Chapter Twelve #2
Next came dumbbell training. Contracting her biceps, Genevieve curled the iron. With Franny’s instruction, she engaged her shoulders and hefted weights over her head. Settling heavier dumbbells on her shoulders, she copied Franny by squatting as deep as she could.
“Engage your abdominal muscles and use your thighs to push up through your heels.” Franny watched her critically. “I want to ensure you don’t move incorrectly and hurt yourself.”
Eventually Franny stepped back, giving Genevieve more space. “Splendid form. Once you are too tired to engage the correct muscles you must stop. Lifting weights when exhausted means bad form and then, unnecessary injuries.”
By the time Genevieve finished, sweat dripped, her heart hammered, and a life-affirming giddiness had taken hold of her.
As if Genevieve wasn’t already having the time of her life, Franny held up straw-filled mitts as targets so that Genevieve could practice her punches.
“Exhale air from your lungs forcefully when you punch,” Franny told her. “It helps you increase power and strike harder. It also prevents you from becoming winded when you get hit in the breadbasket.”
The drill was akin to a game that she was quite good at, so Genevieve easily duplicated the sharp hissing sound. Now, if she could just form words.
“Excellent,” Franny said as she backed away. “Now, stay with me.”
While controlling her breath and throwing jabs, Genevieve followed her coach. Their drill became more intricate as she added hooks, crosses, and uppercuts, depending on where Franny positioned the mitts.
After a while, Franny allowed Genevieve to choose her own combinations.
“You are starting to repeat patterns,” Franny told her. “You don’t want your opponent to predict your combinations.”
Easier said than done.
“You are doing well,” Franny assured her. “It takes a lot of practice to be unpredictable.”
Occasionally, Genevieve felt the duke’s gaze on her while he and Roseanna worked on the sandbags.
If only Jonathan were here. Alas, his presence—or lack thereof—could not and would not determine her success.
She concentrated as hard as she could as Franny taught her how to stay inside and outside an opponent’s reach.
Franny had just given her a few moments to rest when Lord Davenport strolled into the gymnasium, the beautiful Lady Milton by his side.
Suddenly, Genevieve was aware of her sweat-soaked, masculine clothing.
“Our new student is here,” Franny said. “Better late than never, I suppose.”
No! Genevieve fought her desire to whimper.
Arms folded over her chest, Franny regarded Genevieve with a raised brow. “I see.”
What in the dickens did she think she saw? If she assumed Genevieve was jealous of the pretty dowager, she was one hundred percent wrong.
You are an untruthful charlatan.
Fine. She was a jealous dunderhead.
“I used to be quite envious of Lady Milton,” Franny said.
“She has a past with my husband. Now that I know her better, I rather like her. She is passionate about women’s autonomy and, like some of our other wealthy patrons, is willing to fund our causes.
And once Edward married, she stopped flirting with him.
She no longer flirts with Nicolas either. ”
It seemed Lady Celeste Milton had a past with many men, though since she was currently flirting with Jonathan, Genevieve found this tidbit less than comforting.
“Do not fret, she is not here for pugilism training,” Franny declared, interrupting Genevieve’s thoughts. “Someone broke into her house a few weeks ago and stole valuable jewelry, so she wants to learn to defend herself.”
Genevieve wasn’t worried she’d have to fight the woman because if that were the case, she’d run circles around her. She was upset because Jonathan had avoided her all day and might well have been with the beautiful countess while she dined with his mother.
Lady Milton laughed at something Jonathan said. He smiled at her. She left his side to approach Josie, who was leading the ladies’ class in an exercise and movement session.
Jonathan peacocked across the gymnasium, stopping to talk to the duke.
“Shall we continue?” Franny asked.
Genevieve nodded.
“We are going to return to the drill where you have to follow my lead.” Franny slid her hands back into the mitts. “This time, we are going to speed things up. Ready?”
Genevieve dropped into her stance, knees bent, one fist protecting her jaw, the other poised to jab.
“Go,” Franny said, as she held a mitt in front of her.
Genevieve shot her fist out.
The mitt slid to the side.
Genevieve’s hip snapped with her cross.
Franny held both mitts face down.
Genevieve bent her knees and brought her fist up and through it, right then left.
Franny moved quickly, with no discernible pattern, while Genevieve focused and responded quickly.
“Bravo,” Lord Davenport said from behind her.
Genevieve had been so focused that she had not noticed his approach.
“Ignore them,” Franny said.
