Page 30 of A Governess Should Never… Tempt a Prizefighter (The Governess Chronicles 1)

“This morning is time off for us all, although I must apologise that ices at Gunter’s is not possible afterwards. A meeting has cropped up, but I’m sure we can all visit at the weekend.” Her lips curved behind the veil…at least he thought so anyway. “Are you interested in the spoils of war or something else? There are upwards of fifteen thousand natural and foreign curiosities, antiquities and productions of fine arts.”

“You read that in the catalogue.”

Seth merely winked and placed a steadying palm to her shapely waist as hooting bucks and their doe-eyed counterparts galloped past, the back-up calvary late for battle.

Truly, he’d never seen such a confounded cannonade of bodies, and as they approached the archway, he wondered what his members who’d survived Waterloo must think of all this clamour.

A pink-bonneted matron scratched the dark-blue carriage door for proof of its supposed resistance to bullets, a grey-haired gentleman with monocle frowned at Napoleon’s supposedly gilded coffee pot and a young buck stuck his nose in Napoleon’s supposedly gold chamber pot.

“Rather than the carriage, may we see specimens of the Birds of Paradise?” asked Miss Griffin, wincing as Chloe and her friend scrambled aboard and up to the coachman’s seat. “I’m not sure which hall they are in though.”

Seth ushered her from the archway to a quiet corner and studied the museum plan, turning it this way and that, while Miss Griffin consulted the catalogue, only to find the two bore no relation to one another whatsoever.

Instead they wandered at will, studying curiosities from the South Seas in gleaming glass cases and speculating as to their uses. Miss Griffin, as one might have guessed, was knowledgeable yet without pretension. She simply…knew stuff.

A mock-medieval hall housed a gruesome armoury of spikes and chains, and classical art lined the walls of a Roman gallery.

This William Bullock certainly was a showman – Egypt, Italy, Polynesia and Africa, all contained within No. 22 Piccadilly.

“I believe the Pantherion,” he directed, now examining the plan upside down, which seemed to make more sense, “is where you may possibly find your birds. Take the left door here to pass through Exhibit Room 6, where, and I quote, ‘a wondrous exemplification from Scotland can be found’.”

The veil granted him a nod and marched onwards, but the spectacle of Exhibit Room 6 halted their stride.

Bizarre basaltic rocks lined the roof, walls and floor, a lone torch casting an eerie flickering glow to this…cave, for want of a better description.

Those raucous bucks from the carriage melee lurked and sniggered whilst their ladies prodded the strata.

“The catalogue states,” Seth murmured, “this is Fingal’s Cave on the Isle of Staffa.”

Miss Griffin’s veiled face twisted left then right before she raised the material, tucking it into her bonnet, and at last her tawny eyes gleamed in the torchlight. “Having never been to Scotland, I cannot naysay Mr Bullock, but I believe a cave may be somewhat cooler. It’s hotter than Satan’s lair in here.” She peeled off her gloves, wafting them around while studying the strange hexagonal-cut walls.

A hoot of laughter from the corner, and Seth raised his head, noticed a grinning buck sidle up to the torch, lift a hand and…

Darkness smothered the cave, followed by disorientating doe’ish shrieks and a buck’s chortles.

“Miss Griffin? He thrust out a hand, caught silky material and then…let go. He could be grabbing anything. “Do not be afraid.”

“Oh, good grief,” he heard her mutter after another feminine shriek. “It’s a fake cave in Piccadilly, not ghostly Green Park at dawn.”

“I believe one of those bucks snuffed out the torch for fun.”

“Fun! Honestly, the male species has some strange ideas. Where are you? I have no wish to fall.” And fingers descended upon his chest, firm and pressing.

“You’ve found me,” he managed to bite out as her hand wandered.

“Hmm. Is that… I hope that’s your pectoralis major. It certainly feels like it, most defined and…broad. I’ve never felt a real one before. Only marble.”

Breath stuttered to a halt as Miss Griffin’s touch now spread across his chest, vanilla and flowers scenting the air, all other noise forgotten. It was suffocating, the dark, the heat and her caress, entombed lust roaring to life.

He covered her hand with his own.

Matilda gasped,her bare fingers trapped between the heated silk of a waistcoat and the calloused skin of an immense palm.

Her nails dug. A faint rumble juddered.

The cologne of leather, the rough edge to Mr Hawkins’ breath, and the silk-clad muscled indentations beneath her hand provoked an awfully strange rumpus within, coiling and decidedly unstudious for a museum attendee.

“Yes, Miss Griffin,” she heard him state huskily at last. “You do appear to have found my pectoralis major.”

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