Page 63 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
“What?” Raphael shook his head. “What if His Grace—”
“I will feed my father a lie.” Edward would not tear his eyes from the window. Cecilia drew further and further away. He began pacing the room, pushing past Raphael. “He will believe me but not you. Mr Travers has returned home. Sudden onset of . . . something. Cecilia is upstairs. Sleeping. Do not disturb her. Yes, that works . . .” He nodded at Raphael. “Got it? Good. Go.”
Raphael was hardly going to argue. He marched to the door, knowing Cecilia would catch her death . . .
If Peter Pincher does not catch her first.
The doors to the manor groaned to a close behind him. Quick as he could, he sprinted across the courtyard, staying close to the wall. It was seven o’clock, nearing eight o’clock, and the sky was shifting closer and closer to black.
Raphael shivered as the wind picked up. He heard nothing but its gentle hissing, but the screeching of a fox in the distance, the cooing of an owl. Cecilia had been running down the drive, headed only God knew where. That was where he must follow.
His heart thundered in his chest as he took off after her. She appeared before him like a torch of dark light, walking now down the drive, guarded on either side by a trellis of trees. She was a flickering flame in this distance, growing larger with every step he took. It was madness to chase after her. Anyone could intercept them and report back to the duke.
Someone has spotted us already. Cecilia matters more.
He was a stone’s throw away when she turned at last to look at him. She did not move as she watched him run towards her, his cravat all but coming undone around his neck. He whipped it off and squinted against the dark. She was crying, standing when the drive ended, backed only by the road beyond.
Without thinking he crashed into her, wrapping his arms around her. Her body sagged into his embrace, her cries coming harder now. Raphael stroked her hair, keeping her close to ward off the cold.
“It is all right. Do not cry,” he said. “Cecilia, everything is all right.”
“You are going abroad,” she mumbled against the lapels of his jacket. “You are leaving.”
That is why she ran off. She overhead my conversation with Edward.
“I am not leaving.”
She gave a shiver and it travelled through Raphael. “Liar.”
“Stop. Look at me. Do not speak.”
He grabbed her face in his hands, forcing her to stare up at him. Her eyes were glittering with tears in the pale moonlight, and they almost broke his heart. She really did care after all. He did not know what he could say to make things right, only that he needed to grant her shelter until she calmed down. Looking over her head, he stared onto Norwich Road.
“Come with me,” he ordered gently, leading her forward by the shoulders.
*
Raphael fumbled for the keys in his pocket, shoving his cravat in the space left behind. He narrowed his eyes in the darkness, trying to distinguish his house key from the gate key, from the shed key, from the—
“Useless,” he whispered.
Cecilia sniffed behind him. He had no idea how to act around her now. He was terribly aware of her presence, of every move she made on the cobbled path that led up to his cottage. Her hand was rubbing against her sleeve—back and forth, back and forth—and the sound consumed him entirely.
He shoved a random key into the lock, and by some miracle it fit. The door unlocked with a satisfyingclick. Raphael pushed it open and cleared the path for Cecilia.
He hastened into the entryway, lighting a rushlight from the fire in the bedroom. It was still just about burning in the hearth beneath its bank. With it he lit the scones in the downstairs, before returning to find Cecilia. She had settled against the back of his armchair in the living room, still stroking her arm.
Raphael rummaged through the cupboards for his rusted kettle, setting it down on the only free patch of countertop he found. He crouched before the fire in the kitchen, rekindling it to the best of his ability. It had been difficult to discern one key from the other under her gaze; it was nearimpossibleto stoke a fire.
“You do not need to do that,” Cecilia said after a while.
He relaxed his crouch, poker in hand. “I want to,” he murmured, looking over his shoulder. “You should drink something.”
The floorboards creaked beneath them as Cecilia moved around. He watched her stalk to his drinks cabinet and pull out a bottle of whisky. She uncorked it and took a whiff, flinched, then took a swig. When she was done she wiped her mouth and regarded him defiantly.
“Not that sort of drink,” Raphael corrected. Satisfied with his fire, he set the water to boil over the pit, then moved to relieve Cecilia of her bottle. “May I?”
“It is yours.” She handed it over. He felt her gaze on him as he put it back in the press, locking it. “I do not understand why men drink as much as they do. Brandy is ghastly.”
