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Isabelle’s forehead puckered.
Then an immense cheer erupted from the house behind them, yells and whistles.
Isabelle laughed loud. “Was that a signal that I’d said ‘yes’ to your proposal?”
With a grin, Rhys proceeded to unfurl and draw down the canvas curtains to the back of the gazebo.
For now, it was their time to be alone.
“Indeed,” he said with a chuckle. “It was either that or have an audience. Mari threatened to help with stage directions, so…”
Isabelle rose and threw herself at his waistcoat, head tight under his chin, so he held her close, relished the night and the sea. The stars and this woman.
“I was told,” she whispered, “the gossip columns label you Mean, Moody and Mysterious. Yet…” She peered up. “I found you to be all that is Magnanimous, Masterful and Magnificent.”
“I can be mean, if you wish,” he whispered, kissing her with ferocious want. “I’ll be moody, if you desire,” he rasped, gazing with intense eyes. “But mysterious? I am no mystery to you, my love, because you understand me wholly.” He bussed her nose. “Instead, I think that you, Miss Beaujeu, a viscount’s daughter and governess par excellence,are the intriguing mystery which I shall enjoy unravelling for eternity.”
He drew her down onto the chaise once more, the gazebo now a cosy enclave facing the unbroken expanse that tonight sung its songs sotto voce.
The waves rumbled and purred like dragons of yore, the glory of this night, the words of poets and of man all forsaken as Rhys kissed his soulmate.
