When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(85)

She pursed her lips. “But in the library?”

He shrugged. “It seemed as good a place as any.” He stepped aside and swooshed his arm in front of him, indicating that she should enter. “As innocent a place as any,” he added.

She tried not to blush.



“Did you have a pleasant walk?” he asked, his voice perfectly conversational.

“Er, yes.”

“Lovely day out.”

She nodded.

“I imagine the ground is still a bit soggy in places, though.”

What was he up to?

“Tea?” he asked.

She nodded, her eyes widening when he poured for her. Men never did that.

“Had to fend for myself from time to time in India,” he explained, reading her thoughts perfectly. “Here you go.”

She took the delicate china cup and sat, allowing the warmth of the tea to seep through the china and onto her hands. She blew lightly on it, then took a taste, testing the temperature.

“Biscuit?” He held out a plate laden with all sorts of baked delights.

Her stomach rumbled, and she took one without speaking.

“They’re good,” he offered. “I ate four while I was waiting for you.”

“Were you waiting long?” she asked, almost surprised by the sound of her own voice.

“An hour or so.”

She sipped at her tea. “It’s still quite hot.”

“I had the pot refilled every ten minutes,” he said.

“Oh.” Such thoughtfulness was, if not precisely surprising, then still unexpected.

One of his brows quirked, but only slightly, and she wasn’t sure whether he’d done it on purpose. He was always in such control of his expressions; he’d have been a master gambler, had he had the inclination. But his left brow was different; Francesca had noticed years ago that it sometimes moved when he clearly thought he was keeping his face perfectly impassive. She’d always thought of it as her own little secret, her private window into the workings of his mind.

Except now she wasn’t sure she wanted such a window. It implied a closeness with which she wasn’t quite comfortable any longer.

Not to mention that she’d clearly been deluded when she’d thought she might ever understand the workings of his mind.

He plucked a biscuit off the tray, idly regarded the dollop of raspberry jam in its center, then popped it into his mouth.

“What is this about?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. She felt rather like prey, being fattened up for the kill.

“The tea?” he inquired, once he’d swallowed. “Mostly about tea, if you must know.”

“Michael.”

“I thought you might be cold,” he explained with a shrug. “You were gone quite some time.”

“You know when I left?”

He looked at her sardonically. “Of course.”

And she wasn’t surprised. That was the only thing that surprised her, actually—that she wasn’t surprised.

“I have something for you,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “You do?”

“Is that so remarkable?” he murmured, and he reached down onto the seat beside him.

Her breath caught. Not a ring. Please, not a ring. Not yet.

She wasn’t ready to say yes.

And she wasn’t ready to say no, either.

But instead, he set upon the table a small posy of flowers, each bloom more delicate than the last. She’d never been good with flowers, hadn’t bothered to learn the names, but there was stalky white one, and a bit of purple, and something that was almost blue. And it had all been tied rather elegantly with a silver ribbon.

Francesca just stared at it, unable to decide what to make of such a gesture.

“You can touch it,” he said, a hint of amusement playing along his voice. “It shan’t pass along disease.”

“No,” she said quickly, reaching out for the tiny bouquet, “of course not. I just…” She brought the blooms to her face and inhaled, then set them down, her hands retreating quickly to her lap.

“You just what?” he asked softly.

“I don’t really know,” she replied. And she didn’t. She had no idea how she’d meant to complete that sentence, if indeed she had ever intended to. She looked down at the small bouquet, blinking several times before asking, “What is this?”

“I call them flowers.”

She looked up, her eyes meeting his fully and deeply. “No,” she said, “what is this?”

“The gesture, you mean?” He smiled. “Why, I’m courting you.”

Her lips parted.

He took a sip of his tea. “Is it such a surprise?”

After all that had passed between them?

Yes.

“You deserve no less,” he said.

“I thought you said you intended to—” She broke off, blushing madly. He’d said he meant to take her until she became pregnant.

Three times today, as a matter of fact. Three times, he’d vowed, and they were still quite at zero and…

Her cheeks burned, and she couldn’t help but feel the memory of him between her legs.



Dear God.

But—thank heavens—his expression remained innocent, and all he said was, “I’ve rethought my strategies.”