Page 38 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Genevieve’s father and Lord Kilsby exuded negative controlling qualities.

Such wise words, my lady,she wrote.

’Twas early evening when Lord Davenport entered the drawing room, looking devilishly handsome, although not anymore well-rested.

“Gen, why don’t you ride with my mother? I will meet you at The Silk Knuckles,” he announced. “Unfortunately, I have interviews scheduled.”

“Gen can also ride home with me,” Lady Davenport said. “We have a ladies’ only meeting.”

The viscount frowned as if this was distressing news. “I forgot about that.”

“I had Cook prepare an early meal,” Lady Davenport said. “Do you have time to join us?”

“I do not.” He gagged and his face turned a putrid shade of olive green. “I find I don’t have much of an appetite. Serves me right for over imbibing, I suppose.” He patted Horatio, then strolled away.

Genevieve’s heart sank. He was definitely avoiding her.

After a light but satisfying dinner of roasted goose and vegetables, Genevieve changed into Jonathan’s shirt and breeches. Although many of the ladies had worn loose-fitting dresses, and Franny and Josie knotted the sleeves of their gowns around their waists, chemises showing, Genevieve preferred the anonymity and freedom of movement that male clothing afforded her. She also tucked her hair into the hood of Jonathan’s wool cloak for her carriage ride across town. Hopefully, this kept Kilsby from recognizing her if he was lurking nearby.

Perhaps she should have been nervous, but the second she entered the gymnasium, effervescent bubbles seemed to infuse her blood. She had definitely grown bolder since running away. If only she could regain her voice. As she made her way to Franny, people waved and called hello to her. Smiling, she waved back.

Franny presented her with leather shoes with cork soles, and a pair of linen hand wraps. Overwhelmed by the perfect gifts, Genevieve squeezed Franny’s hand. She slid out of her boots, and into her new shoes, which fit perfectly. Franny chatted away, explaining their upcoming session as she bound her wrists, then tucked and secured the strips of fabric around Genevieve’s hands.

“Your hands are soft, and these will keep the skin from tearing,” Franny explained. “They give your wrists a bit of support. We can also get you a pair of mufflers for when youstart sparring. We don’t recommend you use them all the time because you won’t be able to wear them in an actual fight.”

Genevieve pointed at Franny’s mouth. Luckily, her coach seemed to understand the unasked question. Franny exaggerated her smile, showing off her pretty teeth.

“We do not allow our fighters to punch each other in the face during sparring sessions because facial bones and teeth are quite hard on your fists. Not to say you won’t get hit in the face during a mill, because you will. It helps that Bear insists his lady fighters not get hit in the mouth. He thinks men wager more on comely women. And keep in mind, aiming for the breadbasket will knock the wind from your opponent, which will debilitate them more than knocking out their teeth.”

As much as she wanted to fight, Genevieve did not favor having her teeth knocked out, so this was comforting information.

She started her session by performing one hundred deep knee bends, fifty lunges, fifty squats, and fifty push-ups. Franny joined her, counting every repetition out loud.

Next came dumbbell training. Contracting her biceps, Genevieve curled the iron. With Franny’s instruction, she engaged her shoulders and hefted weights over her head. Settling heavier dumbbells on her shoulders, she copied Franny by squatting as deep as she could.

“Engage your abdominal muscles and use your thighs to push up through your heels.” Franny watched her critically. “I want to ensure you don’t move incorrectly and hurt yourself.”

Eventually Franny stepped back, giving Genevieve more space. “Splendid form. Once you are too tired to engage the correct muscles you must stop. Lifting weights when exhausted means bad form and then, unnecessary injuries.”

By the time Genevieve finished, sweat dripped, her heart hammered, and a life-affirming giddiness had taken hold of her.

As if Genevieve wasn’t already having the time of her life, Franny held up straw-filled mitts as targets so that Genevieve could practice her punches.

“Exhale air from your lungs forcefully when you punch,” Franny told her. “It helps you increase power and strike harder. It also prevents you from becoming winded when you get hit in the breadbasket.”

The drill was akin to a game that she was quite good at, so Genevieve easily duplicated the sharp hissing sound. Now, if she could just form words.

“Excellent,” Franny said as she backed away. “Now, stay with me.”

While controlling her breath and throwing jabs, Genevieve followed her coach. Their drill became more intricate as she added hooks, crosses, and uppercuts, depending on where Franny positioned the mitts.

After a while, Franny allowed Genevieve to choose her own combinations.

“You are starting to repeat patterns,” Franny told her. “You don’t want your opponent to predict your combinations.”

Easier said than done.

“You are doing well,” Franny assured her. “It takes a lot of practice to be unpredictable.”