Page 7 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

Josie grinned.

How did a fighter have a mouth full of straight white teeth? Beautiful teeth. The most gorgeous smile he’d ever seen.

A gunshot echoed. All movement and noise halted. Nicolas followed the others’ wide-eyed gazes to find the Widow of Whitehall standing in the middle of the ring, gripping a pistol that was now aimed at the floor. The insane woman had shot a hole in her own ceiling. She slowly raised her other hand to point at Nicolas, and then she swung that ominous finger toward Josie.

“Bloody friggin’ hell,” Josie mumbled. “See what ye did?”

Before Nicolas could respond that it wasn’t his fault that this lot was inebriated and unruly, two large men grabbed his arms, and their meaty fists locked his hands behind him.

“Shite,” he grumbled.

The crowd parted as the Wolf Pack dragged him toward the stairs.

He hadn’t meant to start an out-of-control brawl; he’d only meant to help a woman. The same woman hissing and kicking as four men dragged her from the crowd and up the stairs behind him.

On second thought, she probably hadn’t required his assistance at all.

Chapter Three

Josie peeked intothe hallway and let loose a string of expletives. As much as it pained her to admit it, there was no way she was taking on the six guards in the hallway. She closed the door and stomped into the center of the office that was now her prison.

She untied her sleeves and pulled her bodice into place before she growled and dropped into the nearest chair where she crossed her arms over her chest. She nervously tapped her foot while the infuriating man beside her sat completely still, his citrus soap permeating the air. His scent was doubly disconcerting because she desperately craved her post-mill orange and would prefer he smelled like something that didn’t make her mouth water—especially since she reeked of sour body odor.

Even more disconcerting was her niggling question. Why had she helped him in the brawl when the entire thing was his fault? He’d seemed to be under some mistaken patriarchal delusion that she’d required his protection when the crowd had been carrying her to her destination. And now, she was locked in a room with this handsome citrus-scented fool while Ruth was probably solidifying her role as the duke’s new prize fighter.

Most toffs knew a bit of pugilism. However, they couldn’t protect themselves in a street brawl even if their lives depended on it. Interestingly, this delicious-smelling man beside her knew how to throw a punch in a real fight. Which she appreciated, even if he was a nosey blighter.

With her subsequent realization, she moaned. She’d been hauled away before she received her share of the purse. Hopefully, Franny and Coach retrieved her winnings.

“Are you still angry?” the toff asked.

Was he serious? She turned an incredulous glare on him. “I’m furious, I am.”

He tilted his head and regarded her. “Were you trying to reach the duke?”

How in the deuce had he known that? Had he read her mind? “None of your bloody concern,” she growled, then realized she sounded like a petulant child.

“I suppose not,” he said.

The ensuing silence felt suffocating. Or maybe it was being locked in a room with her own stench that stole her. Unless it was this man, unnerving her in a way she didn’t fully understand. No man had ever made her feel off balance, yet the room seemed to be rocking.

Egad!She simply needed to hydrate with a protein beer, a cup of water, and an orange.

He thrust his hand in front of her. “Nicolas Wentworth.”

Did he expect her to introduce herself and shake his hand congenially as if he hadn’t just ruined her life? Well, he could sod off. She ignored him.

He sighed. “And you are Jabbing Josie…”

“I ain’t telling you my surname, guv.” She stood and paced the room, eventually halting in front of him. “Martin. Are ye happy?” She threw her hands in the air. “Josephine Martin. And I did want to talk to His Grace.”

Addlepated, she sank back into her chair. Why in the blazes was she talking to him? Perhaps because there was nothing to do but blabber since she had been locked away with him for who knew how long.

He studied her, his blue eyes soft. “You want to be his fighter at The Duke’s and Dame’s Mill?”

Closing her eyes, she blew out a lip vibrating huff. “And now he’s probably asked Ruth the Charlatan.”

His chuckle was void of humor. “I believe he did.”