Chapter Eleven
Josie awoke before the sun was up, her body craving two things.
She had no idea what to do with her first desire because she had never been this attracted to someone.
Sure, she and Franny noticed the handsome men who came to Coach for lessons.
But those men hadn’t given them a second glance because Coach made it clear, “Touch my girls, and you are no longer a student of mine.” Besides, she and Franny had made a pact never to let a man waylay them from their goal of independence.
Then along came the stunning Nicolas Wentworth, who broke through her defenses with a few kind words. She’d been wrong about him. An aristocrat who scrubbed milk and food from the kitchen floor wasn’t hopelessly arrogant. Nicolas had even sacrificed his happiness to care for his family.
And when he’d told her she was a better fighter than Ruth the Jewel and she’d melted into a squishy pile of mush.
There seemed no point in berating herself for this attraction.
He was a man, and she was a woman. How could she resist his deep voice or how his Adam’s Apple moved ever so slightly when he spoke and swallowed?
She’d never favored the pampered hands of an aristocrat, but his were anything but.
What might his calloused palms, so masculine and powerful, feel like on her skin?
And his eyes? Good Lord, they were so beautiful that she ached every time she looked into them.
However, even a down-on-his-luck aristocrat couldn’t be with a female pugilist. Therefore, touches from Nicolas Wentworth were out of the question.
Shaking off her feminine desires, she decided to satisfy her second craving.
After all, a proper training session was entirely acceptable.
If only she had thought ahead and asked Jonathon if there was a place she might work.
Dancing was one thing. Jumping up and down was another, and she doubted Agatha wanted her to turn the drawing room into a gymnasium.
Enjoying the feel of her limbs elongating, she stretched her fingertips to the headboard and her toes to the baseboard.
Once her blood pumped to her extremities, she got out of bed and searched her wardrobe for a loose-fitting garment.
The maids had probably destroyed the worn, smelly clothing she’d shown up in.
Luckily, she found a plain blue dress that was too large for her.
No way was she wearing the uncomfortable backboard.
She dropped the device onto the floor and gave it a derisive kick.
Satisfied that she’d given the implement of torture a taste of its own medicine, she donned her chemise and slid the frock over her head.
She didn’t bother to fasten the buttons since she’d pull the bodice down to exercise.
She braided her hair and slipped into her shoes. Candle in hand, she tiptoed through the halls, looking for a space where she could move freely without knocking over a porcelain knickknack.
The foyer was the only place not overflowing with furniture, but she did not fancy training where someone might stumble upon her. So, she exited out the back door to the two-story stable block.
Five horses nickered and snorted from their stalls. A fancy upper-case D adorned the carriage that sat to one side of the main room. She suspected the coachman’s accommodations were on the second floor. If so, hopefully, she didn’t wake him. She entered the harness room and studied the space.
“Perfect,” she whispered.
She used her candle to light the oil lamps hanging from the posts supporting the second floor. Since she didn’t want to catch the Davenport’s lovely house on fire, she snuffed the candle. Tugging the bodice of her gown down, she tucked and then tied the sleeves around her waist.
She started her training session with her regular calisthenic routine—one hundred deep knee bends, fifty lunges, and fifty squats.
Next, she spread a horse blanket on the floor.
Dropping onto her belly, she performed fifty push-ups without taking a break.
Since she didn’t have a jump rope, she pretended she held one in her hands and imagined skipping over the thin leather strap.
By the time she shadowboxed sweat coated her body and dripped from her forehead. She ducked and weaved and then threw a jab, making contact with her imaginary opponent’s nose.
The memory of Nicolas Wentworth’s dimples sliced through her concentration.
It had taken her a while to come to this conclusion, but now that she understood his reaction to her leaping into the crowd at The Lyon’s Den, she realized he was acting heroic.
Although she didn’t require his help, most women were not as athletic and strong as her.
What if men stood around watching other men mishandle women?
What type of society would this be? Of course, this was one of the reasons she desired to create her gymnasium.
Women needed to be taught to defend themselves.
She focused on her pretend opponent circling her. She threw a double jab followed by a half-hearted uppercut.
She was too late to block the imagined cross coming her way, so it hit her jaw. In an actual mill, she’d have heard the crack and felt the searing pain. So be it, because she deserved a facer if she didn’t get her shite together.
