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Love, once found, should be seized, proclaimed and cherished. Never be tarried with or postponed for a more convenient hour, for who knew when that hour may come or what may happen to snatch it away. Undeclared feelings were like sand in the eye – an unforgiving itch, a constant niggle.
And besides, as he kept having to remind himself since Isabelle’s arrival, he never procrastinated.
“For years,” he said softly, following her arching eyebrow with the pad of his finger, “I’ve searched for love at elegant Mayfair balls and Welsh Assembly Rooms. I’ve attended soirées, the opera, dances and dinners. I despaired there was anyone for me, and my heart, each sunset, grew evermore saddened and weary.” He kissed her – prolonged and delicate. “And then, one morn, I saw a woman on the cliff top staring out to sea, bathed in the Welsh dawn light.”
“Rhys…”
“And I so ached to know all of her. She came to my study, kind and understanding about my niece. Passionate and seductive at my touch. Courageous in the face of adversity.” He raised her hand and kissed the palm. “Love came to me in the guise of a governess and I will never allow such exquisite treasure to slip from my fingers. You could be a chambermaid or a princess and I would love you. And as for the short time of our acquaintance?” He smiled. “Well as you know, I have written of what I searched for often enough to recognise it when it stood before me. You are all I wrote of and more. I love you, Isabelle Beaujeu.”
One tear travelled down her cheek and he leaned low to sup at it.
“But does the governess love the duke?” he whispered in her ear. “Or was it just the fever of the night which compelled her to speak of love solely in her own native tongue?”
She twisted her neck, met his lips.
“I spoke the words of truth, Rhys – no matter the language.” She grabbed his hand and kissed the fist. “I had thought love was not for me, a governess, that I would merely read of its sentiment in poems, smile at its joy and cry at its romance.” Peeking up, her eyes were as of last night – soft and languorous like Welsh summer rain. “I vowed to never allow attachment within my employ and yet… You treated me as an equal, one with sense and feeling. You stole into my being with your poetic words, your respect and your compassion. A lover who pilfered my heart before I even knew it had gone.” She raised on tiptoes… “I admire the duke. I esteem the aristocrat. I adore the poet.” And kissed him. “But I love the man.”
Rhys growled and gathered her close. Had never felt such unity, the vagrant musings of Byrne not nearly enough to express his true passion at this moment.
He loved Isabelle.
And come what may, he could be sure that his brave beloved would rise to whatever challenge lay before her, and so as one they would now find the culprit who had sought to separate them.
