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Isabelle returned her attention to the abundance before her.
The spiced French soup was delicious, Mari narrowing her eyes as Miss Pritchard slurped.
The minted Welsh lamb was succulent, Isabelle narrowing her eyes as the Ever So ScandalousMr Cadwalader filled her wineglass once more.
“Pa faint,” she began as she really ought to try out some phrases from The Welsh Language for English Travellers, 1815, “ydych chwi yn ei godi y filltir.”
The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader choked on his claret.
Mari giggled.
Isabelle sighed. “I had intended to show appreciation for your attentiveness but have a feeling I’ve disordered my phrases.”
The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader leaned near, the scent of cinnamon wafting, his whisper a throaty purr. “I can assure you, Miss Beaujeu, that I don’t charge by the mile.”
Sacre bleu.
* * *
The topicsof after-dinner conversation amongst the rather scant gentlemen had been varied – from Lord Powell bemoaning the extortionate interest rates of gaming hells, to Captain Brecken’s denunciation of the state of hospitals for injured returning soldiers, and then to Mr Pritchard’s accolades for peasant shooting.
Rhys had assumed the gentleman meant pheasant.
Morgan swept open the double doors to the drawing room with a flourish and Rhys felt akin to a prize bull as all the ladies swivelled with winsome smiles and fluttering fans – except his childhood friend Gwen who rolled her eyes, and Mari who was picking at her gloves, and the governess who was perusing one of his artworks.
Immediately he was set upon by Elen, trailed by Lady Bronwen Powell, a scantily clad Miss Hannah Pritchard and the far-too-young but most amiable Miss Rhiannon Vaughn.
He did the pretty, chatting of London tattle, mutual acquaintances, the weather, and agreeing it was irksome that the haberdashery in Caernarfon had trouble sourcing the latest dyes from Nepal.
They were all delightful and wholesome and so…youthful. Cousin Elen meant well, but he wanted… A low husky laugh caught his ear and his gaze drifted to–
“Aberdare.” The harsh whisper and prodded finger bespoke his inattention. In fact, the ladies were now talking amongst themselves.
“Elen.”
“I do hope you won’t fall into one of your…silences.”
He narrowed his eyes.
She narrowed hers. “These are all ladies of impeccable Welsh lineage, Aberdare. How about Lady Nesta? Her ancestry boasts two bishops and a warrior prince. There’s also a writer but all families have a black sheep, one supposes, and then there’s…”
Rhys noted his heir was now busy flirting with a group of ladies which included Gwen, a rosy-cheeked Miss Craddock, her mother, Mari and the governess, who appeared in fine looks this night. Her hair gleamed like liquid mahogany beneath the candlelight and her pale purple-hued dress highlighted her figure and radiant skin.
“Or you could converse,” Elen continued, “with Miss Brecken? A pity there’s no title but her father is well connected in politics and no English ancestry befouls her lineage…”
Hugh prattled something to cause his assembled harem to blush and giggle.
Cad by name, cad by nature.
Rhys inhaled. “I shall converse with Miss Craddock.”
A gloved hand fell upon his arm. “Oh, but Lady Bronwen–”
“Miss Craddock is on your list of prospective duchesses for me, is she not?”
“Well, yes, but she’s not at the top. I invited her because her sister has birthed four boys in four years thus far and–”
He deployed the ducal eyebrow. Rarely did he bestow it on family but…
