When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(84)

The one emotion Michael had never truly thought he could apply to himself.

Happy.

Imagine that.



Francesca had been waiting for Michael to knock upon her door, but when the rap came, she still jumped with surprise.

Her shock was much greater when she opened the door and found she had to lower her gaze considerably. A full foot, to be precise. Michael wasn’t on the other side of her door. It was just one of the housemaids, carrying a supper tray for her.

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Francesca poked her head into the hall, looking this way and that, fully expecting Michael to be lurking in some darkened corner, just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

But he was nowhere.

“His lordship thought you might be hungry,” the maid said, setting the tray down on Francesca’s escritoire.

Francesca scanned the contents for a note, a flower, something to indicate Michael’s intentions, but there was nothing.



And there was nothing for the rest of the night, and nothing the next morning, either.

Nothing but a breakfast tray, and another bob and curtsy from the housemaid, with another, “His lordship thought you might be hungry.”

Francesca had asked for time to think, and that appeared to be exactly what he was giving her.

And it was horrible.

Granted, it would probably have been worse if he’d disregarded her wishes and not allowed her to be alone. Clearly, she could not be trusted in his presence. And she didn’t particularly trust him, either, with his sultry looks and whispered questions.

Will you kiss me, Francesca? Will you let me kiss you?

And she couldn’t refuse, not when he was standing so close, his eyes—his amazing, silver, heavy-lidded eyes—watching her with such smoldering intensity.

He mesmerized her. That could be the only explanation.

She dressed herself that morning, donning a serviceable day dress which would serve her well out of doors. She didn’t want to remain cooped up in her room, but neither did she wish to roam the halls of Kilmartin, holding her breath as she turned each corner, waiting for Michael to appear before her.

She supposed he could find her outside if he really wanted to, but at least he would have to expend a bit of effort to do it.

She ate her breakfast, surprised that she had an appetite under such circumstances, and then slipped out of her room, shaking her head at herself as she peered stealthily down the hall, acting like nothing so much as a burglar, eager to make a clean escape.

This was what she’d been reduced to, she thought grumpily.



But she didn’t see him as she made her way down the hall, and she didn’t see him on the stairs, either.

He wasn’t in any of the drawing rooms or salons, and indeed, by the time she reached the front door, she couldn’t help but frown.

Where was he?

She didn’t wish to see him, of course, but it did seem rather anticlimactic after all of her worrying.

She placed her hand on the knob.

She should run. She should hurry out now, while the coast was clear and she could make her escape.

But she paused.

“Michael?” She only mouthed the word, which shouldn’t have counted for anything. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was there, that he was watching her.

“Michael?” she whispered, looking this way and that.

Nothing.

She gave her head a shake. Good God, what had become of her? She was growing far too fanciful. Paranoid, even.

With one last glance behind her, she left the house.

And never did see him, watching her from under the curved staircase, his face touched with the smallest, and truest, of smiles.



Francesca had remained out of doors as long as she was able, finally giving in to a mixture of weariness and cold. She had wandered the grounds for probably six or seven hours, and she was tired, and hungry, and eager for nothing so much as a cup of tea.

And she couldn’t avoid her house forever.

So she slipped back in as quietly as she’d left, planning to make her way up to her room, where she could dine in private. But before she could make it to the bottom of the stairs, she heard her name.

“Francesca!”

It was Michael. Of course it was Michael. She couldn’t expect him to leave her alone forever.

But the strange thing was—she wasn’t quite certain whether she was annoyed or relieved.

“Francesca,” he said again, coming to the doorway of the library, “come join me.”

He sounded affable—too affable, if that were possible, and furthermore, Francesca was suspicious at his choice of rooms. Wouldn’t he have wanted to draw her into the rose drawing room, where she’d be assaulted by memories of their torrid encounter? Wouldn’t he at least have chosen the green salon, which had been decorated in a lush, romantic style, complete with cushioned divans and over-stuffed pillows?

What was he doing in the library, which had to be, she was quite certain, the least likely room at Kilmartin in which one might stage a seduction?

“Francesca?” he said again, by now looking amused at her indecision.

“What are you doing in there?” she asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

“Having tea.”

“Tea?”

“Leaves boiled in water?” he murmured. “Perhaps you’ve tried it.”