When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(88)

She moaned at the sensation. He could ignite her body with a single touch, but she went up in flames when he spoke like this.

“New things,” he murmured, spreading her legs wider. “Things I’m going to have to teach you…tonight, I think.”

“Oh, God,” she gasped. He’d moved his lips to her thigh, and she knew what was coming.

“But first a bit of the tried and true,” he continued, his lips tickling their way up toward their destination. “We have all night to explore.”

He kissed her then, just as he knew she liked it, holding her immobile with his powerful hands as his lips brought her closer and closer to the peaks of passion.



But before she reached the apex, he moved away, his hands tearing at the fastenings of his trousers. He swore when his fingers trembled, when the button didn’t slip free on the first try.

And it gave Francesca just enough time to stop and think.

The one thing she truly didn’t want to do.

But her mind was relentless, and it was unkind, and before she knew what she was doing, she’d scrambled from the bed, the word, “Wait!” flying from her lips, even as she flew across the room.

“What?” he gasped.

“I can’t do this.”

“You can’t…”—he stopped, unable to finish the question without taking a heaving breath—“…what?”

He’d finally had success with his trousers, and they had fallen to the floor, leaving her with a stunning view of his arousal.

Francesca averted her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. Not at his face, not at his…“I can’t,” she said, her voice shaking. “I shouldn’t. I don’t know.”

“I know,” he growled, stepping toward her.

“No!” she cried out, hurrying toward the door. She’d played with fire for weeks, tempting the fates, and she’d won her gamble. If there was ever a time to escape, this was it. And as hard as it was to leave, she knew that she must. She wasn’t this sort of woman. She couldn’t be.

“I can’t do this,” she said, her back now flat against the hard wood of the door. “I can’t. I…I…”

I want to, she thought. Even as she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t escape the fact that she wanted to, anyway. But if she told him that, would he make her change her mind? He could do it, too. She knew he could. One kiss, one touch, and all of her resolve would be lost.

He just swore and yanked his trousers back up.



“I don’t know who I am any longer,” she said. “I’m not this sort of woman.”

“What sort of woman?” he snapped.

“A wanton,” she whispered. “Fallen.”

“Then marry me,” he shot back. “I offered to make you respectable from the beginning, but you refused.”

He had her there, and she knew it. But logic didn’t seem to have a place in her heart these days, and all she could think was—How could she marry him? How could she marry Michael?

“I wasn’t supposed to feel this for another man,” she said, barely able to believe that she’d spoken the words aloud.

“Feel what?” he asked urgently.

She swallowed, forcing herself to bring her eyes to his face. “The passion,” she admitted.

His face took on a strange expression, almost one of disgust. “Right,” he drawled. “Of course. It’s a damned good thing you have me here to service you.”

“No!” she cried out, horrified by the derision lacing his voice. “That’s not it.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” But she didn’t know what was.

He took a ragged breath and turned away from her, his body taut with tension. She watched his back with terrible fascination, unable to take her eyes off of him. His shirt was loose, and even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew his body, every last curve of it. He looked desolate, hardened.

Worn out.

“Why do you stay?” he asked in a low voice, leaning on the edge of the mattress with the flats of both hands.

“Wh–what?”

“Why do you stay?” he repeated, his words rising in volume but never losing control. “If you hate me so much, why do you stay?”

“I don’t hate you,” she said. “You know I—”

“I don’t know a damned thing, Francesca,” he bit off. “I don’t even know you any longer.” His shoulders tensed as his fingers bit into the mattress. She could see one of his hands; the knuckles had gone white.

“I don’t hate you,” she said again, as if saying it twice would somehow turn her words into solid things, palpable and real, that she could force him to hold on to. “I don’t. I don’t hate you.”

He said nothing.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” she said, pleading with him now—for what, she wasn’t certain. Maybe for him not to hate her. That was the one thing she didn’t think she could bear.

But all he did was laugh. It was a horrible sound, bitter and low. “Oh, Francesca,” he said, condescension lending his words a brittle flavor. “If I had a pound for every time I’ve said that…”