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“I fancy there is rather a lot a governess should never do.”
“An entire book’s worth.”
“To include never passing the dawn with a cravatless gentleman, I’m sure. And I should remedy that, for the hour grows late and, since the weather is fair, I believe I am escorting the young ladies along the coast to…draw things.”
“Well, I wish you a pleasant day. I hope to take Mari riding this afternoon. Perhaps visit the village, if you approve? She wails that her limbs are weakening from your three-day riding ban and she’ll be unable to stand soon.”
Rhys smiled, glad the governess didn’t seem to feel a need to quash his niece’s theatricality. “Certainly, just stay far from the cliffs.”
“Dragons?”
“Crumbling rocks and eroding edges. Good day, Miss Beaujeu.”
“Your Grace.” His governess curtseyed with all the elegance one could likely muster with a saggy stocking.
After a nod, he turned and strode back up the scythed path, frowning as a curtain on the first floor twitched.
At the gate in the beech hedge, however, he glanced back over his shoulder.
The sun had arisen and crept around the corner of the house, painting the land in beams of scarlet and saffron.
Bathed in its incandescence was Miss Beaujeu, her visage tilted to the warmth, shiny curls battling for escape from the jumbled pins – not a placid and tame governess but a vital and unrestrained woman.
Rhys admired her habitual control, knew what it was to be obliged to portray a constant mask of command – the obligation of duty tightly constraining every word and deed.
Yet this morning, in her company, he felt rather like her stocking…
Slightly undone.
Released.
He stared into the distance.
Then veered from the path and towards the rose garden, clutching his notebook.
Guests be damned.
For work called.
