Page 12 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
Raphael looked back at the house, but no one was pointing and laughing from the windows. He shook his head and followed after her, gesturing for the path that led quickest to the stables.
They walked in awkward silence for a while, Cecilia’s eyes ever fixed on her shoes. Raphael became suddenly conscious of the state of his own boots, the tips of which were scuffed from their riding. He pulled at a loose thread in his shirt sleeve, intending to yank it off. Instead, the thread doubled in length, and his cuff shifted up his arm.
“Dratted thing,” he grumbled, stopping to wind the thread around his finger. With one strong tug, it snapped off. “Got you!”
When he looked back at Lady Cecilia, she was smiling. “I could mend that for you, if you like,” she said.
“I am sure you have many other things to occupy your time, my lady.” He fell into step beside her, holding up the thread victoriously before casting it to the wind. “I think I have fixed the problem now.”
“That thread had to belong somewhere, do you not think?” She laughed softly. “I would not want you erroneously believing I am any great seamstress, mind you. I can just about mend a tear, but that is it.”
“You are underselling yourself.”
“Really, I am not. Indeed, sewing is not my forte. Nor is trimming my bonnets, nor embroidery…”
“So, you avoid needles at all costs.”
“I suppose the needle is my great enemy, yes.”
“It is a good thing your house is so well-staffed.”
Some ladies might have taken offence, but Cecilia did not. “Yes, it is!” She clapped her hands together, then collected herself.
Raphael found her endlessly charming.
“Mr Travers… I find that to be a curious name. Do you have French heritage?”
“Unfortunately not, but my mother was Spanish. Why do you ask?”
“Traversin French means across, I believe.” She tapped a gloved finger to her lip, and he averted his gaze. “De traversmeans topsy-turvy or upside down. For all we know you have French ancestors.”
“To your mind I would beMr Topsy-Turvyfrom France,then?”
“In England, perhaps. Now that you mention it, I think I can see your Spanish heritage. In fact, it is so plain to see I can hardly believe I had not noticed it before.”
“My Christian name is Raphael, which was my mother’s father’s name.” His smile faded. He was not sure he was allowed to reveal that to her.
“Raphael,” she repeated. The way the name formed in her mouth sent a shiver down his spine. She spoke it with a small lilt, as though to emulate his pronunciation of it. “That is a lovely name, Mr Travers. I am Cecilia.” She paused. “Though I suppose you knew that.”
“I did, Lady Cecilia.”
“My middle name is Louisa.”
“You do notsay?Mymiddle name is Louisa!”
Cecilia laughed. “Which is not that much stranger than Topsy-Turvy!” She swayed into him slightly as she walked. She must not have noticed, because she did not try to correct herself as the stables came into view. She tucked a strand of stray hair behind her ear. “Will you tell me what really happened with your garments, Mr Travers?”
He drew in a deep breath. “There was a kerfuffle between the stable hands this morning. I intervened.”
She stopped walking, and he started. When he turned around, she was peering up at him, her face twisted in worry. Her expression pulled at his heartstrings. It seemed inconceivable that a Lady like Cecilia could look at a man like Raphael with such tenderness.
“Were you hurt?”
“Heavens, no,” he assured her. “No one struck me. I came between the two men and dropped myeffects in the process. When I went to pick them up, they were caked in mud.”
“I see.” Cecilia nodded, looking him up at down. She flushed as her eyes roved his muddied thighs, and her gaze darted upward. “Yes, you really should change.”
The skies rumbled overhead, and the pair looked heavenward. The clouds had darkened, if that were possible, having turned from dove grey to slate in colour.
