Chapter 13 #2
Damian shrugged. “I just pointed out that Celia was getting a bad enough bargain as it was, there was no need to compound things by making her do it in a more public setting. If you’re done, Celia? I need to stretch my legs.”
“Of course,” she said, though she didn’t meet his eyes. He stood and made a show of stretching his back. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Before anyone could tell him they didn’t, he escaped the room and then wondered what to do. He could hardly run away. Celia would want words with him and if they didn’t get them over with, they would fester. It was better to lance the metaphorical boil today. He sighed, dithering in the hallway.
“Fancy a game of billiards?”
He turned, not entirely surprised to discover Deon had followed him. “Why not?”
They made their way to the billiards room. A large baize table dominated the space and Damian allowed Deon to do the work of setting things up, taking his time choosing a cue.
“So, you took her to meet Mama.”
Damian gave Deon a look that suggested he watch his step. Inevitably, Deon ignored the warning and carried on without stopping for breath. As he spoke, he placed the white ball upon its spot, lining up his shot.
“I’m just surprised, that’s all. I used to have to beg and plead for months to get you to visit.
But I suppose our objectives were rather different.
I wished for Mama to see the son she actually likes, and you were hoping she’d scare Celia away.
Foolish, Damian, very foolish. These women have steel spines, if you’d not yet figured that out. ”
Damian glowered at his cue, making a production of chalking the tip.
“Thank you so much for explaining my motivation and Celia’s reaction to it, very useful,” he said, his tone scathing.
Deon only laughed. “You’re welcome. I’m not wrong either, am I? Is that why you bought her the brooch, to make up for being such an arse—”
“Are you playing this bloody game or not?” Damian demanded furiously. Deon had not always been able to read him so accurately. Something had changed of late and he didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t like it.
Possibly aware he was on thin ice, Deon nodded and they played in silence for a while with Damian losing badly, which was not like him.
He’d usually beat Deon eight games out of ten, mainly because he got a great deal more practice.
At worst, he’d lose by a point or two. Today he was being crucified.
Increasingly irritated by his inability to concentrate, he leaned over the table and took his shot. The white ball clipped its target and wandered harmlessly away.
Damian muttered an oath, looking up to see Deon raise an eyebrow.
“Well, that was pathetic.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it, you could have made that shot blindfolded. What’s wrong with you?”
Damian sent him a scathing glance. “Oh, let me think. I’ve been trapped into marriage, forcing me to overturn my previous vow never to wed.
Celia is a kind, sweet young woman despite her actions, and desperate to love everyone and everything.
Forcing her to endure married life to a rat like me, and with no children to comfort her, will be like clipping a swallow's wings and telling it never to fly. For God’s sake, Deon, she deserves better, she deserves every happiness, and I cannot give her any of it. Why on earth should I be preoccupied?”
He threw the cue down on the table and stalked to the sideboard where a decanter and glasses stood waiting. It wasn’t yet noon, but he needed a bloody drink.
Deon came to stand beside him and reached for a glass. Damian glanced up to see understanding in his brother’s eyes. If anyone could comprehend the depths of this disaster, it was him.
Damian poured them both a hefty measure and they chinked glasses.
“Your very good health,” Damian said with a sneer, and then downed the lot in one go.
Deon watched him and sucked in a breath before taking a more measured sip. Damian refilled his glass.
“Something to say, brother?”
“Not a thing,” Deon replied wisely.
Damian sat down and glowered at the fire in brooding silence.
Outside, the day was grim, rain pattering against the glass in an endless torrent.
In his mind, a picture formed: an elegant parlour on a wet afternoon.
The room would be lit with lamps against the gloom, the fire burning merrily, and he and Celia snug upon a comfortable settee, making the most of the domestic bliss and…
. He squashed the image before his idiotic brain could conjure up a couple of cherubs and a quartet of violins to serenade them all.
“There are no guarantees in life, Damian. You could live to be a perfectly normal, if crotchety, old man, and any children you produce might be equally ordinary. After all, it is not only your blood, but Cecilia’s too that will make them.”
“And there is no guarantee that I might not attack and kill my wife one day, perhaps my children too, or that they might do so and hurt their mama or each other,” Damian shot back furiously.
“What do you know? What do either of us know, except that we both vowed never to marry, never to sire children, because that was the only way to be certain? We both agreed, Deon. Just because you are free of the bonds now doesn’t make the shackles any less heavy for me. ”
Deon nodded, gazing down into his drink. “I know, Damian. I’m sorry.”
Damian snorted but didn’t meet his brother’s eyes. “So am I.”
Cilly washed out her brushes, aware of Hetty standing behind her, scrutinising the painting.
“Well, spit it out,” she said wryly. Glancing up at Hetty, she raised her eyebrows.
Hetty threw up her hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to say, what to think. Truly, I don’t.”
Cilly laughed softly and put her brushes away, carefully closing the lid of her paint box. “Don’t feel bad. I think Damian has that effect on everyone.”
Hetty laughed and sat down beside her, reaching over to grasp her hand. “And what effect does he have on you, love?”
Cilly made a choked sound and burst into tears.
“Oh, Cilly. What is it? If he’s upset you, I’ll… I’ll castrate him with the nutcrackers.”
Spluttering with tears and laughter, Cilly shook her head. “Don’t you dare. My chances of ever having a family are slim enough, don’t you go ruining them.”
Hetty gazed at her, and Cilly’s lip wobbled.
“I d-didn’t understand,” she admitted. “I thought he was sad and lonely, I th-though he needed me, and he does, Hetty, oh, he does. But it’s so much more complicated than that.”
Hetty sighed and pulled Cilly into a hug, holding her tightly.
“I know. Deon has explained it all to me. Damian saved his life that night, did you know that? He was only a child himself, but he stood between his mama and Deon and refused to budge. I shall still hurt him badly if he does anything to upset you, but he has earned my eternal gratitude for saving his brother, and so I shall give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he really is a good man.”
Cilly sighed, accepting the handkerchief Hetty handed her and wiping her eyes. “He is, Hetty. Damian is kind and decent, and I am beginning to believe he wants all the things I want, he is just too afraid to believe he can have them.”
“No children?” Hetty guessed.
Cilly blew her nose. “No children,” she agreed thickly.
“And I could live with that if we had a real marriage, but I know what he intends. He’s going to buy me a pretty house somewhere and then he’s going to leave me there.
He’ll go away and, to begin with, he’ll visit me now and then to ensure I’m all right, and then the visits will become less and less frequent, until…
.” Cilly covered her mouth with her hand and smothered a sob. “Oh, Hetty. What have I done?”