Page 86 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

“Remember the rules agreed upon,” Bear said. “Irish fighting style. No kicking. No biting. No weapons. No hair pulling. And absolutely no direct hits to the mouth. This is an exhibition witheight three-minute rounds. One minute rest between rounds. I will stop the fight if I think either of you is too injured to continue. We won’t be declaring a winner.” He dropped the speaking trumpet and lowered his voice so that only they could hear—not that anyone else was privy to his whisper with the raucous cheering. “The wagers on you two are coming in faster than a randy monkey orgasms.”

Wagers? On what? Which woman threw the most jabs? Who spent the most time with her back against the ropes? Which one of them sweated the most?

“Fighters, do you agree to these terms?” Bear asked them through the speaking trumpet.

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“Good luck, Gen,” Roseanna said.

“You too,” Genevieve whispered back, since it seemed like the polite thing to do. However, Roseanna didn’t need luck.

Roseanna’s smile faded, and her lips firmed. The look of determination rapidly spread across her countenance, reminding Genevieve that despite their camaraderie, this was serious, possibly dangerous business.

“We will begin the mill in a few moments,” Bear said. “You can return to your corners until then.”

Genevieve crossed the ring to settle onto Franny’s knee.

“Remember to pace yourself,” Franny said as she checked Genevieve’s hand wraps. “Stay inside her reach. Your hips hold your power, so your arm and hip need to move together. Use your speed. And most importantly, breathe.”

“Got it,” Genevieve said.

It was time to block out everything but the task in front of her. Genevieve inhaled an icy breath. Her exhale curled upward until it dispersed. She continued to breathe deeply until Bear motioned for her to come forward.

Her shoulders thrown back confidently, Genevieve stepped up to the scratch line, placed her toe on the line, and tapped knuckles with Roseanna.

“There you are,” a voice she’d hoped never to hear again said, breaking her concentration.

Fear skittered up her spine. Dear God, no. It couldn’t be. Not here. Not right this second.

“Genevieve,” her father cooed.

Swallowing, she turned her head to look into piercing blue Bailey eyes. The devil’s face was pressed against the rope, and his smirk was so malicious she feared for her life.

The bell clanged.

“Round one,” Bear called into the speaking trumpet.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jonathan feared somethingwas distracting Genevieve. Normally, she moved purposefully and with grace. But for the first three rounds, she’d been heavy on her feet. Clumsy even. Meanwhile, her gaze darted between the spectators and her opponent.

For the second time since the mill began, Jonathan closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to watch her struggle. He was not ashamed of her; the opposite was true. He was exceedingly proud that she would soon be his viscountess. But she was not performing to her potential. He knew her well enough to understand that since she took immense pride in her athletic abilities, she’d be disappointed in herself when the mill ended. Her ensuing lack of confidence would be his fault. Well, his and Griffendale’s, because she was much too inexperienced for them to have put her in this position.

Jonathan’s gaze slid to Griffendale, who stood with Franny, right outside of Genevieve’s corner. Jonathan was too far away, and it was much too noisy to tell, but the duke seemed to be giving Gen directives. Well, dip Jonathan in whale oil, and light a match—Griffendale must be offering up advice so that she could better fight his champion. Shocking but true, lately, the duke’s actions proved that he genuinely cared about women excelling in athletics.

The bell dinged, signifying the start of the fourth round.

“Go, Ghost, Go,” Jonathan cheered despite wanting to leap into the ring and beg Bear to stop the fight.

“Bah. Heard The Ghost was good,” an arse beside Jonathan said to another bloke.

“’Tis a shame because she’s bloody beautiful,” the second man said. “But she won’t stay that way for long, fighting like a namby-pamby. Thorny Rose would make minced meat out of her in a legitimate, untimed bout.”

Jonathan gave the bloke closest to him a good hard shove. “That is my fiancée you are berating.”

The man pulled back his fist. His gaze slid over Jonathan, then his eyes widened. He dropped his arm. His hand hung limply by his side. “I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t know.”

Since Jonathan wanted to punch these men in the face, but could not disturb Gen’s fight, his aristocratic arrogance was his only defense. “Well, now you do,” he said with a cultured sneer and his nose in the air.