A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter Page 15
Seth’s utter disdain for Astwood’s threats might have belittled and undermined her past struggles, but instead that us acknowledged and included her.
“But I am so much trouble to you and your family,” she blurted, swiping a hand over her no doubt reddened nose. “I thought I had my future planned but… I wish I were a man some days as a woman’s future is forever in someone else’s hands.”
“No. It is in yours, Matilda. But there is no weakness in seeking help. I could not have built the club without my friends and family.” He kissed her hair, forehead and eyes. “Once Astwood is no longer your guardian, you can be anything: continue as governess, join a science expedition to the Moluccas, become a famed actress or marry…whoever you wanted to…if you so wished.”
She lifted her lashes, had never seriously considered herself marriageable for her own worth. After all, her dowry was squandered, her conversation dull and this spinster profession chosen. But being held within comforting arms and having a handsome ex-prizefighter kiss you to irrational absurdity sent one’s own notions scattering like foxglove seed.
“I…if you are sure I would cause no trouble?”
“Of course I am sure, Matilda, but are you?” He traced the outline of her lip. “This is not the bold and brave governess that I have come to know and…kiss. Why become so missish now?”
Yes, why?
She was acting the pathetic goosecap because…
Not because Astwood had found her or threatened her; those threats she could stomach as she had done so in the past.
No, it was because he had threatened Seth – her mighty and caring Seth – his livelihood, friends and his beautiful daughter.
She’d imagined his Academy up in flames, patrons fleeing like rats.
When had it happened that it pained her more if anything should happen to Mr Hawkins and his family rather than to herself?
And what did it signify?
“You are utterly correct.” She wiped her eyes on his cravat and then flapped her fingers on the seat behind to encounter her glasses, before sliding them back on. “Unless he comes with a magistrate, which would surely take some time, he cannot force me to return or to marry.”
A nod. “And if that happens, Matilda, then we plan anew.”
We.
Not weakened but shored and strengthened. By a man who offered both protection and freedom.
No longer alone.
She evened her breath, reclaimed her spirit stolen by her cousin and beamed up at Seth. “Where’s Chloe?”
“Kian has taken her for ices. Heaven help his pockets as she can eat till the waiters weep.”
“So… It’s just us then.”
A smile so wicked the devil must envy it encased his lips. “Exactly so. And now the prizefight is over and Astwood has seen you anyhow…” He unclasped her cloak at the neck and thrust it from her shoulders. “No longer the nefarious footpad on the prowl but the bold and brave Miss Matilda Griffin, governess to the fairly rich and not-so-idle. Ride up top with me? I promise you will gain the wings to feel free as a swift in flight.”
“Why yes, I would like that, Mr Seth Hawkins,” she replied in kind. “And may I take the reins? I’ve never done so, you see, and you did say I should not be missish.”
“Did I say that?” His eyes expressed mock shock as he descended the steps and held out a hand. “And if so, surely I did not mean taking command of a man’s horses. I am undone.”
Seizing that hand, she watched his eyes darken to walnut and leaf as she stepped down, witnessed his throat bob. “Something awry, Mr Hawkins?”
“I truly am undone,” he said gruffly, waving a hand at her skirts. “The sunshine…”
She squinted down. Without her cloak and likewise petticoats, the weak sun shone through her nankeen skirts to reveal the outline of her legs, the material scandalously clinging to her rump and hips.
Shame ought to have descended, a moral outrage at the impropriety; she ought to have scuttled back into the carriage with a dismayed gasp.
Matilda jumped to the ground in abandon. “You promised I’d gain wings. A promise I intend to hold you to.”
That feeling…that feeling of life and excitement and sheer joy surged through her veins. And she knew that it was Seth Hawkins who’d placed it there – with his scalding kiss, his infectious confidence and his limitless fun.
She scampered up to the carriage seat, not caring that her skirts rose to bare her ankles, and she grabbed the reins.
“Care to ride up top with me, Mr Hawkins. I promise to be gentle.”
He growled and clambered up next to her, close and pressing upon the box seat. “Miss Griffin.” He twisted his head – that lopsided smile sending shivers throughout. “You can be as rough as you wish with me.”
Laughing loud, she held out the reins to him, as in truth she had no idea how to handle a carriage, but he placed his broad hands upon hers, kept a firm hold and jerked the leather.
The two rested horses keenly followed from the Common, the trail flattened by boot and wheel, and they departed the tall iron gates. Grass gave way to rutted track, then to lane, and the horses, sensing smoother ground, gained speed.
Trees rushed by on either side, a few blurred men on foot doffed their slouched hats and a fierce breeze ruffled her hair.
Gentle sunshine shone.
And just as Seth had promised, she felt free as a swift in flight.
Chapter Seventeen
“I do not conceive a young lady appears to advantage when she is throwing her limbs into contortions and jumping like a rope dancer.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
It never rained but it poured; the Academy’s boiler had malfunctioned, his young fighter Liam had put a foot through an ale-house door, and a marquess had knotted himself in the ropes surrounding the practice ring, which had required them to be cut and rehung.
All the same, Seth whistled to himself as he meandered down the hallway.
