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.

Michael Stirling, Sinner. He could see it on a calling card. He’d have had it printed up, even—his was just that sort of black sense of humor—if he weren’t convinced it would kill his mother on the spot.

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.

Good man!

When she was feeling sarcastic, or ironic, or sly, it was all there in her voice and the curious tip of her mouth. She didn’t need to roll her eyes.

Where the rest of her family was outgoing, she was . . . not shy, precisely, but a bit more reserved, more careful with her words.

She’d been out of mourning for some time, but she hadn’t completely shrugged off the grays and lavenders of half-mourning,

It’s still a bit cold yet.” “Never stopped John and me,” Michael offered gamely. “Yes, well, you’re Scottish,” she returned. “Your blood circulates quite well half frozen.”

“You’re not the same. You never have been. Even as a child you set yourself apart. And you needed your distance.”

It was something in the way she moved. Something in the way she breathed. Something in the way she merely was.

“Where’s that new earl of yours?” My, she was blunt. “He’s not my earl,” Francesca pointed out. “Well, he’s more yours than anyone else’s.”

he made her feel beautiful, and it was almost heartbreaking to realize how much she’d missed that. And so she had laughed and flirted, and allowed herself to melt into the moment. She wanted to feel like a woman again—maybe not in the fullest sense of the word, but still, was it so wrong to enjoy the heady intoxication of knowing that she was desired?

Waited for the moment, the first touch, because as terrifying and wrong as it was, she knew it would feel like perfection.

“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 most all, she hated him because he’d asked her permission, because every step of the way, even as his fingers had teased her mercilessly, he had made sure she was willing, and now she could never claim that she’d been swept away, that she’d been powerless against the force of her own passion.

Believe what you will, but right now I have a far greater desire for a cup of tea than I do for you.”

But once again, her mind had been completely enslaved by her body, and she simply was not strong enough to deny the quickening of her breath, or the pounding of her heart.

“Dream of me,” he said softly. Her lips parted. She couldn’t stop watching his face. He’d mesmerized her, held her soul captive. And she couldn’t move. “Unless you want more than a dream,” he said. She did. “Will you stay?” he whispered. “Or will you go?” She stayed. Heaven help her, she stayed. And Michael showed her just how romantic a library could be.

It was silly that a piece of rock might come to symbolize a man, but she had no idea where else to look when she spoke to his memory.