A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter

by Emily Windsor

  “N-never mind,” she stuttered, and fervently hoped that Mr Hawkins had quaffed enough ale to forget.

  Seth’s restraint and self-control remained legendary within the prizefighting world.

  Never one for rousing to turbulent anger or succumbing to ploys of provocation.

  Yet one plea from Miss Griffin and he longed to wildly haul her from that seat to his lap, to grasp her slender nape and ravenously kiss her until her lips were torrid red, all restraint unleashed.

  Silence remained his sole protection, fingers gripping the seat to prevent them from reaching out, his teeth gritted and body taut as before a fight.

  At last he allowed his gaze to cover her. A mere shadow in the corner, but passing lamplight caught her features and never had he seen such dejection: lips pressed, eyes unseeing, brow furrowed.

  He could not bear it.

  “Miss Griffin, I have always deplored arrogant nobles who take advantage of their maids, so what kind of man would I be to kiss my governess in an enclosed carriage when she’d no means of escape?”

  He sensed her turn.

  “If I were not your governess, if I was simply an independent widow, or a barmaid at liberty, would you have acquiesced to my request?”

  “But you are not–”

  “Pretend, Mr Hawkins,” she said stridently. “What would you have done?”

  Seth swallowed. He could lie, say he had no desire for sherry eyes behind golden-framed spectacles, that he preferred the barmaid in The Red Lion, that a pocket Venus was not to his taste.

  Yet a bitterness coated his tongue and heart at the thought.

  He was an honest man.

  “I would have tangled my fingers in your silken hair and ravished your lips with mine till breath ceased for want of one another.”

  There, that might silence her delectable mouth for once.

  “I resign,” she said huskily.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I resign from your employ. I wish you to ravish my lips, Mr Hawkins, therefore if my status as governess is the lone reason for your refusal, then I shall resign. A kiss won’t take long, will it? And you can reinstate me a few moments after.”

  The saucy wench.

  A kiss could last for hours or whole nights. And her forthright assertion of want melted his resolve like morning mist before the warming sun.

  “Why do you wish me to kiss you?” he hoarsely asked, fingers uncurling. Did she solely desire the pugilist for his protection and brawn…or the man beneath?

  “Gosh, you do talk a lot. But to answer… Because you are thoughtful and kind and gentle. You perceive…me. The true me.”

  Naught to do with his brawn there.

  “And,” she added, “because I wish to feel your mighty pectoralis major press against me.”

  At least it was last on her list, he’d take that, so he hastily lifted himself, hunching in the close confines and twisting to sit beside her.

  She squeaked as he removed her spectacles and cupped her cheek, the motion of the carriage nudging their bodies close, then closer. He brushed a thumb across her skin – silken and warm.

  This was an exceedingly bad idea.

  “I accept your resignation, Miss Griffin,” he murmured nonetheless, slanting to her, the scent of flowers in his nostrils, head and heart. “And you must call me Seth.”

  The carriage lurched and their lips neared, breaths mingling… His entire body suffused with blistering desire and–

  A finger pressed to his lips. Soft but undeniable.

  “Just one matter.”

  “Yes?”

  “Without tongue, if you please.”

  Speechless, he stilled.

  “When my rancid betrothed attempted to kiss me, you see, he inserted his tongue. I later discovered he had a French grandmother, but being Anglo-Saxon, I assume you will refrain. However just in case–”

  “Why don’t you reserve judgement, Miss Griffi–”

  “And perhaps you ought to call me Matilda,” she gabbled on. “And perhaps I ought to–”

  He kissed her.

  Keep it gentle, he scolded himself, don’t scare her, despite her lips being sweet temptation and bitter joy, hops and meadows, spring and summer.

  Thus he maintained the kiss at tame and exploratory, their mouths merely caressing, brushing and tasting.

  As he’d so wished to do since Matilda Griffin had marched into his study with her bold plan, he slipped a hand into her sleek hair, scattered pins and drove her nearer, breasts teasing his chest as the carriage jolted along the cobbled street.

