When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(87)

And Michael showed her just how romantic a library could be.





Chapter 21




…a brief note to let you know that I have arrived safely in Scotland. I must say, I am glad to be here. London was stimulating as always, but I believe I needed a bit of quiet. I feel quite more focused and at peace here in the country.

—from the Countess of Kilmartin to her mother, the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, one day after her arrival at Kilmartin

Three weeks later, Francesca still didn’t know what she was doing.

Michael had brought up the issue of marriage twice more, and each time she’d managed to dodge the question. If she considered his proposal, she would actually have to think. She’d have to think about him, and she’d have to think about John, and worst of all, she’d have to think about herself.

And she’d have to figure out just what it was she was doing. She kept telling herself she would marry him only if she became pregnant, but then she kept coming back to his bed, allowing him to seduce her at every turn.



But even that wasn’t truly accurate any longer. She was delusional if she thought she required any seducing to make room for him in her bed. She’d become the wicked one, however much she tried to hide from the fact by telling herself that she was wandering the house at night in her bedclothes because she was restless, not because she was seeking his company.

But she always found him. Or if not, she placed herself in a position where he might find her.

And she never said no.

Michael was growing impatient. He hid it well, but she knew him well. She knew him better than she knew anyone left on this planet, and even though he insisted he was courting her, wooing her with romantic phrases and gestures, she could see the faint lines of impatience curling around his mouth. He would begin a conversation that she knew would lead to the subject of marriage, and she always dodged it before he mentioned the word.

He allowed her to get away with it, but his eyes would change, and his jaw would tighten, and then, when he took her—and he always did, after moments like those—it was with renewed urgency, and even a touch of anger.

But still, it wasn’t quite enough to jolt her into action.

She couldn’t say yes. She didn’t know why; she just couldn’t.

But she couldn’t say no, either. Maybe she was wicked, and maybe she was a wanton, but she didn’t want this to end. Not the passion, and not, she was forced to acknowledge, his company, either.

It wasn’t just the lovemaking, it was the moments after, when she lay curled in his arms, his hand idly stroking her hair. Sometimes they were silent, but sometimes they talked, about anything and everything. He told her about India, and she told him of her childhood. She gave him her opinions about political matters, and he actually listened. And he told her devilish jokes that men were never supposed to tell women, and women certainly weren’t supposed to enjoy.

And then, once the bed had stopped shaking with her mirth, his mouth would find hers, a smile embedded on his lips. “I love your laughter,” he would murmur, and his hands would curl her to him. She’d sigh, still giggling, and they’d begin their passion anew.

And Francesca would, once again, be able to hold the rest of the world at bay.

And then she bled.

It started as it always did, just a few drops on the cotton of her chemise. She shouldn’t have been surprised; her cycles may not have been regular, but they always arrived eventually, and she already knew that hers was not a terribly fertile womb.

But still, somehow she hadn’t been expecting it. Not yet, anyway.

It made her cry.

Nothing dramatic, nothing that wracked her body and consumed her soul, but her breath caught when she saw the tiny drops of blood, and before she realized what she was doing, twin tears were trickling down her cheeks.

And she wasn’t even sure why.

Was it because there would be no baby, or was it—God help her—because there would be no marriage?

Michael came to her room that night, but she sent him away, explaining that it wasn’t the right time. His lips found her ear, and he reminded her of all the wicked things they could still do, blood or no, but she refused, and asked him to leave.

He looked disappointed, but he seemed to understand. Women could be squeamish about such things.



But when she woke in the middle of the night, she wished he was holding her.

Her menses didn’t last long; it never did. And when Michael asked her discreetly if her time was through, she didn’t lie. He’d have known if she had, anyway; he always did.

“Good,” he said with a secret smile. “I’ve missed you.”

Her lips parted to say that she’d missed him, too, but somehow she was afraid to say the words.

He nudged her toward the bed, and together they tumbled, their bodies a tangle of arms and legs as they fell.

“I dreamed of you,” he said hoarsely, his hands pushing her skirt up to her waist. “Every night you came to me in dreams.” One finger found her essence and dipped inside. “They were very, very good dreams,” he finished, his voice hot and full of the devil.

She caught her lip between her teeth, her breath coming in short gasps as his finger slid out and caressed her right where he knew it would make her melt.

“In my dreams,” he murmured, his lips hot at her ear, “you did unspeakable things.”