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He sniffed.
As did Isabelle. She could sniff with the best of them.
“In that case, one should perambulate to the right. For the rose garden, one would advise.”
“Thank you, Morgan. Most helpful.” She paused. “Would you happen to be a descendant of the famous pirate Sir Henry Morgan, by any chance?” Anything to ruffle his cravat.
He displayed the remarkable ability to peer down yet maintain his nose high. “One does not speak of Great-Great-Uncle Henry. An aberration in one’s lineage, Miss Beaujeu.”
Who would have thought?
“Rest assured, Morgan, I shall keep it under my bonnet.” And she sailed through the door, plotting course for the rose garden until she heard the clunk of the latch falling behind her.
Then she turned about, for she’d noted from her window that there was no access to the cliffs in that direction, and roses left a lot to be desired in October.
The parterre garden up close was truly elegant and she trailed fingers along the box leaves, admired the statue of Neptune with his mighty trident, and then wandered until the pathway led her to a low hedge of beech.
A latched broad gate was set within it, giving way to a rough sedge-covered tract of land.
Glistening with dew, a scythed path weaved seawards so she dawdled down it, admiring the autumn-flowering heathers dotted either side, their beads of pink peeking out from the tough grass.
And the more one looked, the more one discovered other plants defying the wind-blown salt – the jade of what she considered to be rock samphire, the emerald of sea beet, the dark green of little tufty humps that she couldn’t identify without her flora and fauna book.
Further along the cliffs, a mere hundred yards or so from the house, the remains of the Castell y Ddraig stood guard over the sea and she shivered.
Ahead, a waist-high fence prevented man and beast from straying too close to the cliff edge, its wood silvered by salt and age, and she rested her palms upon it.
Breathed deep. Felt the pure breeze that was uniquely of the coast.
A short distance beyond, the rocky precipice dropped away to frame the sea – a glorious expanse scented with brine and weed.
Feeling…released and quite as wild as the sea before her, she recited aloud…
“‘The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake…’”
“Bravo, Miss Beaujeu.”
Zut.
“Your Grace…” She twisted to discover him striding the scythed path towards her.
Double Zut. He wore solely shirt, breeches and boots.
The breeze flattened the linen against his broad chest, and her eyes flitted from his upper arms, for the muscles she’d seen in W. Cheselden’s Anatomy of the Human Body, 7th Edition certainly hadn’t bulged in such a manner.
Were males carved from granite in this land? Made to haul rocks as children?
“My apologies,” he murmured. “I did not mean to disturb your solitude.” A notebook was held beneath his arm and he transferred it to his palm before joining her at the fence. “I enjoy this time of morning, so can oft be found strolling the cliffs, especially when the weather is fair.”
Isabelle made a mental note to steer clear of the cliffs at dawn.
Honestly, she did.
For she was a professional governess.
“I too enjoy the silence of early morning, Your Grace.” She shuffled her feet, at once aware that her left stocking was wending its way down her leg as she’d tied her garters with too much haste and too little tension. “But I should retur–”
