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Mr Hawkins had acquiesced with her request for a kiss but never had he spoken of a need for anything more profound within his life, and so she should not expect further adventures.
Once Chloe no longer required a governess, Matilda would surely continue in her profession. By then, she’d have references and be retained by some aristocratic family as she’d always hoped… With starchy butlers and silent dinners, miserable servants and condescending noblemen.
Wretched thoughts indeed.
Arriving at her bedchamber door, she noticed a brown paper-bound parcel resting upon the floor, and lifting the neatly wrapped item, she hunted for a message.
Naught.
Frowning, she opened her chamber door and strolled over to sit upon the bed, twisting the small package this way and that.
Vague tales of governesses receiving gifts of an unfavourable nature from their crop of charges rattled in her head – frogs, worms and suchlike. Yet surely Chloe was not that way inclined.
Miss Appleton would no doubt issue a sour command that the governess refuse such items for fear of bribery but…
Matilda could not remember the last time she had received a wrapped present.
Her parents had ceased gift giving when she’d attained the age of twelve, and they’d instead settled upon reading one another’s favourite passages from books for birthdays and Christmas.
Which had been perfectly…nice.
Nevertheless, as she loosened the string, a curl of pleasure coursed. A new quill? A diary? No, too small.
The smooth brown paper rustled and she creased it back to reveal…
Three bars of her beloved Pears amber soap were stacked upon one another, her favourite scent of flowers assailing her.
A card slipped out.
May you never be without your English garden.
S. H.
The gift was forward and wicked, outrageously scandalous for a gentleman, and possibly the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her.
Matilda’s eyes smarted as she stared at the simple blunt script of his handwriting.
Mr Seth Hawkins.
A man whose wits she’d considered at the interview to have been most likely knocked out in some prizefighting field. Whereas in fact she was the witless one to ever have judged him as such.
Astute, determined and kind. Those were the words to describe him by day.
Passionate, intense and sensual. Those were the words to describe him by night.
She smoothed a finger upon the transparent glycerine, slick and gentle against her skin, brought the soap close to her nose, inhaled…
Those thoughts of wretchedness faded.
And all of a sudden, she felt rather wonderful.
