Page 1 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
Chapter 1
February 1821, Berilton Court, Norwich
If the truth must be told, the first time Cecilia Norbert caught sight of her father’s steward, she thought he was rather odd. He was absurdly handsome, of course—or so Cecilia believed him to be from her secret vantage point behind the stairs. With sun-bleached chestnut hair, shoulders that inspired wickedness, and legs so long she feared he might topple over, he drifted elegantly after her father, the duke, into the study.
No, there was nothing strange about his appearance—if only that it was strange for any man to look like he had sprung to life from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. What piqued Cecilia’s curiosity, in that moment and for months to come, was the way Mr Travers held himself.
He had the sort of posture that is learned with time and effort, not to impress but to hide. His back was arched, almost imperceptibly, like a wary tomcat. His hands were half-flexed, at all times primed to defend himself. He looked around before entering a room, as though checking for hidden traps. He did all that and more while exuding confidence and class, and making her father genuinely laugh, and making everyone else fall a little in love with him.
Cecilia could not name the feeling he incited within her, but it made her uneasy. He was a walking paradox, imposing and cowering all at once.
And so, one winter morning, when her truest friend Daphne said, “What is your steward’s story? He seems to me a curiosity. So burdened with labour so young, and without a wife! It makes one wonder,” Cecelia was all too inclined to agree.
“Would that I could tell you. Funnily enough, we do nothave much to say to one another. In the same way I know nothing of Holly and Sarah in the kitchens, or the rest of father’s instruments… It is quite sad when you think about it.”
“Pooh! Your steward makes me feel anything but sad.” Daphne’s breath misted up the window. She groaned and wiped the glass with her sleeve, better revealing the gardens beyond. “Heavens, could you not look at him all of this day and the next? I just might, you know, instead of attending the Earl of Radcliff’s dreary party tomorrow eve.”
“I will make no excuses for you. If the earl asks, I shall let him know all about your ogling.” Cecilia thumbed the lace curtains aside, quite guilty of ogling herself as Mr Travers chattered on with the gardener. He laughed, and the echo of it travelled into her bedchamber. A chill ran down her spine, and she shivered.
Daphne side-eyed her, smirking. “What is the matter, Cecilia? Quite overcome with sadness, are you?”
“There’s a draught. Oh, the sooner we get back to choosing our gowns, the better,” she grumbled, but her feet refused to move.
Suddenly, Mr Travers turned around. He stared straight up at the house as though someone had called him, his soft brown hair blowing in the wind, his expression utterly mirthless.
Cecilia shrieked and ducked, pulling Daphne down with her out of sight. The girls toppled to the ground in shock, their day gowns billowing beneath them, before bursting out laughing.
“We deserved that,” Cecilia panted, covering her face with her hands. “Surely, he could not have seen us!”
Daphne collected herself and pointed at her eyes. “He sensed us.”
Cecelia scowled. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Come now, Cece! When you feel someone staring at you, and your chest grows heavy, and your neck begins to burn…”
“Perhaps you should visit a physician.”
Daphne rolled her eyes, smoothing out her ginger hair. “You must know the feeling.” Her voice took on a note of mischief. “I am certain Mr Travers has looked at you in such a way before.” She paused. “Longingly.”
Cecelia’s neck did feel all at once quite hot. She shook her head and crawled away, hopping up when she was certain she was out of Mr Travers’ line of sight. “Mr Travers has never looked at me in any way before.”
She turned to observe the gowns the girls had laid out on her bed. “Except on one occasion when I was stood in his way, but there was nothing longing about it. What is more, he is a gentleman. Gentlemen do not stare.”
“Longingly.”
Daphne clambered to her feet to stand beside Cecelia.
“I do wish you would stop saying that,” Cecelia implored.
“All right, as you wish. On the condition you uncover everything you can about Mr Raphael Travers before my next visit.” Daphne hummed and picked up Cecelia’s favourite dinner gown—an affair of cream-coloured muslin that revealed the gold in Cecilia’s hazel eyes. “A year has passed since first he arrived. Have you no wish to know who resides under your father’s roof?”
“To be fair, he resides in the lodge.”
“To be fair, you are changing the subject. Do this for me, please. My father is convinced he will make a match for me before my twentieth birthday, and I should like to kiss one stranger before I am entombed in a boring marriage.”
“And you intend for that stranger to be Mr Travers?”
“If he reveals himself a rake, then yes, absolutely.”
