Chapter Seven
Josie squared her shoulders, softened her knees, and faced the enemy. “Don’t you come near me with that.” She bared her teeth to show how serious she was.
Lips pursed, their jaws clenched, her adversaries remained undaunted. They moved closer, looking as if they meant to pounce. Surely, Josie could take on the head housekeeper, two maids, and a dowager viscountess.
Diana, the lady’s maid assigned to her, held the contraption high and slowly moved as if she were trying to calm a rabid wolf. “’Tis harmless, miss.”
“Liar!” Backing toward the door, Josie shook her head vehemently. “That is an implement of torture, it is. I ain’t never seen anything more terrifying. Ain’t nothing in the world worth having to endure that.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Lady Davenport rolled her eyes. “’Tis just a hunk of wood and a few leather straps.”
“Exactly,” Josie said. “Straps ain’t never a good thing.”
“Many young ladies have worn them,” Lady Davenport said.
Josie made eye contact with each of the servants. “Any of you ever worn one?”
Two of the women looked at their feet.
“No, miss,” Mrs. Love, the head housekeeper said. “But I am not a lady.”
Well, neither was Josie.
“I have me limits, and that is one.” Josie pointed at the backboard. “How many women have died wearing that monstrosity?”
“None, to my knowledge.” Lady Davenport’s voice was calm and steady, but she couldn’t fool Josie. She’d clenched and unclenched her jaw at least a half dozen times since she’d entered Josie’s chamber. The woman was beyond rattled.
“Would you wear one if it made you a better pugilist?” the dowager asked.
Josie had taken leather balls to her gut, worn mittens stuffed with straw, run fifteen miles in sleet, bound her breasts until they itched and burned, and choked down slimy raw eggs, all for the sake of the sweet science.
She shrugged. “I suppose so.”
Lady Davenport swished her wrist. “There you have it.”
“But how will it make me a better boxer?” Josie asked.
“Because passing for a lady is going to open financial opportunities that will make all of your dreams come true. And you will never pass for a lady if you walk and move like a man.”
Walking like a man kept one alive when they’d grown up on the streets. Josie scowled at her hostess.
“My dear, a well-bred lady moves with grace and ease. Watch.” Lady Davenport flowed across the room like a ballerina. “She keeps her back straight and walks tall at all times. Think of Nicolas.”
Even his name made the hair on the back of Josie’s neck stand on end. “What about him? He don’t walk like a lady.” He, in fact, exuded powerful masculinity.
“He is the epitome of how a gently bred person moves,” Lady Davenport said. “Tall, confident, graceful. And that—” she pointed at the backboard—“trains your posture so you can do the same.”
A lot of good a stiff spine had done the earl’s son since he was as poor as a church mouse’s even more destitute cousin.
And yet, Josie had to do something to get close to the duke and this miserable ball might be her only chance.
So what if the duke didn’t propose to her?
The viscount’s ability to hang out at a gaming hell and Meddlesome’s family estate were not her problems. She simply needed to convince the duke that she should be his fighter.
And to do that, she needed to at least appear to be a lady.
“Fine.” Josie held her arms in the air in surrender.
The maids converged on her. Her dress was lifted over her head. The backboard was secured in place, and then she was shoved back into her green dress. Finally, Diana spun Josie toward the dressing table and neatened her hair.
Josie barely recognized the pretty woman in her reflection.
“Now, let us meet the gentleman in the drawing room,” Lady Davenport said. “And Josephine, even when we are in the hall, and there is no audience, be sure to exude elegance.”
Growling, Josie strode into the hall. “I feel like a bloody marionette,” she mumbled to herself.
“You are a beautiful, sophisticated lady,” Lady Davenport said.
“I am a beautiful, sophisticated lady,” Josie repeated. Albeit sophisticated with a hunk of timber practically shoved up her arse.
The second Josie entered the drawing room, the grandeur stole her breath.
The dusty rose walls matched the richly upholstered furniture and the fleur-de-lis carpeting. Blue velvet draperies hung to the floor. The porcelain and glass gewgaws of various shades of blue and white adorned the tables. Intricate crown molding lined the high ceilings.
Lord Davenport and Lord Meddlesome reclined in the wingbacks, their backs to the marble fireplace. Davenport leaned back, a drink in his hand. Meddlesome closed the book he held. He sat tall, his blue eyes regarding Josie with an intensity she felt in her nether regions.
Her cheeks heated because she did not understand or favor these odd sensations in her female areas.
“Gentlemn, you will be supportive,” Lady Davenport said sternly. “This afternoon’s lesson will cover how a lady moves.”
