A Flaming Lady’s Secret Valentine (Preview)

Chapter One

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.” 

Cecilia had more questions than breath with which to ask them. “Which questions do you suppose I should ask to uncover such tendencies in him without compromising myself—or divulging your fool plan?”

“You have all the tools in your arsenal, Cecilia. I am sure.” Daphne gave a wiggle of her hips.

“You are a menace, Daphne Griffin. The sooner you are off the marriage mart, the better,” Cecilia lied, knowing she would not survive a season without her most affable ally by her side. Naturally, Daphne was right. Cecilia was quickly approaching her twentieth birthday herself. They would both have to marry soon or be forever cast into spinsterhood. 

Sighing, Cecilia glanced over her shoulder, at the window. 

If now was not the time for fool plans, then when?

What had begun as a run-of-the-mill afternoon was quickly turning into anything but. For one thing, Raphael had been called onto the lawn by the gardener, which had interrupted the ritual of his midday reading. Raphael did not know the first thing about perennials, and he knew even less about Norfolk soil. John insisted he inspect the flowerbeds all the same, either erroneously assuming that was part of an estate manager’s duties, or more likely longing for an ear to chew off while the duke and duchess were away. 

For another, Raphael was convinced he was being watched. Not by an enemy but by an audience. John leaned over to inspect his bleeding hearts, and Raphael made the most of his distraction to turn around. 

There, in the fourth window of the second storey, he saw two glinting sets of eyes. They disappeared almost as quickly, as though he had imagined them. He had not. If there was one thing Raphael had become well-acquainted with since his move from London to the countryside, it was staring. 

The next was country gossip. 

 “Do not mind them, Mr Travers,” John said, grunting as he straightened up, shears in hand. “Our poor Lady Cecilia and her friend are all cooped up and wanting for trouble, or so I hear. It is not right for young ladies to be housebound so early in the Season. Though I suppose there’s nothing they can do until His Grace is hale and hearty.”

Raphael unknit his brow. The duke had seemed ‘hale and hearty’ enough the day before, when they had ridden into town. 

The Duke of Lantham was a curious character, susceptible to ailments no doctors could diagnose let alone treat. Recently, he had been suffering from a cough: a peculiar malady with an even more peculiar set of symptoms, as the tickling in his lungs seemed to worsen whenever the duchess breached topics the duke disliked. Namely London, but also her modiste, their extended family, their youngest son’s desire to make an officer of himself, and so on. 

A pity, as the duchess greatly enjoyed her conversation. The woman’s gregariousness had not been passed down to their only daughter, Lady Cecilia. On occasion, Raphael had crossed her path awkwardly on the ground floor. She was beautiful in an unassuming sort of way, with dark, curling hair and a tempting mole just below her rosebud lips. She was possessed of gentle wit and manner, though it seemed she had a penchant for spying as well.

In another life, she was the type of woman Raphael would have fawned over to obsession. In that other life, of course, he would not have been forbidden from speaking with her. Such was the way of things, and he accepted them. Raphael would let nothing—not even a lady as alluring as Lady Cecilia Norbert—deter him from his path after everything he had done to get where he was.

“You wanted my opinion on some renovations,” Raphael said after some time. He turned away from the house, but he could not so easily shake off his disquiet. “I suggest we get on with it.”

 

Chapter Two

“Oh, it is no use.” Cecilia sighed, admitting defeat. She sat gingerly on the edge of her bed, staring at the overcast beyond the window. “Typical. The heavens know as well as I do that this eve is bound to end in disaster.”

 In three hours, the family would be riding for Cromer, by the sea, where the Earl of Radcliff took up seat when he was not in London. She had managed to convince her father to not stay overnight, which was something of a victory, albeit a small one. 

The Norbert and Elgin families had been friendly for centuries, having come together in marriage under Queen Elizabeth, or so the stories went. It seemed both parties had a vested interest in seeing history repeat itself. 

As the duke’s only daughter, Cecilia preferred to look forward. 

