Page 32 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

Had Nicolas told Jonathon about their improper behavior in the stable? Probably, since men always bragged to their mates about their conquests. Ordinarily Josie would glower at Nicolas, but right now she was much too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

Good God, she’d almost kissed the fool. If the coachman hadn’t interrupted them, her very first kiss would have been with an earl’s son. Her cheeks heated at her wanton behavior. Even worse were her lustful feelings. She’d ogled his bare chest as if he were a sweetmeat, and she was starving to death.

Which, in some ways, she was. But still, this was no excuse to behave like a strumpet. However, it wasn’t entirely her fault. Who would have guessed that beneath all those layers of clothing lay thephysique of a lean-muscled warrior?

Shoving a hunk of bread into her mouth, she stifled her moan.

Nothing, not even her dream of owning a gymnasium and edifying women, was worth this humiliation. If the duke preferred Ruth, there was nothing Josie could do to change his mind. This farce the Black Widow of Whitehall had forced them into proved how eccentric the woman was. What could she possibly hope to gain by treating the three of them, four if Agatha counted, as pawns in some ridiculous experiment?

Josie needed to leave the premises immediately and return home to Coach and Franny.

“What do you think, Josephine?” Agatha asked.

Having no idea what the dowager had asked, Josie cringed.

“I think Josephine was woolgathering,” Jonathon said.

Today, the viscount’s smart-arse grin was not charming, especially not with all this guilt coursing through her after being caught beneath Nicolas.

“What has our dear girl so occupied this morning?” Agatha asked, drawing out the wordswhatandoccupied.

Either the dowager’s question was odd, or Josie’s guilt was getting the best of her.

“Josephine.” The dowager tapped a finger on the rim of her dainty cup. “I said that this afternoon you should change partners and dance with Nicolas.”

But then Josie would have to look into his eyes and touch him, and she needed to stay as far away from him as possible so as not to have a repeat of their sparring and lying on top of each other fiasco.

“Why must I dance with him?” Josie asked. “I thought Jonathon was my partner.”

The viscountess smiled. Bloody smiled. And Jonathon winked at Nicolas, who blanched.

She knew it. The three of them were up to something. Her coffeesoured in her stomach.

This would be the first time Josie gave up because a task was too difficult. But this undertaking wasn’t simply arduous; it was impossible. She dropped her fork onto her plate. The utensil clanged inelegantly.

“Please forgive me.” Josie stood. “I don’t want to marry a duke. Or go to a ball. Or be here with you all.” Swallowing the lump in her throat, she fled from the dining parlor.

“Heavens. What did the two of you do?” Agatha asked.

The door slammed into place behind Josie, muffling the men’s responses.

Josie dashed downthe street. She didn’t stop until her teary eyes could no longer determine what was in front of her. Halting, she swiped her sleeve over her face, soaking up the unwelcome droplets. Was the garment now considered stolen, since she’d run away from the Davenports? If so, she’d snotted up a pilfered gown. She sighed.

She did not favor this sentimental pile of mush she’d turned into since meeting Nicolas Wentworth. The last time she cried like this, she’d been a child, and Coach had sent her to bed early for not doing her chores.

Blinking away the last of her tears, she searched her surroundings. A beautiful brick church, boasting colorful stained-glass windows, stood off to her right side. She strolled to it, climbed the front stairs, and entered the old building.

Finding the candlelit nave empty, she sat at one of the pews and composed herself. Without blunt, she wouldn’t be able to hire a hackney to take her home to Coach and Franny. She’d have to walk. Avery long walk, which was fine with her. She could use the fresh air, the exercise, and the time alone with her thoughts.

“Josie,” someone behind her said. She stiffened. If only it were God talking to her instead of a meddlesome aristocrat.

She peered over her shoulder. Nicolas Wentworth and his sad puppy dog eyes looked down at her.

“May I sit with you?” he asked.

Did she desire his company, or did she want him to leave her alone? Unable to decide, she hesitated. Every part of her being craved his nearness while every thought she held in her head screamed to keep him at a distance. Mind over heart—which should she follow? Hadn’t Coach always told her she was a move first, think later kind of girl?

That had never served her wrong.