Chapter Thirteen
Backboard in place, clad in a clean, lavender dress, and with her hair neatly braided, Josie sat at the breakfast table, prim and proper as could be. She nibbled at her breakfast, barely tasting the food she wasn’t allowed to eat or enjoy anyway.
Meanwhile, Agatha nattered on about etiquette, and Jonathon sipped his coffee, a gleam in his eyes and a twisted grin dominating his countenance.
Had Nicolas told Jonathon about their improper behavior in the stable? Probably, since men always bragged to their mates about their conquests. Ordinarily Josie would glower at Nicolas, but right now she was much too embarrassed to meet his gaze.
Good God, she’d almost kissed the fool. If the coachman hadn’t interrupted them, her very first kiss would have been with an earl’s son.
Her cheeks heated at her wanton behavior.
Even worse were her lustful feelings. She’d ogled his bare chest as if he were a sweetmeat, and she was starving to death.
Which, in some ways, she was. But still, this was no excuse to behave like a strumpet. However, it wasn’t entirely her fault. Who would have guessed that beneath all those layers of clothing lay the physique of a lean-muscled warrior?
Shoving a hunk of bread into her mouth, she stifled her moan.
Nothing, not even her dream of owning a gymnasium and edifying women, was worth this humiliation.
If the duke preferred Ruth, there was nothing Josie could do to change his mind.
This farce the Black Widow of Whitehall had forced them into proved how eccentric the woman was.
What could she possibly hope to gain by treating the three of them, four if Agatha counted, as pawns in some ridiculous experiment?
Josie needed to leave the premises immediately and return home to Coach and Franny.
“What do you think, Josephine?” Agatha asked.
Having no idea what the dowager had asked, Josie cringed.
“I think Josephine was woolgathering,” Jonathon said.
Today, the viscount’s smart-arse grin was not charming, especially not with all this guilt coursing through her after being caught beneath Nicolas.
“What has our dear girl so occupied this morning?” Agatha asked, drawing out the words what and occupied.
Either the dowager’s question was odd, or Josie’s guilt was getting the best of her.
“Josephine.” The dowager tapped a finger on the rim of her dainty cup. “I said that this afternoon you should change partners and dance with Nicolas.”
But then Josie would have to look into his eyes and touch him, and she needed to stay as far away from him as possible so as not to have a repeat of their sparring and lying on top of each other fiasco.
“Why must I dance with him?” Josie asked. “I thought Jonathon was my partner.”
The viscountess smiled. Bloody smiled. And Jonathon winked at Nicolas, who blanched.
She knew it. The three of them were up to something. Her coffee soured in her stomach.
This would be the first time Josie gave up because a task was too difficult. But this undertaking wasn’t simply arduous; it was impossible. She dropped her fork onto her plate. The utensil clanged inelegantly.
“Please forgive me.” Josie stood. “I don’t want to marry a duke. Or go to a ball. Or be here with you all.” Swallowing the lump in her throat, she fled from the dining parlor.
“Heavens. What did the two of you do?” Agatha asked.
The door slammed into place behind Josie, muffling the men’s responses.
Josie dashed down the street. She didn’t stop until her teary eyes could no longer determine what was in front of her.
Halting, she swiped her sleeve over her face, soaking up the unwelcome droplets.
Was the garment now considered stolen, since she’d run away from the Davenports?
If so, she’d snotted up a pilfered gown. She sighed.
She did not favor this sentimental pile of mush she’d turned into since meeting Nicolas Wentworth. The last time she cried like this, she’d been a child, and Coach had sent her to bed early for not doing her chores.
Blinking away the last of her tears, she searched her surroundings. A beautiful brick church, boasting colorful stained-glass windows, stood off to her right side. She strolled to it, climbed the front stairs, and entered the old building.
Finding the candlelit nave empty, she sat at one of the pews and composed herself.
Without blunt, she wouldn’t be able to hire a hackney to take her home to Coach and Franny.
She’d have to walk. A very long walk, which was fine with her.
She could use the fresh air, the exercise, and the time alone with her thoughts.
“Josie,” someone behind her said. She stiffened. If only it were God talking to her instead of a meddlesome aristocrat.
