Page 44 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

The carriage hit a bump, pulling Jonathan from his over-thinking. “You seem to favor your fighting name,” he said, hoping to ease the tension in her jaw.

It worked, and her lips turned upward, but only for one moment, and then her muscles tightened faster than a virginal pastor in a brothel of witches.

“In a few weeks, Griffendale is hosting a tournament at his estate. He wants to start the event with the exhibition fight between you and Roseanna. What do you say?”

She clasped her hands to her chest as she nodded enthusiastically.

Thankfully, he’d finally predicted her reaction correctly. He relaxed against the squabs. Unfortunately, she exhaled then stared at her hands, folded in her lap.

Perhaps she was upset because she’d wanted to ride home with his mother. He should have asked her if she minded the change in plans instead of saying, “Time to go. You are riding home with me, Gen.”

In his defense, he’d been trying all day to find the time and courage to reveal his humiliating truth. After a strenuous training session, he was ready. A dark, rolling carriage seemed as good a place as any to shrive his burden. But first he had to deal with another problem. Celeste’s recognition of Gen had unnerved him. Of course, if it had been disquieting to him; surely Gen, as afraid of her past as she seemed to be, must be traumatized.

A compassionate man would say something to comfort her. Unfortunately, sometimes he was a self-centered rotter. But not right now. Not with her.

“Gen,” he said, his voice gentle. “Celeste will not tell anyone about what she witnessed in that alley. She does not gossip with the ladies in theton.Or with anyone, for that matter. She will not lead Kilsby to you. She is not like that. I asked her not to say anything, so she won’t. I promise.”

Gen stiffened, then swallowed, as she continued to stare at her hands.

He suspected something else was bothering her.

Surely, she wasn’tjealousof Celeste? He’d told Gen the truth. The dowager countess was just a friend. A friend whom he favored and tupped wildly from time to time.

Blast and bugger his eyes. Why had he chattered away like a gossipmonger that first night?

Well, if she was jealous, she would have to get over it. He was her patron; he was not courting her. He could never court her, even if the air between them crackled, and he ached to press his lips to hers.

Obviously, his sending her mental messages asking her to accept his feelings wasn’t working because displeasure radiated from her, puncturing his resolve. What could he say to make her understand?

Then again, did he even owe her an explanation? He couldn’t help that Celeste had gotten out of her carriages at the same time that he had arrived.

Even now, he could recall the horrified look in Gen’s eyes as Celeste dragged her toward him. Celeste had been easy to placate. Gen not so much, as witnessed by her presently protruding bottom lip. Perhaps he had just stumbled upon the truth; Gen had mistaken his hesitancy to discuss his inability to read as feelings for Celeste.

If only he had left The Silk Knuckles when he was supposed to, maybe he wouldn’t be having this damnable problem communicating with Gen. But it had felt good to sweat out his previous evening’s indulgences as he’d taken out his frustrations on the sandbag.

The carriage slowed, eventually coming to a stop, and he still hadn’t told Gen the truth. Now he only had from here to the foyer to unburden himself.

Assisting her from the carriage, he stood staring at her, trying to form words. But instead of waiting for him to speak, she turned on her heel and walked up the front walkway, entering his home. Damn his lack of courage.

He dismissed the carriage driver and met her in the foyer.

“Good evening, my lord, Miss Gen,” Peters said. “Horatio is waiting for you in the drawing room. Michael and Robert just took him for a walk.”

Foiled again, because he sure as hell couldn’t tell her his secret in front of the butler.

“Thank you, Peters.” Jonathan tried to catch Gen’s gaze to no avail. “Gen, could we speak in the drawing room?” he finallyasked as she stared up the stairs. Either she was anxious to see her dog, or she wanted to get away from him. A betting man should split the odds. She hesitated before nodding. Without a word, Peters took his coat and her cloak and then strolled away, leaving them alone. Jonathan held out his hand, inviting her to walk ahead of him.

His old breeches did not take away from her graceful, feminine assent, which was interesting indeed, because Franny, Josie, and Roseanna, the other athletic women he knew, strode powerfully. They cut through space unapologetically, warriors to their cores. But with her bearing, she could be a ballerina or a princess who’d been trained to walk wearing a back brace, while balancing a book atop her head. Confounding indeed, and not important in the least, which begged the question, why in the devil was he thinking about it?

The temperature in the drawing room had to be ten degrees warmer than the hallway, and a few twinkling lanterns cast the room in a cozy glow. Gen rushed to the dog lazing in front of the hearth. He opened his eyes, his tail thumping on the thick carpet, and he smiled as Gen kissed his nose.

Damn lucky dog.

Cringing, Jonathan berated himself for his foolish thoughts. He’d been over this a million times. She was not his type. He was not interested in her. He was her patron, and she was his house guest, and that was the extent of their relationship.

“What ho, Floppy,” he said as he made himself comfortable in his favorite chair.

Floppy got up, stretched, and then charged toward him, placing his paws on his lap, and licking his cheek. Gen finally smiled as she sat on the settee across from him. Floppy left Jonathan to hop up beside her, plopping onto his belly with anomphfand resting his head on her knee. Woman and dog stared at him with wide, expectant eyes.