Chapter 8 #2
She was staring at him with such pride, but he was too furious to speak or to register it properly. Instead, he went to the door, yanked it open, and propelled her out of it.
Celia stumbled through it and turned, still looking at him in wonder.
Damian turned back to the duke, glaring with satisfaction at the shock in the man’s eyes. “And you are not welcome at the wedding,” he added furiously, and slammed the door in his face.
“Cecilia, come back here. This is not over. Rivington!”
Damian ignored the duke’s shouts of outrage.
“Outside,” he barked, striding to the music room and out the doors to the terrace. He carried on down the stairs and into the garden. He wanted to hit something. Sadly, the duke was too old to indulge himself and now he was practically shaking with the desire to do murder.
He kept walking until he came to a fountain. It was a lovely spot, secluded and romantic, and in other circumstances he might have admired it.
Celia followed, watching anxiously as he paced.
She stood on the far side of the fountain, gazing at him.
There were tears in her eyes, but he thought perhaps she was laughing too.
Her father had hurt her with his words. Perhaps that had surprised her, but then it was always a surprise when those close to you revealed their teeth, their true feelings, even when you thought you knew the worst of them.
He knew what it was to hear someone who ought to love you say things that hurt, that cut and slashed and struck so deep there was no beginning and no end to the wound they created.
“Damian,” she said helplessly, as a tear spilled down her cheek. She laughed as another fell, and another. “You could have been free of me. You could have been rich.”
She was teetering on the edge of misery, uncertain of which way to fall. He could push her, or he could catch her. It wasn’t even a choice.
“Yes, I could, you wretched woman. What the devil are you laughing about, damn you?” he demanded irritably, knowing the words would please her.
She ran to him then, clutching at his lapels. “You chose me,” she said, gazing up at him with such… but no, that couldn’t be right. There was no one here to see it, no audience to convince. “You chose me.”
He snorted. “Don’t make out like you’re surprised. You bloody well knew I would.”
The truth of that settled inside him like an ember burning in the shrivelled-up husk of his heart.
She had not doubted him. Celia had known precisely what the duke would do, and she had known he would turn it down, that he would do the honourable thing.
Why must she persist in believing he was a decent human being? It made him want to prove her right.
He stared down at her, at the warmth in her beautiful golden eyes, at the hope and affection.
“Damn you, Celia,” he said gruffly. “It won’t work. I can’t—”
But she reached for him then, taking his head and pulling him down to meet her upturned face.
Their lips met and all the breath left his lungs.
So sweet, so goddamn sweet. She tasted of things he had long forgotten, if he’d ever even known them at all.
Her lips were plush, soft, and as wickedly demanding as they were innocent.
He smiled against her mouth as he realised she did not know how to kiss, but she was eager to give it her best, as she gave everything her best.
His arms went around her, pulling her closer, and she fit him so well, her body tucking snuggly against his, so pliant and trusting in his embrace.
She had trusted him from the first. She had believed in him when no one else would have been so bloody foolish.
Yet he had never even considered taking the money.
The idea had simply never crossed his mind.
He told himself this must stop. It was dangerous to them both.
It would give her hope, give her ideas, and yet he could not make himself break the kiss.
He pulled her closer, the force of his desire for her shocking him to his bones.
Celia was supposed to be his friend, not…
not this. But his body disagreed. He burned for her, his muscles tensing, his blood pumping and priming him for what surely came next.
She smelled of rain, and the kiss quenched something in him for which he’d thirsted for too long, an eternity perhaps. It was like pure spring water filling his soul after a lifetime of brackish muck. She washed away the past, washed away everything… but even Celia could not purify his blood.
Regretfully, he reached for her hands, gently taking hold of her wrists and forcing her to release him.
“Enough,” he said, startled to hear the quality of his own voice, husky and filled with need.
But he needed to protect her more than he needed to bed her, it was as simple as that.
Yet it thrummed through him, the taste of her a fire beneath his skin, one she had lit with her own two hands and her soft, questing lips, damn her.
“Not nearly,” she countered, reaching for him again.
“No.” He stepped back, out of her reach, but could not help the regret that filled his words. “I am sorry, Celia.”
“Why?” she demanded in confusion. “I am not so sheltered that I do not know you desire me. Your body betrays you, Damian.”
He smiled at that. She was bold when she needed to be. “My body senses a woman close at hand. It’s practical, but shows little discrimination,” he said, making the words as callous as possible to force the point home. He wondered if she would slap him. She ought to.
Celia gazed at him, but there was no anger in her eyes, only curiosity.
“There’s a reason, isn’t there, a reason you deny me, deny us. What is it? Why has it been possible for you to whore your way around town during the season—a practice I suppose you intend to continue after our marriage—and yet deny me? Is it to punish me for what I did to you? Is that it?”
Damian told himself not to lose his temper. She was doing her utmost to provoke him because she was far too clever for her own good and his. If he lost his temper, he might say something without thinking, which was what she was hoping for.
“Is that what you believe?” he countered, knowing it was not. For reasons he did not understand, she persisted in seeing the best in him. This was bait and nothing more.
“I believe you are afraid of something, but although I have promised to stand beside you no matter what, you refuse to confide in me.” She studied him, her gaze so searing he turned away, for the uncomfortable suspicion that she might read his bloody mind was not quite ridiculous enough for him to disregard.
“Won’t you trust me, just a little?” she asked him. “I know you have no reason to, but I am on your side, Damian, and I only wish to understand.”
“No!” He snapped the word out without even thinking about it, even though he knew she was entirely sincere.
“Perhaps I shall ask Gideon, or perhaps Hetty knows your secret. Your brother and my sister seem to share everything, every intimacy.”
Despite himself, despite being certain she was only probing and had no intention of asking them any such thing, he flinched.
“I thought so.” There was no satisfaction in her words, only resignation, as if everyone knew some tantalising secret and she was being kept out in the cold on purpose. “I suppose I cannot blame you for keeping me out of your life, but I hope you might trust me one day. I would not let you down.”
She turned to walk away, looking so utterly disconsolate he couldn’t stand it.
“Fine,” Damian said bitterly, for what else could he say. As ever, what choice did he have? “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell every sordid bloody word of it, but don’t say I didn’t try to protect you from it, Celia. This was your choice, remember that.”
“I will remember,” she told him earnestly, holding his gaze. “Say what you will.”
Damian considered her for a moment and then shook his head. She was too bloody romantic, too full of hope, she would never believe it was as dreadful as he said it was. She would think him melodramatic, or that she could mend it or make it better. Unless….
“No. I have a better idea.”