Page 84 of Wicked By Design

He grinned then, and all the breath left her in a swift whoosh as the impact of that smile, full of wickedness and charm, hit her full force. She thought perhaps it was simply that it was unexpected, but his words only deepened the blow.

“Why, Miss Foxworthy, you say the nicest things.”

The Mermaid, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 21st September 1816

Cilly woke just as the first tentative glimmer of light pierced the curtains. Disorientated, she blinked, raising her head and belatedly noticing how very warm and snug she was. A heavy arm that did not belong to her was slung across her waist, one hand settled possessively over her breast, and it made her heart sing.

Damian slept close behind her, the warmth of his body enveloping hers, the soft sound of his steady breathing in her ear.

He had stayed.

Morning was breaking, and he had stayed. It felt like a victory of stunning proportions.

Sleepy and quietly elated, Cilly closed her eyes and allowed sleep to take her under again.

The next time she woke, she was alone in the bed, but upon glancing around she saw Damian standing before the looking glass, tying his cravat with deft movements.

“I thought Finch took care of such things for you?” she said, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“He does, and guards the privilege most jealously, I assure you. But I deferred his help this morning. I preferred to stay and watch you sleep. You make the most endearing little snuffling sounds,” he remarked idly, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

Cilly scowled. “I certainly do not.”

He chuckled but said no more, concentrating on his cravat until a knock at the door sounded. Damian, who seemed to be expecting it, went into the next room, and Cilly heard the murmur of voices.

A short while later, Damian returned. “My lady’s meal awaits, if you wish to break your fast?”

“Heavens, yes. I’m famished!” Cilly exclaimed, moving to slip from the bed before realising she had no clothes on. She bit her lip, aware Damian was watching her, then got to her feet, allowing the covers to fall away.

Head high, she walked to the wardrobe and found the beautiful silk dressing gown he had bought for her. She slipped into it, all the while aware of the heat of his gaze. Tying the sash, she turned to look at him, her cheeks a little pink but otherwise she felt rather daring and sophisticated, now she was a married woman.

Damian approached her and reached for her hand. “What a lovely creature you are, wife of mine.” His gaze upon her was warm and appreciative as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Are you well, Celia?”

She smiled up at him, feeling like a besotted fool as her gloriously handsome husband gazed down at her.

“I am perfectly splendid,” she said, aware she sounded a little breathless.

He smiled at that. “You’ll get no argument here, my love. Now, food. There is chocolat chaud, so you had better drink it before it gets cold.”

“Aren’t you joining me?” she asked, a little disappointed.

“I rarely eat in the morning, but with your permission, I will arrange a carriage for us. I thought we might visit the house I spoke of.”

Celia grasped his arm, delighted at the prospect. “Oh, Damian, yes, please. I should like that very much. I’m dying to see it.”

“Then go eat, I’ll be back soon.”

He settled her at the table, which was laden with fresh bread, butter, jam, and a variety of cakes and pastries.

“Good heavens! I can’t eat all this. I’ll be the size of a house!”

“Ah, but you must keep your strength up, love,” he said, winking at her and bending to kiss the top of her head. “I’ll be back soon.”

Celia nodded, watching him go with a happy sigh before turning and reaching for a pastry.

Damian walked out of the hotel, looking around him curiously. Everything appeared the same as usual. The shops were in the same places, the sea a constant rushing sound in the background. Overhead, seagulls shrieked, and the sun tried its utmost to peer around the thick curtain of tumbling clouds that filled the sky.

All was just as before, and yet it seemed fundamentally different, as if the very fabric of the world around him had changed in some vital way he could not see or touch but of which he was viscerally aware.