Chapter Fourteen
The last few days had been spent in companionable meals and lessons, the very best part being the relaxing evenings in the drawing room.
Davenport always had a smile on his face and a glass of port in his hand.
Meanwhile, the ladies bonded as Agatha taught Josie how to embroider delicate flowers and leaves.
It was all rather pleasant and quite cozy.
Josie proved to be a fast learner. According to Agatha, her stitches were “fine, indeed.” And her thread always had “the perfect amount of tension.” Surprisingly, Josie’s speech had already lost its rough edge.
As far as Nicolas could tell, she no longer required her backboard to stand tall or move about the house as gracefully as a ballerina.
Additionally, she showed up to breakfast looking lovely in her borrowed frocks.
She’d also finally succumbed to her lady’s maid ministrations, so now her intricate coiffures would befit a princess.
If Nicolas didn’t know better, he’d think Josie was committed to winning the Widow of Whitehall’s wager.
However, this couldn’t be the case since she’d confessed that she’d known all along that a pugilist from the East End could not marry a duke.
Besides, they had agreed Josie’s love match was no longer their goal.
The truth was that Josie didn’t need to be a perfect lady in order to convince the duke to change fighters. She only had to show up at the ball, accompanied by Lady Davenport and her son, the most popular and sought-after viscount in the ton, and then seek an audience with Griffendale.
It needled Nicolas’s pride that he now had the least important role in their foursome.
To placate his feelings of inferiority, he often reminded himself that although his family had been disgraced, he was still accepted by the ton.
However, that was probably because everyone knew his best chums were Davenport and Griffendale.
As delightful as these past few days had been, Nicolas had not spent time alone with Josie.
To his great disappointment, there were no more late-night snacks or sparring sessions.
She was unusually quiet and rarely met his gaze.
Perhaps she was still embarrassed about their almost kiss.
Or maybe she thought aloofness made her more ladylike.
One thing was for certain—her changed demeanor made Nicolas think of a beautiful lioness in a gilded cage, and this image broke his heart.
Last night, when he couldn’t sleep, he visited the kitchen, hoping to have a cup of warm milk and talk to her. He desperately needed to know that her fiery spark had not been snuffed.
Alas, she had not been there. Which begged the question, Was she avoiding him?
He’d pouted as he’d sipped his milk. After returning to his room, he’d tossed and turned for what felt like an eternity.
Adding to his worries, he’d received a letter from Bridget announcing she planned to visit London.
Given his current predicament, and that his sister’s middle name should be Trouble with a capital T, her visit was both exciting and concerning.
Currently, he sat across from Josie, slightly exhausted and trying not to watch as she took tiny bites of salad. By God, the woman fascinated him, but he had to pull his head out of his arse and attend to a pressing matter.
He cleared his throat and announced, “Agatha, my sister is taking a stagecoach to London. She is visiting one of her dear friends.”
Agatha’s eyes lit up. “I adore Bridget. I do hope she visits Greenpark House. She is most welcome here and I look forward to spending time with her.”
“She would be most delighted,” Nicolas said.
Jonathon grinned.
Nicolas shot him a don’t-you-bloody-touch-my-sister glare.
“Unfortunately, I must attend to my correspondences this afternoon,” Lady Davenport said.
“I am planning an afternoon tea next week in honor of my cousin Josephine’s visit.
” A mischievous glint twinkled in her eyes.
“And I want to send the invitations out immediately. Of course, Bridget must attend as well.”
Josie’s fork hovered in front of her mouth, and her eyes widened.
“Do not fret, my dear.” Lady Davenport declared. “I dare say, you are ready to be presented to the ladies. I would not propose this gathering otherwise. It will provide you a chance to practice your conversational skills and etiquette before the ball.”
“Splendid plan, Mother,” Jonathon said.
“Gentlemen, you are not invited,” Agatha said. “You will need to make yourself scarce that day.”
“I am quite good at making myself scarce,” Jonathon said. “An afternoon at The Lyon’s Den. What do you say, old chum?”
Nicolas would rather attend a tea with ladies than face Bessie Dove-Lyon again. However, he said nothing.
