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Wrapped in scarlet and gold,
Undone. Unforeseen…
Beautiful, with a familiar cadence to it, and Isabelle frowned. Perhaps the duke was copying out lines for whatever was happening at tomorrow evening’s entertainment? A recital? She shifted the papers to read another underneath and–
“Can one be of assistance, Miss Beaujeu?”
“Morgan!” She patted her chest. “You gave me a fright. Lady Elen requested me to fetch some paper.”
His eyes tightened. “One will deliver it oneself to Lady Elen.” He stalked in, seized the sheets from her fingers and stalked back to the door. “If one would now care to depart.”
Isabelle likewise stalked but only in his wake as he stepped through to the hall, leaving the door open for her. “Thank y–” she managed, before the butler yanked it shut behind her with such haste that it bumped her in the derrière. She huffed and tightened her eyes also.
“His Grace,” Morgan intoned, “dislikes anyone entering his private study without his express permission.”
Ah, doubtless Lady Elen had declined to fetch the paper herself in case she was caught but considered the new governess fair game.
“Well, then, thank you, Morgan.” She perused his thin face. “Do you know, I was teaching some history to Miss Cadogan yesterday and your legendary ancestor came to our attention. There was a fine woodcut of him, and I have to say, there is a familial resemblance. It’s the nose, I think.”
With a wink, she drifted off, then peeked over one shoulder to find him staring askew into the hall mirror and tilting his head this way and that.
Was he posing?
In fact, she was so enthralled that she walked straight into a bundle of silk and feather.
“Oh, my apolo–”
“You bird-witted malapert!” snarled one of the prospective brides, a Lady Nesta, she believed. “If you’ve inked my dress with your working hands, I’ll have the duke dock your wages.”
Isabelle blinked and thought a very rude French word.
Thus far, she’d not had any dealings with this taciturn young lady. Of which Isabelle was now heartily glad.
“As I said, my profuse apologies.”
“Hmm.” She tousled her short, radiant blond curls. “Do you admire my coiffure, Miss Beaujeu?”
Odd question, but Isabelle tentatively smiled. “It is charming, my lady.”
“Thank you. This style is named a la victim et a la guillotine, you know. For the bared nape.”
Isabelle’s smile fell but she would not be roused. “Have I offended you in some manner, Lady Nesta?” she asked demurely.
The pretty girl leaned near, her face twisted to cruel. “Your very presence here offends me. I may remain apart from the empty-headed gaggle of geese that the duke has invited, but I see everything. And I’ve seen the way you look at the duke and the way he looks at you.” Her gaze perused Isabelle from sensible boots to snugly pinned hair. “But you’re no more than a dalliance before marriage, Miss Beaujeu. A nothing. With no bloodlines of worth, no status, nor dowry.”
Demure be dammed.
“On the contrary, Lady Nesta, I have everything. For I am not dependent on the largesse of a patriarch. My money is my own, not held in dowry for a husband. And should I wish, I could leave here tomorrow. Unlike those paraded for marriage like sows at market.”
And with a swish of skirt – as best she could manage in grey wool – Isabelle swept past the spiteful hussy, nose higher than the butler’s.
Of course, that hussy could now convey Isabelle’s insolence to Lady Elen, but she had not been rude per se.
Sighing, Isabelle hurried from the front door, crossed the forecourt and swiftly strode through the parterre garden – loath to meet anyone else this morning.
She just wished to be alone for a little while.
Mrs Pugh had made known a livestock-proof kissing gate within the cliff fence which allowed access to a bench overlooking a cove, so Isabelle ambled in search of it, appreciating the dipping gulls and the low October sun.
