Page 28 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
He could not even look at her, arcing back and bringing his hand down on the seat. There were a thousand things he yearned to say in return, chief of all, “Thank you,” and, “I think the same of you.” It was safer, of course, for him to say nothing, to convince himself that she could have meant those words any other way.
The brushing of her fingers against his own left no room for doubt.
He snapped his hand away in surprise, and her breath hitched in turn.
“I apologise,” he stammered, facing her. She was the picture of embarrassment, and he cursed himself for his carelessness. “You startled me.”
“That was not my intent.”
“No…” He swallowed hard. “No, I imagine it was not. Accidents happen.”
“It was not—”
“Accidents happen, my lady,” he repeated fervently, not wanting to hurt her but not wanting to encourage her either. Any other movement from Cecilia would mean death for him. Her touch had sent an arrow of fire up his arm, travelling up his neck and down his chest, bending him to the wanton will of her little finger.
“It is improper for a gentleman to speak over a lady,” Cecilia murmured, turning to him. The beads on her reticule tinkled as it slipped from her lap.
Raphael ground his teeth to stop from lurching forward and kissing her. Her hazel eyes were absurdly bright and playful. She must have known what she was doing to him, but he could not fathom why. Doubtless there were peers more powerful even than Radcliff lined up over England wanting to make a wife of Lady Cecilia Norbert.
Raphael was nothing and no one by comparison, yet she looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. A better man would have declined her advances and reported her indecency to her father.
“Are you so concerned with propriety?” Raphael asked instead, fighting a grin. “You spent the afternoon with an unmarried man. You touched his hand—”
“I thought that was an accident.”
“I thought it was improper to speak over people.” He found himself leaning forward. “Are things only improper when they inconvenience you, Lady Cecilia? It seems to me they are.”
Cecilia flushed—not quite the puppeteer, not quite the puppet either. “If you believe that to be true, then why do you hold yourself back on account of good etiquette? If you believe that to be true, then I cannot be compromised.”
“Not in my eyes, perhaps.”
“What do you see with those eyes, I wonder.” She rested her head on her shoulder. “Tell me.”
“I see a young lady who does not know what is good for her.” The seat groaned beneath him as he moved closer to her, but neither of them stirred. “I see ruin for us both.”
“Then you should close your eyes,” she suggested.
Like a knowing fool, he did.
He heard Cecilia lean forward before he felt her, but he did not recoil. Her lips pressed against his gently. At first, he did not kiss her back. She could lavish him with clumsy kisses, and they could claim innocence so long as he offered none of his own in exchange. Her hand pressed against his chest, rousing his hunger.
She was too tempting to resist.
He opened his eyes and pulled back to look at her. Cecilia was biting her lip, drawing his attention to that dratted beauty mark below her mouth. She leaned forward again but he beat her to the chase, cupping one side of her face and placing a peck on her mole. He felt her smile beneath his lips, and his mouth travelled up an inch despite his better judgement.
Raphael kissed her madly, his eyes closed yet open wide. She sagged in his arms, and he held her close, letting her knowexactlyhow little propriety mattered to him. He dotted kisses along her jawline and neck, waters roiling inside of him with every intake of her breath. Cecilia drew her hands from his back and grabbed his face, bringing his head level with hers.
“Raphael,” she whispered against his lips, and she waited. “Say my name back.”
“Cecilia,” he intoned breathlessly. “I…”
The carriage began to slow, and Raphael glanced through the window behind her. They had arrived in Mayfair and were fast approaching Lantham House.
He disentangled himself from Cecilia, stroking her hair and convincing her to let him go.
“I want to kiss you again,” she said, searching for his gaze. “I have never felt—” Clemens drove the carriage to a halt a few doors down from Lantham, and Cecilia let her head hang forward. “Promise me that you will kiss me again.”
Raphael averted his eyes to the footwell. He could not think that far ahead; he should not have indulged her in the first place. “You know I cannot promise you that.”
