Julia Quinn - When He Was Wicked

It wasn’t just the lovemaking, it was the moments after, when she lay curled in his arms, his hand idly stroking her hair. Sometimes they were silent, but sometimes they talked, about anything and everything. He told her about

India, and she told him of her childhood. She gave him her opinions about political matters, and he actually listened. And he told her devilish jokes that men were never supposed to tell women, and women certainly weren’t supposed to enjoy.

And then, once the bed had stopped shaking with her mirth, his mouth would find hers, a smile embedded on his lips. “I love your laughter,” he would murmur, and his hands would curl her to him. She’d sigh, still giggling, and they’d begin their passion anew.

And Francesca would, once again, be able to hold the rest of the world at bay.

And then she bled.

It started as it always did, just a few drops on the cotton of her chemise. She shouldn’t have been surprised; her cycles may not have been regular, but they always arrived eventually, and she already knew that hers was not a terribly fertile womb.

But still, somehow she hadn’t been expecting it. Not yet, anyway.

It made her cry.

Nothing dramatic, nothing that wracked her body and consumed her soul, but her breath caught when she saw the tiny drops of blood, and before she realized what she was doing, twin tears were trickling down her cheeks.

And she wasn’t even sure why.

Was it because there would be no baby, or was it-God help her-because there would be no marriage?

Michael came to her room that night, but she sent him away, explaining that it wasn’t the right time. His lips found her ear, and he reminded her of all the wicked things they could still do, blood or no, but she refused, and asked him to leave.

He looked disappointed, but he seemed to understand. Women could be squeamish about such things.

But when she woke in the middle of the night, she wished he was holding her.

Her menses didn’t last long; it never did. And when Michael asked her discreetly if her time was through, she didn’t lie. He’d have known if she had, anyway; he always did.

“Good,” he said with a secret smile. “I’ve missed you.”

Her lips parted to say that she’d missed him, too, but somehow she was afraid to say the words.

He nudged her toward the bed, and together they tumbled, their bodies a tangle of arms and legs as they fell.

“I dreamed of you,” he said hoarsely, his hands pushing her skirt up to her waist. “Every night you came to me in dreams.” One finger found her essence and dipped inside. “They were very, very good dreams,” he finished, his voice hot and full of the devil.

She caught her lip between her teeth, her breath coming in short gasps as his finger slid out and caressed her right where he knew it would make her melt.

“In my dreams,” he murmured, his lips hot at her ear, “you did unspeakable things.”

She moaned at the sensation. He could ignite her body with a single touch, but she went up in flames when he spoke like this.

“New things,” he murmured, spreading her legs wider. “Things I’m going to have to teach you… tonight, I think.”

“Oh, God,” she gasped. He’d moved his lips to her thigh, and she knew what was coming.

“But first a bit of the tried and true,” he continued, his lips tickling their way up toward their destination. “We have all night to explore.”

He kissed her then, just as he knew she liked it, holding her immobile with his powerful hands as his lips brought her closer and closer to the peaks of passion.

But before she reached the apex, he moved away, his hands tearing at the fastenings of his trousers. He swore when his fingers trembled, when the button didn’t slip free on the first try.

And it gave Francesca just enough time to stop and think.

The one thing she truly didn’t want to do.

But her mind was relentless, and it was unkind, and before she knew what she was doing, she’d scrambled from the bed, the word, “Wait!” flying from her lips, even as she flew across the room.

“What?” he gasped.

“I can’t do this.”

“You can’t…”-he stopped, unable to finish the question without taking a heaving breath-“… what?”

He’d finally had success with his trousers, and they had fallen to the floor, leaving her with a stunning view of his arousal.

Francesca averted her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. Not at his face, not at his… “I can’t,” she said, her voice shaking. “I shouldn’t. I don’t know.”

“ I know,” he growled, stepping toward her.

“No!” she cried out, hurrying toward the door. She’d played with fire for weeks, tempting the fates, and she’d won her gamble. If there was ever a time to escape, this was it. And as hard as it was to leave, she knew that she must. She wasn’t this sort of woman. She couldn’t be.

“I can’t do this,” she said, her back now flat against the hard wood of the door. “I can’t. I… I…”

I want to, she thought. Even as she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t escape the fact that she wanted to, anyway. But if she told him that, would he make her change her mind? He could do it, too. She knew he could. One kiss, one touch, and all of her resolve would be lost.

He just swore and yanked his trousers back up.

“I don’t know who I am any longer,” she said. “I’m not this sort of woman.”

“ What sort of woman?” he snapped.

“A wanton,” she whispered. “Fallen.”

“Then marry me,” he shot back. “I offered to make you respectable from the beginning, but you refused.”

He had her there, and she knew it. But logic didn’t seem to have a place in her heart these days, and all she could think was-How could she marry him? How could she marry Michael?

“I wasn’t supposed to feel this for another man,” she said, barely able to believe that she’d spoken the words aloud.

“Feel what ?” he asked urgently.

She swallowed, forcing herself to bring her eyes to his face. “The passion,” she admitted.

His face took on a strange expression, almost one of disgust. “Right,” he drawled. “Of course. It’s a damned good thing you have me here to service you.”

“No!” she cried out, horrified by the derision lacing his voice. “That’s not it.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” But she didn’t know what was.

He took a ragged breath and turned away from her, his body taut with tension. She watched his back with terrible fascination, unable to take her eyes off of him. His shirt was loose, and even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew his body, every last curve of it. He looked desolate, hardened.

Worn out.

“Why do you stay?” he asked in a low voice, leaning on the edge of the mattress with the flats of both hands.

“Wh-what?”

“Why do you stay?” he repeated, his words rising in volume but never losing control. “If you hate me so much, why do you stay?”

“I don’t hate you,” she said. “You know I-”

“I don’t know a damned thing, Francesca,” he bit off. “I don’t even know you any longer.” His shoulders tensed as his fingers bit into the mattress. She could see one of his hands; the knuckles had gone white.

“I don’t hate you,” she said again, as if saying it twice would somehow turn her words into solid things, palpable and real, that she could force him to hold on to. “I don’t. I don’t hate you.”

He said nothing.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” she said, pleading with him now-for what, she wasn’t certain. Maybe for him not to hate her. That was the one thing she didn’t think she could bear.