Page 83 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

“When you ask me to marry you?”

He leaped from his perch. “Why in the hell would I ask you to marry me?” He rubbed his brow. “Wait a bloody minute. Davenport and his complicated wagers.”

Josie’s heart sped up. Something seemed very wrong. “No. The Widow of Whitehall made the wager.”

“What wager is that? And what does Bessie Dove-Lyon have to do with any of this?”

Josie wet her dry lips and then spoke slowly so as not to add to the confusion. “If you ask me to marry you, then Nicolas gets his family’s estate back. Of course, I would say no. I know we can’t actually marry, and I am in love with Nicolas.”

“What the bloody hell?” His eyes grew so wide they looked as if they might explode from his face. “I have no idea what you are talking about. The wager is about how and when the dutiful heir to the Shiredale Earldom will propose to a pretty pugilist who is not part of the aristocracy. ’Tis said to be the love story of the season.”

“What?” Josie asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“We aristocrats do make some insane wagers, do we not? I suppose for some of us that comes from having too much time and too much blunt at our disposal.”

“I don’t understand,” Josie said. And yet, a mental picture was coming together.

Jonathon and the Widow of Whitehall whispering as she and Nicolas argued.

The Davenports and their secret communications.

Agatha confessing she had done all of this for Nicolas.

Did everyone who knew Nicolas want to protect him from his family curse? Did they all believe that he deserved to find true love?

Overwrought with sentiment, she leaned forward and gasped for breath. It seemed that London’s elite thought her worthy of the most honorable man of their acquaintance. Her! Jabbing Josie, a woman who’d grown up on the street until a widowed boxing coach took her in and taught her to use her fists and her fury to protect herself.

She needed to understand everything. She sat tall and met the duke’s concerned gaze. “You had no idea that the Widow of Whitehall forced the Davenports, Nicolas, and me into a farce in which you were to ask me to marry you in order for Jonathon to earn his way back into the widow’s good graces? Or that this ruse was the only way Nicolas could clear his family’s debts? You had no idea that I wanted to be your fighter?”

“Not at all.” The duke cringed. “I do not plan to marry for a very long time. In fact, I might say to hell with having an heir and never marry. I only know about Davenport’s wager with every betting man in theton. And I’d hoped when you showed up tonight that you would approach me about fighting in the mill.”

“What did you wager, Your Grace?”

His chest puffed. “I plan to win the entire purse because I wagered that Nicolas will propose to you tonight in front of my aunt’s guests. I aim to see that is exactly what happens. Damn fine bloke Nicolas is. And you are one hell of a woman.”

“So, I am to be your champion and win the blunt to make my dreams come true, and Nicolas will gain a wife but lose his estate?”

“It seems so.” He sighed. “Damn shame about that falling down monstrosity his family calls home.”

A crying shame. “Nicolas will be humiliated when the widow takes it to pay the earl’s gambling debts.”

Although he shrugged nonchalantly, Griffendale’s eyes were filledwith sorrow. “The man deserves a better legacy, but at least he will have true love.”

“You could help Nicolas,” she said. “You are the only one who can.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “Let us sneak back to the ballroom and win at least two of the three wagers.”

It had been unfair to expect this proud man to trade his humiliation for Nicolas’s. She rose, and together they walked to the door.

“On our way to the ballroom, tell me about this gymnasium you plan to open.” His eyebrow waggle was followed by a wink. What a winsome, coordinated chap. “Because once I win my wager, I shall have quite a bit of blunt to invest.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Josephine Martin wasthe elegant, emerald foliage in the garden of colorful blooms. The resilient stem and leaves that remained long after the delicate petals fluttered to the ground. If Nicolas were a poet he’d write odes to her beauty. But since he was simply a journalist, he’d have to be content with a few flowery sentiments unworthy of her magnificence.

Nicolas would count the minutes until they returned to Greenpark House. Once he was certain no one bore witness, he’d sneak to Josie’s chamber. As beautiful as she was in her gown, she’d be even more glorious out of it. He’d peel it from her, worshipping every inch of revealed flesh. He’d watch her nipples pebble and her cheeks flush. Then, he’d celebrate their future by sinking deep inside her. They’d make love until dawn’s early glow poked through the top of the draperies.

He’d felt like a jealous fool watching her dance with Griffendale. The man was much too handsome. Entirely too ducal. When she’d placed her hand on Griffendale’s chest, Nicolas had fought to keep from flying across the room to punch his chum in the face.