Page 59 of Wicked By Design

“It seems she’s not so clever as she thinks she is,” he said with a snort.

Cilly tried to smile but found she could not. She wanted to believe Mrs Fairway saw them clearly, more clearly than Damian did, or she could. For she wanted so badly to believe he could love her, perhaps that he already did, just a little. If he did not, would he find her a house with a sea view and speak to her grandmother to stop her grand plans—would he buy her a brooch because it brought out the colour in her eyes? Or was she creating a vision of a future that was as fragile as paint on paper, and just as easily washed away?

Chapter 13

The Trouble With Happy Ever After

Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 19thSeptember 1816

“Will you stop fidgeting? You’re worse than Hetty, and she’s dreadful,” Celia complained, glaring at him around the side of her easel.

She had chosen a location in the music room, which had excellent light, as the terrace was off limits. The morning had begun with a dismal grey sky, which had quickly delivered the rain it promised. The temperature had plummeted, and so a cheerful fire burned in the grate. It was cosy and intimate, and he was losing his mind.

Damian sighed and resigned himself to another half hour of Celia’s scrutiny. It was making him horribly uncomfortable. He had the disquieting notion she saw him far too clearly as it was; allowing her to capture all that in paint seemed a terrible idea, yet he’d not been able to deny her.

He had slain a dragon this morning or at least put her dragon of a grandmother in her place and done so without ruffling the old bird’s feathers. Celia had been so very delighted, and so full of praise for his deft way of managing her, that she had somehow flattered him into sitting for a portrait.

He needed to remember this, he thought darkly. Heaven only knew what she would persuade him into if he didn’t have a care.

“Your father is gone, then?” he asked, observing her reaction. She always put on a brave face when he mentioned the duke, but he suspected her father’s rejection hurt her more deeply than she let on.

The man was an idiot. He had three wonderful children— No, two, well, one child. Hart was an overbearing oaf and Hetty was enough to make any father tear out his hair, but what on earth could the fellow find to complain about in Celia? She was damn near perfect. Indeed, it was only her association with him that made her less than perfection, but desperation made women do reckless things. If Damian had a daughter like that, he’d—

The thought stopped him in his tracks, and he let out an unsteady breath.

“Did you swallow a fly?”

Damian shook himself, turning back to Celia, who was watching him uncertainly.

“Sorry?”

“I just wondered if you’d swallowed a fly. Hetty did once when I was painting her and she had just that look of shocked surprise on her face.”

He laughed but could not shake the sensation that the ground was not as steady as it had been a moment ago. Everything was shifting, things that had seemed so clear just days ago could no longer be viewed with such clarity, and it was all her fault, damn her. He wanted to be furious with her, to deny her his smiles and his company, but he couldn’t because he didn’t want to. It was ridiculous and dangerous, and he was going to get them both in a tangle there was no getting out of if he didn’t get a grip on the situation.

The murmur of voices reached them, and a moment later there was a knock at the door. Howard appeared and opened his mouth, but Hetty barged in before he could speak.

“Don’t bother, Howard, my sister knows me and loves me, and even Damian has come to… tolerate me, but neither would throw me out.”

The butler grinned, the foolish fellow clearly besotted with both sisters.

“Yes, my lady. Shall I order tea?” he asked as Hetty hurried over to Celia.

“Oh, yes, please, and may we have some of Alphonse’s delicious macarons? I’ve missed them terribly.”

“Certainly, my lady. I shall see to it,” Howard said with a smile.

Hetty bent to hug her sister and then stood, regarding the portrait Celia was working on with a frown.

“Lady Henrietta thinks you should paint in horns and a tail, my dear,” Damian remarked dryly, though he could not help but feel a little exposed, wondering how Celia really saw him and what, precisely, she might paint. What was it that made Hetty look so anxious?

“Not at all. I am giving you the benefit of the doubt,” Hetty replied magnanimously, though she was still staring at the portrait. “Because Gideon has promised me you are really a decent fellow who will try his best to make my sister happy.”

“And if I don’t?” Damian pressed, certain there would be more to the arrangement than blind faith on her part.

She looked up, her expression mischievous but with an unmistakable hint of warning. “He’ll not interfere with my campaign to make your life hell on earth,” Hetty replied, and so sweetly Damian could not help but laugh. He regarded his brother suspiciously.

“Do you sleep with one eye open?”