Chapter 2 #2
“How the bloody hell should I know?” Marcus said crossly.
“I don’t precisely rub shoulders with artists on a daily basis.
” His breath caught, and he turned his head, giving a sharp cough.
He inhaled carefully, his hands tightening on the arms of the chair before the cough came again, harsher this time, a horrid, dry, tearing that drew his body in upon itself. He clearly could not stop it.
Hawkney winced in sympathy, unable to do a thing as Marcus’ face flushed, eyes watering while he fought for breath and clasped at his chest.
Hawkney got to his feet, poured a glass of water and silently placed it beside Marcus.
Sherry too stood hovering, uncertain of what to do. He reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief, pressing it into Marcus’ hands. Marcus batted it away.
“I’ve… I’ve… got my own,” he rasped, finding the thing and using it to wipe his face.
He was still breathing hard, but the coughing fit appeared to have subsided.
“All right, old man?” Sherry asked, his usually severe features creased with concern.
“Fine, fine. It’s nothing,” Marcus said, sounding utterly furious.
There was a brief silence. Sherry and Hawkney exchanged glances.
“Well, you’ve time to think about who you’d like to do the portrait,” Hawkney said diplomatically. “The fellow who did my sister was rather good. Caught her likeness exceptionally well.”
“I don’t think Marcus wants a society painter,” Sherry remarked, giving Hawkney an unmistakeable if silent ‘you idiot’ look.
Hawkney shrugged.
“Yes. Well, I shall think on it,” Marcus replied, still a little breathless, though they all ignored it. “Now, tell me about the two of you. What have you both been up to?”
Cilly made her way down the stairs. She told herself that she was perfectly calm. They would just go for a little stroll about the town. It was nothing to get herself in a silly state about.
Nichols’ last bracing words rang in her ears:
You keep your chin up, pet. Don’t you let no one make you feel less than you are. You know your worth, and that useless fellow will figure it out too, soon enough.
Cilly smiled, repeating the words to herself to give her courage as she returned to the library.
Damian was standing by the windows, staring out, and did not at first remark her arrival.
His gaze was abstracted, lost somewhere far away.
It did not look like a happy place, but then she had long understood that this was not a happy man.
She knew it was foolish to hope she might change that, that they might truly be friends, even companions, but she was ever the optimist.
He turned then, and his more usual sarcastic smile swept away the rather brooding expression. “Ah, my lovely fiancée. Are you ready, my dear?”
“I am,” Cilly agreed, determined to be agreeable.
“Then let us face our public.”
She waited for him to join her in the hallway and accepted his proffered arm.
It was a strange sensation, placing her fingers upon the fine material of his coat. She was too aware of the flesh and blood man beneath the layers of exquisite tailoring, and the firm muscle beneath the cloth made her pulse speed.
The memory of him bowing so formally, standing naked on the rocks, and then leaping into the sea like a carefree child, had imprinted itself upon her mind.
He had looked so magnificent, like a god with the sunlight glinting off a body that appeared like sculpted marble, but then he had flashed that wicked grin and thrown himself into the water.
He was such a conundrum, but she felt certain the sardonic exterior he presented to the world hid more moments of carefree joy, more mischief and laughter, if only she could persuade him to trust her.
She almost laughed at the notion. Why would the man she had lured onto a terrace and trapped into marriage ever trust her again? It was a forlorn hope.
They did not speak as they left Hatherley Hall and made their way down through the winding streets to the town.
“It’s early yet so there probably aren’t too many revellers from last night up and about,” he remarked as they drew closer to the busier part of town.
Cilly glanced at him but said nothing.
Though he was not wrong about the amount of fashionable people abroad, news of their scandal had circulated with predictable speed.
Everyone in Little Valentine knew the notorious Lord Rivington by sight now, as he’d been in town for some time, and their reactions were predictable enough, but it still made Cilly’s face burn as people whispered and turned to stare at them.
Some even laughed and, whilst she could not hear their comments, she could guess what they were saying about her.
She reminded herself of what Nichols had said and put up her chin.
“Would you like to walk along the shore?” Damian asked. There was a sharp note to his voice that startled her, but she snatched at the chance to get away from the amused, knowing glances around them.