Three days had passed since Astwood’s threat at Wimbledon, and thus far nothing dire had occurred, but then he’d also hired a man to patrol the gardens, as such menace should never be taken lightly.
He’d kept it hush, not wishing Matilda to feel indebted, but his daughter had given him that askew look with hand on hip as the burly chap – designed for clouting heads rather than weeding his borders – had lumbered by.
Evenings had been agreeable, with the three of them discussing his day and their lessons over dinner, Chloe playing pianoforte afterwards, yet…
Not that he would ever, for one single moment, begrudge his daughter’s company, but could she not stay at Modesty’s for an evening this week?
Matilda and he could then converse over a bottle of costly wine and a meal of venison. He would discover more of her tastes and passions, her dreams and wants.
Perhaps he could lurk in the library of a night and hope she might descend for a book to aid her sleep – but that sounded so contrived. And in any case, the intimate surroundings and plush sofas would no doubt initiate a more carnal endeavour.
He banished the prurient images, and as he wandered past the ballroom they used for their practice, the door creaked, moss-green eyes peeping around. “Pa? Can I borrow you?”
“Certainly, pet.” He ambled in. “What can I…”
Matilda stood fidgeting foot to foot in the centre of the wooden floor, wearing only white petticoats and…was that one of his shirts? He’d have words with Chloe about that. It drowned her, but nevertheless gaped in all the right places, and he was fairly certain she wore no stays or corset.
“Maybe I shouldn’t…”
But his daughter dragged him by the wrist whilst Matilda tugged down the thin veil of petticoats to obscure her bare porcelain ankles.
Too late to save his eyes from the tormenting vision.
“No, no. I need you,” implored Chloe. “For demonstration purpo
ses. I’ll stand here and you pretend to be a roving scoundrel who grabs me from behind. You know the move.”
Yes, unfortunately for him, he did, and sighing, he removed his jacket and stretched.
They must have practised this a hundred times as it was no mean feat for a slender girl; his lower back had a perpetual ache.
But he lunged and placed an arm about his daughter’s neck.
“Wot ’ave we ’ere?” he asked in his most villainous voice. “A helpless little girlie all alone.” And he rendered his body lax – it hurt less.
“Oh, Sir,” his daughter wittered in her most feeble voice. “Please don’t–”
A brutal stamp on his foot threw him off balance, and then with a shove of her backside into his hip, she seized the arm around her neck, bent forward, thrust a hand behind his head, yanked, levered him from the floor and rolled him off her back, letting the wooden boards take his breath.
“Then,” she explained to her startled governess, “you can stamp a foot in his talliwa–”
“Mercy!” cried Seth.
His devil-child smirked.
“Do you see, Miss Griffin? It’s the element of surprise that makes it possible. Could you do the same?”
“Well, I…” She blinked and pushed her spectacles up her nose. “I could attempt it, one supposes.”
Mercy, thought Seth.
“Good. You be the roving scoundrel for Miss Griffin, Pa, whilst I ask Betty for some lemonade. ’Tis thirsty work, all this teaching.” And with an exaggerated wipe of brow, she skipped off, closing the door behind her.
Well, he’d been granted his wish of Matilda’s sole company, but seeing him lobbed to the floor by a girl of ten and three years was hardly comparable to intimate dinner repartee and a decent bottle of 1811 claret.
“I apologise,” he offered, rising to his feet. “I hope she didn’t badger you into learning these methods of defence?”
“Not at all. I think it a wonderful idea and Chloe is patient and enthusiastic. A man teaching me would be too intimidating and…manly. With Chloe’s instruction, I feel as though I could succeed. I felt so helpless when my cousin first shook m–”
A blush lit her cheeks, eyes seeking the floor.
“I know he’s bruised you in the past,” Seth growled. “I saw them on your wrists the day of the interview.” He strode over, brushed his fingers upon the baggy sleeve of his shirt. “If he ever does that again, I’ll rip his arms off.”
“Gosh. Could you?” And she grinned.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do indeed, but for now, you shall be my villain, and I will try the move as Chloe has instructed.”
This sounded like another exceedingly bad idea…
To the back of her, Seth stood – rough and rugged.
Clasped an arm around Matilda’s throat – silk and cream.
Breathed deep – meadow and leather.
Whispered in her ear – silent desires.
“Wot ’ave we ’ere?” he purred. “A helpless little girlie all alone.”
“Oh, you wicked scoundrel,” Matilda wittered rather breathlessly. “Please do-n’t.”
“Wot?”
“I said, don’t.”
“Hmm. I could do…anything to yer.”
She shuddered at the rasp to his voice. Yes, yes, he could.
“I beg you take your rough, broad, firm, calloused hands off me…”
“I ain’t sure,” he growled, fingers constricting against the linen of the borrowed shirt, “that had much conviction.”
Well, no.
That coarseness of voice induced such a fracas within. Betty had revealed how he’d spent a year learning to speak with perfect diction for his beloved Academy so that the nobles would feel at home, but Matilda adored the harsh edge and swallowed vowels.
Even so, she stomped on his foot.
He failed to move.