“Of course, Mother,” Davenport said. “Josephine, you have my utmost support and respect for tackling this.”
“Mine as well,” Meddlesome said, his voice slightly raspy. He shifted in his chair as if uncomfortable.
Davenport regarded his mate and grinned. Meddlesome frowned at him.
Josie wished she understood their masculine communication. But since she hadn’t a clue what their secretive looks meant, she reacted as she always did when she was frustrated—she scowled and harrumphed.
Lady Davenport waved her hand, drawing Josie’s focus to her. “Josephine dear, relax your jaw. And watch me.”
Although Josie’s facial muscles refused to relax, she studied Lady Davenport’s glide to the settee. The viscountess arranged her skirt and sat, her spine so straight she resembled a statue.
This wouldn’t prove too challenging. Of course, Josie could imitate the viscountess. She was an athlete, after all.
“Please walk across the room for us.” Lady Davenport held out her hand, indicating Josie should start.
On second thought, she couldn’t do this. Not with Meddlesome watching her with a critical gaze that seemed to burn her to her very soul. In addition to that, there was that tingling in the body parts she dared not think about. No, this was impossible.
“This is a safe space,” Lady Davenport said. “We are all in this together.”
Safe. Together. What comforting words. Besides, Josie was not a coward. She could do this. She exhaled and traversed a straight line from one wall to the other, doing her best to mimic how the viscountess moved.
“Very good, dear,” Lady Davenport said. “Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Spine straight. Step gently. Roll heel to toe. That’s it. But don’t swing your arms.”
Josie tuned out her audience and concentrated. Roll from heel to toe. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Don’t trip. Don’t walk into the fancy furniture. Do not think about the aggravating Meddlesome.
A prickle of awareness ran up her stiff spine, breaking her concentration. Meddlesome’s gaze scorched every inch of her as he again shifted in his seat. She lost control of her body, and her shoulders caved forward.
“No slouching. Ever,” Lady Davenport called.
Josie brushed the sweat from her brow, which in turn led to a jolt of anxiety. Ladies probably didn’t sweat. Exhaling slowly, she composed herself and repeated her stroll across the room.
“Always remain elegant, refined, and above all, ladylike,” Lady Davenport chirped.
Coach encouraged her to think of fluffy white clouds when her muscles tensed. While picturing a blue sky filled with slow moving puff balls, Josie’s jaw eventually relaxed. Then, her shoulders. Soon, she felt as if she was floating across the room as gracefully as any lady she’d ever seen.
“Bravo, Josie,” Davenport called enthusiastically.
Feeling quite proud, she smiled. Luckily, she could both smile and glide. Easy as mince pie. She’d mastered her first lesson, earning accolades from a viscount.
If only Meddlesome might also say something positive, such as “Well done, Josephine.” Or “I am sorry I ever doubted you. You will pass for a lady in no time.”
She halted and shook her body from head to toe. Why in the devil was she craving a compliment from Meddlesome when she wanted nothing more than to be rid of him?
“Are you tired, Josephine?” Davenport asked.
She could fight for hours and run forever. Surely, she could walk across a room a few dozen times. “I’m fine.” She’d never admit to anyone that some handsome, starchy son of an aristocrat addled her.
Meddlesome stood and sauntered to her, the book still in his hand. They stood nose to nose, his citrus scent intoxicating.
What in the blazes was he doing this close to her? She should step back, but her legs refused to move.
“Mother made Bridget practice with a book on her head,” he said.
“Who is Bridget?” Josie asked, a bit too breathy for her liking.
“My sister. Now, hold still.” His arm brushed against her shoulder, branding her with a scorching heat that burned the entire time he placed the book on her head and fiddled with it.
“There,” he said, his voice encouraging and gentle. “Now, walk, and don’t let the book fall.” He smiled, and those adorable dimples sandwiched his perfect lips.
Walk? But she couldn’t even breathe with him invading her space.
“Could you back up, Meddlesome?” she asked.
Both his smile and the dimples faded. “Of course.” He stepped away.
Why was she such a rude chit? He’d simply been trying to help.
But she couldn’t let down her guard when she was in this predicament because of him, especially when she didn’t understand her physical reaction to him.
Composing herself, she walked. Then she glided in straight lines. As her confidence grew, she traveled in tight circles and figure eights. Eventually, she sashayed. All the while, she balanced Meddlesome’s book on her head.
By the time the dinner bell rang, Josie was starving and none too happy to have to sit at the table with a board rubbing against her spine. She couldn’t help but pout at having to eat tiny bites of food when the table was a cornucopia of deliciousness.
