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But her thoughts returned to the Mediterranean.
“I have worked with a number of young ladies, Your Grace, and am sure that myself and your niece will deal well with one another.”
In any case, should any drama arise, Isabelle possessed a portmanteau of sturdy tomes to aid her, including her pride and joy – Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies by the inimitable Miss Appleton, an authoritative text for the modern educator.
The Duke of Aberdare hummed beneath his breath before returning his gaze to her references, so Isabelle now took the opportunity to examine this duke.
Ink-dark curly hair kissed his collar, one strand artlessly – or due to his valet’s intervention – dangling upon his forehead.
Arching brows brooded over eyes so black they appeared as burned stumps.
Sculptured cheekbones one could balance a ruler upon were tensed and even his chin ruminated in square-cut repose.
Let us just say he was handsome in an…earthy manner.
And as for his breadth and stature…
What had they fed him as a child?
For he was an entire six foot of masculine vigour fitted within a blood-red waistcoat, dishevelled black Weston coat, tight black breeches and scuffed black top-boots.
In short, he was unlike any duke she’d previously interviewed.
Of course, she meant that the other way around.
Miss Beaujeu wasunlike any governess Rhys had previously interviewed – and there’d been a fair few. Although, as she levelled that speculative chill grey gaze, he wondered if she wasn’t interviewing him.
Rhys could only hope he’d pass muster as she’d come highly recommended, and it had taken him an entire hour to tidy his own study. His housekeeper despaired when once a year he requested dusters and polish, but maids were prone to pry and shift papers hither and thither, organising them into incomprehensible piles.
Casting an eye over the references, he once again marvelled at the praise.
Miss Beaujeu cured my daughter Lucy’s lisp– Lady Lalveley.
Miss Beaujeu bagged our Sybil a marquess– Lady Chesbroke.
Miss Beaujeu is all that is proper, virtuous and incorruptible. Alas – Lord Hardwick.
A paragon, indeed.
And heaven knows, he needed one for his fifteen-year-old niece.
Tossing the references aside, he leaned back, put finger to lip and studied this governess who spoke so confidently, her voice a husky rasp.
With hands clasped neatly in her lap and a spine declining to meet the back of the chair, she appeared the epitome of tranquillity and order.
His butler had taken her snuff-brown pelisse and bonnet to reveal an equally sombre dress and lacklustre dark hair, not a single crease in sight or strand out of place. Her features were elegant, complexion a touch muddy, but with eyes the hue of a Welsh bay in autumn – ash grey with a hint of silver.
Truly, her manner was all that was studious, placid and befitting of a governess.
So why did he also have the feeling those eyes could flash like a turbulent sea in mid-winter?
Perhaps it was the thumbs – the pads of which tapped against one another as though a single outlet was required from beneath all the imposed stillness.
Would Miss Beaujeu settle within his household? Or, like the governesses who’d gone before, would she turn tail and…take French leave?
Despite the excellent references, his spinster cousin Lady Elen, who’d been staying with them since spring, had underlined her misgivings on this governess’ résumé and penned him a list of questions to ask, but quite frankly, they were dull, he was desperate and she appeared willing to travel.
He was also in somewhat of a rush.
