A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter Read online

  At the soft plea, she nodded and twisted away. “Good night, Mr Finlay.”

  “Good night, lass.”

  Matilda seized the candlestick and without looking back wandered from the kitchen, legs and thoughts sluggish with weariness and befuddlement as she ascended the stairs. Why had Seth kept so very silent and solemn at the prospect of marriage to her?

  Perhaps he did not wish for another wife having been previously forsaken, but surely he never would have made such passionate love to her if that were the case.

  She relit the library lantern from the candlestick, the silence solitary, and meandered to the circular reading table in the centre. An exquisite book with illustrations lay open, of the Ancient Mariner and his many trials. She flipped the pages one by one, eyes blind.

  At the light tread of footstep upon the stairs, she did not turn. Neither at the footfall within the library as it approached her. Not even as a warm breath whispered over her nape. Or as a soft kiss was bestowed upon it. A calloused hand brushed her smooth arm, slid down her wrist till it covered her hand upon Coleridge’s legacy.

  “Some words,” Seth uttered softly, “were left unspoken last night. Words that caught in my throat because I knew not the right moment or the right way. But in all the hours of daylight, I have called myself every type of fool for not uttering them.”

  “Seth…” His body caged hers. She was unable to twist, to see his eyes, solely his hand interlacing, the warmth of his body against her back.

  “And once more I shall steal another’s lines because I am a simple man, Matilda, and so many others express it better than I.” Lips kissed her ear and she shivered. “‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.’” His arm encircled her waist. “Never doubt I love you, Matilda. With all that I am – humble prizefighter and a man at your feet.”

  A tear streaked her cheek – such a soggy goosecap she was – and leaning back into his chest, she twisted her head to gaze up at him. “I had a hundred verbose ways to tell you my feelings, Seth Hawkins. Yet now I find only three words matter.” His hazel eyes glinted, that band of gold searing with flame. “I love you.”

  With a soul alight and spirit ablaze, Seth beamed at his beloved.

  At dawn, he’d beamed also, awakening with body sated and mind at rest. Yet a day spent gathering information by fair means and foul had beaten at that serenity, his lips refusing to cooperate in the kitchen through unease at the plan and his ire at Astwood.

  And Kian was perfectly correct in that taking Matilda to Gretna Green would solve many a problem. No need for her guardian’s permission or the lengthy calling of bans.

  Yet…

  Today he’d realised how much had been taken from Matilda already – her beautiful home, her parents’ legacy and her future as a daughter of the Ton.

  He would take no more.

  So he drew away and as she twisted in his arms, he cupped her delicate but bold jaw in his palms and gazed into the depths of her sherry eyes.

  “When I ask for your hand in marriage,” he said hoarsely, “and it is a when, not an if – I want you to be utterly free to answer. Not because of threats or escape or lack of money, but because of love, and nothing else. I was troubled by Kian’s suggestion because I do not want you to ever feel forced or compelled to marry me. Otherwise I would be no better than Astwood or Sidlow – granting you no choice. I stayed silent because if you agreed to such a proposal, it would mean a clandestine and arduous elopement to Scotland. All as though it were us who were ashamed of our love.”

  “Seth–” He placed a finger to her lips.

  “I stayed silent because I want to listen as the bans are read loud to all and sundry, feel the anticipation and emotion. I stayed silent because I want to say and hear those solemn words of devotion and respect which will bind us together for eternity before my daughter, family, friends and God. Not in front of a wearied Scottish blacksmith who solely wants the coin.”

  Ebony eyelashes fluttered, fingers clasped.

  “I stayed silent because I want to watch you dance at our wedding breakfast with Betty, Kian and all those who adore you. To see you drink champagne with Mrs Ashby and your literary group. To wear any bloody colour you choose. To not be looking over your shoulder.” He breathed deep. “I stayed silent because I love you so very much and you deserve better, nay you deserve everything, Matilda Griffin.”

  He waited.

  The rasp of their breath, the patter of rain, the scent of book and flower…‘this bloody tyrant, time.’

