Chapter Eight
Nicolas awoke with an excruciating ache between his thighs.
The last few months, he’d been too stressed to miss a woman’s touch, but then he’d met a feisty pugilist who made him remember feminine magic.
Although he was still overwhelmed, his cock was alive and ready.
But, taking himself in hand while in a guest chamber felt depraved.
And yet, how was he to dress and walk downstairs with this unseemly bulge?
It seemed unfair to berate himself further. He was a man of four and twenty, with needs and desires. And if he meant to face the lovely, feral Josephine Martin, he probably should take care of the throbbing.
Grasping his cock, he pictured Lydia’s willowy figure and small, bared breasts. He twisted his wrists in opposite directions as his palms slowly traveled up and down his length.
As his pleasure built, Lydia’s thin body morphed into Josie’s sinew and curves. Straight blond hair turned to thick dark waves. Soon, brown eyes, bespeckled with hints of emerald and gold, stared into his eyes.
A tingling sensation took hold of his groin and shot up his spine. His balls tightened as he recalled Josie murmuring his name.
“Josie,” he growled between clenched teeth as he erupted, his spend coating the blankets.
He stared at the ceiling, his limbs too relaxed to move. Conversely, his mind whirled, playing tricks on him, making him believe he’d developed feelings for a hoyden from the East End who thought him lower than maggot dung.
Looking forward to breakfast, Nicolas sauntered along the corridor.
There was no denying that the Davenport’s cook was splendid.
But that wasn’t the only reason for his good humor.
It seemed his private morning activity had relieved him of the randiness he’d developed since a certain female had entered his life.
Grinning, he entered the parlor to find three questioning gazes glued to him. He removed his timepiece from his pocket, checked the time, and winced. Dilatoriness was something he could not abide in himself or others, and guilt over his lasciviousness punched him in the gut.
“Forgive my tardiness.” He tucked his watch back in his pocket.
“Quite unlike you, Wentworth. But, forgiven.” Davenport extended his hand, inviting Nicolas to sit.
Trying not to stare at Josie, Nicolas took his seat across from her. But it was no use; happy yellow flowers dotted her dress, and her dark hair was tied back in a yellow ribbon. The poor woman was sitting so straight it was evident she still wore the backboard.
She scowled at him. Sighing, he smiled at her. She broke eye contact to stare at her almost-empty plate.
Within seconds, a full plate of eggs, tomatoes, and sausage and a steaming cup of coffee were placed in front of him.
“We were discussing our busy afternoon,” Lady Davenport said.
“Please continue.” Nicolas bit into his sausage like the starving man he was.
“I was just explaining to Josephine that a well-bred lady must always be polite but never too familiar or over-friendly. Breaching these boundaries calls into question a lady’s manners and character. And one must always behave with courteous dignity.”
“And I was just explaining to Cousin Agatha that I don’t have any idea what all that nonsense means.
And Meddle—Nicolas, don’t ye dare define the words breaching, boundaries, or dignity to me, or I swear to God, I’ll punch ye so hard, it’ll eliminate that damnable dimple of yers.
I know what the words mean. I just don’t know what behaviors are too familiar or overly friendly to toffs. ”
Most women favored his dimples, and she wanted to make them disappear? At least she’d called him by his given name. He’d take solace in that for now.
Nicolas chewed and swallowed. “For starters, you probably don’t want to threaten to punch people at the table.”
“Agreed,” Lady Davenport said. “Or anywhere outside of a boxing mill, for that matter.”
Josie scraped the last bit of food from her plate. Her tongue darted out, she nibbled from her fork, and then she licked the tines clean. Frowning, her gaze slid from her empty plate to Nicolas’s overflowing plate, and she sighed.
Why must a lady temper her food intake? Truth be told, Nicolas found Josie’s appetite quite appealing. He couldn’t help but think that her passion and zest for food and exercise might carry over to bed sport.
Lydia barely ate, and he’d feared breaking her in two the couple of times they’d made love. But a man could slam his hips against Josie’s strong body. A quiver shot from his bollocks to his neck.
“For example,” Lady Davenport said, interrupting his licentious woolgathering. “Ladies should never stand and talk on the street. If you see a friend or acquaintance, you are expected to walk as you converse.”
“Indeed,” Josie said, bringing her hand to her heart. “Ladies talking in the street signifies the end of civilization as we know it. Pure evil, it is. Ladies just standing around—” She cupped a hand to her mouth and conspiratorially whispered, “talking.”
“Sarcasm is also unladylike,” Lady Davenport said.
“I, for one, appreciate a sarcastic chit,” Davenport declared.
