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“Aberdare?”
Rhys twisted all too keenly as Hugh and his unmentionables were best left to the ladies of London.
“Cousin Elen. My congratulations on the ball.” He bussed her hand. “The décor is exquisite, the supper room impeccable and the orchestra of the finest quality. And as for the flowers…” He’d heard her berating the gardener yesterday for cutting them too soon. “They’re resplendent.”
A petal-blush bloomed on her pale cheeks and she looked most fetching in pale lemon. “Thank you. I… I wondered if you’d considered who you might single out tonight? If you danced a second time with one of the young ladies, it would signal your interest.”
“Devil take it,” bit out Hugh. “Why not just ask him to fix a ring in her nose.”
Cousin Elen now rounded on his heir and drew herself to her full height. “If Aberdare comes to some unfortunate demise, the mighty Llanedwyn title of nigh five centuries, six valiant warriors, three profound philosophers and one lost explorer, falls to you. Need I say more. And considering the number of occasions you’ve fallen foul of a musket, sword or fist, then–”
“A crossbow was nearly the end of me.”
One could almost view the steam rising from Elen’s ears as she ignored him. “Then our mighty Welsh line would pass to some yokel named George Puddle who doesn’t even know he’s a Cadogan and resides in Buckinghamshire,” she spat.
Rhys patted her shoulder. “I’ll go dance with…” He stared across the ballroom and plucked one. “Miss Pritchard?”
“Thank you, Aberdare,” she said, straightening his cravat. “Although maybe not the waltz. She’ll leave damp patches on your breeches.”
Rhys opened his mouth, Hugh bit his lip, but Elen was beaming, so he nodded and began to wend his way through the crowd to the Pritchard assemblage…which by happenstance, included Mari and her governess.
“Ladies, gentlemen, may I join you?”
The ladies cooed their assent, Mari grinned and Miss Beaujeu inspected her feet.
“Fine affair, Your Grace,” asserted Mr Pritchard, perusing the gilded candelabras that lit the ballroom. “A match for anything London could produce.”
“Yes, indeed,” quivered a soggy Miss Pritchard, “although a dash chilly. Perhaps a Summer Ball would be pleasant?”
Her gown was so transparent, Rhys could see her–
“We were just comparing,” interjected Lady Bronwen Powell, her fingers coiling around his elbow like a cobra, “who our ancestors were.”
“Ah. How fascinating.”
“Mine, of course, was Prince Anarawd ap Rhodri on Father’s side. A Welsh hero beyond compare.”
Lord Powell nodded and patted his daughter’s shoulder.
“My family,” said the delicate Miss Brecken, “have records detailing our descendance from the fearless Welsh warrior Leuaf ap Seisyll.”
Lady Gwen frowned. “I thought he was celibate?”
“Not when he met Princess Angharad, my ancestor,” hissed the suddenly not-so-delicate Miss Brecken.
“My daughter…” Miss Craddock was thrust before him by her mother. “Is blessed by holy and devout descendance from none other than our unsurpassable Saint David himself.”
Gasps abounded.
Rhys frowned. Surely he had been celibate.
But specifics as to descendancy from their Welsh patron saint were rather scant, so the veracity of Mrs Craddock’s claim would be difficult to disprove…or prove.
“And yours, Miss Beaujeu?” Lady Bronwen wafted her fan. “Have you always come from a line of…employed peoples?”
His governess’ mahogany-hued head snapped up, eyes like flint. “My ancestors were…” A hesitation. “Good people, my lady. Loving and generous.”
Rhys eyed Lady Bronwen. “Which is to be commended, Miss Beaujeu.”
