A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter

by Emily Windsor

  “You are making excuses for her.”

  “Perhaps. But we just saw life so differently. Each time I took a fist in the face, I thought of our poverty, of how we had to escape. Then Chloe came along so soon, and I fought for us all and yet… Samantha still seemed to think the glory more important. That we should be celebrating when we won meagre coppers. I fought more matches and trained harder to get us out. I can’t say that as a young man I didn’t enjoy being with the lads on fight days, the adulation of the crowds, but then I was never home and…”

  “And then she left you…”

  “Yes, she left me. She left us. The worst is that I could see it coming, the end of our marriage. It was like a lingering illness, so the loss of Samantha wasn’t a sudden end for me. It had been happening for months. The slow tearing off of a limb, leaving nothing but sorrow for a piece of me lost.”

  Matilda caressed his forearm, swallowed the lump in her throat. “Your wife chose her own path, as we all must do. And you have Chloe – for comfort and purpose. You’ve raised a fine girl, Mr Hawkins, who will become a fine and genteel lady…if she so wishes. She worships the ground you tread.”

  His hand covered hers, a smile that bespoke his pride and true joy.

  “You do realise Chloe adores you also.”

  “Really… Oh. I’ve never been adored before.”

  An inveigling warmth spread through her, dissipating some of the sadness within, but equally a fire spread up her arm and Matilda peered down – no sign of her slender fingers beneath that broad smothering hand.

  Permit never clandestine attachment – Miss Appleton’s words insidiously whispered within Matilda’s ears but the lady was doubtless correct.

  “Well,” she began, gathering her governess mien, “I should retire now, Mr Hawkins. My governess compendium has some strict instruction on unmarried persons being alone in a library at such an hour. Not respectable at all.”

  “Why is that?”

  Erm. “Well… The employer could… The governess might… They could…”

  He raised that eyebrow with the scar; she wondered on its cause.

  “Well, they might…kiss or something,” she blurted, pulling lightly to liberate her hand. It would not budge.

  “How utterly dreadful,” he murmured, and his grip shifted to her wrist, drew her forward – so close she observed a gold rim encircling his pupils. His lips parted and her heart thumped like a tribal drum for the Saharan rains.

  So she tattled on as she usually did when in a dither. “Well, it is. I was kissed once before, and it was truly dreadful. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

  Matilda startled at the violent emotion which slipped through Mr Hawkins’ eyes – twisting the easy brown and submerging it beneath irate green. She could see the pugilist…

  “Who kissed you to make it so awful?” he demanded.

  “My betrothed. Lord Sidlow. But it matters not. It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re damn right it won’t,” he muttered. “I vowed never to use violence outside of the ring, but I could make an exception.”

  “That won’t be necessary, and in any case, you must think me foolish. People kiss all the time, after all, without making a fuss.”

  He released her wrist but only to clasp her fingers and draw them upwards, to brush firm dry lips upon the back of her hand in a perfect gentlemanly kiss. Many a man had done the same and yet never had such scintillation journeyed up her arm and then prickled in so many places.

  Mr Hawkins sketched a bow. “As I once said, no, I do not think you foolish at all. I think you a brave lady and an exceptionally good listener to boot, who commands my utmost respect.” He stretched to the shelf behind, reached for the elegant Michel de Montaigne book and placed it within her fingers. “For you. A keepsake. And I know your parents would be proud of the lady you have become. Brave and…enchanting.”

  No one had ever called her that before – bluestocking, dull, glass-eyes, to be sure, but not brave and enchanting… “Thank you for such kindness, Mr Hawkins. I shall treasure it always.” She gave a watery smile.

  “Good night, Miss Griffin.” Those elemental eyes flickered with gold fire once more before they dampened. “‘Valour is strength, not of legs and arms, but of heart and soul.’”

  She dipped a curtsey. “Good night, Mr Hawkins.” And turned to depart the library with a broad smile.

  For she knew from whence those words had come: the very book clutched in her hands.

