A Governess Should Never… Wager a Duke (The Governess Chronicles #4.5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“…the profession of a private governess is an honourable and genteel one.”

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

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

Hawkins Boxing Academy. Outskirts of Piccadilly. May 1816.

“ S o tell me, Miss Griffin, why should I employ you as governess?”

Oh botheration.

And Matilda fidgeted in the unyielding chair.

The interview had been progressing quite satisfactorily until now. They’d greeted one another in a cordial manner, lamented the bitter spring weather and Mr Hawkins, her prospective employer and owner of this famed Boxing Academy, had shown her to his somewhat masculine study.

Chestnut panelling smothered the walls from floor to ceiling, a few drawings of sturdy ruffians in pugilistic stance embellishing its manliness. A battered chaise of dun leather sat in the corner whilst the desk gleamed with fresh wax.

Matilda’s lips parted to answer, but for once words failed her, so instead she contemplated a bird fluffing its wings upon the windowsill outside and ardently wished she could swap places.

Although perhaps not with a scrawny sparrow but rather a brightly coloured Bird of Paradise. To be far away on the tropical Molucca Islands and not shivering in this rugged study, being interviewed by a man who’d once been a prizefighter.

Males of the species could be so savage.

His cough prompted for attention and she returned her gaze to Mr Hawkins.

“It appears,” he said, flicking her application letter and hoisting an eyebrow, “that you have no previous experience.”

Matilda crossed her arms.

How hard could it be? Although Mr Hawkins may be factually correct, she had thrice read Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies .

The somewhat crisp author, a Miss Elizabeth Appleton, had been hired by the 9 th Earl of Leven no less, so she must have known what she was writing about.

Mr Hawkins set to scrutinising her application letter once more…and Matilda set to scrutinising Mr Hawkins.

Dark hair the colour of chocolate, ruthlessly trimmed and without curl; a light linear scar to his right eyebrow; a firm chin which could never hide its burgeoning stubble; sultry olive-toned skin; and a classical nose that looked to have been forcibly inclined to the left.

A decidedly handsome man, the crooked appendage adding a certain je ne sais quoi .

Then there were those…muscles.

Even clothed, they were noticeable – which was curious because as a rule, Matilda would not notice at all. Muscle and brawn, in her humble opinion, were uninspiring, belonging to men of paltry intellect.

Yet these were inspiring. Never had she studied real ones before, and she longed to prod and measure. Purely for anatomical endeavour, of course. How would they feel when–

“Ahem.”

Double botheration…

She’d been caught inspecting that broad chest encased by a pale-gold waistcoat with pleasing feather motifs, its oval collar and glimpse of brass buttons drawing one’s eye. Whatever his former vocation and current profession, Mr Hawkins dressed with exquisite distinction: a midnight-blue coat stretched along extensive shoulders, and tight pantaloons sculpted a callipygian figure.

A widower, she’d read as a part of her preparations for this interview, with some three decades to his name, Mr Seth Hawkins had apparently set the prizefighting world alight before opening his Academy.

He thrust the letter aside, clasped his substantial hands and sighed deeply. “Do you have any experience whatsoever?”

Well, no. Hence her rare silence.

In that now shunned application letter, she’d penned with keen verbosity her knowledge of geography, history, astronomy and so forth, hoping to bamboozle the man with protracted explanation and incomprehensible words – she was good at that.

Perchance she ought to fib about her past experience: state she’d educated a younger brother who’d gone on to discover a cure for boils, or imply her references had gone astray on her return voyage from India, having educated a Maharaja’s daughter.

Matilda sighed and slid her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.

A close confidante, Miss Evelyn Pearce, had told some blistering fibs recently in order to escape dire circumstance, which had resulted in her being abducted by the richest duke of all England.

So perhaps being circumspect with the truth did have its benefits.

Sparkling hazel eyes gazed at her in query across the desk, his fingers shifting to splay upon the leather inlay.

Robust knuckles and calloused skin.

Matilda shivered.

However, those broad knuckles did not belong to a rich duke.

They belonged to a muscled beast of a man whose wits had most likely been knocked out in some prizefighting field in Somerset.

Seth briefly shuttered his gaze and concluded that this fifth candidate for interview had been at the gin, her wits most likely washed out into some rank gutter of a London alley.

Shame, as she had appeared promising upon arrival. Flower meadows had teased his nostrils as she’d marched to his study, a striped yellow dress with a pelisse of velvet, also yellow, encasing a most comely figure.

Neat of demeanour, Miss Griffin had sat with grace, neck straight, spine not daring to brush the back of the chair. Black tendrils of hair curled from a hat more suited to promenading in Mayfair, and behind gold-rimmed glasses, eyes the colour of his favoured brandy had dissected him.

