Page 63 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

If Jonathan continued to heap all these compliments on her, she would become overconfident.

His sigh cut through the carriage. “I have moments when I want to convince you to dress as a man and participate in a pedestrian race, because pugilism is so dangerous.”

She’d been running her entire life. It was time to stay put and fight.

“We are home,” he declared as the carriage rolled to a stop. “No matter my concerns, I want you to know that I plan to support you with whatever athletic goal you pursue. I believe in you, Gen.”

Because he was the most supportive, wonderful man in the world.

*

After freshening upin their separate chambers, Jonathan and Genevieve retired to the drawing room with Horatio, oranges, cheese, bread, and brandy. Jonathan even brought his wordshield, “In case you want to write me a note,” he’d said, setting it beside her sketchpad.

While he stoked the hearth and sucked on a sliver of orange, she devoured food and sipped a glass of brandy. Once he’d tended to the fire, he folded a blanket in half and settled it on the floor, far enough from the flames to keep a spark from singing the pup’s hair, but close enough for him to stay warm as he lazed on the makeshift bed.

To Genevieve’s surprise, Jonathan sat on the settee beside her. They’d been alone together before this, but the drawing room with the cozy fire and lanterns casting gilded shadows was much more intimate than his study, where documents were piled on his desk.

He reached for her hand, hesitated, and then pulled back, but not before she saw his swollen knuckles. Earlier, out of her peripheral vision, she’d noticed that he’d been pounding the sandbag with so much force, he’d appeared angry. After the way she’d avoided him, hopefully, he wasn’t pretending the bag was her. Staying away from him had seemed like the correct thing to do. In retrospect, she’d been rude and cowardly.

Unfortunately, she’d also lost precious moments of his company.

“Gen, I’m sorry,” he said.

She was the one who should apologize for her icy behavior towards him.

“I read your note, and I favor you, too.” He reached for her hand again, this time entwining his fingers with hers. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I want to be with you all the time. I don’t entirely know what it all means, but for the first time in my life, I don’t want to charm every woman I meet, because I only want to charm you.”

And charm her, he had, from their first encounter in that alley.

He edged even closer, and his hip brushed against hers. Her heart raced. Lifting their clasped hands to his lips, he pressed a gentle kiss to one of her knuckles.

My, oh, my.His lips were even softer than they’d been in her imagination. Her heart seemed to lighten and lift, then twirl inside her chest like a ballerina performing pirouettes.

“Gen, it matters not if your parents are paupers or monarchs, because I want to spend time with you.”

Viscount Jonathan Davenport had just said the thing she most needed to hear. She gingerly pressed her lips to his swollen knuckles.

“You are so beautiful,” he said.

And he was chiseled to perfection.

Palpable need hung heavy in the space between them. Jonathan’s eyes, hazy with what she was certain was lust, fixated on her mouth. She involuntarily licked her lips as she willed him to kiss her.

Her silent plea worked. He cradled her chin, his tender touch heating her skin. Angling his head slightly, he brushed his lips over hers. Need knotted between her thighs, winding itself so tight it bordered on pain. Bereft of experience and knowledge of the things between men and women, she had no choice but to let him take control.

Slowly, sensually, his lips teased and taunted, brushing, pressing, lingering…

“Oh,” she murmured a half dozen times as he coaxed little mewls of satisfaction from her.

“If I had known kissing you would make your throat work, I’d have done it sooner,” he said with a chuckle.

Her little sounds were hardly words. Still, she smiled against his lips as every inch of her fluttered wildly.

He slid a palm to her nape. His other hand caressed her back. Nipples tingling, she arched into him and shamelessly rubbedher bosom against his torso, the fabric between them doing nothing to dull the sinful scrape.

Clasping her bottom lip between his teeth, he bit down and gently pulled back, then ran his tongue over the spot he’d nipped, easing the pleasant sting. An expert in his craft, Jonathan Davenport inspired her muse. She imitated him, tugging on his lip, then swiping her tongue over the indentation her teeth left behind.

“Gen,” he whispered reverently.