Page 8 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
He had eaten in the pub alone that night, so he settled into his reading chair early. The duke had given him unlimited access to his library, and Raphael was slowly making his way through the Norbert collection. He opened the first volume ofHistory of The Sun King, detailing the life of Louis XIV King of France, and putting his limited understanding of the French language and culture to the test.
On any other day, he would have been glad for the early night. He had dutifully seen to his appointments, he had meticulously reviewed January’s accounts, he had finally found a new tenant to take up at the Bridge Hall farm and had set the deed aside to be signed.
“And yet…”
He snapped the tome shut and set it aside. Sagging into the armchair, he ran his hands over his face and let his restlessness wash over him. Not a minute had passed all day without him thinking of Lady Cecilia, and it seemed his evening would be no exception. Springing from the chair, he moved over to his drink’s cabinet, serving himself a few fingers of arrack.
Raphael was not inexperienced, as his obsession might have suggested. At six-and-twenty, he had known his fair share of women, and he had grown mostly impervious to their games. He had not taken a new lover since securing his position as estate manager for the Duke of Lantham, but he was hardly a boy in the first throes of love.
But Lady Cecilia Norbert certainly made him feel like it.
He took a healthy gulp of his drink and walked over to the window, calling to memory their encounter. What little he had understood of Lady Cecilia prior to their meeting had been altogether wrong. He had heard that she was timid, if not stand-offish, that she was fair to the maids but otherwise reserved. Frankly, they had painted her as an ice queen, when she seemed instead more like the sun: bright, warm, impossible to look at overlong for how beautiful she was.
Raphael took another sip, shoving his hand in his trouser pocket. It was unfeasible to be in the orbit of a woman like Lady Cecilia and not want to kiss her. He had wanted to kiss her, and his regret was eating him alive. Unless he had imagined it, she had looked at him like she wanted to kiss him as well.
“Right there, yet worlds apart.”
His mind flashed with sinful images. His hand travelling the length of her exposed stocking. His body looming over hers on that chair. Her eyes heavy with lust as she looked up at him. Acome-hithersmile.
Taking a sharp intake of breath, he shook his head and turned from the window.
“You will not lose yourself to temptation. Nothing will be worth it.”
He downed his drink and poured another, and another, and then one more. Before he knew it, the moon was high in the sky, pregnant with light. It had started to rain. He had devoured seven chapters of his book, but he could not remember a word.
When he had decided at last to go to bed, he heard horses thundering down the road before his cottage. He staggered to the window again, pressing a hand upon it. He watched as two glistening coaches drove past, the Lantham crest flashing on their sides.
They rounded the corner at the end of the road, turning onto the long drive before Berilton Court. Through the hornbeams, he saw the family from a distance, alighting the coaches one after another before the manor.
He thought to espy Lady Cecilia being led inside by her father and another woman.
He thought she turned around.
Chapter 4
“That is enough! You will put an end to this, now!”
Raphael surged forward, narrowly avoiding a blow to the face. His head throbbed from the suddenness of his movement. With arms outstretched, he pried apart Solomon and Peter, reeling from the stench of the stables.
Having risen absurdly early, he had decided to walk the longer path to Berilton Court, where he had been asked to meet with Lord Edward that morning to discuss a recent acquisition. The road led around the manor, cutting through the pasture and arriving before the buildings where the horses were stabled.
The groom had backed one of the stable hands against the wall, bellowing in his face like a beast, spittle dripping from his chin. Peter Pincher was known for his short temper, but his knowledge and handling of horses were unmatched. Raphael had not wanted to involve himself, but he had noticed Solomon’s hand slowly curl around the hay fork he was wielding, knowing things would only escalate.
He had shot forward on instinct, dropping his leather haversack and letter case. Peter was snarling as Raphael pulled him away. He was taller than the groom by a few inches, but Peter outweighed him by two stone if not more.
“Drop it,” Raphael commanded, turning to the stable hand. The fork fell to the ground with athud. He huffed and let the men go. “Would one of you kindly tell me what is going on?”
“Someone left the hay out all night.” Peter’s voice was low and threatening. “Now it is sopping wet, but Solomon thought it would fine to use it anyway. Like I would not notice. I would notice a couple dead horses.”
Raphael let his head hang. “Better than a couple dead bodies,” he said under his breath. “Ease up. Mistakes happen.”
“What do you know about anything?” Peter took a challenging step forward. “You do nothave to deal with any of this.”
“Any of what?”
“Stupid help. You do what you want, when you want. Do nothave to answer to nobody.” The groom balled his callused hands. “This is my domain.”
“The duke’s domain.” Raphael cracked his neck, leashing his anger. He grabbed Peter’s shoulder, turning them from Solomon. “It would be such a shame to get the sack over something so trivial, do you not agree?” He clapped Peter on the shoulder.
