A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter

by Emily Windsor

  Bloody hell.

  Every nerve and sinew urged him to fiercely kiss her, out here in the open, amongst friends, thieves and family, but she was dressed as a nefarious footpad, so instead with a lunge he flumped her onto the carriage roof behind.

  Now she squealed. “I’ll fall through!”

  “It’s been reinforced.” He clambered up and rethought his words. “Not that you’re heavy at all but it wouldn’t have taken my weight. This is where we sit for the best view.”

  After tentatively prodding about, she settled, feet tucked to one side, propped on an arm yet leaning into him, their shoulders pressed together.

  With the blowing of horns and clanging of bells, two carriages appeared, four prads apiece, the first with claret red postilions, fluttering silks tied to every conceivable corner. Nipping at its wheels came the second with postilions of Royal blue, silks strung along its bodywork.

  “The combatants arrive in style. Dusty Dan is in blue and Rolls Roy in red.”

  “Fascinating. And the monikers? Does Dan cause his opponent to eat dust? And is Roy’s main tactic to roll his opponent?”

  He’d like to say yes as that was rather clever, but… “Dan’s a dustman and Roy’s a baker.”

  She huffed and shook her head before they both twisted back to the spectacle, the two warriors shaking hands within the ring whilst their seconds staked colours to the corners.

  Then they stripped to no more than breeches, stockings and footwear.

  “Oh, my!”

  Seth now wished to clamp his hands over her eyes as the two men strutted for the crowd, flexing arm muscles with bare chests puffed. Matilda leaned so far forward she nigh plummeted from the carriage roof to the turf below.

  “Enjoying it now, are we?” he grouched.

  A mollifying pat of the hand did not mollify, but then she leaned close and whispered, “They are not as magnificent as you.”

  Which helped.

  Somewhat.

  “The two of them will come up to the scratch on the ground and take positions,” he explained. The combatants bobbed on the spot with restless energy, loosening limbs and cracking knuckles – more for the crowd than themselves.

  “How long do they fight for?” she enquired, eyes glued to the ring.

  “Each round lasts until a man is knocked or thrown off his feet. Then a half-minute interval and back at it.”

  The umpire shouted and a roar shook the earth, surely heard from Land’s End to John O’Groats.

  “The rules are no butting, kicking, biting, gouging or pulling hair, although we still keep it trimmed, just in case. Jackson there,” he scoffed, shoving a thumb to the gold-trimmed carriage two up from theirs, “pulled Mendoza’s hair to win. The coxcomb.”

  Dusty Dan loosely bounced, known for his nifty feet, but Rolls Roy, famous for punching first and asking questions later, milled out a fist to Dusty’s cheek and–

  “Ow!” A bundle of feminine warmth thumped into his chest, hands clasping his cravat.

  “Are you hurt?” He grasped her shoulder, afraid a missile had pelted her.

  “No, but he hit him! The beast!”

  Seth located her ear within the folds of her footpad’s cloak, could feel a cold nose pressed to his chest. “Hitting is rather the point of it, Miss…Matilda.”

  Of course she knew that – so raw and violent – yet caught up in the fervour of the crowd’s enthusiasm, she’d forgotten the actual truth of one man punching another.

  “How could you bear to be hit?” she asked, lifting her head till their lips were a mere barleycorn apart. Couldn’t suffer to think of Seth being hurt in such a manner.

  “’Twas worse in the old days, when the style was to merely stand still and get clobbered. Now at least, the idea is to dodge, weave and defend. But I admit, it is inevitable.”

  She focused on Seth’s chin as he twisted back to the action.

  Another crescendo of noise erupted and Matilda peeked from beneath the wool hood of her cloak just as Rolls hit the sawdust, blood seeping from beneath his eye, and she bundled her nose into Seth’s waistcoat once more.

  All in all, if she could stay buried in here for the entire contest, she could quite get to tolerating this fighting lark.

  “Tell me what’s happening,” she garbled into blue silk. “I just don’t wish to see it.”

  His chest juddered in laughter, all growly, and she groaned, burrowing deep.

