Page 10 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

She softened like melting butter. Davenport had a way with women. But Josephine Martin was not for the likes of him, so he should cease smiling at her before Nicolas helped knock hisprettyteeth down his throat.

Nicolas checked his emotions. What did he care if Davenport flirted with an insane woman?

“This time the viscount bet the baron he couldn’t drink a bottle of gin in five minutes,” the widow said. “Needless to say, the baron is lying under the table at this very minute. Which means he is not playing cards. Which means I am losing blunt.”

“Yeah, but Hardstone can be such a bloody blowhard,” Davenport said. “We are all better off without him for the rest of the night.”

The widow tilted her head slowly, looking more otherworldly than human. “Although true, I’ve told you before that if you make the wager under my roof, fifty percent of the purse is mine.”

The viscount sighed. “I intended to make you aware and share the winnings. I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

Davenport had always been a master at turning the tables in hisfavor, so the fool would probably walk out of the stifling little room with all of the ill-begotten coin and Josie’s affection.

Not that Nicolas gave a shite about any of that. His annoyance was over other things. Like losing his home. His brother’s death. His fiancée tossing him aside. The widow yanking him around as if he was on leading strings. And having to spend his night in a gaming hell when he’d prefer to be just about anywhere else.

“You are lucky I find you charming, Viscount.” The widow leaned forward. Her gaze skimmed over her captives. “It seems all three of you are in the same position. You owe me money. Some of you owe me more than others.” An accusatory finger pointed at Nicolas.

“I have mine right here.” Davenport reached into his waistcoat.

The widow halted him with an outstretched palm. “’Tis too late for that.”

The never-serious Davenport blanched.

“Let me tell you exactly what is going to happen over the next few weeks,” the widow declared, her voice ominous.

Chapter Five

Josie was desperate,not delusional. She knew without a doubt that the Duke of Griffendale would never, ever marry her. Not if she was the most beautiful, alluring woman in the world. Which she wasn’t.

She’d been born in a flash house in the East End and orphaned at a young age. When she was about nine years old, Coach Valentine had come across her pummeling a street bully who outweighed her by a stone. The widowed father had taken her in and raised her alongside Franny, his pride and joy.

Truth be told, she didn’t want to marry the duke; it was just that Lord Meddlesome made her see red. The arrogant lift of his chin and humorless laugh infuriated her. His sapphire-blue eyes and his fighting skills addled her further.

Worst of all, he made her feel her place, which was as a woman who was a champion in her sport and yet still relying on the charity of men.

She wanted to leave that place by achieving her dream of teaching other women the art of self-defense. She loved the sweet science with all her heart, so training female prizefighters would be a delightful bonus. It stung that she couldn’t pursue her ambitions unless awealthy man backed her.

She’d been certain that her dream was finally within her grasp, so when it had been taken from her, she’d snapped and said the most idiotic thing imaginable. “I want ye to make a love match between me and the duke.” Someone should cut out her tongue.

“Josephine,” the widow said, interrupting Josie’s woolgathering. “You shall stay with the Dowager Viscountess Davenport. She will train you to be a genteel lady and once you are ready, she shall introduce you to His Grace.”

In Josie’s opinion, this viscountess should have at least been given a choice, since there was no way anyone could turn Josie into a lady.

“My lord,” the widow said, turning to Lord Meddlesome, “You shall stay with them and assist. If, within one month, His Grace proposes marriage to Josephine, I will forgive your father his debt. Your family may maintain your home, and you will never hear from me again.”

Lord Meddlesome leaped from his chair. “There must be another way.”

“This is my one and only proposition,” the widow said.

Lord Meddlesome dropped into his chair, cradled his head in his palms, and whimpered.

“And you—” the widow pointed at the viscount—“shall oversee this arrangement if you ever want to enter my establishment again.”

Viscount Davenport’s face lit up, and he held out his hand for her to shake. “I do so love a good wager.”

Instead of taking his hand, the widow glared at him. “I see that gleam in your eyes, Lord Davenport. No, you may not fill the duke in on this plan and have him make a fake proposal. That would be cheating, and I do not tolerate cheaters.”

The viscount brought a hand to his heart. “Me, cheat? Why, I am crushed you would accuse me of such underhanded tactics.”