Page 26 of Wicked By Design

“Celia, calm yourself. It was last season, and such women are often, shall we say, somewhat grabby when they’ve had a drink or two.”

Celia glared at him. “Many men are grabby too, as you so quaintly phrase it. I am tired of dodging their insinuating fingers, but I had believed that men were not so afflicted. I apologise, Damian, it appears I am every bit as innocent as you suspected.”

She looked rather glum now. He frowned at her.

“Don’t take it to heart so. I assure you I did not. I am well able to deal with the Mrs Richardson’s of the world.”

“Yes, I know. It’s just rather dispiriting to know that you must.” She sighed, looking dejected and Damian wished his life wasn’t so full of stories that would make her see the world in a tawdry light. He did not enjoy seeing the sparkle in her eyes dim. Hadn’t he promised to protect her, at least?

“I believe I am being hunted again,” he said with a smile, hoping to distract her. “This time by a man of the cloth.”

She looked up and the tension that had tightened his shoulders eased as she smiled. “Ah. Reverend Honeywell. I’m afraid you may as well give it up, Damian. The man is not to be thwarted.”

“So I understand.” He sat back, fixing her with his gaze. “You did promise to protect me.”

She laughed, and he relaxed. “So I did, and I shall. I tell you what, shall we take the bull by the horns and visit the reverend? That way you are making a pre-emptive strike.”

Damian considered this. “An excellent notion. We shall beard the lion in his den.”

“Damian, he’s a clergyman, not the devil.”

“Both creatures are determined to win my soul,” he said darkly. “What’s the difference?”

“Ridiculous man,” she said, but she looked far more at ease now and Damian congratulated himself on having lightened her mood. “I must change but I won’t keep you waiting long, I promise.”

He nodded and settled himself down to wait

Chapter 5

No Rose-Tinting Here

Ocean View Villa, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 7th September 1816

Hawkney rapped on the brightly painted green door of the little terraced house and waited. He looked around the seafront, feeling a little exposed, and was relieved when the door opened a few seconds later.

“Hawk! Good God, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Marcus exclaimed, stepping aside to let the duke in. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Actually, I thought I might do you a service,” Hawkney replied nonchalantly, reminding himself this was true, if not the entire reason he’d come.

Marcus led him through to a neat little parlour and leant against the mantel. “Make yourself at home. How so?”

Hawkney looked around with interest. He was not half the snob most people made him out to be—at least, he hoped he wasn’t—but he found the tiny house rather fascinating. Having grown up surrounded by rooms that echoed, the cosy little space was akin to stepping into a doll’s house.

“You mentioned you were looking for an artist, a portrait painter.”

Marcus scowled. “‘Looking for’ implies action, but yes, I suppose I must bite the bullet. I wasn’t intending to do it right away, though. The exhibition is not until the spring, I believe.”

“Any artist worth their salt will want months, you numbskull. They don’t knock up an artwork over the weekend.”

Marcus’ expression darkened. “They may as well, for if anyone thinks I’m sitting for hours on end every day of the week—well, I’ve better things to do.”

“Like what?” Hawkney asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Marcus opened his mouth, scowled, and shut it again. “Just because I’m losing my mind with boredom doesn’t mean I want someone to watch it happening. Christ, Hawk. Do you want your portrait painted?”

“Don’t be an arse, Marcus. I’m a bloody duke. I’d had a dozen portraits done by the time I was thirty. If you’re looking for pity, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“A fair point,” Marcus said with a snort. “What has this got to do with you condescending to visit my humble abode, though?”