Kevin felt absurdly pleased with himself after his meeting with Jenny. Not only had he succeeded in convincing her to send Safton packing, but she had admitted to having some feeling for him. It was more than he had expected and more than he deserved. If she wanted him, he would persevere and win her hand in marriage. He promised himself to be the very best of husbands so that she would never regret the price of her marriage.

But he had learned his lesson in another area as well. Never again would he give Jenny the luxury of an entire day to rethink her response to his courting. He had already been skirting the edges of propriety to call daily. He could do little additional damage if he increased their contact even more, and he might gain Jenny’s acceptance even sooner. With this in mind, he went the following afternoon with the express purpose of convincing her to agree to accompany him to the theatre that very evening. He wasn’t sure of his reception, but he was a little surprised to find Jenny and Miss Tindale ensconced in the library, several open books piled about them, Miss Tindale taking notes while Jenny dictated.

“Pardon me, ladies,” he called from the doorway in wonderment. “Mr. Fiching pointed me in this direction, but is it safe to enter?”

Jenny smiled up at him, closing the book with a thud. “Ah, the Corinthian arrives. Just in time, sir. We have questions.”

“Oh?” he replied, not sure he wanted to come any closer with that odd light in her eyes. “About what?”

“Boxing,” she responded, rising. “However, as we’ve been at this most of the morning, I’m growing tired. Martha, would you care for lemonade?”

Her companion rose eagerly, dark skirts dotted with the detritus of parchment. “That would be delightful.”

Jenny nodded as she came around the desk. “Excellent. Mr. Whattling, will you join us in the sitting room?”

He bowed her out in front of him along with Miss Tindale and followed them across the hall, still wondering. She sent the footman for refreshments and spread her grey lustring skirts to sit on one of the armchairs. Miss Tindale collapsed into her usual seat near the hearth. Kevin relaxed on the white sofa.

“You had mentioned you boxed,” Jenny ventured. “Isn’t that right?”

He nodded. “Yes, I have studied the art.”

Her eyes lit up. “A student. Excellent. Ah, there you are, Fiching. That was quick.”

“Yes, madam,” Fiching replied, rolling the cart to her side. “Will there be anything else?”

She waved him out and began pouring immediately. Her companion perked up as Jenny handed her a glass. He must have been frowning as she handed him his, for she cocked her head.

“Is something amiss, Mr. Whattling? Do you not care for lemonade?”

He shook his head. “Lemonade is delightful, I assure you. And nothing is particularly amiss. I seem to be having a difficult time concentrating in your presence.” There, he had made the problem sound like a compliment.

She missed the innuendo, pouring herself a glass. “Why is that, do you think?”

He took a sip in the pretense of pondering the answer. “I suspect I may be trying overly hard to impress you today.”

“Why would you try harder today than any other day?” she asked with a frown, then her brow cleared and she blushed. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about our conversation yesterday.”

Kevin set his tea down in mock annoyance. “Madam, if you can so easily forget my purpose in calling, I’m obviously doing something wrong.”

The red was rising in her cheeks again as she sipped her own lemonade before answering. “Forgive me, Mr. Whattling. You see, I’ve settled on a new course of study, and I fear that sometimes drives all other matters from my mind. If it doesn’t offend you, could we converse today on the topic of boxing?”

“If you insist,” Kevin said. “Although I cannot credit that you really want to hear about it.”

“Oh, but I do!” she assured him eagerly.

“Humor her, Mr. Whattling,” Miss Tindale said. “As she said, she’s pursuing one of her studies again. We find it best to simply comply with her requests.”

Kevin frowned. She made it sound as if her mistress was some candidate for Bedlam. He glanced at Jenny, only to find her hazel eyes alight with interest, gazing at him as if he alone held the answer to life’s mysteries. If she wanted him to prose on about boxing, boxing it would be. “Very well. Where would you like me to begin?”

“Martha and I undertook a trip to the booksellers yesterday morning, and we procured several excellent texts. Mr. Milson at the lending library recommended A Treatise Upon the Useful Science of Defence by John Godfrey. After comparing it to the clippings Fiching had saved from the Boxiana series, however, I must say I find Mr. Egan more enlightening.”

“Indeed,” Kevin replied, wondering how much she could possibly have learned about boxing by reading about it.

“Oh, yes,” she continued earnestly. “I think I understand how a match is staged, the umpires and the seconds, as well as the kneemen and bottlemen. And the timing of rounds and breaks. As for the actual fighting, I believe I have grasped the rudimentary elements there as well.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “There is the jab, the swing, the upper cut, and the, ah, Martha?”

“I think it was the cross,” Martha supplied, but her frown indicated her hesitancy.

“Yes, of course, the cross. Right and left, I believe. How does that compare with your studies, Mr. Whattling?”

“I…I’m not sure,” Kevin managed. Apparently one could learn a great deal by reading. He’d have to find a copy of those Egan articles; he thought perhaps Giles had mentioned them. Through reading them, it was as if she understood the sport better than Kevin did, and he had learned at the fists of Gentleman Jackson himself! “You appear to have made an excellent assessment, Miss Welch.”

She nodded and took a sip of lemonade. “Good. What I wish to know next is, when does one know which tactic to use?”

“Well,” Kevin replied, “I suppose I cannot speak for all gentlemen who box. As you mentioned, the sport is more of an art than a science, and each artist, if you will, goes about it in a different manner. Myself, I like to keep well back for a while and watch my opponent. Most often you’ll see a pattern emerge. This one prefers to lead with his left, perhaps. Another throws his right shoulder forward just before jabbing. I use their weakness to determine the appropriate attack and defense.”