  “Both have gone to their corners. The bottleman looks soused so Dusty’s helping himself to the gin.”

  “Gin! That’s ridiculous.”

  “It helps the pain. Both men are back up to the scratch.”

  “And?”

  She didn’t wish to miss a thing. But equally didn’t wish to see a thing.

  “Dusty’s let fly this time, first a brisket, now a rib tickler, but Rolls nips back, no mischief done. A left ogle by Rolls, but Dusty dodges and takes one to the chopper instead. An undercut and, uff, a whiffle to the smeller.”

  No idea, so Matilda decided to inhale deeply instead – leather, fresh linen and Mr Seth Hawkins.

  Splendid.

  “Oy, Dusty,” her employer yelled. “Mill a plumper to ’is kissin’ trap, yer calf’s ’ead.”

  Honestly…

  And what had befallen Seth’s accent? She often wondered how a man brought up in the stews had come by his Ton diction. His accent did not exactly cut glass like a duke or earl’s, but it certainly caused a profound scratch with its well-rounded vowels and crisp adroitness.

  “Bleedin’ ’ell! Dusty’s eatin’ dust.”

  Goodness. Was it time to go home?

  “And ’es up again.”

  Botheration.

  “And bleedin’ down again.”

  Good grief.

  Bursters, clippers, teasers and lots of claret, which could conceivably have been either wine or blood, who knew?

  The fight continued and she had absolutely no idea what was happening.

  What she did understand was that she liked this side of Seth Hawkins, without artifice and full of good cheer. Masculine, to be sure, yet not once had his arm departed from her lower waist. She enjoyed his rough-edged words and grumbling chest, the way his hand tightened when Dusty was toppled.

  “Matilda?” That deep voice shivered her earlobe, if such a thing was possible.

  “Hmm?”

  “Why don’t you try just watching their feet?” And with a gentle tug, he drew her from her burrow. “Focus on their footwork.”

  She did as requested, ignoring the jabbing fists and grunts of pain.

  “Oh, it’s like they are dancing.”

  “Good. And who do you think will win?”

  She studied the fighters. Striped Stockings was lighter and niftier, dancing a lot. Plain White Stockings also bounced around but with more economical movement. “Plain,” she announced. “Stripy will wear himself out.”

  “I agree. Dusty has the mettle but he’s too raw. He’ll learn…”

  “Like you did?” And she met his eyes.

  “Yes, exactly like I did.”

  “How many contests did you fight?”

  “Too many smaller ones to mention. But like this?” He glanced towards the combatants. “Ten. And many men cannot do more than twelve majors. It…affects things.”

  “I shouldn’t like to imagine you in the ring.”

  “’Twas my life, Matilda. For a decade.” His hazel eyes returned, serious and focused. “To escape violence in my youth. To buy shoes for Chloe. To have food on the table.”

  “Not for the glory?”

  “A man cannot stand before applauding thousands and not feel some sense of thrill, but ultimately no, and…” A roar and she lost him, his fist tightening at her waist. “Uff, Dusty got a mitten to the ivories.”

  From then on, Matilda concentrated upon the footwork of these men. She still disliked the hitting part but admired their tenacity and whatever drove them to continue.

  From th
e safety of this carriage roof, she could survey the rackety devotees at her leisure.

  Mostly of the male persuasion, they flapped hats and bellowed. Two staggering rogues attempted to enter the inner ring only to be whacked back with sticks, and Matilda’s eyes widened as a woman was hoisted to a man’s shoulders, stockings and more on display for all to see.

  No perfumed society ladies sat watching, but upon the carts and carriages a few neat women peeped from behind splayed fingers – mothers, sisters and wives, she supposed.

  Another rumble swept the crowd, and she glanced to the ring to see Stripy on the ground, arms and legs akimbo.

  “Has he lost?”

  “Depends if he gets up.” And indeed, the poor man was dragged to the corner, gin splashed on his face and down his throat, slaps delivered to his cheeks. “But Dusty’s the local boy, so…”

  Disgruntled yells boomed, and the enthusiasts upon the seated grandstand all stood as one in outrage, fists shaking and…

  Matilda drew breath as she noted the entire construction wobble, tip and then–

  “Seth, the stand!” she cried, kneeling up.

