A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter

by Emily Windsor

  “I wish that too, Seth. But it cheers me so to hear of happy endings for others. It reminds me that life can also be wonderful.” Matilda tipped her head back. “Next you’ll be telling me that the vicious innkeeper repented his ways and is now a vicar.”

  “Nah, he drank himself to death.”

  Her bare toes burrowed into the rug and she smiled. A drowsy lassitude encased Matilda, a rush of satisfaction that Seth’s life was now a contented one, that happy endings existed. She brushed his cheek, fingers tingling with the rough stubble, emotions a blur but all containing this man before her. “I hope you won’t think me brazen but… I admire you so much, Seth Hawkins.”

  Seth’s shoulder no longer ached; it was his whole being that ached for this woman. “And I so admire you, Matilda Griffin.” He’d thought never to allow another woman so close to his heart. Thought to spend his life devoted to his Academy, books and daughter.

  Yet with her boldness, cleverness, golden spectacles and sherry eyes, Matilda had burst into his life, a yellow spring blossom flowering before him, casting her scent and luring him in.

  She bit that ripe lip and he softly halted her with a brief kiss. “Thank you, Matilda. Never have I been granted such tender care.” Nor had a woman cared to read medical tomes or gather ligature thread for him, or ask of his childhood, and listen.

  Tomorrow they must talk of Astwood, and mayhap of feelings for each other, but for now, her glasses had slid down her nose one more, eyes not wide but slumberous.

  “Would you…” Her black lashes lifted. “Would you mind holding me? Just for a moment. You see, I…”

  She’d no need to continue, for he knew.

  Knew that after today, she needed comfort. As did he.

  Knew she craved the reassurance of a tight embrace. As did he.

  Knew she did not wish to be alone. As neither did he.

  He thumped a sizeable cushion and placed it at the head of the sofa, reclined, careful not to undo all her good work on his shoulder, and held out his arms. “Come, Matilda.”

  A slow smile and she keeled into his embrace, tucking her legs and skirt up onto the sofa. He buried one hand in her hair, felt the slip of silk through his fingers, and brought the other tight about her waist.

  Her head fitted so perfectly beneath his chin, the scent of fresh flowers overwhelming his senses. The evening held a stillness of promise, and he laid his head back, content, lips rested and brow smooth.

  At some hour soon, she would have to retire to her chambers, but for now, he would relish this closeness.

  “I’m so sleepy, Seth,” she mumbled into his chest.

  “Then sleep, sweet Matilda, ‘the honey-heavy dew of slumber’.”

  Her lips curved against his skin as she smiled, her body lax and pliant, moulding to his nude torso. A hand that had been stroking his forearm fell still and her breathing deepened.

  Softly, he kissed her hair, as Betty’s Special Tonic, which could fell the strongest of fellows within a moment, finally claimed the bravest, kindest, most caring woman he’d ever known.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Nature or truth is our guide.”

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

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  The distant bells of St James’s Church woke Matilda to a moonlit chamber and she blearily counted the chimes to ten.

  Heavy blankets smothered her to the chin, dress twisted about her legs and a blur of yellow flickered quietly in the corner, so Matilda scrabbled for her spectacles, finding them folded upon the bedside cabinet. Never was she that neat, habitually flinging them off with abandon, so Seth must have carried her up the stairs, placed her upon the bed, removed her glasses, folded them and perchance stroked her hair – how she wished she’d been awake.

  Betty’s Special Tonic, she surmised, held some effective herbs within its sweet whisky.

  As she sat up and stretched, her lower back twinged, reminding her of Astwood and all that had transpired this afternoon. Sighing, she rose to pad for the tapers upon the mantelpiece, lighting the lantern from the fire and casting light where there’d been gloom.

  A china pitcher rested upon the dresser but it was empty, so gathering it up, she ambled for the door. The range would still be lit and mayhap Betty would be around for tea and a natter.

  The Academy closed its doors at sunset most days and the house wore a strange silence by night, the din of male shouts and grunts leaving an eerie trace within the walls.