Although Josie did not complain, her nose wrinkled. She put down her fork and chewed on her lip.
“I am also busy this afternoon,” Davenport declared. “I must see a man about a horse.”
Nicolas choked on his coffee. What were mother and son up to? Since everyone gawked at him, he composed himself and assured them he was fine.
Lady Davenport continued. “Nicolas and Josephine, it seems you shall have the afternoon to yourselves.”
Josie met Nicolas’s gaze before quickly looking away. “I believe I shall rest in my chamber. I am quite exhausted.”
Nicolas didn’t believe for a second that this ball of energy was tired.
If he had anything to wager, he’d bet that since they were to be left alone, she planned to avoid him.
Even though this revelation sucked bull bollocks, it truly was for the best. She did not require his attention or affection or anything he had to offer, which, unfortunately, was nil.
“I shall go into town today,” Nicolas said. “I need to visit Mendling’s Books while I am in London.” Although he enjoyed visiting the charming bookstore, this was a last-minute plan to distract him from his desire to spend time with a woman who wanted nothing to do with him.
“We shall all be quite busy today,” Lady Davenport said with a wry smile.
Was Nicolas losing his mind, or were the viscount and his mother sending each other conspiratorial looks?
“Enjoy yourselves,” Lady Davenport said. “I will see you all at seven for dinner.”
Josie nodded. Standing, she strode to the door, hesitated, and then faced them. “Thank you for a lovely lunch, Cousin Agatha and Cousin Jonathon. Enjoy your trip to the bookstore, Nicolas.”
Her out-of-character salutation felt much too formal. Perhaps he missed her calling him Meddlesome.
He scratched his head.
No, that wasn’t it at all. It was a horrific moniker. He simply missed the irreverent, full-of-life Jabbing Josie.
She left the drawing room, taking all of the warmth in the room with her.
Nicolas entered Greenpark House with a package tucked into the crock of his arm.
He might not be able to save his family seat, but he could give Bridget a new book.
He’d scraped up what little blunt he had left because this particular edition of Persuasion was leather bound with gilt lettering on the front cover and spine.
He had hoped to purchase a copy of The Modern Prometheus but Mr. Mendling had sold his last copy days before.
It was probably for the best since he should not encourage his sister’s eccentricities.
“Good day,” Nicolas called to Peters and Mrs. Love.
He bound up the stairs feeling quite light.
It seemed his jaunt about town had given him a second wind, and he so loved purchasing presents.
Whistling, he strolled past the drawing room.
A splash of pink in his peripheral made him halt in his tracks.
He backtracked two steps and peered into the room.
The furniture had been pushed to the side. Humming a cheerful tune, Josie pirouetted about the room, her glazed-over expression betraying her ecstasy.
He should continue to his chamber, but his legs seemed to be glued to the carpet as he played voyeur to this dream-like tableau. Leaning against the door frame, he took in every detail. Her hair and skirts swirling. The gentle curve in her upper back as she spun. Her slippered feet in relevé.
With her next twirl, she faced him. Her eyes widened, and she halted mid-arabesque, her extended leg hovering in the air.
“I’m sorry.” Nicolas cringed. These constant apologies and his odd fascination with Josephine Martin were beyond ridiculous.
She stood tall and inclined her chin to his elbow. “What did you purchase?”
It took him a moment to recall that he held a book wrapped in brown paper.
“I’m sorry. Was it unladylike of me to blurt out that question?” she asked. “Because I suppose ’tis none of my business.”
Her apologizing to him for once was a pleasant change.
“A book for my sister. She favors the author, and this is a new edition. Quite lovely.” His chuckle was bittersweet. “How I decided to spend the last of my blunt.”
“How kind of you.” For the first time in days, her eyes met his without looking away. “You are a good brother. I look forward to meeting her.”
His common sense told him to apologize for interrupting her, excuse himself, and leave her to her dancing.
His heart argued, demanding he stay and talk to her about anything and everything.
However, it was his body that won the battle because he dropped the package on a side table, sauntered up to her, and held out his hand.
“May I have this dance, my lady?” he asked.