Page 22 of A Governess Should Never… Deny a Duke (The Governess Chronicles 2)

Isabelle’s breath hitched as all eyes twisted in their direction…then promptly twisted back through lack of interest.

With breath released, she inspected the dragon’s lair of a drawing room, this being her first occasion to visit.

Elegant but restrained, the vast walls were divided into panels of green silk damask, gold highlighting the intricate plasterwork. Gilded mirrors reflected the light of the three – yes, indeed three – chandeliers that hung from the ornate ceiling. Emerald-green settees, chairs and games tables were seemingly scattered throughout, although Isabelle knew Mrs Pugh had a precise floor plan for this room and woe betide any footman who moved a chair leg out of place.

The prospective duchesses were obvious, dressed to the nines, shiny as new bells, and they’d already decamped into two groups like battle-ready regiments.

With lowered eyes, the modest ones whispered behind unfurled fans – artless maidens who would doubtless one day receive a rude shock in life, probably on their wedding night.

With coquettish eyes, the not-so-modest ones giggled with rouged lips – artful maidens who would doubtless one day receive a rude shock in life, probably well before their wedding night.

Intermingled were various mothers, chaperones and gentlemen, the duke in conversation with the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader, glass in hand and glower in place.

Lady Elen’s forehead was creased in despair as he ignored the mart of young ladies.

He wore black, of course, but his waistcoat was a rich wine, cravat immaculate, a ruby winking from within its pristine white folds.

“Shall I tell you of these paintings, Miss Beaujeu? Is that an appropriate subject for us? Some date back…ages.”

Isabelle’s eyes flitted away. “That would be delightful, Mari.”

So, linking arms, the two of them sauntered the rich rugs alone and talked of the many artworks set upon the green damask – dragons of every legend snarling out at the tamed civility of the drawing room in which they were trapped. Many appeared medieval, the damsel-hungry dragons hunted by valiant knights, but one oil struck her – a mighty shadowy beast that glowered from the canvas with ebony eyes.

A smile tugged at Isabelle’s lips. No wonder her companions in the stagecoach had carried tales of the Llanedwyn earls metamorphosing into scaly terrors.

An almighty crash and they all twisted to find the double doors to the adjoining dining room had been flung open, a figure in black beckoning them forth.

“Grubs and bubs up, so it is!” pronounced Mrs Pugh. “Get it quick before the Bwbachod nabs it.”

Poor Lady Elen’s lips pinched, eyes screwing shut.

Isabelle turned to her young charge. “Your Mrs Pugh is a most uncommon housekeeper.”

“I happened to overhear…” Mari grinned as Isabelle raised a brow. “Well, I admit I earwigged in. Anyhow, Cousin Elen asked for her to be dismissed but Uncle flatly refused, said she made him smile.” Mari chewed her lip. “And that’s a good thing, Miss Beaujeu, as Uncle doesn’t smile much nowadays.”

The currently unsmiling duke proffered an arm to the pretty, black-haired Lady Bronwen and the company all dutifully followed.

The dining room took Isabelle’s breath away with its duck-egg blue walls and gilt-framed portraits, all beneath a stucco-patterned ceiling and more ormolu chandeliers.

Despite the housekeeper’s curious demeanour, she certainly knew how to organise a banquet. The lengthy mahogany table gleamed, the centrepiece another dragon carved from sugar with scales glistening. Latticed bowls spilled exotic fruits, silver-pierced floral candelabras were topped with beeswax candles, and the dinner service shined so bright it could double as a dressing mirror.

The duke waited at the head of the table while Lady Elen was seated to his right, Lady Bronwen to his left, other guests spread according to Lady Elen’s seating plan.

“Blessed fortune has fallen upon me, ladies…” The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader drew back their chairs. “For I have the utmost pleasure of being placed aside you tonight.”

The afternoon’s rest seemed to have aided his recuperation, as his complexion was healthier, eyes bright and mischievous.

“I expected you to be seated amongst the prospective duchesses, Mr Cadwalader.”

“Lud, no. Elen will keep me at some distance so as not to distract from the main dish.”

Suppressing a smirk, Isabelle sat upon the proffered chair, just as Mari plonked herself down to her right. After assisting a few other ladies, accompanied by a plethora of giggles, the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader then seated himself to her left.

Captain Brecken lowered himself to a chair opposite, seemingly overawed by it all, while aside him sat a scowling gentleman in an old-fashioned wig, clearly none too pleased that he and his daughter, a Miss Pritchard, had been placed at this end of the table. He also hogged the claret jug and gawped at Isabelle’s bosom.

Footmen dashed with silver jugs of wine while maids staggered with ornate tureens. Isabelle peered to the head of the table to observe the duke conversing with the attentive Lady Bronwen and the demure Miss Brecken. Isabelle had to admire both young ladies who were the epitome of restrained grace and genteel decorum: lips curving – but not displaying teeth; wine sipped – but never too much; a light laugh – but not too loud.

Solely Miss Craddock displayed an excessive state of effusiveness as she eagerly leaned forward for the duke’s repartee and dunked her bosom into the fricassée of mushrooms.

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