Page 31 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Horatio, amazing friend that he was, tilted his head attentively as he listened to her.

“On the morrow, I am learning to use dumbbells. Franny said they are ‘miraculous muscle makers.’ I dare say, she is quite humorous. But I digress, the point is, I should get stronger within weeks. I am also supposed to eat a lot of meat, eggs, beef broth, oranges, and porridge.” She sighed. “I have become so gaunt. However, if I continue to eat like I did this evening, I will soon resemble an elephant.”

Horatio’s adoring gaze assured her that he found her perfect just the way she was.

“I thought I would be terrified, but I wasn’t nervous at all. I suppose I was too fascinated to feel fear. So many different types of people patronize the business. Adolescent boys and ladies in their middling years go there. Remarkable, truly. There were aristocrats, working-class individuals, and champion athletes, as well as a few ladies who were quite uncoordinated.”

Genevieve chuckled as she pictured Bridget Wentworth flitting around like a dying insect. If only she could have had a life where she could be friends with someone as daring as Bridget. Her father’s acquaintances had never brought their wives or daughters to Thorn Manor—for good reason. They knew her father. Her stomach clenched as she thought of him.

Horatio woofed, bringing her back to their conversation.

“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. So. Everyone is there with the goal of being the best version of themself. Isn’t that inspiring?” She sighed. “I think ’tis so wonderful.”

“Wrawra,”Horatio murmured in agreement.

“Some of the ladies are very influential. They are leading the fight for women’s autonomy. There was even a duke there. Tristan Keats, the one who likes—” she leaned close to whisper in Horatio’s ear—“orgies.”

“Wrhat?”Horatio half woofed, half mumbled.

“Show off,” she teased her talking dog. “I know, so scandalous, and yet the duke is quite amicable. I dare say, I rather liked him. Although if Celeste Milton chose him over Lord Davenport, she needs her head examined because Jonathan…” His given name slid over her tongue like warmed honey. “Oh, Jonathan,” she murmured.

Lounging in the water as she whispered her handsome host’s name held appeal, and yet, so did sleep.

She lifted herself from the tub and stepped out. Then, after toweling herself dry, she slipped into her borrowed nightdress and brushed her hair until the strands were knot-free and silky smooth.

Leaving the lamp burning, she climbed into bed. Horatio leaped onto the mattress and plopped beside her. He nudged himself against her, and they stared into each other’s eyes.

“I miss my siblings,” she told him. “I pray they are safe.”

Horatio licked her cheek.

“Good night, boy.” She kissed his wet nose.

He closed his eyes and soon snored. Unfortunately, as exhausted as she was, Genevieve lay beside him, fretting.

What kind of big sister runs away, leaving her younger siblings behind?

A terrible one to be sure.

And yet, if she’d been carried off to Blackheart Manor, she might never see Christopher and Sophia again. Lord Kilsby would have forced her into his bed and impregnated her. Now, at least, she had the freedom to do something. But what?

Franny and Josie had told her that female prizefighters sometimes won large purses, especially if they caught the attention of a wealthy sponsor. Might Lord Davenport sponsor her? Since he had already confessed that he did not want a commitment, and no viscount would court a driggle-draggle, sponsoring her was the next best thing. If she won, she could afford to hire someone to retrieve Christopher and Sophia. Then, if she continued winning, she could earn enough blunt to buy the three of them, and Horatio, a small but comfortable home. That was, if she could find someone willing to sell to a woman. Once her father died, Christopher could claim his inheritance, including Thorn Manor—if there was anything left of it. Either way, the three of them would forever be safe from their father’s machinations.

She winced, recalling Lord Kilsby on the front stoop of their London property. He had to have been looking for her, which meant he suspected she was in the city. If he were lurking about, she and Christopher would struggle to find each other.

She fought the panic washing over her, eventually shoving it deep. She would no longer be a victim because she’d been blessed with this opportunity to become a champion. She would ask Viscount Jonathan Davenport to sponsor her, and then she’d win enough to save herself and her siblings.

“Yes,” she declared. “I am going to be a bareknuckle boxing champion.”

But after tossing and turning for what felt like forever, Genevieve still stared at the ceiling, obsessing over her handsome host, living happily ever after with her siblings, and becoming a prize fighter.

“Silly woman,” she scolded herself. She may have replaced her fretting with happy sentiments but sleep still eluded her.

Sometimes, reading helped focus her racing thoughts. Unfortunately, she’d left the copy ofEmmain the drawing room. The Davenports were so hospitable; surely, they wouldn’t mind if she stole to the drawing room in the middle of the night to retrieve it.

Moments later, she was wrapped in Caroline’s robe, lantern in hand, navigating the hallway. She boldly pushed on the door, entering the softly lit room. It seemed that her newfound sport was already bringing out her brazen side. Chuckling, she headed for the side table where she’d left the tome.

“Good evening,” someone said.