Sarcastic or serious, intelligent, or as vapid as decaying moss, it didn’t matter because Davenport, the quintessential rake, appreciated anything with a warm cunny and full breasts.
Lady Davenport glared at her son. “You are not helping, Jonathon.” She steadied her voice and returned to her lecture. “You must never be alone with a man without a chaperone. And you never want to be thought of as flirtatious.”
Josie chortled so loudly that the sound echoed off the high ceiling. “No worries. I ain’t never flirted with no man. Not unless you count giving them a bloody nose flirting.”
Davenport shrugged. “I’ve had plenty of slaps that were quite effective flirtations.”
Josie giggled until she snorted. Her eyes widened, and she slammed her palm over her mouth.
Once she’d tempered her laughter, she dropped her hand.
“Sorry, but I can picture the viscount saying something unseemly to some proper lady, earning himself a firm slap right before the lady faints dead away.”
“I do have a way with the ladies.” Davenport winked as he tipped his cup to Josie.
Lady Davenport pursed her lips. Seeming to think better of reprimanding anyone, she continued. “Feminine humor is acceptable, but it should be witty banter. Loud outbursts of laughter or outward displays of emotion are considered poor manners.”
Josie’s bottom lip stuck out. What a lovely lip. Pinkish red, plump, and deliciously pouty. “No laughing. No eating. Men in charge of me. Being a lady ain’t no fun at all.”
“’Tisn’t so terrible,” Lady Davenport said. “Although you should not laugh loudly or call attention to yourself, you can engage in conversations on a large range of topics.”
“Bloody spectacular,” Josie said, sarcasm oozing. “I might be starving and miserable, but at least I can converse. But only if I ain’t standing in the middle of the street or fluttering me lashes at a man.”
Lady Davenport’s continence remained unperturbed. The patient woman deserved to be canonized. “Whatever you do, don’t express your opinions,” she said.
“Bloody friggin’ hell,” Josie said. “But I got lots of opinions.”
And for some inexplicable reason, Nicolas wanted to know every one of them.
“Which brings us to our next lesson,” the viscountess said. “Even the smallest hint of vulgarity is forbidden, and I dare say, some of your vocabulary is quite vulgar.”
Josie smirked. “What words are those, Cousin Agatha?”
Was the disagreeable urchin trying to get Lady Davenport to mutter unseemly things?
Lady Davenport’s lips puckered. Seeming to think better of saying anything, she clamped them together.
Something was seriously wrong with him. Normally, Nicolas did not favor unseemly speech in the company of ladies, but he found this conversation quite entertaining. He sipped his coffee, waiting to hear this list of vulgar vocabulary.
“You mean bollocks?” Although Josie’s tone was serious, the twinkling in her eyes gave away her devilish intent. She tilted her body forward as if she was trying to lean closer to the viscountess, her backboard keeping her at an awkward angle. “Bloody hell? Shite? Arse? Friggin?”
Lady Davenport scowled. “Yes. Those words. You can’t say them in polite company.”
“But then how am I supposed to express meself?” Josie asked. “Oh, that’s right. How could I forget? I don’t have opinions.”
“‘Meself’ needs to be eliminated from your speech,” Lady Davenport said. “The correct word is myself. You also can’t say ain’t or yer. The words are not and your.”
“I think I understand,” Josie said. “‘Me bloody topper ain’t on me bloody head cause I got meself dressed all by meself, I did,’ should be—” Josie held up her pinky and, in a feigned almost sophisticated voice, declared, “‘My bonnet is not on my head because I dressed myself’?”
“Well done,” Davenport said.
“Of course, I won’t be able to find me own head ’cause a real lady can’t even wipe her own arse.
The reason why she requires all them lady’s maids attending to her every need.
” Josie exhaled a sigh filled with disgust. “You toffs oughtta just wrap a gag around me mouth. Oh, excuse me, I mean, ‘you charming aristocrats might as well wrap a gag around my mouth’.”
But if she was wearing a gag, Nicolas couldn’t kiss those plump, feminine lips.
Damnations, perhaps his morning activities had not rid him of his lecherous needs.
“Let us retire to the drawing room to practice polite conversations on appropriate topics—using proper English,” Lady Davenport said.
Josie wrinkled her nose.
Lady Davenport picked up her coffee. “After our midday meal, we shall have our first dancing lesson.”
“I know how to dance.” Josie smiled. “I can dance ye bloody toffs under the bloody table, I can.”
Lady Davenport’s knuckles grew white as she grasped her cup so tightly that Nicolas feared it might crack in her hand.
He could not help but grin because it seemed he was not alone. Jabbing Josie had also unsettled the imperturbable Lady Agatha Davenport.