Egad! Who all was watching? Genevieve stuttered, throwing a cross when she should have left hooked, and then a left hook when she should have jabbed.
“Rest,” Franny said.
Wincing, Genevieve dropped her fists and straightened.
Franny removed the mitts. “There will be a million distractions in the ring, and allowing any of them to steal your focus could be your demise, which in pugilism can be dangerous. Deadly even.”
“Sorry,” Lord Davenport said as he came around in front of Genevieve.
“I am as well,” Lord Griffendale said.
“No need to be sorry,” Franny said. “’Tis good to train with distractions. If every training session goes this well, Gen will be ready for her exhibition.”
“Wonderful,” the duke said. “Gen, I am sorry that I allowed my hubris to show its ugly face last night. I behaved rather poorly. Roseanna is excited to have someone worthy to train with, and I am looking forward to hosting the event.”
She would ask Franny what event he was referencing later. For now, she steepled her fingers beneath her chin to communicate her appreciation.
“We were just talking about your fighting name,” Griffendale said.
How exciting!
“Davenport wants to call you The Butterfly.” The duke snorted.
How lovely that Jonathan saw her as a butterfly.
“But whoever heard of a threatening butterfly?” the duke said.
True.
“Roseanna is Thorny Rose,” Lord Davenport said. “How threatening is a rose?”
The duke rolled his eyes. “Roses look harmless, but pluck one from the vine without caution, and you will surely encounter a thorn. What is a butterfly going to do? Land on your nose and flutter its wings?” He wiggled his fingers in front of his face.
“They don’t even bite, for Christ’s sake.
I think Gen should be The Ghost. The Ghost silently appears out of nowhere, glides into your thoughts, and then haunts your dreams.”
Lord Davenport scowled.
“I favor it,” Franny said. “Gen, what do you think of The Ghost?”
Ghosts were ruthless and terrifying. They did not cower from their enemy. Besides, she was as pale and gaunt as a ghost. Smiling, she nodded.
“Well, damn.” Lord Davenport frowned.
The duke formed a speaking trumpet with his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, projecting his voice. “You are about to witness the finest in ladies’ pugilism. The Duke and the Viscount present Thorny Rose versus The Ghost.”
*
It seemed the ladies were not averse to the tangy scent of sweat because they simply toweled themselves off and entered the upstairs parlor.
They chatted as they filled their dainty china plates with iced cakes and biscuits and chose their libations.
Mrs. Jane Brown, a pretty blond woman close to Genevieve’s age, stood behind a polished rosewood bar, serving the women their refreshments.
Genevieve was much too nervous to eat. However, she was thirsty, so she accepted a glass of refreshing-looking sherry.
Her body wrung out in the best sort of way, Genevieve carried her glass to a chair in the farthest corner of the room. She sat and studied her surroundings.
The elegant parlor was upholstered in various shades of purple.
Velvet draperies hung to the floor. Pretty landscape paintings adorned the walls, and a lovely old clock sat on the marble fireplace mantel.
The scandalous ladies of The Silk Knuckles Saloon had created a feminine oasis in the masculine desert that was London.
Genevieve paid close attention to the conversations whirling around her as she tried to learn who each of the ladies was.
Lady Helena Siddons, the duke’s aunt, was a vivacious redhead in her middling years who commanded the room.
Lady Hillcaster and Lady Whitehill were older women who arrived after the ladies’ exercise session.
Bridget was all giggles as she waved her arms about while telling a story to a couple of other debutantes, whose names Genevieve hadn’t yet learned.
Unfortunately, Celeste Milton glided straight toward Genevieve. “May I join you?” she asked.
Unable to meet the lady’s gaze, Genevieve held out her hand indicating the seat beside her was free.
Lady Milton balanced her food and drink and gracefully sat. “I am pleased to meet you. I am Celeste Milton.”
Suddenly, the room felt too small and unbearably hot.
Genevieve struggled to breathe, and she feared she would pass out.
This was a terribly stupid idea. Genevieve had no business being here, pretending to be normal, when she was anything but.
Normal people could talk without overheating and becoming dizzy in crowds, things that eluded her.
Josie approached from the side. She hesitated before resting a hand on Genevieve’s shoulder. Perhaps she was worried that she would shy from her touch, but she trusted Josie and Franny with all her heart.
“My lady,” Josie said. “This is Gen. She is our new pugilist. She prefers not to talk in large groups.”
In small groups, either. Her siblings and Horatio were the only exceptions. But there was no way to correct Josie without talking. The bloody irony.