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

“Make sure you—” She stopped, smiling as she shook her head. “Well, you know how I feel.”

John smiled, then leaned down and dropped a tender kiss on her lips. “I always know how you feel, darling.”

Michael pretended to look the other way.

“Not always,” she said, her voice warm and teasing.

“Always when it matters,” John said.

“Well, that is true,” she admitted. “So much for my attempts to be a lady of mystery.”

He kissed her again. “I prefer you as an open book, myself.”

Michael cleared his throat. This shouldn’t be so difficult; it wasn’t as if John and Francesca were acting any differently than was normal. They were, as so much of society had commented, like two peas in a pod, marvelously in accord, and splendidly in love.

“It’s growing late,” Francesca said. “I should go if I want that spot of fresh air.”

John nodded, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Are you sure you’re well?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just a headache.”

Francesca looped her hand into the crook of Michael’s elbow. “Be sure to take some laudanum when you return from your meeting,” she said over her shoulder, once they’d reached the door, “since I know you won’t do it now.”

John nodded, his expression weary, then headed up the stairs.

“Poor John,” Francesca said, stepping outside into the brisk night air. She took a deep inhale, then let out a sigh. “I detest headaches. They always seem to lay me especially low.”

“Never get them myself,” Michael admitted, leading her down the steps to the pavement.

“Really?” She looked up at him, one corner of her mouth quirking in that achingly familiar way. “Lucky you.”

It almost made Michael laugh. Here he was, strolling through the night with the woman he loved.

Lucky him.

Chapter 2

. . . and if it were as bad as that, I suspect you would not tell me. As for the women, do at least try to make sure they are clean and free of disease. Beyond that, do what you must to make your time bearable. And please, try not to get yourself killed. At the risk of sounding maudlin, I don’t know what I would do without you.

—from the Earl of Kilmartin

to his cousin Michael Stirling,

sent in care of the 52nd Foot Guards

during the Napoleonic Wars

F or all his faults—and Francesca was willing to allow that Michael Stirling had many—he really was the dearest man.

He was a horrible flirt (she’d seen him in action, and even she had to admit that otherwise intelligent women lost all measure of sense when he chose to be charming), and he certainly didn’t approach his life with the gravity that she and John would have liked him to, but even with all that, she couldn’t help but love him.

He was the best friend John had ever had—until he’d married her , of course—and over the last two years, he’d become her close confidant as well.

It was a funny thing, that. Who would have thought she’d have counted a man as one of her closest friends? She was not uncomfortable around men; four brothers tended to wring the delicacy out of even the most feminine of creatures. But she was not like her sisters. Daphne and Eloise—and Hyacinth, too, she supposed, although she was still a bit young to know for sure—were so open and sunny. They were the sorts of females who excelled at hunting and shooting—the kinds of pursuits that tended to get them labeled as “jolly good sports.” Men always felt comfortable in their presence, and the feeling was, Francesca had observed, entirely mutual.

But she was different. She’d always felt a little different from the rest of her family. She loved them fiercely, and would have laid down her life for any one of them, but even though she looked like a Bridgerton, on the inside she always felt like a bit of a changeling.

Where the rest of her family was outgoing, she was . . . not shy, precisely, but a bit more reserved, more careful with her words. She’d developed a reputation for irony and wit, and she had to admit, she could rarely resist the opportunity to needle her siblings with a dry remark. It was done out of love, of course, and perhaps a touch of the desperation that comes from having spent far too much time with one’s family, but they teased Francesca right back, so all was fair.

It was the way of her family. They laughed, they teased, they bickered. Francesca’s contributions to the din were simply a touch quieter than the rest, a bit more sly and subversive.

She often wondered if part of her attraction to John had been the simple fact that he removed her from the chaos that was so often the Bridgerton household. Not that she didn’t love him; she did. She adored him with every last breath in her body. He was her kindred spirit, so like her in so many ways. But it had, in a strange sort of fashion, been a relief to exit her mother’s home, to escape to a more serene existence with John, whose sense of humor was precisely like hers.

He understood her, he anticipated her.

He completed her.

It had been the oddest sensation when she’d met him, almost as if she were a jagged puzzle piece finally finding its mate. Their first meeting hadn’t been one of over-whelming love or passion, but rather filled with the most bizarre sense that she’d finally found the one person with whom she could completely be herself.

It had been instant. It had been sudden. She couldn’t remember just what it was he’d said to her, but from the moment words first left his lips, she had felt at home.

And with him had come Michael, his cousin—although truth be told, the two men were much more like brothers. They’d been raised together, and they were so close in age that they’d shared everything.

Well, almost everything. John was the heir to an earldom, and Michael was just his cousin, and so it was only natural that the two boys would not be treated quite the same. But from what Francesca had heard, and from what she knew of the Stirling family now, they had been loved in equal measure, and she rather thought that was the key to Michael’s good humor.

Because even though John had inherited the title and the wealth, and well, everything, Michael didn’t seem to envy him.

He didn’t envy him. It was amazing to her. He’d been raised as John’s brother—John’s older brother, even—and yet he’d never once begrudged John any of his blessings.

And it was for that reason that Francesca loved him best. Michael would surely scoff if she tried to praise him for it, and she was quite certain that he would point to his many misdeeds (none of which, she feared, were exaggerated) to prove that his soul was black and he was a scoundrel through and through—but the truth of the matter was that Michael Stirling possessed a generosity of spirit and a capability for love that was unmatched among men.

And if she didn’t find a wife for him soon, she was going to go mad.

“What,” she said, aware that her voice was quite suddenly piercing the silence of the night, “is wrong with my sister?”

“Francesca,” he said, and she could hear irritation—and, thankfully, a bit of amusement as well—in his voice, “I’m not going to marry your sister.”

“I didn’t say you had to marry her.”

“You didn’t have to. Your face is an open book.”

She looked up at him, twisting her lips. “You weren’t even looking at me.”

“Of course I was, and anyway, it wouldn’t matter if I weren’t. I know what you’re about.”

He was right, and it scared her. Sometimes she worried that he understood her as well as John did.

“You need a wife,” she said.