Page 108 of A Governess Should Never… Deny a Duke (The Governess Chronicles 2)

Yes, she’d witnessed his care for her but such an honourable man most likely acted the gallant for all damsels in distress.

A knock and she idly gave permission for Anwen to enter, a pleasant chatty girl who’d loaded the fireside with sufficient wood and coal for a week’s stay and then slid a bedpan between the sheets.

The handle twisted, the door opening just as a worrisome thought occurred.

Could it be the duke come to check on her? And she swiftly submerged herself, water sloshing the sides and–

“I’ve warmed the garments His Grace brought you,” called out Anwen cheerily.

Oh.

“Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

“’Tis no problem as we have all the fires roaring for such a rank night. Now, here’s the towel. Best pop out now, Miss, or you’ll have the shivers. We’ll leave the bath where it is till morn if that’s agreeable with you as there’s only me here. Rhodri had to get home before the weather worsened.”

“Of course. Were you about to lock up before our arrival?”

“Nefoedd, no! That lot down there would make it to the inn if the roads were three foot deep in snow, so they would. They’ll be singing afore midnight too, so you might need a handkerchief to stuff in your ears.” And with a wave of farewell, she ambled from the chamber.

Isabelle rose from the lukewarm water and grabbed the linen towel to dry herself before meandering to the fireplace. Anwen had settled the garments over a clothes horse but Isabelle frowned as she picked up a…

A gossamer night-rail of opaque blue with lots of…gaps and lacey bits, a robe of velvet laid next to it.

Where had the duke got these?

Never in all her life had she so much as touched such delicate sensual items.

She threw off the towel and thrust arms into the night-rail, its slippery silk cascading down her skin like water – the warm kind.

Beautiful.

But a bit nippy still, so she donned the velvet robe, fastened with seemingly a hundred buttons. It covered her from neck to foot in luxurious heat, so she abandoned the fire and pottered to the table which Anwen had covered with fare from the kitchens – cold chicken, pickle, bread and cheese – so she reached out to…

A purposeful tread pounded the hallway and Isabelle’s hand dropped, clenched in her robe.

The tread drew nearer.

Paused at her door.

Her pulse fell to sluggish. Surely it was the duke come to–

A firm knock.

“Y…” She cleared her throat. “Yes?”

“It’s Dylan, Miss. The innkeeper. Just to ask if you need the fire stoking any?”

Oh.

“Er…” She glanced to the roaring flames. “No, thank you.”

“Right you are now. Good night, Miss.”

“Good night.”

With a release of breath, she scolded herself for being an utter nitterwit and grabbed a pickle.

Truly she ought to be preparing for tomorrow, planning her defence and deducing who the culprit might be…

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