Chapter 5
No Rose-Tinting Here
Hawkney rapped on the brightly painted green door of the little terraced house and waited. He looked around the seafront, feeling a little exposed, and was relieved when the door opened a few seconds later.
“Hawk! Good God, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Marcus exclaimed, stepping aside to let the duke in. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Actually, I thought I might do you a service,” Hawkney replied nonchalantly, reminding himself this was true, if not the entire reason he’d come.
Marcus led him through to a neat little parlour and leant against the mantel. “Make yourself at home. How so?”
Hawkney looked around with interest. He was not half the snob most people made him out to be—at least, he hoped he wasn’t—but he found the tiny house rather fascinating. Having grown up surrounded by rooms that echoed, the cosy little space was akin to stepping into a doll’s house.
“You mentioned you were looking for an artist, a portrait painter.”
Marcus scowled. “‘Looking for’ implies action, but yes, I suppose I must bite the bullet. I wasn’t intending to do it right away, though. The exhibition is not until the spring, I believe.”
“Any artist worth their salt will want months, you numbskull. They don’t knock up an artwork over the weekend.”
Marcus’ expression darkened. “They may as well, for if anyone thinks I’m sitting for hours on end every day of the week—well, I’ve better things to do.”
“Like what?” Hawkney asked, quirking an eyebrow.
Marcus opened his mouth, scowled, and shut it again. “Just because I’m losing my mind with boredom doesn’t mean I want someone to watch it happening. Christ, Hawk. Do you want your portrait painted?”
“Don’t be an arse, Marcus. I’m a bloody duke. I’d had a dozen portraits done by the time I was thirty. If you’re looking for pity, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“A fair point,” Marcus said with a snort. “What has this got to do with you condescending to visit my humble abode, though?”
“Well, as it happens, we have a resident genius in Little Valentine. At least, I am reliably informed that is so. I have not seen her work myself, you understand. This is only hearsay.”
“Her?” Marcus repeated, his scowl deepening.
“Come, come, Marcus. Why not a female? You indicated you wished to thumb your nose at Wellington for forcing you into this, why not choose a female artist? Perhaps it will aggravate him.”
Marcus brightened a little at this suggestion but then scowled again. “Oh, God. What if she makes me look—” An expression of utter revulsion crossed his face. “—heroic?”
Hawkney smothered a laugh. “I’m not suggesting you engage her at once, just that we look at her work. If you don’t like it, no harm done.”
Marcus stared down at the empty grate, his expression one of annoyed resignation.
“I suppose so,” he said ungraciously. “When were you considering calling upon her?”
“No time like the present,” Hawkney replied nonchalantly.
“Now?”
Hawkney shrugged, sitting back in the comfortable armchair and doing his best to look as if he didn’t care either way, which he didn’t. Not really. He was only curious, that was all. “Why not now? I am presently free to escort you if you wish for backup.”
“Backup? Am I entering enemy territory?” Marcus asked with a snort.
Hawkney gave a soft laugh. “One never knows, Marcus. With women, one never knows.”
The Vicarage, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 7th September 1816
“Oh, what a beautiful garden,” Celia said as Damian held the gate open for her.
The entire place seemed to hum as insects busied themselves among the flowers.
Though it was clearly past its best, and in dire need of taking in hand, even Damian had to admit the vicarage garden presented a charming picture.
Celia, wearing a white sprigged muslin gown and pale blue spencer, did nothing to impair the image, either.
He followed her down the path and knocked on the door.
The sound of children’s laughter filtered from an open window, and an accompanying shout from what Damian presumed to be a nanny.
“Oh, you little devil! Come back here, Caspar. Just you wait until—Daisy, no!”
Celia raised her eyebrows, but then the door flew open and a beautiful young woman with a tumble of red-gold curls and flushed cheeks appeared.
“Good morning,” she said, dipping a curtsey. “Did you want Reverend Honeywell?”
“We did, thank you, child. If you would inform him that Lord Rivington and Lady Cecilia are here to see him.”
The girl looked up at Damian and blushed deeply. “If you would like to wait in the parlour. I’ll tell him you are here.”
She escorted them into a pretty parlour, excused herself, and hurried out again.
“Damian,” Celia chided him.
Damian turned to look at her. “What?”
“She was no child. You just insulted the poor young woman.”
Damian shrugged. “She looked like a child to me.”
“Young ladies’ feelings are easily bruised, especially by handsome, sophisticated gentlemen. Be kind.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Being kind gets a fellow into trouble, Celia.”
