Page 12 of Wicked By Design

“Fine, fine. It’s nothing,” Marcus said, sounding utterly furious.

There was a brief silence. Sherry and Hawkney exchanged glances.

“Well, you’ve time to think about who you’d like to do the portrait,” Hawkney said diplomatically. “The fellow who did my sister was rather good. Caught her likeness exceptionally well.”

“I don’t think Marcus wants a society painter,” Sherry remarked, giving Hawkney an unmistakeable if silent ‘you idiot’ look.

Hawkney shrugged.

“Yes. Well, I shall think on it,” Marcus replied, still a little breathless, though they all ignored it. “Now, tell me about the two of you. What have you both been up to?”

Cilly made her way down the stairs. She told herself that she was perfectly calm. They would just go for a little stroll about the town. It was nothing to get herself in a silly state about.

Nichols’ last bracing words rang in her ears:

You keep your chin up, pet. Don’t you let no one make you feel less than you are. You know your worth, and that useless fellow will figure it out too, soon enough.

Cilly smiled, repeating the words to herself to give her courage as she returned to the library.

Damian was standing by the windows, staring out, and did not at first remark her arrival. His gaze was abstracted, lost somewhere far away. It did not look like a happy place, but then she had long understood that this was not a happy man. She knew it was foolish to hope she might change that, that they might truly be friends, even companions, but she was ever the optimist.

He turned then, and his more usual sarcastic smile swept away the rather brooding expression. “Ah, my lovely fiancée. Are you ready, my dear?”

“I am,” Cilly agreed, determined to be agreeable.

“Then let us face our public.”

She waited for him to join her in the hallway and accepted his proffered arm.

It was a strange sensation, placing her fingers upon the fine material of his coat. She was too aware of the flesh and blood man beneath the layers of exquisite tailoring, and the firm muscle beneath the cloth made her pulse speed.

The memory of him bowing so formally, standing naked on the rocks, and then leaping into the sea like a carefree child, had imprinted itself upon her mind. He had looked so magnificent, like a god with the sunlight glinting off a body that appeared like sculpted marble, but then he had flashed that wicked grin and thrown himself into the water. He was such a conundrum, but she felt certain the sardonic exterior he presented to the world hid more moments of carefree joy, more mischief and laughter, if only she could persuade him to trust her.

She almost laughed at the notion. Why would the man she had lured onto a terrace and trapped into marriage ever trust her again? It was a forlorn hope.

They did not speak as they left Hatherley Hall and made their way down through the winding streets to the town.

“It’s early yet so there probably aren’t too many revellers from last night up and about,” he remarked as they drew closer to the busier part of town.

Cilly glanced at him but said nothing.

Though he was not wrong about the amount of fashionable people abroad, news of their scandal had circulated with predictable speed. Everyone in Little Valentine knew the notorious Lord Rivington by sight now, as he’d been in town for some time, and their reactions were predictable enough, but it still made Cilly’s face burn as people whispered and turned to stare at them. Some even laughed and, whilst she could not hear their comments, she could guess what they were saying about her. She reminded herself of what Nichols had said and put up her chin.

“Would you like to walk along the shore?” Damian asked. There was a sharp note to his voice that startled her, but she snatched at the chance to get away from the amused, knowing glances around them.

“I would,” she said at once. “I love the sea. I would love to live close to it. Oh, where is your property, Damian?” It suddenly occurred to her that she knew nothing about this man, his finances—other than he was broke—his family home or even his family itself, save for his brother.

“Near Bath. No sea, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” she said, unable to hide her disappointment.

“But then the place is damn near a ruin. I’ve been toying with the idea of selling it.”

She looked up at him in surprise. Most noblemen she knew would rather stick pins in their eyes than sell their family estate. “It’s not entailed?”

He shook his head. “No, and I have no affection for it. It was a hellish place to live, as Gideon would agree. I’d just as soon start over and build something new. Something with light and space. Rivington Hall is so damned gloomy, even the ghosts have moved out.”

She gave a startled little laugh. “Surely it’s not so bad?”