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Instead, she chomped on a chicken wing and quaffed a glass of claret.
For such sensible intentions had been surpassed by the need to satisfy her hunger and eradicate the faint chill that still existed deep within her bones.
Another knock came and she startled, hand to breast.
Breathed deep.
Smoothed the skirts of her robe and composed her features.
Knew this time it was not Anwen. Or the innkeeper.
“Enter,” she said, rather breathlessly.
The ruby face of the innkeeper’s wife popped around the door.
Oh.
“Just checking all is well. Do you lack for anything, Miss? More blankets?”
“No.” She sighed. “All is perfect. Thank you.”
“Good night then, lass.”
“Good night.”
Isabelle huffed for no valid reason that she could fathom and swivelled back to the table, snatching up a hunk of bread.
“I’m a buffle-headed flibbertigibbet,” she muttered with a snort, “who is–”
“Beautiful.”
Isabelle spun, bread in hand, to discover the Duke of Aberdare leaning at the doorframe, not even a knock to announce his arrival.
“Your Grace.”
“Rhys. My name is Rhys. Please.”
“I couldn’t…”
“I insist.”
I mustn’t.
He strolled in and closed the door, a further bottle of claret dangling from his fingers. “Or my London friends call me Dare, should you prefer.”
She couldn’t quite decide, but in either case, Dare or Rhys wore solely a shirt and loose pair of breeches, overlaid with a tied, deep-burgundy banyan.
He filled the petite chamber. The bread tumbled from her fingers.
Handsome, aristocratic and ordered, yet in tandem, wild, ardent and formidable.
After the day she’d endured, he was a welcome sight for her sore eyes and she gulped.
“T-thank you for the change of clothes. Where did you…” She trailed off, abruptly aware the silk night-rail might have belonged to a past mistress.
“I cannot take credit. Gwen must have guessed we might need to hole up somewhere as she packed the holdall.”
“Did she?”
