Chapter Twenty-Eight
Nicolas strutted from the office of The Daily Dispatch of London.
His interview with the owner, Donald Gladstone, had gone well, and he was no longer at anyone’s mercy.
He was now a working journalist with his own column, Musings from a Gentleman.
Wait until he told Josie. He had no doubts she would be excited.
His parents might die from humiliation, but Bridget would be exceedingly proud of him.
The truth was, he was thrilled to have a purpose and something to distract him from his family’s misfortunes.
He would live in London, in a small flat near The Silk Knuckles Saloon.
He’d write about politics and culture. Unlike the other journalists, he would not ignore women’s sports.
He would discuss women’s pugilism, archery, swimming, and riding.
Bridget could live with him until she married.
If she ever married. Maybe he would even write about Bridget’s quest for female equality.
Since he’d been given free rein with only an editor and Gladstone to answer to, he could explore endless topics.
His parents might have to live with them at first. The thought brought him no pleasure, but he would not allow them to live on the streets. Other than his parents, what a perfect life it would be. And maybe someday, when Josie was done prize fighting, they could have a few children.
His step light, he skipped up the steps of Greenpark House and then took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.
Upon strolling into the drawing room, he found himself in the middle of a lively quadrille.
The furniture had been pushed to the side.
Franny, Bridget, Isabelle, Josie, and Diana were pink-cheeked and smiling.
Davenport grinned from ear to ear as his mother called out directives.
Even poor Mrs. Love had been dragged into the fray and was frowning at her feet.
Peters and two footmen stood at the side of the room, dutifully humming.
“Don’t just stand there gawking, Wentworth. Help a bloke out,” Davenport declared. “These ladies are giving me a deuce of a time.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “’Tis more like it takes seven women to make him behave.”
Davenport grinned. “And even then, they are failing.”
“Jonathon and Bridget, pay attention,” Agatha scolded. “Mrs. Love, you are going in the wrong direction again.”
Chuckling, Nicolas took Mrs. Love’s place. Her frown morphed into a smile as she moved to the sidelines to stand beside Peters.
Soon, Agatha had the eight of them performing something that almost resembled a quadrille, as long as one didn’t take note of the giggling and the blasphemies that Davenport threw in for good measure.
Once their practice was over, the men pushed the furniture into place. Tea, sandwiches, oranges, and biscuits were served, and the lively gathering continued. Unfortunately, Nicolas would have to wait a bit longer to share his good news.
Bridget came up behind Nicolas and wrapped her arms around him. “Wait until you see Josephine’s dress. Madame did a fabulous job with it. She will be the diamond of the ball.”
“’Tis lovely,” Isabelle said. “The rest of us will look quite ordinary next to Josephine.”
Josie colored up, and her posture stiffened. Nicolas sent her a reassuring smile, and her shoulders dropped into place.
“The three of you will be the most beautiful woman in attendance,” Agatha said, referencing Josie, Bridget, and Isabelle.
Davenport leaned back in his chair and surveyed his harem. “Wentworth, we have our work cut out for us protecting these ladies from the scalawags who will be sniffing about.”
More than likely, Davenport would be the biggest of those scalawags and he best keep his sniffer away from Nicolas’s sister.
“Speaking of reprobates at the ball,” Bridget said. “Agatha, have you taught Josie how to communicate with her fan?”
“I hardly think that will be necessary,” Agatha said. “We only need her to capture Tristan’s attention.”
“But a fan is almost as useful as a fist,” Bridget declared. “May I borrow yours, Agatha?”
“Do not give my sister a fan,” Nicolas said. However, his warning went unheeded as Agatha passed his sister a massive one, purple and pink plumage resplendent.
Bridget stood front and center as if she were playing charades or was an actress in some Shakespearean comedy. She opened the fan and fluttered it, tilting her head back and grinning as if she was enjoying the breeze.
“Firstly, whenever a man stares at you, just hold your fan in front of your face like this.” Bridget hid her face behind the plumage. “Let him know you are having none of it.” The feathers tickled her nose and she sneezed.