  Such a rare and gallant gentleman.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Life is short; employ it honourably; do what good you can: you need not want for opportunity.”

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

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  “I don’t know why you continue to work for that scoundrel, Kian.”

  “That scoundrel is yer principal investor.”

  Shrugging, Seth drained his tankard and dumped it to the kitchen table. True enough, and he perused his friend as he replenished their ale from the jug Betty had left out for them. Fortnightly, they convened to sluice their throats before leaving for a local ale-house, but Kian appeared tired tonight, shadows creeping across his pale skin and grey misting his black hair.

  Mind you, Seth likely appeared similar.

  Since the Champions’ Dinner three days past, he’d focused all his hours upon the Academy in order to distract from the lure of Miss Griffin. A lure she seemed so unaware she held.

  But she was his daughter’s governess…

  So each evening at dinner, he would compel himself to ignore the manner in which the candlelight caught a flash of blue in her midnight hair.

  Quash the recollection of her moist sherry eyes and tender words in the library that night.

  Bludgeon the desire which lurked stormily beneath his skin when he recalled her silken cheek against his calloused palm.

  Trample the thought of how he had so nearly kissed his genteel lady governess…

  He rubbed his nape, exhaled heavily and supped his ale.

  “You should come and work with me, Kian. We’d be a good team.”

  “Aye, but I earn more at the Prince’s in a night than yer’d pay me in a sennight.”

  “I’ll have you know I upped the members’ fee. I do very well.”

  “My wage is three guineas…a night.”

  Hell, that was rather a lot. “You can pay for drinks then, alth–” Seth’s nostrils twitched. “Do come in, Miss Griffin.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t mean to… I’d not realised you were here, Mr Finlay. I merely wished to reheat my tea. I let mine go cold, you see, whilst reading.”

  Miss Griffin shuffled at the kitchen door and looked left then right, eyes big as hens’ eggs at the sight of them.

  He supposed they did appear like bloody gruff barbarians, both having done away with their stylish daytime rig for loose neckcloths, rough breeches and grubby boots. The sole nod to elegance was Seth’s emerald-green silk waistcoat – Chloe’s choice, of course.

  Kian, ever the gentleman that he wasn’t, stood, then bowed with a glint to his blue eyes – the rogue.

  Seth sprang to his feet. “Please, come in. The range is still hot. So why not brew another.”

  His friend insisted on handling the kettle and enquiring of Chloe’s lessons, complimenting Miss Griffin on her honey dress – which was saffron, not honey – and rooting in the cupboard for the Oliver biscuits.

  Seth gritted his teeth, despite knowing full well that Kian’s heart solely beat for one woman alone.

  “How did you know it was I at the door, Mr Hawkins?” his governess asked, leaning against the range and warming her palms.

  “The scent of an English garden in June.” The words tumbled out before his lips could put a leash to them.

  Kian vainly attempted to smother a smirk.

  Seth cleared his throat. “Betty always smells of flour, the maid of lye and Chloe of lavender. It
could only be you – meadows in sunshine.” The intimacy of recognising a woman by her scent was not something a gentleman should confess to, a breach of delicacy too far, but that scent surrounded him by day…and haunted him by night.

  “I’m rather indulgently still using my last bar of Andrew Pears’ soap. It must be that.”

  Images of an entirely debauched nature assailed him, ones he’d successfully bridled over the past days but ale had clearly slackened the reins… Miss Griffin soaping herself in a slipper bath, all creamy skin and loose, damp coal-black hair, teasing his eyes with glimpses of heaven.

  Without question he remained alone in this tormented passion as she twisted away to boil tea, leaving Seth to stew.

  “And what do you do, Mr Finlay? I did not have the time to enquire on Saturday,” she said apologetically, bustling from the larder with a jug of milk.

  “Dinnae worry, yer were well occupied with Ribber Rufus.” He grinned at Seth. “I work in…protection and security for the Prince.”

