Julia Quinn: When He Was Wicked With 2nd Epilogue (Bridgertons)

The Queen, Michael thought dispassionately. He supposed his grandmother had knelt before the Queen, but he certainly couldn’t imagine her offering deference to any other female.

She would have approved of Francesca Bridgerton. Grandmother Stirling would surely have turned her nose up upon learning that Francesca’s father was a mere viscount, but the Bridgertons were an old and immensely popular—and, when the fancy took them, powerful—family. Plus, Francesca’s spine was straight and her manner was proud, and her sense of humor was sly and subversive. If she’d been fifty years older and not nearly so attractive, she would have made quite a fine companion for Grandmother Stirling.

And now Francesca was the Countess of Kilmartin, married to his cousin John, who was one year his junior but in the Stirling household always treated with the deference due the elder; he was the heir, after all. Their fathers had been twins, but John’s had entered the world seven minutes before Michael’s.

The most critical seven minutes in Michael Stirling’s life, and he hadn’t even been alive for them.

“What shall we do for our second anniversary?” Francesca asked as she crossed the room and seated herself at the pianoforte.

“Whatever you want,” John answered.

Francesca turned to Michael, her eyes startlingly blue, even in the candlelight. Or maybe it was just that he knew how blue they were. He seemed to dream in blue these days. Francesca blue, the color ought to be called.

“Michael?” she said, her tone indicating that the word was a repetition.

“Sorry,” he said, offering her the lopsided smile he so frequently affixed to his face. No one ever took him seriously when he smiled like that, which was, of course, the point. “Wasn’t listening.”

“Do you have any ideas?” she asked.

“For what?”

“For our anniversary.”

If she’d had an arrow, she couldn’t have jammed it into his heart any harder. But he just shrugged, since he was appallingly good at faking it. “It’s not my anniversary,” he reminded her.

“I know,” she said. He wasn’t looking at her, but she sounded like she rolled her eyes.

But she hadn’t. Michael was certain of that. He’d come to know Francesca agonizingly well in the past two years, and he knew she didn’t roll her eyes. 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. She just looked at you with that direct stare, her lips curving ever so slightly, and—

Michael swallowed reflexively, then covered it with a sip of his drink. It didn’t really speak well of him that he’d spent so much time analyzing the curve of his cousin’s wife’s lips.

“I assure you,” Francesca continued, idly trailing the pads of her fingertips along the surface of the piano keys without actually pressing any into sound, “I’m well aware of whom I married.”

“I’m sure you are,” he muttered.

“Beg pardon?”

“Continue,” he said.

Her lips pursed in a peevish crease. He’d seen her with that expression quite frequently, usually in her dealings with her brothers. “I was asking your advice,” she said, “because you are so often merry.”

“I’m so often merry?” he repeated, knowing that was how the world saw him—they called him the Merry Rake, after all—but hating the word on her lips. It made him feel frivolous, without substance.

And then he felt even worse, because it was probably true.

“You disagree?” she inquired.

“Of course not,” he murmured. “I’m simply unused to being asked for advice regarding anniversary celebrations, as it is clear I have no talent for marriage.”

“That’s not clear at all,” she said.

“You’re in for it now,” John said with a chuckle, settling back in his seat with that morning’s copy of the Times .

“You have never tried marriage,” Francesca pointed out. “How could you possibly know you have no talent for it?”

Michael managed a smirk. “I think it’s fairly clear to all who know me. Besides, what need have I? I have no title, no property—”

“You have property,” John interjected, demonstrating that he was still listening from behind his newspaper.

“Only a small bit of property,” Michael corrected, “which I am more than happy to leave for your children, since it was given to me by John, anyway.”

Francesca looked at her husband, and Michael knew exactly what she was thinking—that John had given him the property because John wanted him to feel he had something, a purpose, really. Michael had been at loose ends since decommissioning from the army several years back. And although John had never said so, Michael knew that he felt guilty for having not fought for England on the Continent, for remaining behind while Michael faced danger alone.

But John had been heir to an earldom. He had a duty to marry, be fruitful and multiply. No one had expected him to go to war.

Michael had often wondered if the property—a rather lovely and comfortable manor house with twenty acres—was John’s form of penance. And he rather suspected that Francesca wondered the same.

But she would never ask. Francesca understood men with remarkable clarity—probably from growing up with all of those brothers. Francesca knew exactly what not to ask a man.

Which always left Michael a little worried. He thought he hid his feelings well, but what if she knew ? She would never speak of it, of course, never even allude to it. He rather suspected they were, ironically, alike that way; if Francesca suspected he was in love with her, she would never alter her manner in any way.

“I think you should go to Kilmartin,” Michael said abruptly.

“To Scotland?” Francesca asked, pressing gently against B-flat on the pianoforte. “With the season so close?”

Michael stood, suddenly rather eager to depart. He shouldn’t have come over in any case. “Why not?” he asked, his tone careless. “You love it there. John loves it there. It’s not such a long journey if your carriage is well sprung.”

“Will you come?” John asked.

“I think not,” Michael said sharply. As if he cared to witness their anniversary celebration. Truly, all it would do was remind him of what he could never have. Which would then remind him of the guilt. Or amplify it. Reminders were rather unnecessary; he lived with it every day.

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Cousin’s Wife.

Moses must have forgotten to write that one down.

“I have much to do here,” Michael said.

“You do?” Francesca asked, her eyes lighting with interest. “What?”

“Oh, you know,” he said wryly, “all those things I have to do to prepare for a life of dissolution and aimlessness.”

Francesca stood.

Oh God, she stood, and she was walking to him. This was the worst—when she actually touched him.

She laid her hand on his upper arm. Michael did his best not to flinch.

“I wish you wouldn’t speak that way,” she said.

Michael looked past her shoulder to John, who had raised his newspaper just high enough so that he could pretend he wasn’t listening.

“Am I to become your project, then?” Michael asked, a bit unkindly.

She drew back. “We care about you.”

We. We . Not I , not John . We. A subtle reminder that they were a unit. John and Francesca. Lord and Lady Kilmartin. She hadn’t meant it that way, of course, but it was how he heard it all the same.

“And I care for you,” Michael said, waiting for a plague of locusts to stream through the room.

“I know,” she said, oblivious to his distress. “I could never ask for a better cousin. But I want you to be happy.”