Chapter 1 #2
Cilly slipped from the bed and walked to the window.
Pulling open the curtains, she let out a breath as she beheld the view that had captured her heart from the moment she had seen it.
The sea glittered, even on such a dull and overcast day as this was promising to be.
Unbidden, Cilly remembered the afternoon they had taken the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney sea bathing for the first time, and she had seen—
Her breath caught in her throat at the memory, heat creeping up her spine.
Damian and his brother had been skinny dipping and climbing the rocks, believing no one was around.
Not that she had seen Gideon. Her hungry gaze had been for Damian and Damian alone, the man she was to marry, the man she had just agreed would be her friend, and only her friend.
There would be no begetting of children.
He had been appallingly eloquent on that point.
A strange, empty sensation squeezed her insides.
She had not considered that he would deny her.
As man renowned for his strong appetites, she had assumed he would avail himself of her charms simply because it was his right to do so as her husband.
She had not expected love—she was not a complete fool—she had not even expected affection, but never to have a family had simply not occurred to her.
She let out a breath. Well, many people were not so blessed. Just because he was taking the choice from her was no reason to regret it. She might have had a dozen children with the Earl of Crenshaw, and she had chosen not to follow that path. She would not repine because life was not perfect.
Yet the decision nagged at her. Why? Why had he been so adamant about it? He had said he had long ago decided never to marry, that the title would die with him, unless Gideon and Hetty produced a male heir.
It was one of many unanswered questions Cilly had about the man she was about to marry. She only hoped the answers did not give her cause to regret her own wickedness.
“I wish you’d confided in me, my lady.”
Cilly turned on the seat of her dressing table to regard her lady’s maid, Betsy Nichols, who had just finished arranging her hair.
She was a ruddy faced, stout country woman from the north of England and had been as much of a mother to Cilly as she had ever known.
Hetty had been just a baby when Mama had died, and Cilly’s memories of her had become uncertain and wistful.
There was nothing either uncertain or wistful about Nichols.
She was perhaps in her early forties, and Cilly had long believed Nichols invincible.
Certainly, she was some kind of oracle. If one was ill, Nichols knew the perfect remedy; if one was out of sorts, Nichols would chivvy one out of the doldrums with her own particular blend of bullying and kindness.
She was at times daunting and spoke far too freely to her mistress, but she was also loyal to a fault, fiercely protective, and she loved Cilly.
It was never said aloud, but Cilly knew it and loved her just as ferociously in return.
Cilly returned a wan smile. “You’d have talked me out of it.”
Nichols snorted. “Aye, there’s a first time for everything,” she said dryly. “They say he’s a wicked devil. He’ll not be easy to live with, I suppose, but then neither are you.”
Laughter bubbled in Cilly’s throat despite her anxiety. “Oh, Nichols, I can always rely on you to put me in my place.”
“Reckon so,” Nichols said placidly. “And if he hurts you, I’ll cut out his heart with a spoon. Or maybe poison. More discreet.”
Cilly surged to her feet and threw her arms around the woman’s neck, fighting tears. “I’m frightened,” she said, the words trembling.
Nichols hugged her tightly, making soft crooning sounds like she had when Cilly was a child and wept for the loss of her dead mama and the reality of her horrid father.
“There, there, my duck. You’ve made your bed, now you must lie upon it, but you’re not alone, and you’re no fool.
You’ll have that pretty fellow eating out of your hand ere long, or my name’s not Betsy Nichols. ”
Cilly sniffled and accepted the pristine handkerchief that Nichols produced from heaven alone knew where—she always seemed to have one at the ready.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and nodded, feeling a little better.
If Nichols thought she could do it, then she could.
It was as simple as that, only… only she was getting married and her circumstances were altering.
Servants were every bit as aware of their consequence as the nobility were and Cilly was going from duke’s daughter to wife of a notorious viscount.
“Thank you, Nichols. I don’t know what I would do without you. I don’t truly, so… you wouldn’t leave, would you? I mean, now that—”
Nichols shot her a scalding glare of such severity that Cilly swallowed the rest of the sentence.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she replied coolly, and stalked off to arrange her lady’s dressing table.
Cilly smiled. Some things in life were unknown and far beyond her control, but the sun would rise and Nichols would come in and scold her about something. Everything would be fine.
Damian eyed the elegant lines of Hatherley Hall with resignation and told himself not to be so hen hearted.
Yes, the Dowager Duchess of Langley was in there, and the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney, as well as his future bride.
Well, and so what? He had done nothing wrong.
He was only the poor dupe who had been shackled into matrimony through no fault of his own.
All the same, the eggs and bacon Finch had expertly produced despite the limitations of their horrid abode were churning uneasily now.
He reached a hand to the elegant folds of his cravat, just to ensure they had not wilted during the short walk up the hill. No, all in order.
Fine. Well, she’d wanted him, and now she had him. It was about time Lady Cecilia realised just what it felt like to catch a tiger by the tail.
He strode to the door, which opened at once.
“Howard,” he said, nodding politely at the butler.
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.”