Yet a simple question had rendered her mute except for strange mutterings and a scrunched brow. She fidgeted, foot tamping and fingers tapping, obviously agitated by her breakfast tipple of blue ruin.

How difficult could it be to find a governess?

Bloody difficult, as it so happened. More onerous than brawling with Jumpin’ Jack Scroggins, whose trotters had never remained in one place.

“I repeat, Miss Griffin…” Because he felt he had to try one last time. “Why should I employ you?”

The previous four applicants had reduced him to this desperation.

A Miss Rippleton had cursed better than he, Miss Broadhurst had divulged her conviction that the world was flat in response to his geography question, and Miss Frost had…issues with his daughter’s upbringing. The last, a Miss Murphy, who’d seen him beat Rugged Rick in 1811, had offered additional services.

“I-I…”

His eyes flicked up at the stutter, caught on her sumptuous bosom, upped to exquisite ripe lips that parted, pursed, and then fell silent.

Damnation.

Wearily, Seth rose to his feet. “Perhaps we should conclude this interview, Miss Griffin, as I do not believe–”

“I need to hide, you see, Mr Hawkins.”

Seth reclaimed his seat. That was the most intriguing answer he’d heard thus far, but for now, he merely cocked a brow.

That ripe lip was bitten once more. “Only until my birthday in August.”

He folded his arms but kept the brow aloft, thoughts sifting – her absurd answer, those eyes which shimmered as though lit from behind by candlelight, her heaving chest and that impeccable accent proclaiming her a lady of the haut monde .

“Please continue to enlighten me, Miss Griffin.”

“I suppose there is little point in untruthful perfidy…” And she peered to the left, then to the right.

Seth did the same – window overlooking Green Park to one side, empty shelves to the other.

What a curious female.

The gentry were a rum lot and he ought to be used to their idiosyncrasies by now, but every so often one still flummoxed him.

“Until I attain twenty-one years in August,” she confessed, leaning near, “my guardian cousin dictates my life, but lately his behaviour has become most…unreasonable.”

Perchance this guardian had threatened to cut her clothing allowance or curtail her coiffure appointments? “I suppose you wish me to deal with him?”

Most visitors to his door wanted no more than the prowess of the famous pugilist. The last woman he’d courted had, it turned out, only wished him to threaten her brother, who’d cut her pin money to five guineas a week. She had believed Seth would be quite content to pummel the fellow and hence exhibit his valour.

“Goodness, no.” Miss Griffin’s small nose creased in repugnance. “I do not require your brawn or any such uncouthness. I believe the mind to be mightier.”

All well and good, but she’d never been thumped by Gaslight Gary, whose fists had certainly been mightier than his mind.

Yet he had to acknowledge that a prizefighter sans brains did tend to meet St Peter somewhat prematurely.

Gaslight Gary had in fact accidentally shot himself while demonstrating how his friend had accidentally shot himself.

Irish Tom had expired after volunteering for the Astley’s Amphitheatre knife thrower.

And Big Bill had been found dead in his bed with three doxies and four empty gin bottles – cause of death unknown.

Hence Seth had retired and opened a boxing academy.

“Pray continue then.”

With a rustle, Miss Griffin straightened her pelisse. “Whilst…snooping in my cousin’s study, I discovered he had contracts for me to marry a debauched libertine of advanced years, all without my knowledge or consent.” Her shoulders hunched. “I am…fearful of what action my guardian may take in order to seek my compliance.”

Her gaze dipped, spectacles sliding, and now he noted the cobweb of shadows beneath her fine eyes, the tremble to her fingers which she swiftly suppressed.

But even so…

“Miss Griffin, I cannot appoint you as governess for my daughter simply because you wish to hide–”

“I merely seek employment until August when I am no longer beneath his control, and then I can access the money my parents left me and forge ahead as a proper governess. I agree my lack of experience is…contestable, but I am well versed in all subjects.” A slender hand reached across the desk in entreaty. “In addition, I can teach the full breadth of a lady’s accomplishments – fork placements, quilling tea caddies and how to back from a room without tripping over one’s train.”

Clenching his fists, Seth faltered, yet this indecision had naught to do with misplaced cutlery and all to do with the yellow colouration upon her delicate wrist, revealed as the sleeve had pulled up. A couple of weeks old, to be sure, but he knew a bruise from a harsh grip when he saw one.

A damsel in distress.

Damn.

In silence, he rose from his seat to pace in front of the smouldering fire – always thinking better on his feet. Never had he been one for rushed decisions, and this petite female had trouble written all over her charming cheekbones.

If he hired her and this possessive guardian emerged, a wealth of upset could descend upon the club he’d spent so long building up.

Nevertheless, he could not deny that a lady such as Miss Griffin would be the perfect influence to give his daughter choices in life. Feminine company, exquisite manners and a wide scope of knowledge were required, and from this application letter and her obvious haute monde upbringing, Miss Griffin encompassed all.