“Well, don’t be too kind, then,” she retorted.
Damian chuckled.
“Well, well, what an unexpected pleasure this is!”
Damian turned as the reverend bustled into the room. The man seemed to bring with him a sense of energy and goodwill that filled the room, and even Damian felt a reluctant smile curve his lips as the fellow grasped his hand and pumped it up and down as if he expected water to spurt from his ears.
“I confess, my lord, that having got your brother to the altar, I had my sights set upon you, and you may ask Mr Bramwell yourself if you doubt me, but here you are. Congratulations to you both.”
He stood and regarded them, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah, and what a fine, handsome couple too. Delightful. Simply delightful.”
Damian slanted a glance at Celia, who narrowed her eyes at him, giving a tiny shake of her head.
“Ah, but you have not yet heard the circumstances of our betrothal,” Damian replied mournfully. “You see, I am a very bad fellow, as I’m sure my brother informed you, and I ruined her. For her money.”
“Ah.” The reverend nodded thoughtfully before turning to Celia. “How strange, because I heard you ruined him, my lady? Did I get it wrong?”
“Reverend Honeywell, I have it on excellent authority—that authority being the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney—you are never wrong,” Celia replied earnestly.
Damian rolled his eyes.
“Well, now that little confusion is out of the way, would you like to come through to my study? I presume you are here to make arrangements for the happy day,” the reverend said, still beaming.
Damian’s mood seemed to become increasingly irascible the wider the fellow’s smile grew.
“It isn’t a happy day,” he said irritably.
“It’s a day, like any other. There’s a scandal.
Her reputation is shredded. For once in my life, I’m doing the honourable thing and getting fifteen thousand quid in my hand for the pleasure.
We just need a date and time and to fill in whatever blasted documents are necessary. ”
Celia glared at him. “Thank you so much for clarifying the situation.”
Heat burned the back of his neck, and a sensation horribly akin to shame made him squirm. Bloody hell, but he was an arse.
“Ah, it’s all rather unsettling,” the reverend said gently. “Especially for a fellow who has been a bachelor for so long, and probably intended to stay that way, hmm? Makes a chap a little nervy.”
“I am not—”
An expression from his intended bride that could have etched glass made Damian think better of saying any more.
He snapped his mouth shut and made a polite ‘after you’ gesture to Celia, who swept past him and followed the reverend to his study.
The chill in the air as she left made his skin prickle.
Bloody hell.
Damian resolved to keep quiet and endure the rest of the interview, or whatever it was the reverend had in mind. It seemed safer. After all, he’d only come to save Celia from the embarrassment of meeting the fellow by herself, and so far, he’d gone out of his way to mortify her.
So, he allowed Celia to make the arrangements, choose the date and time, and simply nodded his agreement when she turned to him for his opinion.
Then Celia gave her full name and date and place of birth and all the relevant details. Reverend Honeywell next turned to him, clearly expecting him to provide his full name and titles. Hell.
Damian hesitated, slanted Celia a glance, and put up his chin.
“Damian Randolph Julius Bramwell, Viscount Rivington… Baron Pottleby.”
As if on cue, he heard a smothered giggle from beside him.
He turned to glower at Celia, whose face was rigid, her eyes blazing. He thought she was holding her breath.
“Is there a problem?” he asked tightly.
She shook her head.
“Date of birth?” the reverend asked politely, though his eyes twinkled a little too brightly for Damian’s liking.
“Octob—”
“Pottleby!” Celia burst out, apparently unable to contain herself any longer. She dissolved into hysterics.
Damian narrowed his eyes at her. “Might I remind you that makes you the Baroness Pottleby?”
“Oh!” She doubled over, gasping for breath. “B-Baroness Pottle—”
It was no good, she couldn’t finish saying it out loud and whooped louder.
Damian sat back and folded his arms. “You are being ridiculous.”
Celia put her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking silently.
“It’s just a name, for heaven’s sake.”
With what appeared to be a Herculean effort, Celia took a deep breath, wiped her eyes on a pretty lace-edged handkerchief, and composed herself. “Quite right,” she said unsteadily. “Just a name. Forgive me… Baron P-Pottleby.”
And off she went again.
Damian simmered until she had herself under control again. She gazed at him, eyes wet with tears, her dark gold eyelashes all spikey, her cheeks flushed.
“S-Sorry,” she said, looking so far from contrite that something shifted in his chest. The little wretch wasn’t the least bit sorry.