When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons, #6)

by Julia Quinn

Francesca turned to Michael, her eyes startlingly blue, even in the candlelight. Or maybe it was just that he knew how blue they were. He seemed to dream in blue these days. Francesca blue, the color ought to be called.

It was time to wear blue. Bright, beautiful, cornflower blue. It had been her favorite color years ago, and she’d been vain enough that she’d worn it fully expecting people to comment on how it matched her eyes.

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.

What was it about London that reduced a man to a sniveling idiot?

It was the first time in her life that Francesca was thankful for the general obtuseness of men.

How could anyone not want to marry her? She might not have been as youthful as the other women looking for husbands, but she had something the younger debutantes lacked—a sparkle, a vivacity, a gleam of intelligence in her eyes that brought something extra to her beauty.

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.

Michael just sat in his study, pondering methods of self-flagellation. He had kissed her. Kissed her. Not, he thought wryly, the best course of action for a man attempting to hide his true feelings.

Now that it had finally happened, now that he had tasted perfection, he was in more agony than ever before. Now he knew exactly what he was missing; he understood with painful clarity just what it was that would never be his.

Before, he had taken his pleasure with women to blot out one woman. But now that he’d tasted her, even with one fleeting kiss, he was ruined.

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

He might not ever have all of her—her heart, he knew, would never be his—but he’d have most of her, and that would be enough. It was certainly more than he had now. And even half of Francesca—Well, that would be ecstasy. Wouldn’t it?

“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?”