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So until this damn house party was at an end and he could better ascertain her feelings, he must keep himself in bloody check. He sat and told her of Miss Pritchard, and though it was little excuse for the damage to Isabelle’s possessions, he told her of the pressure on the young lady’s shoulders – a father eager to foist her off.
His stoic governess closed her eyes for a moment and clasped her hands. “Having worked with many a debutante, I can empathise with their situation. From the outside, it is easy to assume that they lead a pampered, carefree life, yet they are constantly on display, every act scrutinised by Ton matrons, relatives or prospective spouses. They are expected to attract a husband with merely a witty remark or an elegant quadrille, and if they do not…” She shrugged. “Depending on their family, they can be seen as a failure and burden.”
Rhys grimaced and vowed to never let Mari be subjected to such duress.
“Miss Beaujeu… Isabelle, I also… I wished to apologise. It was my fault your father’s scent was lost. She must have noticed me…er…us…” Where was bloody Byrne when needed? No such poetic words came to Rhys, his tongue a stumbling morass of nonsense.
A blush tinted her cheeks. “There’s no need, Your Grace.”
He cleared his throat and continued with the matter in hand, proceeding to tell her of his Cousin Winifred and her desire for a companion.
“I’m sure they will suit,” she said with a slow nod. “For I have found Miss Pritchard to be astute and sociable, and perhaps away from her father, she would find her own path.”
“Excellent. I’ll send a missive, although I may call upon her in any case as I am to accompany the Pritchards part of the way to Caernarfon also.” He fiddled with his quill. “I’ll return the silver flask to your room before I leave but I’ll keep the bent stopper as…evidence, if I may?”
She nodded. “My thanks, Your Grace.”
They sat.
In silence.
Rhys rubbed his jaw. Miss Beaujeu tapped her thumb.
Hell, he wished to encircle the desk, haul her from the chair and kiss the living daylights out of her. He wished to hear of her life and ensure she never smothered her hair, her aspect and her nature in dullness ever again.
“Well, if that is all, Your Grace,” she murmured in that husky tone. “I must return to Mari. We have a French class.”
“Of course. And my abject apologies once more that you have been affected by one of my guest’s spitefulness. I… I know that scent was precious to you.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She stood. “Many a time, a governess is ignored if there are problems yet you dealt with it personally.” She headed for the door, jasmine swirling and he stalked behind before she turned, smiled, eyes flitting up to him – warm and calm – and he shuffled his feet, procrastinated.
And as he’d mentioned on more than one occasion, he never procrastinated. “I will solely be away for one night, but when I return…”
“Yes?”
He sought the words, beseeched his muse for inspiration…
But naught.
“We shall talk,” he merely responded, along with a mental kick in the ballocks.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Her eyelids slid down, hiding all, before she curtseyed and made to leave…
And in lieu of words, Rhys knew that all he had in this moment was deeds, so he reached for her slender hand, drew her grey sleeve up, turned her wrist, and kissed the beating pulse.
“Farewell, cariad aur.”
He sensed a quiver rip through her and smiled at last.
“Au revoir, Monsieur le duc.”
