Page 44 of A Governess Should Never… Deny a Duke (The Governess Chronicles 2)

Chapter Eleven

“A few girls are particularly desirous of shining in company, and of saying smart things. This is a dangerous temptation.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

“So…” Hugh began in that way of his as the two of them stood in a dolorous corner beneath a framed Wilson landscape of the Llyn-y-Cau. “You’ve taken to the floor with all of Elen’s eligible offerings. Any taken your fancy?”

Rhys slugged back a brandy and surveyed the ballroom decked out in an autumnal bronze – couples danced, ladies fluttered fans and gentlemen subtly stalked. His home was packed to the rafters, carriages filled the forecourt, and he had no idea why he felt so bloody alone. “No.”

“How about the noble Lady Bronwen?”

“Do you know I have a feeling we are related. Sixth cousins on the maternal side or somesuch.”

“The delightful Miss Rhiannon Vaughn then?”

“Delightful indeed. In five years’ time.”

“The delicate Miss Alys Brecken?”

“So delicate she’d run wailing from the marriage bed.”

“I’d fear from the betrothal kiss. The pretty Miss Hannah Pritchard?”

With a frown, Rhys twisted. “Have you noticed she dampens her gown?”

Hugh smirked. “And that’s bad?”

“It is in Wales. She’d be dead of the putrid fever by December.”

“The vivacious Miss Craddock then?”

“I have a feeling her likewise vivacious mother would accompany us on all occasions.”

Hugh blinked. “What about the taciturn Lady Nesta Taylor?”

“Have I met her?”

“Lud, you danced the quadrille with her, Rhys.”

“Did I?”

“Miss Beaujeu?”

“Governess,” he replied sternly. “Why?”

“It’s just that I’ve noted your eyes happening to stray in her direction on more than a few occasions.”

His eyes happened to stray in her direction once more. She wore that same amethyst-coloured gown, hair caught up into an elegant but unadorned chignon. No jewellery or gee-gaws, she solely carried a serene beauty and confidence that singled her out.

“I’m ensuring that Mari is content.”

“Ah, of course.” Hugh clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Still, she’s a fine-looking woman.”

Rhys rounded on his heir and drew himself to his full height. “Meaning?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Hugh merely rubbed his stubbled chin. “But do you know, that Beaujeu name of hers is like a flea in my unmentionables. Itching away, yet I just can’t recall–”

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