Page 55 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
Daphne said nothing of the sort, but it was almost as painful.
“Would you like to marry him?”
Cecilia started, her hand hovering mid-air where she had reached for a biscuit. She swallowed hard. “I have not considered it properly.”
Daphne dusted her hands of crumbs and crossed her arms. “Consider it. You have about fifteen minutes until my mother storms in here to drag me back to her sickbed.”
It was almost impossible to consider the idea with any seriousness. Cecilia and Raphael? Wife and husband? Daphne was resolute, so Cecilia closed her eyes and thought deeply about everything.
She imagined Raphael asking for her hand, perhaps on a walk when the weather was fair, beneath the blooming apple trees along the lane to his cottage. Her heart swelled first with fear, but in time it was superseded by warmth. She imagined next their wedding night.
The wedding itself was too difficult to visualize, as she could not place her family in the tableau with any confidence. Raphael would lay her down as he had done and make her his own for good, forever. Then came the faces of babes, looking a little like Cecilia but a lot like him, with those depthless green eyes and copper skin.
There were picnics and parties, a trip to Spain, an outing with his family. There was reading on the Cornish coast, trips to London to watchHamletat last once the scandal of the marriage had died down.
Cecilia loved every frame. It seemed that she loved Raphael just as much as the unconventional life they could lead, beneath her fear of social ostracization.But nothing, not even love, could merge dreams with reality.
“I would be his wife gladly,” Cecilia pronounced. “In my head, we are quite happy. I feel we would be a good fit without even factoring in how much I adore him. It sounds absurd coming from me, I know. I’ve always hated the institution.”
“Far be it from me to tell you what you believe,” Daphne interjected, her eyes twinkling, “but I think you’ve always detested not the institution but the forcing of matches. May I be blunt with you?”
“Absolutely.”
“If you believe Mr Travers would prove a loving husband, I could want nothing more for you than to go against the grain and legitimately chase him. If you must stand before your mother and father and brothers and tell them your decision, know that I will stand beside you and endorse Mr Travers every step of the way. I have ways of persuading your lot to do my bidding, whether they know it or not.”
Cecilia suspected Daphne was joking, but she appreciated the support all the same. “While I am grateful, I feel as though there is abutin there somewhere.”
“But . . .” Daphne mouthed, rolling her eyes, “if we cannot convince your family of the legitimacy of your match, nor of the power of your love for one another . . . there may come a day where you will have to make a choice.”
The gravity of Daphne’s statement permeated the air. Cecilia felt it press down on her, like Sisyphys and his boulder. Daphne was right. She could heave her wishes up and down the hill to her heart’s content, but there was little chance of her satisfying both her family and Mr Travers—if he even still wanted her after how she had treated him the night before.
“Love or family,” Cecilia concluded.
*
The ride back home was near torturous. Every clap of her mare’s hooves against the path soundedlove of family, love or familylike a waltz. Cecilia wanted nothing more than to clamp her hands over her ears, but what little she knew of riding suggested that would be a poor idea.
By some miracle she had managed to avoid the marchioness after her talk with Daphne, though she would have to come up with something to report back to her mother when she arrived. She galloped toward the stables, having decided to brave the walk up to Berilton on foot and secure some more time to think.
The groom greeted her with an unusual grin, his blonde hair glinting in the sunlight, his teeth crooked and spotted with tea stains.
“Good morn’ to you, my lady,” he greeted. He helped her dismount, which was doubly unusual, and he whistled for one of the stable boys to unsaddle and stable Nelly.
“Good morning . . . ” She blanked on his name.
“Mr Pincher, my lady.”
“That is right, I am sorry,” Cecilia stammered, and turned toward the path.
“Did you have a nice ride? Funny sort of time to go riding, nay?”
Cecilia’s skin iced over. She was not used to strangers speaking with her, especially the male staff. It was not a question of station but propriety.
What do you really care about propriety?a small niggling voice said.If he looked half as good as Mr Travers you’d want to speak with him.
“Erm, yes. It was pleasant enough. Nelly is lovely.”
“Did you take Heathersett Road onto Norwich Road, my lady? Nice time of year for it.” Pincher had turned by that point to begin forking some hay.