  All might have been fine; it may well have ended there; he would have drawn back.

  But her hand clasped his shoulder and then climbed till her fingers twisted in the short hair at his nape, nails lightly scratching, yanking him close and crushing their lips together.

  Ferocious need erupted, spiralling his control and grinding it to dust.

  He hauled her tight, a hand to her curvaceous rump so that she half-straddled him, a scalding heat upon his thigh, and he kissed down her neck, nipped her throat, the shadows a colluding partner to his endeavour.

  Guilt should have arisen, but her gasping breaths and breathy moans urged him on.

  “Seth…”

  And likewise, he growled her name against her skin as those small hands explored his chest, tugging at his neckcloth.

  She was a twisting flame within his arms and he claimed her mouth once more. Her lips parted and without heed or thought, he thrust his tongue, tasted.

  Then cursed as she stiffened.

  Then groaned as she softened, allowing him in.

  Slender fingers kneaded his chest, stroked his throat, and somehow her fulsome breast came to be in his palm, but no resistance was offered as he caressed and stroked, only a heartfelt moan and tip of hips.

  Heaven help him, he wanted it all. To tug at her saffron bodice, rip at her ribbons, yank up her skirts and pull her fully astride, to sink inside and possess her.

  To ravish the proper, passionate and beautiful Miss Matilda Griffin…

  So…he slowed his kiss, covered her grasping hands with his own, halted their roaming and instead turned his thoughts to being belted in the mug by Jack Scroggins.

  Matilda Griffin had wanted to erase the memory of her previous kiss, he knew that. She’d enjoyed her evening and sought to continue her adventure, but he must now be the one to draw it to a close.

  They turned a corner and moonlight stole into the carriage. She goggled, lips moist and eyes wide in wonder, and the devil on his shoulder stabbed him in the groin and asked why the hell he was halting.

  “Matilda, I am but a man and such…desire can only lead to…” Unaware of her knowledge concerning carnal matters, his words stumbled to naught.

  “I am fully conversant, Seth,” she said huskily, “with the mating habits of warm-blooded mammals.”

  But not of a man with blood ablaze and body primed.

  Seth garnered all his scattered restraint. “Then you know why we must stop, Matilda.” He found her spectacles and replaced them on her nose. “I reinstate you as governess.”

  She drew away to the corner and his own body shuddered with the rip in contact, yet he dragged himself to the opposite seat.

  “I accept and thank you for reinstating me, Mr Hawkins.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Griffin.”

  Yet with that kiss, all had changed – at least for him – and he watched as she attempted to pin her hair with fingers aquiver, sliding strands capturing the moonlight.

  He knew not where this may lead, or even if Miss Griffin desired further adventure, but he would pursue it nonetheless – this passion and like-mindedness.

  In truth, they’d known each other scarce weeks, and he still recalled the pain of a tattered heart, sliced open by the wrong choice. The wound had knitted through time but like his scarred eyebrow, a faint ache endured, forever reminding him to act with caution.

  He would discover
more of her dreams and fears, and equally he would divulge more of himself.

  “You must think me brazen, Mr Hawkins,” she murmured, catching his eye.

  “No, Miss Griffin. I think you a bewitching lady.”

  And therein lay a part of his dilemma.

  The lady and the pugilist?

  It sounded like the title for some lurid tale of absconding lovers, wicked nobles, romantic dinners, threatening relatives and a chase at the finale.

  He’d revealed a little of his past, but not enough – the violence which had driven him, the brutality he’d endured in order to achieve his dreams. He had nigh ten years on Miss Griffin and a daughter to boot.

  But perchance, there was one way he could show her his life. A stage on which was portrayed his background, the struggle and the years gone by.

  “Miss Griffin,” he drawled low, “have you ever dressed as a nefarious footpad on the prowl?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “The diseases of the school-room are, principally, indolence, carelessness, sluttishness of person, fits of grandeur.”

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

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  “Jus’ have some hot crumpets,” Betty soothed, thrusting a plateful across the schoolroom table.

