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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.
“So 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 9th 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.
