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A hackney carriage appeared at last, rattling down the Pall Mall cobbles, and Mr Hawkins thrust up an arm and let out a yell.
It slowed to a halt and the driver peered down, his face demonic yellow in the muddy light. “Where to, Guv?”
“Green Park. The back of Arlington. Only around the corner.”
A sucking of teeth ensued as though they’d asked to be conveyed to the highlands of Scotland. “Been an accident on St James, yer realise,” he griped. “Four bleedin’ phaetons, three lost geese, two ale carts and a drunken lordling. Only missin’ the five gold rings. We’ll have to go via Haymarket.” He wiped his nose. “Cost yer double though. Especially this time o’ night.”
Mr Hawkins rolled his eyes but nodded, so Matilda yanked the door open and flumped onto the seat, a strange odour of damp grass assailing her nostrils. “Have they had a horse in here?”
“Straw on the floor,” he explained, climbing in and shutting the door. “To soak up…spillages.”
“Oh, how interesting. Like what?”
He folded his arms. An action, she’d learned, which meant he would avoid her question.
“Haymarket shouldn’t take too much longer this late.”
See.
A yell and the carriage jolted into motion, darkness engulfing as they departed the pool of gaslight.
And abruptly Matilda felt…peculiar.
It wasn’t the ale which still pleasantly hummed in her veins but a prickling awareness of Mr Hawkins lounging opposite, of the masculine scent of his cologne – leather and herbs – the rustling of his coat and catch to his breath.
He cleared his throat. “Are you warm enough, Miss Griffin?”
“Warm enough to boil an egg. Can I take the cloak off now?” And without waiting for an answer, she flung the apparel aside and fluffed her bodice.
She heard him grunt. In disapproval of her attire, perhaps?
This evening had been another marvellous experience, one she wished would never end. Good company, exciting places, chatter and…Mr Hawkins’ strong calloused knuckles to look upon.
Besides the spectre of Astwood ever finding her, the sole grey miasma which lurked in her belfry was the memory of her betrothed’s kiss. At times, she awoke with the taste of him still on her lips: day-old fish with stale tobacco in addition to that same body odour which dogs attracted after three days in the rain.
“I was wondering…” she murmured, but her attention meandered as they rattled past a mansion with lamps strewn across its façade, their glow highlighting blood-red window frames and a doorman the size of Wales, sparkling laughter floating from within. “Is that the Prince’s?”
“Yes.”
“Could we stop off and–”
“On a list of ‘Undertakings That A Lady Should Never Contemplate’, ale-houses and attending a prizefight dressed as a nefarious footpad on the prowl are in the top ten, with that gambling hell at number two.”
She sniffed and speculated on number one. “I was wondering then…” She bit her lip, knew he could disemploy her for this little request, but nevertheless tonight was her moment to venture into unchartered waters. “W-would you grant me one kiss?”
Silence was not exactly what she’d expected.
Even a startled No would have been more appreciated, but instead a shaming hush filled the carriage.
A silence so silent it almost hummed.
Kissing must be number one on that list then.
She’d foolishly thought an attraction sparked between them, but it must all be within her fervid imagination. It had painted false pictures that this compelling man would find her yellow plumage attractive, and an odd despair filled her.
Never had she imagined wanting another’s lips upon hers after her betrothed’s slobbers or another’s touch after his creeping fingers.
Now she did – but apparently the feeling was not reciprocated.
