Page 23 of Wicked By Design

It felt good to say it out loud and, other than her grandmother and her sister, Cilly trusted no one more than Nichols. She found she could not say such things to her grandmother, though, and she did not wish to spoil the early days of Hetty’s marriage with such concerns. If she did, Hetty might speak to Gideon, who might try to force Damian’s hand, and he had made it very clear such tactics would be a mistake.

Nichols opened a drawer and took out a clean chemise, laying it carefully over the back of a chair. “Well, my lady, there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip, is all I’ll say. Now, you eat up that breakfast, and I’ll come back with your hot water.”

With this inscrutable comment, Nichols took herself off, leaving Cilly to break her fast in peace.

The Grand Hotel Building Site, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 7th September 1816

Damian stopped at the entrance to the building site where work had recommenced now the grand ball was over. He wondered how long the hotel would stand. It was built to last, certainly. Would it still be here in a hundred years, in two, maybe three hundred, even? Would Gideon’s name still mean something? He hoped so, even as the thought made him feel somehow less, as insubstantial as an autumn leaf caught in a breeze. He had no roots to keep him tied. Celia wanted to give him roots. She wanted a home, a family. For all her blithe acceptance of his terms, she was lying to him, to herself too.

Now she would think him cruel. Perhaps he was, but in his experience, if something was going to be painful, it was best to rip the bandage off at once and not sit dithering about it and prolonging the agony. He wasn’t responsible for this damnable situation, after all. She had trapped him and, if she wanted to keep him tethered at all, she had best realise he needed a very, very long lead.

He made his way to the site hut Gideon used for an office, nodding a greeting to the workmen who stopped and respectfully touched the brims of their hats. He rapped twice and let himself in.

Gideon looked up from a thick ledger over which he was scowling, his expression one of surprise.

“Damian! I didn’t expect to see you.”

Damian closed the door, looking around him with interest. “Well, I did not like to intrude upon your private time, knowing it would take you from your lovely bride. So, I decided to interrupt your working day instead.”

Gideon laughed and closed the book. He was sitting at the desk Damian presumed had been that of his last accountant, the one standing trial for theft and blackmail and heaven alone knew what else. “You are welcome to do so at any time.”

“You’ve not found a new accountant yet, then?”

Gideon shook his head.

“No, sadly, though actually Hetty has been lending a hand. She’s got a remarkably good head for figures. Better than mine. She tells me your betrothed is even more accomplished, so you may have confidence she’ll keep your finances all neat and tidy if you let her.”

There was a slightly too jocular note to Gideon’s voice and Damian sent him a dark look.

“Pack it in, Deon. We both know our circumstances are hardly the same.”

Gideon got up and walked around the desk, perching on the end. He looked down at his hands, frowning, clearly debating what to say, or whether to speak at all.

Don’t, Damian growled inwardly, but Deon opened his mouth just the same.

“Have you told her about… about Mother?”

“Not your mother,” Damian replied curtly, which was petty, but he was feeling petty today and a little vindictive.

“I know,” Deon said with a shrug. “But I’ve thought of her as my mother for all these years. Hard to change now. It isn’t like I’ve another I can picture.”

Damian moved to the desk, picking up invoices and rearranging things, for no other reason than that he knew it vexed Deon. “To what end? I’ve told her I shall give her my name and security. I have agreed to be… respectable. She tells me she can make me acceptable to the ton. A feat I remain to be convinced of. We shall be,” he hesitated, the word feeling odd upon his tongue, “friends.”

“Friends?” Gideon repeated. “Well, that’s a good start, Damian. An excellent start, considering that—”

“That she trapped me into marriage? Yes, I am being wonderfully magnanimous,” Damian replied, smiling and showing too many teeth.

Gideon sighed. “Damian. I know you think you don’t need or want anyone, but… but Cilly, she’s a wonderful girl. She’s beautiful and kind and—”

“If you like her so much, perhaps you married the wrong sister,” Damian quipped, wondering why he was trying so hard to provoke Deon. The new accord between them was still fragile, and he did not want to damage it, and yet some sly, conniving devil seemed to live in his head and take control of his tongue and say things he lived to regret the moment they were out of his mouth. But by then it was too late.

Gideon was quiet for a long moment, and Damian resisted the urge to look at him, forcing himself to peruse the plans laid on his desk. He could feel the tension in the air and knew Gideon was making himself take a breath and count to ten, or one hundred. He didn’t deserve such consideration when he knew very well he was a pain in the arse. Still, he was glad.

“Don’t you want more than that, Damian?” Gideon’s voice was soft, too reasonable. It made Damian want to throw things, to break something.

“Want?” he repeated, his voice icy with contempt. “What the bloody hell does it matter what I want? You think I wanted my mother to murder our father, that I wished for her to be an evil madwoman? Do you think I enjoy knowing her blood runs in my veins?”

“Damian, for God’s sake!”