He didn’t know how to explain. And really, why not? He didn’t have an answer. His past reasoning why he could never pursue Celia was far too complex to explain to her young son. Not that he would ever do so.
“It’s my greatest Christmas wish to have a father.” Theo’s voice shook, and he sniffed.
Lord help him, the boy was crying. Damien gathered Theo into his arms and held him close, his tears dampening Damien’s waistcoat as he cried. Theo’s despair devastated him, and he smoothed his hand over the boy’s tousled hair, keeping a stiff upper lip.
He couldn’t leave them, yet he’d made a promise to his new employer. The earl was already on the hunt for his replacement. He would disappoint so many no matter what he chose to do.
Damien’s heart stopped when he looked up and saw Celia standing in the doorway of the library, a haunted expression on her face. She appeared weary and distressed, and her eyes widened when they met his.
He needed her. Theo needed her. He couldn’t handle Theo’s pleading requests alone.
As if she read his mind, she swept into the room, her voice soft as she called her son’s name.
Theo disengaged himself from Damien’s arms and ran toward his mother, throwing his body so hard against her skirts, she stepped backward as she caught him.
“Is something the matter?” She cuddled him close, whispering soothing words in his ear, and Damien watched them wistfully. She was a fine mother, and she had raised a fine boy. If given the chance, she would most likely be happy with scads of children tugging on her skirts.
Wistfulness washed over him. He wished he could be the one to give her what she deserved. But he hadn’t the means to provide her with a grand house so she could fill it with children. He had nothing. Just the pittance he’d saved over the years and his small home in a dreary part of London.
He wished he could give her more. But he wasn’t enough.
Glancing in Celia’s direction once more, he caught her watching him, an equally wistful expression on her face. She tore her gaze from his, her cheeks coloring a becoming pink. She smiled at something Theo said.
The sight of that smile and those pretty pink cheeks cracked open Damien’s heart and gave him hope. Perhaps he could give her what she wanted. Perhaps he could be enough.
But he needed to find the courage to ask her.
Celia stood far from the singing crowd purposely, not wanting to be too close to the pianoforte. The earl’s brother enjoyed playing, but no one was brave enough to tell him he wasn’t very good. They chose instead to entertain him, singing traditional Christmas carols so loudly it drowned out the horrendously off-key notes as he played with abandon.
All the merrymaking made her headache worse, unfortunately. She clutched her glass of fragrant wassail, the spicy scent soothing her frayed nerves. Theo was too busy singing and clapping to worry about his mama, which was fine. She’d much rather not deal with his busy hands tugging on her arm and his endless chattering.
She adored her son, but she was so weary. How she wished she were in her bedchamber, snug under the coverlet, letting sleep take her and ease her broken spirit. Perhaps she’d dream of Damien again.
“Do you have a headache?”
He always seemed to know what to say, when to appear. And he had the uncanny ability of knowing what was troubling her when she didn’t feel well.
Glancing at him from over her shoulder, she nodded. “The music only makes it worse.”
Damien moved so he stood next to her. “Perhaps we shouldn’t indulge him.”
The disgust in his voice almost made her laugh. “But he so enjoys playing.”
“He so enjoys torturing us all, more like.”
She gave in to the urge and stifled the laugh as best she could by pressing her fingers to her mouth. “They sing loudly to drown out his awful playing.”
They both chuckled, and the unease that had brewed between them earlier in the day evaporated. After last night’s turn of events, she’d been nervous to face him. And he’d appeared apprehensive as well. When she’d run into him in the library with Theo he’d barely spoken a word. And later, when they’d all gone down to the pond for an afternoon of ice-skating in the brisk, clear winter air, the few words he’d spoken to her had been perfunctory at best.
Yet there had been that moment when she’d almost slipped on the ice and out of nowhere he’d caught her. His big hands had wrapped around her waist to steady her and for a brief, glorious moment he’d pressed his body against hers, asking if she was hurt. He’d wrapped himself completely around her. It had been wonderful…
Her cheeks heated at the memory.
“Your face is flushed. Are you not feeling well?” The concern lacing his deep voice made her stomach flutter.
“I’m fine.” She waved her hand, but he stepped closer and, heaven help her, touched her arm. His fingers burned through the muslin of her sleeve, nearly searing her skin. “I’m tired, is all.”
“And your head hurts,” he added softly, his hand dropping away from her. Keen disappointment filled her at the loss.