Page 64 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

“You were finally sleeping. Don’t think I don’t know you toss and turn all night with all that fretting,” Davenport said. “I accept your thank you, as well as your apology for being a horse’s arse.”

Nicolas and Davenport knelt at the same time. Nicolas retrieved the paper near his foot as Davenport gathered the rest.

Nicolas took a moment to study the simple drawings and numbers scratched on the paper. Dare he tell his mate that his fives were backward? At least, Nicolas suspected the crudely drawn numbers were fives.

Maybe later, in private, he would point this out. Although he’d mentioned the backward numbers in the past, and it had done nothing to solve the problem.

Nicolas and Davenport stood at the same time.

Nicolas handed the note to the blushing viscount. “Can we return to Greenpark House now?”

“Not until you’ve had a decent meal. We serve the finest food in the city,” the widow assured Nicolas. “Please see the gentlemen to their table,” she told her henchman.

Now that he thought about it, Nicolas was famished. He hadn’t eaten since he’d had a few cold bites at the Smalls. Damnation, hedisliked the Smalls. Every time he thought about them, he wanted to punch something.

“By the by, my lord.” The widow held up her index finger. “Breeding does not make a lady, and his ancestors do not define a man.”

“Wise words, indeed.” Humming his agreement, Davenport wrapped his arm around Nicolas’s shoulder and nudged him toward the retreating pack leader. “I do hope they serve roast lamb tonight.”

Nicolas peered over his shoulder, intending to thank the puzzling woman for the meal. He might be irritated and crapulous, but he was still a gentleman. However, she’d vanished into thin air.

Dear Lord, he needed food, tea, and more sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Five

That night whilethe rest of the household slept, Josie paced her chamber with heavy footfall. How was she to survive a long, exhausting ball when she had not been able to behave like a lady for one afternoon? Her unseemly utterance, when she first saw Lydia, was the beginning of many blunders. Just thinking about the party and the horrified look on Agatha’s face filled Josie with anxiety.

Josie was not a lady and would never be a lady. She certainly didn’t want to be a lady. She simply wanted to be herself. She also wanted to pay for her share of The Silk Knuckles Saloon, win The Duke’s and Dame’s Mill, and help Nicolas win back Blue Cliff Manor.

She’d also love to make Nicolas smile so that she could witness those spectacular dimples again.

Was it too much to wish for his lips on hers? Or to have him teach her how to make love? If given the chance, she might like to spend her life getting to know him.

But he’d promised his life to a blond cow, and Josie wanted to blacken that mean-spirited cow’s eyes. What a waste of Nicolas’s charming dimples because after the things she’d heard yesterday, she knew Lydia had no intention of making him smile.

Josie growled.

There was no way she was keeping the things she’d overheard or her opinions about Lydia to herself. She was not some simpering miss that kowtowed. Not to the pretentiousLe Bon Ton. Not to Lydia. And certainly not to Bessie Dove-Lyon. In fact, the Widow of Whitehall could take her conditions and shove them up her arse.

Josie would have it all. She would be the duke’s champion. She would earn her share of the blunt for her gymnasium. And she would tell Nicolas that he couldn’t marry Lydia. Then, she would press her lips to his. She’d explore his mouth with her tongue and scrape her fingernails through the dusting of hair on his muscular forearms. While she was at it, she would taste his chest. Yes, by God. She wanted to lick him from one well-formed pectoral to the other and then all the way down his taut stomach to the place where his trail of masculine hair met his belly button, and his hips narrowed. And then, even lower still.

And she would do it this very moment before she lost her nerve.

Yes, indeed. She was going to barge into his chamber and have her way with Nicolas Wentworth. Woe be it to the person who tried to stop her.

She slid into her borrowed dressing gown, exited her room, and tiptoed to Nicolas’s chamber. She cracked his door open, stepped inside, and crashed into him.

“We have to stop bumping into each other in the middle of the night,” he whispered as the door clicked into place behind her.

Now that she was used to it, she quite enjoyed running into him. Luckily, his lamp and a couple of candles still burned, so she could see how devilishly handsome he was.

His disheveled hair poked into the air every which way, and masculine scruff overtook his cheeks and chin. Wisps of dark hair peeked out from the unbuttoned collar of his rumpled, untucked shirt. The perfect Meddlesome looked rather feral and beyond desirable.

Her belly fluttered. “Were you on your way to the kitchen?” she asked.

“I can’t sleep, so I was on my way to visit you,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver of desire to her core.

Playing the dominant offensive opponent, he backed her against the door. His nose inches from hers, he placed his hands on either side of her head. Heat radiated off him, warming her from the outside in.