Page 27 of Wicked By Design

“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.