  “Gosh.” She dipped the teaspoon and stirred. “At Carlton House or–”

  “Not that Prince,” Seth interrupted, winking at his governess. “The Prince.”

  Ebony eyelashes batted behind spectacles in confusion, fingers tapping her fragile china teacup.

  Kian yanked out a chair for the lady to sit. “He owns a few gambling hells. Got an exclusive one on–”

  “Pall Mall?” she squealed, looking hesitant but then plonking herself down anyway. “Cousin Astwood lost two hundred guineas, his gold watch and a mistress at that place. I was amused for days.”

  “That’d be the one.” And with the lady seated, both ruffians allowed their arses to hit the chairs anew.

  “Goodness. And you work for the owner?”

  “Aye.”

  Seth kept quiet. The Prince had a shady reputation, not one a lady should acquaint herself with, and he watched as she merrily interrogated Kian about gaming hells, their female attendees and the mathematical odds of winning.

  Many a gentlewoman would’ve had a fit of the vapours and be in need of the smelling salts by now, alone with two scruffy low-class rascals in the kitchens, yet Miss Griffin was formed of hardier stuff.

  With fortitude, she’d survived her parents’ horrific death, outwitted her malicious cousin and braved governess-ship at a boxing academy.

  “I wish to travel, Mr Finlay,” she was now saying into her teacup, “but I think it an unrealistic dream. This may sound selfish, having grown up surrounded by wealth, but all my experience of foreign lands was through books and study. I led a sheltered existence and these two weeks as governess have been a revelation. I realise a working life can be arduous but there is also immense satisfaction.” She bit her reddened lip. “For that, I have Mr Hawkins to thank, for giving me this chance, placing his daughter within my care and showing me…life.”

  Miss Griffin abruptly glanced up, eyes gleaming her gratitude, that dimple revealed, and Seth’s innards twisted with yearning to show her yet more life, to show her that a kiss from a lover was not to be dreaded but welcomed, begged for and pleaded never to end.

  Yet respect and circumstance tamped his passion, as it had done so in the library. He was her employer, she a lady and a governess, and who knew what the future may hold. With that keen intellect and exquisite beauty, a duke might sweep her off her scanty feet or some dotty old aunt may bequeath her a fortune.

  He owned a boxing club and still dropped his H’s when he’d quaffed a few ales.

  Kian tutted. “I canna understand keeping daughters beneath lock and key. My wife grew up amongst sailors as her Irish father was a sea captain and she never came to no harm. Adored the grog as well.”

  “Do you know,” Miss Griffin stated, peering at their drained tankards with pursed lips. “I’ve never even drunk beer.”

  “Well, might yer come with us then. To the ale-house?”

  What! Seth’s head shot up. No. There was experience of life and then there was…grubby benches, suspect meat pies, roving doxies and bosky poltroons.

  “Oh, how exciting!” she declared. “I’ve never visited such an establishment before. But no, I couldn’t. Could I?” She sucked a lip into her mouth, eyes wide. “Just one beverage might be acceptable, purely for anthropological reasons as I believe species of people inhabit those places whom I’ve never even met.”

  Yes, and Seth would keep it that way. “Miss Griffin. You are governess to my daughter and as such should not visit an ale-house. It is no place for a lady.”

  Hell, he sounded like a stiff-rumped surly boots, and with shoulders drooping, she sipped her weak tea, eyelashes as wilted as the tails on those damn museum birds.

  Never had he felt such a shabby blackguard.

  Miss Griffin wished to experience life; he could understand that. Yet this was no smart dinner or respectable museum outing but a mucky ale-house where a fight could ensue or a lady could be…importuned.

  “Come now, Seth,” his friend grumbled with a glare, “I no took yer for being such a stickler. Yer ma supped aplenty in the Old Goat ale-house, and Chloe used to come with us when she were a wee thing. What’s wrong with yer? Let the lass have some fun. We could try The Red Lion.” He grabbed Seth’s coat sleeve, blue eyes so grave. “Life is short. Yer know that.”

