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Isabelle’s own eyes widened. “Are you saying… No…” Impossible.It couldn’t be…But… “Are you saying that the Duke of Aberdare… You are Byrne?”
He winced.
And then nodded.
Shock rendered Isabelle mute for once and she thought back over their past conversations, his ease with verse, the notebooks and the secretive scribbling, the poems in his study and it all made utter sense yet…
“But…but…Byrne’s Scottish,” she blurted. “And he lives in the Highlands. In an ancient manse, so the gossip papers claim. A total recluse. Has a dog called Angus.”
With eyes still closed, Rhys laughed. “And doesn’t all that balderdash have a whiff of Hugh about it? It was he who originally came up with that tale as… Well, my being an earl, as I was then, caused being a poet to be complicated.”
Isabelle gawked. “Byron is a lord, no?”
“True, but… I have many petitions to present on behalf of the people of Wales and…” He opened his eyes, a serious expression within them. “Can you imagine if those in the House of Lords knew I wrote romantic poetry? None of them would ever take me seriously.” He exhaled heavily. “Tristan wished for me to claim my poems and we even had an argument at some soiree but… Damn it, I’m a duke as well.”
“Well I never,” she whispered. “When did you start writing? Byrne has written six volumes.”
The lantern highlighted a ribbon of heat upon his cheekbones. “I’ve enjoyed verse since childhood for there’s a long tradition of bards in Wales, but I wrote a poem for Tristan’s wedding day and then…never stopped. I found I could express myself in poetry in a way I never could when in society. With a quill in my hand, words flooded me. I wrote more when younger but lately I found myself a little…disillusioned. Until a certain governess arrived. Then I began filling notebooks once more. About you.”
Isabelle caught her lip between her teeth. And then surreptitiously pinched herself for the evening had surely taken a dreamlike turn – the fright, the tempestuous lovemaking and…
“Ça alors!You’re famous.” She held fingers to her mouth. “And you’ve just made love to a lowly governess. I’ve just made love with the celebrated poet Byrne.”
He raised up, fingers brushing back her hair, and Isabelle’s eyes flitted everywhere but his magnificent bared chest. “So, a duke doesn’t impress Miss Beaujeu, but a poet does.”
A flush warmed her own cheeks for that had an element of truth. So many nights she had read Byrne and wished to know the man, to understand his passions and what drove him. Now, brushing fingers over Rhys’ stubble, she understood perfectly, and a thrilling satisfaction coursed. “I… I do read his poems most nights. I felt his yearning, his need.”
“And now, cariad, my poetry will take on a fresh twist.” He cocked his head. “Can you hear that?”
She strained her ears.
The rain had eased to be replaced by a low rumble of melody – sombre, deep and heartfelt.
“The men downstairs?” she whispered. “They are singing. In Welsh?”
“Just so. A tale of love…” He kissed her. “Of dragons and their soulmates…” He nibbled her throat. “Of the passion of Wales.”
As Rhys’ hips pressed Isabelle into the bed once more, she snaked her arms around his neck, met his lips, and thought Wales a very fine place indeed.
