Chapter Twenty
Jonathan sat across from her, his foot incessantly tapping on the carriage floor. Genevieve couldn’t make out his expression in the dark, but he radiated nervous energy.
Conversely, for the first time in forever, she was completely relaxed.
Running always made her feel euphoric, and boxing magnified those pleasurable sensations.
Tonight’s strenuous training even cured her earlier melancholy.
Melting into the squabs, she accessed her performance at her extra-long session.
After body exercises, rope skipping, and shadow sparring, she’d sparred with Franny while Coach Valentine called out directives.
“Brilliant. A natural,” Coach Valentine had declared a few times.
She’d been disappointed that Jonathan hadn’t been there to see her excel.
But then she’d had a pleasant surprise as he’d sauntered across the gymnasium.
Instead of wanting to avoid him, she’d been thrilled he was there.
Looking utterly delectable, his hair disheveled and damp, and his neck visible above his haphazardly buttoned shirt, Jonathan had leaned against the wall and watched her final drill.
She’d had to block out his reactions to concentrate on her breath work and technique.
Upon completing her session, she was all too aware of Jonathan Davenport and his heated gaze.
When he’d told her that he was proud of her, her confidence had increased tenfold. A man’s opinions should not be the sun, moon, and stars, but she did not care to overthink her feelings. For the time being, she simply wanted to live in the moment.
“My mother decided to stay at The Silk Knuckles for a bit longer this evening,” Jonathan said, bringing Genevieve to the present.
“She is meeting with Lady Siddons in the ladies-only parlor. I believe they are discussing one of Helena’s feather-brained ideas.
Apparently, she means to have a debutante contest to find Griffendale a wife. ”
Genevieve chortled so hard she snorted.
He also laughed. “Better him than me.”
Genevieve couldn’t agree more, but Jonathan’s finding a wife was one more thing that she didn’t want to think about.
“That means we shall have the drawing room to ourselves,” he said.
Being alone with Jonathan would be wonderful.
Wait! No! She was avoiding him.
At least, she had been avoiding him until he’d told her he was proud of her, heated her body with his smoldering gaze, and told her he desired to talk to her.
He’d watched her with uninhibited intensity.
Then, he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of Edward and Franny, because the truth was, she could have turned down his request. Dare she hope that these gestures meant something?
If only… because she’d give anything to hear him say that he favored her, too.
Please. Oh, please.
She was overthinking things again, and that would not do. Picturing a plain white wall, she tried to clear her mind.
“When we get home, would you like to have a light repast?” Jonathan asked. “I can have a tray delivered to the drawing room. I’ll request oranges. When Josie stayed with us, she ate dozens of hothouse oranges.”
Now Genevieve was picturing fruit. Despite drinking a large tumbler of water before leaving the gymnasium, she was still a bit dehydrated, so a juicy orange sounded perfect.
“You do have to put on weight. However, I don’t want to overfeed you.”
He was probably referencing her gagging on her breakfast. How humiliating. That had been partly nerves, partly the too-large bite, and partly the prodigious amount of eggs she’d eaten since arriving. But currently, she was ravenous. For fruit. Oranges in particular. Her mouth watered.
“’Tis amazing that Franny thinks you are ready for your exhibition and perhaps for a professional fight at The Purple Rabbit. And in such a short time. I am more impressed by you every day.”
If Jonathan continued to heap all these compliments on her, she would become overconfident.
His sigh cut through the carriage. “I have moments when I want to convince you to dress as a man and participate in a pedestrian race, because pugilism is so dangerous.”
She’d been running her entire life. It was time to stay put and fight.
“We are home,” he declared as the carriage rolled to a stop. “No matter my concerns, I want you to know that I plan to support you with whatever athletic goal you pursue. I believe in you, Gen.”
Because he was the most supportive, wonderful man in the world.
*
After freshening up in their separate chambers, Jonathan and Genevieve retired to the drawing room with Horatio, oranges, cheese, bread, and brandy. Jonathan even brought his word shield, “In case you want to write me a note,” he’d said, setting it beside her sketchpad.
While he stoked the hearth and sucked on a sliver of orange, she devoured food and sipped a glass of brandy.
Once he’d tended to the fire, he folded a blanket in half and settled it on the floor, far enough from the flames to keep a spark from singing the pup’s hair, but close enough for him to stay warm as he lazed on the makeshift bed.
