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

  “I know one to the same tune called John and Susan. Shall I sing it?”

  “No! Er, let’s broaden your repertoire a little. Come sit by me, and perhaps we might learn one that could be performed at a musical soiree, for example.”

  Chloe flopped beside her on the stool. “Are they fun, Miss Griffin? Soirees?”

  “Yes, of course. Well…” In point of fact, she couldn’t ever recall having fun at a musical soiree. They were an obligatory event for a debutante to attend – like eyebrow plucking. “Not always, but one can meet new friends. It’s just that we are expected to obey the rules of propriety in selecting songs, and the choice can be somewhat restricted for ladies.”

  Her charge’s young shoulders slumped. “I hope I like being a lady. Pa says I’m not awfully good with rules.”

  Matilda was well aware that Miss Appleton would now fritter away an hour discussing the need for a young lady to obey without question, to follow the edicts of their betters, yet hadn’t Matilda herself defied her guardian’s word? Sought, in her own small way, to overturn society’s expectation that she give herself in marriage without complaint to an aged libertine who smelled of wet dog and week-old cabbage?

  Chloe, she had discovered thus far today, was a girl with a thoughtful nature and intelligent mind yet an outspoken tongue and bold attitude.

  Should a governess curb such character and mould it to meek and mild?

  “I think…” She made to pat Chloe’s arm in reassurance, but awkwardness beset her at such an avuncular gesture. “I think it more important to be kind to one another than to slavishly follow rules and expectations. We all wish to be accepted, of course, but that does not mean we must suppress our true selves. ’Tis a balancing act that I myself have not yet learned.”

  Her young charge patted Matilda’s arm. “Well, why don’t we learn together then, Miss Griffin.” A broad smile and Chloe dolloped a forefinger on middle C. “You follow my lead.” And she took a deep breath…

  “‘There was a pious parson,

  Who lived in Upper Harding…’”

  Some folk might believe that to be the owner of a boxing academy, one would merely need a brutish fist and a thick skull, yet other qualities were also required, such as forethought, tact, patience and–

  “Lord Cholmondeley!” yelled Seth. “Keep your fists up, man. You’re not dancing the quadrille at bloody Almack’s.”

  The young sprig nodded and brought his gloves closer to his hairless chin as he and another lordling sparred within a small chalked circle upon the floor – the restricted space kept their footwork tidy, promoted focus and allowed Seth to fit more members into this Academy hall – otherwise he’d be seeking new premises.

  For some reason, now Napoleon had been seen to, there had been an upsurge in new members: returned officers with pent horrors that needed to be dispelled in peacetime, and fledgling fellows who wished to show patriotic pride by milling their closest friend on the chops – a curious trait of the English.

  Seth skirted a sweat-clad Waterloo hero punching the hell out of a straw bag suspended from the ceiling, and headed to the main ring, where a small crowd had gathered.

  Many a gentry cove arrived to view the practice bouts he scheduled for his young apprentices – to gain inside knowledge of the latest up-and-coming prizefighter and conclude whether to wager on or against him.

  And Liam Wheelan was one such fighter – young, raw and tough. Yet…

  Seth tapped a member of the crowd on the back. “Excuse me. May I pass?”

  Without turning, the earl growled, “Find your own patch to…” He twisted his head. “Mr Hawkins, do excuse me. I’d not realised it was you.” And he shifted to allow Seth through while also yanking his companion to the side.

  Seth nodded his gratitude and stepped up to the ropes. Raised at a modest height for all to see, the ring was surrounded by this simple hemp barrier, the floor scattered with sawdust for grip.

  The hulking Liam landed a nobbler upon the other young fighter’s conk, then a plump to the brisket. This was no fancy boxing match with nobs sparring in gloves to protect their delicate knuckles, but the bare-fisted combat of prizefighting with few rules.

  “You’ve got a winning lad there, Hawkins,” pronounced some duke to his side, before clapping a hand to his shoulder.

  Hmm.

  The two apprentices circled upon bouncing feet, the younger displaying his agility with a sharp dodge to the right. Yet Liam showed no mercy for effort, and with a swift, determined settler to the jaw, his opponent hit the floor.