Gregory Elgin, the Earl of Radcliff, was a tolerable enough gentleman. Her brothers admired him greatly, Anthony more so than Edward. Gregory was closer in age with Edward but more similar in temperament to the younger Norbert son, both enjoying games of chance, and parties, and all the other things Cecilia found painfully taxing.

The party that evening would be just like the rest. Her father would find every excuse to speak with the earl in Cecilia’s company, and Cecilia in turn would do a rotten job of impressing him with her conversation. Her mother would regale the earl with an account of Cecilia’s many accomplishments, and Cecilia would do her best to temper his expectations, knowing they were all lies. She was no fine artist. She had an ear for music but no talent at the pianoforte or the harp. In fact, for the daughter of a duke, she led a life that was surprisingly banal. The most interesting thing about her was her generous dowry. 

The more she dissected memories of the earl, the more she began to spiral. 

On more than one occasion, her brothers had excused themselves from their commitments. It seemed only right that Cecilia do the same, just once, to avoid from going mad. 

Setting aside the ribbons and pearls in her lap, she made for the door. 

Her father always retired to his study after luncheon, though no one was quite sure how he occupied his time before dinner. Cecilia knocked on the door, half-expecting to be turned away. No answer sounded from the other side.

“Father must still be engaged at lunch,” she murmured. She shifted on her feet, debating going back upstairs, before pushing open the heavy door and letting herself inside. 

Her father’s study was oblong in shape and richly decorated. Grand bookshelves lined the walls, laden with all manner of colourful tomes and knickknacks. Cecilia’s nose tickled because of the dust in the air. Not even the most diligent housemaid could arrange a room as old and cluttered as her father’s office. 

She ran a finger along the inset top of the mahogany desk and was surprised when it came away clean. Her eyes drifted from the kneehole to the ceiling and then down again, settling on the family portrait that hung proudly on the wall. 

It had been commissioned so long ago that Cecilia could not remember having sat for it. She could have only been four at the time, propped up on her mother’s knee in a dreadful chiffon frock and matching bonnet. The duchess looked no different now than she did then, with hair as dark as Cecilia’s and bright blue eyes. The painter her father had invited from Florence had managed to capture her brother’s spirits well enough. The younger Anthony was scowling, even at the age of seven. Edward would have been ten at the time, but his eyes were full of old wisdom and kindness. Their father stood proudly behind them, with a much fuller head of brown hair, and with a foxhound they certainly had never owned at his feet.

Cecilia smiled as she contemplated the portrait, overwhelmed with love for her family, then with guilt. 

After everything Papa has done for us, it is the least I can do to attend Lord Radcliff’s party.

With new resolve, she took a step back. As she did, however, the door creaked open behind her. Spinning on her heel, she dashed forward, arms outstretched, prepared to embrace her father. 

But it was not her father who had opened the door. 

Mr Travers hopped back, dropping the stack of documents in his arms. They scattered at his feet, crashing to the floor like waves against a cliff. Cecilia gasped, pulling back quickly and landing on the edge of her heel. Her ankle twisted beneath her and she wobbled with a cry. Mr Travers darted forward to catch her, cupping her beneath the arms and pulling her into him. 

Once her stupor passed, Cecilia’s face burned with embarrassment. Her skin tingled where he touched her over the sleeves of her day gown, and she quickly yanked herself away.

“Heavens, I am so sorry!”

“The fault was mine, my lady—”

“All your papers! I really am so odious. Please, allow me to help!”

“I should have knocked.”

“You could not have known I was here and—”

“Yes, I really should have knocked.”

Back and forth they apologised, until Cecilia collected herself. Her eyes darted from the chaos on the floor to Mr Travers. She offered him a bashful smile. 

“Were they nicely sorted and organized? You have my permission to lie.”

To her surprise, Mr Travers smiled back. She could not recall ever having seen him smile before. Her heart lurched in her chest, and she cautioned herself inwardly.

