Chapter Twelve
Since Nicolas was removing his frock coat, apparently, he would do anything the brazen, enticing Josephine Martin asked of him, no matter how absurd.
Folding the garment, he placed it over a nearby saddle.
Hoping she’d come to her senses, he took his time unbuttoning his cashmere waistcoat.
And then, even longer, sliding out of his riding boots.
Huffing, she shifted her weight back and forth.
She had the advantage of being warmed up. Not to mention, she, for some reason, wanted this. He, on the other hand, absolutely, one hundred percent did not. “You are getting your way, so please be patient,” he said.
She glowered.
Sighing, he untied his cravat, pulled it from his neck, and tossed it onto his growing pile of discarded clothing.
“You aren’t going to undress, are you?” she asked, her eyes wide.
Perhaps she should have thought of that before she insisted they box.
“Well, I can’t exactly move freely in all my clothing, can I?”
Her lips clamped, and her cheeks puffed. If she didn’t soon take a breath, he was sure she’d faint dead away.
“Have you ever been to a fight where a man wears five layers of clothing?” he asked. “No? Me either. Every mill I’ve ever seen, the man is bare-chested.”
She swallowed.
He turned his back to her to hide his grin.
Maybe he was wrong to take pleasure in her discomfiture, but the woman had brought this on herself.
He’d only planned to take off his outer layers, his heavy boots, and cravat, but her reaction was too delicious.
Besides, if he had to keep composed while seeing the peaks of her nipples poking through the thin fabric of her chemise, she had to deal with his skin.
He forced the corners of his lips down, faced her, and undid the first button of his shirt.
Her breath hitched.
He undid the second and third buttons.
She licked her lip.
He needed to do something to stop this madness. “Josie, are you sure about this?”
“Get a move on,” she said.
Well, he’d tried. He shrugged, then undid the rest of his buttons. Opening his shirt, he exposed his chest and abdominals.
Her gaze raked down his body as her cheeks bloomed scarlet.
Being the heir to a cursed earldom tended to keep one humble, and Nicolas had never been considered a rake.
He was a one-woman kind of man and had only bedded Lydia and Lady Celeste Milton, an experienced and sensual dowager who had taught him much when he was a lad of nineteen.
However, he knew that women fancied him.
He’d often been told that his eyes were striking and his dimples endearing.
He’d also learned firsthand that once a woman saw his lean-muscled physique, she became quite pliant.
So, with confidence and flamboyance, he unbuttoned his cuffs, stripped off his shirt, and contracted his pectoral muscles as if performing his peel for a wagering mill audience. So what if he only had one spectator? She deserved a show. She’d practically begged for it, after all.
His torso on display, he stalked toward her.
Blinking, she stepped back, and then, as if coming to her senses, she dropped into her too-low stance. One fist protected her chin as her other fist shot toward him, gauging her distance.
Using her shorter stature to her advantage, she moved close, making it difficult for him to extend fully, thus depriving his jab of force. Not that it mattered because he had no intention of unleashing his power on her.
His gaze glued to hers, he countered by stepping out of her reach. Her left shoulder forward, her fist posed to strike, she moved right back into his space.
She jabbed once, hitting his jaw. Her ensuing left-right hooks served their main purpose. His obliques stung.
Her well-landed combination had the additional effect of making his blood pump wildly. This new sensation was both wonderful and confusing since he’d never been this excited after receiving a strike from another pugilist.
The lingering ache in his bones was proof that Josie put her hips behind her shots, making her lethal to any fighter her size. But eventually, she would face an opponent with faster footwork. And, currently, she stood across from a man three stone heavier and five inches taller.
Since he was preoccupied with his thoughts, she landed a double jab hook combo that hurt like hell.
“Throw a bloody punch,” she growled.
He pulled the weight from a jab, tapping her on the shoulder.
She straightened, looked down at her shoulder, and then glared at him. “You hit like an infant, Meddlesome.”