  Seth waited as the crowd dispersed for other pleasures of London, then narrowed his gaze as Liam smirked at the defeated lad, who gamely sat up and attempted to shake hands. With slack wrist and disinterested eyes, Liam barely brushed palms, and the younger lad slunk beneath the ropes with a grimace. Seth grabbed his arm. “Your technique is good. Keep practising, get some meat on those bones and you’ll get there.” The lad nodded before heading to the changing room, and Seth twisted back to Liam.

  The seventeen-year-old victor reminded Seth of himself at that age – rough and hungry, his eagerness built upon a need to escape a vicious life as the crisp whip scars upon Liam’s back attested to.

  All essential ingredients and yet the lad lacked two fundamentals…

  “I’ll be ready for a proper fight soon, won’t I, Mr Hawkins? He were a cock robin who tumbled before I’d breathed on him.”

  Namely humility and patience.

  Seth checked his fob watch. Two hours before dinner with his daughter…and the new governess.

  Not the only development at No. 25 Arlington Street.

  The scent of wildflowers now haunted the hallways.

  A graceful laugh echoed behind a closed schoolroom door.

  Buttercup silk flashed around a corner.

  All reminding him that a woman now lived in his house.

  A pretty woman with eyes of sherry and skin of cream.

  A pretty woman who thought him a beef-witted muttonhead.

  Heaving a breath, he swung a leg over the lower rope and ducked the upper one to step into the ring. Seth shoved off his unbuttoned waistcoat, hauled his shirt over his head and flung it to the corner post.

  He sponsored many a boy from the Rookery, lads like himself who craved a way out, and Liam was good, but anger and arrogance would be his downfall.

  “Yer opponent today, Liam, was two stone lighter and twelvemonth younger. If yer met an experienced fighter in the ring, he’d mill yer before yer could raise a fist.” Seth lifted his own, the damaged knuckles and hardened skin speaking their ferocious past, reminding the boy of Seth’s background, of who he truly was. That when all was said and done, prizefighting wasn’t for the nobs and swells that followed their wins, but for common men who needed coin and food to survive.

  “I could take anyone on,” the lad muttered with a shadowed gleam to his gaze.

  “Take me on, then, for one round. Yer’ve fought m’other lads, but you and me have only scuffled.”

  Liam tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at Seth.

  If the lad cared to make use of those eyes, he’d see an ex-fighter in good form, but one who’d ceased brawling professionally four years past. A man with just over three decades who might have grown lax hobnobbing with fancy coves.

  “M’pleasure, Mr Hawkins.”

  They bounced upon the spot to loosen, weight forward, fists raised, until Seth nodded and the young lad, with no assessment of his opponent’s stance whatsoever, stabbed out a blow to Seth’s noggin.

  A simple shift of the neck and the blow flew wide.

  Liam growled and attempted a plump to the ribs, but Seth danced to the right and it glanced off with nigh a brush.

  Another mill, but too wild, and Seth pitched up a forearm to meet the force, his wide stance enabling his balance.

  A further fist jabbed out, this time catching his ribs, but Seth’s chest was not a weakness, cushioned as it was by muscle and sine
w, and he was easily able to withstand the impact, to tarry until…

  Proud of his blow, Liam advanced, too fast, fists pelting, and Seth took advantage to hook his heel around the back of the lad’s ankle and sweep him from his feet.

  “And the round is over,” Seth declared, hauling a sullen Liam from his arse.

  He rested hands on the lad’s shoulders.

  “Liam. Use yer brains. I know you ’ave them under all that temper. Look at me. What are m’weaknesses? Where are m’strengths? Did yer even think before blundering in? Where in the ’ell was yer defence? I could ’ave ’ad yer as soon as yer missed that first rattler, but thought I’d wait till yer sealed yer own fall.”

  Liam glowered but began to rake Seth with his wolfish eyes.

