Chapter 12 #2
But she must tread with care. They had already come so far.
She touched her fingers to the brooch he had bought her.
It had been the hardest thing not to throw her arms around him and sob with happiness when he’d chosen it.
He had been so gruff and cross, determined she understand it meant nothing to him, when his indignation at her tears only proved how much he cared.
He didn’t want to care, he was fighting it at every turn, but he did all the same.
Why else would he speak to her grandmother for her?
“Have you made your choice, my lady?”
Cilly looked up as Mrs Fairway came to take their order. “I think so, but it’s very difficult. They are all so delicious. I believe I shall be dreadfully greedy and have the chocolate, the maple, and the coffee flavour.”
“An excellent combination, I’d say,” Mrs Fairway said with a smile.
Damian frowned. “Damn. I thought I’d decided, but now—devil take it. I’ll have the same. It sounds delicious.”
“Ah, there’s a rare sight one never grows tired of: a fellow admitting his wife knows better than he does,” Mrs Fairway said with a chuckle and bustled off to fetch their order.
Cilly let out a dramatic sigh. “If only that were true,” she lamented.
Damian smiled but said nothing and they waited in silence until the ices arrived.
“Oh, that’s delicious,” Cilly said with a happy sigh after devouring her first spoonful of chocolate. “I think I could eat five bowls of this and still have room for more.”
“You’d be sick,” Damian retorted.
“You do not yet understand my capacity for ices, my lord,” Cilly replied, wagging her spoon at him. “I would not underestimate me, if I were you.”
Damian snorted and so she retaliated by reaching over and stealing a large spoonful of his dessert, stuffing it in her mouth before he could stop her.
“Hey!” he protested.
Cilly laughed unrepentantly and then winced as pain seared her head. “Ow, ow, ow,” she muttered, pressing her fingers against the sudden throbbing.
“Celia? What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”
Cilly looked up, touched and amused by his concern. “Yes, but it’s just punishment for my gluttony. It will pass in a moment.” It did, just as she had said, and she sighed, regarding his worried countenance with a smile. “Did you never get a headache eating ices before?”
He shook his head, looking sceptical. “No, but then I never ate an ice before coming here, I’ve clearly not had as much practice as you.”
“Well, then I give you fair warning. If you eat too much too quickly, it gives you a dreadful pain in the head. Not for long, but it hurts while it lasts.”
“And yet you persist,” he remarked with a laugh. “You are a daft creature.”
Cilly shrugged. “It’s entirely worth the risk. Besides, Hetty and I determined we should try every flavour before we left. Though I suppose she has longer to do so now.”
“We could stay longer too, if… if you wished. I know how close you are to Hetty and… well, we never decided where we ought to live.”
Her breath caught, and she held his gaze, but he looked away with a shrug.
“It’s entirely up to you. Seeing as you will be there most of the year, you ought to have the choice.”
Alone.
He didn’t say it, but she knew that was what he meant. You will be there most of the year, alone.
Don’t react, don’t react, she advised herself sternly, instead letting out a slow breath to steady herself.
“Since coming here, I have dreamed of living in a house where I might have a view of the sea. Hatherley House is so lovely, but more than anything I adore waking up in the morning and looking out of the window at the sea. I do not care if it is grey and thrashing with white horses, or blue and serene, it… it makes me happy. I think no matter how difficult a day I was having, that view would always make me feel calmer.”
She wondered if he would think her foolish, but he just nodded.
“Very well. A house with a sea view. I shall see what I can do.”
“Just like that,” she said softly, watching him. “Don’t you care where we live?”
He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. “No. So long it isn’t at Rivington Hall. I believe you now understand why I prefer to forget that place.”
She nodded. “I do. But what will you do with it? Have you considered renting it out? That way future generations, those who do not have your associations with it, might return to it one day. Your family could keep their heritage.”
Though she had not really considered the implication of her words until after she had spoken, she realised at once he believed she was testing his resolve, and was hardly surprised when he pushed back.
“I have already considered that. I’ve sent someone to make an estimate of the cost of renovating it. If it’s not beyond repair, I shall do so. It will provide an income and it’s possible Deon’s offspring might make use of it after I’m gone.”
Cilly swallowed. It was a warning, she knew it was, and one she would do well to heed.
She would, she promised herself. Having children was not the be all and end all, not if he loved her and allowed her to be a part of his life.
But that meant trust, and trust took time.
He had already given her far more than she had any right to expect, bearing in mind she had forced his hand.
It was too easy to rewrite the future and pretend they were just any other courting couple, but they weren’t.
She had manipulated him, trapped him, and had given away any right to expect anything at all from him when she did so.
But Gideon and Hetty had married for love and even spoke about having a family. The realisation jolted through her. How was that possible for them, but not for Damian?
“Damian,” she began, only for anything else she might have said to die at the look in his eyes.
“Let us just enjoy today for what it is, Celia.”
He sounded tired and sad. She understood that too well not to give him the respite he needed.
She nodded and turned her attention back to her bowl of ice. “So, which is your favourite, then?”
“Favourite?”
She used her spoon to point at his bowl. “Which flavour do you like best?”
He smiled, considering this as he met her gaze. “All of them.”
She laughed. “There, you see? You are as greedy as I am.”
“I never denied it.”
They finished their desserts and Damian stood, holding Cilly’s chair for her and guiding her from the terrace.
“Thank you, Lady Cecilia, Lord Rivington, I hope you’ll come again,” Mrs Fairway said warmly as she opened the door for them.
“Thank you, we certainly shall,” Cilly promised her.
Mrs Fairway nodded, pleased, lowering her voice as she bent to whisper to Cilly. “And don’t you pay no mind to all those nasty tattletales. I know a love match when I see one. You just be happy and prove all of them wrong. That’s the best revenge there is, you know.”
The words were so touching, and so kindly meant, that a lump formed in Cilly’s throat. She reached out and squeezed the woman’s hand, smiling, for she could not have spoken a word.
Damian gave her an odd look but escorted her back down to the promenade. They walked in silence for a short while, heading towards the shops.
“What was all that about?” he asked once they were alone again.
Cilly considered telling him, but knew he would only make a sarcastic comment, so she shook her head.
“Keeping secrets already, are you? I see what kind of wife I am gaining,” he remarked, but whilst she knew he was teasing, there was an edge to his words she did not like.
Was that what he expected of their future, that they would keep secrets, live separate lives?
“If you must know, she told me to ignore the gossips, because she knew a love match when she saw one. She said we should be happy, for that would be our best revenge.”
She managed not to tag a provoking ‘so there’ onto the end of the sentence, but only just.
“It seems she’s not so clever as she thinks she is,” he said with a snort.
Cilly tried to smile but found she could not.
She wanted to believe Mrs Fairway saw them clearly, more clearly than Damian did, or she could.
For she wanted so badly to believe he could love her, perhaps that he already did, just a little.
If he did not, would he find her a house with a sea view and speak to her grandmother to stop her grand plans—would he buy her a brooch because it brought out the colour in her eyes?
Or was she creating a vision of a future that was as fragile as paint on paper, and just as easily washed away?