“They were a mess before I dropped them.”

“Now, that was definitely a lie.” 

Why can I not stop smiling?

On instinct, she leaned down to begin collecting his effects. Seemingly, Mr Travers had the same idea. Their foreheads knocked together painfully, and Cecilia reeled back with a cry. 

“God’s wounds, Lady Cecilia! Are you all right?”

“No—I mean, yes! Everything is fine.” She squeezed her eyes shut as another pang shot through her skull. She took a step back, reaching for the sideboard behind her. “Perhaps I should sit down.”

Mr Travers darted to the seating area beneath the window, picking up a chair and bringing it to her. He placed it behind her and urged her to sit. Cecilia did as she was told, clumsily navigating her pain and embarrassment. 

Of all the men to have walked in on her—of all the men to have assaulted—why must it have been the enigmatic Mr Travers? Fate was a cruel mistress indeed, undoubtedly whispering in their ears, luring them into a trap. To what end, Cecilia could not fathom.

“How convenient for you…”

Cecilia’s eyes shot open. “I beg your pardon?”

“Now I must plead with you to remain seated and recover while I clear up this mess.” He crouched and began collecting his documents, failing to hide his smirk. “How very convenient, I say.”

She must have hit her head harder than she thought, because it seemed as though Mr Travers was teasing her. Leaning forward in her seat, she pressed the tip of her shoe on the document he was reaching for in an act of unusual defiance. His eyes widened and roved her leather shoe, running up her ankle and stocking, darting suddenly to her face. 

“If you would not mind…” Mr Travers said. He smiled at her with a mix of disbelief and delight. “I believe you are standing on my things.”

“Am I? My injury must be making me delirious.” Her breath hitched as she remembered herself, quickly drawing her foot back. 

Cecilia was flirting with Mr Travers. 

And Mr Travers was flirting with her right back.

Raphael cleared his throat, sliding the land agreement from under Lady Cecilia’s slipper and adding it to the stack. These were his just desserts for slipping into the duke’s study when he knew the man was busy with lunch. He had only meant to drop the papers off without being forced to sit down and share a brandy with his employer, because the duke definitely would have asked, and Raphael definitely would have had to agree.

That did not explain what Lady Cecilia was doing here, however, though he suspected she had not been lying in wait for him. He pried another deed from under one of the legs of the armchair he had brought forth, hissing as he ripped it down the middle. 

 “Are you certain you do notneed my help, sir? I feel quite useless just sitting here watching you like the Queen of England on my throne.”

“We have to make sure that you do nothave a concussion. His Grace would never forgive me if I maimed his only daughter.” He turned from her, his jacket fitting tight around his shoulders. “Tell me what you were doing here and I will forgive your attack on me.”

Raphael reached for another document and froze. He should not have said that. He should not have been speaking with the duke’s daughter at all, especially not commanding her around. He had done well not to forget himself so far around the family, had managed not to anger them and get himself sent away. 

To his surprise, his jape had the opposite effect on Lady Cecilia. He heard the chair creak as she sagged into it, and she scoffed,“I will tell you, as long as you admit that we were equally complicit in our blunder.”

“All right, as long as you do nottell His Grace.” He cursed himself again. 

“You have yourself a deal, sir.” She paused. “I was hoping to catch Papa after his lunch and ask whether I could be excused from our dinner this evening.”

“The dinner hosted by the Earl of Radcliff?” Raphael had no business knowing the intimate details of the duke’s social calendar. Frankly, he did not care to know. The duke had spoken of little else since the invitation had arrived. It would have been impossible not to be up to date with his appointments.

“Just the one,” Cecilia replied cautiously. 

“Do nottell me you have taken ill and I have only added to your poor health.”

“Would that you were right. Although…our bumping into each other does give me a proper excuse for why I would have a headache. Though, I suppose that would rather betray our deal.” She sighed for emphasis. “I shall just have to suffer in silence and attend the dinner anyway.”

