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Narrowing her eyes at the innocent smile of Beelzebub’s progeny, Matilda folded her arms. “Now, if one requires sugar, one should use the tongs and never, never fingers.”
Betty sniffed again. “The maid next door said it were gone midnight when yer returned.”
“Now, let us see you pour the tea without spillage.”
“And that yer hair were a bit…windswept.”
Enough was enough.
“To correct any misapprehensions, it was my own request to attend such an establishment in order to study the detrimental effects of liquor and to apprehend its behavioural consequences. Any…peakiness is entirely due to the ingredients within Porter Ale, which I am convinced does not merely contain barley and hops. During the course of the evening, needless to say, my coiffure…loosened, a natural outcome of the humid atmosphere within an abode of beer. And furthermore,” she declared, “Mr Hawkins was the perfect gentleman throughout.”
Chloe nodded. “Good. And of course, you would’ve been a perfect lady. No doubt about that.”
Matilda swallowed.
No one is wicked all at once; but becomes so, step by step.A favoured juicy adage of Miss Appleton, but had not Matilda been wicked all at once?
She’d desired Mr Hawkins’ kiss, yearned for his touch – to experience the strange sensation of both freedom and protection he evoked.
And what a kiss.
A torrid heat rose in her chest as she reminisced… The exquisite moment his lips had altered from tentative to forceful, the manner in which he’d dragged her aloft, those hefty hands snaking through her hair, calloused grip caressing her waist, the feel of him beneath – sturdy thighs and robust chest.
And she couldn’t even begin to describe the moment he’d pressed with his tongue.
Well, she could, actually. Silken, intimate and…needful.
But then he’d halted.
Most men, she assumed, might have taken advantage, and doubtless if she had responded to her betrothed’s bungling kiss – and now with the benefit of comparison, she realised it had been bungling – she would have been flat on her back behind the potted palm.
She shuddered anew, and Betty patted her hand. “I’ll cook yer up some tripe tonight, that’ll put yer to rights. And mebbe some stew. Ma always swore that a good dose of Porter Ale in a stew softened gristly meat within the hour.”
Matilda narrowed her eyes at the troublesome twosome as Chloe’s lips jiggled and Betty innocently batted her lashes.
Then laughter and hugs erupted between the three of them, shared and teasing.
Such closeness this family had, such joie de vivre. There may be no expensive butler or footmen trimming the candles, but happiness and love filled their home.
Wiping mirthful eyes with her apron, Betty rose from the sofa. “I’d best be off. Mr H is in a rare mood this morning. Keeps whistling.”
Chloe nodded. “And he chose a fine blue waistcoat instead of his normal day-wear brown without my guidance.”
Two pairs of eyes impaled Matilda but the churning of her stomach prevented a flush to her cheeks, so she smiled with Betty-like innocence.
“Perhaps, Chloe, he is merely looking forward to reading your thousand-word essay entitled ‘The Quilling of Tea Caddies: Theory and Practice’. Or perchance, Betty, he is merry in anticipation of tomorrow’s fulsome breakfast picnic being readied for our departure at seven of the morn?”
Chloe groaned, Betty groaned, and Matilda sipped her perfect tea.
* * *
Seth whistled.Then caught himself.
In no way should he be so joyful. His weighing machine remained broken, Liam was to be stood before the magistrate for brawling, and the bloody awful weather this year was costing a fortune in firewood for the boiler.
Indeed, nothing had altered just because he’d ruthlessly kissed Miss Griffin.
On the other hand, everything had.
