When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(76)

Michael gave her an insolent salute and then went back to work on his boots, giving the second one a firm yank before gingerly picking up both by the tops and setting them down near the door. “Don’t touch those,” he said absently, moving over to the fireplace. “They’re filthy.”

“I couldn’t get the fire started,” she said, still standing awkwardly near the hearth. “I’m sorry. I haven’t much experience in that area, I’m afraid. I did find some dry wood in the corner, though.” She motioned to the grate, where she’d set down a couple of logs.

He set to work igniting a flame, his hands still stinging a bit from the scrapes he’d incurred clearing the bramble out of the chicken shed for Felix. He welcomed the pain, actually. Minor as it was, it still gave him something to think about other than the woman standing behind him.

She was angry.



He should have expected that. He did expect it, in truth, but what he didn’t expect was how much it would sting his pride, and, in all honesty, his heart. He had known, of course, that she wouldn’t suddenly declare her undying love for him after one episode of relentless passion, but he’d been just enough of a fool that a tiny little piece of him had hoped for such an outcome, all the same.

Who would have thought, after all his years of bad behavior, that he’d emerge such a hopeless romantic?

But Francesca would come around, he was fairly certain of that. She’d have to. She’d been compromised—quite thoroughly, he thought with some measure of satisfaction. And while she’d not been a virgin, that still meant something to a principled woman like Francesca.

He was left with a decision—did he wait out her anger, or did he needle and push until she accepted the inevitability of the situation? The latter was sure to leave him bruised and gasping, but he rather thought it presented a greater chance of success.

If he left her alone, she would think the problem into oblivion, maybe find a way to pretend nothing had ever happened.

“Did you get it started?” he heard her ask from across the room.

He fanned a spark for a few more seconds, then let out a satisfied exhale when tiny orange flames began to flicker and lick. “I’ll have to nurse it along for a little while longer,” he said, turning around to look at her. “But yes, it should be going strong quite soon.”

“Good,” she said succinctly. She took a few steps backward until she was butted up against the bed. “I’ll be right here.”

He couldn’t help but crack a wry smile at that. The cottage held a single room. Where else did she think she was going to go?



“You,” she said, with much the air of an unpopular governess, “can remain over there.”

He followed the line of her pointed finger to the opposite corner. “Really?” he drawled.

“I think it’s best.”

He shrugged. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.” And then he stood and began to strip off his clothing.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

He smiled to himself, keeping his back to her. “Keeping to my corner,” he said, tossing the words lightly over his shoulder.

“You are taking your clothes off,” she said, somehow managing to sound shocked and haughty at the same time.

“I suggest you do the same,” he said, frowning as he noticed a streak of blood on his sleeve. Damn, but his hands really were a mess.

“I most certainly will not,” Francesca said.

“Hold this, will you?” he said, tossing her his shirt. She shrieked as it hit her in the chest, which brought him no small measure of satisfaction.

“Michael!” she exclaimed, hurling the garment back at him.

“Sorry,” he said in his most unrepentant voice. “Thought you might like to use it as a cloth to wipe up.”

“Put your shirt back on,” she ground out.

“And freeze?” he asked, lifting one arrogant brow. “Malaria or no, I have no wish to catch a chill. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” And then, over her gasp, he added, “No, wait. I do beg your pardon. You haven’t seen it. I didn’t manage to get anything more than my trousers off last night, did I?”

“Get out,” she said, her voice low and furious.



He just chuckled and cocked his head toward the window, which was thrumming with the sound of the rain against the glass. “I don’t think so, Francesca. You’re stuck with me for the duration, I’m afraid.”

As if to prove his point, the small cottage shook down to its foundations with the force of thunder.

“You might want to turn around,” Michael said conversationally. Her eyes widened slightly in incomprehension, so he added, “I’m about to remove my breeches.”

She let out a little grunt of outrage, but she turned.

“Oh, and get off the blanket,” he called out, peeling off his sodden clothing. “You’re soaking it.”

For a second he thought she would plant her bottom even more firmly against it, just to defy him, but her good sense must have won out, because she stood and yanked the coverlet from the bed, shaking off whatever drops she’d left behind.

He walked over—it took only four steps with his lengthy stride—and pulled the other blanket off for himself. It wasn’t as substantial as the one she held, but it would do. “I’m covered,” he called out, once he was safely back in his corner.