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Chapter Twelve
“The duties of governess are arduous, and very trying to the constitution.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Shelley. Keats. Byrne. Blake. Wordsworth.
Isabelle caressed the gold-embossed spines stacked haphazardly upon the study mantelpiece as she awaited the duke’s return from assuring Mari that all was well.
Clearly, he enjoyed his poetry, but there was also prose by Rousseau and Swift.
Music echoed through the house from the ongoing ball but this study felt cocooned, an intimate room by night, the mirror-backed sconces causing the mahogany panelling to glow with amber warmth.
Footfall, and the door closed. Her nape prickled, cheeks grew flush, and the study appeared to shrink in size. For what reason, Isabelle could not fathom, for she’d been alone with the duke before, discussing his niece, so there was naught to become missish about.
But tonight she’d witnessed the duke’s intensity, the fierceness he’d revealed in the Sunken Garden.
Twisting from the fire and pressing her cheeks with frigid palms that refused to warm, Isabelle watched as he poured two glasses of brandy from the decanter, black coat stretching against the flex of his broad shoulders.
This evening, she’d lost her composure: permitted Miss Pritchard to treat her as a maid, become upset at the slur on her beautiful parents, and, with mind beset, had been hoodwinked into accompanying a vicious charlatan to the shadowed gardens.
How much had the duke overheard?
Had he believed the reason she’d given for leaving the ballroom with a gentleman? Or did he suspect another motive – a rendezvous at her own behest that had become out of hand?
She composed herself. “I should explain… Lord Gwilym informed me that Mari thought she was bleeding to death from a grazed elbow after tumbling down the garden steps. That was the sole reason I went with him. It sounded exactly like her. There was no further…”
“I know.” With a clink, he stoppered the decanter and glanced over. Then joined her at the mantelpiece, the fire highlighting the crisp planes of his features. “Drink this. Slowly.”
She sipped, the burn sliding down her throat and sinking with a pleasurable sear. “You believe me? Some think a governess’ sole intention is to seek a rich protector.”
“Your references, Miss Beaujeu, are immaculate. You have shown no interest towards other noblemen and Gwilym is a…” He tightened his full lips. “…blackguard of the first order.”
Isabelle could not contain her snigger, put fingers to mouth to halt it.
The duke hoisted a forbidding brow.
“Forgive me but it is just… You English are so polite.”
Those lips quirked. “I’m Welsh, Miss Beaujeu, an altogether different breed. Coc oena dim gwerth rhech dafad is how I’d put it in Welsh. Though that is not for a lady’s ears.”
“Well, I may not understand Welsh but I…adore the sound.” The fluid sing-song nature. The earthy roll of letters. The sensual lilt and deep slide.
“In that case, Miss Beaujeu…” He now spoke with a Welsh inflection, his rumble imbuing the words with seductive rhythm. “Let me see your hand?”
“P-pardon?”
“I suspect,” he continued, clearly not realising what that intonation was doing to her very senses, “that you injured the knuckles of your right hand as you keep hiding them in your skirts.”
“Oh, no. I am fine. It was most…squishy.” She battened down her lashes. Surely a professional governess could call upon vocabulary superior to…squishy. “I just cannot seem to warm them.”
He placed his glass on the mantel and held out a broad palm. “One should obey a duke. Give me your hand.”
Isabelle took a step closer. And obeyed.
Never before had anyone sought to protect or defend her. It compelled within her a sense of shelter, yet at the same time an…apprehension, the very act of protection pummelling at her control more robustly than any silver-tongued rogue’s seductive words.
