Page 71 of Wicked By Design

Damian sent him a look of frigid impatience. “Is that supposed to help? To make me feel better? Don’t you think I know I’m not bloody worthy of her already?” He surged to his feet, raking a hand through his immaculate hair and sending it into disarray. “I can’t do this.”

There was a panicky note to the words that made Gideon feel equally alarmed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can’t do this,” Damian snarled, looking as though he’d break Gideon’s nose at the slightest provocation.

Gideon, too used to his brother’s temper, held out his hands in a calming gesture, keeping his voice mild. “Of course you can.”

“How?” A desperate note clung to the word, revealing more fear and honesty than Gideon could ever remember him showing before. “How can I condemn her to the life she must live with me? Celia is bright and funny and so… so full of love and affection and I—”

His voice broke and he snapped his mouth shut.

“Will you leave her at the altar, then, to face the scandal and the gossips and everything else that follows alone? She’ll be forced to marry that disgusting earl her father wants for her if you do. There will be no choice.”

Damian’s fists clenched. He glared furiously at Gideon.

“I thought not,” Gideon said with a smile. “Then you’ll just have to find a way forward together. Because that’s what marriage is, Damian, and your marriage might not look like mine and Hetty’s, or like anyone else’s, but it will be yours and Celia’s. If you care for her, which you clearly do, you’ll find a way.”

“Just like that,” Damian said, a sneer curling his lip.

“By no means. I don’t imagine it will always be easy, but Cecilia is no ordinary woman. She, like her sister, has a spine of steel and a will to match. Don’t underestimate her and think she needs protecting from the truth, you’ll only force her to use methods that will appal you to understand whatever you are hiding. Believe me, brother, I know.”

Damian snorted and sat down again. “I have already surmised that much,” he said darkly. “Give me that bloody flask.”

Gideon laughed and handed it over, watching as Damian upended it and took a large swallow before handing it back.

“Deon, will you promise me something?”

Gideon nodded, hearing the plea behind the words. “Of course, if you wish me to.”

“Swear to me that if you ever have the slightest doubt as to my sanity, if there is even a flicker of doubt in your mind, that you’ll take Celia out of harm’s way. Lock me up, do what you will with me, but for the love of God, don’t let me—”

“Damian!” Gideon reached out and grasped his hand, shocked to find it cold and unsteady. “Of course. Of course I will do what you ask, but you are not like Mama. There was a time when I worried about it, I admit, but I just do not see that in you. I don’t believe you have anything to fear.”

Damian let out a harsh breath and shook his head.

“If only I could believe you. I don’t want to let her down, Deon. I don’t— I don’t want to hurt her.”

Gideon’s heart ached at the admission, for Damian had never cared for anyone before, except for him. Yet he realised now that it was in Damian’s nature to protect those he loved, for he had tried so hard to protect Gideon, had been the perfect big brother, until they had grown apart. Their shared ordeal had not bound them together, but thrust them away from each other, as they sought different ways to deal with the bleak future they saw before them. Yet, despite all that, Gideon had never doubted Damian would come running if he’d needed him.

“Then you won’t,” Gideon said simply.

Damian turned to stare at him, incredulous.

“I mean it, Damian. You won’t. Just talk to her, be honest, don’t hide your motivations, your fears. If she understands you, she will not be so hurt or feel so rejected if you need a bit of space, or find… things difficult,” Gideon said diplomatically, wondering how in the hell Damian would deal with the wedding night when he was so terrified of creating a child.

Damian narrowed his eyes, apparently deciding whether to take offence before letting out a deep breath. “Honesty,” he repeated ominously. “Well, doesn’t that sound fun.”

Cilly turned away from the looking glass and smoothed a hand over her gown, the pale silver-grey silk glinting in the light. “Well?”

Hetty pressed her fingers to her mouth, her eyes shining so brightly Cilly gave a choked laugh herself.

“Don’t you dare cry. I’ve never been such a watering pot as I have been these past days and I need no encouragement. If I walk up the aisle with red eyes, a runny nose, and splotchy cheeks, I shall never forgive you, Henrietta.”

Hetty snorted inelegantly. “Sorry,” she said a little thickly. “But you look so beautiful. He doesn’t deserve you.”

Cilly smiled. “Ah, but he does, love, and he needs me more than that.”