  Then she tugged him close and kissed him, firm and rough, which he hoped might signal her forgiveness for his silence in the kitchen.

  Lips teased his earlobe. “Never have I met a man more considerate or selfless than you,” she whispered before drawing away with eyes that glittered bright with love in the lantern light. “But know this… I shall indeed drink champagne at my wedding and wear whatever I wish…but I shall dance with none but my new husband.” She cupped his jaw. “I love you with all my heart. And so together, we shall wait, Seth Hawkins.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Tis only for the guilty to tremble.”

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

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, may I present for your delectation and pleasure, The Knights of Yore!”

  Wild applause rolled as four muscular horses galloped into the sawdust-covered arena below, their riders dressed in medieval tunics of scarlet and black, unicorns and swirled dragons decorating their chests.

  Leaning her elbows on the velvet-cushioned balustrade of their box, Matilda’s breath caught at the sight, each rider hidden by a lavish mask – king, jester, lion and ghoul.

  Pounding drums from the orchestra accompanied the thunder of hooves in the amphitheatre as the great beasts galloped in an endless circle, fast and reckless, faces a deceiving blur.

  Matilda drew back from the edge and placed a palm to her chest in a vain attempt to slow her racing heart. But a savage yell erupted from the masked king as shortened jousting lances appeared from beneath their cloaks and Matilda tipped forward once more, not wanting to miss a single moment.

  Never had she visited Astley’s Amphitheatre before – had thought it would entail preposterous circus tricks and tumbling fools – yet tonight, lithesome female acrobats in sensuous silks had defied gravity upon pole and rope, and black-clad sorcerers had appeared in puffs of smoke as though arising from hell.

  A magical haze layered this fantastical circus world – trickery, the sleight of hand, the scent of leather, horse and exotic perfume.

  Matilda briefly closed her eyes to allay the assault on her senses.

  Over the past days, there’d been no sight nor sound of her cousin, despite an agreeable walk in Hyde Park and a visit to Dulwich Picture Gallery, so this glamorous venue had been suggested by Mr Finlay for its popularity and…ease of guarding the exits.

  Was her cousin here within this melee – watching and waiting?

  The amphitheatre was crammed from pit to rafter. Hidden in the lower shadowed seats, couples furtively kissed or raucously argued, penniless bucks waved spotted handkerchiefs and impish children scampered amongst the benches.

  Their own small party was situated within a private box first tier up and not far from the ring, a clear exit via the curtain behind them to the hall and stairs. Two further tiers of boxes wove around the theatre, the ladies’ frocks and gentlemen’s waistcoats a riot of colour. From above boomed frequent unruly cheers, an occasional scarf, ostrich feather or glove drifting past their box as items tumbled over the precipitous edge.

  Illuminating the entire spectacle was a vast chandelier suspended from the domed ceiling, enough candlelight to see the acts but not to diminish their mystique, costumes glinting, faces shadowed. Green and gold decorated the ornate boxes and Corinthian columns rose tall, fluted in g
ilt and white. Beyond the orchestra rose a further stage with fastened crimson curtains, denying, for the time being, the audience its attractions.

  Matilda clenched her fists in her skirts as the king and jester now galloped in differing directions, circling, lances held straight and true – no fear in these lean men whose bodies lifted and fell with their beasts as though one. Centaurs come to life.

  A thud and roar as they clashed, the jester tumbling sideways from his saddle, one foot caught in the stirrup, fingers carving into the sawdust as his horse continued its gallop. In fright, Matilda leaped to her feet along with half the audience, the hooves pounding so close to his skin.

  But the jester abruptly swung himself upright and into the saddle, laughing loud at his cunning deception.

  “Are you enjoying it, Matilda?”

  She gulped, flopped into her chair and turned to a chortling Seth seated beside her, an enthralled Chloe to his left.

  Seth’s demeanour appeared jovial, yet she sensed an implacable alertness beneath that jacket of black and waistcoat of silver – primed and forceful.

