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Chapter Eleven
“Life is short; employ it honourably; do what good you can: you need not want for opportunity.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Idon’t know why you continue to work for that scoundrel, Kian.”
“That scoundrel is yer principal investor.”
Shrugging, Seth drained his tankard and dumped it to the kitchen table. True enough, and he perused his friend as he replenished their ale from the jug Betty had left out for them. Fortnightly, they convened to sluice their throats before leaving for a local ale-house, but Kian appeared tired tonight, shadows creeping across his pale skin and grey misting his black hair.
Mind you, Seth likely appeared similar.
Since the Champions’ Dinner three days past, he’d focused all his hours upon the Academy in order to distract from the lure of Miss Griffin. A lure she seemed so unaware she held.
But she was his daughter’s governess…
So each evening at dinner, he would compel himself to ignore the manner in which the candlelight caught a flash of blue in her midnight hair.
Quash the recollection of her moist sherry eyes and tender words in the library that night.
Bludgeon the desire which lurked stormily beneath his skin when he recalled her silken cheek against his calloused palm.
Trample the thought of how he had so nearly kissed his genteel lady governess…
He rubbed his nape, exhaled heavily and supped his ale.
“You should come and work with me, Kian. We’d be a good team.”
“Aye, but I earn more at the Prince’s in a night than yer’d pay me in a sennight.”
“I’ll have you know I upped the members’ fee. I do very well.”
“My wage is three guineas…a night.”
Hell, that was rather a lot. “You can pay for drinks then, alth–” Seth’s nostrils twitched. “Do come in, Miss Griffin.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t mean to… I’d not realised you were here, Mr Finlay. I merely wished to reheat my tea. I let mine go cold, you see, whilst reading.”
Miss Griffin shuffled at the kitchen door and looked left then right, eyes big as hens’ eggs at the sight of them.
He supposed they did appear like bloody gruff barbarians, both having done away with their stylish daytime rig for loose neckcloths, rough breeches and grubby boots. The sole nod to elegance was Seth’s emerald-green silk waistcoat – Chloe’s choice, of course.
Kian, ever the gentleman that he wasn’t, stood, then bowed with a glint to his blue eyes – the rogue.
Seth sprang to his feet. “Please, come in. The range is still hot. So why not brew another.”
His friend insisted on handling the kettle and enquiring of Chloe’s lessons, complimenting Miss Griffin on her honey dress – which was saffron, not honey – and rooting in the cupboard for the Oliver biscuits.
Seth gritted his teeth, despite knowing full well that Kian’s heart solely beat for one woman alone.
“How did you know it was I at the door, Mr Hawkins?” his governess asked, leaning against the range and warming her palms.
“The scent of an English garden in June.” The words tumbled out before his lips could put a leash to them.
Kian vainly attempted to smother a smirk.
