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The majority of the rear gardens were of a natural style which had in fact taken twenty years to shape, lantern-strewn trees and shrubs dotting the clipped grass, but no shadows moved, so he twisted for the more secluded herbaceous borders backed with beech hedges. He began to run down the centre path, head whipping side to side, gravel crunching beneath his feet, the benches empty.
So he twisted left, dashed past a few statues and made for a short flight of steps, cursing the ancestor who’d planted all these bloody hedges.
Voices halted his stride.
“I’ve been told,” came a fearsome growl from the Sunken Garden ahead, “you’re a wanton little French fondant who can’t resist. Now, come here!”
“Brûlez en l’enfer!” came a more fearsome growl. “Who told you such lies, you licentious buck fitch?”
“Never you mind, my luscious French fancy. I want to know what’s under those skir–”
Rhys rushed to the Sunken Garden as a shriek rent the air, a cry of unmitigated terror; he’d pound Gwilym into the dirt until nothing existed but shattered bone.
Tearing after the cries, he rounded the hedge to…
Beneath a swaying lantern attached to a rowan branch stood Miss Beaujeu, a grimace puckering the profile of her pretty face whilst she flexed the fingers of her gloved right hand.
Lord Gwilym was writhing upon the grass, clutching his groin and…gurgling.
“Miss Beaujeu, are you…well?”
With a startle, she twisted.
“Of course. And Mari?” she shot back, pinching the fingertips of her glove to remove it. “Is she well also?”
“Er… Yes, quite well. She’s beneath a potted orange tree in the ballroom with Lady Gwen.”
His governess scowled. “This gentleman told me she’d hurt herself in the gardens, so like a fool, I followed.”
“She… She… Help me…”came a falsetto burble from the grass. “I’m… I’m dying.”
Rather unsure what to do, Rhys shuffled his feet. Hardly ducal at all.
He’d been all primed to act the fierce protector, to defend and slay, solely to discover the damsel herself had slain the beast.
A little unmanning, if truth be told.
And most impressive.
So he strolled over, kicked Lord Gwilym in the gizzards – which made him feel a smidgen better – and paused before Miss Beaujeu.
Upon closer inspection, despite her sangfroid, she was blinking rather a lot, her chest swelling in upheaval, and her lip trembled before she caught it betwixt her teeth.
Rhys claimed the bared hand that she still flexed. So chill. “What happened?”
“Can’t feel my ballocks…” interjected the squirming soprano.
“As this gentleman walked aside me in the gardens,” she began matter-of-fact, “he grasped my neck and attempted to grope my derrière. I stepped away and inquired what on earth he thought he was doing. Some insults were exchanged on both sides, and in various languages, before he reached for me anew. So left with no recourse, I fisted my right hand and struck him in the…in the…”
Even Rhys winced.
He’d once taught Gwen how to knee an over-ardent suitor but a punch…
“Who instructed you in that?”
“What about me?”came a howl from the ground.
“A Miss Culpepper.”