“I would,” she said at once. “I love the sea. I would love to live close to it. Oh, where is your property, Damian?” It suddenly occurred to her that she knew nothing about this man, his finances—other than he was broke—his family home or even his family itself, save for his brother.
“Near Bath. No sea, I’m afraid.”
“Oh,” she said, unable to hide her disappointment.
“But then the place is damn near a ruin. I’ve been toying with the idea of selling it.”
She looked up at him in surprise. Most noblemen she knew would rather stick pins in their eyes than sell their family estate. “It’s not entailed?”
He shook his head. “No, and I have no affection for it. It was a hellish place to live, as Gideon would agree. I’d just as soon start over and build something new. Something with light and space. Rivington Hall is so damned gloomy, even the ghosts have moved out.”
She gave a startled little laugh. “Surely it’s not so bad?”
His grim expression did not encourage her to believe this.
She wondered just what had made it so hellish.
Not just the lack of light, that much was clear, for what little boy would care about such a thing if his home was filled with love and affection?
Hetty had been remarkably close lipped about Gideon’s past, she realised now, wondering why that might be when her sister usually shared every detail with her.
“I am sorry you were unhappy there,” she said carefully.
He ignored the comment, but a sudden thrum of tension communicated itself to her through his arm and she looked around. They had reached the promenade by the seafront, and a splendid carriage had drawn up.
“Devil take it,” he muttered under his breath.
“What—?” Cilly began, but the question died as a fantastically fashionable woman made her way out of the hotel, heading for the carriage.
The Countess of Dunmere was an elegant woman on the shady side of forty, and notorious for being one of the most malicious gossips of the ton.
She had once been considered a beauty, and might have been lovely still, if not for her expression.
Nothing good had ever come from that face, Cilly thought a touch desperately, as she noted the calculating gleam in the woman’s eyes upon seeing her.
Cilly had always disliked the vicious creature and avoided her and her cutting remarks as often as possible.
As a duke’s daughter she ranked high among the ton and, with her skills for diplomacy, she had not found it so terribly difficult to keep a distance from those people with whom she did not wish to spend time.
She feared she had no patience left for diplomacy, however.
She had burned it along with her last shred of respectability on the terrace last night before a captive audience.
Cilly glanced at Damian’s face and knew if she did not intervene, he would say or do something appalling and only cement the idea that he was irredeemably wicked and had indeed ruined her. It would be far better if they believed Cilly had found a kindred spirit.
“Oh, my dear,” the countess said, dripping condescension and false concern.
“I was so, so very sorry for you last night. Such an unpleasant and tawdry scene. But I am glad to see you putting such a brave face on it despite the depths of your shame. Poor Crenshaw will be distraught when he hears his lovely fiancée was so publicly ruined. I’m actually on my way there now to tell him, for we are quite close neighbours. ”
“I never doubted you would be the first to bring comfort to the poor, old man,” Cilly replied with a sweet smile, for the woman always delighted in being the first to spread whatever poisonous on-dit was doing the rounds.
The countess’ smile vied with Cilly’s, becoming wider, rather like a crocodile at the moment before its jaws snapped. “Well, I try my best to be a good neighbour.”
Cilly nodded gravely. “I know he will be most grateful at the speed with which you have rushed home to pass on the news. They say ignorance is bliss, but I doubt he will feel the same way after all.”
The countess chuckled. “Oh, I do my poor best to be a good friend. I expect you will discover just how many of those you have now, my dear, as people are so cruel. So many of the best families will drop a girl at the first sign of scandal. Such a shame,” she crooned, making no bones about the delight she took in Cilly’s downfall.
“Do you think so?” Cilly asked with apparent surprise. “For my part I would far rather not have a friend who is so shallow and faithless as to abandon me over a mere kiss, but I suppose our notions of honour and friendship are rather different.”
The countess’ smile became brittle and Cilly knew she would go in for the kill now, as the wretched woman could not rattle her.
“Well, I suppose we shall see little of you anymore. You know, Dunmere and I had hoped to have you and Crenshaw come to stay this Christmas. Our little festive weekends are so exclusive everyone fights for an invitation, but we only ask the best people to celebrate with us.”