Julia Quinn - When He Was Wicked

She hurried downstairs, her heavy wool socks slipping and sliding on the polished steps. She tumbled down the last two, thankfully landing on her feet, then ran along the runner carpet to the library.

“Fire fire fire,” she mumbled to herself. She’d ring for someone just as soon as she got to the library. They’d have a blaze roaring in no time. She’d regain feeling in her nose, her fingertips would lose that sickly blue color and-

She pushed open the door.

A short, staccato scream hurled itself across her lips. There was already a fire in the grate, and a man standing in front of it, idly warming his hands.

Francesca reached wildly for something-anything- that she might use as a weapon.

And then he turned.

“Michael?”

He hadn’t known she’d be in London. Damn it, he hadn’t even considered that she might be in London. Not that it would have made any difference, but at least he’d have been prepared. He might have schooled his features into a saturnine smirk, or at the very least made sure that he was impeccably dressed and wholeheartedly immersed in his role as the unrecoverable rake.

But no, there he was, just gaping at her, trying not to notice that she was wearing nothing but a dark crimson nightgown and dressing robe, so thin and sheer that he could see the outline of-

He gulped. Don’t look. Do not look.

“Michael?” she whispered again.

“Francesca,” he said, since he had to say something. “What are you doing here?”

And that seemed to snap her into thought and motion. “What am I doing here?” she echoed. “I’m not the one who’s meant to be in India. What are you doing here?”

He shrugged carelessly. “Thought it was time to come home.”

“Couldn’t you have written?”

‘To you?“ he asked, quirking a brow. It was, and was meant to be, a direct hit. She hadn’t penned him a single letter during his travels. He had sent her three letters, but once it became apparent that she didn’t plan to answer, he’d conducted the rest of his correspondence through his mother and John’s.

“To anyone,” she replied. “Someone would have been here to greet you.”

“You’re here,” he pointed out.

She scowled at him. “If we’d known you were coming, we would have readied the house for you.”

He shrugged again. The motion seemed to embody the image he desperately needed to convey. “It’s ready enough.”

She hugged her arms to her body, effectively blocking his view of her breasts, which, he had to concede, was probably for the best. “Well, you might have written,” she finally said, her voice hanging sharp in the night air. “It would only have been courteous.”

“Francesca,” he said, turning slightly away from her so that he could continue to rub his hands together by the fire, “do you have any idea how long it takes for mail to reach London from India?”

“Five months,” she answered promptly. “Four, if the winds are kind.”

Damn it, she was right. “Be that as it may,” he said peevishly, “by the time I decided to return, there was little use in attempting forward notice. The letter would have gone out on the same ship I did.”

“Really? I thought the passenger vessels were slower than the ones that take the mail.”

He sighed, glancing at her over his shoulder. “They all take the mail. And besides, does it really matter?”

For a moment he thought she would answer in the af-firmative, but then she said quietly, “No, of course not. The important thing is that you’re home. Your mother will be thrilled.”

He turned away so that she wouldn’t see his humorless smile. “Yes,” he murmured, “of course.”

“And I-” She stopped, cleared her throat. “I am delighted to have you back as well.”

She sounded as if she were trying very hard to convince herself of this, but Michael decided to play the gentleman for once and not point it out. “Are you cold?” he asked instead.

“Not very,” she said.

“You’re lying.”

“Just a little.”

He stepped to the side, making room for her closer to the fire. When he didn’t hear her move toward him, he motioned toward the empty space with his hand.

“I should go back to my room,” she said.

“For God’s sake, Francesca, if you’re cold, just come to the fire. I won’t bite.”

She gritted her teeth and stepped forward, joining him near the blaze. But she kept herself somewhat off to the side, maintaining a bit of distance between them. “You look well,” she said.

“As do you.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“I know. Four years, I believe.”

Francesca swallowed, wishing this weren’t so difficult. This was Michael, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t supposed to be difficult. Yes, they’d parted badly, but that had been in the dark days immediately following John’s death. They’d all been in pain then, wounded animals lashing out at anyone in their way. It was supposed to be different now. Heaven knew she’d thought of this moment often enough. Michael couldn’t stay away forever, they’d all known that. But once her initial anger had passed, she’d rather hoped that when he did return, they’d be able to forget that anything unpleasant had ever passed between them.

And be friends again. She needed that, more than she’d ever realized.

“Do you have any plans?” she asked, mostly because the silence was too awful.

“For now, all I can think about is getting warm,” he muttered.

She smiled in spite of herself. “It is exceptionally chilly for this time of year.”

“I’d forgotten how damnably cold it can be here,” he grumbled, rubbing his hands together briskly.

“One would think you’d never escape the memory of a Scottish winter,” Francesca murmured.

He turned to her then, a wry smile tilting one corner of his mouth. He’d changed, she realized. Oh, there were the obvious differences-the ones everyone would notice. He was tan, quite scandalously so, and his hair, always midnight black, now sported a few odd strands of silver.

But there was more. He held his mouth differently, more tightly, if that made any sense, and his smooth, lanky grace seemed to have gone missing. He had always seemed so at ease, so comfortable in his skin, but now he was… taut.

Strained.

“You’d think,” he murmured, and she just looked at him blankly, having quite forgotten what he was replying to until he added, “I came home because I couldn’t stand the heat any longer, and now here I am, ready to perish from the cold.”

“It will be spring soon,” she said.

“Ah yes, spring. With its merely frigid winds, as opposed to the icy ones of winter.”

She laughed at that, absurdly pleased to have anything to laugh about in his presence. “The house will be better tomorrow,” she said. “I only just arrived this evening, and like you, I neglected to send advance notice. Mrs. Parrish assures me that the house will be restocked tomorrow.”

He nodded, then turned around to warm his back. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?”

He motioned to the empty room, as if to make a point.

“I live here,” she said.

“You usually don’t come down until April.”

“You know that?”

For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed. “My mother’s letters are remarkably detailed,” he said.

She shrugged, then inched a little closer to the fire. She ought not stand so near to him, but dash it, she was still rather cold, and her thin nightrobe did little to ward off the chill.

“Is that an answer?” he drawled.

“I just felt like it,” she said insolently. “Isn’t that a lady’s prerogative?”

He turned again, presumably to warm his side, and then he was facing her.