Page 63 of Wicked By Design

Celia shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “N-No, I’m per-perfectly fine—”

She wailed the last word at such a pitch he took leave to disagree.

“If you are going to lie, you need a deal more practice at it, my girl,” he told her firmly. “Now, don’t be a goose. I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what the matter is.”

And she had better tell him what it was he needed to fix or who he needed to murder, because the sight of Celia in tears was doing terrible things to his nerves.

She sniffled, wiping her red nose on a sodden handkerchief, and gazed up at him. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face all splotchy. She was not the kind of woman who wept prettily, it appeared. His heart clenched.

“It’s the… the…”

“Yes?” he said, willing her to spit it out so he could do something. Anything.

“The flowers.”

“The flowers,” he repeated doubtfully, gazing at the beautiful bouquet in confusion.

She nodded.

Damian cleared his throat, aware he might be on dangerous ground. “What… er… what is wrong with the flowers?”

“Everything!” she exclaimed, then burst into tears again.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Damian, you are supposed to be helping!” Hetty scolded him crossly, moving to sit beside her sister on the floor and pressing a clean handkerchief into her clenched fist. “There, there, pet. We’ll fix it, whatever it is.

“I will fix it,” Damian retorted crossly, indignant at her interference. If he was going to botch things up, he’d do a fine job all by himself, thank you very much. “Celia, what is wrong with the blasted flowers? Tell me precisely, using words of three syllables or fewer so my uncomprehending male brain can understand, and I shall fix them.”

Celia stopped crying long enough to gaze up at him hopefully. “Will you?”

“Yes, of course I will!” he said impatiently. “But you need to tell me what to fix.”

She sat up straighter and wiped her eyes. “I ordered a simple bouquet of white and pink sweet peas, n—not this… monstrosity. It looks like the centrepiece for a banquet.”

“Ah. Your grandmama has been interfering, I collect.”

Celia nodded sadly. “She said she had already ordered it before you spoke to her, and she forgot to tell me.”

“Well, then,” Damian said, relieved to have something he could actually do. “Hetty, get the servants to break the monstrosity up and use it to decorate the table or the church or… or I don’t know, whatever needs decorating. I shall fetch you your bouquet of sweet peas.”

He strode to the door before he realised he didn’t know where he was going. As he turned back in confusion, Hetty took pity on him.

“The flowers came from one of Hawkney’s hothouses,” she said. “The head gardener arranged them when they arrived, but I’m pretty sure you’ll find there are sweet peas growing in the gardens here if you ask him. Gee-Gee loves to have them around the house.”

“Thank you,” he said gratefully, and hurried out.

He got to the entrance hall where Howard was just closing the door and looked around expectantly. “My lord?”

Damian cleared his throat. “Ah, Howard. Lady Celia does not like the flowers for her bouquet. Too fussy. She wants something small and simple. A bouquet of white and pink sweet peas. Need to arrange it or she’ll likely call the whole thing off.”

Rather to his surprise, Howard’s face creased into a smile. “Ah. Bridal nerves, my lord,” he said confidingly. “I’ve seen it a time or two. Everything is wrong on the day before the wedding, and everything is perfect on the day. But if you’d follow me, I’ll take you to Mr Flowerdew. He’s head gardener at Hatherley Hall, and he’ll set things to rights.”

Damian sighed with relief. “Thank you, Howard. I knew I could rely on you.”

Mr Flowerdew was a small, wiry fellow with sinewy arms and dirt permanently etched into his skin. His shrewd blue eyes regarded Damian thoughtfully.

“Sweet peas, eh?” The words—mangled by the clay pipe clasped between his teeth and his thick Sussex accent—made comprehension a slight difficulty but this much Damian grasped.

“Yes. Sweet peas. Very urgent sweet peas.”