And besides, there was no one else.

Wide eyes beseeched, and his thoughts turned to what might happen if he refused. Seth could not bear to imagine this dainty lady cowed into submission by some callous guardian and thus married to a degenerate with more diseases than a London rat.

Surely any strife this runaway bride might bring to his club could be dismissed with an innocent shrug or a cod of blunt. The fact he’d a swathe of influential patrons also detracted any nuisances.

“You pledge you are able to teach a wide range of subjects?”

She nodded frantically, spectacles sliding once more. “My parents were both bibliophiles so I had a wealth of matter to read as a child.” She peered around his bookless study and returned a benevolent smile. “I could bring some with me.”

Clearly Miss Griffin thought him a witless dolt, but he was in no hurry to change that opinion. She would take pity on his daughter, having to live with such a brutish ignoramus, and impart all the accumulated education in that noggin of hers.

“I will employ you as governess for a one-month trial.”

Liquid cinnamon eyes gleamed up at him and he cursed his own soft heart.

If honesty was to be their byword, then he’d not merely employed her for those reasons alone, but for her sensitive wrists, gaze of purity and the wildflower scent which bloomed around her.

“When could you begin?”

“Would Thursday be too soon?”

“Of next week?”

“No, the morrow.” She fiddled with her pelisse cuff. “My guardian is in the country, you see, so I’ve only the servants to evade.”

Devil take him – evading servants? Whatever next? “Please tell me your name is not false and that you’re not the daughter of some duke.”

“How dare you, Mr Hawkins.” She gracefully sniffed. “My name is my own. And the Duke of Aberdare is a mere half-cousin thrice removed. I’ve never even met him. He resides in Wales.”

Bloody hell. “And your guardian, this cousin… A nobleman also?”

“Merely a viscount.”

It could be worse; he was sure it could be worse.

“The salary is seven guineas a month with chambers next to the schoolroom included. As you are obviously a gentlewoman, I have both a housekeeper-cum-cook and a maid who could chaperone should the need arise.”

“Oh.” She removed her glasses and polished them on her striped dress. He’d been mistaken – her eyes flashed the colour of tawny sherry, tantalising and sharp all at once. “That will not be necessary, for if I am to embark upon the career of governess, I will have to learn to do without such chaperone shenanigans. I believe a working life has much freedom.”

Poor innocent.

“Indeed,” he murmured instead. “My daughter Chloe has been previously tutored, but only by myself and the vicar’s wife. Do you require any additional books?”

She replaced her glasses and smiled, causing a dimple to wink enticingly.

Heaven help him.

“For a girl of three and ten, I daresay the first abridgement of Mrs Trimmer’s Ancient History would be useful. Molineux’s Introduction to the Globes, of course, Mr Goldsmith’s Grammar of Geography is a must, and Salzmann’s Elements of Morality …without the translator’s preface.”

Heaven help his daughter.

“‘Knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven’,” he muttered, holding out a hand to aid her rise.

Incredulous lips pursed. Suspicious eyes narrowed.

Seth grinned as he drew the study door wide. “Must have read that on some discarded theatre print, Miss Griffin, as I have little time for literature. On the morrow, I shall introduce you to my daughter. Good day.”

With a regal nod more suited to a duke’s half-cousin thrice removed than a lowly governess, she marched ahead of him and twisted left for the hallway.

Some years past, he’d gutted this old-fashioned, three-storey townhouse to create both a boxing academy and home for himself and daughter, hence the old back door to the garden now functioned as the family’s main entrance – the colonnaded fa?ade at the front of the house on Arlington Street serving as the Academy’s impressive threshold.

She paused at the door, presumably awaiting his non-existent butler, which told him much of her current abode and circumstance, so he opened it himself.

A blush lit her cheeks, eyes flitting and fingers fluttering.

“You must think me naive, Mr Hawkins, a privileged lady seeking a new life with little knowledge or experience, but I have to take my future into my own hands, you see, before it is wrested from me.” She tightened the ribbons on her bonnet to continue her soliloquy. “Thus far, I have been shielded from life. Sheltered by the love of my parents or guarded by Cousin Astwood for my marriageability value. Curbed by my birth and gender. Now I shall endeavour to make my own choices, with all its forthcoming perils and blessings.”

Miss Griffin appeared like a fledgling bird, so eager for freedom that she’d dare a boxing academy for her refuge.

“On the contrary, Miss Griffin, I think you brave,” he murmured, sketching a bow.

The blush heightened and she scurried down the three steps which led to the garden.

An awaiting maid rose from the bench beneath his willow tree and together the females bustled down the path. As a cloud shifted and one single ray of sunlight beamed forth, the maid swiftly opened a pink parasol and hoisted it aloft to protect her mistress’s delicate skin.

Seth pinched his forehead.

What had he done?