Page 35 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

Josie nodded. Standing, she strode to the door, hesitated, and then faced them. “Thank you for a lovely lunch, Cousin Agatha and Cousin Jonathon. Enjoy your trip to the bookstore, Nicolas.”

Her out-of-character salutation felt much too formal. Perhaps he missed her calling himMeddlesome.

He scratched his head.

No, that wasn’t it at all. It was a horrific moniker. He simply missed the irreverent, full-of-life Jabbing Josie.

She left the drawing room, taking all of the warmth in the room with her.

Nicolas entered GreenparkHouse with a package tucked into the crock of his arm. He might not be able to save his family seat, but he could give Bridget a new book. He’d scraped up what little blunt he had left because this particular edition ofPersuasionwas leather bound with gilt lettering on the front cover and spine. He had hoped to purchase a copy ofThe Modern Prometheusbut Mr. Mendling had sold his last copy days before. It was probably for the best since he should not encourage his sister’s eccentricities.

“Good day,” Nicolas called to Peters and Mrs. Love.

He bound up the stairs feeling quite light. It seemed his jaunt about town had given him a second wind, and he so loved purchasing presents. Whistling, he strolled past the drawing room. A splash of pink in his peripheral made him halt in his tracks. He backtracked two steps and peered into the room.

The furniture had been pushed to the side. Humming a cheerful tune, Josie pirouetted about the room, her glazed-over expression betraying her ecstasy.

He should continue to his chamber, but his legs seemed to be glued to the carpet as he playedvoyeurto this dream-like tableau. Leaning against the door frame, he took in every detail. Her hair and skirts swirling. The gentle curve in her upper back as she spun. Her slippered feet inrelevé.

With her next twirl, she faced him. Her eyes widened, and she halted mid-arabesque, her extended leg hovering in the air.

“I’m sorry.” Nicolas cringed. These constant apologies and his odd fascination with Josephine Martin were beyond ridiculous.

She stood tall and inclined her chin to his elbow. “What did you purchase?”

It took him a moment to recall that he held a book wrapped in brown paper.

“I’m sorry. Was it unladylike of me to blurt out that question?” she asked. “Because I suppose ’tis none of my business.”

Her apologizing to him for once was a pleasant change.

“A book for my sister. She favors the author, and this is a new edition. Quite lovely.” His chuckle was bittersweet. “How I decided to spend the last of my blunt.”

“How kind of you.” For the first time in days, her eyes met his without looking away. “You are a good brother. I look forward to meeting her.”

His common sense told him to apologize for interrupting her, excuse himself, and leave her to her dancing. His heart argued, demanding he stay and talk to her about anything and everything. However, it was his body that won the battle because he dropped the package on a side table, sauntered up to her, and held out his hand.

“May I have this dance, my lady?” he asked.

Chapter Fifteen

Nicolas bent atthe waist, performing a bow as gentlemanly as a fairy tale prince. Palm up, he held out his hand. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

Josie didn’t want to overthink his offer. After days of doing everything in her power to avoid being alone with Nicolas, she simply wanted to spend time with him.

She laid her hand on top of his. “I would be delighted, my lord.” She barely recognized her sweet, cultured voice.

The second he entwined his fingers with hers, the last of her resistance melted.

Wait, that wasn’t quite correct. Her self-preservation had abandoned her days ago when he’d devoted himself to aiding her. She’d been an unholy arse, and he’d still pledged to help her even though he’d given up hope of retrieving everything dear to him.

Unfortunately, these warm, mushy feelings overtaking her had to be more than her self-preservation instincts.

He rested his palm on her shoulder blade. Tingles fluttered to her toes. She placed her hand on his shoulder and permitted herself a glimpse into eyes that were such an intense shade of blue that theyburned her pupils. Or was it that her heart was on fire?

His exhale blew across her cheek as soft as the wind whispering over a flower.

Wind? Flowers? Hearts? Scorching eyes?Good Lord, she was besotted. She’d fight these missish poetic notions later. For now, she assumed her waltz position, looked over her left shoulder, and permitted him to take the lead.