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.

Funny how he’d never seen all those other women as a sin. He still didn’t. They’d all been willing, of course; you couldn’t seduce an unwilling woman, at least not if you took seduction at the true sense of the word and took care not to confuse it with rape. They had to actually want it, and if they didn’t—if Michael sensed even a hint of unease, he turned and walked away.

“It isn’t gossip,” Hyacinth retorted. “It’s the honest dissemination of information.”

“Why?” he asked again, this time with increased volume as he turned around to face her. “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.” Francesca sagged against the door. “How’s that for a witty little joke?” he mocked. “I love you. I love you, my cousin’s wife. I love you, the one woman I can never have. I love you, Francesca Bridgerton Stirling, who—”

It was love, and it was divine. And Francesca could not have been more surprised if John had materialized before her and started to dance an Irish reel. Michael. She loved Michael.

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.

No need to make me cry…