“Concentrate,” she whispered. Clenching her teeth, she danced around her shadow.
Jab. Jab. Hook.
Jab. Jab. Jab, cross, hook.
Jab, cross. Left hook, uppercut.
Her opponent collapsed to her knees.
Josie raised her hands in victory. She was chuckling at her hubris when the hair on the back of her neck rose.
Someone was watching her. She faced the harness room entrance.
Nicolas leaned against the door frame, one booted foot crossed over the other.
He glanced at the time piece in his hand before smiling at her.
“’Tis quite early,” he said.
Was he judging her because she enjoyed her early morning training sessions?
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I was going to saddle a horse. I enjoy watching the sun rise when I ride.”
Who would have guessed? Since they both enjoyed early morning exercise, it seemed she had something in common with the aristocrat.
“I heard someone in here and thought it was the coachman or a groom,” he said.
Feeling self-conscious about her disheveled state, she wiped the sweat from her brow. “I haven’t seen anyone. Mayhap they are not awake yet.”
“You move well.” He slid his watch back into his waistcoat pocket.
“Thank you.” She often received this exact compliment, so why were her cheeks on fire?
He sauntered to her. “I do have advice, though. Would you like to hear it?”
She stiffened. Of course, he had advice.
It mattered not that she was a professional prizefighter, and he had only boxed for fun at some fancy university because he was a big, strong man, and she was just a teeny, tiny, weak woman.
After all, everyone knows men are the superior, more knowledgeable sex. Pfft!
“You want to float around your opponent,” he said.
But she hadn’t said she wanted his advice. She glared at him.
“Yesterday, when you waltzed, you were light on your feet. You could use some of that in the ring.”
She scoffed. “Sure. If I want to get knocked on me arse.”
“Not at all. You can still be grounded,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. Meddlesome needed to be knocked on his arse.
So much for enjoying his company. He was insufferable and arrogant. Like every other aristocrat. Like every other male. And at least it was better this way—disliking him instead of desiring him.
“Shall I show you?” he asked.
She extended her hand. “Be my guest.”
Apparently, her sarcasm was lost on him because he settled into his stance.
“Shift your weight more smoothly. You are coming down heavy on the back of your heel.” He threw a few jabs as he showed off his fast footwork.
“Do you see where I am landing? Now, watch. If I land farther back like you do, I am slower.”
She was much too vexed to watch his feet, so she stared through him.
Oblivious to her annoyance, he kept right on blathering. “Also, you are too low. ’Tis as if you are stuck in a post hole.”
I’d like to stick you in a post hole.
“Your feet are too wide. I think you are more concerned with seeming aggressive than moving quickly. If you bring your legs closer together and get up on the balls of your feet, you will be more agile, fluid, and graceful.”
“Is there anything I do correctly?” she asked.
He halted his demonstration. “I was simply—”
“I know, Meddlesome. You were ‘simply trying to help’. You are always just simply trying to help.”
“I thought last night we…” He scraped his fingers through his hair. “Bollocks.”
Was he about to say Connected? Because, yes, they had. And a moment ago, they’d dis-connected.
“I’ll tell ye what,” Josie said, even though she knew she was letting her pride get the better of her. “Why don’t we spar? I’ll do me, and you do you. And we will see who the superior pugilist is.”
He winced. “Me? Hit a woman? Never.”
“Then how about you let me hit you?” What in the bloody hell was wrong with her?
He held up his hands in surrender. “Stone for stone, you are the superior fighter, Josie. I would never claim otherwise.”
“So, since you weigh more, you think you can beat me?” she asked.
He frowned. “This is a ridiculous conversation. I apologize. Again.” He turned his back to her.
What in the devil was she doing? Why did she treat him with such disdain? She didn’t understand the panic squeezing her lungs.
“Nicolas, spar with me,” she pathetically pleaded.
He slowly faced her. “Why?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Because she craved a heart-pounding, sweat-inducing workout. With him, above all else. Because she didn’t want him to leave. Because she loved the sweet science and wanted to share a few moments of it with this man. Because she knew no other way she could touch him.
“’Cause I wanna prove that you are wrong,” she said. “I can still move faster than you without changing my technique.”
“As you wish, Jabbing Josie,” Nicolas said as he slid out of his coat.