Page 38 of Wicked By Design

“It’s not nothing. You were grinning,” she accused.

“I was not grinning, I was smiling affectionately,” Damian corrected.

She snorted. “Now I know you are lying.”

“Dear one, how cruel you are to me,” he protested.

She shot him a look through narrowed eyes. “No one is listening, Damian. Pretending you like me in company is one thing, you need not do so at other times. Indeed, I would prefer it if you did not.”

She sounded weary suddenly, and he darted a sharp glance her way. “You are annoyed with me.”

“Not at all,” she said, but the smile that curved her lush mouth seemed a little forced, and not at all the kind of smile he’d grown used to. Damian studied her, noting the dark circles under her eyes. She had been worried by his absence, perhaps she’d even feared he would abandon her to her fate after all.

He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

She stopped in her tracks and turned to look at him, so surprised that he could not help but give a rueful smile.

“I do know what the word means, Celia. I even use it from time to time.”

She frowned, staring down at her toes for a long moment before meeting his eyes again. “What are you sorry for?”

Ah, a good question, pet, he thought, amused by her tenacity.

“For hurting your feelings. For not visiting or sending word of where I was or what I was doing. You likely wondered if I was going to abandon you, and I am sorry for that. I will not do so, Celia. My word of honour.”

She nodded, but doubt and anxiety still flickered in her eyes. The vulnerability shining there stabbed at him, making him feel like a brute. “But why did you? Did I… Did I do anything wrong, or—”

He shook his head. “Of course you did nothing wrong. I—” He hesitated. If they were to get through this damnable mess in one piece, he owed her a little honesty. “I am finding our situation a little… challenging.”

She visibly deflated before his eyes, and he cursed himself for not thinking his words through.

“Celia,” he reached out and took her hands. “I am unused to having… friends—especially female friends—who know or understand me. I am finding it difficult to draw the line between allowing you to be my friend and… and yet managing your expectations of what you may get in return. Do you understand?”

He saw her throat work and the daunting notion she might be fighting tears made discomfort squirm in his guts.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed. “I’m no good at this.”

Despite everything, she laughed, a slightly choked sound, but she squeezed his arm. “Considering I crashed into your life and upended everything to suit myself, you are doing wonderfully. I am sorry, though. For causing you… more unhappiness.”

Damian stared at her, realising with a jolt that she had not caused him unhappiness at all.

That was the trouble.

Chapter 8

What Price Honour

Madame Auguste’s Modiste Shop, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 16th September 1816

“It’s blue,” Celia insisted, gazing down at the lovely bolt of silk and looking as if she might stamp her foot.

“It’s green as bloody grass, you little nitwit.”

“There is something wrong with your eyesight. What colour are the trees out there?” she demanded, waving her hand towards the front of the shop. “Or the sky?”

Damian bit back a smile. “The grass is green, the sky is blue, and—”

“It is perhaps verdigris, eh?” Madame Auguste said diplomatically. “Whatever you call it, I think it very beautiful. It suits the lady, oui?”