When He Was Wicked

“When your father died…” Violet said. “Well, I don’t know how much you recall, but it was very sudden. None of us expected it.” She gave a sad little laugh, and Francesca wondered if she’d ever be able to laugh about John’s death, even if it was tinged with grief.

“A bee sting,” Violet continued, and Francesca realized that even now, more than twenty years after Edmund Bridgerton’s death, her mother still sounded surprised when she talked about it.

“Who would have thought it possible?” Violet said, shaking her head. “I don’t know how well you remember him, but your father was a very large man. As tall as Benedict and perhaps even broader in the shoulders. You just wouldn’t think that a bee…” She stopped, pulling out a crisp, white handkerchief and holding it to her lips as she cleared her throat. “Well, it was unexpected. I don’t really know what else to say, except…” She turned to her daughter with achingly wise eyes. “Except I imagine you understand better than anyone.”

Francesca nodded, not even trying to stem the burning sensation behind her eyes.

“Anyway,” Violet said briskly, obviously eager to move forward, “after his death, I was just so… stunned. I felt as if I were walking in a haze. I’m not at all certain how I functioned that first year. Or even the ones directly thereafter. So I couldn’t possibly even think of marriage.”

“I know,” Francesca said softly. And she did.

“And after that… well, I don’t know what happened. Maybe I just didn’t meet anyone with whom I cared to share my life. Maybe I loved your father too much.” She shrugged. “Maybe I just never saw the need. I was in a very different position from you, after all. I was older, don’t forget, and already the mother of eight children. And your father left our affairs in very good order. I knew we would never want for anything.”

“John left Kilmartin in excellent order,” Francesca said quickly.

“Of course he did,” Violet said, patting her hand. “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply otherwise. But you don’t have eight children, Francesca.” Her eyes changed somehow, grew an even deeper blue. “And you’ve quite a lot of time ahead of you to spend it all alone.”

Francesca nodded jerkily. “I know,” she said. “I know. I know, but I can’t quite… I can’t…”

“You can’t what?” Violet asked gently.

“I can’t…” Francesca looked down. She didn’t know why, but for some reason she couldn’t take her eyes off the floor. “I can’t rid myself of the feeling that I’m doing something wrong, that I’m dishonoring John, dishonoring our marriage.”

“John would have wanted you to be happy.”

“I know. I know. Of course he would. But don’t you see-” She looked up again, her eyes searching her mother’s face for something, she wasn’t sure what- maybe approval, maybe just love, since there was something comforting in looking for something she already knew she’d find. “I’m not even looking for that,” she added. “I’m not going to find someone like John. I’ve accepted that. And it feels so wrong to marry with less.”

“You won’t find someone like John, that is true,” Violet said. “But you might find a man who will suit you equally well, just in a different way.”

“You didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t,” she agreed, “but I didn’t look very hard. I didn’t look at all.”

“Do you wish you had?”

Violet opened her mouth, but not a sound came out, not even breath. Finally she said, “I don’t know, Francesca. I honestly don’t know.” And then, because the moment almost certainly needed a bit of laughter, she added, “I certainly didn’t want any more children!”

Francesca couldn’t help but smile. “I do,” she said softly. “I want a baby.”

“I thought that you did.”

“Why did you never ask me about it?”

Violet tilted her head to the side. “Why did you never ask me about why I never remarried?”

Francesca felt her lips part. She shouldn’t have been so surprised by her mother’s perceptiveness.

“If you had been Eloise, I think I would have said something,” Violet added. “Or any of your sisters, for that matter. But you-” She smiled nostalgically. “You’re not the same. You never have been. Even as a child you set yourself apart. And you needed your distance.”

Impulsively, Francesca reached out and squeezed her mother’s hand. “I love you, did you know that?”

Violet smiled. “I rather suspected it.”

“Mother!”

“Very well, of course I knew it. How could you not love me when I love you so very, very much?”

“I haven’t said it,” Francesca said, feeling rather horrified by her omission. “Not recently, anyway.”

“It’s quite all right.” Violet squeezed her hand back. “You’ve had other things on your mind.”

And for some reason that made Francesca giggle under her breath. “A bit of an understatement, I should say.”

Violet just grinned.

“Mother?” Francesca blurted out. “May I ask you one more question?”

“Of course.”

“If I don’t find someone-not like John, of course, but still not equally suited to me. If I don’t find someone like that, and I marry someone whom I rather like, but perhaps don’t love… is that all right?”

Violet was silent for several moments before she answered. “I’m afraid only you will know the answer to that,” she finally said. “I would never say no, of course. Half the ton-more than half, in truth-has marriages like that, and quite a few of them are perfectly content. But you will have to make your judgments for yourself when they arise. Everyone is different, Francesca. I suspect you know that better than most. And when a man asks for your hand, you will have to judge him on his merits and not by some arbitrary standard you have set out ahead of time.”

She was right, of course, but Francesca was so sick of life being messy and complicated that it wasn’t the answer she’d been seeking.

And none of it addressed the problem that lay most deeply within her heart. What would happen if she actually did meet someone who made her feel the way she’d felt with John? She couldn’t imagine that she would; truly, it seemed wildly improbable.

But what if she did? How could she live with herself then?

There was something rather satisfying about a foul mood, so Michael decided to indulge his completely.

He kicked a pebble all the way home.

He snarled at anyone who jostled him on the street.

He yanked open his front door with such ferocity that it slammed into the stone wall behind it. Or rather he would have done, if his sodding butler hadn’t been so on his toes and had the door open before Michael’s fingers could even touch the handle.

But he thought about slamming it open, which provided some satisfaction in and of itself.

And then he stomped up the stairs to his room-which still felt too bloody much like John’s room, not that there was anything he could do about that just then-and yanked off his boots.

Or tried to.

Bloody hell.

“Reivers!” he bellowed.

His valet appeared-or really, it seemed rather more like he apparated-in the doorway.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Would you help me with my boots?” Michael ground out, feeling rather infantile. Three years in the army and four in India, and he couldn’t remove his own damned boots? What was it about London that reduced a man to a sniveling idiot? He seemed to recall that Reivers had had to remove his boots for him the last time he’d lived in London as well.

He looked down. They were different boots. Different styles, he supposed, for different situations, and Reivers had always taken a stunningly ridiculous pride in his work. Of course he d have wanted to outfit Michael in the very best of London fashion. He’d have-

“Reivers?” Michael said in a low voice. “Where did you get these boots?”

“My lord?”

“These boots. I do not recognize them.”