To Genevieve’s surprise, Jonathan sat on the settee beside her. They’d been alone together before this, but the drawing room with the cozy fire and lanterns casting gilded shadows was much more intimate than his study, where documents were piled on his desk.
He reached for her hand, hesitated, and then pulled back, but not before she saw his swollen knuckles.
Earlier, out of her peripheral vision, she’d noticed that he’d been pounding the sandbag with so much force, he’d appeared angry.
After the way she’d avoided him, hopefully, he wasn’t pretending the bag was her.
Staying away from him had seemed like the correct thing to do.
In retrospect, she’d been rude and cowardly.
Unfortunately, she’d also lost precious moments of his company.
“Gen, I’m sorry,” he said.
She was the one who should apologize for her icy behavior towards him.
“I read your note, and I favor you, too.” He reached for her hand again, this time entwining his fingers with hers.
“I can’t stop thinking about you, and I want to be with you all the time.
I don’t entirely know what it all means, but for the first time in my life, I don’t want to charm every woman I meet, because I only want to charm you. ”
And charm her, he had, from their first encounter in that alley.
He edged even closer, and his hip brushed against hers. Her heart raced. Lifting their clasped hands to his lips, he pressed a gentle kiss to one of her knuckles.
My, oh, my. His lips were even softer than they’d been in her imagination. Her heart seemed to lighten and lift, then twirl inside her chest like a ballerina performing pirouettes.
“Gen, it matters not if your parents are paupers or monarchs, because I want to spend time with you.”
Viscount Jonathan Davenport had just said the thing she most needed to hear. She gingerly pressed her lips to his swollen knuckles.
“You are so beautiful,” he said.
And he was chiseled to perfection.
Palpable need hung heavy in the space between them. Jonathan’s eyes, hazy with what she was certain was lust, fixated on her mouth. She involuntarily licked her lips as she willed him to kiss her.
Her silent plea worked. He cradled her chin, his tender touch heating her skin.
Angling his head slightly, he brushed his lips over hers.
Need knotted between her thighs, winding itself so tight it bordered on pain.
Bereft of experience and knowledge of the things between men and women, she had no choice but to let him take control.
Slowly, sensually, his lips teased and taunted, brushing, pressing, lingering…
“Oh,” she murmured a half dozen times as he coaxed little mewls of satisfaction from her.
“If I had known kissing you would make your throat work, I’d have done it sooner,” he said with a chuckle.
Her little sounds were hardly words. Still, she smiled against his lips as every inch of her fluttered wildly.
He slid a palm to her nape. His other hand caressed her back. Nipples tingling, she arched into him and shamelessly rubbed her bosom against his torso, the fabric between them doing nothing to dull the sinful scrape.
Clasping her bottom lip between his teeth, he bit down and gently pulled back, then ran his tongue over the spot he’d nipped, easing the pleasant sting.
An expert in his craft, Jonathan Davenport inspired her muse.
She imitated him, tugging on his lip, then swiping her tongue over the indentation her teeth left behind.
“Gen,” he whispered reverently.
For the first time since meeting him, Genevieve felt his equal, and as if she had the power to undo him. She tangled her fingers in his impish waves. They were as silky as she’d imagined.
He lightly sucked her bottom lip. “So sweet,” he whispered. “Like oranges.”
On her indecent moan, his tongue swept into her mouth, which only elicited another unseemly sound from her.
But she couldn’t care less what noises she was making since he was producing sensual sounds of his own.
In the sweetest of caresses, he swirled the tip of his tongue around hers.
To her delight, his swirling tongue tasted like citrus.
Kissing Jonathan had just become her new favorite thing.
It didn’t require words, and it was more intimate than talking.
The sensations brought on by spiraling tongues and searching lips were even better than the euphoria that washed over her when running and boxing.
So romantic. Completely decadent. Unbelievably intimate. Entirely safe.
So, so safe.
After years of living in fear, she trusted someone other than her siblings. So much so that maybe, just maybe, her throat wouldn’t betray her.
“Jonathan,” she whispered, testing her theory.
He pulled back to stare into her eyes. “Gen?”
“Thank you for everything.” Although her voice sounded garbled, she wasn’t ashamed.