Page 61 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
Her ears filled with the memory of Gregory’s warning. “It seems there is no need to worry. By all accounts, my future is decided for me.”
Beside her, Edward groaned. “You are such a defeatist. It beggars belief how you’ve survived so long in this world with an attitude like that.”
“Not all of us can run off to the four corners of the earth as we please.”
“Perhaps not . . . but by Jove, look at your lot! I cannot stand Radcliff, and I agree your marrying him would probably make you eternally miserable. However, there are more men looking for brides in London than they are blades of grass. If not Radcliff take your pick.”
Well, that certainly put Cecilia in her place. Like a scolded child she sunk back into the bench. It was not as though Cecilia had nottriedto find a lovematch in those early days out in society. Every bachelor that had approached her had been wrong in some way: handsome but boring; funny but rakish; proper but niggardly.
No one, not in her life, had made her feel complete in their presence. No one, of course, except the one man she could not have, the one man who probably hated her now.
Suddenly, Edward spoke up again, “All right, I know I should not press things, because God knows I enjoy the silence, but would you please just tell what has made you so upset and what we can do to fix it, for our benefit if not for yours.”
Cecilia turned slowly to regard her brother. His eyes were filled with unusual worry. “How do you know I am upset?”
“In the same way I know when you are happy, when you are mad. I am your brother.”
In an uncharacteristically tender move, Edward reached out to take her hand in his.
“This world will chew you up and swallow you whole if you do not know what you want or do not advocate for it. Whatever you feel is lacking in your life must be amended, Cecilia. I cannot protect you from society. Damme it all, I cannot protect you from yourself! But this waiting, this sulking, it does you no good.
Make a choice and harken to it: the choice of adventure, of convenience, of escape . . . I cannot assure you that our mother and father will support you, but their being angry with you is better than you living half a life as you have been. Just . . .” He paused to squeeze her hand. “Be happy, for God’s sake.”
Cecilia let his words wash over her . . . or tried to. There was some invisible force working against his wisdom from inside, which told her not to ‘be happy’ but to surrender herself to the currents of society, because the fight simplyhurttoo much. Weighing her options made her feel sick, she could not win.
Gently, she slipped her hand out from under Edward’s, and they rode back to Berilton in silence.
*
“Thank you,” Cecilia murmured as the butler divested her of her coat. She slipped off her winter gloves and handed them to Jane, who took them with her earrings up into her chambers.
Cecilia would make a quick show of her face to her father before retiring early. She was in no mood to socialise after her talk with Edward in the carriage, and in less mood for dinner. Her brother circled around her, guiding her into the drawing room with a hand on her back.
“I am not an invalid, Edward,” Cecilia whispered, ambling listlessly forward.
His hand stayed where it was despite her protestations. “Be a dear and accept my small kindness anyway . . . or I will make an invalid of you.”
As expected, their father was waiting for them in the drawing room, dressed in his dinner clothes. He was nursing a small glass of something amber, staring through the window onto the lawn. He turned and smiled, greeting his children warmly.
“Are you not changed?” he asked, his face falling. The fire crackled behind him, haloing him in red.
“We are just returned from Norwich. Mother sends her regards. She is staying late to help pack up, or so the story goes,” Edward answered. “I cannot see mother loading coaches and folding tables. Either way, we will change anon.”
Cecilia parted her lips to protest, but her father was quicker. “Fair enough. We have company tonight.” He turned for the doorway to the library, from where footsteps were fast approaching.
One could hardly forget the Earl of Radcliff . . .
But it was not the earl who appeared in the archway, at least not at first. It was Raphael.
Cecilia’s heart leapt into her throat at the sight of him, before she was overcome by a wave of relief and love. She had not known the presence of another person could be so powerful, but he enthralled her with his very being. He had clearly had a long workday and had not changed for dinner, still dressed in a forest green jacket, Hessians, and cream-coloured cravat.
She took an instinctive step forward before reining herself in. Gregory sidled up beside Raphael, caught halfway in a laugh. He beamed as he locked gazes with Cecilia, though she was quick to avert her gaze to the ceiling—perhaps to heaven in silent prayer.
“Travers,” Edward greeted. He sounded almost as disquieted as Cecilia felt. “I take it His Grace bullied you into spending the evening with us.”
“It is alwaysbullyingwith you,” the duke riposted, downing the last of his drink. “Good faith and charity are hardly bullying. No, I thought Mr Travers deserved the night off. He’s had a long few days running all across East Anglia for me.” The duke shot Raphael a genuine smile. It should not have made Cecilia as glad as it did. Her father respected him,likedhim. “Is that not right, Mr Travers?”
Raphael cleared his throat and set his glass on the buffet. “Yes, Your Grace. I have not had time to catch my breath in days,” he looked pointedly at Cecilia, “though it has pained me to be away from Berilton for so long.”
