Page 18 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

But she couldn’t let down her guard when she was in this predicament because of him, especially when she didn’t understand her physical reaction to him.

Composing herself, she walked. Then she glided in straight lines. As her confidence grew, she traveled in tight circles and figure eights.Eventually, she sashayed. All the while, she balanced Meddlesome’s book on her head.

By the timethe dinner bell rang, Josie was starving and none too happy to have to sit at the table with a board rubbing against her spine. She couldn’t help but pout at having to eat tiny bites of food when the table was a cornucopia of deliciousness.

“Your posture is quite good at the present,” Davenport said. “Of course, with a plank strapped to your back, you are guaranteed to sit tall at all times.”

“No shite, my lord,” Josie growled.

The viscount choked on his wine and then guffawed. “We shall have to tackle your language tomorrow.”

“Jonathon,” Lady Davenport scolded.

He held up his hands. “Sorry, Mother. Sorry, Josephine.”

Tackling her language would be bloody friggin’ impossible. Maybe she could simply remain quiet at the ball.

She scoffed at her absurdity. Quiet and Jabbing Josie were two things that did not go together.

“Can ladies drink wine?” she asked. “’Cause I could use some bloody wine.”

“You can drink in moderation,” Lady Davenport said. “But you should never ask for libations. You should wait to be served.”

Josie glared at the grinning viscount. “Seems to me, Lord Davenport, if me host were more hospitable and offered me wine, I wouldn’t have to be rude and ask for it.”

Mister-Stick-Up-His-Arse, Nicolas Wentworth, laughed so hard he snorted, shocking the living shite out of Josie. He waggled his finger inthe viscount’s direction. “She’s got you there, Davenport.”

Lord Davenport crooked his finger, motioning for a footman to pour both Josie and his mother a glass of wine.

So as not to earn herself a lesson on the unseemliness of gulping, Josie sipped from her glass. “How come ye didn’t offer Meddlesome wine?” she asked.

The viscount’s normal, smart-arse grin turned into a frown, and he exhaled. His gaze slid to Meddlesome, whose cheeks were a telling shade of red.

Meddlesome cleared his throat. “I do not imbibe.”

Of course not. Most men over-imbibed, and this starchy man who desperately needed to relax chose not to. Ironic, really. And yes, she might be uneducated, but she could read, and she wasn’t a dolt. She knew whatironicmeant. And this phenomenon was exceedinglyironic.

“You probably should have a glass, Meddlesome,” Josie said. “Might get rid of that sour puss countenance of yers.”

Meddlesome’s face fell, and he looked as if someone had shite in the middle of his plate. Which, for all intents and purposes, she had. Shame washed over her.

“Josephine,” Lady Davenport reprimanded.

“I am sorry, sir,” she said, unable to meet his gaze.

“I prefer that you call me ‘Nicolas’.”

Agatha raised a brow. “Nicolas? That’s most improper.”

He shrugged. “If we are to live and learn together for the next month…”

Agatha’s brow pinched as she considered this.

“What can it hurt, Mother?” Jonathon asked.

“Fine,” Agatha said. “‘Nicolas’ is fine here, but when we are in public it must be ‘my lord’.”

Meddlesome gave one satisfied chin bob.