  Yes, he did know.

  For Kian had married that beautiful Irish daughter of a sea captain and they’d loved each other as turtle doves, but nigh five years ago on a bitter Tuesday morning, she’d taken a chill; by Wednesday she had a fever; and on Friday she’d passed to the angels, Kian clutching her in despair.

  His friend had never recovered, in truth.

  Still, it was downright blackmail. And he’d not fall for it.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Let us look at vice, naked, stripped of every trapping of birth and fashion, and we shall only feel horror ourselves at the sight.”

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

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  “Down the hatch,” Mr Finlay toasted, clunking Matilda’s stationary tankard with his own.

  She squinted at the pewter vessel that had been placed before her on the table, a brown and exceedingly murky liquid sloshing, clouds of beige froth drifting.

  Matilda’s gaze sloped back to the two men sitting opposite, both watching her with rapt interest and no small amount of concern.

  In order to experience a flavour unknown, she had chosen the popular Porter Ale, which her confidante, Evelyn, had once declared tasted of horse blankets dipped in pond water. But reasoning there must be some explanation for its fame, Matilda sipped, maintaining a watchful eye upon the precipitous froth.

  Smoky, bitter, deep.

  As she swiped a top lip with her tongue, she noted Mr Hawkins follow the movement: doubtless it had been vulgar, but no serviettes were provided.

  She sampled again. Silky and full. A gulp. Toffee and roasts.

  “We can get yer a pale ale if yer prefer?” prodded Mr Finlay. “’Tis a dab sweeter.”

  “No…” She took a further gulp and the two sets of eyebrows opposite ascended. “I rather like it. The beverages for ladies are oft too sweet for my palate. I appreciate the bitterness.”

  Mr Hawkins’ gaze remained hooded in the nebulous light, but Mr Finlay nodded in approval and once more clunked her tankard in what she assumed was some sort of maleness ritual.

  Feeling inordinately pleased with herself, Matilda sat back as best one could upon the bare wooden bench set against a stone wall that she’d been shepherded to when they’d entered.

  Beneath blackened beams, tables and chairs were spread in no discernible pattern, the patrons ranging from rough to refined, a tangled room of class and accents.

  No doubt the scabby Miss Appleton would clout any governess with her three-hundred and twenty-six page book for being so audacious, but so much life could be viewed within an ale-house, and how else was Matilda to teach the evils of im
morality if she knew not its forms.

  Being a lady of the haut monde, she now realised, was similar to a fragile china tea service. Kept in a cupboard until genteel company called, made to do one’s duty, granted a delicate clean and then put away again, watching whilst the hard-wearing pewter tankards were used each day with love and purpose.

  Rather purple prose, to be sure, but this evening, Matilda wished to be a tankard…

  Still, it was dreadfully improper to be sitting here, and the thrill of it shook her to her very boots – ones that rubbed as they belonged to Betty, her own mustard kid-leather footwear having been rejected as too elegant for an ale-house.

  In addition to the boots, Father’s ancient cloak concealed her saffron gown and one of Chloe’s old caps her hair, so she felt toastier than Icarus. But that had been the strict condition laid down for this adventure, hence she wrapped the cloak tight, not wishing to give her chaperones any excuse to send her home.

  “Another, Kian?”

  Goodness.

  Matilda glanced to their empty tankards and realised that while she’d been whimsically wool-gathering, they had been studiously supping.

  A nod, and Mr Hawkins rose, stripping off his jacket in the convivial warmth.

  At the bar, a small flock of males greeted him: back slaps – that would knock her to her knees – traded for manly punches to the stomach.

  How peculiar a male’s social interactions and habitat, which perhaps explained why he’d not been overly effusive at a female’s presence here.

  “Why the sigh, lass?” Mr Finlay stared with those soulful blue eyes from the seat opposite. A handsome man, yet his striking raven plumage affected her not.