Page 25 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

“I know. You are very hungry. I find it utterly archaic that a woman cannot eat until she is full when in the presence of others.”

“I am so very hungry, and I am surrounded by so much food and wealth.” She sighed. “And I’m lonely. I miss Franny and Coach.”

Dare he tell her he was also overwhelmed and somewhat lonely?

“Sit.” He pointed at the small worktable in the corner, which was much more intimate and cozier than the large table in the center of the room. “I was going to heat myself a cup of milk. Would you like yours warmed?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I favor warm milk, I do.”

Nicolas cleaned thefloor and laid out a feast of new rolls, cheese, ham, and biscuits. He’d also found honey to stir into their milk. After lighting the oil lamp and placing it in the center of the kitchen table beside his candle, he sat across from Josie, the crackling fire in the Rumford stove warming his back.

Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled in the light. She truly was a vision in the borrowed white dressing gown.

“I didn’t know aristocrats knew how to scrub floors.” Josie grinned.

He snorted. “An impoverished aristocrat knows how to do a lot of things you wouldn’t expect.”

“You don’t have servants?” she asked.

“We still have a few, but we lost most of them a couple of years ago.”

Josie bit into an almond biscuit and moaned before she popped the rest of the sweet into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and licked her fingers clean.

Nicolas couldn’t help himself; he smiled at her. Miracle of miracles, she smiled back, and the loneliness that had consumed him of late eased.

“I thought ladies were not to be alone with a man without a chaperone,” she said.

“Yes…well…” Damn, he didn’t want to return to his chamber just yet. He was having a lovely time. But alas, she was correct. He prepared to stand.

“I’m teasing you.” She picked up another biscuit and broke off a piece. “Remember I ain’t…I am not a real lady.”

“In some ways, you are more a lady than any woman I’ve ever met,” he said.

The piece of biscuit hovered halfway to her mouth. Those plump, pink lips. “Are you making fun of me?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No. I find many society women superficial and shallow. You are refreshingly genuine.”

Her eyes widened.

“You don’t believe me?” he asked.

“The opposite. I think you are telling me the truth.”

“Splendid,” he said. “Because I am.”

And just like that, the tension between them lifted.

She placed the uneaten biscuit on her plate and stared into his eyes, gifting him with a compassionate look that touched his soul. “What happened that you lost all of your servants, and why does the Widow of Whitehall wield this power over you?”

Perhaps he desperately desired to unburden his misfortunes to someone because her question was all the encouragement he required to let his story pour forth.

He told her about having to sell the London Townhouse. He fought tears as he repeated the story about his brother over-imbibing, falling off his horse, suffering a brain injury, and dying within one week. He explained that his father had used their family seat as collateral to pay his gambling debts to Bessie Dove-Lyon. He described Bridget’s eccentric humor and how she’d scared off every suitor because of her views on female equality. He mentioned that he intended to marry Lydia, travel the world, and write about his experiences. But then he’d received a letter from his sister that broke his heart and he had to return to Blue Cliff Manor.

And Josephine Martin listened to every word of his story.

“You were engaged?” she asked.

He didn’t want to talk about another woman, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, he needed Josie to know everything.