When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons, #6)

by Julia Quinn

In every life there is a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and clear that one feels as if one’s been hit in the chest, all the breath knocked out, and one knows, absolutely knows without the merest hint of a shadow of a doubt that one’s life will never be the same.

He was right, and it scared her. Sometimes she worried that he understood her as well as John did.

He’d thought that his grief might finally overtake his longing for her, that he might finally be with her and not want her, but no, his breath still caught every time she walked into the room, and his body tightened when she brushed past him, and his heart still ached with the pain of loving her.

He’d always been a bit reckless, and he probably was an irredeemable flirt. His mother certainly liked to say that he’d been charming the ladies since the age of four.

If she married—no, when she married—she had to mentally commit to the idea—it wouldn’t be for love. She wasn’t going to have a marriage like the one she’d shared with John; a woman simply didn’t find love like that twice in a lifetime.

“She thinks,” Francesca said, shuddering as she turned to him, “that we are conducting an affair.” “After only a week back in London,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I’m faster than I imagined.”

You rather liked me when I was wicked. You were always so curious about my exploits.”

Francesca regarded him dubiously. “But you look terrible.” “I knew there was a reason I loved you so well,” he said dryly. “One really needn’t worry about falling into the sin of vanity with you about.”

Every time he thought he knew everything about her, had unwillingly memorized every last detail, something inside her flickered and changed, and he felt himself falling anew.

“I’ve merely accepted that you, Francesca, know best. Here I’ve been listening to my own mind and conscience all this time, but to what avail? Heaven knows where I’d be if I’d listened to you years ago.”

No hes kinda eating her up. Shes being an ass

For a moment he said nothing, but he was watching her strangely, almost wryly, and then he said, his voice quiet, “A man would have to be a fool not to want to marry you.”

Michael snorted with disgust. Anyone who took the time to really look at Francesca’s eyes would have realized that they were quite their own color. As if the sky could even compare.

He was terrifying, but he was also magnificent, and it shook her to her very core to realize that she’d never seen him thus.

It was the sort of kiss that seduced with subtlety, sent tingles through her body and left her desperate for more.

Nothing had the power to irritate like the reflection of one’s own behavior in someone else.

“You do realize, Kilmartin,” Colin said, his voice so soft it was almost chilling, “that there is no reason you can’t marry her. None at all. Except, of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “the reasons you manufacture for yourself.”

His voice, when it came, was low and husky, and she felt it right in the very center of her being.

“Don’t you want another kiss?”

HEHE

“You were always so curious,” he murmured. “You asked so many questions.” He slid his lips along her cheek to her ear, whispering all the way. “Michael,” he said, softening his voice to mimic hers, “tell me something naughty. Tell me something wicked.”

“Did you wonder?” he whispered. “Did you leave me and wonder what I hadn’t told you?” He leaned in, just so she’d feel his lips move whisper-light against her ear. “Did you want to know,” he whispered, “what I did when I was wicked?”

And he, who had slept with countless women, suddenly realized that he’d been nothing but a green boy. Because it had never been like this. That had been his body. This was his soul.

She wanted this. She wanted him. And even though she knew it was wrong, she was too wicked to stop. He’d made her wicked. And she wanted to revel in it.

She let her eyes level onto his. “You answer to me, Michael,” she said with soft authority. “If you want me, you can have me. But I’m in charge.”

He was, she realized, with a shiver of desire, simply magnificent. And hers for the taking.

She’d never even dreamed this existed. And yet she’d found it with Michael. Her friend, too. Her confidant. Her lover.

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

“You look distressed,” he said. She wanted to strangle him. He cocked his head and smiled. She wanted to kiss him.

“Why? It’s because I love you, damn me to hell. Because I’ve always loved you. Because I loved you when you were with John, and I loved you when I was in India, and God only knows I don’t deserve you, but I love you, anyway.”

“If this is to end, you will have to do it. You will have to walk away, Francesca. Because now . . . after everything . . . I’m just not strong enough to say goodbye.”

“Thank you, Colin,” he said rather jovially to himself as he undressed for bed, “and thank you, too, whomever you are, for marrying Eloise on a moment’s notice.”

And I hope you will not think me foolish when I also extend my thanks. Thank you, Michael, for letting my son love her first.