“That makes perfect sense,” Josephine declared with a smile.
Undaunted, Bridget peeked around the fan and blew a renegade feather from her nostril.
“And if a man with warts on his nose, who is old enough to be your grandfather approaches you and asks you to dance—and believe me those nasty-old creatures will be all over you like bees on a flower—you simply do this.” With a flick, she closed the fan and pretended to smack the pretend lech standing in front of her.
“Remove yourself from my sight this instance or I will thwack your nose again, you abhorrent man.”
Josie’s hand over her mouth did not hide her giggle. Neither did the method work when Isabelle and Frances covered their own mouths with their hands.
“Agatha, I told you not to give her a fan,” Nicolas said. He and George had spent their youths as casualties of Bridget’s broken fan collection.
“And say an attractive man approaches you, gloating and looking quite sure of himself and insists you dance with him because he is well… attractive, tell him, ‘No, my lord. You are an arrogant fool and if you do not leave me be I shall have to teach you a lesson.’” Bridget swished her wrist, and her fan opened.
She lunged forward, sluicing her fan through her imaginary attractive man.
“Take this,” she called as her “weapon” sliced him into a dozen pieces.
Josie grabbed her ribs, doubling over in laughter. Soon, Isabelle joined her. Even Agatha and Jonathon laughed.
Bridget halted her swashbuckling fan circus to take a bow.
Josie composed herself and wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “You are quite humorous, Bridget. The ball will be enjoyable with you. If only you could join us, Franny.”
Frances blanched. “I think not. I would prefer to hear about your evening second hand.”
“Could Franny come to dinner the following day?” Josie asked.
“Indeed,” Jonathon said. “And Frances, why don’t you bring your father? Josie speaks so highly of him.”
Both pugilists’ eyes widened in horror. Why did inviting their beloved patriarch to dinner fill them with dread?
“Frances, you are welcome here anytime,” Agatha said. “And we would love your father to join us.”
“I will send a carriage,” Jonathon said. “We will expect both you and your father for our evening meal. As for the ball, Bridget and Isabelle, our carriage will pick you up around nine.”
“Then, everything is settled.” Agatha bobbed her chin. “No matter what the next few days bring, I want you all to know that you are like my nieces and nephew and are welcome here any time.” She dabbed at her eyes.
There was much female hugging, kissing cheeks, and oohing and ahhing as Nicolas and Jonathon sat back and watched, prodigious smiles splitting their cheeks.
Franny soon parted, explaining that she must return home to prepare her father’s dinner.
“Please excuse me, too,” Josie said. “I must return to my chamber to rest for a moment.” She sent Nicolas a secret glance, inviting him to follow.
He waited for a few minutes before excusing himself.
“Where are you going, brother?” nosey Bridget asked.
He opened his mouth to announce his exciting new prospect but clamped his lips closed because he wanted Josie to be the first to know.
“I must make a few notes in my journal.” This wasn’t a lie since he needed to jot down some details about the column he’d discussed with Mr. Gladstone. Just as soon as he told Josie, he would tell Bridget. Since she and Isabelle were staying for dinner, he would make the announcement then.
Making sure no one followed him, he made his way to Josie’s chamber and slipped inside.
She was seated at a wingback in front of the unlit hearth. She stood, rushed to him, and threw her arms around his neck. Once she’d thoroughly squeezed him, she stepped back. “I have been losing my mind with curiosity. How did your interview go?”
He held out his hands, palms up. “You are looking at the new author of the weekday column, Musings of a Gentleman.”
She squealed and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Nicolas. I am so proud of you.”
“I am glad of that. Bridget will be as well, but every other acquaintance of mine will be horrified.”
“Even Jonathon and Agatha?” she asked.
“Probably less so than everyone else. But I dare say I am a reminder that even the aristocracy is one disaster away from poverty.”
“I think you are a reminder that even a person experiencing a bout of bad luck can be resilient and heroic.”
Good God, Josephine Martin was wonderful, and they had not tupped in—he performed mental math—ten hours. He clutched her waist and pulled her to him. Slanting his lips over hers, he swallowed her moan.