  Blobs of butter liquefied into the crumpet holes, and Matilda closed her eyes to the sight.

  Mr Hawkins had been in error last night. The god Thor wasn’t beating upon her head with a hammer. No, he was trudging about her belly in hobnail boots, roiling her innards and causing perfectly wonderful crumpets to be scarcely beholdable.

  “Thank you but no.” Matilda drew a deep breath and pushed the plate towards Chloe, who sat beside her. “You have them, dear.” She clasped her fingers together. “I don’t know how people can drink ale. It causes a terrible upset within.”

  Betty shrugged. “Well, ale’s cheap, cleanish and Ma fed it to me as a babe, so I s’pose me belly is used to it, whereas yer were a virgin last night.”

  Quite.

  And still was, as far as Matilda understood the parlance.

  But somehow her ale-house excursion had become known to all and sundry, despite her tip-toed progress up the stairs upon their return.

  “So…” Betty mumbled, helping herself to a biscuit. “Wot did yer want all this crinkum-crankum brought up for?”

  They all stared at the “crinkum-crankum” upon the mahogany trolley: a filigree silver tray was laid with the Hawkins household’s finest bone-china tea service comprising tea caddy, mote skimmer, hot water pot, teapot, three teacups upon saucers, jug of milk, sugar pot with tongs and three silver teaspoons.

  “We are to have an etiquette lesson on how one prepares tea. For if a duchess came to call, for example.”

  Betty pulled out a chair and seated herself.

  “Miss Griffin…” Chloe chewed her lip, nose scrunched. “I’ve been making tea since I could reach the kettle.”

  “I know, but society ladies have certain rules that must be adhered to. Now,” Matilda daintily grasped the silver mote skimmer and held it aloft. “This has many uses, but one is to place the tea leaves into the pot.” And she carefully measured out two spoonfuls. Then added another – strong tea cured all ills. “Next we add the hot water with a steady hand, ensuring there is no uncouth gurgling. Replace the lid. Then the hostess leaves it to steep whilst she and her guests converse upon a pleasant subject.”

  They all looked at one another.

  Pursed their lips.

  Stared at the teapot.

  “So did yer have a rollickin’ time of it last night?” asked Betty. “Yer look a dab peaky.”

  Matilda twisted to Chloe. “The weather being a suitable subject.”

  “Bit dull though,” bemoaned her charge. “Can’t we talk about last night and–”

  “I believe the tea has steeped sufficiently for the purposes of this demonstration.” Matilda leaned forward to grip the pot. “I shall serve my own and then you may duplicate my action. The tea is always poured first. Balanced and slow to maintain the leaves at the bottom of the pot and to prevent drippage upon the saucer.”

  Betty sniffed. “But why take yer to a bowsing ken of all places? Thought Mr H had more breedin’.”

  Matilda scrabbled for the mote skimmer once more. “Now, any leaf remnants can be removed with this, hence the fine holes. And then milk is added afterwards. Without exception afterwards.”

  Chloe peered into the cup. “I like to add the milk first. Did Pa behave himself?”

  Matilda swooped upon a stray tealeaf. “Adding the tea first warms the cup so one does not serve it cold. However, too hot and it may crack the bone china. ’Tis a delicate balance.”

  “So Pa didn’t behave himself then?”

  Narrowing her eyes at the innocent smile of Beelzebub’s progeny, Matilda folded her arms. “Now, if one requires sugar, one should use the tongs and never, never fingers.”

  Betty sniffed again. “The maid next door said it were gone midnight when yer returned.”

  “Now, let us see you pour the tea without spillage.”

  “And that yer hair were a bit…windswept.”

  Enough was enough.

  “To correct any misapprehensions, it was my own request to attend such an establishment in order to study the detrimental effects of liquor and to apprehend its behavioural consequences. Any…peakiness is entirely due to the ingredients within Porter Ale, which I am convinced does not merely contain barley and hops. During the course of the evening, needless to say, my coiffure…loosened, a natural outcome of the humid atmosphere within an abode of beer. And furthermore,” she declared, “Mr Hawkins was the perfect gentleman throughout.”

