Page 21 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
“You do, my lady. I know all the things you are not good at because you have told me—like sewing, and embroidery, and riding, and charming peers—and I know none of the things youaregood at, none of the things you enjoy.”
Cecilia was surprisingly serious as she listened to him, nodding along, her lips pressed together. When he was done, she took a moment to think.
“I enjoy reading,” she admitted. “And I think I am a good friend.”
“I can think of no two greater qualities.”
She offered an earnest smile, settling against the window. Raphael wanted to admire her, to commit every inch of her to memory as she basked in the glow of her own achievement, assured of her value. He could not, not without feeding his fatal attraction to her. He forced himself to look away.
His eyes landed on Lady Daphne, whose eyes were still closed.
But whose lips, quite knowingly, had curled into a smile.
Chapter 8
Mr Raphael Travers came and went, but London never changed.
Of course, since his appointment as steward to the Duke of Lantham, the city had opened its doors to him. Mayfair was a far cry from Five Fields, appearing less like the London he had known and loved, and more like the country he had thought he wanted to escape.
The industry of the city had yet to spread to Westminster. Grosvenor Square practically sparkled. Its trees were all in alignment, its hedges were perfectly manicured, and the roads had yet to be marked by the passage of vehicles upon them. It was beautiful, and eerie.
And Raphael thanked God he would not have to stay overlong in the area.
The carriage pulled up before Lantham House before nightfall, and the doors burst open as footmen came to collect the girls’ belongings. Raphael stared up at its tall, white façade, overwhelmed by the sheer number of windows that looked over the square. Anyone could see anything in the most privileged neighbourhood in town. Perhaps that was the point; theTonhad nothing to hide.
The air crackled around him as another figure appeared at the doors. Lord Anthony was overseeing the staff, his hands stuffed into his pockets. Unlike his siblings, he had vibrant red hair and a freckled face, but his eyes were the same colour as Cecilia’s and their father’s.
Raphael had met Lord Anthony only a handful of times, and their tepid acquaintance was not something he looked to remedy anytime soon.
“Antony!” Cecilia cried, pressing a kiss to her brother’s cheek. “Gosh, you look so different! Is it the hair, or the coat, or—”
“The stress,” he completed. He whistled for the footmen to work faster. Raphael had to wrestle his trunks from one of them. Lord Anthony greeted Daphne coolly before setting his sights on Raphael. “Father told me you were coming, but I scarcely believed it. Berilton will be in shambles by the time you return.”
“Lord Edward is overseeing things while I am gone, my lord.” Raphael praised himself inwardly. He could forego the formalities with Lady Cecilia and Lord Edward, but Lord Anthony was another beast entirely.
“He is in England? You would think a brother would write.”
Cecilia scowled. “He does write to London, and often. We all do.”
“I have been busy,” Anthony said plainly. “Mr Travers, drop those trunks. One of the footmen will bring them up.”
“He is not staying, brother.”
“Nonsense.” Anthony clicked his fingers at him, and Raphael flinched back. “There are enough rooms here to house all the stewards in England. Better we all sleep under one roof, rather than spreading expenses. And this way, I can keep a closer eye on you.”
Anyone else might have interpreted the remark as a jape, but Raphael knew better. Lord Anthony’s distaste for the common folk was something of a running joke. Truth be told, Raphael had never found it particularly funny.
But he was not about to turn down a free room.
Antony turned to a passing footman, already saddled with trunks. “Take Mr Travers into the basement and find a room for him.”
Even if that free room turned out to be a larder.
Cecilia slumped into the settee, letting her head hang over the back. They had been in London for two days, and already she had welcomed six separate callers. The latest had been a knight from Wales, who despite his handsome face had as much charisma as a worn leather boot.
She reached for the dumbwaiter table and stole one of the petit fours that had been brought up for them. It melted on her tongue, and she gave a guttural sigh.
“If nothing else, these callers encourage Anthony to loosen the purse strings, and for that I must be grateful.” She licked her fingers and peered at Jane. “You will forget you heard that.”