“Your posture is quite good at the present,” Davenport said. “Of course, with a plank strapped to your back, you are guaranteed to sit tall at all times.”
“No shite, my lord,” Josie growled.
The viscount choked on his wine and then guffawed. “We shall have to tackle your language tomorrow.”
“Jonathon,” Lady Davenport scolded.
He held up his hands. “Sorry, Mother. Sorry, Josephine.”
Tackling her language would be bloody friggin’ impossible. Maybe she could simply remain quiet at the ball.
She scoffed at her absurdity. Quiet and Jabbing Josie were two things that did not go together.
“Can ladies drink wine?” she asked. “’Cause I could use some bloody wine.”
“You can drink in moderation,” Lady Davenport said. “But you should never ask for libations. You should wait to be served.”
Josie glared at the grinning viscount. “Seems to me, Lord Davenport, if me host were more hospitable and offered me wine, I wouldn’t have to be rude and ask for it.”
Mister-Stick-Up-His-Arse, Nicolas Wentworth, laughed so hard he snorted, shocking the living shite out of Josie. He waggled his finger in the viscount’s direction. “She’s got you there, Davenport.”
Lord Davenport crooked his finger, motioning for a footman to pour both Josie and his mother a glass of wine.
So as not to earn herself a lesson on the unseemliness of gulping, Josie sipped from her glass. “How come ye didn’t offer Meddlesome wine?” she asked.
The viscount’s normal, smart-arse grin turned into a frown, and he exhaled. His gaze slid to Meddlesome, whose cheeks were a telling shade of red.
Meddlesome cleared his throat. “I do not imbibe.”
Of course not. Most men over-imbibed, and this starchy man who desperately needed to relax chose not to. Ironic, really. And yes, she might be uneducated, but she could read, and she wasn’t a dolt. She knew what ironic meant. And this phenomenon was exceedingly ironic.
“You probably should have a glass, Meddlesome,” Josie said. “Might get rid of that sour puss countenance of yers.”
Meddlesome’s face fell, and he looked as if someone had shite in the middle of his plate. Which, for all intents and purposes, she had. Shame washed over her.
“Josephine,” Lady Davenport reprimanded.
“I am sorry, sir,” she said, unable to meet his gaze.
“I prefer that you call me ‘Nicolas’.”
Agatha raised a brow. “Nicolas? That’s most improper.”
He shrugged. “If we are to live and learn together for the next month…”
Agatha’s brow pinched as she considered this.
“What can it hurt, Mother?” Jonathon asked.
“Fine,” Agatha said. “‘Nicolas’ is fine here, but when we are in public it must be ‘my lord’.”
Meddlesome gave one satisfied chin bob.
“And I suppose you should call me Jonathon since we must pretend to be cousins,” Davenport said.
“And I will be Cousin Agatha,” Lady Davenport said. “That way it will come naturally at the ball.”
“Cousin Agatha and Cousin Jonathon,” she murmured, testing out their new names.
“And Nicolas.” Meddlesome said. “’Tisn’t anymore improper than Meddlesome.”
Until she accidentally called him Nicolas in public. Come to think of it, referring to him as Lord Meddlesome in front of other aristocrats wasn’t much better.
Josie met his gaze. His sapphire eyes twinkled in the chandelier light, tugging at her heart and plucking at her nipples. Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air in the room. She gasped, trying to take in a breath.
“Dear, are you well?” Agatha asked. “Are the leather straps too tight?”
“Do you need fresh air?” Meddlesome stood. “I could escort you outside.”
Alone with a man who both infuriated her and made her want. Hell, no. She’d rather be stuck at the stifling table in her backboard and stays.
She concentrated on steadying her breathing and regaining her voice. “Sit down. I’m fine, Meddlesome.”
“Nicolas,” he said.
“Nicolas,” she whispered. A wave of gooseflesh washed over her, tickling her skin.
He nodded and sat. “That is better.”
Not better at all. His name on her lips felt too intimate.
“Back to etiquette lessons,” Agatha declared. “Ladies are expected to eat a little bit of everything at once. Like this.” She forked a morsel of fish, a sliver of potato, and a tiny slice of carrot, brought it to her mouth, and daintily chewed. She washed it down with a sip of wine.
Josie imitated everything Agatha did, from the tiny bite to the sip.
Interestingly, Josie didn’t taste a thing—probably because she was much too overwhelmed by the invisible bolts of lightning zinging back and forth between her and Meddlesome.
Make that, Nicolas.