Page 29 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

He frowned. “This is a ridiculous conversation. I apologize. Again.” He turned his back to her.

What in the devil was she doing? Why did she treat him with such disdain? She didn’t understand the panic squeezing her lungs.

“Nicolas, spar with me,” she pathetically pleaded.

He slowly faced her. “Why?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Because she craved a heart-pounding, sweat-inducing workout. With him, above all else. Because she didn’t want him to leave. Because she loved the sweet science and wanted to share a few moments of it with this man. Because she knew no other way she could touch him.

“’Cause I wanna prove that you are wrong,” she said. “I can still move faster than you without changing my technique.”

“As you wish, Jabbing Josie,” Nicolas said as he slid out of his coat.

Chapter Twelve

Since Nicolas wasremoving his frock coat, apparently, he would do anything the brazen, enticing Josephine Martin asked of him, no matter how absurd. Folding the garment, he placed it over a nearby saddle. Hoping she’d come to her senses, he took his time unbuttoning his cashmere waistcoat. And then, even longer, sliding out of his riding boots.

Huffing, she shifted her weight back and forth.

She had the advantage of being warmed up. Not to mention, she, for some reason, wanted this. He, on the other hand, absolutely, one hundred percent did not. “You are getting your way, so please be patient,” he said.

She glowered.

Sighing, he untied his cravat, pulled it from his neck, and tossed it onto his growing pile of discarded clothing.

“You aren’t going to undress, are you?” she asked, her eyes wide.

Perhaps she should have thought of that before she insisted they box.

“Well, I can’t exactly move freely in all my clothing, can I?”

Her lips clamped, and her cheeks puffed. If shedidn’t soon take a breath, he was sure she’d faint dead away.

“Have you ever been to a fight where a man wears five layers of clothing?” he asked. “No? Me either. Every mill I’ve ever seen, the man is bare-chested.”

She swallowed.

He turned his back to her to hide his grin. Maybe he was wrong to take pleasure in her discomfiture, but the woman had brought this on herself. He’d only planned to take off his outer layers, his heavy boots, and cravat, but her reaction was too delicious. Besides, if he had to keep composed while seeing the peaks of her nipples poking through the thin fabric of her chemise, she had to deal with his skin.

He forced the corners of his lips down, faced her, and undid the first button of his shirt.

Her breath hitched.

He undid the second and third buttons.

She licked her lip.

He needed to do something to stop this madness. “Josie, are you sure about this?”

“Get a move on,” she said.

Well, he’d tried. He shrugged, then undid the rest of his buttons. Opening his shirt, he exposed his chest and abdominals.

Her gaze raked down his body as her cheeks bloomed scarlet.

Being the heir to a cursed earldom tended to keep one humble, and Nicolas had never been considered a rake. He was a one-woman kind of man and had only bedded Lydia and Lady Celeste Milton, an experienced and sensual dowager who had taught him much when he was a lad of nineteen. However, he knew that women fancied him. He’d often been told that his eyes were striking and his dimples endearing. He’d also learned firsthand that once a woman saw his lean-muscled physique, she became quite pliant.

So, with confidence and flamboyance, he unbuttoned his cuffs, stripped off his shirt, and contracted his pectoral muscles as if performinghis peel for a wagering mill audience. So what if he only had one spectator? She deserved a show. She’d practically begged for it, after all.