Chapter Thirteen
Genevieve sat in the carriage across from Jonathan, her hands folded on her lap, the moonlight shadowing her profile and settling into the lines of her tense jaw.
He didn’t blame her for being upset with him since he had barged into her room, acting like a cur the previous evening.
He’d hoped that by agreeing to be her patron, he’d made amends for his behavior.
The look on her face when he’d taken her on as his champion had been one of sheer glee, and he’d do anything to see her smile like that again.
But alas, he was currently sitting across from a sourpuss.
She couldn’t be this upset over a non-kiss. Could she? Surely not. He searched his memories for anything else that he might have done to upset her.
Perhaps she was irritated that he hadn’t immediately embraced her new fighting name, but there were things she didn’t understand.
He had been so annoyed during his conversation with Griffendale; the man had emphatically insisted she have a moniker immediately, when Jonathan had wanted time to think the matter over. The damn impatient blighter.
Jonathan relived his conversation with Griffendale, trying to make sense of it.
“Davenport, you need to come up with something right away,” Griffendale had said as if he were the authority on the subject, which, for all intents and purposes, he was. “I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier, but Gen can take Clementine’s place at my Frosty Set-to.”
“I don’t know if she will be ready for an actual fight,” Jonathan had said. This time he would not be baited into making a pudding-witted decision.
Griffendale dismissed Jonathan’s concern with a wrist flick. “Nonsense, ’tis my mill so I can make it an exhibition bout.”
“Tell me more,” Jonathan had said since it sounded promising.
“It will be at the old, abandoned mill at the edge of Redhurst property and will feature prizefighters who train with Calder, Franny, and Josie. I’ll provide generous purses for each of them, and it will drum up excitement for The Silk Knuckles Saloon.
Perhaps a female exhibition with timed rounds will encourage other ladies to pursue boxing.
Without Franny and Josie competing, the sport is losing some of its luster, and we are in desperate need of new female blood.
Roseanna really doesn’t have any true competition.
Anyway, the event will be indoors and will last all day and into the evening.
I’m having a ring built as we speak. I extended invitations to Thumbs, Spider Calhoun, The Stone, and Pete.
And of course, Roseanna and Gen will start off the afternoon.
I’ve already talked to Bear, and he has agreed to be the ringmaster and will bring a few umpires and referees with him. ”
Maybe if they hadn’t been comparing pricks and fighting over Celeste’s attention, they would have thought of this solution sooner.
“His Grace’s Frosty Set-to has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Griffendale had grinned. “No pun intended.”
This would provide one hell of an opportunity for Gen, and she would probably be thrilled.
“Back to her fighting name,” Griffendale said. “What words come to mind when you think of Gen?”
Jonathan couldn’t say “beautiful,” “confounding,” or “kissable,” so instead he tossed out, “Blue, silent, butterfly, ghost…”
Griffendale had held his finger in the air. “That’s it! The Ghost.”
But ghosts disappeared just as quickly as they appeared, and for some reason, that thought had become disquieting and bitter.
Jonathan now regretted associating her with such an ephemeral being.
Butterflies, on the other hand, were beautiful creatures that emerged from cocoons.
Of course, butterflies also died in your palms if you held them too tightly or for too long.
Both names, Butterfly and The Ghost, left Jonathan with a queasy feeling. As did anything with the word “silent” in it. They should have just called her something like Beautiful Blue Fists.
Damnations, that was a stupid name too.
Well, the point was, he never should have allowed Griffendale to pressure him into making a quick decision. And yet, this was a fabulous opportunity for her, and in the end, Gen seemed pleased with her sobriquet.
The carriage hit a bump, pulling Jonathan from his over-thinking. “You seem to favor your fighting name,” he said, hoping to ease the tension in her jaw.
It worked, and her lips turned upward, but only for one moment, and then her muscles tightened faster than a virginal pastor in a brothel of witches.
“In a few weeks, Griffendale is hosting a tournament at his estate. He wants to start the event with the exhibition fight between you and Roseanna. What do you say?”
She clasped her hands to her chest as she nodded enthusiastically.
Thankfully, he’d finally predicted her reaction correctly. He relaxed against the squabs. Unfortunately, she exhaled then stared at her hands, folded in her lap.