  “Yer’ve a stocky build, Mr Hawkins, which keeps its balance well. A chest that can take a fist. And yer’ve bleedin’ light feet that can move like a doxy at dawn. But…” His black gaze perused. “Yer’ve a shorter reach, and I don’t mean no cheek, but…” A smile shimmered – the boy within. “Yer ain’t no raw buffer, Mr Hawkins, so yer stamina won’t be up to much.”

  “Better. Whereas yer’ve a long reach, are young and can bide yer time. Wait, punch from afar with power, and I might go down like a Spanish ship in the Armada. Think, Liam, use yer noddle. You ain’t fighting no lowlife gutter rats in the streets, but real men with hard lives, rent to pay and babes to feed.”

  Liam gave a mulish nod.

  “And don’t be so damn cocksure. Learn from others, and one day, the world might be yer oyster.”

  “Right yer are, Mr Hawkins. Can we have another bout?”

  Seth glanced to the clock upon the wall and grabbed his shirt from the corner post.

  “Tomorrow at nine, lad. I’ve got a dinner to tog up for.”

  Chapter Five

  “A book may be the ruin of innocence; the prop of virtue; the comfort of the weak; the terror of the strong; the polisher of a mind; or the depraver of a heart.”

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

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  Matilda paced, poked the fire, peered out the window and then paced some more whilst awaiting her employer.

  Never having been one for a protracted toilette, she’d washed with the pitcher of water left by the maid, donned the brighter of her four yellow gowns – after all, it was to be dinner – and then…twiddled her thumbs to knots in this stylish drawing room.

  Customarily, if worries assailed or nerves seized, she’d read a novel for distraction or a poem to still her thoughts, and although, as requested, Mr Hawkins had supplied the necessary volumes for the schoolroom, she’d found nothing further.

  Plays? Sonnets? The latest scurrilous romance novel? The back of a Fortnum and Mason biscuit tin?

  She’d perused the shelves – not one book.

  Examined the mantelpiece and behind the tray of decanters – devoid.

  Poked around the plant pots – barren.

  Huffing, she tapped a lip and gazed into the gilt mirror that hung over the fireplace, the drawing in of dusk obscuring the reflected corners of the room not lit by the elegant sconces.

  Without fictional fancy to settle her mind, she’d end up mad as a March hare, be found burbling insanity around Green Park in solely her petticoats.

  The window seat caught her eye in the mirror, surely a prime place to read and hence discard a novel, so she glanced at the clock. Still time, and she hurried over, yanking the cushion aloft.

  But nothing, and her shoulders slumped.

  “You appear…dismayed, Miss Griffin.”

  Matilda spun, Pomona-green cushion in hand.

  Propped against the doorframe was Mr Hawkins, head tilted, that scarred eyebrow raised in query.

  Composing her features to pious and patient as Miss Appleton had sourly decreed, Matilda smiled in innocence.

  “No, no, I am quite content, Mr Hawkins, thank you, just…plumping.” She pulverised the cushion for good measure, as she’d seen maids do, then carefully placed it on the seat at a fashionable angle. “Chloe and I had an exceedingly productive day. She’s a delightful girl.” And to further divert attention, Matilda deployed her deepest curtsey – one more advocated for noblemen than pugilists.

  Straightening from his lounged position by the door, Mr Hawkins sketched an equally profound bow and entered the room.

  Matilda’s nerves heightened.

  Although the door was open, with the maid dawdling in the hall, Matilda had never, not once, been so alone with a man – other than the brief encounter with her malodorous betrothed, but that did not count.

  This was a…real man.

  All rippling physique and glossy walnut hair, immense hands straightening a perfect cascade cravat with ruby stick pin.

  A leaf-green waistcoat highlighted the flickers in his eyes, the material clinging indecently, its collar narrow with two rows of silk-covered buttons climbing his chest like an inviting ladder. Lower, his whipcord thighs – powerful and strident – were encased in a black silk which complemented his jacket.

  Matilda’s gaze dipped to the rug as she recollected a book concerning male plumage: how any subsequent delight felt within a female of the species was an instinctive response and nothing at all to do with one’s own inclinations – the book had in fact been concerned with the mating habits of pelicans but surely explained the tendrils of pleasure which now coursed.

