Page 41 of A Governess Should Never… Deny a Duke (The Governess Chronicles 2)

Water and earth.Grass and sky.

Isabelle breathed deep.

In London, odours were more defined – coal smoke, boiling meat, the heavy stench of the Thames and reek of horse. But here in Wales, everything was so much more earthy and immense.

Including mankind.

The duke had requested to accompany them on their ride, Mari had told her, so whilst Isabelle maintained her governess distance of two horse lengths, he rode ahead upon a magnificent blood-red gelding, chatting with his niece of the old farmhouse they were all headed to inland.

In her professional capacity, she endeavoured not to notice the way he sat a horse with consummate ease, the manner in which his gelding responded to each tighten of thigh muscle, or the aspect of his broad shoulders that shifted with each flick of rein. But the woman imprisoned deep within vastly admired the sight.

Hatless, he appeared at one with the land – the vastness and the freedom – his dark clothing and hair echoing the dark crags and peaks that formed in the far distance.

Here in the valley, however, some quarter of an hour from the ducal mansion, all was a dazzling emerald green despite the encroaching winter cold. Stout walls of stone bounded flocks of sheep in shaggy white coats who eerily watched as Isabelle trotted amongst them. She shifted in the saddle and gazed back to find they’d stealthily encircled her like a well-drilled brigade.

To her, they appeared more fearsome than dragons, eyes steady and peculiar and–

“Wool-gathering, Miss Beaujeu?”

She righted herself to find Mari and the duke had halted, a distinct smirk on both their faces.

“In fairness,” she replied, bringing her own steed to a halt, “I’ve never seen so many sheep. Do they always stare so?”

“I imagine it must be dreadfully dull eating grass all day,” replied Mari, “so I think they stare because we are as exciting as a theatre play to them.”

One of the sheep belched and returned to grazing. Perhaps their performance had been found wanting.

“Can we race to the farmhouse?” Mari cried. “It’s all open ground from here.”

The duke grinned, patting his horse with a gloved hand. “I don’t see why n–”

“Last one there sits next to Mr Pritchard at dinner.”

And before Isabelle could take issue that it was not seemly for a lady to race as though at Ascot, her charge tugged the reins and set off hell for leather.

“Mari! Be caref–”

“Never fear, Miss Beaujeu.” A hand fell upon her arm as the duke’s gelding nuzzled into her mare. “Let her ride, for she’s a fine horsewoman. As are you, if I may say.”

“Oh…” Isabelle faffed with her mare’s mane. “I’m a little out of practice but I was fortunate to learn from an early age, riding in fields and so forth.”

“Yet you grew up in crowded London, did you not?”

“Yes, but… The family I stayed with had sons and if there was a spare morning, we would ride out for Kingston and…” She remembered the wind in her hair and the thud of hoof upon earth – the sensation of speed, all cares erased. “I adored it.” But she hadn’t ridden like that since she’d been seventeen. When responsibility had abruptly overridden freedom. When the need to earn a wage had supplanted fun.

“Then, Miss Beaujeu… Race with me now?”

“Oh, I… I couldn’t…”

“Why ever not?”

“Well, a governess should never…”

Or could she?

The duke himself had suggested it, after all, indeed was broadly smiling, and Mari was far in the distance, which left only the sheep and hawks to witness a governess’ impropriety.

Isabelle sucked a lip.

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