Page 102 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

“Gen, I love you. You can do it.”

Jonathan. She had to do this or he would worry. She reached for the rope again, this time gripping it.

“Eight. Nine.”

She hoisted herself upward and then steadied herself as the crowd roared.

*

Jonathan rushed toGen’s corner and leaned through the ropes. Coach Valentine had gotten there before him and was dispensing advice. Meanwhile, Gen sat on Franny’s knee, and Josie held a cup under her nose.

“Boxes like she was raised by starving wolves who had to fight each other for food,” Coach Valentine said. “Violent, but too undisciplined to be a genuine threat to you. You can beat her, Gen. Keep doing what you were doing. She doesn’t have much left.”

Nodding, Gen sipped.

Or Gen could forfeit and take up a safer sport. Jonathan swallowed his words, and clamped his lips together. “You are doing great, darling.”

She rolled her eyes.

The bell signifying the end of their thirty-second rest dinged. As Gen strolled to the center of the ring, Jonathan’s heart sat heavy in his chest.

Coach Valentine guided Jonathan away from the corner. “My lord, have faith in her. Gen is going to win this. Now, I have to go talk to The Stone.” Then, he left Jonathan alone in the packed, stifling room.

Coach was correct. Whether she won or lost—and she would do both over time—as her husband, sponsor, lover, and best friend, he needed to support her and love her unconditionally. He should be her most enthusiastic fan in that audience. He needed to have faith in her.

The bell rang, and he fought a wince. “Go, Ghost, go,” he called.

Meg’s fist shot out. Gen pivoted and backed away. And the chase began.

“Who is afraid of the Ghost?” someone yelled.

“No one,” a blighter answered.

Bloody hell.Jonathan needed to start another cheer before this one caught on, demoralizing her. “Who is too fast to touch?” he called over the naysayers.

“The Ghost,” familiar voices chorused, as friendly hands jostled him.

Nicolas, Griffendale and Edward Robinson, damn fine blokes that they were, surrounded him.

“Who is too fast to touch?” Jonathan yelled.

“The Ghost,” his mates yelled.

And just like that, Jonathan rallied a cheering section for his fast-moving, but hesitant-punching wife.

“Strike and vanish,” he sang, clapping with each syllable.

His cheer caught on, and soon the chant filled the space.

“I think boxing is in Gen’s blood,” Griffendale called over the cacophony. “She is damn good.” He pointed.

Jonathan cut his gaze from his friend to the ring. Meg was hunched forward gasping, and Gen was closing in on her.

“She did it,” Robinson said. “She tired Meg out.”

“Strike and vanish,” echoed.

Gen’s fist shot out, slamming into Meg’s shoulder.