Julia Quinn - When He Was Wicked

“Is it because I wish to remarry?” she asked, her voice choked with emotion. “Is that it?”

He didn’t know how to answer, so he just glared at her.

“You think I’m betraying John,” she said accusingly. “You think I should spend my days mourning your cousin.”

Michael closed his eyes. “No, Francesca,” he said wearily, “I would never-”

But she wasn’t listening. “Do you think I don’t mourn him?” she demanded. “Do you think I don’t think about him each and every day? Do you think it feels good to know that when I marry, I’ll be making a mockery of the sacrament?”

He looked at her. She was breathing hard, caught up in her anger and maybe her grief as well.

“What I had with John,” she said, her entire body shaking now, “I’m not going to find with any of the men send-ing me flowers. And it feels like a desecration-a selfish desecration that I’m even considering remarrying. If I didn’t want a baby so… so damned much…”

She broke off, maybe from overemotion, maybe just at the shock of having actually cursed aloud. She just stood there, blinking, her lips parted and quivering, looking as if she might break at the merest touch.

He should have been more sympathetic. He should have tried to comfort her. And he would have done both of those things, if they had been in any other room besides his bedchamber. But as it was, it was all he could do just to control his breathing.

And himself.

She looked back up at him, her eyes huge and heart-stoppingly blue, even in the candlelight. “You don’t know,” she said, turning away. She walked to a long, low bureau of drawers. She leaned heavily against it, her fingers biting the wood. “You just don’t know,” she whispered, her back still to him.

And somehow that was more than he could take. She had barged her way in here, demanding answers when she didn’t even understand the questions. She’d invaded his bedchamber, pushed him to the limit, and now she was just going to dismiss him? Turn her back on him and tell him he didn’t know?

“Don’t know what?” he demanded, just before he crossed the room. His feet were silent but swift, and before he knew it he was right behind her, close enough to touch, close enough to grab what he wanted and-

She whirled around. “You-”

And then she stopped. Didn’t make another sound. Did nothing but allow her eyes to lock onto his.

“Michael?” she whispered. And he didn’t know what she meant. Was it a question? A plea?

She stood there, stock still, the only sound her breath over her lips. And her eyes never left his face.

His fingers tingled. His body burned. She was close. As close as she’d ever stood to him. And if she were anyone else, he would have sworn that she wanted to be kissed.

Her lips were parted, her eyes were unfocused. And her chin seemed to tilt up, as if she were waiting, wishing, wondering when he would finally bend down and seal her fate.

He felt himself say something. Her name, maybe. His chest grew tight, and his heart pounded, and suddenly the impossible became the inevitable, and he realized that this time there was no stopping. This time it wasn’t about his control or his sacrifice or his guilt.

This time was for him.

And he was going to kiss her.

When she thought about it later, the only excuse she could come up with was that she didn’t know he was right behind her. The carpet was soft and thick, and she hadn’t heard his footsteps over the roaring of blood in her ears. She didn’t know all that, she couldn’t have, because then she never would have whirled around, intending for all the world to silence him with a scathing retort. She was going to say something horrid and cutting, and intended to make him feel guilty and awful, but when she turned…

He was right there.

Close, so close. Mere inches away. It had been years since anyone had stood so close to her, and never, ever Michael.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but breathe as she stared at his face, realizing with an awful intensity that she wanted him to kiss her.

Michael.

Good God, she wanted Michael.

It was like a knife slicing through her. She wasn’t supposed to feel this. She wasn’t supposed to want anyone. But Michael…

She should have walked away. Hell, she should have ran. But something rooted her to the spot. She couldn’t take her eyes off of his, couldn’t help but moisten her lips, and when his hands settled on her shoulders, she didn’t protest.

She didn’t even move.

And maybe, just maybe she even leaned in a little, something within her recognizing this moment, this subtle dance between man and woman.

It had been so long since she’d swayed into a kiss, but it seemed that there were some things a body did not forget.

