Page 29 of Wicked By Design

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.

For a long moment he simply glowered at her, but it was no good. Laughter tickled the back of his throat, the corners of his lips seemed determined to turn upwards, and the temptation to join in was more than he could endure.

“It could be worse,” he said, his voice cool and dignified. “I have a cousin who is Lord Tiddlethorpe.”

He waited a moment to gauge her reaction and then grinned.

Celia dissolved.

“Goodbye, my dears, goodbye!” Bertram, Reverend Honeywell, waved the young couple off and turned to go inside, still chuckling to himself.

“What on earth was all that caterwauling about?”

Bertram turned to look at Mrs Adie as she came out of the dining room. He grinned.

“Young people newly betrothed can have rather an excess of emotion. It shows itself in different ways, but I confess, laughter is my favourite. Ah, such a lovely couple they are.”

Mrs Adie lifted an eyebrow, her expression dubious.

“Oh, aye? I thought it was that wicked Lord Rivington, and I heard how he ruined the poor girl.”

Bertie sent the lady a gently reproving look that made her colour rise. “Rivington is an interesting fellow. One who's been dealt a tough hand, but Lady Cecilia is more than a match for him, I suspect. Indeed, I believe she is exactly what he needs. She likely knows it too, which is why she chose him, but it won’t be easy for her, poor child. I see rough water ahead, but I believe with a little luck, they may reach the shore safe and sound.”

Mrs Adie shook her head indulgently. “You see the good in everyone, that’s your trouble. Some folk just don’t want to be saved. That fellow looks like trouble to me. He’s certainly at the centre of some scandal or other each time one looks in the papers.”

“Sometimes, a little trouble is just what a person needs to discover their own potential. If one is never challenged, one cannot rise to meet it,” he said with a wink, before returning to his study and discovering to his delight that it was the perfect moment for a little aperitif.

The Heights, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 7th September 1816

“It was decent of you to lend me a mount,” Marcus said, as they rode up the steep hill to Seagull Heights.

“Well, I wasn’t going to trudge up this bloody hill,” Hawkney remarked.

“And you suspected the climb might kill me,” Marcus added dryly.

Hawkney winced. He could not deny he’d wished to save his friend from the arduous climb but hoped it hadn’t been too obvious. Not long ago Marcus would have left him and Sherry in the dust. There was nothing Marcus could not climb, no distance he could not cover. His incapacity must be driving him distracted.

Deciding it was safer neither to confirm nor deny, Hawkney held his tongue.

“Won’t she be thrown into confusion, having a duke arrive on her doorstep without a by your leave?”