Page 63 of A Governess Should Never… Tempt a Prizefighter (The Governess Chronicles 1)

“The two of them will come up to the scratch on the ground and take positions,” he explained. The combatants bobbed on the spot with restless energy, loosening limbs and cracking knuckles – more for the crowd than themselves.

“How long do they fight for?” she enquired, eyes glued to the ring.

“Each round lasts until a man is knocked or thrown off his feet. Then a half-minute interval and back at it.”

The umpire shouted and a roar shook the earth, surely heard from Land’s End to John O’Groats.

“The rules are no butting, kicking, biting, gouging or pulling hair, although we still keep it trimmed, just in case. Jackson there,” he scoffed, shoving a thumb to the gold-trimmed carriage two up from theirs, “pulled Mendoza’s hair to win. The coxcomb.”

Dusty Dan loosely bounced, known for his nifty feet, but Rolls Roy, famous for punching first and asking questions later, milled out a fist to Dusty’s cheek and–

“Ow!” A bundle of feminine warmth thumped into his chest, hands clasping his cravat.

“Are you hurt?” He grasped her shoulder, afraid a missile had pelted her.

“No, but he hit him! The beast!”

Seth located her ear within the folds of her footpad’s cloak, could feel a cold nose pressed to his chest. “Hitting is rather the point of it, Miss…Matilda.”

Of course she knew that– so raw and violent – yet caught up in the fervour of the crowd’s enthusiasm, she’d forgotten the actual truth of one man punching another.

“How could you bear to be hit?” she asked, lifting her head till their lips were a mere barleycorn apart. Couldn’t suffer to think of Seth being hurt in such a manner.

“’Twas worse in the old days, when the style was to merely stand still and get clobbered. Now at least, the idea is to dodge, weave and defend. But I admit, it is inevitable.”

She focused on Seth’s chin as he twisted back to the action.

Another crescendo of noise erupted and Matilda peeked from beneath the wool hood of her cloak just as Rolls hit the sawdust, blood seeping from beneath his eye, and she bundled her nose into Seth’s waistcoat once more.

All in all, if she could stay buried in here for the entire contest, she could quite get to tolerating this fighting lark.

“Tell me what’s happening,” she garbled into blue silk. “I just don’t wish to see it.”

His chest juddered in laughter, all growly, and she groaned, burrowing deep.

“Both have gone to their corners. The bottleman looks soused so Dusty’s helping himself to the gin.”

“Gin! That’s ridiculous.”

“It helps the pain. Both men are back up to the scratch.”

“And?”

She didn’t wish to miss a thing. But equally didn’t wish to see a thing.

“Dusty’s let fly this time, first a brisket, now a rib tickler, but Rolls nips back, no mischief done. A left ogle by Rolls, but Dusty dodges and takes one to the chopper instead. An undercut and, uff, a whiffle to the smeller.”

No idea, so Matilda decided to inhale deeply instead – leather, fresh linen and Mr Seth Hawkins.

Splendid.

“Oy, Dusty,” her employer yelled. “Mill a plumper to ’is kissin’ trap, yer calf’s ’ead.”

Honestly…

And what had befallen Seth’s accent? She often wondered how a man brought up in the stews had come by his Ton diction. His accent did not exactly cut glass like a duke or earl’s, but it certainly caused a profound scratch with its well-rounded vowels and crisp adroitness.

“Bleedin’ ’ell! Dusty’s eatin’ dust.”

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