  Chloe nodded. “Good. And of course, you would’ve been a perfect lady. No doubt about that.”

  Matilda swallowed.

  No one is wicked all at once; but becomes so, step by step. A favoured juicy adage of Miss Appleton, but had not Matilda been wicked all at once?

  She’d desired Mr Hawkins’ kiss, yearned for his touch – to experience the strange sensation of both freedom and protection he evoked.

  And what a kiss.

  A torrid heat rose in her chest as she reminisced… The exquisite moment his lips had altered from tentative to forceful, the manner in which he’d dragged her aloft, those hefty hands snaking through her hair, calloused grip caressing her waist, the feel of him beneath – sturdy thighs and robust chest.

  And she couldn’t even begin to describe the moment he’d pressed with his tongue.

  Well, she could, actually. Silken, intimate and…needful.

  But then he’d halted.

  Most men, she assumed, might have taken advantage, and doubtless if she had responded to her betrothed’s bungling kiss – and now with the benefit of comparison, she realised it had been bungling – she would have been flat on her back behind the potted palm.

  She shuddered anew, and Betty patted her hand. “I’ll cook yer up some tripe tonight, that’ll put yer to rights. And mebbe some stew. Ma always swore that a good dose of Porter Ale in a stew softened gristly meat within the hour.”

  Matilda narrowed her eyes at the troublesome twosome as Chloe’s lips jiggled and Betty innocently batted her lashes.

  Then laughter and hugs erupted between the three of them, shared and teasing.

  Such closeness this family had, such joie de vivre. There may be no expensive butler or footmen trimming the candles, but happiness and love filled their home.

  Wiping mirthful eyes with her apron, Betty rose from the sofa. “I’d best be off. Mr H is in a rare mood this morning. Keeps whistling.”

  Chloe nodded. “And he chose a fine blue waistcoat instead of his normal day-wear brown without my guidance.”

  Two pairs of eyes impaled Matilda but the churning of her stomach prevented a flush to her cheeks, so she smiled with Betty-like innocence.

  “Perhaps, Chloe, he is merely looking forward t
o reading your thousand-word essay entitled ‘The Quilling of Tea Caddies: Theory and Practice’. Or perchance, Betty, he is merry in anticipation of tomorrow’s fulsome breakfast picnic being readied for our departure at seven of the morn?”

  Chloe groaned, Betty groaned, and Matilda sipped her perfect tea.

  Seth whistled. Then caught himself.

  In no way should he be so joyful. His weighing machine remained broken, Liam was to be stood before the magistrate for brawling, and the bloody awful weather this year was costing a fortune in firewood for the boiler.

  Indeed, nothing had altered just because he’d ruthlessly kissed Miss Griffin.

  On the other hand, everything had.

  She’d invaded his dreams for what had been left of the night: astride him in that bloody carriage, as dark as the cave in Bullock’s Museum, her fingers wandering at leisure, lips pleading for more against his bared pectoralis major.

  At dawn, he’d descended to the basement for an hour, which had vaguely woken him for the day but–

  The five chimes of St James’s faded and the door handle twisted.

  “Pa?”

  “Come in, Chloe.”

  She pottered over, but her shoulders were rounded, lips glum. This wasn’t his girl.

  “What’s wrong, pet?”

  She clambered onto the bed, crossed her legs and looked grouchy. “I’ve been punching the straw figures you set up for me in the ballroom but…. All I could think was…for what? All this practising I do. What’s it for if I don’t end up being another Stokes?”

  “Ah, Chloe.” He sat alongside and gave her a hug, yet a thought had been lingering for a day or so… “You can be whoever you want, of course, and this may seem an odd suggestion, but… You remember the Duke of Rothwell?”

  His daughter nodded, jutting out her lower lip.

  “Well, he mentioned the idea of an academy for ladies, with the focus on defence.”

  Her blond mop cocked to one side. “What do you mean?”

  “Well…” How to explain? “What would happen if two villains accosted you in an alley?”