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

“I can’t do this,” she said, her back now flat against the hard wood of the door. “I can’t. I . . . I . . .”

I want to , she thought. Even as she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t escape the fact that she wanted to, anyway. But if she told him that, would he make her change her mind? He could do it, too. She knew he could. One kiss, one touch, and all of her resolve would be lost.

He just swore and yanked his trousers back up.

“I don’t know who I am any longer,” she said. “I’m not this sort of woman.”

“ What sort of woman?” he snapped.

“A wanton,” she whispered. “Fallen.”

“Then marry me,” he shot back. “I offered to make you respectable from the beginning, but you refused.”

He had her there, and she knew it. But logic didn’t seem to have a place in her heart these days, and all she could think was—How could she marry him? How could she marry Michael ?

“I wasn’t supposed to feel this for another man,” she said, barely able to believe that she’d spoken the words aloud.

“Feel what ?” he asked urgently.

She swallowed, forcing herself to bring her eyes to his face. “The passion,” she admitted.

His face took on a strange expression, almost one of disgust. “Right,” he drawled. “Of course. It’s a damned good thing you have me here to service you.”

“No!” she cried out, horrified by the derision lacing his voice. “That’s not it.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” But she didn’t know what was.

He took a ragged breath and turned away from her, his body taut with tension. She watched his back with terrible fascination, unable to take her eyes off of him. His shirt was loose, and even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew his body, every last curve of it. He looked desolate, hardened.

Worn out.

“Why do you stay?” he asked in a low voice, leaning on the edge of the mattress with the flats of both hands.

“Wh–what?”

“Why do you stay?” he repeated, his words rising in volume but never losing control. “If you hate me so much, why do you stay?”

“I don’t hate you,” she said. “You know I—”

“I don’t know a damned thing, Francesca,” he bit off. “I don’t even know you any longer.” His shoulders tensed as his fingers bit into the mattress. She could see one of his hands; the knuckles had gone white.

“I don’t hate you,” she said again, as if saying it twice would somehow turn her words into solid things, palpable and real, that she could force him to hold on to. “I don’t. I don’t hate you.”

He said nothing.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” she said, pleading with him now—for what, she wasn’t certain. Maybe for him not to hate her . That was the one thing she didn’t think she could bear.

But all he did was laugh. It was a horrible sound, bitter and low. “Oh, Francesca,” he said, condescension lending his words a brittle flavor. “If I had a pound for every time I’ve said that . . .”

Her mouth settled into a grim line. She didn’t like to be reminded of all the women who had gone before her. She didn’t want to know about them, didn’t even want to recall their existence.

“Why do you stay?” he asked again, finally turning around to face her.

She nearly reeled at the fire in his eyes. “Michael, I—”

“Why?” he demanded, fury pounding his voice into a harsh rumble. His face had tightened into deep, angry lines, and her hand instinctively reached for the doorknob.

“Why do you stay, Francesca?” he persisted, moving toward her with the predatory grace of a tiger. “There is nothing for you here at Kilmartin, nothing but this .”

She gasped as his hands landed hard on her shoulders, let out a soft cry of surprise as his lips found hers. It was a kiss of anger, of brutal desperation, but still, her traitorous body wanted nothing more than to melt into him, to let him do what he wished, turn all of his wicked attentions on her.

She wanted him. Dear God, even like this, she wanted him.

And she feared she would never learn to say no.

But he wrenched himself away. He did it. Not her.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, his voice ragged and hoarse. “Is that all?”

She did nothing, didn’t even move, just looked at him with wild eyes.

“ Why do you stay? ” he demanded, and she knew it was the last time he’d ask.

She didn’t have an answer.

He gave her several seconds. He waited for her to speak until the silence rose between them like a gorgon, but every time she opened her mouth, no sound emerged, and she couldn’t do anything but stand there, shaking as she watched his face.

With a vicious curse, he turned away. “Leave,” he ordered. “Now. I want you out of the house.”

“Wh–what?” She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that he would actually toss her out.

He didn’t look at her as he said, “If you can’t be with me, if you can’t give all of yourself to me, then I want you gone.”

“Michael?” It was just a whisper, barely that.

“I can’t bear this halfway existence,” he said, his voice so low she wasn’t certain she’d heard correctly.

All she could manage to say was, “Why?”

At first she didn’t think he was going to respond. His posture became impossibly taut, and then he began to shake.

Her hand rose to cover her mouth. Was he crying? Could he be . . .

Laughing?

“Oh, God, Francesca,” he said, his voice punctuated with derisive laughter. “Now there’s a good one. Why? Why? Why?” He gave each one a different tenor, as if he were testing out the word, asking it to different people.

“Why?” he asked again, this time with increased volume as he turned around to face her. “ Why? It’s because I love you, damn me to hell. Because I’ve always loved you. Because I loved you when you were with John, and I loved you when I was in India, and God only knows I don’t deserve you, but I love you, anyway.”

Francesca sagged against the door.

“How’s that for a witty little joke?” he mocked. “I love you . I love you , my cousin’s wife. I love you , the one woman I can never have. I love you , Francesca Bridgerton Stirling, who—”

“Stop,” she choked out.

“Now? Now that I’ve finally gotten started? Oh, I don’t think so,” he said grandly, waving one of his arms through the air like a showman. He leaned in close—painfully, uncomfortably close. And his smile was terrifying as he asked, “Are you scared yet?”

“Michael—”

“Because I haven’t nearly begun,” he said, his voice skipping over hers. “Do you want to know what I was thinking when you were married to John?”

“No,” she said desperately, shaking her head.

He opened his mouth to say more, his eyes still flashing with his contemptuous passion, but then something happened. Something changed. It was in his eyes. They were so angry, so inflamed, and then they simply . . .

Stopped.

Turned cold. Weary.

Then he closed them. He looked exhausted.

“Go,” he said. “Now.”

She whispered his name.

“Go,” he repeated, ignoring her plea. “If you’re not mine, I don’t want you anymore.”

“But I—”

He walked to the window, leaning heavily on the sill. “If this is to end, you will have to do it. You will have to walk away, Francesca. Because now . . . after everything . . . I’m just not strong enough to say goodbye.”

She stood motionless for several seconds, and then, just when she was sure the tension between them would tighten and snap her in two, her feet somehow found purchase, and she ran from the room.