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Cheers and whistles chased her, so she peered over her shoulder at the house to find two of the upstairs windows were open, Mari, Hugh and the guests all waving madly.
Isabelle waved back, then flung wide the gate in the parterre hedge and dashed down the scythed path before her feet halted, breath not stuttering from the frenzied sprint but for the scene ahead.
A canvas and wood gazebo, open on all sides, had been erected on the rough patch of sedge before the cliffs, lamps swaying. The rich-red chaise from the study and a table bearing two glasses sat snugly within and just to the side of the construction, a fire burned gleefully in a metal basket, the tame breeze snatching its ash and flame to the north.
A clear but moonless night encircled this haven where Rhys had first recounted the legend of the Llanedwyn warrior and his dragon mate, and beyond it, the grumble of the sea could be heard – untamed and endless.
“Rhys,” she sighed, heart expanding, likewise endless for the man who had thought to create such exquisiteness.
“At least you didn’t call me Morgan this time,” he teased, placing a watch back in his fob pocket.
“Oh, Rhys, it’s beautiful…and the poem…”
“Well…” He strode forward. “It appears the spoken word fails me where you are concerned so I had to resort to the written and then this…”
Nerves flailedat Rhys and he endeavoured to pull himself together, regain his unflappable ducal calm, but whenever Isabelle stood before him – beguiling and at one with the night – his reason shredded, words refusing to form coherency.
With this woman, he wasn’t a duke or an earl or even a poet, but just a man who loved and cherished and laughed.
He noticed Isabelle’s eyes were moist, her fingers trembling at her lips, so at least he wasn’t the only one to be affected so – he’d managed to ruffle the composed Miss Beaujeu quite successfully.
“Come. Please sit. I have some champagne.” And he led her to the chaise.
The night was clear, calm and chill, the blustery clouds of yesterday having scattered, but the fire’s heat gently warmed, and he settled a blanket upon her knees as she sat, the slap of waves below entreating him to hasten on with it.
So he perched beside her on the chaise. Then dug into his fob pocket and checked his watch again.
“Is something happening?” she asked. “What hour is it?”
“Er… no idea. This is Tristan’s watch. And it doesn’t actually work as his horse trod on it.”
Isabelle laughed and Rhys smiled. It was good to talk of Tristan now – his antics and pranks. Sorrow still lingered but did not pursue.
Instead, a warmth had lit within.
“Tris swore this watch brought him luck,” he continued, “hence tonight I… Well… So…”
Her lips gently curved, eyes brimming with tender love, and words abandoned him once more.
So he laid a palm to her cheek and languidly, gradually, deliberately, kissed her.
It lasted, this kiss. Timeless. Effortless.
He drew away. But only a smidgeon.
Some men would adorn their beloved with diamonds and although he would soon gift her his ancestors’ rubies – real ones – above all, he wished to give Isabelle the freedom to be who she was beneath the layers of governess grey. To see her dressed in the cherry-red colour of her hidden garters.
“As you know, Isabelle de Beaujeu, I am a duke who only ever wanted to wed for love. Not for privilege or ancestry or money. All I ever wished for was love, desire and friendship. I have found it all. With you. I love you, Isabelle. So free me from my solitude, accept my weary heart, for it is yours. Become my duchess? Marry me?”
“Rhys…” A tear trailed as she likewise placed her hand to his cheek. “I was to be a governess forever and was content in the life I’d found.” She stared into his eyes, the flame of the fire casting her skin aglow. “But to plagiarise a poet’s words, ‘Love waits for my surrender’. And I do, Rhys. I surrender to love that came to me in the guise of a man I so admired, that I could not help but fall in love with. Feelings that I’d only read about besieged me, of tenderness and passion, real and so very necessary.” She threaded fingers through his hair and he arched into them. “I would be honoured to marry you. To be your duchess. Your lover and your friend.”
Rhys seized her waist and kissed her with fire in his soul but Isabelle likewise thrust her hand to his nape and met that fire, for his mate was every bit his equal.
However, there were certain matters to attend to, so with frustration nipping his heels, he compelled his hands to withdraw.
“One moment, my love…”
A colossal bundle of dried broom stems lay to the side, and he rose to his feet to hurl them onto the fire. It screeched, throwing flames high into the air, sparks cavorting in the breeze.