“You would give up so easily? I am certain you could convince the duke of anything if truly you did not want to accompany him tonight.”

“Are you trying to say my father is gullible? Or that I am particularly persuasive?”

Raphael spun on his heel, looking up at her. “Definitely not the former.”

“I trapped you there, did I not?” She beamed. “I apologise, Mr Travers.”

He nodded and collected the rest of his documents. Once they were somewhat neatly stacked, he stood to his feet. He debated offering a hand to help Lady Cecilia out of her seat, but she seemed perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She also seemed distracted, winding a dark ringlet of hair around her finger and looking out of the window. 

She really is beautiful, and she has matured immensely in the year since my arrival. 

Footsteps sounded from the hallway, and Raphael put a natural amount of distance between them. Cecilia scooted the chair back as her father appeared in the doorway, a footman in tow.

“God in heaven, this is a surprise,” the duke said, regarding them quizzically. “What are the both of you doing here?”

 “Dropping these off for you, Your Grace.” Raphael motioned for the documents before setting them down on the desk. He took a deep breath before turning back around. “I am just arrived, but Lady Cecilia has been waiting for you.”

“Right,” Cecilia said. She shot Raphael a grateful look. “I was waiting for you to discuss something, but the matter seems to have resolved itself.”

“Delight me with it anyway. The longer I can keep you here, the longer I can keep your mother at bay. Leave us, Mr Travers.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Stepping around the pair, Raphael made for the door. He closed it behind him, watching as the footman hurried away. If Raphael had been a proper gentleman, he would have walked away without a second thought. However, he was not a proper gentleman. So, like all rogues, he did what was in his best interest. 

Checking the coast was clear, he pressed an ear to the door.

“Why do you not…what…really about?”

Raphael flinched back, recognizing the duke’s mumbled voice. Thankfully, Cecilia spoke much more clearly.

“Disdain is not nearly as becoming as you think it is, Papa. It is as Mr Travers explained. I was here waiting for you when he arrived not a moment ago.”

A beat passed.

“What is this chair doing here?”

“My legs were tired.”

Covering his mouth to conceal his smile, Raphael listened for more.

“Be that as it may,” the duke coughed, “you must be careful.”

“Has Mr Travers done something to ignite some sort of distrust in you?”

“Of course, not.” Raphael’s skin prickled. “But he is a man, and you are yet unwed. If the staff…and I will not stand for that…they need their…and you.”

Raphael was glad he had not heard the better part of the duke’s comment. It was easier to work for the man when he could convince himself that the duke did not consider him a plebian, like all the other peers. 

He had heard enough. Turning on his heel, he proceeded uneasily to his next appointment, surprised to find that it was not the duke’s opinion of him that had bothered him most. 

But the flash of Lady Cecilia’s ankle.

---

“A Flaming Lady’s Secret Valentine” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Lady Cecilia Norbert has always played by the rules, which is probably why rebellion felt so good. While the clock is ticking on her freedom, the enthralling Cecilia has to thwart her persistent father’s matchmaking plans and escape marriage. That is until she catches the eye of her father’s seductive steward, who is precisely the type of man the daughter of a Duke should avoid, and the one she desires the most.

What happens when honor clashes with irresistible passion?

Mr. Raphael Travers has fought hard to get where he is in life and nothing will stand between him and his career. Nothing except his employer’s tempting daughter. Little did he know that when the fiery Cecilia would enter his life, a long buried secret would come to surface. Enthralled by her beauty and her untamed spirit, Raphael is painfully aware that there’s too much at stake…

Will their scandalous affair cost him everything he has ever worked for?

As Cecilia and Raphael’s attraction grows, so does the great chasm. Their sinful game will come to a head at a Valentine’s Day masquerade ball, where masks will slip. Divided by class, torn asunder by their lust, the two valentines will have to sacrifice all they hold dear. Will they dare to risk it all or will their lives begin to crumble around them?

“A Flaming Lady’s Secret Valentine” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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