Page 6 of Wicked By Design

No.

He would happily take her money, for whilst he’d made a few promising investments in recent years, ones that meant he wasn’t entirely dependent on his gambling skills, he sorely needed it. Two years earlier he had invested heavily in a company fitting gas lighting in theatres, streets, and in private homes. He remained convinced it would make him a fortune one day, though for the present too many people feared it would explode, complained of the smell, or declared it an unnecessary nuisance. Yet he had faith.

Still, if she wished to try her best to make him appear to be an acceptable member of the human race and not the devil made flesh, he’d allow it. But that was all. They would be acquaintances, nothing more. She could take herself off to Rivington Hall and make it pretty, and he might deign to visit her there now and then with his friends in tow. Not that he’d stay in that dreadful house, no matter how lovely the furnishings. He’d never set foot there again if he could help it.

Still, he could take her to town and accompany her to the theatre, and to all the balls and dinners to which they would be invited once the ton had welcomed him to their bosom. He snorted, darkly amused by the unlikelihood of that ever happening.

Perhaps, then, this marriage wasn’t such a dreadful idea. He might dislike the way she’d gone about it, but he could not help but admire her ruthlessness. She had seen an opportunity to get what she wanted, and she had taken it, and he could not fault her for wishing to escape being the next Countess of Crenshaw. That fate would make anyone desperate.

The old earl was a lout with a title, and that was coming from him. Damian might be notorious, but he appreciated fine things, and he knew marriage to that boring philistine would have crushed her spirit and made her wretched. The idea of that crass man who was more than twice her age putting his hands on her made him nauseous, so he could only imagine how it had made Cecilia feel. At least Damian would look the part. Yes, they’d make a rather handsome couple.

Feeling more optimistic about his upcoming nuptials, Damian sat up in bed as his valet stuck his head around the door.

“If you’re thinking of throwing sommat at my head, could you not use the metal shaving basin? I’ve a cracking headache.”

Damian snorted. Cyril Finch was slender as a whippet and far more highly strung. With narrow shoulders, quick hands, and a tongue sharper than a rapier, he was not precisely a comfortable companion. His expression was one of permanent injury, as if the entire world had fallen short of his expectations and he couldn’t be bothered to set it to rights. Damian had acquired him in a card game and kept him because Finch could make a gentleman from a corpse, a rare talent indeed. He was also the only man alive, save for Gideon, who wasn’t too afraid of him to speak his mind.

Damian eyed him curiously. “You’re up early for a man with a hangover. I didn’t call for you.”

Finch shrugged as he went to open the curtains before regarding the clothes scattering the floor with a sigh. “I know my duty. Heard you moving about, and I might say the same to you.”

“I got up to open the window. This blasted hovel is either freezing or like a bedamned sauna.”

“I’ve slept in worse,” Finch said with a shrug, pausing in his work to give his temples a delicate massage.

“Were you celebrating my upcoming nuptials, Finch?” Damian asked dryly.

“Nah, I was three sheets to the wind before I heard anything about that. You getting leg-shackled, then?” Finch set to picking up Damian’s discarded clothes.

“I am.”

Finch put the clothes in a neat pile on the end of the bed and began arranging the shaving kit. He slanted a curious glance at Damian. “Everyone’s talking about it. They reckon you ruined her on purpose, to get your hands on her dowry, what with your brother—”

“And what do you reckon?” Damian asked coolly.

Finch snorted. “I reckon if that were your game you’d have chosen a girl with less spine and more cash, one whose pa would cough up the readies.”

Damian snorted. “I am touched by your faith in my character,” he drawled sardonically, yet he meant it all the same. It was good to know there was someone who hadn’t immediately assumed the worst of him, when even his brother had believed it.

“Want me to shave you?”

“Yes, but not yet. Bring me coffee and something to eat.”

“Need fortifying, do you?” Finch replied with a sly grin.

Damian nodded. “Yes, I rather think I do.”

Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 6th September 1816

Cilly lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling where little rainbows danced. Sunlight glinted on a small crystal swan on the dressing table, scattering diamonds all around the room. It had been a birthday gift from her sister on her eighteenth, after Cilly had remarked she felt like a swan at times. All cool serenity visible to the world, but paddling like blazes beneath the surface, just to keep afloat.

Except she had shattered that serene façade irrevocably last night, and now she rather feared she was drowning.

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

Damian’s words kept repeating in her ears, and the way he had looked at her, his cold eyes so filled with calculation. She might have been the one who had engineered this entire outcome, but she still had the terrifying notion she’d made a deal with the devil.

Nonsense, she scolded herself. That was entirely the point. Lord Rivington was no devil. She had seen that from the first, and that she was now engaged to be married only proved her point. He had not thrown her to the wolves. He had acted honourably. Admittedly, he’d had little choice, for his brother would have murdered him if he’d not done so, but credit where credit was due. He had agreed to her terms, and he might have berated her a good deal more than he had. Considering how dreadfully she had behaved, he’d been… well, he’d been a gentleman.