Julia Quinn - When He Was Wicked

“I can’t believe no one told me.”

“You have been in Scotland.”

“Still,” she said grumpily.

Michael just chuckled at her annoyance, drat the man.

“It’s as if I don’t exist,” she said, irritated enough to shoot him her most ferocious glare.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say-”

“Oh, yes,” she said with great flair, “ Francesca .”

“Frannie…” He sounded quite amused now.

“Has someone told Francesca?” she said, doing a rather fine group impression of her family. “Remember her? Sixth of eight? The one with the blue eyes?”

“Frannie, don’t be daft.”

“I’m not daft, I’m just ignored.”

“I rather thought you liked being a bit removed from your family.”

“Well, yes,” she grumbled, “but that’s beside the fact.”

“Of course,” he murmured.

She glared at him for his sarcasm.

“Shall we prepare to leave for the wedding?” he inquired.

“As if I could,” she said with great huff. “It’s in three days’ time.”

“My felicitations,” Michael said admiringly.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“One can’t help but feel a great respect for any man who manages to get the deed done with such swiftness,” he said with a shrug.

“Michael!”

He positively leered at her. “I did.”

“I haven’t married you yet,” she pointed out.

He grinned. “The deed I was referring to wasn’t marriage.”

She felt her face go red. “Stop it,” she muttered.

His fingers tickled along her hand. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Michael, this is not the time,” she said, yanking her hand away.

He sighed. “It starts already.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, plopping down in a nearby chair. “Just that we’re not even wed, and already we’re an old married couple.”

She gave him an arch look, then turned back to her mother’s letter. They did sound like an old married couple, not that she wished to give him the satisfaction of her agreement. She supposed it was because unlike most newly affianced pairs, they had known each other for years. He was, despite the amazing changes of the past few weeks, her very best friend.

She stopped. Froze.

“Is something wrong?” Michael asked.

“No,” she said, giving her head a little shake. Somehow, in the midst of her confusion, she’d lost sight of that. Michael may have been the last person she’d have thought she’d marry, but that was for a good reason, wasn’t it?

Who’d have thought she’d marry her best friend?

Surely that had to bode well for the union.

“Let’s get married,” he said suddenly.

She looked up questioningly. “Wasn’t that already on the agenda?”

“No,” he said, grasping her hand, “let’s do it today.”

“Today?” she exclaimed. “Are you mad?”

“Not at all. We’re in Scotland. We don’t need banns.”

“Well, yes, but-”

He knelt before her, his eyes aglow. “Let’s do it, Fran-nie. Let’s be mad, bad, and rash.”

“No one will believe it,” she said slowly.

“No one is going to believe it, anyway.”

He had a point there. “But my family…” she added.

“You just said they left you out of their festivities.”

“Yes, but it was hardly on purpose!”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Well, yes, if one really thinks about-”

He yanked her to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“Michael…” And she didn’t know why she was dragging her feet, except maybe that she felt she ought. It was a wedding, after all, and such haste was a bit unseemly.

He quirked a brow. “Do you really want a lavish wedding?”

“No,” she said, quite honestly. She’d done that once. It didn’t seem appropriate the second time around.

He leaned in, his lips touching her ear. “Are you willing to risk an eight-month baby?”

“Obviously I was ,” she said pertly.

“Let’s give our child a respectable nine months of gestation,” he said jauntily.

She swallowed uncomfortably. “Michael, you must be aware that I may not conceive. With John, it took-”

“I don’t care,” he cut in.

“I think you do,” she said softly, worried about his response, but unwilling to enter into marriage without a clear conscience. “You’ve mentioned it several times, and-”

“To trap you into marriage,” he interrupted. And then, with stunning speed, he had her back against the wall, his body pressed up against hers with startling intimacy. “I don’t care if you’re barren,” he said, his voice hot against her ear. “I don’t care if you deliver a litter of puppies.”

His hand crept under her dress, sliding right up her thigh. “All I care about,” he said thickly, one finger turning very, very wicked, “is that you’re mine.”

“Oh!” Francesca yelped, feeling her limbs go molten. “Oh, yes.”

“Yes on this?” he asked devilishly, wiggling his finger just enough to drive her wild, “or yes on getting married today?”

“On this,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”

“What about the marriage?”

Francesca grabbed his shoulders for support.

“What about the marriage?” he asked again, quickly withdrawing his finger.

“Michael!” she wailed.

His lips spread into a slow, feral smile. “What about the marriage?”

“Yes!” she begged. “Yes! Whatever you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” she sighed.

“Good,” he said, and then, abruptly, he stepped away.

Leaving her slackjawed and rather mussed.

“Shall I retrieve your coat?” he inquired, adjusting his cuffs. He was the perfect picture of elegant manhood, not a hair out of place, utterly calm and composed.

She, on the other hand, was quite certain she resembled a banshee. “Michael?” she managed to ask, trying to ignore the extremely uncomfortable sensation he’d left down in her lower regions.

“If you want to finish,” he said, in much the same tone he might have used while discussing grouse hunting, “you’ll have to do so as the Countess of Kilmartin.”

“I am the Countess of Kilmartin,” she growled.

He gave her a nod of acknowledgment. “You’ll have to do it as my Countess of Kilmartin,” he corrected. He gave her a moment to respond, and when she did not, he asked again, “Shall I get your coat?”

She nodded.

“Excellent choice,” he murmured. “Will you wait here or accompany me to the hall?”

She pried her teeth apart to say, “I’ll come out to the hall.”

He took her arm and guided her to the door, leaning down to murmur, “Eager little thing, aren’t we?”

“Just get my coat,” she ground out.

He chuckled, but the sound was warm and rich, and already she felt her irritation beginning to melt away. He was a rogue and scoundrel, and probably a hundred other things as well, but he was her rogue and scoundrel, and she knew he possessed a heart as fine and true as any man she could ever hope to meet. Except for…

She stopped short and jabbed one finger against his chest.

“There will be no other women,” she said sharply.

He just looked at her with one arched brow.

“I mean it. No mistresses, no dalliances, no-”

“Good God, Francesca,” he cut in, “do you really think I could? No, scratch that. Do you really think I would?”

She’d been so caught up in her own intentions that she hadn’t really looked at his face, and she was stunned by the expression she saw there. He was angry, she realized, irked that she’d even asked. But she couldn’t dismiss out of hand a decade of bad behavior, and she didn’t think he had the right to expect her to, so she said, lowering her voice slightly, “You don’t have the finest reputation.”