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“Well,” she began, gathering her governess mien, “I should retire now, Mr Hawkins. My governess compendium has some strict instruction on unmarried persons being alone in a library at such an hour. Not respectable at all.”
“Why is that?”
Erm. “Well… The employer could… The governess might… They could…”
He raised that eyebrow with the scar; she wondered on its cause.
“Well, they might…kiss or something,” she blurted, pulling lightly to liberate her hand. It would not budge.
“How utterly dreadful,” he murmured, and his grip shifted to her wrist, drew her forward – so close she observed a gold rim encircling his pupils. His lips parted and her heart thumped like a tribal drum for the Saharan rains.
So she tattled on as she usually did when in a dither. “Well, it is. I was kissed once before, and it was truly dreadful. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
Matilda startled at the violent emotion which slipped through Mr Hawkins’ eyes – twisting the easy brown and submerging it beneath irate green. She could see the pugilist…
“Who kissed you to make it so awful?” he demanded.
“My betrothed. Lord Sidlow. But it matters not. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re damn right it won’t,” he muttered. “I vowed never to use violence outside of the ring, but I could make an exception.”
“That won’t be necessary, and in any case, you must think me foolish. People kiss all the time, after all, without making a fuss.”
He released her wrist but only to clasp her fingers and draw them upwards, to brush firm dry lips upon the back of her hand in a perfect gentlemanly kiss. Many a man had done the same and yet never had such scintillation journeyed up her arm and then prickled in so many places.
Mr Hawkins sketched a bow. “As I once said, no, I do not think you foolish at all. I think you a brave lady and an exceptionally good listener to boot, who commands my utmost respect.” He stretched to the shelf behind, reached for the elegant Michel de Montaigne book and placed it within her fingers. “For you. A keepsake. And I know your parents would be proud of the lady you have become. Brave and…enchanting.”
No one had ever called her that before – bluestocking, dull, glass-eyes, to be sure, but not brave and enchanting… “Thank you for such kindness, Mr Hawkins. I shall treasure it always.” She gave a watery smile.
“Good night, Miss Griffin.” Those elemental eyes flickered with gold fire once more before they dampened. “‘Valour is strength, not of legs and arms, but of heart and soul.’”
She dipped a curtsey. “Good night, Mr Hawkins.” And turned to depart the library with a broad smile.
For she knew from whence those words had come: the very book clutched in her hands.
Such a rare and gallant gentleman.