She peered over her shoulder. Nicolas Wentworth and his sad puppy dog eyes looked down at her.
“May I sit with you?” he asked.
Did she desire his company, or did she want him to leave her alone?
Unable to decide, she hesitated. Every part of her being craved his nearness while every thought she held in her head screamed to keep him at a distance.
Mind over heart—which should she follow?
Hadn’t Coach always told her she was a move first, think later kind of girl?
That had never served her wrong.
She sighed and slid toward the center of the bench to make room for him.
He sat beside her, his citrusy scent invading the musty pew. No man should smell this tempting, especially in a house of worship.
“It seems that all I do is apologize to you,” he said.
True. But this time, he wasn’t entirely at fault. She’d baited him to spar. She’d wanted him to touch her. She’d desired his lips on hers.
“I fear the three of you are scheming behind my back,” she declared.
Sighing, he wiped his hands over his well-formed thighs, leaving behind a trail of sweat. “I simply got carried away. Truth be told, I don’t have very much fun these days, I haven’t sparred in forever, and I was enjoying myself.”
She’d been so frustrated about him not taking their session seriously it hadn’t occurred to her that he’d been enjoying himself.
Paranoid woman that she could be, she’d taken his fluttering around as an insult.
She’d been certain that he didn’t see a woman as a serious opponent.
Upon hearing his side of the story, she was quite flattered by his admission. And she agreed; sparring was fun.
But he hadn’t answered her question. “What were the secret communications about at breakfast?” she asked.
His brow furrowed. “Are you referring to Davenport’s smart-arse winks and the countess’s odd tone? Because I honestly don’t know. I was wondering the same thing.”
She hadn’t noticed any winking, although she had witnessed Jonathon’s mischievous expressions. Certain that Nicolas had just told her the truth, she owed him the same courtesy.
“You see…” Well, she probably shouldn’t tell him the entire truth.
Admitting she craved his touch was much too indecent.
“I let my pride and anger rule over my common sense. I have known from the beginning that I cannot marry a duke. Not even if Agatha turns me into a perfect lady, which she will never be able to do. I decided I’d go to the ball and convince the duke to toss Ruth to the side and ask me to be his fighter.
I didn’t care about the part of the bargain that involved you getting your estate back.
And I didn’t care one whit if the viscount earned his way back into the widow’s good graces. ”
“I see,” Nicolas said.
“So, I think it is best if I return home, and we forget about this nonsense.”
“Mayhap,” Nicolas said.
“I’m sorry I could not help you win your home back.” She truly was, deep down in her soul, sorry.
“As am I,” Nicolas said. “I don’t think I can save my family, and I am certain the Widow of Whitehall knows this. She is obviously playing games with all three of us. Mayhap she despises my father. Perchance she is tired of Jonathon never taking anything seriously.”
“Mayhap, but I do wonder why she dislikes me so,” Josie said. “Rumors abound that she is quite supportive of female pugilists. Can she truly be this angry over me dropping into the crowd? No harm came from it. Her Wolf Pack quickly defused the melee.”
“I agree,” Nicolas said. “Her ire seems extreme and misplaced. Whatever the case, I think you should go to that ball.”
Was he serious? Scoffing, Josie turned her head to the side to regard him. “Why would you say that?”
Those adorable dimples appeared with his grin. “There is no reason you can’t approach Tristan and ask to be his fighter. At least one of us should come out of this with something.”
“But…” She had no words. Nicolas was still willing to help her even after she’d admitted she’d never had any intention of helping him win his part of the bet.
He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Various shades of gold and countless diamonds sparkled. And she’d thought the overwrought man was simply obsessed with being punctual but if Josie had a piece as lovely, she would take it out and admire it every chance she got.
“’Tis getting late,” he said. “Shall we return to Greenpark House for our afternoon lessons?”
“Your watch is quite lovely,” Josie said.
His face lit up. “A present from my grandfather. It reminds me of happier days.” Nicolas tucked it away, stood, and held out his hand, inviting her to exit in front of him.
The noble Nicolas Wentworth seemed to be under her skin because, against her better judgment, she allowed him to lead her out of the church. Side by side, they strolled to the Davenport’s townhouse, the silence between them not at all uncomfortable. It was, in fact, oddly comforting.