Page 5 of Wicked By Design

“What on earth makes you think so?” he demanded, and the words throbbed with anger, yet there was something else there underneath it all, a slight crack in his defences. Beneath the rage and the defiance and scorn, hidden under so many layers, was the desire to be welcomed, to be liked. Loved, even. Because who didn’t want that at heart? He was only human after all, not really the devil made flesh the scandal sheets made him out to be.

“It doesn’t matter what makes me think it, only that it is true, and I can give it to you.”

He snorted in disgust and turned his back on her but did not deny it.

“And that is all, is it? I give you the protection of my name, my title, I give you a home, and you make a few introductions? That hardly seems fair.”

“I said I would make you respectable, not simply introduce you to the right people. I will make it so that you are welcome everywhere, so that no one looks at you and swiftly guides their innocent daughters out of the room. I will make your name worthy of admiration. I will give you back your honour.”

He swung around then, his eyes burning with some fierce emotion so potent that she gasped. “My honour? Is that not what you are depending upon in this moment to come to your rescue and marry you instead of throwing you to the wolves?”

Cilly swallowed hard and gave a taut nod. “It is. Because I believe you are honourable at heart, else I should never have done such a wicked and reckless thing. But no one else believes that Rivington. I cannot give you back what you already possess, that is true, but I can ensure everyone else can see it too.”

“I see.”

There was no inflection behind the words, no suggestion that he might accept her devil’s bargain.

“That’s not all,” she added desperately, knowing she had one last card to play. It was not the strongest card she possessed, for those were already on the table, but she knew it had value, more than he might realise, if only he was reasonable enough to consider what it meant for him. “I will be your friend.”

He made an incredulous sound. “My friend?” he repeated, as if she had said something outrageous or indecently lewd.

“Yes,” she replied calmly. “And friends support each other. Friends do not allow other people to belittle or hurt them, or gossip about them. Friends do all in their power to ensure the other’s happiness and well-being, and they stand by one another, no matter what.”

“No matter what.” He repeated the words, considering them, calculation glinting in his eyes in a manner that made her wonder which one of them was really the devil here. She had always known he was dangerous. From the first moment she had laid eyes on him, her every instinct had flared to life and screamed ‘run!’ But she had not run, she had been rooted to the spot, unable to tear her gaze from his, unwillingly fascinated, held captive by his charisma, his beauty, and his sheer animal grace, and perhaps by the certainty there was far more to him than all that.

He tilted his head to one side, putting her in mind once more of a great bird of prey considering whether there was enough meat upon a mouse to make it worth his while.

Cilly held her breath, for she had the unsettling sensation that, for the first time, he was not merely looking at her but reassessing her. She almost let out a squeak of alarm as he moved suddenly, striding across the room to stand before her. He held out his hand.

Cilly gazed at it dubiously for a moment before sliding her fingers into his. They tightened, and he shook her hand as he might a man’s.

“You have a deal, my lady. May you not live to regret it.”

Chapter 1

The Morning After

Muddel’s Rented Rooms over the Cheese Shop, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 6th September 1816

Damian Bramwell, Viscount Rivington, lay in bed, in the appalling rooms he currently called home, and tried to reconcile himself to his impending nuptials.

There were several patches of damp above him, one looked like a rabbit, another remarkably like a skull and crossbones. He hoped it wasn’t an omen.

He had given up his splendid suite of rooms at The Mermaid Hotel, yielding them to his brother as a wedding present. They were at Gideon’s disposal until the end of the month. Damian supposed by then all the summer guests would depart and there might be room for him to return there himself. With his bride.

Damian wasn’t entirely sure what it was he was feeling. There were too many of the damned things to find one he could identify with any certainty. Feelings were something he avoided. He drowned them with brandy, or whatever else was on offer, deafened them with raucous parties, and shocked them into submission with a life of indulgence and wanton behaviour.

Yet, whilst he could open a bottle of brandy and begin the process of submerging them now or even walk away and do what everyone expected him to do, he knew he wouldn’t.

He had known Lady Cecilia was trouble from the moment he had clapped eyes on her. Oh, she might look like a proper, well-behaved young lady, but like recognised like. He had known she was not half as biddable as she appeared. No woman who looked at him like she had looked at him was entirely sweet and innocent. All the same, she had shocked him. He had been totally unprepared for that little scene, a lamb to the slaughter. His lips tilted up at the corners. He had to give her credit, she’d played him like a fiddle, and a neat job she’d made of it, too.

So, he had a wife or would have.

His relationship with his brother had mended somewhat in recent weeks, and he was not about to jeopardise that by leaving Gideon’s sister-in-law to swing in the breeze. He had never intended to marry, that was true, but she had offered him a marriage of convenience. He’d get the money, her respectability by default—though the idea that she might make him welcome in society was a stretch—and… and the last bit made him slightly uneasy. She would be his friend.

Damian did not have friends. He had drinking comrades, fellows he liked to gamble with, fellows who would lend him a few quid when he was at low tide, but not friends.

Unease stirred in his belly, and it had nothing to do with the champagne he’d drunk. The idea of Cecilia being his friend made his nerves leap. If she was his friend, she would know him, she would, perhaps—heaven forfend—understand him, and that felt dangerous.