Page 26 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
She could have left it at that and allowed things to fizzle out naturally between them. He would think she was a bore and lose any interest in pursuing their friendship, and they would return to acting like strangers.
“I like that you forget yourself around me,” she said instead. “My pride is not greater than my appreciation for you, whatever you may think. I would esteem it a gift if you kept trying to make me laugh, though it will take some getting used to on my end.”
His face flickered with joy, but he took care to compose himself. “Are you certain that is wise, my lady?”
“I am certain of the opposite. Does that bring you any comfort?”
“None at all, but I am in no position to refuse you.”
Her anger dissipated. “Because you work for my father?”
“In part.”
Cecilia caught up with him, scowling. “You are very fond of your parts,” she mumbled, earning herself a laugh.
They strolled back to the carriage, the sun shining brightly overhead. There was silence between them, but it was anything but awkward. Cecilia slowed her pace as the carriage came into view, not wanting to go home.
Not wanting to be apart from Raphael.
“Should we—”
“I was wondering whether—” they blurted at the same time.
“Perhaps,” Raphael said, “I could take you for high tea as well.”
Beaming, Cecilia looked down the road, weighing her options though her heart was screaming,Yes! Jane would be fine. Anthony was too self-absorbed to notice a late return. Daphne would be glad she had seized the day, even if that meant she would be eating her dinner alone.
She faced Raphael honestly and said, “I would love nothing more.”
Chapter 9
By the time Raphael got up to leave, the sun was setting over London and it had started to snow. Cecilia had directed them to a hotel in Mayfair called Mivart’s where the duchess and her friends held their salons, and which supposedly boasted London’s finest tea rooms.
Needless to say, Raphael had paid little mind to the quality of the tea.
The door was held open for them, and Raphael stepped out after Cecilia, admiring the way her dark hair contrasted against the white sky. She was in her essence, speaking about her father’s box on Drury Lane, speaking with her hands.
“I understand it is the fashion, but I cannot imagine arriving halfway through a play. The feeling of watching the thespians take the stage, of hearing the first verse uttered…”
“You are one in a million. I knew a man who worked as a candle trimmer at the Lyceum,” Raphael said when she stopped for air, rubbing his gloved hands together. “He had some stories to tell that could put one off the theatre for life.”
“I do not doubt it.” She stopped before the hotel, rummaging through her reticule.
“What are you looking for, Lady Cecilia? It is freezing.”
“A pencil with which to write…”
“Has our talk of Shakespeare inspired you?”
“Not particularly.” She gasped and snapped her head up. “Though we really should attendHamletonce you are done with your book.” She smiled and returned to her search. “No, I only mean to write a note of what Papa must pay you back.”
Raphael froze. “For our tea?”
“Of course.” Cecilia pulled out her pencil and an ivory notebook. She fanned out its leaves and hummed. “I wish you had let us give them Mama’s name. They likely would have refused we pay at all. To be frank, I am rather surprised they did not recognize me. My mother is eclipsing in that sense—”
Gingerly, he pressed his fingers atop Cecilia’s notebook and pushed it down. The cool ivory bit into his skin through the fabric of his gloves, but it did not deter him. “I have means with which to pay for tea, my lady.”
“Oh, of course.” She smiled sheepishly, but her blush betrayed her. “I do not mean any offence. It is only…”
