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Questing and aching.
Or does she mock me to rise?
Taunting and–
A rattling of metal sounded from somewhere in the corridor and Isabelle frowned, twisting her gaze to the brass hands of the bedside clock.
A half after the hour of eleven.
Further rattling.
Could Mrs Pugh be shaking spectral chains?
Or was the duke about to fulfil the earls of Llanedwyn legend and turn dragon?
Isabelle snorted and flung back the coverlet, placed toes to floor, winced at the chill, donned her robe and strode over to hurl open the bedchamber door. Mrs Pugh would soon learn that–
No one stalked the dark. Not a living soul.
Yet…
A faint light glimmered at the far end of the corridor, so tightening the belt on her robe, Isabelle skulked down the plush rug, halting at a distance when she spied a lantern on the floor haloing Morgan the butler within its glow.
He appeared to be fitting…a gate to the staircase.
Complete with chain and padlock.
Odd.
The butler abruptly straightened so Isabelle spun in all haste, had no desire to be found lurking in her scanty attire, and–
Walloped headlong into a substantial male torso, rich exotic sandalwood infusing her senses, before a broad hand clutched her hip to prevent a backwards tumble onto her derrière.
With heart flapping like the wings of a moth, she thrust her palms to the linen-clad chest and stepped back.
The hand dropped.
“Your Grace,” she spluttered, “what are you doing here?”
The duke’s lips quirked, a lantern held in his other hand casting his countenance to honied light and jagged shadow. “I live here, Miss Beaujeu.”
Fair enough.
“But I have been called away on urgent business matters for a day or so, and Mari worries for me if I do not inform her, so I was leaving a note beneath her door as I am to depart at first light.”
A plausible enough explanation for creeping around the governess’ corridor at nigh midnight. Not that she thought of herself as tempting to a man in any way, but some noblemen considered the governess fair game and that the wage paid for more than just the education of their child.
Upon her first night of employ in one Mayfair townhouse, a certain viscount had entered her bedchamber with an ebony cane in hand and requested her to chastise him.
“And yourself, Miss Beaujeu? Why are you…prowling the hallways?”
Isabelle cleared her throat and attempted to recover her scrupulous governess mien, but ’twas rather difficult sans corset.
And in a woollen robe.
With her hair in a loose plait.
The duke was likewise in a state of déshabillé. For he’d removed his jacket and cravat, neck bared and waistcoat unbuttoned.
