Page 7 of Wicked By Design

Now she must keep her end of the bargain. She would make him respectable, and she would be his friend. Her heart did a little somersault at the word friend for reasons she did not quite understand. Except she had the notion that he would fight her on this every step of the way. He did not trust her. He did not trust anyone, and who could blame him when his own brother had immediately believed the worst of him?

She did not doubt that Rivington—Damian—had done a good deal to ensure his brother always believed the worst of him. All the same, it must have pained him.

Cilly slipped from the bed and walked to the window. Pulling open the curtains, she let out a breath as she beheld the view that had captured her heart from the moment she had seen it. The sea glittered, even on such a dull and overcast day as this was promising to be. Unbidden, Cilly remembered the afternoon they had taken the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney sea bathing for the first time, and she had seen—

Her breath caught in her throat at the memory, heat creeping up her spine.

Damian and his brother had been skinny dipping and climbing the rocks, believing no one was around. Not that she had seen Gideon. Her hungry gaze had been for Damian and Damian alone, the man she was to marry, the man she had just agreed would be her friend, and only her friend. There would be no begetting of children. He had been appallingly eloquent on that point.

A strange, empty sensation squeezed her insides. She had not considered that he would deny her. As man renowned for his strong appetites, she had assumed he would avail himself of her charms simply because it was his right to do so as her husband. She had not expected love—she was not a complete fool—she had not even expected affection, but never to have a family had simply not occurred to her.

She let out a breath. Well, many people were not so blessed. Just because he was taking the choice from her was no reason to regret it. She might have had a dozen children with the Earl of Crenshaw, and she had chosen not to follow that path. She would not repine because life was not perfect.

Yet the decision nagged at her. Why? Why had he been so adamant about it? He had said he had long ago decided never to marry, that the title would die with him, unless Gideon and Hetty produced a male heir.

It was one of many unanswered questions Cilly had about the man she was about to marry. She only hoped the answers did not give her cause to regret her own wickedness.

“I wish you’d confided in me, my lady.”

Cilly turned on the seat of her dressing table to regard her lady’s maid, Betsy Nichols, who had just finished arranging her hair. She was a ruddy faced, stout country woman from the north of England and had been as much of a mother to Cilly as she had ever known. Hetty had been just a baby when Mama had died, and Cilly’s memories of her had become uncertain and wistful. There was nothing either uncertain or wistful about Nichols.

She was perhaps in her early forties, and Cilly had long believed Nichols invincible. Certainly, she was some kind of oracle. If one was ill, Nichols knew the perfect remedy; if one was out of sorts, Nichols would chivvy one out of the doldrums with her own particular blend of bullying and kindness. She was at times daunting and spoke far too freely to her mistress, but she was also loyal to a fault, fiercely protective, and she loved Cilly. It was never said aloud, but Cilly knew it and loved her just as ferociously in return.

Cilly returned a wan smile. “You’d have talked me out of it.”

Nichols snorted. “Aye, there’s a first time for everything,” she said dryly. “They say he’s a wicked devil. He’ll not be easy to live with, I suppose, but then neither are you.”

Laughter bubbled in Cilly’s throat despite her anxiety. “Oh, Nichols, I can always rely on you to put me in my place.”

“Reckon so,” Nichols said placidly. “And if he hurts you, I’ll cut out his heart with a spoon. Or maybe poison. More discreet.”

Cilly surged to her feet and threw her arms around the woman’s neck, fighting tears. “I’m frightened,” she said, the words trembling.

Nichols hugged her tightly, making soft crooning sounds like she had when Cilly was a child and wept for the loss of her dead mama and the reality of her horrid father. “There, there, my duck. You’ve made your bed, now you must lie upon it, but you’re not alone, and you’re no fool. You’ll have that pretty fellow eating out of your hand ere long, or my name’s not Betsy Nichols.”

Cilly sniffled and accepted the pristine handkerchief that Nichols produced from heaven alone knew where—she always seemed to have one at the ready. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and nodded, feeling a little better. If Nichols thought she could do it, then she could. It was as simple as that, only… only she was getting married and her circumstances were altering.

Servants were every bit as aware of their consequence as the nobility were and Cilly was going from duke’s daughter to wife of a notorious viscount.

“Thank you, Nichols. I don’t know what I would do without you. I don’t truly, so… you wouldn’t leave, would you? I mean, now that—”

Nichols shot her a scalding glare of such severity that Cilly swallowed the rest of the sentence.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she replied coolly, and stalked off to arrange her lady’s dressing table.

Cilly smiled. Some things in life were unknown and far beyond her control, but the sun would rise and Nichols would come in and scold her about something. Everything would be fine.

Damian eyed the elegant lines of Hatherley Hall with resignation and told himself not to be so hen hearted. Yes, the Dowager Duchess of Langley was in there, and the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney, as well as his future bride. Well, and so what? He had done nothing wrong. He was only the poor dupe who had been shackled into matrimony through no fault of his own.

All the same, the eggs and bacon Finch had expertly produced despite the limitations of their horrid abode were churning uneasily now.

He reached a hand to the elegant folds of his cravat, just to ensure they had not wilted during the short walk up the hill. No, all in order.

Fine. Well, she’d wanted him, and now she had him. It was about time Lady Cecilia realised just what it felt like to catch a tiger by the tail.

He strode to the door, which opened at once.

“Howard,” he said, nodding politely at the butler.