Page 10 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Seconds later, and still very much alive, the promise of clean water prodded her onto her feet. Every inch of her body ached, and her legs quivered.

Interestingly, he still hadn’t mentioned his wife or fiancée.

“That’s a girl.” Jonathan removed his finely tailored greatcoat, settling it over her shoulders.

Succumbing to his kind gesture, she snuggled into the garment’s warmth.

“My carriage isn’t too far away.”

She pointed at Horatio.

“Of course.” Jonathan wrinkled his nose. “But only if he also agrees to a bath.”

She sent Horatio a pleading mental message begging him to consent to a thorough scrubbing.

Horatio yawned.

Genevieve slapped her thigh, calling the pup to her. His tail wagged as he climbed onto all fours and then stretched. She fell into step beside Jonathan. Horatio trotted along behind them.

“Elizabeth?” Jonathan asked.

It took her a moment to realize he was still trying to guess her name. She shook her head.

“Katherine.”

She shook her head again.

He handed her the block of cheese, and she nibbled on it as they trekked in companionable silence. Once they reached his vehicle, he assisted her into the carriage. The woman in red was still nowhere to be found.

“I’m ready to go home, Ivan,” he called.

“Yes, sir,” the driver said.

Horatio leapt into the carriage and then hopped onto the squabs beside Genevieve. Sprawling the length of the seat, he rested his chin on her lap. She offered him the rest of the cheese. He licked and munched as he stared up at her with adoration in his eyes.

Cringing, Jonathan sat opposite them. As horrifically dirty as they were, he didn’t voice an objection to the two of them stinking up the lush interior. He tapped on the roof, and the carriage lurched forward.

“I’ve got it,” Jonathan said. “Lilly.”

She felt more like rank dung than a Lilly. She wrinkled her nose.

“I dare say, if you don’t tell me, I’ll have to come up with my own name for you.” Appearing contemplative, he rubbed his chin.

Perhaps she should worry that a man with nefarious intent was abducting her. However, he had food and a bathtub, and he looked more like a fairytale prince than a malefactor.

“Blue,” he blurted.

Nonplused, she stared at him.

“I’m going to call you Blue until you tell me your real name.”

But her clothing was various shades of brown, tan, and sludge. However, since she couldn’t answer him without making a fool of herself, she couldn’t and wouldn’t complain.

“Where in the devil did you learn to fight like that?” he asked.

She longed to tell him part of the truth—she’d engaged in pretend mills with Christopher and the boys in the village. She’d take the rest of her truth to the grave—she’d used their games to learn both offensive and defensive techniques because she feared her father would eventually try to kill her like he had her mother. There were also the two times Whale had let her sneak into the basement of the Purple Rabbit to warm herself. Fascinated, she’d studied the pugilists as they prowled the ring.

Even if she could find her voice and talk to Jonathan, her aristocratic diction and elocution would betray her upbringing, perhaps leading him to her family. And then there was her worst fear. What if she slipped and said, “I watched my father wrap his hands around my mother’s neck and squeeze until she gasped her last breath?” Surely, the story would tumble out of her the second she could tell the tale.