Page 8 of Wicked By Design

Damian always took pains to ensure he knew the names of staff in the various households he visited—those who deigned to admit him, at least. One never knew when one might need a favour and servants were wonderfully indiscreet when sufficiently induced. Not this servant, he’d warrant. Howard would be loyal unto death if Damian had to guess.

Whilst there was nothing in the man’s demeanour that suggested mistrust or dislike, Damian was aware of a somewhat chilly atmosphere. No doubt the old fellow had fallen under Lady Cecilia’s spell like most men, believing her to be exactly the sweet creature she purported to be. Well, and he would allow her to keep her fiction intact, so long as she did not expect him to pretend it was real in private.

“Lady Cecilia is in the library, my lord. She is expecting you.”

“Is she, indeed?” Damian replied with a cynical smile. “How very daring of her.”

He allowed the increasingly disapproving Howard to show him to the door and announce him and added another note of provocation by winking at the fellow before he left.

“What did you do to Howard?” the lady demanded before he’d taken two steps inside the library.

“A good day to you too, my love,” Damian said sweetly.

“Don’t do that,” she replied, scowling at him. “I am quite prepared to pretend I have fallen madly in love with you in public, but in private I demand honesty. I cannot abide liars, or those who bend the truth to their own design.”

Damian regarded her with interest. Well, she had certainly come out fighting. He ought to have expected nothing less. “Very well, my lady. Honesty it is. Remember you asked for it. And, as for Howard, I did nothing except be my own provoking self.”

“You mean you played up to the gossip circling and allowed him to believe you ruined me,” she replied, a note of exasperation behind the words.

Damian shrugged, moving deeper into the room. She wore a green gown this morning, which ordinarily would have suited her, but today it highlighted the shadows under her eyes and the pallor of her complexion.

“That is my role in all this, is it not?” he replied mildly as he moved to stand beside her.

She was silent for a moment.

“My lord—”

“I think, in the circumstances, you might call me Damian.”

Her lips ticked up a little at this, and she nodded. “Very well, Damian, and you may call me Cilly.”

“I most certainly will not,” he said in disgust. “If I am to be trapped into marriage, I shall not have a wife called Cilly, of all things. If you are silly, what the devil does that make me? I have never met a woman less aptly named. I agree Cecilia is a mouthful, however. I shall call you Cecil.”

“Cecil?” she looked at him in outrage.

“You don’t like it?”

“Do I look like a Cecil to you?” she demanded.

Damian pondered this, scrutinising her with apparent gravity. “Well, yes, a little. But if you prefer… Celia?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Very well. You may call me Celia if you prefer.”

He nodded, folding his arms as he continued to study her. Her skin was the finest he had ever seen, like the bloom on a rose, and she had a tiny little freckle by her upper lip which, if he’d been of a mind to seduce her instead of marrying her, he would have found irresistible. “I do. Now, what were you going to say?”

She looked at him uncertainly and Damian returned a slow, wicked smile. He knew he unsettled her and intended to play up to that. She might have trapped him into marriage, but if she thought she could manage him, she would have a rude awakening.

“Please sit down, Damian. I cannot think with you looming over me,” she said crossly, using the excuse to put distance between them and sit down herself.

“Oh, I never loom, Celia, my dear.”

She muttered something which sounded like ‘you could have fooled me,’ but he was not entirely certain. Taking his place opposite her, he reclined in the comfortable armchair, apparently entirely at his ease. Celia smoothed her skirts, arranging them with fidgety fingers and avoiding his gaze. Finally, she put her hands resolutely in her lap and looked up, meeting his eyes.

“First, I wish to apologise. I want you to know that I am well aware I behaved appallingly last night. I wish you to know that I will never again use you so shockingly. We are engaged to be married and, as your fiancée and as your wife, I will never give you cause to regret our marriage. I will do my utmost to support you, Damian, and do what I may to make your life happy and comfortable.”

Damian regarded her with interest. She meant it.

“So, if I bring home a parcel of my dissipated friends, along with their light o’ loves—high fliers and opera dancers, every one—you will ensure the champagne flows and things run smoothly?” he asked politely.