Unbuttoning Miss Matilda
A convenient companionship… …and a passion neither expects! Ex-army officer Jack Rutherford is on the run—he must get to Aylesbury to prove his innocence! Opportunity strikes in the unconventional form of Matilda Grey, who needs help to pilot her canal barge. Jack is captivated by her unusual beauty, vulnerability and resilience. But as they travel together in such close quarters their mutual craving becomes as impossible to ignore as the secrets which still lie between them…
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A convenient companionship...
...and a passion neither expected!
Former army officer Jack Rutherford is on the run—he must go to Aylesbury to prove his innocence! Opportunity strikes in the unconventional form of Matilda Grey, who needs help to pilot her canal barge. Jack is captivated by her unusual beauty, vulnerability and resilience. But traveling together in such close quarters, their mutual craving becomes as impossible to ignore as the secrets that still lie between them...
LUCY ASHFORD studied English with History at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Derbyshire Peak District, close to beautiful Chatsworth House, and she loves to walk in the surrounding hills while letting her imagination go to work on her latest story. You can contact Lucy via her website: lucyashford.com.
The Major and the Pickpocket
The Return of Lord Conistone
The Captain’s Courtesan
The Outrageous Belle Marchmain
Snowbound Wedding Wishes
The Rake’s Bargain
The Captain and His Innocent
The Master of Calverley Hall
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
ISBN: 978-1-474-08924-1
UNBUTTONING MISS MATILDA
© 2019 Lucy Ashford
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
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Contents
Note to Readers
London—June 1816
Jack Rutherford hauled himself up from the mattress on the floor, poured water into a bowl and began to wash. The water was ice cold, but he scrubbed his face and chest all the harder because he damned well deserved the discomfort. For the third morning in a row, he’d left it till nine o’clock to struggle out of bed—and what was more, he had a hangover clanging like a set of church bells inside his head.
You, he told himself, are an almighty fool.
He looked around the cramped attic room. Now, where on earth were his clothes? Lying in a heap on the floor, of course, exactly where he’d flung them before falling asleep at past three this morning. He began putting them on. Buckskin breeches and a frequently mended linen shirt. An old leather waistcoat and a pair of scuffed riding boots. After glancing at the mirror hanging lopsidedly on the wall he ran one hand through his tousled black hair, noting that his jaw was dark with stubble.
He looked like a ruffian. Felt like a ruffian. The morning sun pouring in through the high window was hurting his eyes and his head—and it was all his own stupid fault, because he’d drunk far too much brandy last night at Denny’s gaming parlour.
