Julia Quinn - When He Was Wicked

Come quickly , was all it said. Francesco has lost the baby .

Michael nearly killed himself rushing to Kilmartin House, racing on horseback at a breakneck pace, ignoring the shouts from the angry pedestrians he’d nearly decapitated in his haste.

But now that he was here, standing in the hall, he had no idea what to do with himself.

Miscarriage? It seemed such a womanly thing. What was he meant to do? It was a tragedy, and he felt horrible for Francesca, but what did they think he could say? Why did they want him here?

And then it hit him. He was the earl now. It was done. Slowly but surely, he was assuming John’s life, filling every corner of the world that had once belonged to his cousin.

“Oh, Michael,” his mother said, rushing into the hall. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He embraced her, his arms awkwardly coming around her. And he said something utterly meaningless like, “Such a tragedy,” but mostly he just stood there, feeling foolish and out of place.

“How is she?” he finally asked, once his mother stepped back.

“In shock,” she replied. “She’s been crying.”

He swallowed, wanting desperately to loosen his cravat. “Well, that’s to be expected,” he said. “I-I-”

“She can’t seem to stop,” Helen interrupted.

“Crying?” Michael asked.

Helen nodded. “I don’t know what to do.”

Michael measured his breaths. Even. Slow. In and out.

“Michael?” His mother was looking up to him for a response. Maybe for guidance.

As if he would know what to do.

“Her mother came by,” Helen said, when it became apparent that Michael was not going to speak. “She wants Francesca to go back to Bridgerton House.”

“Does Francesca want to?”

Helen shrugged sadly. “I don’t think she knows. It’s all such a shock.”

“Yes,” Michael said, swallowing again. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to get out.

“The doctor said we’re not to move her for several days, in any case,” Helen added.

He nodded.

“Naturally, we called for you.”

Naturally? There was nothing natural about it. He’d never felt so out of place, so completely at a loss for words or action.

“You’re Kilmartin now,” his mother said quietly.

He nodded again. Just once. It was as much of an acknowledgment as he could muster.

“I must say I-” Helen stopped, her lips pursing in an odd, jerky manner. “Well, a mother wants the world for her children, but I didn’t-I never would have-”

“Don’t say it,” Michael said hoarsely. He wasn’t ready for anyone to say this was a good thing. And by God, if anyone offered his congratulations…

Well, he wouldn’t be responsible for the violence.

“She asked for you,” his mother said.

“Francesca?” he asked, his eyes flying open with surprise.

Helen nodded. “She said she wanted you.”

“I can’t,” he said.

“You have to.”

“I can’t.” He shook his head, panic making his movements too quick. “I can’t go in there.”

“You can’t abandon her,” his mother said.

“She was never mine to abandon.”

“Michael!” Helen gasped. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Mother,” he said, desperately trying to redirect the conversation, “she needs a woman. What can I do?”

“You can be her friend,” Helen said softly, and he felt eight again, scolded for a thoughtless transgression.

“No,” he said, and his voice horrified him. He sounded like a wounded animal, pained and confused. But there was one thing he knew for certain. He couldn’t see her. Not now. Not yet.

“Michael,” his mother said.

“No,” he said again. “I will… Tomorrow, I’ll…” And he strode for the door with nothing more than a “Give her my best.”

And then he fled, coward that he was.

… I am sure it is not worth such high drama. I do not profess to know or understand romantic love between husband and wife, but surely it is not so all-encompassing that the loss of one would destroy the other. You are stronger than you think, dear sister. You would survive quite handily without him, moot point though it may be.

– from Eloise Bridgerton to her sister, the Countess of Kilmartin, three weeks after Francesca’s wedding

The following month was, Michael was certain, the best approximation of hell on earth that any human being was likely to experience.

With every new ceremony, each and every document he found himself signing as Kilmartin, or “my lord” he was forced to endure, it was as if John’s spirit was being pushed farther away.

Soon, Michael thought dispassionately, it would be as if he’d never existed. Even the baby-who was to have been the last piece of John Stirling left on earth-was gone.

And everything that had been John’s was now Michael’s.

Except Francesca.

And Michael intended to keep it that way. He would not-no, he could not offer his cousin that last insult.

He’d had to see her, of course, and he’d offered his best words of comfort, but whatever he’d said, it wasn’t the right thing, and she’d just turned her head and looked at the wall.

He didn’t know what to say. Frankly, he was more relieved that she was not injured than he was upset that the baby had been lost. The mothers-his, John’s, and Francesca’s-had felt compelled to describe the gore to him in appalling detail, and one of the maids had even trotted out the bloody sheets, which someone had saved to offer as proof that Francesca had miscarried.

Lord Winston had nodded approvingly but had then added that he would have to keep an eye on the countess, just to be sure that the sheets were truly hers, and that she wasn’t actually increasing. This wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to circumvent the sacred laws of primogeniture, he’d added.

Michael had wanted to hurl the yappy little man out the window, but instead he’d merely shown him the door. He no longer had energy for that kind of anger, it seemed.

He still hadn’t moved into Kilmartin House. He wasn’t quite ready for it, and the thought of living there with all those women was suffocating. He’d have to do so soon, he knew; it was expected of the earl. But for now, he was content enough in his small suite of apartments.

And that was where he was, avoiding his duties, when Francesca finally sought him out.

“Michael?” she said, once his valet had shown her to his small sitting room.

“Francesca,” he replied, shocked at her appearance. She’d never come here before. Not when John had been alive, and certainly not after. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” she said.

The unspoken message being: You’re avoiding me .

It was the truth, of course, but all he said was, “Sit down.” And then belatedly: “Please.”

Was this improper? Her being here in his apartments? He wasn’t sure. The circumstances of their position were so odd, so completely out of order that he had no idea which rules of etiquette were currently governing them.

She sat, and did nothing but fiddle her fingers against her skirts for a full minute, and then she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his with heartbreaking intensity, and said, “I miss you.”

The walls began to close in around him. “Francesca, I-”

“You were my friend,” she said accusingly. “Besides John, you were my closest friend, and I don’t know who you are any longer.”

“I-” Oh, he felt like a fool, utterly impotent and brought down by a pair of blue eyes and a mountain of guilt.

Guilt for what, he wasn’t even certain any longer. It seemed to come from so many sources, from such a variety of directions, that he couldn’t quite keep track of it.