Page 62 of Wicked By Design

“Not a thing,” Deon replied wisely.

Damian sat down and glowered at the fire in brooding silence. Outside, the day was grim, rain pattering against the glass in an endless torrent. In his mind, a picture formed: an elegant parlour on a wet afternoon. The room would be lit with lamps against the gloom, the fire burning merrily, and he and Celia snug upon a comfortable settee, making the most of the domestic bliss and…. He squashed the image before his idiotic brain could conjure up a couple of cherubs and a quartet of violins to serenade them all.

“There are no guarantees in life, Damian. You could live to be a perfectly normal, if crotchety, old man, and any children you produce might be equally ordinary. After all, it is not only your blood, but Cecilia’s too that will make them.”

“And there is no guarantee that I might not attack and kill my wife one day, perhaps my children too, or that they might do so and hurt their mama or each other,” Damian shot back furiously. “What do you know? What do either of us know, except that we both vowed never to marry, never to sire children, because that was the only way to be certain? We both agreed, Deon. Just because you are free of the bonds now doesn’t make the shackles any less heavy for me.”

Deon nodded, gazing down into his drink. “I know, Damian. I’m sorry.”

Damian snorted but didn’t meet his brother’s eyes. “So am I.”

Cilly washed out her brushes, aware of Hetty standing behind her, scrutinising the painting.

“Well, spit it out,” she said wryly. Glancing up at Hetty, she raised her eyebrows.

Hetty threw up her hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to say, what to think. Truly, I don’t.”

Cilly laughed softly and put her brushes away, carefully closing the lid of her paint box. “Don’t feel bad. I think Damian has that effect on everyone.”

Hetty laughed and sat down beside her, reaching over to grasp her hand. “And what effect does he have on you, love?”

Cilly made a choked sound and burst into tears.

“Oh, Cilly. What is it? If he’s upset you, I’ll… I’ll castrate him with the nutcrackers.”

Spluttering with tears and laughter, Cilly shook her head. “Don’t you dare. My chances of ever having a family are slim enough, don’t you go ruining them.”

Hetty gazed at her, and Cilly’s lip wobbled.

“I d-didn’t understand,” she admitted. “I thought he was sad and lonely, I th-though he needed me, and he does, Hetty, oh, he does. But it’s so much more complicated than that.”

Hetty sighed and pulled Cilly into a hug, holding her tightly. “I know. Deon has explained it all to me. Damian saved his life that night, did you know that? He was only a child himself, but he stood between his mama and Deon and refused to budge. I shall still hurt him badly if he does anything to upset you, but he has earned my eternal gratitude for saving his brother, and so I shall give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he really is a good man.”

Cilly sighed, accepting the handkerchief Hetty handed her and wiping her eyes. “He is, Hetty. Damian is kind and decent, and I am beginning to believe he wants all the things I want, he is just too afraid to believe he can have them.”

“No children?” Hetty guessed.

Cilly blew her nose. “No children,” she agreed thickly. “And I could live with that if we had a real marriage, but I know what he intends. He’s going to buy me a pretty house somewhere and then he’s going to leave me there. He’ll go away and, to begin with, he’ll visit me now and then to ensure I’m all right, and then the visits will become less and less frequent, until….” Cilly covered her mouth with her hand and smothered a sob. “Oh, Hetty. What have I done?”

Chapter 14

A Bridge Over Troubled Waters

Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 20th September 1816

“Oh, thank heavens you’re here!”

Damian almost recoiled as Hetty ran towards him and grabbed him by the arm, expecting an attack. He’d not even handed Howard his hat and gloves and had to throw them at the fellow as Hetty propelled him up the stairs.

“Whatever is the matter?” he demanded. “Stop manhandling me, Hetty, you’re creasing my coat!”

“To the devil with your coat. Cilly is in tears.”

“What?” Damian gazed at her in alarm. “Why the bloody hell didn’t you say so?”

He took the stairs two at a time, following the sounds of weeping until he discovered Celia in a heap beside the settee in a charming little sitting room he’d not seen before. She was sobbing, head in her hands. On the table beside her was a lavish display of flowers. It was a truly stunning arrangement of chrysanthemums, asters, dahlias, and trailing ivy, and must have cost a fortune.

“Celia, what is it?” he asked urgently, crouching down beside her. “Are you ill? Shall I fetch a doctor?”