He grinned. “But watch my fancy footwork.”
“Float.” He moved forward and back and forward and back again. “Dance on air,” he chanted as he circled her.
“What the bloody friggin’ hell?” she said, not looking the least bit impressed.
Her eye-rolling and snorting did not deter him. He ducked and weaved around the harness room as she breathed hard and chased after him, proving five things:
One. She was struggling to keep up with his fast feet.
Two. Once she caught him, she would pound the shite out of him because…
Three. There was no way he was hitting her.
Four. Her breasts bouncing around beneath her chemise were as distracting as a squirrel in a sparkly tutu.
Five. He wanted to kiss the scowl from her lips more than he wanted his next breath.
Unlucky heir to a cursed earldom that he was, this was the most fun he’d had in ages. He beamed.
She growled.
Chuckling, he taunted her with an absurd jig, resplendent with a crescendoing heel click.
Resembling a bull, she bent low and charged. Her head and shoulder slammed him in the stomach. Since he was busy acting a fool, he didn’t have a chance to brace himself. He lost his balance, swaying backward.
She nailed him with a sharp punch to his breadbasket, then wrapped her arms around his waist. They both tumbled to the ground.
He landed flat on his back. She lay on top of him, her heaving breasts pressing against his bare chest, the end of her plait tickling his nose.
“Told ye so,” she said.
He couldn’t think with all of his blood pumping into his cock. “Told me what?” he somehow managed to ask.
She scoffed, her breathy derision blowing across his cheek. “Ye don’t have a strong base when ye are fluttering about like a dashed ballerina.”
“Floating. And I wasn’t in my fighting stance when you knocked me off-balance.” No, he was dancing a jig and laughing. Well, if truth be told, he was also drooling over her unbound breasts.
Her lips were so damn close to his. All he had to do was pucker and lift his head an inch.
“I won,” she declared.
“How do you figure that?” he asked, his voice husky with need, even to his own ears. Didn’t she hear it? She must have known…
“Because I am on top,” she said.
So she was. But not for long. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rolled both their bodies quickly before she had a chance to hammer him.
“Seems I am the winner now,” he said, his lips brushing her ear, his cock pressing into her belly.
She shivered, and her body softened.
What kind of cad kissed a woman while he was half-naked and lying on the floor of his best mate’s coach house?
A lucky as hell cad, that’s who. And since he was now on top, he had finally won something. Not that a winner mattered at this moment, with the air charged with the scent of their sweat and the overwhelming need zinging between them. Yes, indeed, he’d finally been tossed a handful of good fortune.
“Josephine,” he whispered.
“Nicolas,” she whispered back.
God, yes. He was going to kiss her, and he had not a single doubt, she would kiss him back.
“Hello! Is someone in here?” A man peeked around the corner.
“Bollocks,” Nicolas whispered.
Josie groaned.
Ivan, Davenport’s coachman, took them in, and his eyes widened. “I…I am sorry, sir.”
Nicolas popped to his feet. “We were just having a boxing lesson.”
“If you say so, sir,” Ivan said.
“We really were,” Nicolas said as he offered Josie his hand.
She slapped it away and climbed to her feet without assistance. Snarling, she stomped to Ivan. “We were boxing, and if ye say otherwise, I’ll give ye a taste of this.” She shook her fist in his face.
Ivan winced. “You were just boxing,” he agreed compliantly.
Without a glance in Nicolas’s direction, she marched out of sight.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ivan said.
Nicolas held up a staying palm. “I’d appreciate it if you did not discuss this with anyone. Miss Martin needs to train while she is here, and word of this might ruin her reputation.”
“Of course, sir.”
Nicolas slowly dressed and then shuffled inside the house and then to the dining parlor, his vigor defunct, his mind berating his libido. He never lost control like that. This stubbornly infuriating woman was killing him, and after his untoward display, he’d never taste her perfect lips.
Served him right for imagining that Lady Luck had smiled on him.