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Mercy, thought Seth.
“Good. You be the roving scoundrel for Miss Griffin, Pa, whilst I ask Betty for some lemonade. ’Tis thirsty work, all this teaching.” And with an exaggerated wipe of brow, she skipped off, closing the door behind her.
Well, he’d been granted his wish of Matilda’s sole company, but seeing him lobbed to the floor by a girl of ten and three years was hardly comparable to intimate dinner repartee and a decent bottle of 1811 claret.
“I apologise,” he offered, rising to his feet. “I hope she didn’t badger you into learning these methods of defence?”
“Not at all. I think it a wonderful idea and Chloe is patient and enthusiastic. A man teaching me would be too intimidating and…manly. With Chloe’s instruction, I feel as though I could succeed. I felt so helpless when my cousin first shook m–”
A blush lit her cheeks, eyes seeking the floor.
“I know he’s bruised you in the past,” Seth growled. “I saw them on your wrists the day of the interview.” He strode over, brushed his fingers upon the baggy sleeve of his shirt. “If he ever does that again, I’ll rip his arms off.”
“Gosh. Could you?” And she grinned.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do indeed, but for now, you shall be my villain, and I will try the move as Chloe has instructed.”
This sounded like another exceedingly bad idea…
To the back of her, Seth stood – rough and rugged.
Clasped an arm around Matilda’s throat – silk and cream.
Breathed deep – meadow and leather.
Whispered in her ear – silent desires.
“Wot ’ave we ’ere?” he purred. “A helpless little girlie all alone.”
“Oh, you wicked scoundrel,”Matilda wittered rather breathlessly. “Please do-n’t.”
“Wot?”
“I said, don’t.”
“Hmm. I could do…anything to yer.”
She shuddered at the rasp to his voice. Yes, yes, he could.
“I beg you take your rough, broad, firm, calloused hands off me…”
“I ain’t sure,” he growled, fingers constricting against the linen of the borrowed shirt, “that had much conviction.”
Well, no.
That coarseness of voice induced such a fracas within. Betty had revealed how he’d spent a year learning to speak with perfect diction for his beloved Academy so that the nobles would feel at home, but Matilda adored the harsh edge and swallowed vowels.
Even so, she stomped on his foot.
He failed to move.
Not an utter surprise as, like Chloe, he wore some type of sturdy shoe and she herself was barefoot – similar to walloping a tree stump with a goose-down pillow.
Nevertheless – and not to be seen as a shrinking heroine – she continued with how she’d been instructed, shoving her posterior into his hip, except she missed, stumbled and ended up with her back flat against his rigid torso.
The arm around her neck remained, the other now tethered her waist – tight and altogether more dangerous than any roving scoundrel.
