“A great many belles at the ball will be smiling even if you are not. I simply wish that he did not look so much like a scoundrel.” “Scoundrel?” Elisabeth peered at her maid through the darkness. “That is not how I would describe him.” “No?” Isabeau’s voice pitched. She was all but wringing her hands. “He is – how do you say it? A rascal? A rogue? Swarthy as a buccaneer with his dark looks. Some say he has more gypsy blood than Welsh.”
