Page 45 of Wicked By Design

The urge to turn and run was so powerful Damian could only stare at the woman, and he did not know what she saw in his gaze, but she blanched. He had done this for Celia, he reminded himself, to show her the truth, to protect her. To ensure neither of them forgot the risks or pretended them away.

“Give me the medicine. Perhaps I can persuade her,” he said, holding out his hand to the nurse.

She glanced at Doctor Grantham, who nodded. “One spoonful, my lord.”

Damian took the bottle and spoon. “Understood. Shall we, Celia?”

Still, he did not meet her eyes as the doctor unlocked the door and walked in.

“Good morning, my lady, and a fine one it is, especially as I have a surprise for you. Your son is here, Lord Rivington.”

Damian steeled his nerves. He tried to remember the last time he had seen her. It must be two years since the last time Gideon nagged him into visiting. She had aged badly. Though not over fifty years of age, she looked far older, her pretty eyes shadowed and sunken. Her long hair, which had once been the same rich gold as his own, hung limp now, streaked with white and tied back in a loose plait.

She looked up, no curiosity in her eyes until she saw him. Her breath caught. “D-Damian?”

He nodded. “Yes, Mama.”

She hugged her arms about herself and sighed. “My son. My son. My son. My son, my son, my son.”

Damian swallowed, his fingers grasping the medicine bottle tighter. “You haven’t taken your medicine, Mama.”

She gave him a sharp look and shook her head. “They’re trying to poison me,” she whispered.

Damian laughed. “Indeed, they are not. Why kill the golden goose? Do you know how much it costs to keep you here? No, no, Mama. They want you alive, I promise you.”

She frowned at him, tilting her head, her bright eyes making him think of a blackbird, head cocked, listening for worms. “Promise?”

“Upon my honour,” he said, the words catching in his throat as misery rose like a tide. Why? Why was she like this? Was this how he would end, too?

Damian pushed the thought away and forced himself to move closer, though his every instinct demanded he run from this room and never come back. He realised she was humming a tune as he grew closer and the memory of it snatched at him, sending him back to his childhood. He remembered her sitting by his bed, singing softly and his throat grew tight.

There was a stool beside the chair, and he sat down beside her, aware of the fascinated way she watched him.

“Will you take this?” he asked, showing her the bottle.

She pulled a face.

“Please, Mama.”

A smile crossed her face, so sweet and sorrowful Damian’s heart contracted.

“Please, Mama,” she echoed, her voice soft and unsteady, she reached out a bony hand to touch his face, and Damian recoiled, the idea of her touching him so appalling he could not breathe. She saw his reaction and dropped her hand, turning her head away.

For reasons he did not understand, he was instantly contrite. He told himself she was evil, that she had murdered their father, but he saw only the husk of a woman, sad and sick and growing old.

“Mama,” he said. Though his stomach twisted and his skin crawled, he forced himself to reach out and take her hand. Her fingers curled around his, the skin so fine and papery he wondered how she did not disintegrate beneath his touch, but her grasp was firm. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, then released them, trying not to appear too hasty. “Now, take the medicine, please.”

She turned back to him, watching with resignation as he poured the medicine into the spoon and opened her mouth obediently. Damian fed her the dose, capped the bottle, and handed it back to the nurse, who had watched the performance avidly.

“Are there roses?” his mother asked, her eyes suddenly bright with interest. “I like the pink ones best. Your father always bought me pink roses.”

Damian regarded her, unable to quell the pity he felt. “It’s September. Most of the roses have long since bloomed.”

Her face fell, and he hurried to soften the blow.

“But it was a good year for the roses,” he lied, questioning why he did so. “They were very beautiful. If you like, next summer I shall bring you some. Would you like that?”

She nodded, gazing at him in wonder.