Page 7 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
“You will have to forgive me. I am as far from aPrimaas one can get, my lord.”
“Allow me to help.” Reaching forward, Radcliff took her hand scandalously. He guided her back into the dance. His intentions were good, but Cecilia felt patronized all the same. “That is it! We will make a dancer of you yet, Lady Cecilia!”
She turned as per next move, snatching her hand away. Her father had returned from the drawing room with Lord Hamilton and they were standing beside her mother, fawning over her as they watched. She had never seen her father so full of pride at the sight of her, and it made her uneasy.
Her ringlets flicked in her face as she turned again, finding no more comfort in the gaze of Lord Radcliff. He was kind enough to say nothing else to her until their dance came to an end.
“You arePrimain my heart,” Radcliff said, bowing and kissing her hand. He escorted her back to her chaperones. “If I may be so bold, I should very much like to dance with you again later.”
“That would incite a great deal of jealousy in your other guests, would it not? There are so many young ladies vying for a piece of you this eve,” she deflected.
“You are as considerate as well as bewitching.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Let them fight for me, it matters not. I intend to give myself wholly to one woman alone.”
It was though the rug had been pulled from beneath her. Cecilia sought purchase on the moulding behind her, settling between Daphne and Edward. Her father hurried off with Radcliff and her mother, and he clapped the lord on the back.
“Egad, what did he say to you to make you look like that?” Edward laughed.
“If you are going to be sick, I suggest we move to the terrace.”
“I will not be.I am fine,” Cecilia lied. “He said nothing impertinent.”
“Impertinent or not, you have made Father a happy man indeed. Oh, heavens…”
“What?” Cecilia and Daphne chorused.
“I have just realised that they have lumbered me with the both of you.”
“Saves you from speaking with Lady Hamilton again,” Daphne teased. “Really, you should be thanking us, my lord. Well, I for one have no interest in dissecting your dance with Lord Radcliff, Cecilia. Although I will say that you make a very fetching couple and he is not so terrible a catch.”
“A catch? Like a sturgeon, or a trout?” Cecilia crossed her hands over her chest. “For fear of dying, I need some water.”
Tutting, Edward rolled his eyes and stalked over to the refreshment table.
“Now that your brother is out of earshot, will not you tell me what Lord Radcliff really said? And what of our Mr Travers?”
“Your mind works in very curious ways, Daphne. Always hopping from one thing to the next like a little water strider.”
“First fish and now water striders? You really have been spending too much time in the country.” Daphne sighed. “Was it something naughty?”
“Suffice to say, I expect Papa will be more than happy when he returns to us.”
“Drat, he intends to court you, then.” Daphne stroked Cecilia’s back. “Hopefully, the little task I set you will provide ample distraction until such a day comes as Lord Radcliff pops the question.”
“I do believe that is quite the last thing I need—more distraction.” Edward returned and handed her not a glass of water but a clipper of ratafia.
The grounds were deadly quiet, just as Raphael preferred them. The air was biting, and the sky had turned a funny shade of indigo, shrouding Berilton Court in grey light. He looked up at the great house, gravel crunching beneath his boots.
It was home.
Creaking open to door to his cottage, he shivered. The lodge was beautiful but poorly built. The day would come when the roof caved in and nothing remained of the place but a pile of bricks and mortar. Raphael hoped he would long gone by then. He expected Berilton Court and its buildings to outlive them all.
When he had begun working as a steward, he had had no great love of property. He and his mother had tenanted more rooms than he could count, always hopping from one London borough to the next. A house was where one could eat and sleep; Raphael had had no concept that it could be anything else.
He kicked off his Hessians and draped his jacket over the back of an armchair before moving to start a fire. He performed his nightly ablutions, nothing his freshly changed linens. The housemaids had visited the day prior to collect his washing, and they must have returned while he was out.
He had offered to pay the scullery maids, but they had refused, fearing perhaps that they would no longer be allowed to nose around his home at their leisure if he became something of an employer.
Raphael did not mind. He had nothing to hide in the cottage, and the girls never left any flagrant trace of their spying.