  The scaffold gave way, slipping as though built upon reeds, tumbling bodies, one upon another. Cries and grunts.

  “Bloody hell,” Seth bellowed, clambering down before aiding her own descent to the grass. “Wait in the carriage, Matilda, and don’t move. Scream if anyone comes near. Jackson is just there. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Not inclined to argue, she yanked the door and scrambled inside, noticed Chloe being bundled within Mr Jackson’s carriage before he gave them a nod, and then Seth and Mr Finlay sprinted to the fallen bodies.

  From the window, she was surprised to see a few of the stand’s occupants rising to their feet, dusting off jackets and…chortling.

  As she settled back into the squabs, Matilda pondered the disparity between this world and that of the Ton. Here everyone pitched in when misfortune struck, rushing to another’s aid. In society, a mere unintended faux pas could see you shunned and gossiped about with malice, the stylish events a perpetual competition, be it for the latest decor, cuisine or duke.

  She knew that not all the Ton were so heartless, that many good people existed, but within such a stifled world, some lost sight of what remained important. The steps to a dance became more worthy than kindness, the right ribbons more essential than charity, a titled marriage more vital than love…

  The carriage door flew open.

  “Is everyone safe, Se–”

  “Hullo, Cousin.” And Astwood seated himself opposite, crossing his legs and slapping the dust from his yellow pantaloons.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “For nothing so much shows us our degree of merit as the behaviour we meet with in the world.”

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

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  “I reckon Chloe and myself might head to Gunter’s for an ice,” Kian declared as they ambled through the crowds and back to the carriages. “Let yer have some time alone with yer bonnie Miss Griffin.”

  “Not you as well,” Seth grumbled. “What’s wrong with you all?”

  “Begone with yer.” Kian halted his stride and cocked his head. “Over the years, we’ve all seen yer work nose to the grindstone and so deserve some pleasure in life. That lass gives yer a look that could butter parsnips, and I canna help but notice yer own lingering glances, and never have I seen yer in such a grouch when Rufus dallied at the dinner, and then in the ale-house when–”

  “I hear you,” Seth griped as they continued once more wending their way through the parting hordes with no trouble whatsoever – which was often the case when Kian wore the insignia black feather of the Prince tucked in his hatband, “but you are ignoring the fact that she is a Ton lady and I’m a–”

  “Successful owner of a boxing academy. With how many dukes clamouring for membership?”

  “We will see,” Seth murmured, not inclined to continue the conversation. “Didn’t you arrive with Jackson?”

  “Och, no. I filched a scarlet affair of the Prince’s and left it on the edge of the Common for a swift exit.”

  Jackson’s carriage came into view first, gold wheels glinting in the sunlight, Chloe’s blond mop hanging out the window.

  “Fancy an ice, wee bairn?” called Kian.

  His daughter glared. “I’m not wee. I’m not a bairn. I’m fourteen in November.” Nevertheless, she tumbled out the door in eagerness.

  “Seth’ll see yer governess home safe and sound, won’t yer Seth?” And Kian flipped a wink as he put an arm around Chloe’s shoulders.

  “I know he will. A perfect gentleman, my pa.” His daughter likewise winked before the troublesome twosome wandered off to be swallowed by the departing crowds.

  On the journey this morning, Chloe and her governess had gaily chatted within the carriage whilst Seth had sat atop to take the reins. Now, without his daughter, Matilda could sit up high with him – feel the exhilaration of bowling down the Wimbledon lanes, feel the quickening breeze in her hair, like the feathered birds she so adored.

  Seth nodded his thanks at Jackson, who tipped his hat like a gentleman, and Seth strode to his own carriage to tug open the door. “No one was hurt, can you believe? That magistrate was chuckling his pantaloons off.”

  No answer was forthcoming.

  In fact, Matilda had failed to even turn from staring out the far window. Her hood remained drawn back, cap abandoned upon the floor.

  “I apologise for leaving you, but…”

  She twisted and his guts heaved.