  Attraction was a mere primitive and animalistic reaction to a male in prime fettle.

  “And you are not concerned by my daughter’s pastime?” he enquired, crossing those burly arms.

  Matilda straightened her spine. “I daresay it is…out of the ordinary, but Chloe’s manner is respectful, honest and fun. I see no harm, and it appears to give her an unusual agility and poised balance for even the most arduous of curtseys.”

  Mr Hawkins’ lips twitched as he prowled with lupine grace – and yes, that was the only word to describe the manner in which he walked – to the side table. “Sherry?”

  “Yes, if I may, but… As Chloe’s governess, should I not dine with her in the schoolroom?”

  He prowled once more, but this time in her direction, and she strove to recall more of those pelican specifics.

  “Chloe dines here with me. Always has.”

  “Oh.” How unusual. “She failed to mention that.”

  The sherry glass was proffered. Their fingers brushed.

  Pelicans.

  Of course, an arousing cologne of leather and musk was not generally associated with that genus of water bird either, although the glands of a deer were used to create musk, so perchance it was also a mating attractant and hence the explanation for her olfactory pleasure.

  He cocked his head. “Did you not dine with your parents?”

  “Not until I was fifteen and had something worthwhile to communicate. I dined in the nursery till then.” Put into words, that sounded appalling. She’d adored her parents but until her mind had been that of a fully functioning adult, she had remained unseen and unheard at mealtimes.

  “With your governess?”

  “She only came for five hours a day. Then it was solely me and my books.” If she had to discern his expression, it was pity. “I was quite content,” she assured. “Within those pages, I could visit a forest or volcano, watch a play of tragedy or friendship, debate philosophy with myself, or feel sadness and…and love.”

  The hue of Mr Hawkins’ eyes shifted to that of sedimentary rock and swirling kelp pools, and she swallowed. He had stood somewhat closer than proper to pass the sherry and her skin had prickled with an agreeable awareness.

  She reminded herself that this type of human behaviour was commonplace beyond the Ton world, that maids and footmen did dine together, and persons of both genders sat elbow-to-elbow in stagecoaches – all without coming over slightly peculiar.

  “I am sure you are correct, Miss Griffin,” he murmured, “in that books can conve
y the very essence of a writer’s soul, emotion and experience.”

  Matilda nodded. “And if I had allowed myself to be married off, I’ve a feeling that sadness would have been my sole experience.”

  For all her debutante innocence, Miss Griffin was likewise as worldly as a society matron.

  Many young misses would have acquiesced with their guardian’s choice of husband, not understanding what their future life may entail, yet those observant sherry-tinted eyes and that astute mind had watched, cogitated and decided upon a different path.

  She was all Seth had hoped for in a governess to his daughter – a lady with manners and poise, but equally not one who would seek to curb Chloe’s free spirit with orders of obeyance.

  The sole curious aspect was…did not a governess habitually sport blending brown frocks or unobtrusive greys? A layer of invisibility within their employer’s household?

  He’d supposed the moulding buttercup yellow from yesterday a remnant of her previous status, yet when he’d first entered the room this evening to discover her investigating the window seat, it was to be confronted by Miss Griffin’s gilded posterior, a golden beige that outdid the flaming fire, dress molten against her curvaceous form.

  Now, she faced him, and he noted that the silk’s hue matched her glasses, caused a lustre to her smooth skin and contrasted with her hair, deepening it to midnight.

  He cleared his throat, straightened the green waistcoat that Chloe had chosen and thrust a finger inside his new cascade-style cravat, which quite frankly should come with a warning that it may throttle one’s breathing route.

  And where the hell was Chloe?

  “Shall we await my daughter in the dining room?” Seth extended a forearm as though to escort a lady at a genteel ball – which surely was all wrong.

  Earlier, he’d instinctively bowed in response to her elegant curtsey. Then wondered if that was correct procedure. After all, she was his employee, but the etiquette books he’d read in order to fit in with the swells who frequented his club hadn’t covered this little scenario – the lady governess and the low-bred pugilist.