Not an utter surprise as, like Chloe, he wore some type of sturdy shoe and she herself was barefoot – similar to walloping a tree stump with a goose-down pillow.
Nevertheless – and not to be seen as a shrinking heroine – she continued with how she’d been instructed, shoving her posterior into his hip, except she missed, stumbled and ended up with her back flat against his rigid torso.
The arm around her neck remained, the other now tethered her waist – tight and altogether more dangerous than any roving scoundrel.
Even in the carriage they hadn’t been this close; not a poppyseed width existed betwixt them, and she could feel every firm muscle of Mr Seth Hawkins, her sensitive back to his rippled pectoralis major, her waist to his flat musculus abdominis, her derrière to…protrusions.
“I’m not sure this is a part of the manoeuvre I was taught,” she asserted stridently.
“I’m quite sure it isn’t,” he countered softly. “Now…how yer gonna free yerself from me villainous and depraved clutches?”
This may take some thinking time…
“Erm… Well, I could… No, not that… Maybe…” Savouring the wanton sensation curling beneath her skin, she shivered and arched her neck a dash. “Perchance…”
Seth shifted. “If yer don’t think sharpish, damsel, I might ravish yer maidenly body.”
Hmm…
“I suppose I could kick my heel back and catch you in the nether appendages.”
She slid her bare foot up his leg. He cursed low. At least she assumed so, as it was a short word she was unacquainted with.
Not utterly ignorant of a male’s anatomical physique, Matilda understood he was…readied, for want of a better word, and that her own wantonness had ripened to outright waywardness.
Miss Appleton would be shocked to the core.
“You could indeed do that,” he murmured, “but please don’t. Anything else?”
“I could…bash my elbow in your ribs, twist to the left then wallop you in the throat. Or perhaps wrench your ear and make my escape.”
“Excellent. So why don’t you?”
Many, many reasons… “I have no wish to be disemployed for rendering my employer insensate.”
“You’d be welcome to try, but since I have you helpless within my roguish grip, a question: if we could go on a jaunt for an afternoon, where would it be? You attended the prizefight with me, now I’d like us to go somewhere you would enjoy.”
“W-without Chloe?”
“Just the two of us…and the maid should it be required…or if you don’t trust me?”
Of course she did. Just wasn’t sure if she trusted herself.
“Well, I attend a literary salon once a month. Merely a few…not friends exactly but fellow devotees. We discuss a poem or play. I thought to miss this month as it’s tomorrow afternoon but perhaps… And I don’t believe a chaperone would be required for that.”
“Then, Matilda, we shall go. And maybe some dinner afterwards?”
“Why thank you, Mr Hawkins.”
“Seth.”
“Seth,” she repeated, savouring it. No one in the Haut Ton had such a delicious name.
“Chloe can spend the night with Modesty. This, of course, is if your host would not mind my attendance at your salon?”
“Not at all. Although if theatre prints are all you read,” she said rather dryly, “I’m not sure how interesting it will be for you.”
A flicker of lips at her ear told her that he smiled. “But you will be there, Matilda.”
Gosh.
And she became aware that Mr Seth Hawkins was perhaps…courting her?
Not in the conventional ‘waltz and a posy’ manner of the Ton world but with tender words, a legion of kindness and those ravenous, devastating kisses.
She leaned her head back against his shoulder to gaze up at him.
Sunlight from the oblong windows gleamed on walnut damp hair, his hazel eyes smouldering with undeniable fire.
Not twelvemonth ago, she’d sniggered her stockings off when the hero of a romantic Gothic novel had smouldered.
Yet here it was. Smouldering at its utmost.
His fingers clenched at her waist, material rucking, and she couldn’t help but sink into his form, let her head tip forward, let his lips wander across her nape.
Kissing and sucking the skin to his mouth.
She moaned, hands clutching behind, to buckskin and–
A strident knock and Matilda startled, pitching her head back and causing Seth to yelp as he abruptly released her.
In the doorway, Betty held a tray with three glasses while Chloe clutched a jug of lemonade, her eyes widening in tandem with her gasp. “Miss Griffin!” She pursed her lips. “Well done.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to…”
But Chloe nodded in approval. “There’s not many that can split Pa’s lip with a reverse nobbler to the ivories.”
“But–”
“It takes a lot of skill,” she commended. “Now, have some lemonade.”
Betty placed the tray on a side table and cast a pitying glance. “And I’ll fetch yer a cold compress, Mr H…to take down that swelling.”
Chapter Eighteen
“One reading lesson of poetry in the week is surely enough for children.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Matilda glanced to the left, then to the right as she took Seth’s hand to alight the carriage.
Beneath the grey clouds brushing the rooftops, this Marylebone street of their literary hostess heaved with noise and folk – bellowing hawkers with sweet buns aplenty, lads waving the latest song sheets, ladies scowling as they yanked their hems from the road sweeper’s broom, and straight-backed gentlemen upon elegant steeds bobbing past.
This parish encompassed every class from lower gentry to higher courtesan and all walks in between.
As Seth gave instructions to a groom from the mews, she spied the approach of a familiar rangy figure.
Mr Kian Finlay.