Page 28 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Or that the visible patches of her skin were pale and porcelain smooth, especially her neck.

He definitely was not staring at her lips parting ever-so-slightly as she exhaled.

No, he didn’t notice these things at all, because he was more interested in her flexibility and agility. Besides, he had to observe so he could ensure that Griffendale didn’t ogle Gen with lecherous eyes as he said indecent things about her.

One fist poised to protect her cheek, the other prepared to strike, Franny dropped into her fighter stance. Roseanna followed suit. Gen imitated them, her stance perfect on her first try.

Jonathan’s chest puffed with pride.

Maintaining their stances, the three women slid forward and back, and then side to side.

“Your chit… Excuse me… Agatha’s friend’s daughter—” Griffendale winked—“is light on her feet.”

“I wager after a little bit of training, Gen can beat Roseanna,” Jonathan blurted, then cringed. He was all cat and no cattle. A blunderbuss of the worst sort.

“Davenport, slow down,” Nicolas said. “Roseanna is excellent. Probably the next Duke’s and Dame’s Champion. Gen is a novice.” His brow furrowed. “Or is she experienced? She moves well.”

Damned if he knew.

Franny wrapped her hand around Gen’s wrist.

“Wait,” Nicolas said. “I think Franny is telling her to keep her wrist firm when she punches. Perhaps sheisnew to the sport. Which means, you need to give her time.”

“Agreed,” Robinson said.

But they hadn’t seen Gen defend herself in that alley against a group of adolescent boys. They didn’t know how fast she was. “If you are going to question my judgement, all three you can bugger off with the same thorny stick,” Jonathan spat.

“My champion against your champion,” Griffendale said.

Jonathan stepped into Griffendale’s space and lifted his chin. “Name your time and place.” So much for staying even-keeled and good-natured, or for protecting Gen. Damnations, Griffendale brought out his worst.

Griffendale shoved his index finger into Jonathan’s chest. “We will make it legal. Outside the city. Seven days from now, at my country estate. Five hundred pounds.”

“Bloody hell,” Nicolas said. “The two of you need to stop this ridiculous rivalry. Your wagers tend to run amok. Do you remember that bloke at school who ended up with an intestinal infection and spent weeks in the infirmary?”

Griffendale scoffed. “’Twasn’t our fault he ate the entire hog.”

“How do you figure that?” Nicolas asked. “You goaded him, betting that he couldn’t eat the entire thing, brains and all.”

“Exactly,” Griffendale said, “I wagered he couldn’t. Davenport bet he could.”

Ah, yes. Jonathan missed those carefree days when he wasn’t worried about a viscounty, his mother, headaches, or a street waif. “I won because he ate everything but the bones.”

“But he almost died,” Nicolas said.

That wasnotJonathan’s fault. He had suggested the cabbage head boil the beast first. That would have saved him weeks of casting up his accounts.

“Then there was Leopold Dior?” Nicolas said, resorting to hisyou-two-are-idiotstone. “Are you both denying culpability for that fiasco?”

“There was no fiasco,” Jonathan said. “You barged into the field, acting like a hero, and put a stop to the wager before Gunther had a chance to shoot the apple off Dior’s head.”

Nicolas rubbed his temple. “Because Gunther was so deep in his cups, he couldn’t even keep the arrow on his bow. You should still be thanking your lucky stars that I was there.”

True. Thank the gods of Puckishness that Nicolas had looked out for them, or Jonathan and Griffendale probably would have accidentally killed a few blokes by now. Perhaps even themselves, and most definitely each other.

“Nicolas, you and Josie are together due to one of our wagers running amok,” Griffendale pointed out.

“Exactly.” Jonathan clapped Griffendale on the back. He might occasionally find the duke vexing, but they had a history, and the bloke was hellishly fun. They were two peas in a pod. Partners in devilment. Cut from the same ilk.