Chapter Fourteen
Dressed in Jonathan’s out-of-fashion breeches and too-large shirt, and the shoes Franny had given her, Genevieve stepped softly, wending the hallway to the dark stairwell, hoping that Jonathan was awake.
She did not relish the idea of running without him, even though there was no way the pampered Kilsby was up this early.
The truth was that she was worried that Jonathan had changed his mind despite the fact that last night they’d connected on a visceral level.
He had opened up and shared his deepest secrets, which must have been painful for a man with as much pride as the viscount.
She did not think less of him. How could she when she fought her own abnormalities?
In fact, now she understood why she found him so appealing.
Underneath the swagger and bravado, he was a good man who cared about his friends, his family, and his mother’s cause.
He’d simply confirmed what she already suspected; despite his constant protestations, he cared deeply about so many things.
A self-centered, pampered lordling would not bring home a mendicant and her mangy flea-infested dog, then treat them like honored guests.
He’d also confessed that he’d almost kissed her when he was inebriated. He must have been so deep in his cups that he had no idea that she’d leaned toward him, her lips tingling with desire.
One thing was for certain, if Horatio hadn’t jumped between them, they would have kissed last night.
With the dawn of a new day came the understanding that Horatio’s interference was for the best. She would struggle to face Jonathan if they had kissed.
Hopefully, she was needlessly fretting, and he wouldn’t push her away to protect his hubris now that he’d unburdened himself.
He might be a good man, but he was still a man, and as far as she knew, they all had prideful sensibilities.
Fear that he would not be waiting for her gripped her so hard, she halted, her foot hovering above the next step.
So what if he changes his mind? You’ve survived the streets and a murderous father who detests you, so you can certainly run in a fashionable area of London on your own. After all, she would be disguised as a man, the ultimate protection.
Firming her resolve, she finished descending the stairs.
The second she reached the first floor, she smiled because Jonathan sat on a gilded chair in the foyer, studying his pocket watch.
His stockinged legs hung over the chair’s arm, and his hair stuck out every which way.
Stubble dotted his cheeks and chin. Even pre-valet and disheveled, the viscount was exceedingly handsome.
“I hate how the alarm on this thing tinkles. Damnable, annoying sound. And I dare say, I don’t think humans are supposed to be up at this God forsaken hour.
” Yawning, he snapped the watch closed and stood.
“I was afraid you’d overslept after you coerced me into this.
” His lip quirked up on one side, letting her know that he was teasing.
Even tired and “coerced,” the man kept his good humor.
She did a double take because he was dressed in old-fashioned breeches, like the pair he’d loaned her.
The sleeves of his untucked shirt were rolled, and a blue kerchief was wrapped around his neck.
Instead of his Hessians, he wore flat leather shoes.
Of course, she shouldn’t have been surprised.
He was dressed for ease of movement, not an evening at the theatre or a formal dinner.
“You look like a woman,” he declared, his nose wrinkled.
You look like biscuits at breakfast. And, oh, how she adored sweets in the morning.
He unwrapped the kerchief from his neck and handed it to her. “Here. Wrap this around your head. I was going to use it to soak up my sweat, but you need it more than I do.”
She gratefully accepted it. Inhaling his intoxicating scent that clung to the fabric, she faced the mirror, folded it in half, and tied it in place.
Since she’d pinned her hair in a tight chignon, all she had to do was tuck a few renegade wisps beneath the covering.
Facing him, she held out her hands, palms up, presenting herself.
He frowned. “You still look like a girl.”
Seeing as how she hated for him to see her as anything but feminine, she couldn’t help but smile. But unfortunately, she couldn’t run across the city looking like a girl who dressed like a man.
“Wait here,” he said.
His stockings clung to his well-formed calves as he climbed the stairs. If only he’d tucked in his shirt so she could see if his buttocks were also perfectly shaped. Surely, they were since his back, chest, biceps, and of course, his calves were chiseled.
Her body heated, and she swallowed a mouthful of saliva.
Hopefully, exerting herself during the run fixed her out-of-control libido.
Pushing aside her naughty thoughts about separating Jonathan Davenport from his clothing, she hopped back and forth from one foot to the other.
She continued preparing her body for physical exertion until the stairs creaked, alerting her to his return.
