, ticking the items off on his fingers, “and you will retain your title and position.”

Convenient, both items, but hardly reason enough to marry Michael, who…well…Michael.

“You will be able to enter into the marriage knowing that you will be treated with care and respect,” he added. “It could take months to reach the same conclusion about another man, and even then, could you really be certain? Early impressions can be deceiving, after all.”

She searched his face, trying to see if there was anything, anything behind his words. There had to be some sort of reason for this, because she just couldn’t grasp that he was proposing. It was mad. It was…

Good God, she wasn’t sure what it was. Was there a word to apply to something that quite simply removed the earth from beneath one’s feet?

“I will give you children,” he said softly. “Or at least, I will try.”

She blushed. She felt it in an instant, her cheeks turning a furiously hot pink. She didn’t want to imagine herself in bed with him. She’d spent the last week desperately trying not to do that.

“What will you gain?” she whispered.

He appeared momentarily startled by her query, but he quickly recovered and said, “I will have a wife who has been running my estates for years. I am certainly not so proud that I would not take advantage of your superior knowledge.”

She nodded. Just once, but it was enough to signal for him to continue.

“I already know you and trust you,” he said. “And I am secure in the knowledge that you will not stray.”

“I can’t think about this right now,” she said, bringing her hands to her face. Her head was spinning with it all, and she had the horrible sensation that it would never quite recover.

“It makes sense,” Michael said. “You need only consider—”

“No,” she said, desperately searching for a resolute tone. “It would never work. You know that.” She turned away, not wanting to look at him. “I can’t believe you would even consider it.”



“I couldn’t either,” he admitted, “when the idea first came to me. But once it did, I couldn’t let it go, and I soon realized it made perfect sense.”

She pressed her fingers into her temples. For God’s sake, why did he keep carping on about sense? If he uttered the word one more time she thought she might scream.

And how could he be so calm? She wasn’t certain how she thought he ought to act; she’d certainly never imagined this moment. But something about his bloodless recitation of a proposal gnawed at her. He was so cool, so collected. A bit nervous, perhaps, but with his emotions completely even and unengaged.

Whereas she felt as if her world might spin right off its axis.

It wasn’t fair.

And for that moment at least, she hated him for making her feel that way.

“I’m going upstairs,” she said abruptly. “I’ll have to talk with you about it in the morning.”

She almost made it. She was more than halfway to the door when she felt his hand on her arm, his grasp gentle and yet holding her with unrelenting strength.

“Wait,” he said, and she could not move.

“What do you want?” she whispered. She wasn’t looking at him, but she could see his face in her mind, the way his midnight hair fell over his forehead, his heavy-lidded eyes, framed with lashes so long they could make an angel weep.

And his lips. Most of all, she could see his lips, perfectly shaped, finely molded, perpetually curved into that devilish expression of his, as if he knew things, understood the world in a way that more innocent mortals never would.

His hand traveled up her arm until it reached her shoulder, and then one of his fingers traced a feather-light line down the side of her neck.

His voice, when it came, was low and husky, and she felt it right in the very center of her being.

“Don’t you want another kiss?”





Chapter 17




…yes, of course. Francesca is a wonder. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

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

Michael wasn’t certain when it had become apparent to him that he would have to seduce her. He’d tried to appeal to her mind, to her innate sense of the practical and wise, and it wasn’t working.

And it couldn’t be about emotion, because that, he knew, was one-sided.

So it would have to be passion.

He wanted her—Oh, God, he wanted her. With an intensity he hadn’t even imagined before he’d kissed her the week previous in London. But even as his blood raced with desire and need and, yes, love, his mind was sharp and calculating, and he knew that if he was to bind her to him, he would need to do it with this. He would have to claim her in a way she could not deny. He couldn’t just try to convince her with words and thoughts and ideas. She could attempt to talk herself out of that, pretend the feelings weren’t there.