Page 60 of Wicked By Design

Deon laughed. “No, I just don’t put a foot wrong. It’s safer that way.”

“Oh, what a beautiful brooch! Is it new, Cilly?”

“It is. Damian bought it for me.”

Damian stiffened. Hetty bent to get a better look at the piece as Celia lifted her chin. She’d not taken the blasted thing off once, wearing it with every outfit. He almost regretted buying the wretched thing, and yet how could he when it had made her so happy? If only buying her the odd bit of jewellery would be enough to satisfy her in years to come.

Damian watched, increasingly uptight, as his brother crossed the room to admire the piece too.

“It’s lovely,” Deon said, glancing at him with interest.

Damian concentrated on a piece of lint stuck to his trousers and made a meal of picking it off.

“How it brings out the colour in your eyes, Cilly!” Hetty exclaimed with admiration. “Well, it is a lovely gift indeed, and most thoughtful. Well done, Damian. Where did you find such a lovely piece?”

Damian glowered, feeling increasingly like he’d been cornered and had no escape.

“In Tunbridge Wells,” Celia replied when he didn’t answer. “We went to the Pantiles after visiting Lady Rivington.”

There was a fraught silence during which Celia avoided his eye, the coward. Not that he could entirely blame her, as he avoided looking at Deon. He could feel his brother staring at him, though.

“You went to visit Mama?” Deon’s sounded incredulous, as well he might. “With Cecilia?”

“That was… very brave,” Hetty said softly, though he could not tell if she was talking to Celia or him.

Well, her sister obviously, but anyone with sense would realise it had been a risk for him too.

Damian decided avoiding everyone’s eye was for the best now, so he maintained his pose and used that to deflect Deon’s astonishment. “Well, Celia is so very determined to be a part of the family,” he remarked, though he did not hide the edge to his words, which everyone would well understand.

He glanced up at Celia to see if she was cross with him, but she merely quirked an eyebrow and smiled, which made him even more unsettled. Assuming the day had gone to hell and was going to stay there, he glanced at Deon to judge his reaction. His brother was staring at him with a puzzled expression. Previously he’d had to beg and plead and blackmail Damian into visiting the blasted woman, and now he’d voluntarily taken Celia. No wonder the man looked shocked.

“You really visited her?” Hetty sounded stunned.

“I did,” Celia replied calmly. “It was good to meet her. I promised to go again soon too, as she seemed to like me.”

“Well, any choice of Damian’s is bound to find favour,” Deon remarked with a bitter smile.

Damian winced inwardly. He did not know if all parents had favourites, but he suspected most did not try to murder the one they didn’t like so well.

“Heavens.” Hetty sat down, her gaze ricocheting from Damian to Celia to Gideon and back again. “I’ve not yet done so, though I am not expecting to, either.”

“There’s hardly any point. It makes her furious and now I know we’re not even related—”

Damian shot his brother a warning glance, but Deon heeded it too late.

“Not related?” Celia set down her brush, looking between them. “But what do you mean?”

Deon sent his brother an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you’d not explained, but we may as well. I cannot imagine Lady Cecilia will hold my illegitimacy against me.”

Damian watched Celia as the information sank in, watched her make sense of things. “No, of course I would not. I simply did not know. Thank you for telling me,” she said quietly, picking up her brush again.

Damian’s heart sank. There had been a reproachful note there, he was certain. One meant for him. But explaining Gideon’s past would have reopened that conversation, the one about Mama, about his tainted blood and… and his refusal to risk another generation of misery and he did not wish to speak of it again, ever if he could help it.

Yet she would view it differently, assuming he did not trust her enough to tell her.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Damian asked, eager to move past the current awkwardness. Though he didn’t look at her, he was aware of Celia picking up her paintbrush again, her attention focusing upon him once more.

He resumed his pose, the sudden sense he was acting a part in a play—a farce, no doubt, though better that than a tragedy—nagging at the edges of his mind.