Page 57 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

Franny blocked and then knocked Josie’s fistto the side. “’Tis so romantic.”

“Romantic?” Huffing, Josie unleashed a flurry of jabs.

Franny effortlessly evaded the onslaught.

“He is marrying that cow,” Josie said. “He is simply giving up and marrying her. And after she trapped him. Why isn’t he fighting back?”

“Aristocrats have an odd sense of duty,” Franny said as she leaned to the opposite side, thwarting Josie’s cross.

“Indeed.” All this curtsying, bowing, and pretending to be something she wasn’t positively solidified Josie’s theory that the aristocracy hid behind insincere etiquette and outdated traditions.

“Would you throw a blasted punch?” Josie demanded.

Franny sniggered. “I can’t give you a bruise before your fancy party.”

Growling, Josie put her power behind her hook, twisted her hip, and smashed Franny in the side.

“Omph.” Franny doubled over and then quickly resumed her stance.

Josie bent forward and inhaled a calming breath. She couldn’t take her frustrations out on her best friend. This was supposed to be a training session, not a fight to the death. Once composed, she dropped into her stance and brought a protective fist to her cheek.

Franny followed her lead.

“Last night, Nicolas said that he wants to call off the wager,” Josie said. “He wants to march up to the duke and tell him I should be his champion.”

“Why are you frowning? Isn’t that what you want?”

“But then Nicolas doesn’t stand a chance of winning his estate back.”

A rake of a duke would never propose to a pugilist after two dances,Franny’s arched brow seemed to scream. At least she didn’t say it out loud, which was a godsend since Josie was currently struggling with self-doubt over this insane plan.

“Are you more concerned about Nicolas’s estate, his marriage tothe cow, or Ruth being the duke’s champion?” Franny asked.

“All of it,” Josie huffed.

Performing fast footwork, Franny weaved around her. Josie doubled her speed to keep up.

“Nicolas says that my stance is too low,” Josie said. “Do you believe that applesauce?”

“Sometimes you are a bit heavy on your feet,” Franny said. “’Tis why I just danced around you.”

“Would you stop taking Nicolas’s side?” Josie’s fist shot out twice.

Franny chortled so hard that the second jab caught her cheek. Even though the mufflers added padding, the hit still seemed to sober her best friend. Consequently, for the next ten minutes, they sparred in almost silence, except for the tell-tale pugilist’s hiss matching the cadence of their punches. They were both drenched with perspiration and gasping when the session ended.

Sitting side by side on an old wooden bench, they consumed oranges. The sweet, sticky juice dripped down their chins. They unwound their wrist wraps and used strips of fabric to blot sweat and citrus from their bodies.

“Thank you, Franny. I needed a good session,” Josie said. “You really are rather skilled. Better than most of my opponents. You should consider competing again.”

Franny shook her head. “My prizefighter days are behind me. I simply want to teach and coach.”

After seriously injuring one of her opponents, competition had become an emotional topic for Franny, so Josie changed the subject. “Soon, we shall have our very own gymnasium.”

“I’ve thought of a name,” Franny said.

Josie untied her sleeves and wriggled her dress into place. “Oh, what is that?” She turned her back to Franny.

As Franny secured the buttons, her words tickled Josie’s ear. “The Silk Knuckles Saloon.”