Page 3 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Grumbling under her breath, something about being treated like a baby, Sophia climbed the stairs.

“Come on, Gen,” Christopher said, grabbing her hand.

*

Was it possiblethat Lord Kilsby had grown more repulsive since Genevieve had last seen him? Because today he resembled a long-beaked, scowling vulture, as his unsettling, beady eyes perused her from head to toe. The lime and black stripedbreeches clinging to his long legs did nothing to help his appearance. He steepled his spindly fingers and smirked. By Jove, his yellow fangs were one shade darker than his stripes.

If only their father had not sent Christopher away the second he entered the drawing room, then Genevieve might have moral support.

“I thought she was younger the last time I saw her,” Lord Kilsby said in his nasally chirp.

What kind of ludicrous observation was that? Of course, she was younger a few months ago.

Her father swirled his drink. “One and twenty, like I s-said,” he slurred.

“I dare say, she’s almost an on-the-shelf spinster. You are lucky I am willing to take her off your hands, Arthur.” The earl’s gaze landed on Genevieve’s bosom, which was hidden behind a pelisse and a modest frock. He licked his lips. “But she will do quite nicely. Pretty. Strong. Biddable. Silent.”

Genevieve folded her arms over her chest and glared at the earl.

“Girl, you will be leaving with Lord Kils-sby right away,” her father said.

Her heart pounded so hard it felt as if her ribcage was vibrating. “Why?” she tried to ask, but the garbled sound she emitted sounded nothing like a word.

“Are you so overcome with joy that you are speechless, sweetling?” Kilsby chuckled as if his comment was astute and humorous, when it was neither.

“Dimwitted ninny,” her father said. He gulped whatever he happened to be drinking and poured another glass. “Hopefully, she doesn’t pass-s her sickness on to your children. And if she does-s, I don’t want to hear a thing about it.” He burped. “A wager paid is fi-final.”

Children?Her father couldn’t. He wouldn’t. These were the words of a drunk man.

What was she thinking? Of course, he would lose her in a wager. He’d probably give her away to be rid of her.

“I don’t require a wife with brains,” the earl said. “I have enough of those to spare.”

Genevieve would like a say on that matter.

“I simply need a woman to keep my bed warm and give me an heir. The late countess was useless. Cold and barren. Sweetling, if we leave soon, we shall be at Blackheart Manor before the sun sets, and then we can begin our life together.” He winked at Genevieve.

“Marry her first, you lecherous old fool,” her father said. “I don’t want her back here with a babe in her belly that I have to rais-se. I’ve s-s-suffered her company long enough.”

Genevieve gagged. She would slice the earl’s throat wide open before she married or lay with him.

“Run along, girl.” Her father swished his wrist overhead. “Pack your bags-s and be gone.”

Genevieve shook her head.

Her father glared at her. “You do know what happens when a woman defies-s me, don’t you?”

Of course she did. He squeezed the last breath from their lungs. But he didn’t know that she knew. Did he?

By God, if her father was aware that she’d watched him strangle her mother, was her life also in danger? Had he known all these years? Is that why he hated her so much?

Genevieve left the drawing room as nonchalantly as one could, while tears streamed down their cheeks. Once she reached the foyer, she retrieved a silver candlestick from the long table. Just let her father or Kilsby come after her. She’d beat them to death with a family heirloom. Once Kilsby left, she’dreturn. Hopefully, Christopher and Sophia would not fret while she was gone.

With one possession on her person, she followed her father’s orders and ran, right out the main entrance and across the front lawn. Gone. She didn’t stop sprinting until her lungs burned and her legs refused to move.

Chapter One

After a brutalday of staring at ledgers whilst the letters and numbers changed directions and positions every time he blinked, Viscount Jonathan Davenport deserved this night out. Wagers, ale, a mill, and cunny—what more did a man need? He, for one, required nothing else. Well, no, not exactly. He might like to read his blasted ledgers and estate documents without his mother or best friend Nicolas Wentworth’s assistance, but apart from that, this night at The Purple Rabbit, watching pugilists pummel each other, and drinking himself silly while a voluptuous dowager countess clung to him, was the perfect panacea.