Page 40 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
What of Mr Travers, who is working in London until further notice?
“Mother has decided that I am a lost cause after the disappointment of yestereve,” Edward replied. “That is what she says, at least, though we can all understand she is too busy dreaming about your wedding. Why stay in London when Radcliff will not be here to court you? You did agree to courtship, did you not?”
“Cecilia?” Daphne gasped, spinning on her heel. “How could you do that to—” She clapped her hands over her mouth. “To me…? Leaving me to fend for myself on the marriage mart! It is not right.”
Edward shot to his feet. “It may not be long before you have a suitor of your own, Lady Daphne.”
“It will be years.” She scowled. “Centuries in fact.”
Edward and Daphne bickered between themselves, but Cecilia was too distraught at the idea of leaving London to eavesdrop. She slithered over to her father’s side, reading the newspaper over his shoulder.
“Papa…” she began, “must wealltravel up to Berilton Court?”
He peered at her above the frame of his reading glasses. “I cannot allow you to stay behind, Cecilia. You must understand why.”
“I was not thinking of myself. Rather, I was wondering about…the staff! Jane lives for London. It feels a shame to uproot her after we are only recently arrived.”
He huffed and folded his paper. “A lady’s maid is no use without a lady.”
“Of course.” She bit her lip. “What of Mr Travers? Must he travel back with us as well?”
The duke hummed and continued reading. “He will. Between you and I… Well, let us just say that it was fortunate that Edward was born into power. I do not think I have ever seen our accounts in such dire straits.”
“How fortunate indeed,” Cecilia remarked brightly.
It was a few hours before the family were convinced to move from the duchess’s solar. The bell was rung for them to change for dinner, and they all split off to reconvene later.
As Cecilia wrapped her hand around the doorknob to her room, she heard footsteps approaching from down the corridor. Jane walked towards her with Cecilia’s mended bonnet in hand.
“You are an angel, Jane. Thank you,” Cecilia said as she inspected the rosettes. “You may tend to Lady Daphne first this evening. His Grace chewed my ear off, and I must lie down before dinner.”
“As you wish, my lady.” She hoisted her linens higher up. “There was a message for you, actually. A gift from an admirer, Her Grace said, waiting for you in the downstairs drawing room.”
“Curious,” Cecilia remarked. “We received our Valentine’s Day letters this morning with the post. Not that it is any trouble of yours. I shall leave you to your duties and meet with you later.”
Cecilia had a bad feeling she knew who the gift would be from. Lord Radcliff had mercifully decided to spend the few days leading up to the ball in his own home, but he knew how to make his presence known regardless.
After having trudged down the stairs, Cecilia pressed open the doors to the drawing room. There, sitting on the buffet between the windows, was the most beautiful flower arrangement she had ever seen. A massive bouquet of baby’s breath, camellias, winter roses, and more she could not name had been tied together with twine and delicately patterned paper.
It was too tasteful for the earl, too great a gesture for some unknown admirer. Cecilia looked for a card, but she found nothing. She wished that Raphael was behind the gift, but it seemed impossible that he could afford it.
Whoever had sent the flowers had meant to stay anonymous. If it was Raphael, why was he so reluctant to speak his feelings for her outright?
Chapter 14
Berilton Court was a sight for sore eyes. It was easy to forget how effortlessly imposing the old family seat was when in London, where everything was new and the town brimmed with exciting industry. There was nothing exciting about Berilton, or so the younger Norberts said.
Raphael would make a case for its timeless stonework, for its symmetry, for the way it sunk into the natural world around it like it had existed for as long as England.
He had journeyed ahead of the family, having set off at the break of dawn. When the duke had asked, “London or Norfolk?” Raphael had had no answer to give but, “Wherever you need me most.”
What he meant, of course, was, “Wherever is closest to Lady Cecilia.”
He was not sure how it had happened. A chance encounter had become a kiss, had become another, had become obsession. At all hours, Raphael was consumed by the promise of their next meeting. It was folly, he knew.
They could share nothing but a few stolen moments before the curtain was called on their romance. The daughter of a duke would never seriously consider a man like Raphael. She wanted him in the way other ladies yearned for finery: to make her feel good.
Raphael was happy to oblige her. For the first time in his life, he was pursuing a woman not to gain something from her but for the pleasure of her company.