  “I’m not sure enjoyment is the right word. For it’s…” Side by side, the ghoul and lion now circled the ring, their horses’ eyes flaring, midnight manes flying, the brisk beat of drum and hoof spearing her soul and heart with its rhythm. “It’s dangerous and exciting and…irresistible.”

  With a flash of scarlet and kick of boot from stirrup, the lion man now stood balanced upon his saddle, arms aloft and black cloak whipping, until he deftly leaped from his steed to fall astride the ghoul’s mount.

  Accompanied by rapturous cheers, the two men mock wrestled, their horses galloping without guidance, before the ghoul rose and somersaulted from its back, landing to the sawdust upon one knee.

  An unearthly apparition indeed.

  The crowd stood as one to applaud as all the knights came forth and bowed, faces still veiled behind those sumptuous masks – they might have been Romany or royalty, wicked or worthy, and Matilda drew breath at the tantalising, seductive thought.

  And although in truth this was all to flush out Astwood, a menacing shadow that refused to come to the light, she could not help but feel invigorated by yet another new adventure – so much to experience with Seth at her side.

  Clowns with vivid coloured outfits now burst into the ring, faces painted pure white, lips overly rouged to an upward tilt and their hair caught in peculiar red bunches upon their heads.

  Two of them began to juggle…with knives, their lethal edges catching the candlelight in flashes of gold.

  Then, with apparent hilarity, they commenced flinging them at one another – on each occasion, catching the knives by the hilt. Matilda placed a hand to her eyes, dared not look, dared not look away, so peeked through open fingers, pulse numbing as one cork-brained fool turned his back to capture the knife blind.

  Further clowns prowled the ring, one with an ugly scowl, shaking his fists at the roaring crowd.

  He wasn’t very funny.

  As the angry clown passed their box, he leered at Matilda and stuck his tongue out, teeth yellow.

  “Seth…” she whispered, not taking her eyes from the bizarre fellow. “The clown… I think… He could be hired by Astwood.”

  A hand reached out for hers, patted in mollification, and then Seth leaned close. “That’s one of Kian’s men. Keeping an eye on you.”

  Grief.

  No wonder he wasn’t very funny.

  And how on earth did Mr Finlay arrange these matters?

  Not that the crowd cared, hooting and whistling before the clowns scampered from view at the whistle of their ringmaster.

  The red-tailcoated gentleman strode the sawdust in Hessian boots, whip in hand – to echo the days when his father, Mr Astley, would command the amphitheatre in his military finery.

  “Retake your seats, if you please,” he bellowed over the hubbub. “For now, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, may we humbly present further sights of astonishment from our act…” He bowed with a sweep of starched cuff. “Broken Heartstrings.”

  Behind the orchestra, two men dressed in black pushed the scarlet stage curtain aside to reveal an Italian ruin painted on an enormous backcloth, lit either side by lofty candelabras, wax dripping.

  The amphitheatre quietened. Matilda fidgeted. Seth scrutinised the pit below. Chloe goggled.

  From upon high, a dainty pair of slippered feet appeared from behind the pelmet of the stage curtain. Slender ankles drifted down from the heavens to gasps of amazement, followed by a patched, ragged skirt and black bodice. Lastly, a face lowered into view – eyes fastened closed, smothered in a heavy kohl, white-painted skin with ebony tresses and red pursed lips.

  A forlorn Columbine.

  Strains of a violin ballad rose and Matilda drew a sharp breath. For as the woman’s toes touched the stage boards, she saw that attached to Columbine’s ankles and wrists were stout ropes. They stretched up high, beyond the enraptured audience’s view, and as the music played, a rope yanked so that her arm curled skyward. Another rope jerked, her leg swung out and she was twisted into an Arabesque. A mortal marionette compelled to dance upon a stage.

  The gentlemen cheered and whistled as her skirts rode high, but Matilda’s lips refused to curve upwards for it was odd and peculiar and she didn’t care for it at all. If anything, it reminded her of a woman’s plight, strings pulled to another’s command.

  A tall and slight figure sauntered into the ring below them with a costume of coloured diamonds and a mask of black. This Harlequin lover held a bow and arrow, and as poor Columbine was tugged back and forth upon the stage, he nocked an arrow and aimed at the sorrowful marionette.

