Chapter 4 #2
“And as you pointed out to me, brother dear, such precautions are not foolproof. Besides which, it would give Celia hope, something I am not cruel enough to do. If she wants a child so badly, she’ll have to find some other poor fool to provide her with one.”
The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but he told himself he did not regret saying them.
One must face the ugliness of one’s future with open eyes.
Celia might pretend she was at peace with his refusal to have a family whilst things were so raw, but in time she would realise there were other options open to her.
She was kind and loving and she would need more than he could give her.
It would not take long for her to realise he was unreachable. He’d be a fool not to consider that.
Gideon gaped at him. “You can’t be serious?”
Damian shrugged. “Why not? It is a marriage of convenience, nothing more. I don’t have the slightest intention of being faithful to a woman I’m not bedding. I’m not a damned saint, Deon, as I think we have established.”
“And it wouldn’t bother you…. You wouldn’t care if she took a lover?”
“Why the hell should I care?” Damian snapped, feeling increasingly irritable.
It had been a mistake to come here. He could not now remember why he had done so, except that he was feeling all at sea and he had not known where else to go.
His usual response to such a dilemma would be to get drunk or behave appallingly, or both, but Celia had one thing right. He no longer wanted that life.
Absurdly, he had almost gone to visit Celia until he’d remembered that she was the source of all his aggravation.
Gideon laughed softly and shook his head. “I see I am going to get nowhere with you in this mood. Have it your own way, Damian, you always do. Except this time, I think things might not go quite as you expect them to.”
Damian glared at him, at the smug look on his happily married face—damn him.
“When do they ever?” he demanded and showed himself out.
Muddel’s Rented Rooms over the Cheese Shop, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 7th September 1816
Damian was still seething by the time he got back to his vile rooms. The sight of the patchy ceiling and walls that looked like that had some contagious disease growing in the corners did nothing to ease his temper.
“Finch!”
“I’m right here, there’s no need to deafen me,” Finch muttered, peering around the bedroom door, one of Damian’s second-best boots in his hand.
“Where’s the brandy?”
Finch jerked his head. “I left it in the chest.”
Damian nodded and went and fetched it, pulling the cork with his teeth.
“Good visit with your brother, was it?” Finch remarked, a snide comment which earned him a baleful glare from Damian. “You had a visitor while you were out, by the way. Reverend Honeywell. You just missed him.”
Finch looked positively gleeful at this pronouncement.
Damian lifted the brandy to his lips and took a fortifying swallow.
“If I don’t murder someone before this day is over, it will be a bloody miracle,” he warned Finch, pushing the cork back into the neck of the bottle before the temptation to drink the whole thing won out. “What did he want?”
Finch shrugged. “He said he thought you were in need of his services.”
“The last rites?” Damian suggested.
Finch chuckled and shook his head. “You ain’t dead yet, my lord, and marrying a pretty girl with a fortune don’t seem the worst fate a fellow could have inflicted on him.”
Damian let out a huff of laughter. If only it were that simple. “Was he going to call upon Lady Cecilia?”
“No idea. Didn’t say so.”
Damian frowned. Celia shouldn’t have to deal with the fellow by herself. Though, of course, she had her grandmother, and Hawkney, come to that. But it might be embarrassing for her to speak of her impending marriage without her husband, what with all the gossip flying about.
He pushed to his feet. “I’m going out.”
Finch nodded. “Will you be coming back to eat?”
“Not if I can help it,” Damian muttered, and hurried out, making a mental note to find out when The Mermaid had a free room available.
He’d settle for the broom cupboard if it came to it.
Now that the summer was over and the weather was becoming cooler, surely people would be packing up and going home.
Damian strode through the town, ignoring the whispers and stares.
It wasn’t as if it was a novel experience.
It was only that he usually deserved the scandalised looks and gasps of horror.
Well, he didn’t think he precisely deserved them on Miss Bradford’s behalf, but it had not been his finest hour either.
He would try to do better for Celia. Whilst she was entirely at fault, he understood her desperation.
He might be a bad bet as a husband, but he was a damn sight prettier than the Earl of Crenshaw.
Damian laughed softly, darkly amused by that.
His mood lightened as Hatherley Hall came into sight and he nodded at Howard, who greeted him, if not warmly, then a little less like Damian had murdered the fellow’s firstborn.
“Lady Cecilia is on the terrace, my lord. Shall I announce you?”
“No, I thank you, Howard. I shall surprise her. May I ask, has the Reverend Honeywell been to call?”
“No, sir. Were you expecting him?”
Damian shook his head. “No, only it appears he is on my scent.”
Howard’s lips quirked with amusement, though his expression did not change. “I do not doubt it, my lord.”
Damian narrowed his eyes at the fellow who only bowed politely and took himself off. What the devil did he mean by that?
Damian made his way to the terrace, remembering the first time he’d come here.
He’d teased Celia, enjoying her blushes as he’d apologised for the shocking spectacle she and her sister had witnessed.
He and Deon had been skinny dipping in the sea, and unaware they had an audience.
Celia had risen to his baiting wonderfully, making a crushing comment about being quite undisturbed by the scene, for she had dozens of little boy cousins who delighted in shocking the ladies by waving their privates about.
It had been all he could do not to burst out laughing and applaud her.
As it was, he had grinned wickedly and reminded her he was not one of her little boy cousins.
She had blushed scarlet and turned away, but the look she had given him when she dared meet his eyes again seemed to have been imprinted upon his skin.
The heat blazing in that look had singed him.