  Candles were not stinted upon within the Hawkins’ household so the corridor remained well lit by its many sconces, otherwise, and with no one else about, she’d suppose herself in the middle of an outlandish tale, all the other inhabitants falling foul of a mad ghoul.

  Signs of life could be heard from the kitchen, the clatter of plates and patter of feet.

  “Evening, Betts.” And she swung the door open.

  Behind the table, stacking crockery, Betty gawked. “My Special Tonic ain’t as strong as I thought.” She tutted. “Yer should’ve slept till Christmastide, girlie. Might have to up the whisky.”

  “I believe the St James’s bells woke me, but my back rather aches now.” Matilda shuffled on her bare feet. “I can only imagine how poor Mr Hawkins’ shoulder feels. He did take a hoof for me, you know, Betty, and has an awful swelling.”

  Betty grinned and waved a plate. “Did yer have to lance it?”

  “Would you believe, he wasn’t all that keen.”

  “That’s men for yer.”

  Matilda nodded, rolled her eyes and huffed. “Anyhow, I wondered if I might have some hot water? To soak some linen in it for my back.”

  The housekeeper tapped her chin in thought. “I could fetch yer some of my special camomile ointment. Whiffs a bit, but if it don’t whiff, it ain’t doing yer no good.”

  “Er…”

  “Or perhaps,” continued Betty with an odd glance, “yer should pop to the basement. That’ll soothe yer aches and pains.”

  Matilda frowned. “I was told it was out of bounds.”

  “Academy’s closed and I don’t think yer forbidden any longer, girlie. Here, take this in case it’s locked.” And she opened a little cupboard on the kitchen wall to extract a large brass key. “It’ll still be warm.”

  “What will?”

  “The basement. Now don’t dally. Yer ain’t got all night, and yer’ll sleep like a tot after some time down there.”

  And Matilda was shooed from the kitchen by a flapping apron and waggling fingers, as though she was the kitchen cat being put out for the night.

  Left in the hall with an empty pitcher but with herself full of intrigue, she thought to follow Betty’s advice, and so pottered along the hallway, discarding the pitcher on a side table.

  The black-painted door leading to the basement had a heavy brass handle that turned with ease, no key required. In Matilda’s limited experience, such places below ground were unpleasant, having no windows and little light. Or air. But considering the amount of time Seth spent down here, might it be a…personal gymnasium?

  Lined with four sconces, the stairs were at least lit, but a herby fragrance wafted, light glowing from beneath a further door at the bottom.

  Tentatively, she trailed down and halted, her nostrils twitching at…rosemary?

  She twisted the handle, pushed open the door and gasped.

  A medium-sized room presented itself, painted in sky blue and deep burgundy, shadowed but lit by lanterns upon ornate brackets on all four sides. Patterned carvings decorated the walls, giving an opulent feel, and the ceiling was rendered with gods and nymphs reclining upon fluffy clouds.

  But that wasn’t the sole reason she’d gasped, for central to it all was a circular blue pool, some eight foot in diameter, sunk into the floor with petite marble steps and surrounded by sea-green tiles decorated with frolicking mermaids.

  Not a ripple to the water, it appeared inviting and limpid.

  What
a delightful secret treasure.

  Her eyes flickered up.

  In one corner was an open arched structure, like a room within a room, a wall with stucco plasterwork and decorative cornices separating it from another door. Towels lay upon a shelf, a simple burgundy daybed set against the rear, a table next to it with an open book and empty glass.

  What chiefly drew her attention, however, was the muscular man who lay slumbering upon that burgundy daybed.

  In solely loose cotton sailor’s slops.

  He dozed upon an arm, exposing his chest to her gaze, and drawn like a moth to a flame, she drifted along the poolside.

  Mother had always said men appeared like innocent little boys when asleep but the same could not be said for Seth Hawkins.

  Darkness beneath his eyes and that scar upon his brow gave a menacing air, fists twitching as his chest heaved.

