Page 55 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

“Bloody hell,” Nicolas whispered, for he knew what came next.He’d foolishly walked right into their trap.

“Now you shall do the gentlemanly thing and marry my daughter,” Baron Small declared.

Nicolas relived hissurreal evening as he trudged willy-nilly beneath the canopy of stars.

“So, you do have feelings for her?” Lydia had asked.

Yes, indeed. Overwhelming feelings. He was falling in love with Josie, and there was not a dashed thing to be done about it. And now another layer of shite had been added to the reasons they could not be together. Damn Lydia and her parents to hell.

But wallowing in his demise would not fix this muddle. His priority needed to be finding a way to support his family. But what could a man who’d been raised to sit on his arse do? He had so few talents. However, he was a skilled writer. Maybe one of the London papers would hire him to be a journalist. Hopefully, the job would pay him enough so that he could purchase a small flat and move his family to London. Although a possible solution, this plan would not solve all of his problems since he’d never earn enough to keep Lydia in the style in which she was accustomed. Not that it mattered to him, really.

By the time he reached Greenpark House, the outside lights had been snuffed. What had he expected? He’d taken his time and meandered along at a snail’s pace. Luckily, the sconces in the hallways still burned.

His mind whirling, he climbed the stairs. Since light came from the interior of the drawing room, Davenport was probably awake. Perhaps it was time to seek advice. Hopefully, his mate could remain serious for a discussion. If only Bridget hadn’t left that morning, then he mightalso be able to speak with her.

He entered the room, halted, and scrubbed his eyes.

Josie reclined in the settee, her feet curled beneath her, a copy of the tedious Debrett’s in her hand. He’d give her this, she was intense and relentless, and determined to win this absurd wager. Her eyes widened, and she sat up. “Nicolas? ’Tis quite late.”

Habit had him reaching for his watch. After digging in his pocket, he recalled his beloved possession lying on the jewelry store counter. Sighing, he dropped his hand to his side. There were so many things he wanted to say to Josie, but he had no idea how to articulate a single one of them.

“Did you lose your watch?” she asked.

Josephine Martin was exceedingly perceptive. However, pawning it wasn’t losing it, so his subtle head shake was not a lie.

“How was your evening?” she asked.

Her gaze singed his back as he strolled to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy. He swirled the amber liquid as he carried it across the room then plunked himself into the wingback across from her. Hesitating, he thought better of drinking. Seconds later, feeling utterly defeated, he gulped.

The warm alcohol burned its way to his belly. He rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “I no longer have any feelings for Lydia.”

Even though his lids remained lowered, he heard the rustle of her skirts and her slippered feet plunked onto the carpet. He felt her sit up, and in his mind’s eye, he could see the furrow in her brow. His connection to Josephine Martin was visceral and so deep inside him that it was as if an invisible thread ran from her heart to his.

“’Tis you I have feelings for.” He should have the bollocks to look into her eyes, but if he did, he would crack and tell her he was falling helplessly in love with her. “I have since the first time I saw you on that raised platform.”

The room was silent except for her breaths.

“And yet, what am I to do about it? I don’t believe in curses, but…” Being careful not to look at her, he dropped his chin, opened his eyes, and sipped. “I had considered asking you to be my mistress. Do not punch me. I know that you would never agree to something so demeaning.” He could not bring himself to confess that a few hours ago, before his future had been written by a title-seeking miss, he’d decided he would ask Josie to marry him.

He braced himself for the sting of her ire. When it didn’t come, he continued, “The truth is, I don’t care that we are from different classes. Hell, you are a champion, and I am about to lose everything. You are the one that is too good for me. And still…”

Just one more sip, and he could tell her everything.

“In less than a week, we will present you to Griffendale. He won’t ask you to marry him, but he will try to bed you, and I will have to watch like an absolute jealous arse. And that is not the worst part. I’m certain that Davenport and I could have convinced Griffendale to take you on as his fighter. If Bessie Dove-Lyon hadn’t insisted on this insane wager, I would have told Tristan that very night that he was a bloody fool if he thought Ruth was a better choice than you.”

He finally met her gaze. Just as he’d expected, she perched on the settee, her intelligent eyes watched him, and tight lines creased her forehead.

“Despite the widow’s warning, tomorrow, I will go to Griffendale and tell him he was duped. I think you stand a good chance of beating Lady Paulsgrove. You can win the purse and earn the blunt for your gymnasium. Thereupon, you can return to your life.”

She frowned.

“Josie, don’t you see? You will be free from this farce. All your dreams could come true.”

“What about my gown?” she asked.

Damnations, he’d liked to have seen her in it. Danced with her infront of all of London. Announced to the world that a woman as grand as Jabbing Josie was attracted to the man and not the title, disgraced as it and he both were.

“How did you pay for my gown, Nicolas?” Josie asked. “Because as I was saying goodbye to your sister this morning, I recalled you told me you spent the last of your blunt on her book.”