Page 48 of Wicked By Design

She watched him as he rubbed his face with his hand, watched his jaw clench and release until finally he spoke.

“My father was on the floor. At first, I thought he was asleep and I… I kept wondering, why is his cravat red? Papa never wears a red cravat.”

He gave a humourless laugh which somehow only made the horror of his words strike her harder.

Cilly moved, as if she would reach to take his hand but he crossed his arms again, and she realised he would not allow her to comfort him.

“How old were you?” she asked.

“Eight. Gideon was not quite three. Our nanny had brought him down to say goodnight, and—her scream. The sound of it still wakes me sometimes. She was so terrified she put Gideon down—dropped him, actually—and my mother saw him. There… There was such rage in her eyes, such—”

He shook his head and swallowed.

Cilly covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself from crying out, from sobbing as the scene appeared in her mind’s eye. She wondered if he had ever told anyone about this, had ever spoken the words aloud. That he needed to do so, that the wound needed to be excised, seemed entirely natural to her, for surely something so dreadful would fester in the darkness. Telling her about it in the light of day would not mend it, but perhaps it might heal a little without leaving such a terrible scar.

“She started walking towards Gideon. She didn’t run, I remember that. There was no hurry. She walked slowly, purposefully, and Gideon just…. He just stood there, waiting.”

He surged to his feet and strode away, walking to the gate on the far side of the road that led into a field where a dairy herd munched with quiet contentment. Cilly watched, struggling to keep her breathing calm as he lent on the gate, pressing his forehead against his hands.

Closing her eyes, she drew in a breath, gathered her nerve, and stood, walking to stand beside him.

“What happened next?”

He lifted his head, turning to glare at her. “Fond of Gothic novels, are you, my lady? Want me to share more gory details?”

Cilly flinched but refused to allow him to hurt her. He was lashing out because he was the one hurting, she would not mistake his pain for deliberate cruelty, even though he meant to strike at her. “Actually, no, I loathe them. Hetty loves them, though. She used to torment me as a girl, reading them out loud at bedtime. I would pull a pillow over my head and yell at her to stop.”

He gazed at her for a long moment in frustration, but then his expression twisted with pain, and he turned away from her.

“I picked Deon up, I tried to run up the stairs, but… but she was faster. I screamed, trying to keep between the two of them, holding onto him as tightly as I could, but she was bigger, stronger, and she wrenched him away. Then the servants appeared, thank God. The butler… he was a nice fellow, kind. He used to slip us sweets, and he turned a blind eye when he knew I’d done something I ought not. Then I could hear Mama, crying and crying, weeping because Papa was dead, Papa was dead, and I thought… then why did you kill him?” His voice cracked, and he made a sound of fury and kicked the gate. “Damn you, Celia. God damn you!”

“I’m s-sorry,” she managed, determined not to weep because it would only infuriate him more. She had already pushed him as far as she dared.

“Why do you do this?” he demanded, turning to face her, his eyes wild with rage and pain. “Why must you make me—”

He shook his head and turned away, breathing hard, like he’d run from the Devil himself.

“Because you try to force me away, and I promised to be your friend, Damian. I meant it. If we marry, I shall vow to keep you in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, and I shall mean those words too. I will do it no matter what, no matter if you never love me or trust me. I do not make promises I have no intention of keeping.”

She took a hesitant step closer so that she could see his face in profile. He slanted a look at her, his expression wreathed with exhaustion and sorrow before turning away again, but not before she had glimpsed the shame in his eyes.

“You should have left it alone.”

“I could not. I will not. I do not want the gory details, Damian, only the truth. You keep deciding our future based on a past I know nothing of. Now I know and I have some little understanding of everything you are dealing with.”

“Oh, my God.” His words were incredulous, and he swung around to face her. “Don’t think for one moment that there is an argument to have, Celia. I will not risk our children enduring such a scene or… or becoming… like her!”

Cilly’s heart hammered in her chest, for this was the one subject she had known not to touch at such a moment, and now he was putting words in her mouth, forcing an argument she was not prepared to have with him. “I never mentioned children!” she exclaimed. “I certainly understand now why you are so adamant, but I would never have raised the subject.”

He snorted, shaking his head.

“Damian, that’s not fair.”

Damian’s expression darkened as he pointed an accusatory finger at her. “Fine, look me in the eye and tell me you don’t still hope I’ll change my mind.”

Cilly’s throat tightened, but she refused to lie to him. “My hopes and dreams are my own, Damian. That does not mean I would not respect your decision.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “No, you’ll just pine away, longing for something you cannot have.”