Page 39 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

Maybe he should hire a matchmaker.

He snorted at his sarcasm. The truth was, since Bridget was coming to London, he hoped with all his heart that Lady Davenport introduced her to some suitable chaps.

Earlier that day a letter had arrived from his sister, and he’d already read it so many times he’d committed parts of it to memory.

… And, so dear brother, since you are to be away for a few more weeks, I must come to London because I cannot bear to be here alone with Mother and Papa. All Mother does is cry, and Papa might as well be a corpse for all the emotion he displays. Mrs. Simmons continues to terrify the rest of the staff with her ghost stories. Although scaring them with rattling chains and creaking doors used to be quite fun, it lost its appeal after our late-night veiled visitor. Since we no longer have our London Townhouse—sigh!—I am to stay with my dear friend Isabelle. I do hope you can secure me an invitation to the Davenports for a few days. I adore the Dowager Countess.

Dare I ask? Is Jonathon as handsome as ever? Double sigh!

Is your brow all pinched? Are you having a full-out apoplexy?

How typical of Bridget to taunt him. There had to be at least two full pages of his sister’s good-humored baiting. Her letter both cheered him up and solidified that he would have to take care that she and Davenport, the insufferable rake, were never left unchaperoned.

As much as he wanted to see his sister, he hated for her to become involved in this dupe. And surely, with her penchant for finding trouble, she would ensconce herself right in the middle of it.

He tossed and turned and then tossed and turned some more. Eventually he decided since sleep was pointless, he might as well fix himself a cup of milk.

Nicolas slid out of bed and donned his shirt, stockings, and trousers. He gently closed his chamber door so as not to make noise. Was it too much to hope that a beauty with thick dark hair might be in thekitchen? Thoughts of Josie waiting for him turned his plodding trek into an energetic stroll.

He barged into the room and frowned. Of course, she wasn’t there. What in God’s name made him think she might be?

Because she would have kissed me if we hadn’t been interrupted. Almost kissed him for the second time.

As Bridget would say,Sigh!

Once he warmed the milk on the Rumford stove, he added a dab of honey.

Thoughts whirling, he again considered his future. For what profession was a man who had studied at Cambridge suited? He drummed his fingers on the table. Solicitor? Physician? Professor? Barkeep? Rubbish collector?

Damn his fretting, cluttered thoughts to hell.

“Hello,” a feminine voice—the one he’d been hoping for—said.

Upon taking Josie in, the wind was knocked from his lungs. She looked exactly as he’d imagined—both seraphic and desirable. The candle in her hand illuminated the thick hair cascading past her shoulders, and her white sleeping gown appeared almost diaphanous. Although the latter might be his desire, blathering.

“May I join you?” she asked.

Dear God, yes. “Please. I assume you are hungry. Shall I prepare you a snack?”

“Sit,” she demanded. “I shall fix it myself.”

There seemed no point in arguing with her since he would lose.

He remained in his chair, his senses on high alert. He was aware of her every movement as she bustled about the kitchen, so much so that he mourned her loss when she left the room to visit the larder. Every time she placed something on the table, he took advantage of her nearness to inhale her intoxicating scent. When she leaned close to set a plate in front of him, her arm brushed his shoulder. The temporary touch was as intimate as if she’d whispered sensual secrets in his ear.

By the time she sat across from him, every inch of his body hummed with need. Damn inconvenient since ham, cheese, bread, and black butter sat on the table, waiting to be consumed.

He was much too randy to eat, so instead, he watched her feminine, albeit lethal, hands butter a slice of bread. Fresh bruises marbled her knuckles. Were they from sparring with Fanny? What if they were from punching him? Probably. He should attend to the purple splotches with herbal cream.

Even better, they required healing kisses.

Bloody hell. What kind of arrogant arse thought that his kisses were akin to medicine?

Seeming unaware of his idiotic thoughts, Josie piled ham, cheese, and a second piece of bread onto the first slice. “I favor sandwiches.” She chomped into the massive stack.

“Ravenous chit,” he said in jest. The truth was, he adored her voracious appetite. Hell, he adored everything about her, and surely her edacity transferred to bed sport?

She swallowed her large bite. “Why, my lord, I didn’t know you teased.”