Chapter Thirteen #2
Floppy got up, stretched, and then charged toward him, placing his paws on his lap, and licking his cheek.
Gen finally smiled as she sat on the settee across from him.
Floppy left Jonathan to hop up beside her, plopping onto his belly with an omphf and resting his head on her knee.
Woman and dog stared at him with wide, expectant eyes.
His gaze slid to the decanter, which someone had filled. Probably Peters. He didn’t have to over imbibe. One drink would ease his discomfiture.
No, you coward. He dug his fingernails into his palm. “I want to tell you that I am sorry for my behavior last night.”
She thumbed at herself and then held up two fingers.
“Are you saying ‘me too’?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I do not remember you behaving deplorably. I was the one who drank too much, barged into your room, fell down, and asked you to—” he cleared his throat. “Well… kiss me. It was entirely inappropriate, especially if I am to be your patron. I assure you it will not happen again.”
Was that confusion or disappointment in her eyes? Or perhaps an odd combination of both? His chest momentarily puffed. He exhaled, slowly, letting go of his hubris. He would not encourage her attraction to him.
“You see, Gen, I have not been entirely honest with you.”
Her tilted head encouraged him to go on.
“I have a secret. A humiliating secret known only to my mother, Nicolas, and Griffendale. Well, I suspect Josie also knows.” He again eyed the decanter and took a deep breath. “I cannot read,” he finally blurted as he slid his gaze back to her.
Her brow furrowed.
“The truth is, I couldn’t read the notes you wrote me last night.
I tend to act like a cad, hoping to hide my shortcomings, sometimes with humor of some kind.
It makes people think I’m never serious, content to lark and laugh.
It’s a good distraction. But, well… I can’t stand the idea that you think I don’t care about your feelings or what you were saying to me with your notes. ”
She leaned toward him, her countenance kind and void of judgment. His tense shoulders relaxed, and his words came more easily.
“Hell, I almost made a muddle of everything because I didn’t understand that you wanted to fight, and instead assumed you were just asking for more time, which by the way, was a very reasonable request.”
She nodded and tilted her head at him. Quizzically, perhaps. He didn’t blame her.
“I know ’tis shocking. I was educated at Bedford and Cambridge, and somehow manage a viscounty, which I desperately require assistance with.
” He dragged his fingers through his hair.
“My estate manager knew, but he recently passed and since then…well. Can you imagine what the ton would say about a viscount who can’t read?
I would humiliate my entire family. Destroy my family’s legacy.
Become a laughingstock and diminish the importance of what my mother is trying to do for female autonomy.
So, it is much easier to pretend that I don’t take anything seriously. ”
He sighed. “Truth be told, I have not taken things seriously until recently, since my man of business passed.”
Gen stood and walked to him. He held his breath, wondering what she was up to as she lowered herself onto her knees in front of him and took his hand in hers.
Apparently, she was comforting him and holding his hand in solidarity.
Warmth unfurled in his chest, wrapping around his heart and his cock.
And speaking of which, he wouldn’t think about her rather compromising position in front of him that made illicit images unfurl in his mind.
“I can make out a word or two, and then by the third word, the letters jump around and change places. Sometimes I can figure out what some of the words are by looking at the letters and trying to rearrange them in my head. Or, by looking at the letters in the other words around that one word…like when you wrote “thank you”. At any road, it might take me a minute or two to figure out what the word I’m focused on is and by the time I reach the end of the sentence, I am exhausted, and my head aches, and I’ve forgotten the beginning of the sentence.
Or I just don’t care anymore, because…because I feel… ” Like an imbecile.
He stared down at the soft, warm hand wrapped around his. Delicate wrists led to her swollen, red knuckles.
“I can usually read one, two, and sometimes three-letter words. A peer of the realm and most four-year-olds can read better than me.”
There he’d done it. Confessed everything. An almost giddiness overtook him as his burden lifted.
She pointed at him and then moved her index finger to her throat. She tapped it.
“You understand how I feel because you can’t talk.”
“Yes,” she mouthed, as a flush raced from her neck to her forehead.
“And you want to talk more than anything,” he guessed.
Swallowing, she mouthed, “Yes.”
His heart stuttered. She was too timid and dainty to fight. It occurred to him that she was only doing this because boxing didn’t involve talking, and she had to find a way to take care of herself so that she didn’t starve on the streets. Confound him to hell for putting the idea in her head.
“Gen, you don’t have to fight. We can find another way for you to survive.”
You could always marry her.
What the bloody hell? Where in the blazes had that thought come from? It was the most ridiculous of all of his numbskulled ideas.
“I am sure Mother could find you a job as a maid in a lovely home.”
She let go of his hand, firmed her lips, and thumbed at her chest.
This was like playing charades. “I…”
She nodded and formed a fist that she placed beside her cheek.
“Punch,” he said. “I punch. Are you telling me you want to box?”
She beamed at him.
His breath caught in his chest. She was far from timid.
This beautiful, courageous woman, kneeling in front of him, while looking up at him with adoration in her eyes, would be the death of him.
He was not cut from a gentlemanly mold that could resist any longer.
His cock twitched, his fingers itched to touch, and his lips tingled with need.
“Gen,” he whispered, the rasp in his voice betraying his overwhelming desire.
She worried her lip. That damn lip that he wanted to lick, nip, and possess. He leaned forward, his mouth reaching.
Horatio leaped from his seat and charged.
“Augh!” Jonathan pressed back into his chair as the dog’s wet, sloppy tongue laved his teeth.
Pego-jammed by a furry ratter. “Bluck.” Jonathan sputtered as he pulled away from Floppy’s enthusiastic kisses.
Gen giggled so hard she snorted. Her eyes widened. She brought both of her palms to her mouth, and her chest rose and fell with her chortles.
The spell broken, Jonathan accepted his lot and kissed the mutt on his snout.
“Thank you for listening. Both of you. I suppose we should all get some sleep, and Gen, I will see you for our morning run.” He patted Floppy’s head. “I suppose you get to stay in bed while I am dragging my arse all over London, you pampered mutt.”
Gen stood, walked to the clock on the mantle, and then pointed to the bottom number. Thereupon, she held up six fingers.
He cringed. “Six of the clock?” That was blasted early. It would still be dark and bloody frigging cold.
She sent him a smart-arse grin. God save him. This underfed chit was going to run circles around him.
Prancing past him, she motioned for Floppy to follow her. For one glorious moment, Jonathan allowed himself to pretend that the come-hither, curling index finger was meant for him.