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

“Don’t forget your cousin as well,” she said, kicking herself under the table as soon as the words left her lips. Everything about his demeanor screamed not to provoke him, but she just couldn’t help it.

There was little in this world she enjoyed more than provoking Michael Stirling, and moments like this were simply too delicious to resist.

“And how will you be spending your season?” Michael asked, tilting his head slightly into an obnoxiously patient expression.

“I imagine I’ll begin by going to my mother’s birthday party.”

“And what will you be doing there?”

“Offering my felicitations.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, I won’t be inquiring after her age, if that’s what you’re asking,” Francesca replied.

“Oh, no,” Janet said, followed by Helen’s equally fervent, “Don’t do that.”

All three ladies turned to Michael with identical expectant expressions. It was his turn to speak, after all.

“I’m leaving,” he said, his chair scraping along the floor as he stood.

Francesca opened her mouth to say something provoking, since it was always her first inclination to tease him when he was in such a state, but she found herself without words.

Michael had changed.

It wasn’t that he’d been irresponsible before. It was just that he’d been without responsibilities. And it hadn’t really occurred to her how well he might rise to the occasion once he returned to England.

“Michael,” she said, her soft voice instantly gaining his attention, “good luck with Lord Liverpool.”

His eyes caught hers, and something flashed there. A hint of appreciation, maybe of gratitude.

Or maybe it was nothing so precise. Maybe it was just a wordless moment of understanding.

The sort she’d had with John.

Francesca swallowed, uncomfortable with this sudden realization. She reached for her tea with a slow and deliberate movement, as if her control over her body might extend to her mind as well.

What had just happened?

He was just Michael, wasn’t he?

Just her friend, just her longtime confidant.

Wasn’t that all?

Wasn’t it?

Chapter 10

. . . . . . . . .

—nothing more than hatchmarks,

caused by the tapping of

the Countess of Kilmartin’s pen against paper,

two weeks after the receipt of

the Earl of Kilmartin’s third missive to her

“Is he here?”

“He’s not here.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’m quite certain.”

“But he is coming?”

“He said he was.”

“Oh. But when is he coming?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh. Right. Well . . . Oh, look! I see my daughter. Lovely seeing you, Francesca.”

Francesca rolled her eyes—not an affectation she espoused except under the most severe of circumstances—as she watched Mrs. Featherington, one of the ton ’s most notorious gossips, toddle off toward her daughter Felicity, who was chatting amiably with a handsome, albeit untitled, young man at the edge of the ballroom.

The conversation would have been amusing if it hadn’t been the seventh—no eighth, mustn’t forget her own mother—time she had been subjected to it. And the conversation was always the same, truly down to the very word, save for the fact that not everyone knew her well enough to use her given name.

Once Violet Bridgerton had let it be known that the elusive Earl of Kilmartin would be making his reappearance at her birthday party—Well, Francesca was quite sure she would never be safe from interrogation again, at least not from anyone with any attachment to an unmarried female.

Michael was the catch of the season, and he hadn’t even shown up yet.

“Lady Kilmartin!”

She looked up. Lady Danbury was coming her way. A more crotchety and outspoken old lady had never graced the ballrooms of London, but Francesca rather liked her, so she just smiled as the countess approached, noticing that the partygoers on either side of her quickly fled to parts unknown.

“Lady Danbury,” Francesca said, “how nice to see you this evening. Are you enjoying yourself?”

Lady D thumped her cane against the ground for no apparent reason. “I’d enjoy myself a dashed sight more if someone would tell me how old your mother is.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Pfft. What’s the fuss?It’s not as if she’s as old as I am.”

“And how old are you ?” Francesca asked, her tone as sweet as her smile was sly.

Lady D’s wrinkled face cracked into a smile. “Heh heh heh, clever one you are. Don’t think I’m going to tell you .”

“Then surely you will understand if I exercise the same loyalty toward my mother.”

“Hmmph,” Lady Danbury grunted by way of a response, thumping her cane against the floor for emphasis. “What’s the use of a birthday party if no one knows what we’re celebrating?”

“The miracle of life and longevity?”

Lady Danbury snorted at that, then asked, “Where’s that new earl of yours?”

My, she was blunt. “He’s not my earl,” Francesca pointed out.

“Well, he’s more yours than anyone else’s.”

That much was probably true, although Francesca wasn’t about to confirm it with Lady Danbury, so she just said, “I imagine his lordship would take exception to being labeled as anyone’s but his own.”

“His lordship, eh? That’s rather formal, don’t you think? Thought the two of you were friends.”

“We are,” Francesca said. But that did not mean she would bandy about his given name in public. Truly, it wouldn’t do to stir up any rumors. Not if she needed to keep her reputation pristine in her search for a husband of her own. “He was my husband’s closest confidant,” she said pointedly. “They were like brothers.”

Lady Danbury looked disappointed with Francesca’s bland characterization of her relationship with Michael, but all she did was pinch her lips as she scanned the crowd. “This party needs some livening up,” she muttered, tapping her cane again.

“Do try not to say that to my mother,” Francesca murmured. Violet had spent weeks on the arrangements, and truly, no one could find exception with the party. The lighting was soft and romantic, the music pure perfection, and even the food was good—no small achievement at a London ball. Francesca had already enjoyed two éclairs and had spent the time since plotting how to make her way back to the table of refreshments without appearing a complete glutton.

Except that she kept getting waylaid by inquisitive matrons.

“Oh, it’s not your mother’s fault,” Lady D said. “She’s not to blame for the overpopulation of dullards in our society. Good God, she bred eight of you, and not an idiot in the lot.” She gave Francesca a pertinent glance. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”

“I’m touched.”

Lady Danbury’s mouth clamped together into a frighteningly serious line. “I’m going to have to do something,” she said.

“About what?”

“The party.”

An awful sensation took hold in Francesca’s stomach. She’d never known Lady Danbury to actually ruin someone else’s fête, but the old lady was clever enough to do some serious damage if she put her mind to it. “What, exactly, do you plan to do?” Francesca asked, trying to keep her voice free of panic.

“Oh, don’t look at me like I’m about to kill your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Well, I do, and I assure you, I’d be mad as Hades if anyone tried to harm him.”

“Lady Danbury, what on earth are you talking about?”