  Tears such as he had never seen coursed down her cheeks in silvery tracks, glasses strewn to the seat cushion, hair dishevelled and lips bitten red.

  “Matilda! What the hell’s happened? Has someone hurt you?” He surged up the step, sat at her side, unsure what to do or if to touch her, but he clutched an arm and she fell into him like a ship to dock, her hands gripping and body shuddering.

  Hell and damnation, he never should have left her. Had some ruffian forced his way in? But surely Chloe or Jackson would’ve heard a scream?

  “Matilda?”

  “I wasn’t going to… But I can’t not… And I don’t know…”

  He enfolded her within his embrace.

  “Hold me so tight,” she cried. “I beg you.”

  So he complied, arms clasping her, breasts crushed to his chest. She appeared unhurt but…

  “Did someone enter the carriage?”

  A nod, and his dread erupted into a dangerous fury. He’d tear London asunder to find whoever…

  “Did this person…touch you?”

  A shake of the head. “Astwood,” she wailed. “He saw me. Recognised my glasses. Followed me. Saw me sit atop with you.”

  With firm hands, he stroked her hair and lifted her chin. “What did he want?”

  She twisted away, sobbed, but he waited.

  “He spat I was a whore coming here, thinks I’m your mistress, and that if I don’t return tonight and wed Sidlow, he’s going to say you were bribed to lose fights, drive away all your patrons and then burn your Academy to the ground.”

  “Matilda–”

  “I couldn’t bear it. You’ve worked so hard. To survive this life and to succeed. You’re magnificent. And Chloe too, no harm must ever befall her. I’ll pack my bags and leave.”

  Seth fell still.

  Which was all wrong because his fury at Astwood should have surged unchecked.

  But…

  A blanket of satisfaction had dampened the violent emotion.

  Because Miss Matilda Griffin sought to protect him.

  Him.

  She’d return to that pathetic excuse for a man because she knew how hard Seth had worked to escape this life of poverty. How much the Academy meant to him…

  With gentle thumbs, he dried beneath her eyes, clasped her cheeks and kissed her.

  No option or thought. Just downrigh
t need.

  Controlled but insistent, intimate then rough.

  He groaned, tugged her close, no notion to cease.

  For Miss Matilda Griffin was scratching at his heart, provoking no pain, only thrumming fervour and boundless anticipation. The taste of sober tears, her eager lips, the wild fingers which scratched his nape. She thrust nearer, the scent of her everywhere, yearning and frantic. Intense desperation seemed to grip her as she devoured him, and he could do naught but respond as a gasp escaped her.

  And yet…

  That gasp alerted his senses and stalled his roving fingers.

  Matilda’s touch was too turbulent, her kiss too frenzied, as though there was no tomorrow, no time but now to explore their passion.

  And then he realised… Realised that Matilda believed this would be their last embrace. That she would be returning to her guardian or marrying Sidlow.

  That they would never again kiss like this – with breath seized from their lungs, neither giving a damn.

  How wrong she was.

  Still clasping her cheeks, he drew away.

  “Matilda, you are not returning to Astwood.”

  “But he’ll–”

  “I’ve never lost a major fight, so how could I have been bribed to lose? And my patron was a well-respected earl, a stickler who did not stand for duplicity amongst his fighters.”

  “But…”

  “I have three dukes as Academy members – in fact, four now – who will not leave because some viscount spouts twaddle.”

  “But…”

  “And my principal investor, the man who came to me after I’d won the championship, is the Prince.”

  “I don’t understand?”

  “If Astwood dared to lay a finger on my Academy, the Prince would burn him to the ground.” He shook his head. “Some precautions won’t go amiss but what I am trying to convey, Matilda, is that I have allies. Powerful allies in all walks of society.” He willed her to believe him with his gaze. “Astwood would not dare touch us.”

  Matilda gasped.

  Us.

  So short a word, and yet it filled her with a sense of resolve and strength.

  As a young girl, she’d been a solitary creature obliged to learn matters for herself, and now, as a woman, she’d been forced to fend for herself against a male guardian who sought to sell her as a commodity.