When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(90)

She sat there for hours, shivering in the cold, but not feeling a thing. And all she could wonder was—

Just what was it she was running from?



Michael had no memory of the moments that followed her departure. It could have been one minute, it could have been ten. All he knew was that he seemed to wake up when he realized he’d nearly put his fist through the wall.

And yet somehow he barely noticed the pain.

“My lord?”

It was Reivers, popping his head in to inquire about the commotion.

“Get out,” Michael growled. He didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to hear anyone even breathe.

“But maybe some ice for—”

“Get out!” Michael roared, and it felt as if his body were growing huge and monsterish as he turned. He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to claw at the air.

Reivers fled.

Michael dug his fingernails into his palms, even as his right fist was beginning to swell. Somehow the motion seemed the only way to keep the devil inside at bay, to prevent him from tearing the room apart with his very fingers.

Six years.

He stood there, stock still, with only one thought in his head.

Six bloody years.

He’d held this inside for six years, scrupulously kept his feelings off of his face when he watched her, never told a soul.

Six years he’d loved her, and it had all come to this.

He’d laid his heart on the table. He’d practically handed her a knife and asked her to slice it open.

Oh, no, Francesca, you can do better than that. Hold steady there, you can easily make a few more cuts. And while you’re at it, why don’t you take these pieces here and dice them up?

Whoever had said it was a good thing to speak the truth was an ass. Michael would have given anything, both his bloody feet, even, to have made this all go away.



But that was the thing about words.

He laughed miserably.

You couldn’t take them back.

Spread it on the floor now. There you go, stamp it down. No, harder. Harder than that, Frannie. You can do it.

Six years.

Six bloody years, all lost in a single moment. All because he’d thought he might actually have the right to feel happy.

He should have known better.

And for the grand finale, just set the whole bloody thing aflame. Brava, Francesca!

There went his heart.

He looked down at his hands. His nails had carved half-moons into his palms. One had even broken the skin.

What was he going do? What the hell was he going to do now?

He didn’t know how to live his life with her knowing the truth. For six years, his every thought and action had revolved around making sure she didn’t know. All men had some guiding principle in their lives, and that had been his.

Make sure Francesca never finds out.

He sat in his chair, barely able to contain his own maniacal laughter.

Oh, Michael, he thought, the chair shaking beneath him as he let his head fall into his hands. Welcome to the rest of your life.



His second act, as it happened, opened far sooner than he’d expected, with a soft knock on his door about three hours later.

Michael was still sitting in his chair, his only concession to the passage of time the movement of his head from his hands to the seat back. He’d been leaning like that for some time now, his neck uncomfortable but unmoving, his eyes staring sightlessly at some random spot on the ecru silk fabric covering the wall.

He felt removed, set apart, and when he heard the knock, he didn’t even recognize the sound at first.

But it came again, no less timid than the first, but still persistent.

Whoever it was, he wasn’t going away.

“Enter!” he barked.

He was a she.

Francesca.

He should have risen. He wanted to. Even after everything, he didn’t hate her, didn’t wish to offer his disrespect. But she had wrenched everything from him, every last drop of strength and purpose, and all he could manage was a slight lifting of his brows, accompanied by a tired, “What?”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything. She was wet, he realized, almost idly. She must have gone outside. Silly fool, it was cold out.

“What is it, Francesca?” he asked.

“I’ll marry you,” she said, so quietly he more read the words on her lips than did he hear them. “If you’ll still have me.”

And you’d have thought he’d jump from his chair. Rise, at least, unable to tamp down the joy spreading through his body. You’d have thought he might stride across the room, a man of purpose and resolve, to sweep her from her feet, rain kisses on her face, and lay her on the bed, where he might seal the bargain in the most primitive manner possible.

But instead he just sat there, too heart-weary to do anything other than ask, “Why?”



She flinched at the suspicion in his voice, but he didn’t feel particularly charitable at the moment. After what she’d done to him, she could suffer a bit of discomfort herself.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She was standing very still, her arms straight at her sides. She wasn’t rigid, but he could tell she was trying very hard not to move.

If she did, he suspected, she’d run from the room.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he said.