Page 18 of A Governess Should Never… Deny a Duke (The Governess Chronicles 2)

“Now,” enthused Cousin Elen, “come meet Lady Bronwen Powell. In case you are unaware, her flawless lineage descends from a prince of Gwynedd.”

“In but a moment, Elen. For I must…attend to my cravat.”

“Oh, of course! I’m so pleased you are applying yourself to this quest for a duchess.” She smiled and patted his waistcoat collar flat. “I cannot fathom why you’re not yet married, Aberdare. You are four years the wrong side of thirty. Not much time left.” She veered right for the entrance hall and the guests.

Rhys veered left for his study and the decanters.

Devil take it, he’d be a jug-bitten swill tub by the end of this.

Most house parties lasted no more than a sennight, or if you were fortunate just the weekend, but seeing as his estate was in the backend of nowhere, it took most guests a day or more to travel here, so at a sennight, they would have just arrived when they’d have to leave again so Cousin Elen had insisted on what the invitations had termed ‘A Jubilant Three Sennights of Personal Acquaintance and Welsh Attractions’.

Ignoring the scattered bundles of paper on his desk, he wandered to the study’s window and glared out.

Customarily, one could view the rose gardens beyond the gravelled forecourt, a hint of the sea glinting in the distance, but a heavy mist travailed, clotting the far view and coating the arriving carriages in a relucent sheen.

Lady Elen had invited six eligible ladies, but their various chaperones and escorts had filled up the remaining vacant bedrooms of the guest wing. Even the chamber haunted by the Wailing Princess had been commandeered but as the princess had been losing her voice since 1724, Mrs Pugh had considered it adequate for a chaperone.

A light breeze tousled guests’ cloaks and twisted bonnet ribbons with mischievous fingers as he watched on from behind the glass.

Elen greeted a beautiful ebony-haired girl in pale green who descended the carriage as though she were royalty – must be Lady Bronwen Powell. She graced the footman with a saucy smile and hitched her skirts to flash an ankle.

A coquette if ever he saw one.

Her father followed, a slender chap with iron-grey hair. He paused upon the carriage step and fixed a monocle in his eye to gaze upon the ducal mansion. Assessing its worth, no doubt. He’d met Lord Powell on rare occasion, a man who enjoyed boasting of his favourite acquisitions – racehorses from Tattersalls and harlots from Mrs Scurlock’s Pant-y-Felin brothel.

The door to an azure-blue carriage was abruptly flung open and a slender girl in a pink hat tottered forth, followed by a beleaguered chaperone. Miss Rhiannon Vaughn. A bright girl but he’d raised hell with her brother at university. Had she even been born then? Surely she was only just out of leading strings?

Next, a pretty, dark-haired woman gracefully alighted from a crested coach and likewise glanced up at the façade but with a slight wistful air. Rhys smiled. Their nearest neighbour, Lady Gwen Evans, was a gentle, considerate spinster whom he and Tristan had played conkers with as children. She had been invited at Rhys’ behest – not as a potential duchess but because Mari adored her and she was like a sister to him.

He failed to recognise the fourth, a shapely girl in a jonquil-yellow spencer jacket, light skirts moulding to her legs like stockings.

He frowned.

Did she realise it was October in Wales?

Mist veiled the new arrivals and a weariness descended.

Forever and a day, Rhys had believed he would just know when his kindred soul and confidante appeared before him.

He ought to greet his guests, begin to question as to their pastimes and ladylike accomplishments, find a duchess who would…suit.

Cousin Elen was right.

Time would no longer wait for Rhys, the future of the dukedom a burden he must now bow down to.

* * *

Isabelle squintedbut it made no difference.

For despite the rain at last ceasing this dawn, the view from their schoolroom window and that of her bedchamber was still an unknown. For three days she had been able to hear the sea, a crash of thunderous intent but the swollen fog had endlessly swirled, devouring their second-floor aspect with its brumous mouth and dissuading Isabelle from venturing out until it improved.

To pass the evenings, she’d sought permission from Lady Elen to make use of the library, a double-height affair with every subject catered for – from Swift to Socrates – and although she often ascended the staircase back to her chamber in the dark, thus far she’d not stumbled upon this dog or indeed the spectral scoundrel.

Mari was stabbing an embroidery needle into her sampler with all the vengeance of Hamlet, but in the short time she’d known her, Isabelle had found the girl to be intelligent and ambitious, proud of her ancestry and considerate to the servants, so a lack of embroidery aptitude could be given some leeway.

The visit of the dressmaker had been the sole bone of contention as Isabelle’s expectations for a sombre brown evening gown suitable for a governess had been entirely disregarded by Madame de Jones, who’d argued for amethyst silk. Lady Elen, unfortunately, had agreed with the Madame. “You’d look like a farmer’s wife in brown and it reflects badly on us,” she’d decreed with a shudder. “Our Welsh lineage descends from warrior princes, not ploughing peasants.”

A wail shattered the silence as Mari pricked her skin. “I’m hopeless at this. My fingers will be full of holes soon. I’ll cup my hands to wash my face and they’ll leak like a sieve. And why oh why does a lady have to learn needlework anyhow?”

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