When He Was Wicked

Michael falls for the woman marrying his cousin tomorrow

The moment Francesca Bridgerton walked into the supper celebrating her engagement to his cousin John, Michael Stirling—charmer, decorated soldier, serial seducer—fell in love so completely he could barely remain standing.

Michael falls for the woman marrying his cousin tomorrow

The moment Francesca Bridgerton walked into the supper celebrating her engagement to his cousin John, Michael Stirling—charmer, decorated soldier, serial seducer—fell in love so completely he could barely remain standing. It was 1818. He was John's closest companion, raised together as brothers after Michael's father died. John was the Earl of Kilmartin; Michael was merely the spare. For two years, Michael hid his devotion beneath a rakish grin, bedding women whose names he forgot and closing his eyes to imagine Francesca. He teased her, made her laugh, listened to her play pianoforte—and never let her see the wanting. She tried to match him with her sister Eloise. He deflected. She called him the Merry Rake. He let her. Because the alternative was the truth, and the truth would destroy everything.

John lies down and doesn't wake up

One March evening in 1820, John mentioned a terrible headache—nothing more. He planned to nap before a parliamentary meeting. Francesca went walking with Michael, their easy banter carrying them through the London streets. When they returned, John's valet couldn't rouse him. Francesca went upstairs to try. Her scream brought Michael sprinting. He knew before he crossed the threshold—John wasn't in that room anymore. What lay on the bed was just a body. Francesca collapsed against him, fists hammering his chest, begging him to wake John up. They sank together to the carpet while servants gathered in the doorway. John had been twenty-eight, healthy, vital. A ruptured aneurysm—though no one would ever know the cause. He'd simply gone to sleep and left them behind.

Francesca's miscarriage gives Michael the earldom he never wanted

Within days, Francesca revealed she was pregnant—putting the succession in abeyance. An officious lord from the Committee for Privileges demanded to know if she was carrying and insisted on witnessing the birth to prevent baby-switching. Michael pinned the man against a wall and threw him out. But weeks later, a patch of blood on a chair cushion told the rest of the story. Francesca miscarried. Michael was now definitively the Earl of Kilmartin. Men at his clubs called him the luckiest man in Britain. He wanted to vomit. He had inherited John's title, John's fortune, John's houses—everything but the one thing he actually wanted. And the guilt of wanting Francesca, now that John was cold in his grave, was dissolving him from the inside.