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Spinning, she made to depart but he caught her wrist.
Isabelle gasped.
Not because his hand was heated and generous and strong, which it was…
But because her stocking had abruptly plummeted down her leg, her red garter now encircling her ankle, and she prayed with all fervour that the duke would not notice.
Rhys endeavouredto ignore the fact that a cherry-red garter ribbon was now encircling his governess’ left ankle, her stocking ever more bunching over her ankle boot.
But nevertheless – and surely a man could be forgiven under such circumstances – the thought of that red lace frippery encircling her smooth thigh caused a certain ruckus in his nether regions.
Should not a governess wear underclothes of dismal brown or sober grey? And hell, what could be the colour of the ribbons on her stays then? Azure? Pomona green? Scarlet?
Damnation! And he endeavoured to focus on educative matters: correct usage of apostrophes and how long it would take a cannon ball shot from earth to reach the sun.
Some twenty-two years if Newton was to be believed.
When Rhys had first observed Miss Beaujeu strolling the cliff top this dawn, he’d thought not to intrude and continue his return to the house – after all, he’d been working since five, sleep eluding him as usual, and as a rule he so enjoyed the solitude of early morn – but his feet had pivoted nonetheless, noggin whispering that he could enquire of Mari. More conducive than later when the guests would be footling around his house and getting under everyone’s boots.
Then Miss Beaujeu had quoted one of his favourite poems and a curious…instinct had swathed him as she’d stood there alone.
To join her. To talk easily of verse and the beauty of daybreak.
To not be alone.
A ladylike cough reminded Rhys he still held her wrist. It appeared slender within his clumsy grasp – fragile and vulnerable – yet in all the ballrooms and soirées, he’d never met a woman with such a dauntless disposition.
“My apologies.” And he released it, their skin brushing in a far too agreeable rasp. “If you have but a moment, I should like to tell you what lies behind the local tales of the Llanedwyn dragons.”
She bit her lip, but inquisitiveness obviously won out for she nodded whilst inching to the fence once more. Rhys suppressed a smile as she slid the leg with the bunched stocking behind the other’s ankle.
“As you’ve most likely gleaned by now,” he continued, “the Llanedwyn earldom is centuries old, more so than the dukedom. It stretches back to the time of King Arthur and beyond.”
“Yes. Mrs Pugh might have mentioned it. On a few occasions.”
His lips twitched. “And in those ancient times, a force more powerful than politics or titles held sway…”
She raised a brow.
“Magic, Miss Beaujeu. Magic prevailed within this Welsh land when the first Earl of Llanedwyn – a warrior who’d survived many a battle – settled here and began his search for a countess. Yet none would suit – not spirited or fearless enough for this warrior. So, the earl consulted a witch and she assured him she’d create a consort who’d be his equal in each and every way. The fee was a pot of gold.”
“He could have just attended a London Season. It would have cost the same.”
Rhys felt his lips curve – a rare occurrence, he was aware, since Tristan had died. “I fear the London ballrooms would have been too brutal a battleground even for this warrior. This witch, however, was a canny one and although she kept her word and forged a mate for him, what she created was a beast with glistening red scales, a lashing tail, and fire gusting from her nostrils.”
His governess bit her lip. “I imagine he was rather disappointed, fearing he’d become toast on their wedding day.”
This time he laughed, rusty and raw, but shook his head. “Not at all. He recognised his soulmate – determined, strong, and doubtless fiery. So he visited the witch again and for another pot of gold…” He elevated his brow.
“She made him into a dragon too?”
“Just so. Except, somewhat conveniently, the earl could change at will as obviously he had lands to take care of.” He waved a vague hand at the estate. “But he would oft visit these cliffs, recite an incantation and transform into a mighty black dragon before the two lovers would soar into this sky. Since then, the colours of black and red have adorned our coat of arms and it is said the earls of Llanedwyn have the ddraig within their souls.”
Miss Beaujeu peered into that same sky. “A romantic and fantastical legend, Your Grace.”
“I have always thought so. Locals gossip that we still turn dragon when the mood takes us.”
She grinned. “Well, a governess should never be one to heed gossip, Your Grace.”
