Page 43 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

“I second the motion,” Lady Whitehill said.

A hum of excited murmurs filled the air.

Lady Milton leaned close to Genevieve. “Miss Blue,” she whispered. “I recognize you now.” She grabbed Genevieve by the elbow and escorted her through the sea of chattering ladies, into the hall, and down the stairs. Meanwhile, Genevieve’s body quivered, and her heartbeat echoed in her ears. How apropos that one of Jonathan’s lovers would be the one to initiate her demise.

They entered the gymnasium to find that all of the men, except for one, had left. The shirtless, sweaty Viscount Davenport, his back muscles rippling, steadily pounded on one of the sandbags.

Since she was to ride home with Lady Davenport, Genevieve assumed he would be gone by the time the meeting was over. Obviously, she’d been mistaken. He was probably waiting forLady Milton so that he could take her home and make love to her in his carriage.

Fighting the countess’s tug, Genevieve dug her heels into the floor.

“Come along, Gen,” Lady Milton said. “Jonathan,” she called.

Lord Davenport halted his barrage and faced them. Sweat coated his pectorals and abdominals, and the curling damp hair around his ears had darkened. His gaze slid from Lady Milton to stare into Genevieve’s eyes. Her hammering heart tumbled over itself.

Feeling as though she had no other choice, Genevieve allowed herself to be dragged to him.

“Jonathan, how dare you try to convince me you don’t care? You went back for him.” She pointed at Gen. “Him, who is actually a lovely woman.” She wrapped him in her arms as Genevieve helplessly watched. “You dear, sweet, wonderful man.” Although he allowed the embrace, even going so far as to hug the countess back, Lord Davenport’s bright green eyes remained pinned to Genevieve, scorching her to her very soul.

Chapter Thirteen

Genevieve sat inthe carriage across from Jonathan, her hands folded on her lap, the moonlight shadowing her profile and settling into the lines of her tense jaw. He didn’t blame her for being upset with him since he had barged into her room, acting like a cur the previous evening. He’d hoped that by agreeing to be her patron, he’d made amends for his behavior. The look on her face when he’d taken her on as his champion had been one of sheer glee, and he’d do anything to see her smile like that again. But alas, he was currently sitting across from a sourpuss.

She couldn’t be this upset over a non-kiss. Could she? Surely not. He searched his memories for anything else that he might have done to upset her.

Perhaps she was irritated that he hadn’t immediately embraced her new fighting name, but there were things she didn’t understand. He had been so annoyed during his conversation with Griffendale; the man had emphatically insisted she have a moniker immediately, when Jonathan had wanted time to think the matter over. The damn impatient blighter.

Jonathan relived his conversation with Griffendale, trying to make sense of it.

“Davenport, you need to come up with something right away,” Griffendale had said as if he were the authority on the subject, which, for all intents and purposes, he was. “I don’tknow why it didn’t occur to me earlier, but Gen can take Clementine’s place at my Frosty Set-to.”

“I don’t know if she will be ready for an actual fight,” Jonathan had said. This time he would not be baited into making a pudding-witted decision.

Griffendale dismissed Jonathan’s concern with a wrist flick. “Nonsense, ’tis my mill so I can make it an exhibition bout.”

“Tell me more,” Jonathan had said since it sounded promising.

“It will be at the old, abandoned mill at the edge of Redhurst property and will feature prizefighters who train with Calder, Franny, and Josie. I’ll provide generous purses for each of them, and it will drum up excitement for The Silk Knuckles Saloon. Perhaps a female exhibition with timed rounds will encourage other ladies to pursue boxing. Without Franny and Josie competing, the sport is losing some of its luster, and we are in desperate need of new female blood. Roseanna really doesn’t have any true competition. Anyway, the event will be indoors and will last all day and into the evening. I’m having a ring built as we speak. I extended invitations to Thumbs, Spider Calhoun, The Stone, and Pete. And of course, Roseanna and Gen will start off the afternoon. I’ve already talked to Bear, and he has agreed to be the ringmaster and will bring a few umpires and referees with him.”

Maybe if they hadn’t been comparing pricks and fighting over Celeste’s attention, they would have thought of this solution sooner.

“His Grace’s Frosty Set-to has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Griffendale had grinned. “No pun intended.”

This would provide one hell of an opportunity for Gen, and she would probably be thrilled.

“Back to her fighting name,” Griffendale said. “What words come to mind when you think of Gen?”

Jonathan couldn’t say “beautiful,” “confounding,” or “kissable,” so instead he tossed out, “Blue, silent, butterfly, ghost…”

Griffendale had held his finger in the air. “That’s it! The Ghost.”

But ghosts disappeared just as quickly as they appeared, and for some reason, that thought had become disquieting and bitter. Jonathan now regretted associating her with such an ephemeral being. Butterflies, on the other hand, were beautiful creatures that emerged from cocoons. Of course, butterflies also died in your palms if you held them too tightly or for too long.

Both names, Butterfly and The Ghost, left Jonathan with a queasy feeling. As did anything with the word “silent” in it. They should have just called her something like Beautiful Blue Fists.

Damnations, that was a stupid name too.

Well, the point was, he never should have allowed Griffendale to pressure him into making a quick decision. And yet, this was a fabulous opportunity for her, and in the end, Gen seemed pleased with her sobriquet.