And if she never had a baby, at least she had this man-this wonderful, marvelous, miraculous man who understood her in a way that left her breathless. She loved to talk with him, to walk with him, to simply sit in the same room with him and steal glances while they were each pretending to read a book.
He made her days a joy and her nights an adventure. Handsome, funny, intelligent, and as desperately in love with her as she was with him. She had a husband most women only dreamed of. She was Francesca Bridgerton Stirling, Countess of Kilmartin, blessed with two loving families-the one she’d been born into and the one she’d acquired-twice-through marriage. She tried to tell herself that she should count her blessings. She tried to smile at the breakfast table and pretend that it didn’t matter that she’d a wad of cloth between her legs, but Michael always saw it in her eyes, and he seemed to hold her closer through the day, kiss her brow more often. Maybe even more than he wanted one himself.
Not because he wanted a child, which he did, but rather because she wanted one so desperately. She’d counted them, of course made depressing little hatch marks on a piece of paper she kept tucked away in her desk, in the far back corner of the middle drawer, where Michael wouldn’t see. She’d suffered through her courses thirty-three times. It had been three years since she’d married Michael. Twenty-four to thirty-one until she might expect to bleed again, provided she didn’t conceive. JULIA QUINN When He Was Wicked Bridgerton II Epilogue - 6 Julia Quinn Francesca’s Story
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