Page 49 of Wicked By Design

“Do I look like the pining sort?” she retorted, furious that he would think her so witless. “I will do nothing of the sort, you wretched man.”

“Then you agree with my decision,” he said, pushing and pushing, determined to force her to agree he was right to never father a child. “All the medical evidence shows that the risk of insanity following the bloodline is far too great. Ask any doctor and they’ll tell you the same thing.”

Cilly hesitated. This was not the moment for this discussion, but she had determined they must have honesty between them.

“I… I cannot say that for sure, no,” she said, putting up her chin. “And it appears not every doctor agrees with the current thinking. I spoke to Doctor Grantham, Damian. He’s seen a great many cases like your mother’s, or… or similar, at any rate. He said, in his opinion, it is unlikely to follow in future generations. He said he would talk to you about—”

“In his opinion!” He scoffed, his disgust obvious. “And did he say how many doctors would agree with that assessment?”

“He admitted he was a voice in the wilderness, but all the same—”

“All the same, he’s a bloody quack doctor who gets paid handsomely for his services, by me, and here you are, the pretty fiancée of Lord Rivington, likely with a fat dowry. He was telling you what you wished to hear, Celia. Don’t be so damned gullible.”

Cilly’s eyes burned with tears, but she shook her head. “No, that’s not true, Damian.”

Damian groaned and pressed his palms to his eyes.

Cilly stared at him, utterly wretched at seeing him so devastated. Somehow, she needed to find the words to explain that nothing had changed. She was here for him, no matter what.

“Damian, I am sorry. I’m sorry for everything that happened to you and to Gideon, but I am glad you brought me here. If we are to have any kind of future together, however that future looks, we must at least be able to speak openly, honestly. I know you have no reason to believe Doctor Grantham, and I do not know if he is right or wrong. No one can make you promises for the future, Damian. For all we know, we could be dead by morning, along with everyone we care about. So what? Shall we stop breathing now, just in case? I will accept whatever decision you make about children, for I have no right to impose my wishes upon you and pretend the risks away, but that is no reason we cannot be happy together.”

He frowned down at the ground, and she could read the tension in his rigid frame, could almost hear his mind turning, forming arguments, but she suspected he was simply too devastated by the day to speak them.

Though it took more courage than she liked to admit, she moved to stand before him, gazing up into his tortured face. “Let us not speak of this any more now. We will speak of it again, for it is too important to bury, but you are tired, Damian. It has been a trying day. We shall solve nothing by making it more difficult. Let us go home.”

She put out her hand, knowing he might reject her offer, might reject her.

Damian stared at her outstretched hand for a long, strained moment before sighing heavily and placing his hand in hers. He frowned at their clasped hands and then gave a small squeeze. Cilly squeezed back, trying not to cry as a small, impossible flare of hope surged to life. She felt as if she had won a long and hard-fought battle, even though she knew the war was still ongoing and there was a difficult road ahead of her, but it was a start.

Chapter 11

The Problem with Celia

The Cock and Pippin Pub, East Sussex, 17th September 1816

They walked to the pub, if not in companionable silence precisely, then with a newfound air of peace settled around them. They were both a little raw and wary, but when Cilly glanced up, anxiously searching Damian’s face, he met her eyes with a wry smile.

The pub was ancient, quaint, and listing to one side as if it had imbibed rather too deeply from its own wares. Damian ducked his head as he guided Cilly inside and asked for their servants, who had enjoyed a marvellous time in their absence.

“It appears we are interrupting their dinner. Would you like tea, perhaps something to eat before we leave? Apparently, the meat pie is excellent.”

Damian regarded her, waiting for her reply.

Cilly’s stomach, long forgotten during the anxiety of the past hours, woke at the suggestion and made an insistent gurgling sound. She slapped her hands over it to quell the wretched thing, but Damian’s lips twitched.

“I’ll see what they can do,” he said wryly.

“Not the pie, I don’t think I could face that, but bread and cheese would be perfect,” Cilly admitted, watching with a smile as Damian set about arranging for her comfort.

Shortly thereafter, Cilly found herself in a cosy parlour with a merry fire crackling in the grate, a plate of cheese, pickles and thickly sliced fresh bread, and a large dish of butter before her.

“Heavens, I’m famished,” she exclaimed, spreading a thick covering of butter on the bread and taking it a bite. “Oh, that’s heavenly. Here, you try.”

She buttered a piece of the delicious bread for Damian, topped it with slices of cheese, and handed it to him.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, and then sighed as she gave him a look that suggested he do as he was told. “You’re a bossy chit did. You know that?”

“Of course I know that,” she retorted placidly. “Didn’t you?”