Page 60 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

He’d glared at Gen—not that she knew, since she refused to look at him. “If Gen hadcaredto ask me, she would know that I didn’t have any interviews today.”

His house guest’s face had flushed scarlet. So be it. She was being impossible.

“Jonathan,” his mother had scolded. “Whatsoever has you in such a temper?”

“I wonder,” he’d declared, then stomped to his study, where he’d locked himself away for a couple of hours while he tried to make sense of the muddle.

The blasted woman had told him that he was the most wonderful man in the world. He’d have wagered a fortune that she loved spending time with him. If she was shunning him because he hadn’t told her he favored her, that was bloody insane because he couldn’t communicate with her if she planned to sneak away like last night, and then snub him all day, like she was currently doing.

“Insufferable blasted woman,” he grumbled.

The carriage came to a stop in front of The Silk Knuckles.

Taking a moment to compose himself, he plastered a broad smile on his face. Once his mood almost matched his congenial expression, he strode into the gymnasium. Heading toward an unused sandbag, he waved to Nicolas and Griffendale, who were in the far ring with Coach and a couple of new hulking blokes.

*

After taking outhis frustration on a sandbag and then curling the dumbbells until his muscles ached, Jonathan had clarity.

Gen’s behavior was entirely his fault.

One. He was the one who had a reputation for tupping his way across London.

Two. He had emphatically declared that he did not want a relationship.

Three. He had not shown enough appreciation for the present she’d obviously taken great care to make for him.

Four. He should have gone after her the second he’d deciphered her message instead of being wishy-washy about how he felt. She probably assumed that aristocrats did not pledge devotion to the pauperized. What she didn’t know, because he’d never told her, was that he did not care about such things.

Five. She might have seen him following her last night. He’d hardly been discreet. Most men who did such things were persistent pursuers or insanely jealous. He was more of the curious, I-need-to-protect-her type, but how would she feel about it? Jonathan realized with a bit of chagrin that he’d be livid if someone had trackedhimacross town, spying on him.

Taking his five conclusions into consideration, he needed to make amends—and sooner rather than later.

Ignoring the sweat slicking his body, Jonathan slid back into, then buttoned his shirt as he strolled across the gymnasium to lean against a far wall. From where he stood, he could watch Gen train.

Perspiration soaked her shirt and hair and sweat beaded on her forehead. Currently, she formed a horizontal line with Roseanna, Pete, and Thumbs. Remaining still, their fingers locked behind their heads, they resembled statues of ancient warriors. Franny stood in front of them, leather mufflers protecting her hands.

Christ almighty, he recognized this drill, and there was no way Gen could withstand what was about to happen to her.

He watched as Franny thrust her fist into Roseanna’s breadbasket. Roseanna’s only reaction was her controlled hiss.

“Perfect,” Franny said. “Gen, did you hear how Roseanna exhaled forcefully? It helped her firm her abdominals. It also prevented her from holding her breath or gasping when I punched her.”

Gen nodded.

Franny continued down the line, punching Pete, then Thumbs. At last, Franny stepped in front of Gen. Jonathan’s stomach soured. Even though he looked away, he still heard both the punch and Gen’s hissed exhale.

“Excellent, Gen,” Franny said. “Another round.”

Jonathan moaned. Franny usually put her fighters through at least twelve rounds of this abuse. He understood the reasons for it and had always enjoyed watching the men complete the drill, but watching women, Gen in particular, unsettled him.

“Good evening, Lord Davenport,” Edward Robinson said at his side as he approached.

“Robinson,” Jonathan said, still watching Franny drill the fighters. “You made it this evening.” The Bow Street Runneroften arrived late and sometimes didn’t even make it to the gymnasium because he worked long hours.

Robinson answered, but Jonathan had no idea what he’d said because he was too busy wincing as Gen suffered another gut punch.

But then it was over and he was able to look at the man. “Franny is quite impressed with Gen,” Robinson declared. “She said she works hard and is an amazing athlete.”