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“Stay. If you have the time.” He rubbed a chin that required a shave. “I meant to request a meeting this morning concerning Mari’s progress, so if you are not too discomfited by my attire, we could speak now.”
Discomfited?
That was certainly one word for it. The duke appeared so…elemental, and never had she viewed a man in quite such a state of undress.
Well, besides the aged Mayfair nobleman who’d entered her chambers requesting chastisement. He’d merely been wearing a nightgown and cap, hairy legs poking out like lichen-clad twigs. But in hindsight, he could not be considered of the same species as this duke.
In point of fact, she could not even be sure they were of the same genus.
“Not discomfited at all,” she assured him and, after all, standing here she could appreciate the view for a little longer.
The sea view, she meant, of course.
For she was a professional governess.
“You should come here at sunset,” he said. “It can be spectacular, the bay lit to a molten gold – divine and too sublime for our poor mortal gaze.”
She tilted her head, frowning. “I… I recall a similar line from a poem describing a sunset.”
The duke gazed into the distance. “Doubtless I stole it. How is the Welsh proceeding? Mrs Pugh mentioned you had a phrase book.”
“Dowch i mi ychydig o eich cwrw goreu?” she enunciated with pride.
“Bring me some of your finest ale?” A smirk passed over his lips.
“Truly, I am unsure what the assistant at Hatchards thought I was to do in Wales when he suggested The Welsh Language for English Travellers, 1815. I can request a stableman to ‘grease my wheels’ but have yet to encounter a simple ‘Please’. And Mrs Pugh was no…” She halted, not able to cast aspersions in this household upon the venerated housekeeper.
To her astonishment, his cheeks flushed a ruddy hue. “She means well.”
That is what everyone here wittered but Isabelle had yet to confirm the truth of the matter, especially as most of Miss Culpepper’s reports upon the other members of the household had proven to be correct.
The duke was indeed somewhat moody, stalking about in the early morn and dark of night; the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader was, without doubt, scandalous; and the housekeeper, as far as Isabelle was concerned, did appear to be a witch.
The breeze tugged at her pinned hair, teasing tendrils loose, and Isabelle turned to face the duke. “I’ve not felt salt spray on my skin since I was very young. Your home has a beautiful location, Your Grace.”
“Did the Revolution force you to England?”
She startled and twisted back to the sea. “Yes.” And drew the shawl about her shoulders. Perhaps less of the small talk. “You wished to discuss Mari?”
“Indeed. How do you find her?”
“Delightful. Considerate. Intelligent. Bold, but persuadable to learn.”
“Bribable, more like.”
“Maybe so, but that is a consequence of intelligence. She also deeply grieves her father.”
Now it was the duke who twisted to the sea. “As do we all, Miss Beaujeu.”
He planted broad hands on the fence, obsidian gaze fixed to the expanse, lips flat.
Isabelle closed her eyes. She’d not meant to rekindle painful memories. Perhaps she ought to change the topic of conversation. Again. “Your collection of dragon artworks is most comprehensive,” she found herself saying.
He focused upon her once more and nodded, the shadows beneath his eyes like smudged charcoal.
“And for yourself, do you admire the creatures, Miss Beaujeu? Or do you consider them the nightmarish beasts that the locals gossip of?” He tilted his head. “I presume you’ve heard the legend of how the earls of Llanedwyn transform into fire-breathing devils?”
“Oh, no…” A flush ambushed her cheeks. “Not at all.” She cleared her throat to swallow the untruth and thought a tactical retreat might be in order. “Now if you will excuse me, Your Grace, I must attend to lessons.”
