Chapter 16 #2
Marcus brushed at an invisible piece of lint on his immaculate trousers with quick, brusque movements. “Nonsense. I just… it’s the way she looks at you. Like she can see into your bloody soul. Well, if she can, I hope she has a strong stomach, is all I’ll say.”
Ah.
“You said you did not wish to be flattered,” Hawkney pointed out, wondering if it was more the prospect of spending a good deal of time in proximity with the beautiful Miss Foxworthy that was getting the fellow in a lather.
Though he’d never had difficulty attracting the opposite sex, Marcus had long ago declared himself a confirmed bachelor and deliberately kept everyone, but especially women, at arm’s length.
Of course, he wasn’t the easiest of companions, his manners were harsh, and he was rather hard-headed and intolerant of people’s finer feelings after so long fighting for his country in foreign climes.
Still, Hawkney had noticed the way women looked at him, seeing the heroic soldier rather than the real man.
If they believed they could change him, though…
well, they might be in for a rude awakening.
He did not believe Miss Foxworthy had any such ambitions. She had looked at Marcus with candid curiosity, but he had sensed no judgement, and certainly nothing close to hero-worship.
“I do not wish to be flattered, the idea appals and sickens me,” Marcus retorted with his usual candour. “However, I-I do not wish to be—”
“Exposed?”
Marcus frowned. “That portrait she did of Miss Halfpenny…. Well, I’d be a damned fool not to ask her to paint me.
The woman is clearly one of the most talented artists I have ever seen, not that I can claim to have any knowledge of the subject, merely my own two eyes.
Yet, I did not wonder that Miss Halfpenny fled.
She might have been standing before us naked, for it seemed every facet of her character was exposed to our gaze. ”
“I hardly think so,” Hawkney snapped crossly, though he knew what Marcus meant.
The painting had moved him, touched him deeply in ways he had yet to understand, and he had badly wished to follow Clara from the room, yet he had been unable to do so without causing a scene.
That Sherry had done so had unnerved him, and yet he’d been grateful, especially when the man assured him she had been well, just a little overwhelmed.
“Perhaps not. But I seem to be stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea. Either some idiot will make me look like the Roman god of war in full panoply, or I shall show the world the truth, that I’m no bloody hero at all.”
The words were bitter and spoken with such venom Hawkney’s heart ached for the man.
“That’s not true,” Hawkney said gently. “And I believe Miss Foxworthy will show the real you, Marcus, the one we all know and respect for being the admirable pain in the arse that he is.”
Marcus snorted, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose we shall see.”
Hawkney smiled, wondering if the lady artist knew what she was letting herself in for. He suspected this portrait would be a battle of wills, and Marcus was well used to warfare, but then he had never faced a foe like Eustacia Foxworthy.
Damian’s guts were in turmoil, his palms were clammy, and he was certain he had a fever, for hot and cold chills kept thrilling down his spine. He wondered if he could plead illness and defer the wedding, just for a few days, or weeks, or possibly a decade. Maybe then he’d be ready.
A sudden change in the atmosphere, of people coming to attention, took his notice, and he turned his head.
Any notion of fleeing dissolved like honey in hot water as he saw Celia standing in the entrance to the church.
Next to her behemoth of a brother, she appeared to be as delicate as spun sugar, the sunlight catching the silver threads in the gown he had bought for her.
It gave her the look of a fairy queen, ethereal and not of this world.
Yet he knew that wasn’t right. Celia was flesh and blood, not a fragile doll, all brittle porcelain and painted smiles, ready to break at the slightest suggestion of difficulty.
Gabriel had the right of it. Like her sister, there was something steely inside Celia.
He had sensed it from the outset: the rebellious streak, the implacable sense of determination.
She meant for them to have a marriage of hearts and minds, not names and properties, and he did not know how to deny her.
Despite his terror for the future, despite every horror that filled his mind, he could not abandon her and leave her to live her days alone when he might be with her.
Yet he did not know how to be with her and hold enough of himself back to keep them both safe.
He very much feared it was not possible. Not anymore.
Suddenly, she was standing beside him. Her brother sent him a glare that suggested his nether parts would be removed swiftly if he so much as thought about doing anything to upset Celia, before stepping back.
The daft sod. If only he knew Damian would do the job himself rather than inflict harm on the woman beside him.
Celia lifted the lace veil that had kept her face hidden and Damian’s breath caught.
Not because she was beautiful, though she undeniably was, but because there was such concern in her eyes.
It was her wedding day, the day most girls dreamed of and hoped to be the happiest of their lives, and she was worrying about him.
He felt sick. He felt like a damned fool and entirely unworthy of his bride. Well, he would do better.
Taking her hand, he squeezed her fingers gently and smiled at her. “I will never deserve the gift fate bestows upon me this day, Celia, but I will do my best. Of all the promises I am about to make, I wish you to understand that.”
He leaned in and touched his lips to her cheek. When he straightened up, he saw her eyes were too bright, and she was gazing up at him like… like she adored him.
Damian swallowed. It wasn’t an act anymore. He knew it was not, and the realisation scared him more than any vow he was about to make.
Cilly exited the church, blinking in the sunlight as rice rained down from above.
Her heart beat furiously, making her breathless and lending a slightly dreamlike unreality to everything about her.
There was a part of her that did not quite believe it was real.
She was married. She was Lady Rivington and the handsome man upon whose arm her hand rested was her husband.
He had not run away. She had been right to put her trust, her future, into his hands. If only they could survive the coming night, she knew they could survive anything.
Damian had been everything she could have dreamed of, speaking his vows solemnly and with the air of a man who intended to keep them.
Surreptitiously, she slanted a glance at him, her insides quickening at the sight of his beautiful profile.
Perhaps sensing her gaze, he turned, and his grey-blue eyes were not the icy depths of the North Sea today.
Instead, they warmed as they looked upon her, his expression somewhat rueful.
“Well, my love, now you have the tiger by the tail,” he murmured, sotto voce.
Cilly snorted, shaking her head. “You flatter yourself, my lord. I see no tiger, only a big tabby cat in need of a little domesticating, a little love, and a soft place to lay his head.”
He laughed at that, his eyes sparkling with appreciation. “Dreadful girl. How you wound my manly pride.”
“Not at all. You enjoy it when I am rude and provoking,” Cilly retorted. “Besides, I am right.”
His gaze grew more serious, a glimmer of unease showing itself. “I hope so,” he replied earnestly, and then turned to speak to Hawkney, who had come to congratulate them.