Page 14 of Wicked By Design

“You’ve never skimmed pebbles?” He turned to look at her in surprise.

Cilly shook her head, determined to learn how. “Never. Show me how, please?”

He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “There are two keys to skimming pebbles. First, you want the right stones. The flatter the better.”

Cilly hunted about on the sand before snatching up a small stone that sat comfortably in her palm. Damian took it from her, gave an approving nod, and handed it back.

“You said two keys, what is the second?” she asked eagerly.

“It’s all in the wrist,” he said, showing her the little flicking motion he made. “Watch.”

Cilly stood back, observing as he launched another pebble. Skip, skip, skip. He frowned, obviously displeased with the number of jumps it had made.

“You try.”

Cilly nodded, turning side on to the sea as he had done. She bit her lip, concentrating and making a few practice flicks with her hand before throwing the stone. It landed with a plop and disappeared.

“Drat.”

She turned to look at Damian, who silently handed her another pebble. “Oh, thank you.”

For the next ten minutes they carried on in this fashion, with Damian supplying her with flat stones and Cilly watching with increasing frustration as they plunged into the sea without so much as a single bounce.

“You’re trying too hard,” he said at length. “It’s nothing to do with strength, it’s the angle. Look.”

He moved to stand behind her, taking her hand in his. Cilly’s breath caught as his solid chest pressed against her back, his warm hand gently encircling her wrist. She glanced up at him, at the firm line of his jaw, at the intensity of his icy blue-grey eyes. But he was not looking at her. Indeed, her proximity seemed of little moment to him, whereas her entire body had sparked to life.

“You see,” he continued, blithely unaware of what he was doing her to her equilibrium.

Cilly nodded, trying to concentrate on what he was telling her.

“Right. I’ll help. On the count of three, let go of the pebble. One, two, three!”

Cilly let go and watched with delight as the little stone skipped twice.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, turning to him in triumph. “I did it!”

He grinned, and Cilly felt entirely certain her heart had forgotten to beat for several seconds. She smiled back, utterly captivated as it recommenced with an ungainly lurch behind her ribs.

The smile died on his lips, as if he’d just remembered he had forbidden her from receiving any smiles from him. “Well, now you have the knack, you just need to practise,” he said briskly, and walked off along the beach.

Cilly watched him for a moment before searching for a handful of pebbles. She threw them one after the other, but they all sank. Dispirited, she turned and followed him along the beach.

Damian scowled down at the sand, ensuring to keep a distance from the waves that foamed and snatched at pebbles and shells, dragging them under. His boots had cost him a small fortune, and he wasn’t about to ruin them with saltwater. Finch would murder him, for one thing.

He was aware of Celia following close behind him and wished he had not suggested this walk. She was revealing herself to him, facets of her character he had not expected. Neither had he anticipated his own reaction to them. Though he had recognised her rather wayward spirit long before she had ruined him, there was much more to her. She was funny and brave, too. Looking that vile woman in the face and speaking so coolly, and in such a way…. Despite himself, his lips curved at the memory. The Countess of Dunmere had been so shocked she’d not known how to react.

Yet he did not wish to admire her. Having a wife was one thing. He would take her money with pleasure; perhaps he would sell the family home and build the house he’d spoken of. She would like that, for he knew his brother would design him something splendid with all modern conveniences. It would be a home of which she would be proud, and in which he would enjoy living, for he loved beautiful things, and he liked the idea of making the place his own. Except it would not be his own, it would be theirs.

Oh, this marriage business was going to be the very devil.

He turned to see that she had stopped to try skimming stones again. Her expression was intense, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the sky. The tip of her pink tongue stuck out as she concentrated, turning herself sideways and flicking her wrist as he’d shown her.

Stone after stone sank without a trace, but she persevered. Her determination was touching. Admirable. She gave a little growl of frustration and hunted for another stone, flinging it crossly out to sea. It skipped once, twice, three times, four.

She stared in astonishment.

“Bravo!” Damian called, the call leaving his mouth before he could think better of it.