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Echelons.
Such a broad vocabulary for a man who declared he’d not had time for learning.
Set to become a coal heaver, her employer had instead built a fine Academy with dedication, resolve and, no doubt, quite a few sleepless nights. All whilst raising a delightful daughter alone.
Mr Hawkins, she was beginning to realise, was quite a man…in every which way.
To her shame, she had observed him for quite some time as he’d thumped that set of pads, the stark hue of his olive-toned skin in contrast to a gentleman’s pallor, the brawn of his back rippling and tensing – as barbaric and savage as she had ever imagined, but also innate and sensuous.
Then he’d spun.
Carved marble turned mortal flesh, but with a sprinkling of dark hair. Almighty shoulders and that musculus abdominis – so flat and toned.
Once she would have bemoaned the heroines of a Gothic novel who melted at the sight of a masculine forearm, but Mr Hawkins’ torso was surely deserving of some slight puddling – a natural reaction to a prime male displaying his feathers.
A mere biological response.
“Well, thank you for the wonderful tour. I am most impressed but should return to the schoolroom and tell Chloe the good news about Bullock’s.”
Mr Hawkins twisted to her with gaze serious. “Your cousin is not likely to be lurking at the museum, is he? Or any of his set?”
“Unlikely, unless as a stuffed exhibit in Room 3, Cabinet 6, labelled Lacklustre Specimen of Viscount.”
Laughter gushed forth, that lopsided smile emerging, and Matilda felt inordinately pleased with herself.
“Miss Griffin, I cannot believe you ever thought yourself a bland cauliflower.”
“I may well look like one at Bullock’s too, as just in case, I’ll wear a veil with my white bonnet to obscure my features.”
“I had thought to take you all to Gunter’s confectioners afterwards, but ices and a veil sounds a calamitous mix.”
“I’ve never attended Gunter’s. Mother considered it plebeian.” She slammed a hand to her mouth. Why did she keep insulting her employer – it did not bode well for her future. “Oh, I didn’t mean…”
“Sweet strawberry ice with flecks of mint, Miss Griffin. Does that not appeal?”
Her mouth watered and corset groaned. “It sounds divine,” she admitted, licking her lips.
“Then tomorrow, we shall visit.”
“That would be most agreeable.” She fiddled with her saffron skirts. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr Hawkins. I know you must be busy.”
“Not at all, Miss Griffin.” And he swept a short bow, shirt ties slack and parting to reveal that well-defined chest.
Attempting a swift bobbed curtsey, Matilda tangled her feet and almost tumbled akimbo, but with a nonchalant air, she swept from the room, feeling more breathless than when she’d watched Mr Hawkins hit things.
How curious.