With the speed of a white tiger, she leaped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his hips.
He considered carrying her to the bed, but that would take precious seconds he had no patience for.
He braced her against the closest wall, used one hand and his body to hold her in place, and lifted her skirts.
She made quick work of his clothing, freeing his cock in record time.
She gave him two quick strokes before shoving him into her channel, which miraculously was already wet.
“Fuck, Josie,” he growled against her cheek as he slammed his cock deep.
The gewgaws on the mantle vibrated, and a nearby picture clanged.
Perhaps he should carry her to the bed so they didn’t put a hole in the wall or destroy the Davenport’s home while rutting like wild animals. And maybe he would have if Josie hadn’t distracted him with her passionate cries and rocking hips.
It was settled. He would slam his gal’s back against the wall over and over again until they both saw stars.
Sweat dripping, his biceps, forearms, and thighs worked in harmony to absorb her body weight. Her fingernails and teeth pierced his shoulders through his clothing. Taking every bit of his force, she closed her eyes and begged for more.
The gewgaws continued to vibrate, the picture hit the wall a half dozen times, and beneath them, the floorboard creaked. Meanwhile, his muscles quivered, and his blood vigorously pumped through his veins.
“Oh, yes, Nicolas,” Josie cried with her release.
His balls tightened to the point of delicious pain. He snapped his hips back, pulling out just in time to coat her bodice with his seed.
He grunted sated sounds with his release and then panted like he’d run across England. Resting his forehead against hers, he caught his breath. “I love you, Josie.”
“I love you to the end of the world,” she said.
He grinned.
She smiled back. “A celebration of sorts,” she said.
He winked lecherously. “The best kind of celebration.”
He dipped his head for a kiss at the same time that someone rapped on the chamber door.
Nicolas set Josie on her feet and held a finger to his lips. “Shh.” He pointed at his seed.
She peered down and giggled. Using the hem of her gown, she wiped away the evidence of their encounter as he stuffed his prick into his trousers.
Their visitor knocked again.
He tucked himself behind the corner of the wardrobe.
Josie hastened to the door and opened it.
“Can I come in?” Without waiting for a response, Bridget barged into the center of the room.
Nicolas internally moaned.
“I wanted to ask you some questions about your new pugilism school,” Bridget said. “I am thinking…” Her gaze landed on him, and she gawked. “Nicolas, why are you hiding behind the wardrobe?”
Exhaling, he stepped into the open.
Bridget’s brow furrowed as her gaze traveled back and forth between Josie and him. Red-cheeked, Josie stared at her feet.
“Do you need something, Bridget?” Nicolas asked.
As understanding dawned, Bridget’s confusion turned to elation, and she brought her hands together, clapping once. “I knew it. I knew you favored each other. I am so very happy.”
Nicolas placed his hand in the center of her back and escorted her to the door.
Grinning mischievously, she faced him. “You should both clean up before you come to dinner. As free-thinking as Lady Davenport is, I do not think she will be pleased that you are engaging in sinful explorations in the middle of the day.”
Josie whimpered.
“Bridget!” Nicolas glared at her.
Bridget waggled her finger at him and then at Josie.
“I am wondering what else the two of you are up to. I am not a simpleton. The last few days you look at each other as if you are sharing some secret plan. As do the Davenports.” She put her hands on her hips.
“Come to think of it, I believe everyone is up to something but me.” She tapped her finger to her cheek. “Now, that is a bit ironic.”
Nicolas opened the door and nudged her into the hallway.
She shook her head. “I do not like it one single bit. I do not like being left out.”
He slammed the door on his curious, pain-in-the-arse baby sister.
“Should we let her in on our plan?” Josie asked.
Nicolas half-snorted, half-chuckled. “Bridget can’t keep a secret to save her life. We shall fill her in after we succeed.”
Somehow, their tup against the wall had infused him with confidence, and he no longer had any doubts. Together, they would succeed and fulfill every one of their dreams—an aristocrat with a career and a lady who was a champion, together forever and taking on the world.