Julia Quinn

In every life there is a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and breath-taking, that one knows one's life will never be the same. For Michael Stirling, London's most infamous bachelor, that moment came the first time he laid eyes on Francesca Bridgerton.

After a lifetime of chasing women, of smiling slyly as they chased him, of allowing himself to be caught but never permitting his heart to become engaged, he took one look at Francesca Bridgerton and fell so fast and hard into love it was a wonder he managed to remain standing.

Unfortunately for Michael, however, Francesca's surname was to remain Bridgerton for only a mere thirty-six hours longer - the occasion of their meeting was, lamentably, a supper celebrating her imminent wedding to his cousin . . .

When He Was Wicked

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And besides, he'd never seduced a virgin, and he'd never slept with a married woman. Oh very well, one ought to remain true to oneself, even while living a lie—he'd slept with married women, plenty of them, but only the ones whose husbands were rotters, and even then, not unless she'd already produced two male offspring; three, if one of the boys seemed a little sickly.

She smiled wistfully. "We had such fun, the three of us, didn't we?"

He gave her a lopsided grin. "No one ever really changes, Francesca."

"Who are you talking to?" Hyacinth demanded.

"God," Francesca said baldly. "And I do believe I have been given divine leave to murder you."

He knelt before her, his eyes aglow. "Let's do it, Frannie. Let's be mad, bad, and rash."

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