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

“Sorry,” Francesca said, surveying the damage. At least it had been a small spoonful.

“What the devil are you doing to me?” he sputtered.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t much experience nursing. You looked thirsty.”

“Next time I’m thirsty, I’ll tell you,” he grumbled.

She nodded her agreement and watched as he tried to make himself comfortable again. “You wouldn’t happen to be thirsty right now?” she asked in a mild voice.

“Just a bit,” he said, his syllables slightly clipped.

Without a word, she held out the cup of tea. He downed it all in one long gulp.

“Would you like another cup?”

He shook his head. “Any more and I’m going to have to pi—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I have four brothers,” she said. “Pay it no mind. Would you like me to fetch you the chamberpot?”

“I can do it myself.”

He didn’t look well enough to cross the room on his own, but she knew better than to argue with a man in that irritable a state. He would come to his senses when he tried to stand and fell right back down against the bed. No amount of argument or reason on her part would convince him otherwise.

“You’re quite feverish,” she said softly.

“It isn’t malaria.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You were thinking it.”

“What happens if it is malaria?” she asked.

“It’s not—”

“But what if it is?” she cut in, and to her horror, her voice had that awful pitch to it, that roundish sound of terror it made just before it actually choked.

Michael looked at her for several seconds, his eyes grim. Finally, he just rolled over and said, “It’s not.”

Francesca swallowed. She had her answer now. “Do you mind if I leave?” she blurted out, standing up so quickly the blood rushed from her head.

He didn’t say anything, but she could see him shrug under the covers.

“It’s just for a walk,” she explained haltingly, making her way to the door. “Before the sun goes down.”

“I’ll be fine,” he grunted.

She nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her. “I’ll see you soon,” she said.

But he’d already fallen back asleep.

T he air was misty and threatened more precipitation, so Francesca grabbed a rain parasol and made her way to the gazebo. The sides were open to the elements, but it had a roof, and should the heavens open, she would remain at least nominally dry.

But with every step, it felt as if her breathing was growing more labored, and by the time she reached her destination, she was heaving with exertion, not from the walk, but just from keeping the tears at bay.

The minute she sat down, she stopped trying.

Each sob was huge, and hugely unladylike, but she didn’t care.

Michael might be dying. For all she knew, he was dying, and she was going to be a widow twice over.

It had nearly killed her last time.

And she just didn’t know if she was strong enough to go through it all again. She didn’t know if she wanted to be strong enough.

It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, damn it all, that she should have to lose two husbands when so many women got to hold onto one for an entire lifetime. And most of those women didn’t even like their spouses, whereas she , who actually loved them both—

Francesca’s breath caught.

She loved him? Michael?

No, no, she assured herself, she didn’t love him. Not like that. When she’d thought it, when the word had echoed through her brain, she’d meant in friendship. Of course she loved Michael that way. She’d always loved him, right? He was her best friend, had been even back when John was alive.

She pictured him, saw his face, his smile.

She closed her eyes, remembered his kiss and the perfect feeling of his hand at the small of her back as they walked through the house.

And she finally figured out why everything had seemed different between them of late. It wasn’t, as she’d originally supposed, just because they’d married. It wasn’t because he was her husband, because she wore his ring on her finger.

It was because she loved him.

This thing between them, this bond—it wasn’t just passion, and it wasn’t wicked.

It was love, and it was divine.

And Francesca could not have been more surprised if John had materialized before her and started to dance an Irish reel.

Michael.

She loved Michael.

Not just as a friend, but as a husband and a lover. She loved him with the depth and intensity she’d felt for John. It was different, because they were different men, and she was different now, too, but it was also the same. It was the love of a woman for a man, and it filled every corner of her heart.

And by God, she didn’t want him to die.

“You can’t do this to me,” she yelled, hanging over the side of the gazebo bench and looking up at the sky. A fat raindrop landed on the bridge of her nose, splashing into her eye.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she growled, wiping the moisture away. “Don’t think you can—”

Three more drops, in rapid succession.

“Damn,” Francesca muttered, followed by a “Sorry,” aimed back up at the clouds.

She pulled her head back into the gazebo, taking refuge under the wooden roof as the rain grew in intensity.

What was she supposed to do now? Charge forth with all the single-minded purpose of an avenging angel, or have a good cry and feel sorry for herself?

Or maybe a little of both.

She looked out at the rain, which was now thundering down with enough force to strike fear in the heart of even the most determined of avenging angels.

Definitely a little of both.

M ichael opened his eyes, surprised to discover that it was morning. He blinked a few times, just to verify this fact. The curtains were drawn shut, but not all the way, and there was a clear streak of light making a stripe along the carpet.

Morning. Well. He must have been really tired. The last thing he remembered was Francesca dashing out the door, stating her intention to go for a walk, despite the fact that any fool would have realized that it was going to rain.

Silly woman.

He tried to sit up, then quickly flopped back down on the covers. Damn, he felt like death. Not, he allowed, the finest metaphor under the circumstances, but he couldn’t think of much else that would adequately describe the ache that permeated his body. He felt exhausted, nearly glued to the sheets. The mere thought of sitting up was enough to make him groan.

Damn , he was miserable.

He touched his forehead, trying to ascertain if he still had a fever, but if his brow was hot, then so was his hand; he couldn’t tell a thing other than the fact that he was damned sweaty and certainly in need of a good bath.

He tried to sniff the air around him, but he was so congested that he ended up coughing.

He sighed. Well, if he stank, at least he didn’t have to smell it.

He heard a soft sound at the door and looked up to see Francesca entering the room. She moved quietly on stockinged feet, clearly trying to avoid disturbing him. As she approached the bed, however, she finally looked at him and let out a little, “Oh!” of surprise.

“You’re awake,” she said.

He nodded. “What time is it?”

“Half eight. Not too late, really, except that you fell asleep last evening before the supper hour.”

He nodded again, since he didn’t really have anything pertinent to add to the conversation. And besides that, he was too tired to speak.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, sitting down beside him. “And would you like something to eat?”