Perhaps she was upset because she’d wanted to ride home with his mother. He should have asked her if she minded the change in plans instead of saying, “Time to go. You are riding home with me, Gen.”
In his defense, he’d been trying all day to find the time and courage to reveal his humiliating truth.
After a strenuous training session, he was ready.
A dark, rolling carriage seemed as good a place as any to shrive his burden.
But first he had to deal with another problem.
Celeste’s recognition of Gen had unnerved him.
Of course, if it had been disquieting to him; surely Gen, as afraid of her past as she seemed to be, must be traumatized.
A compassionate man would say something to comfort her. Unfortunately, sometimes he was a self-centered rotter. But not right now. Not with her.
“Gen,” he said, his voice gentle. “Celeste will not tell anyone about what she witnessed in that alley. She does not gossip with the ladies in the ton. Or with anyone, for that matter. She will not lead Kilsby to you. She is not like that. I asked her not to say anything, so she won’t. I promise.”
Gen stiffened, then swallowed, as she continued to stare at her hands.
He suspected something else was bothering her.
Surely, she wasn’t jealous of Celeste? He’d told Gen the truth. The dowager countess was just a friend. A friend whom he favored and tupped wildly from time to time.
Blast and bugger his eyes. Why had he chattered away like a gossipmonger that first night?
Well, if she was jealous, she would have to get over it. He was her patron; he was not courting her. He could never court her, even if the air between them crackled, and he ached to press his lips to hers.
Obviously, his sending her mental messages asking her to accept his feelings wasn’t working because displeasure radiated from her, puncturing his resolve. What could he say to make her understand?
Then again, did he even owe her an explanation? He couldn’t help that Celeste had gotten out of her carriages at the same time that he had arrived.
Even now, he could recall the horrified look in Gen’s eyes as Celeste dragged her toward him.
Celeste had been easy to placate. Gen not so much, as witnessed by her presently protruding bottom lip.
Perhaps he had just stumbled upon the truth; Gen had mistaken his hesitancy to discuss his inability to read as feelings for Celeste.
If only he had left The Silk Knuckles when he was supposed to, maybe he wouldn’t be having this damnable problem communicating with Gen. But it had felt good to sweat out his previous evening’s indulgences as he’d taken out his frustrations on the sandbag.
The carriage slowed, eventually coming to a stop, and he still hadn’t told Gen the truth. Now he only had from here to the foyer to unburden himself.
Assisting her from the carriage, he stood staring at her, trying to form words. But instead of waiting for him to speak, she turned on her heel and walked up the front walkway, entering his home. Damn his lack of courage.
He dismissed the carriage driver and met her in the foyer.
“Good evening, my lord, Miss Gen,” Peters said. “Horatio is waiting for you in the drawing room. Michael and Robert just took him for a walk.”
Foiled again, because he sure as hell couldn’t tell her his secret in front of the butler.
“Thank you, Peters.” Jonathan tried to catch Gen’s gaze to no avail.
“Gen, could we speak in the drawing room?” he finally asked as she stared up the stairs.
Either she was anxious to see her dog, or she wanted to get away from him.
A betting man should split the odds. She hesitated before nodding.
Without a word, Peters took his coat and her cloak and then strolled away, leaving them alone.
Jonathan held out his hand, inviting her to walk ahead of him.
His old breeches did not take away from her graceful, feminine assent, which was interesting indeed, because Franny, Josie, and Roseanna, the other athletic women he knew, strode powerfully.
They cut through space unapologetically, warriors to their cores.
But with her bearing, she could be a ballerina or a princess who’d been trained to walk wearing a back brace, while balancing a book atop her head.
Confounding indeed, and not important in the least, which begged the question, why in the devil was he thinking about it?
The temperature in the drawing room had to be ten degrees warmer than the hallway, and a few twinkling lanterns cast the room in a cozy glow. Gen rushed to the dog lazing in front of the hearth. He opened his eyes, his tail thumping on the thick carpet, and he smiled as Gen kissed his nose.
Damn lucky dog.
Cringing, Jonathan berated himself for his foolish thoughts. He’d been over this a million times. She was not his type. He was not interested in her. He was her patron, and she was his house guest, and that was the extent of their relationship.
“What ho, Floppy,” he said as he made himself comfortable in his favorite chair.