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“Lord Cladwith likes you. Goes red as a cherry when he speaks to you.”
“He is charming,” she agreed. “Just a little…”
“Too charming?” suggested Isabelle.
“Precisely. I prefer gentlemen a dash more…rugged.”
Mari nodded sagely. “Papa wouldn’t have liked Cladwith either. Next?”
Consulting the text, Isabelle frowned. “‘Add a few locks of hair; this should be at first wild, extremely curled, and in large divisions, then becoming softer as the layers are built.’”
Mari’s feet danced back and forth with the movement of her pencil whilst Isabelle listened to the stout footfall passing the schoolroom door. Since the destruction of her chamber, she had noticed a new footman in the corridor by day, in addition to Madog for the night-time hours. Was that for her, she wondered? If so, it was a thoughtful act by the duke.
On more than one occasion, she’d ruminated on that night he’d come to her room and what his care for her had signified. He’d been so ardent and protective and…
Isabelle was dreadfully afraid she was succumbing to a state of emotion that a governess should never succumb to. Especially as for all his thoughtfulness and kisses, the duke had never uttered any words of more profound sentiment.
Unrequited emotion, Miss Culpepper had once stated, generated discontent within the household and should be avoided at all cost. Isabelle had long ago vowed that if she found herself in such an untenable situation, she would seek the advertisement pages of The Times and find another position. Far away.
Though the prospect pained her – for she adored Mari, this land with its wild sea and lush nature weaving its Welsh magic upon her. It pained her to think she would never look upon the duke’s smile again, never view his eyes inky with desire, hear him quote lines of poetry or feel his lips drag against her throat.
Which told her that maybe it was all too late anyhow.
Had love crept up on her when he’d kneeled by her bedside and tended to her injured foot? Her heart lost as he’d laid her so tenderly upon the bed and kis–
“Ahem.” Lady Gwen and Mari were staring at her with raised brows, and she realised she was biting her lip, cheeks rather heated.
“Er…” She gazed to Miss Appleton’s tome and pledged once more to cease reading romantic poetry in bed. Doubtless it caused an overset of mind. “‘Take a pinch of bread and pass it over the charcoal lines to create shading.’ I left some on the easel stand for you, Mari. Miss Appleton says bread is better than using one’s finger which can cause smudges on skirts.”
“Oh.” Her pupil peered around with scrunched nose. “Was that what it was for? Sorry, I was hungry and ate it. I’ll just use my little finger and wash it afterwards.”
Lady Gwen laughed. “Can we see it, do you think, Mari?”
Green eyes widened in alarm.
Tuts and mutters followed as the finishing touches were applied, but with a shared smile, Isabelle and Lady Gwen rose to make their way to Mari’s side.
Isabelle squinted. “It’s…unusual.” In fact, she’d once viewed a gallery of Renaissance art, and one, in particular, had struck her – a visage formed of vegetables, lumpy and…odd, like soup. This was similar.
Lady Gwen stepped back. Then took another few paces. “Just misses the bread for shading, I am sure.”
“I’m probably ahead of my time.” Mari scratched at her ear with the pencil, then wiped her forehead, leaving charcoal smudges. “Could I go request some tea and biscuits, do you think, Miss Beaujeu? I’m utterly exhausted. All energy depleted. In grave need of sustenance.”
Isabelle nodded her assent and Mari skipped from the room in complete contradiction to her words.
“She’s so full of life, just like her father.” Then Lady Gwen’s cheeks which had been flushed to summer rose drained to winter white.
With a tilt of head, Isabelle cast a gentle smile as she’d noticed, not for the first time, that a certain deeper sadness shrouded Lady Gwen when the duke’s brother was mentioned.
The rush of sea upon shore drifted through the open window and the lady stared to it for a while. Silent and mournful as a seagull cried out. She shook her head. “I sometimes wonder late at night, Miss Beaujeu, if it’s better to not know love at all, if one is destined to lose it just as soon as it is found.”
Lady Gwen, Isabelle realised, had been in love with Lord Tristan Cadogan. Had it been requited? No wonder her blue eyes were sometimes filled with such sadness. “And what do you conclude?”
She appeared to ponder the idea some more, her fingers drawn to a carved pendant on a silver chain, before her lips gently curved. “That for myself, I would rather have enjoyed a single moment of love than live a lifetime without.”
* * *
A white petticoatwith pink lace trim landed upon Rhys’ study desk, creased and a little…stained.
