Chapter Fourteen #2
London’s early risers joined them on Rotten Row. They skirted around individuals engaged in constitutionals, and those on horses cantered past them. Meanwhile, mist rose from the Serpentine, swirling through the trees and casting the scenic view in a dream-like haze.
What a wonderful morning.
Jonathan pointed out an intimidating-looking man running toward them, punching the air with hooks and uppercuts. “Spider Calhoun. Bloody good fighter. You might not have met him yet because he trains with Calder in the early mornings. Probably after he runs.”
Once Spider passed them, Genevieve mimicked his movements without a dash of self-consciousness. She was no longer Genevieve Bailey, the misused granddaughter of an earl; she was The Ghost, a fearless female pugilist disguised as a man on a morning adventure.
“Damnations,” Jonathan said. “These shoes are shite, and I’m thirsty.” He untied his kerchief and swiped it across his forehead before securing it around his neck in a haphazard knot.
She slowed their pace, just a little. Hopefully, he was not too miserable because she would like to do this every day—her body chugging as she sweated out her anxiety, and her lungs opening wide, unafraid as she freely and unapologetically pulled in air.
And she would like to do it with the man beside her.
By the time they circled back to Grosvenor Square, Mayfair was blinking itself awake. Birds chirped, and carriages rumbled past. Soon, Greenpark House came into view.
The need to push her lungs and body to the limit was too strong to ignore. She took off in a mad dash.
“What the bloody…” Jonathan yelled at her back. “Wait up.”
She cannonballed forward, her lungs burning.
“Shite,” he panted out as the clomp of his feet hitting the cobblestones picked up speed.
A mischievous sprite having taken hold of her, she looked over her shoulder and grinned, daring him to catch up.
Determination etched his brow, and it was as if Hermes himself had taken possession of her viscount, his chest thrust forward, his arms swinging.
Her gaze shot forward. Pushing into the balls of her feet and shortening her stride, she hurtled towards Greenpark House. He must be doing the same because he was now so close that she could hear his heaving gasps.
She was almost to the front gate when he grabbed her waist.
The scoundrel was trying to cheat. For a split second, she considered allowing him to overpower her just so that she could be in his arms. But she couldn’t let him win.
She only had to stay out in front of him for a few more steps, but she couldn’t do that with him yanking her backward.
Additionally, the chortles wracking her body had her at a disadvantage.
Although, since he was also laughing, maybe she could still win.
She shoved on his shoulder until he let go of her. With one final extended stride, she catapulted forward, crossing the first gate post. She slowed, then whirled to face him. He was hunched forward, his hands on his thighs, breathing hard.
Victory! She hopped and clapped.
“Damnations,” he said, between gasps. “Well done.”
She started up the front walk. Instead of following her, he plopped into the cobblestones and lay down, his arms and legs spread wide.
Good God, she’d killed a viscount. She hurried to his side.
Shielding his eyes from the rising sun, he stared up at her and grinned. “You know, I let you win,” he declared.
At least he wasn’t dead. She rolled her eyes and held out her hand.
After a few dramatic breaths, he sat up and grasped her proffered hand. His touch elicited tingles that traveled over her palm, along her fingers, and up her arm, ensconcing her heart.
She helped pull him onto his feet. He stepped so close that she had to look up to see his face.
“That wasn’t fair because I didn’t even know we were racing,” he said, a mischievous gleam in his bright eyes.
If the grin tugging on his lips indicated his true feelings, he’d had as much fun as she had. Together they strolled to the front door.
“I’m going to eat an entire pound of bacon,” he said. “And drink a tub full of water. Then drown myself in a bucket of tea.”
Once she gently stretched and cleaned herself up, she would eat three eggs and a huge bowl of porridge. The tub of water and bucket of tea sounded like the right amount of liquid.
“All teasing aside,” Jonathan said as they entered the foyer. “You are remarkable. I had no idea that ladies could run that fast. The thing is, not only are you fast, but you also ran that distance like it was nothing.” He hummed appreciatively. “As if you do it all of the time.”
They faced each other.
“The truth is,” he said, “I both fence and box, so I’m not exactly a lump.”
She had suspected as much, and he was far from a lump.
He shrugged. “Mayhap you should be racing instead of boxing.”
Mayhap. She loved running. But, oh heavens, she liked hitting things, too. It made her feel less vulnerable. Less afraid. Like she wasn’t a disabled poltroon who was so pathetic that she couldn’t even force her words from her throat.
She was halfway up the stairs when her shocking revelation slammed into her so hard that she stopped in her tracks.
Jonathan had grabbed her from behind, something that would have terrified her in the past. But instead of being afraid, she’d laughed until her body shook.
Meanwhile, she’d still found the strength to win their unofficial race.
Was it possible that a brave woman resided in her body alongside the terrified child?
Although more frustrating than shocking, a second realization hit her: unfortunately, the run had done nothing to temper her inappropriate thoughts about Jonathan Davenport.