When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons #6)(97)

She didn’t know much about the disease; the fashionable ladies’ bookshops in London declined to carry medical texts. She’d wanted to ask her own doctor, or even seek an expert at the Royal College of Physicians, but she had made a promise to Michael that she would keep his illness a secret. If she ran around town making queries about malaria, eventually someone would want to know why. Thus, most of what she knew she had learned from Michael during the few short months he’d been back from India.

But it didn’t seem right that the attacks were coming closer together. Not, she had to allow, that she possessed any medical knowledge upon which to base that assumption. When he’d fallen ill in London, he’d said that it had been six months since his last set of fevers, and three before that.

Why would the disease suddenly change course and attack again so quickly? It just didn’t make sense. Not if he was getting better.

And he had to be getting better. He had to be.

She sighed, reaching out to touch his forehead. He was sleeping now, snoring slightly, as he tended to when he was congested. Or so he’d told her. They hadn’t been married long enough for her to have gained that knowledge firsthand.



His skin was hot, although not burningly so. His mouth looked parched, so she spooned some tepid tea over his lips, tilting up his chin to try to help him swallow in his sleep.

Instead, he choked and came awake, spewing the water across the bed.

“Sorry,” Francesca said, surveying the damage. At least it had been a small spoonful.

“What the devil are you doing to me?” he sputtered.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t much experience nursing. You looked thirsty.”

“Next time I’m thirsty, I’ll tell you,” he grumbled.

She nodded her agreement and watched as he tried to make himself comfortable again. “You wouldn’t happen to be thirsty right now?” she asked in a mild voice.

“Just a bit,” he said, his syllables slightly clipped.

Without a word, she held out the cup of tea. He downed it all in one long gulp.

“Would you like another cup?”

He shook his head. “Any more and I’m going to have to pi—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I have four brothers,” she said. “Pay it no mind. Would you like me to fetch you the chamberpot?”

“I can do it myself.”

He didn’t look well enough to cross the room on his own, but she knew better than to argue with a man in that irritable a state. He would come to his senses when he tried to stand and fell right back down against the bed. No amount of argument or reason on her part would convince him otherwise.

“You’re quite feverish,” she said softly.

“It isn’t malaria.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You were thinking it.”



“What happens if it is malaria?” she asked.

“It’s not—”

“But what if it is?” she cut in, and to her horror, her voice had that awful pitch to it, that roundish sound of terror it made just before it actually choked.

Michael looked at her for several seconds, his eyes grim. Finally, he just rolled over and said, “It’s not.”

Francesca swallowed. She had her answer now. “Do you mind if I leave?” she blurted out, standing up so quickly the blood rushed from her head.

He didn’t say anything, but she could see him shrug under the covers.

“It’s just for a walk,” she explained haltingly, making her way to the door. “Before the sun goes down.”

“I’ll be fine,” he grunted.

She nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her. “I’ll see you soon,” she said.

But he’d already fallen back asleep.



The air was misty and threatened more precipitation, so Francesca grabbed a rain parasol and made her way to the gazebo. The sides were open to the elements, but it had a roof, and should the heavens open, she would remain at least nominally dry.

But with every step, it felt as if her breathing was growing more labored, and by the time she reached her destination, she was heaving with exertion, not from the walk, but just from keeping the tears at bay.

The minute she sat down, she stopped trying.

Each sob was huge, and hugely unladylike, but she didn’t care.

Michael might be dying. For all she knew, he was dying, and she was going to be a widow twice over.

It had nearly killed her last time.

And she just didn’t know if she was strong enough to go through it all again. She didn’t know if she wanted to be strong enough.

It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, damn it all, that she should have to lose two husbands when so many women got to hold onto one for an entire lifetime. And most of those women didn’t even like their spouses, whereas she, who actually loved them both— Francesca’s breath caught.

She loved him? Michael?

No, no, she assured herself, she didn’t love him. Not like that. When she’d thought it, when the word had echoed through her brain, she’d meant in friendship. Of course she loved Michael that way. She’d always loved him, right? He was her best friend, had been even back when John was alive.