While he’d been gone, he’d tucked his shirt into his breeches, slid into a wool Spencer, and tied a brown kerchief around his neck.
He’d also retrieved a second men’s spencer that he handed to her. “To keep you warm and hide your—” he waved his hand in her direction—“femaleness.”
Grinning, she donned the coat.
He studied her, his nose wrinkling. “Good thing ’tis still dark.”
She supposed that meant she still looked like a woman, but what else could she do? It wasn’t as if she could sprout a beard and moustache with a snap of her fingers. She followed him out the front door and onto the front stoop.
They were met with silence and an endless dark blue sky. She filled her lungs with the damp air, then exhaled a white puff that swirled upward until it dispersed. Magical, truly.
“For the love of God,” he mumbled. “Not even the bloody birds are awake, and it’s colder than Medusa’s quim.”
Frigid, peaceful, safe, and glorious, so she would not let his unseemly language faze her. In fact, maybe now that she was a pugilist, she would take up swearing. Unfortunately, it would have to be in her mind, or when she was alone with Horatio. Bloody bollocks!
Yes, indeed. There was something immensely satisfying about thinking indecent words, so it was probably exceedingly fun to say them out loud.
She lifted her arms overhead, stretching her fingertips to the sky. He imitated her. She dropped forward and touched her toes. He joined her. Together they hung upside down. She slowly breathed in and out, as her muscles elongated in a delicious stretch.
They simultaneously stood. Raising his brow, he chuckled, then reached for her. His fingers brushed her cheek. Heat bolted through her. Was he about to cradle her jaw, pull her close, and kiss her on his front stoop? Yes, please.
Instead, he rearranged her kerchief. “That’s better. ’Twas a bit off kilter,” he declared. “Next time we are upside down, I’ll hold it in place.”
He blinked, looking slightly befuddled. She, on the other hand, found the idea of him touching her, even if it was just the top of her head, arousing.
Goodness. She was ridiculous for thinking he was about to press his lips to hers. He probably thought she looked silly in his kerchief. Well, it was a good thing she’d been mistaken, since she wanted to go for a morning run right now.
However, she wouldn’t mind kissing later.
With an exasperated huff at herself, she returned to stretching.
“I thought we could run to Grosvenor Square and from there Hyde Park, then circle back. That should be almost five miles. So it should take us—” he rubbed his jaw—“about five hours.”
Silly man.
It would have taken her about forty minutes before she’d withered away to nothing.
Now it might take a bit longer. But Jonathan Davenport’s self-depreciation did not fool her.
With legs like his, he could surely keep pace with her when she wasn’t sprinting—that is, if she were still as fast as a brown hare.
They squatted, then stood, half a dozen times. After the sixth repetition, he folded his arms across his chest and watched her. She continued to drop and rise.
“If you keep that up, you’ll be too tired to do your road work.”
She needed pliant muscles because she had no intention of injuring herself. If this fell through, her dreams would turn to ash. Finishing her twelfth squat, she bounced on her toes.
He grinned as if he thought she was a goose for taking this so seriously. Or perhaps he was enjoying watching her.
If only…
“Ready?” he asked.
Exceedingly ready. She skipped down the steps and dashed to the street, leaving him behind.
“Wait up, Gen,” he called to her.
She looked over her shoulder and waved.
He leapt from the stoop, landing on the front walkway with the agility of a tumbler.
As she suspected, he easily caught up to her. She slowed down, pacing them for what she thought was the appropriate speed for their intended distance.
Heel to toe, her slippered feet rolled along the cobblestones, her arms loosely pumping. His step was heavier than hers, but still light for a man of his size. His inhalations and exhalations matched hers, clouds of condensation rising, as they ran in companionable silence.
The homes they passed were still dark inside, and it was the rare carriage that rattled past them.
By the time they reached Hyde Park, a sheen of sweat coated her skin, and she no longer felt the cold.
The horizon was ablaze. Stripes of gold bled into red, which flared into the purple wisps that painted the sky.
The hard cobblestones gave way to uneven gravel that crunched beneath their feet, and gold and red leaves blanketed the trees that lined the path.
“’Tis beautiful,” Jonathan said, reverence in his voice.
“Indeed,” she whispered so low he probably hadn’t heard her.