  He rolled onto his injured shoulder, grunted, and now disturbed it was an honour to watch him wake – unhurried and languid, arms stretching, torso expanding, eyes opening…

  “Matilda?” He startled and jolted upright but made no effort to cover himself with the banyan on the hook.

  Truly, what a delectable view.

  Although a befogged one as her glasses had steamed up.

  “Betty suggested I come to the basement.”

  “Did she now,” Seth murmured.

  “Hmm.” She wiped her glasses on her skirts. “I mentioned my aches, you see. From the cobbles.”

  Instantly he rose to his feet, placed broad palms to her shoulders. “No damage, I hope?”

  “No, just sore.” His slops rode low on his waist, damp and almost see-through. She didn’t quite know where to look.

  Very well. She did know where to look, but an unbeknown shyness had descended.

  “What a beautiful place, Seth. I had no notion.”

  “No, I thought to show you all this tonight, but, well, you fell asleep.” He released her shoulders…leisurely. “This area is for my personal use, but…” And he prowled to the other door, opened it for her to peek through.

  Speechless.

  Another sunken pool, but much larger and oval shaped – some sixteen foot by ten. Hooks lined one wall of the room with benches below, a row of sinks opposite. Pitchers and towels were laid neatly upon shelves, and some type of rain-like bathing contraption that she’d seen advertised in The Times occupied the far end.

  It reminded her of the bathhouses of ancient times and solely lacked men in togas chomping grapes.

  “This larger room is equipped for the members. Wimpole Estate first gave me the idea as it has a similar basement, and of course, I had books on the Roman baths. I not only wanted an academy of excellence but also somewhere gentlemen could relax.” He rolled his neck this way and that. “I couldn’t resist having my own private pool, however – my one indulgence.”

  “It’s a marvel. No wonder you have dukes squabbling in a queue.”

  He grinned, shut the door to the members’ area and scratched a hand across the hair on his chest. Matilda flapped a collar.

  Heat coiled around her.

  “Well…” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps you could show me how this pool will ease my aches. Can I bathe in my chemise?”

  The request was shameless, wicked and sinful but Matilda no longer cared. This was Seth, the man who had carried her to her bedchamber, who’d saved her from kidnap and who filled her every thought.

  His throat bobbed, head tilted, skin gleaming with moisture. “Matilda, I warn you, if you strip to your chemise, I will kiss you.”

  “And I shall want you to,” she whispered, knowing it to be the truth.

  His jaw firmed. “And if we kiss on this occasion, Matilda, I will not cease.”

  “And I shall not want you to.”

  His breath hitched, rumbled. “And if I do not cease, then fair warning, I will never let you go.”

  “And I shall not want you to,” she whispered once more, conscious of what she was saying, that she wished for a lifetime of adventures with this man.

  A kick of pure blinding lust struck Seth, harder than any hoof, halting his breath and scorching his skin. The humid air shimmered with anticipation and want, each knowing the other’s heart but perhaps afraid to reveal such sentiment in words.

  He swallowed to ease the knot of tension.

  “The pools are heated by a parallel series of hot pipes from the latest Walker coal-fired boiler.”

  Clay-brained addle-pate! Why the hell had he said that? He ought to have whispered words of devotion and passion…

  “It’s wondrous, Seth.” And she spun, commenced unfastening the buttons at her throat, which put paid to any more words from him whatsoever. “And I can smell herbs. From the pool?”

  “Yes,” he more or less grunted.

  Ribbons were loosened and he assisted in pushing the cotton dress from her shoulders.

  Palming her hair to the side, he kissed her arched throat as a last warning of what would ensue.

  A breathless sigh assured him; nails lightly dug at his bared waist, tormenting him.

  He sought the calm mien he invoked for a prize bout – the Seth who never lost his control – but that man had never been confronted with Matilda Griffin in solely silk paraphernalia and fragile chemise.

  Creamy skin abounded, her coal-black hair the perfect frame.

  Petticoats dropped to coat the floor, no stockings to bother with, but the short stays about her midriff still restricted.

