Page 48 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

It would have taken her about forty minutes before she’d withered away to nothing. Now it might take a bit longer. But Jonathan Davenport’s self-depreciation did not fool her. With legs like his, he could surely keep pace with her when she wasn’t sprinting—that is, if she were still as fast as a brown hare.

They squatted, then stood, half a dozen times. After the sixth repetition, he folded his arms across his chest and watched her. She continued to drop and rise.

“If you keep that up, you’ll be too tired to do your road work.”

She needed pliant muscles because she had no intention of injuring herself. If this fell through, her dreams would turn to ash. Finishing her twelfth squat, she bounced on her toes.

He grinned as if he thought she was a goose for taking this so seriously. Or perhaps he was enjoying watching her.

If only…

“Ready?” he asked.

Exceedingly ready. She skipped down the steps and dashed to the street, leaving him behind.

“Wait up, Gen,” he called to her.

She looked over her shoulder and waved.

He leapt from the stoop, landing on the front walkway with the agility of a tumbler.

As she suspected, he easily caught up to her. She slowed down, pacing them for what she thought was the appropriate speed for their intended distance.

Heel to toe, her slippered feet rolled along the cobblestones, her arms loosely pumping. His step was heavier than hers, but still light for a man of his size. His inhalations and exhalations matched hers, clouds of condensation rising, as they ran in companionable silence.

The homes they passed were still dark inside, and it was the rare carriage that rattled past them. By the time they reached Hyde Park, a sheen of sweat coated her skin, and she no longer felt the cold. The horizon was ablaze. Stripes of gold bled into red, which flared into the purple wisps that painted the sky. The hard cobblestones gave way to uneven gravel that crunched beneath their feet, and gold and red leaves blanketed the trees that lined the path.

“’Tis beautiful,” Jonathan said, reverence in his voice.

“Indeed,” she whispered so low he probably hadn’t heard her.

London’s early risers joined them on Rotten Row. They skirted around individuals engaged in constitutionals, and those on horses cantered past them. Meanwhile, mist rose from the Serpentine, swirling through the trees and casting the scenic view in a dream-like haze.

What a wonderful morning.

Jonathan pointed out an intimidating-looking man running toward them, punching the air with hooks and uppercuts. “Spider Calhoun. Bloody good fighter. You might not have met him yet because he trains with Calder in the early mornings. Probably after he runs.”

Once Spider passed them, Genevieve mimicked his movements without a dash of self-consciousness. She was no longer Genevieve Bailey, the misused granddaughter of an earl; she was The Ghost, a fearless female pugilist disguised as a man on a morning adventure.

“Damnations,” Jonathan said. “These shoes are shite, and I’m thirsty.” He untied his kerchief and swiped it across his forehead before securing it around his neck in a haphazard knot.

She slowed their pace, just a little. Hopefully, he was not too miserable because she would like to do this every day—her body chugging as she sweated out her anxiety, and her lungs opening wide, unafraid as she freely and unapologetically pulled in air. And she would like to do it with the man beside her.

By the time they circled back to Grosvenor Square, Mayfair was blinking itself awake. Birds chirped, and carriages rumbled past. Soon, Greenpark House came into view.

The need to push her lungs and body to the limit was too strong to ignore. She took off in a mad dash.

“What the bloody…” Jonathan yelled at her back. “Wait up.”

She cannonballed forward, her lungs burning.

“Shite,” he panted out as the clomp of his feet hitting the cobblestones picked up speed.

A mischievous sprite having taken hold of her, she looked over her shoulder and grinned, daring him to catch up.

Determination etched his brow, and it was as if Hermes himself had taken possession of her viscount, his chest thrust forward, his arms swinging.

Her gaze shot forward. Pushing into the balls of her feet and shortening her stride, she hurtled towards Greenpark House. He must be doing the same because he was now so close that she could hear his heaving gasps.