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She nodded and curtseyed. “Then we shall say no more. Good night, Your Grace.” Her steps were measured and all that was correct as she hastened to the door.
“Nos da, Miss Beaujeu. Cysgu’n dda,” he called after her. “Good night. Sleep well.”
She’d almost had him fooled.
That their near-kiss had meant nothing to her – an instinctive reaction to circumstance – but as he’d declared his farewell, her hand had fumbled upon the brass handle.
Then the door slammed with the undue might of a Welsh giant’s fist.
Rhys rounded to his chair and flung himself in, thumped his forehead to the desk.
Never, not once, had he been one for seducing staff of his household and he lashed himself with whips of remorse, for he had no wish for Miss Beaujeu to look upon him as the sort of nobleman she’d mentioned. The sort who abused their position as employer.
He must keep himself in bloody check for her sake and the sake of all Elen’s invited young ladies who had arrived here with thoughts of matrimony.
Lifting his head, he exhaled heavily.
But what in damnation was he to do about the beguiling Miss Beaujeu who effected such emotion and desire within him?
Rhys reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a thin volume of poetry, flicked through and read the words upon the page.
Then, at last, he smiled.
Of course.
Byrne was never wrong.
