Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,380

the slight nip in the air.

She was going to John’s grave.

Michael had visited the site once since his return. He’d gone alone, a few days after that extraordinary moment in his bedchamber, when he’d suddenly realized that John would have approved of his marrying Francesca. More than that, he almost thought John was up there somewhere, having a good chuckle over the whole thing.

And Michael couldn’t help but wonder— Did Francesca realize? Did she realize that John would have wanted this? For both of them?

Or was she still gripped by guilt?

Michael felt himself rise from his chair. He knew guilt, knew how it ate at one’s heart, tore at one’s soul. He knew the pain, and he knew the way it felt like acid in one’s belly.

And he never wanted that for Francesca. Never.

She might not love him. She might not ever love him. But she was happier now than she had been before they’d married; he was sure of it. And it would kill him if she felt any shame for that happiness.

John would have wanted her to be happy. He would have wanted her to love and be loved. And if Francesca somehow didn’t realize that—

Michael started pulling on his clothing. He might still be weak, and he might still be feverish, but by God he could make it down to the chapel graveyard. It would half kill him, but he would not allow her to sink into the same sort of guilty despair he’d suffered for so long.

She didn’t have to love him. She didn’t. He’d said those words to himself so many times during their brief marriage that he almost believed them.

She didn’t have to love him. But she did have to feel free. Free to be happy.

Because if she wasn’t happy . . .

Well, that would kill him. He could live without her love, but not without her happiness.

Francesca had known the ground would be damp, so she’d brought along a small blanket, the green and gold of the Stirling plaid making her smile wistfully as she spread it out over the grass.

“Hello, John,” she said, kneeling as she carefully arranged the peonies at the base of his headstone. His grave was a simple affair, far less ostentatious than the monuments many of the nobility erected to honor their dead.

But it was what John would have wanted. She’d known him so well, been able to predict his words half the time.

He would have wanted something simple, and he would have wanted it here, in the far corner of the churchyard, closer to the rolling fields of Kilmartin, his favorite place in the world.

And so that was what she’d given him.

“It’s a nice day,” she said, sitting back on her bottom. She hiked up her skirts so that she could sit Indian-style, then carefully arranged them back over her legs. It wasn’t the sort of position she could ever assume in polite company, but this was different.

John would have wanted her to be comfortable.

“It’s been raining for weeks,” she said. “Some days worse than others, of course, but never a day without at least a few minutes of moisture. You wouldn’t have minded it, but I must confess, I’ve been longing for the sun.”

She noticed that one of the stems wasn’t quite where she wanted it, so she leaned forward and reset it into place.

“Of course, it hasn’t really stopped me from going out,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I seem to get caught out in the rain quite a bit lately. I’m not really certain what it is—I used to be more heedful of the weather.”

She sighed. “No, I do know what it is. I’m just afraid to tell you. Silly of me, I know, but . . .” She laughed again, that strained noise that sounded all wrong from her lips. It was the one thing she’d never felt around John—nervous. From the moment they’d met, she’d felt so comfortable in his presence, so utterly at ease, both with him and herself.

But now . . .

Now she finally had cause for nerves.

“Something has happened, John,” she said, her fingers plucking at the fabric of her coat. “I . . . started feeling something for someone that perhaps I shouldn’t have done.”

She looked around, half expecting some sort of divine sign from above. But there was nothing, just the gentle ruffle of wind against the leaves.

She swallowed, focusing her attention back on John’s headstone. It was silly that a piece of rock might come