  “May I?” he growled, elegant diction beyond his capability.

  She smiled her acquiescence and he tugged laces, then wrenched, kissed the skin above her chemise – smooth and with the scent of meadows.

  The corset fell away, in harmony with his breath.

  Crisp white linen hinted at curves, shadows beneath implying treasure beyond his most feral imagination.

  And oh, how he had imagined. Night after anguished night.

  Five steep steps led into the round pool and he grasped her hand, aware his own attire hid little of his aching need – but Matilda, with a light blush, kept her eyes raised.

  The water still retained its warmth, yet it did nothing to ease Seth’s strangled breath and thrumming pulse.

  As Matilda drifted down the steps, her chemise floated up in the water and she laughed, patting it down. “How wonderful,” she whispered, swirling fingers and gathering palmfuls to sluice her arms.

  Seth considered asking how the temperature felt, but his vocal cords refused to comply as the water lapped at her breasts, teasing his gaze till nigh blinded yet refusing to blink.

  “Yes, indeed,” he barely managed.

  “And deep enough to luxuriate in but not to drown, for I can’t swim, you see.”

  She abruptly ducked beneath the water and then surfaced with a spluttering chuckle, glasses skew-whiff, black hair streaming and chemise transparent – a bedraggled bespectacled mermaid, and he could withhold no longer, lost to her lure, so seized her nape and kissed her.

  Damnation, he could feel every curve, every lush part of her mould to him.

  Though broad, he wasn’t a tall man and she fitted so very perfectly, responded as if she’d been waiting forever.

  Since these bathhouses had been added, Seth would sit here most nights, alone. To now have Matilda in his arms – his brave and bold Matilda – fulfilled every midnight dream of the last weeks.

  He kissed her wet throat, groaned as her fingers slicked up his arm.

  Driving her backwards through the water till her spine met the circular wall, he threaded his fingers through her hair and kissed her till she took what little breath remained.

  Her fingers tentatively roamed his back, slipped shyly to his lower spine, then boldly explored his backside, the wet cotton a sensual addition.

  “Callipygian,” she murmured. “That’s the word. Do you know, I’ve admired your callipygian figure since the interview.”

  He laughed – his delicious Matilda and
her elaborate wordage – but he aimed to induce a gasp as he slid a hand over her breast, cupped the weight, thumb abrading the tip until he received a gratifying moan for his impudence.

  Further his hand teased, to her waist and hip. So perfect, and he yanked her near to grind his aching groin against her softness whilst their lips met in carnal need.

  Clasping her derrière, he lifted her beneath the water, and their hips clashed just so. Her legs parted, chemise rising in the water, and… Hell, it would only take a ripping away of cotton and he would be deep inside her, burning and tight.

  Grinding once more, he felt the heat of her, and she cried out, her legs tangling around his thighs in the water, fingers gripping the hair at his nape.

  Damnation, he must…

  Seth hauled back, rasped. “To the bed, Matilda.”

  Seth Hawkins tousled her wits, scattered her senses and then, to Matilda’s dismay, untangled her legs from about his waist.

  Stepping away with a growl, he climbed two of the pool steps and held out a rough palm.

  Matilda hesitated, not through shyness but sheer gogglement.

  Now that her glasses had taken a soaking to clear the fog, she could see better and…

  Water sluiced Seth’s powerful torso, rivulets over muscle she wished to trace with her lips and fingers. The sailor attire now rode so low she could see his hips, so different to her own – slender and indented, a line of hair arrowing lower.

  Matilda’s gaze skittered from the sight of his potent want, because if she inspected too closely she was sure her maidenly upbringing might cause her to swoon in shock. She’d felt that blatant arousal though, thrusting against her in the water, seeking entry, immense, blunt and demanding.

  Breathing deep and with a tentative step, she rose, held Seth’s gaze as the water level dropped beneath her chemise-clad breasts, stomach and then hips.

  Seth’s jaw clenched, a quiver to his held-out hand granting her confidence.

  “Do you still ache?” he all but rasped.