Page 63 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

“Oh, sigh away—just don’t move, drat you. It’s a good thing I’ve finished painting the book,” Cilly remarked as she dipped her paintbrush in the water.

She was a fine artist and adept at capturing a likeness, but she rarely painted Hetty, as she found it impossible to sit still for above ten minutes. With her cheek throbbing, however, Hetty was not so restless as usual, except that it was growing late and Mr Bramwell still hadn’t called upon her.

“He must have finished work an hour ago,” she said mulishly.

Cilly narrowed her eyes, dabbing paint carefully before she replied. “Yes, and feeling like the very devil, I’ll wager. He’ll want to wash and make himself respectable, Hetty. I’m sure he’ll come.”

Hetty wished she could be as certain. He had apologised last night, but he’d also been three sheets to the wind. Would he come, only to apologise for apologising, either because he was drunk, or because he hadn’t intended to apologise at all. She sighed again, her shoulders slumping, and then bit her lip as Cilly scowled at her.

Hetty sat up straighter.

“Oh, that will do,” Cilly said, shaking her head and setting her brush to one side.

“Really?” Hetty exclaimed in relief. “Thank heavens.” She got to her feet and stretched before walking around to regard Cilly’s painting.

“Oh, that’s splendid! I love the way you’ve not added my bruised cheek too,” Hetty remarked, grinning down at Cilly.

Cilly gave an indelicate snort. “I thought it best we had no reminders of your rash behaviour.”

Hetty watched as Cilly set about packing away her paints. Most of her watercolours were little cakes of solid paints, but when she was at home, Cilly often mixed her own, enjoying the process of making her own colours. There were still a few small glass vials in the pretty japanned box she had brought with her and Hetty lifted one of them, shaking the vial to look at the reddish-brown pigment.

“Oh,” she said, an idea forming in her mind. “Oh, that might work.”

“What might—give me that,” Cilly said crossly, taking the vial from her. “For heaven’s sake, go for a walk around the gardens and shake off those fidgets whilst I tidy up. I promise to fetch you if your Mr Bramwell calls—which I’m sure he will,” she added quickly, reading Hetty’s desire to comment on her face.

Hetty shrugged, tossing her hair. “Fine, I shall. For I have plans to make.”

Cilly watched her sister walk down the steps to the garden and shook her head, smiling to herself. How she would miss Hetty once she was married.

Married.

To a fat old man.

Her stomach clenched.

She told herself it would not be so bad. The earl was not a cruel man; he would not be deliberately unkind.

Cilly forced down the burgeoning sense of despair that rolled over her like an approaching storm. Was that the best she could hope for, that her husband would not be cruel or deliberately unkind?

She was not a fool, nor unduly romantic. As an obedient daughter, she had always understood that she must marry to advantage. Happily her father was such a snob he had not quibbled when she had turned away the many suitors for her hand, agreeing with her when she had said they were too poor, had not enough political power, or were simply men the Duke of Langley did not like—for there were a vast number of those.

In reality, she had not cared for their wealth or the amount of power they’d wielded. She had only objected to being hunted for her power and connections and wealth and grown tired of all the insincere flattery.

But time had marched relentlessly on, and she was perilously close to being on the shelf. The duke had lost patience and decided upon a man he liked, one with wealth and political clout—and nothing to appeal to the young woman he would wed.

But her father had made his choice, and there was no arguing with the Duke of Langley once he’d made up his mind. Even grandmama had given up trying, consoling Cilly by saying that she would be a countess, and that her husband was so fond of food and drink and riding to hounds, it would be unlikely he’d live more than another decade at most. She would be a young widow, fabulously wealthy and at liberty to enjoy herself.

Poor Grandmama had been most disappointed when Cilly ran away crying.

A decade was a dreadfully long time, though.

Cilly put her clean brushes away, careful not to spoil the bristles, and closed the lid on her painting box with a sigh. There was no point in making herself miserable. The future was yet to come. She had the rest of the summer before her, in this glorious place and with her sister for company. It would be foolish to spoil her last weeks of freedom repining for something she could do nothing about.

She looked up as Howard appeared on the terrace. She liked the butler here very much. He was such a kind man and always had a twinkle in his eye. Unlike Norbury, her father’s butler at Ealdor Palace, who was a horrid fellow, always carrying tales to their father. Their brother, Hart, detested him.

“My lady, Viscount Rivington and Mr Bramwell are here. Are you receiving visitors?”

Cilly’s heart gave a startled little thump in her chest. Though she knew it was wrong of her, for everyone said he was a dangerous man, there was something about Lord Rivington she found dreadfully compelling, against all good sense. The stories about him were legion: duelling, ruining young ladies, reckless gambling, and wild parties—all the things she detested.