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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 shutteredhis 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.