He touched her chin, raised her face just the barest hint.

Still, she didn’t say no.

She stared at him, licked her lips, and waited…

Waited for the moment, the first touch, because as terrifying and wrong as it was, she knew it would feel like perfection.

And it did.

His lips touched hers in the barest, softest hint of a caress. It was the sort of kiss that seduced with subtlety, sent tingles through her body and left her desperate for more. Somewhere in the hazy back recesses of her mind, she knew that this was wrong, that it was more than wrong-it was insane. But she couldn’t have moved if the fires of hell were licking at her feet.

She was mesmerized, transfixed by his touch. She couldn’t quite bring herself to make another move, to invite him in any other manner than the soft sway of her body, but neither did she make any attempt to break the contact.

She just waited, breath baited, for him to do something more.

And he did. His hand found the small of her back and splayed there, his fingers tempting her with their intoxicating heat. He didn’t exactly pull her toward him, but the pressure was there, and the space between them whispered away until she could feel the gentle scrape of his evening clothes through the silk of her dressing gown.

And she grew hot. Molten.

Wicked.

His lips grew more demanding, and hers parted, allowing him greater exploration. He took full advantage, his tongue swooping in in a dangerous dance, teasing and tempting, stoking her desire until her legs grew weak, and she had no choice but to grasp onto his upper arms, to hold him, to touch him of her own accord, to acknowledge that she was there in the kiss, too, that she was taking part.

That she wanted this.

He murmured her name, his voice hoarse with desire and need and something more, something pained, but all she could do was hold onto him, and let him kiss her, and God help her, kiss him back.

Her hand moved to his neck, reveling in the soft heat of his skin. His hair was slightly long these days and curled onto her fingers, thick and crisp, and- Oh, God, she just wanted to sink into it.

His hand slid up her back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His fingers caressed her shoulder, slid down her arm, and then over to her breast.

Francesca froze.

But Michael was too far gone to notice; he cupped her, moaning audibly as he squeezed.

“No,” she whispered. This was too much, it was too intimate.

It was too… Michael.

“Francesca,” he murmured, his lips trailing along her cheek to her ear.

“No,” she said, and she wrenched herself free. “I can’t.”

She didn’t want to look at him, but she couldn’t not do it. And when she did, she was sorry.

His chin was dipped, and his face was slightly turned, but he was still staring at her, his eyes searing and intense.

And she was burned.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered.

He said nothing.

The words came faster, but not in greater numbers. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t… I… I-”

“Then go,” he bit off. “Now.”

She ran.

She ran to her bedroom, and then the next day she ran to her mother.

And then the day after that, she ran all the way to Scotland.

… I am pleased that you are thriving in India, but I do wish you would consider returning home. We all miss you, and you do have responsibilities that cannot be fulfilled from abroad.

– -from Helen Stirling to her son, the Earl of Kilmartin, two years and four months after his departure for India

Francesca had always been a rather good liar, and, Michael reflected as he read the short letter she’d left for Helen and Janet, she was even better when she could avoid face-to-face contact and do it in writing.

An emergency had arisen at Kilmartin, Francesca had written, describing the outbreak of spotted fever among the sheep in admirable detail, and it required her immediate attention. They weren’t to worry, she assured them, she’d be back soon, and she promised to bring down some of Cook’s splendid raspberry jam, which, as they all knew, was unmatched by any confection in London.

Never mind that Michael had never heard of a sheep contracting spotted fever, or any other farm animal for that matter. Where, one had to wonder, did the sheep show their spots?

It was all very neat, and all very easy, and Michael wondered if Francesca had even arranged for Janet and Helen to be out of town for the weekend just so that she could make her escape without having to make her farewells face to face.

And it was an escape. There was no doubting that. Michael didn’t believe for one minute that there was an emergency up at Kilmartin. If that had been the case, Francesca would have felt duty bound to inform him of it. She might have been running the estate for years, but he was the earl, and she wasn’t the sort to usurp or undermine his position now that he was back.