Page 33 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

She sighed and slid toward the center of the bench to make room for him.

He sat beside her, his citrusy scent invading the musty pew. No man should smell this tempting, especially in a house of worship.

“It seems that all I do is apologize to you,” he said.

True. But this time, he wasn’t entirely at fault. She’d baited him to spar. She’d wanted him to touch her. She’d desired his lips on hers.

“I fear the three of you are scheming behind my back,” she declared.

Sighing, he wiped his hands over his well-formed thighs, leaving behind a trail of sweat. “I simply got carried away. Truth be told, I don’t have very much fun these days, I haven’t sparred in forever, and I was enjoying myself.”

She’d been so frustrated about him not taking their session seriously it hadn’t occurred to her that he’d been enjoying himself. Paranoid woman that she could be, she’d taken his fluttering around as an insult. She’d been certain that he didn’t see a woman as a serious opponent. Upon hearing his side of the story, she was quite flatteredby his admission. And she agreed; sparring was fun.

But he hadn’t answered her question. “What were the secret communications about at breakfast?” she asked.

His brow furrowed. “Are you referring to Davenport’s smart-arse winks and the countess’s odd tone? Because I honestly don’t know. I was wondering the same thing.”

She hadn’t noticed any winking, although shehadwitnessed Jonathon’s mischievous expressions. Certain that Nicolas had just told her the truth, she owed him the same courtesy.

“You see…” Well, she probably shouldn’t tell him the entire truth. Admitting she craved his touch was much too indecent. “I let my pride and anger rule over my common sense. I have known from the beginning that I cannot marry a duke. Not even if Agatha turns me into a perfect lady, which she will never be able to do. I decided I’d go to the ball and convince the duke to toss Ruth to the side and ask me to be his fighter. I didn’t care about the part of the bargain that involved you getting your estate back. And I didn’t care one whit if the viscount earned his way back into the widow’s good graces.”

“I see,” Nicolas said.

“So, I think it is best if I return home, and we forget about this nonsense.”

“Mayhap,” Nicolas said.

“I’m sorry I could not help you win your home back.” She truly was, deep down in her soul, sorry.

“As am I,” Nicolas said. “I don’t think I can save my family, and I am certain the Widow of Whitehall knows this. She is obviously playing games with all three of us. Mayhap she despises my father. Perchance she is tired of Jonathon never taking anything seriously.”

“Mayhap, but I do wonder why she dislikes me so,” Josie said. “Rumors abound that she is quite supportive of female pugilists. Can she truly be this angry over me dropping into the crowd? No harm came from it. Her Wolf Pack quickly defused the melee.”

“I agree,” Nicolas said. “Her ire seems extreme and misplaced. Whatever the case, I think you should go to that ball.”

Was he serious? Scoffing, Josie turned her head to the side to regard him. “Why would you say that?”

Those adorable dimples appeared with his grin. “There is no reason you can’t approach Tristan and ask to be his fighter. At least one of us should come out of this with something.”

“But…” She had no words. Nicolas was still willing to help her even after she’d admitted she’d never had any intention of helping him win his part of the bet.

He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Various shades of gold and countless diamonds sparkled. And she’d thought the overwrought man was simply obsessed with being punctual but if Josie had a piece as lovely, she would take it out and admire it every chance she got.

“’Tis getting late,” he said. “Shall we return to Greenpark House for our afternoon lessons?”

“Your watch is quite lovely,” Josie said.

His face lit up. “A present from my grandfather. It reminds me of happier days.” Nicolas tucked it away, stood, and held out his hand, inviting her to exit in front of him.

The noble Nicolas Wentworth seemed to be under her skin because, against her better judgment, she allowed him to lead her out of the church. Side by side, they strolled to the Davenport’s townhouse, the silence between them not at all uncomfortable. It was, in fact, oddly comforting.

Chapter Fourteen

The last fewdays had been spent in companionable meals and lessons, the very best part being the relaxing evenings in the drawing room. Davenport always had a smile on his face and a glass of port in his hand. Meanwhile, the ladies bonded as Agatha taught Josie how to embroider delicate flowers and leaves. It was all rather pleasant and quite cozy.

Josie proved to be a fast learner. According to Agatha, her stitches were “fine, indeed.” And her thread always had “the perfect amount of tension.” Surprisingly, Josie’s speech had already lost its rough edge. As far as Nicolas could tell, she no longer required her backboard to stand tall or move about the house as gracefully as a ballerina. Additionally, she showed up to breakfast looking lovely in her borrowed frocks. She’d also finally succumbed to her lady’s maid ministrations, so now her intricate coiffures would befit a princess.

If Nicolas didn’t know better, he’d think Josie was committed to winning the Widow of Whitehall’s wager. However, this couldn’t be the case since she’d confessed that she’d known all along that a pugilist from the East End could not marry a duke. Besides, they had agreed Josie’s love match was no longer their goal.