Page 69 of Wicked By Design

“Oh, I would never dream of… of that,” Celia replied, sounding quite earnest, so Damian nodded and carried on.

“You’ll have your own money, of course, but if you get into difficulties, you will under no circumstances go to a moneylender. I’ve been there and done that, and let me tell you, it’s a terrible idea and no solution. If you lose more than you expected gambling or… or spend too much, well—I’m the last person to throw stones. I won’t be cross, so tell me.”

“You w-won’t be cross if I lose money gambling?”

He shook his head. “I have spent a lot of my life learning some hard lessons, Celia, so allow me to pass on the benefit of my experience. Incidentally, you need not fear I will gamble away your dowry, my inclination for such behaviour died a long time ago. You’re not worried, are you?” he asked, suddenly aware she might be afraid for her security if she based her future on his past.

“Not in the least,” she said calmly.

“Oh.” Clearing his throat, he scanned the list again. “Ah. The er… the wedding night.” Damian rubbed the back of his neck, which felt suddenly hot.

“There are r-rules for the wedding night?” she asked with apparent interest.

He nodded.

To Damian’s surprise, her eyes lit and she perked up. “How exciting,” she said, tightening her grip on his arm. He tugged it free.

“No. Not exciting. That is the entire point of the blasted rules, Celia, to ensure the wedding night is as dull as possible.”

“It is? They are?”

There was such a teasing light in her eyes Damian’s cheeks flushed.

“You are laughing,” he said stonily. “Very well. Most amusing.” He put the notebook away again and folded his arms.

“Oh, Damian,” she said, her laughter warm and fond, sliding under his skin and into his heart as if it had a right to be there. He told himself she was not to be trusted—after all she had trapped him, but he could not make himself believe it. “I’m sorry. But don’t you see? You are creating rules for a marriage, for a partnership. You don’t need to write them down. We can make them up as we go along.”

Damian’s chest grew tight, and he shook his head. “Celia, we cannot, we can’t risk it, don’t you see—”

He turned his head, desperate to explain how dangerous this was, but she pressed her lips to his, and oh, they were warm, and soft and…he was in a world of trouble.

Cilly hadn’t meant to kiss him—well, not at that precise moment—but the wretched man was so adorable, so earnest and sincere, that she could not resist the temptation. Now, she did not wish to stop, especially not when he was getting into the spirit of the thing so admirably.

She had half expected him to push her away, and though she knew he would soon enough, she intended to make the most of the moment. She pressed closer to him, wishing she had the nerve to climb into his lap, but she feared any sudden movement would send him running. That thought might have made her laugh, if it had not made her want to cry more. The notorious Lord Rivington running away, too scared of kissing his innocent wife… it would make a fine cartoon in the scandal sheets, if the reason behind his terror was not so heart-wrenching. It was not difficult to comprehend why he feared such intimacy with her, yet surely there was a way forward for them if they trod carefully and found the path together.

The temptation to seduce him on their wedding night was hard to resist, but she knew it would solve nothing and might make matters a good deal worse. Damian must choose her—choose to love her—with no manipulation and in his own good time.

Cilly let out a deep sigh as his hands slid down her back, pulling her closer. His mouth was warm, searching hers, and oh, he was good at this. All that practice, she supposed, wondering if she ought to be grateful to the women who had come before her. She broke off the kiss, staring up at him.

Damian blinked. To her satisfaction, he looked a little dazed, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. In that moment he appeared to her like a sleepy lion, deceptively tame.

“You’ve had other women,” she said, chasing away that languid expression as his eyes widened with surprise.

“Er—”

“No, don’t protest. It wasn’t an accusation, or at least, not in the way you might think,” she said, waving a hand at him. “I don’t care about them.”

“You don’t?” he asked, a look in his eyes that was somewhere between disbelief and dismay.

Cilly let out a huff. “Oh, well, obviously I hate every one of them with a passion, but that is not the point. The point is that there were women and that you… you had relations. Well, if you could with them, why not with me?”

He stiffened and, to her surprise, a tinge of colour crested his cheeks. There was a stubborn set to his jaw, and she knew he would refuse to discuss it if she did not press him.

“Damian, you said that if we are to make this work, we need rules. You wish for me to be honest when I am upset so you don’t go chasing about the countryside for emergency flowers. Well, I demand honesty too. Answer the question, please.”

He got to his feet, putting distance between them, and she instantly regretted the loss of him, a shiver running over her as he took the warmth of his body away. She watched as he stared at the water, his gaze fixed upon the fountain as it pattered the surface.

“It’s not the same,” he said, his voice tight.