  Matilda closed her eyes, but a firm hand took hold of hers, a deep whisper in her ear.

  “Watch.”

  She unsealed one eye.

  The bow pulled back. Columbine’s lips parted. Violins reached a crescendo. The arrow took flight over the orchestra and to the stage where it sliced high through the rope binding her ankle.

  A smattering of astonished applause broke out, but the tension ratcheted as Harlequin nocked another arrow.

  He readied. Aimed. Arched. The crowd edged forward. Breath caugh–

  Matilda screeched as their box curtain was wrenched aside, a black figure loomed, and Seth spun with fists drawn.

  “Only me,” whispered Mr Finlay, winking as he pulled up a chair. “Been in the rafters.”

  Seth shook his head with a glare and retook his seat; Mr Finlay nonchalantly settled with a hand just inside that deadly greatcoat of his; Chloe grinned; and Matilda considered whether circuses were good for one’s nerves as Harlequin released his arrow.

  She gazed to poor Columbine, left bound by the two remaining ropes.

  Another arrow was nocked, the bow raised, aimed, and she gasped as the silver tip flew skyward…

  Columbine flopped like a broken doll, hanging from the one rope left tied about her right wrist.

  After a smug bow, Harlequin’s fingers reached to the quiver upon his back, only for them to return empty, and he mimed his utter despair to the crowd’s utter delight.

  Columbine, he silently mouthed to the dangling girl.

  My Columbine…

  All of a sudden, her free hand twitched.

  Harlequin mouthed her name once more and she angled a leg.

  Yet again the lover pleaded and her spine stiffened, neck rising like an automaton.

  Then her eyes abruptly opened wide.

  She appeared as though woken from a profound sleep and the audience hushed as she first stared this way and that, then to the beseeching Harlequin and finally beheld the knot at her wrist.

  With a flash of ragged skirts, she snatched hard on the rope.

  A yell, and a bundle of white silk tumbled from the heavens to astonished gasps, the rope swinging free before it too dropped to the stage – her fallen puppet master Poirot in his clown costume lay motionless upon the boards, lips painted a failed black
.

  Everyone surged to their feet in applause as Columbine pirouetted in freedom upon the stage, Harlequin bowed in triumph and the curtains were dragged closed.

  Matilda crumpled into her seat, utterly exhausted, but this Mr Astley Jr. certainly made good on the entrance fee as now the clowns tumbled back into the ring, and she gulped, hand to heart, as they bent their bodies back and forth like saplings in the wind.

  The audience clapped their somewhat perilous somersaults while another clown strode to the centre with a wooden barrel containing many lit torches.

  Awe and chatter resounded as the ringmaster’s disembodied voice appeared to bellow from somewhere in the rafters. “My friends, we now give you, The Horsemen of Hellfire.”

  The clowns dove to the centre of the arena as three swarthy men dressed in midnight black galloped into the ring upon sable steeds with leather mantels. Each horseman seized three flaming torches and whilst riding in fleet circles, they hurled them aloft, juggling the golden blazes.

  Matilda rose to cheer, Seth whistled, Chloe waved and even Mr Finlay looked a little bit impressed.

  Faster and tighter they cantered in giddying loops, hooves thundering, drums hammering a spirited beat, and the crowd roared their approval as one horseman caught a torch betwixt his teeth.

  The clowns danced and cavorted in the centre of the ring, faces fiendish in the firelight, and all around the amphitheatre, gentlemen hung over balustrades to better view the spinning blurs of flashing inferno, ladies fluttering their fans against the smoke, heat and reek of oil.

  A horseman wildly shrieked as he rode by, his many torches circling to unfeasible heights, and with a flick of arm and twisted grin, one was thrown directly at their box.

  Seth roared, yanking Matilda to his chest, the blazing torch plunging aside.

  He exhaled with sharp breath but the spiting flame had caught the front corner drape and fire curled up the green silk like ivy. Kian seized a handful and wrenched, dragging the entire rail to the floor.