Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,361

hands. But she didn’t cry.

She didn’t cry. Not one single tear. And for the life of her, she didn’t understand why not.

He would never understand women.

Michael swore viciously as he yanked off his boots, hurling the offending footwear against the door to his wardrobe.

“My lord?” came his valet’s tentative voice, poking out through the opened door to the dressing room.

“Not now, Reivers,” Michael snapped.

“Right,” the valet said quickly, scurrying across the room to gather up the boots. “I’ll just take these. You’ll want them cleaned.”

Michael cursed again.

“Er, or perhaps burned.” Reivers gulped.

Michael just looked at him and growled.

Reivers fled, but fool that he was, he forgot to close the door behind him.

Michael kicked it shut, cursing again when he failed to find satisfaction in the slam.

Even the little pleasures in life were denied to him now, it seemed.

He paced restlessly across the deep burgundy carpet, pausing only occasionally at the window.

Forget understanding women. He’d never pretended to have that ability. But he thought he’d understood Francesca. At least well enough to safely tell himself that she would marry any man with whom she’d lain twice.

Once, maybe not. Once she could call a mistake. But twice—

She would never allow a man to take her twice unless she held him in some regard.

But, he thought with a twisted grimace, apparently not.

Apparently she was willing to use him for her own pleasure—and she had. Dear God, she had. She had assumed the lead, taken what she’d wanted, relinquishing control only when the flames between them spiraled into an inferno.

She had used him.

And he would never have thought she had it in her.

Had she been like this with John? Had she taken charge? Had she—

He stopped, his feet freezing into place on the carpet.

John.

He had forgotten about John.

How was that possible?

For years, every time he’d seen Francesca, every time he’d leaned in for one intoxicating whiff of her, John had been there, first in his thoughts, and then in his memory.

But since the moment she’d entered the rose drawing room last night, when he heard her footsteps behind him and whispered the words, “Marry me,” to himself, he’d forgotten about John.

His memory would never disappear. He was too dear, too important—to both of them. But somewhere along the way, somewhere along the way to Scotland, to be precise, Michael finally allowed himself to think—

I could marry her. I could ask her. I really could.

And as he granted himself permission, it felt less and less like he was stealing her from his cousin’s memory.

Michael hadn’t asked to be placed in this position. He had never looked up to the heavens and wished himself the earldom. He had never even truly wished for Francesca, just accepted that she could never be his.

But John had died. He had died.

And it was nobody’s fault.

John had died, and Michael’s life had been changed in every way imaginable except one.

He still loved Francesca.

God, how he loved her.

There was no reason they couldn’t marry. No laws, no customs, nothing but his own conscience, which had, quite suddenly, grown silent on the matter.

And Michael finally allowed himself to ponder, for the very first time, the one question he had never asked himself.

What would John think of all this?

And he realized that his cousin would have given his blessing. John’s heart was that big, his love for Francesca—and Michael—that true. He would have wanted Francesca to be loved and cherished the way that Michael loved and cherished her.

And he would have wanted Michael to be happy.

The one emotion Michael had never truly thought he could apply to himself.

Happy.

Imagine that.

Francesca had been waiting for Michael to knock upon her door, but when the rap came, she still jumped with surprise.

Her shock was much greater when she opened the door and found she had to lower her gaze considerably. A full foot, to be precise. Michael wasn’t on the other side of her door. It was just one of the housemaids, carrying a supper tray for her.

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Francesca poked her head into the hall, looking this way and that, fully expecting Michael to be lurking in some darkened corner, just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

But he was nowhere.

“His lordship thought you might be hungry,” the maid said, setting the tray down on Francesca’s escritoire.

Francesca scanned the contents for a note, a flower, something to indicate Michael’s intentions, but there was nothing.

And there was nothing for the rest of the night, and nothing the next morning, either.

Nothing but a breakfast tray, and