“Fascinating,” she said breathlessly. “How many matches have you had?”

“True matches? None. I’m not a professional, Miss Welch. But matches between other hobbyists like myself, perhaps a dozen.”

“And your record?”

He began to feel as if he were in school and being quizzed by the headmaster. “I’ve won ten.”

She raised her brows. “That sounds remarkably good. Why did you lose the two?”

He smiled at the memory. “One was to Gentleman Jackson. You’ll have read of him, I suppose?”

“John Jackson of London,” Jenny replied readily. “He had three fights before retiring. He beat the Birmingham giant Futrell lost to George The Brewer Ingelston, and won the championship from Mendoza. He runs an establishment at 13 Old Bond Street, I believe, the Pugilistic Club?”

“That’s right,” Kevin said, again amazed by her knowledge. “Though it’s hard to boil down a man to a fight record. Lord Byron calls him the Professor of Pugilism. Lord Lowther had him put on a pugilistic fete for the Emperor of Russia last summer. It’s safe to say that a good many gentlemen would never have learned to box if it weren’t for Gentleman Jackson.”

“Make a note of that, Martha,” Jenny put in. “Please continue, Mr. Whattling.”

Miss Tindale rolled her eyes, but Kevin wasn’t sure why. Still, he complied with Jenny’s request. “The Gentleman had been tutoring me for some time and felt I was ready to spar against him. I wasn’t. Mayhap I’ll never be. But it was a heady experience to fight him just the same.”

“I would imagine. And the other bout you lost?”

He blinked and looked away from her. “The other does not signify. He was only a gentleman like myself. He has since left the ring. Did you have other questions?”

He must have been sufficiently evasive that she decided not to probe. “Well, really only one, but I think I’ve seen the answer already. There are other sports less brutal. Why do you box?”

That forced his own brows up. “Why box?”

“Yes. Why?”

Miss Tindale shuddered. “It does seem so very bloodthirsty.”

Kevin rose to move among the tables and glass cases. He didn’t want Jenny thinking he was some beast who derived pleasure from beating others. George Safton sprang immediately to mind, and he thrust the thought just as quickly away. “An interesting question, Miss Welch,” he allowed. “I never really considered it before.” He paused to eye her. “Yet, you said you saw an answer in my earlier conversation.”

She dipped her head as if embarrassed. “Yes. In your face. You obviously enjoy it, much as I enjoy my studies. To you, it is an art. You studied at the feet of a master, and you long to try your hand with the same skill. I do not understand why striking another person should be considered art, but I’m sure there is skill involved, as in any sport. I would say you are very good at it. You have worked to make yourself so.”

“Uncanny,” Kevin said, sinking back onto the sofa. His blue eyes were intent on her face, blush deepening. “You gathered all that from our brief conversation? Madam, you astonish me!”

Miss Tindale beamed at him, and he realized she was tremendously proud of Jenny’s insight as well.

“Oh, it is nothing.” Jenny waved the praise away. “I am no seer. Anyone looking at you could understand your feelings for the sport.”

“Not anyone,” he replied, and some of his bitterness must have leaked into his tone, for she looked at him askance. He rose to walk again, careful to hide his face. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw Miss Tindale motion her forward with a wave of her crystal glass. Jenny squared her shoulders.

“Do you think I might view a match?”

Kevin paused, frowning. “As Miss Tindale implied, Miss Welch, it is hardly a sport for ladies.”

“You see,” Miss Tindale put in with determination. “Even Mr. Whattling agrees with me in that regard. I pray you will listen to him for once.”

“Pish posh,” Jenny declared. “My sensibilities are not so refined as to be appalled by a bit of blood. Two years ago I watched a surgeon perform, if you will remember, Martha. Besides, not all matches end in bloodshed, do they, Mr. Whattling?”

“No,” he allowed, thinking of one match that had. “But one never knows the outcome. The gentleman I mentioned earlier, the one who beat me in a sparring match, was unexpectedly killed in another match. I would prefer you to stay away from boxing, Miss Welch.”

 

–

 

Jenny frowned. She could understand his reluctance after such an experience, but she wasn’t used to anyone except Martha protesting her studies. “I do not see how I can properly study the sport if I never actually view it in action.”

“Precisely why you should not study it at all,” Martha put in. “Studying the cut of men’s coats last year was bad enough. Studying boxing is decidedly unladylike.”

Jenny glanced between Martha’s determined scowl and Kevin’s pale frown. She was quite immune to Martha’s protests, but something told her she should try to understand Kevin’s concern.

“Perhaps it would be best if I confined my studies to books for the moment,” she said. “I wonder if you’d mind going upstairs for those articles by Mr. Egan, Martha. I believe I left them on my bedside table. If not, they’re in the sewing room. And if you don’t find them there, pray check the library.”

Martha frowned, glancing between the two of them, and Jenny thought Kevin was trying hard not to grin in triumph as he must have realized he was to have a moment alone with her. Martha must have realized it as well, for with a humph, she quit the room.

Kevin moved to stand beside Jenny. She gazed up at him, trying to decide how to begin.

“And what confidences do you have for me today, my dear?” he asked.

He suddenly seemed a bit too close, towering as he did over her. She scooted back as far as the wingback chair would allow. “Nothing of great import, sir. I sensed your concern about my interest in boxing, and I thought you might feel more comfortable speaking your mind if Miss Tindale were out of the room.”

“So, I am the one expected to offer confidences.”

She thought he might protest. It was obviously a private matter. But he took her hand and drew her to her feet before him with a gentle smile, as if he liked the fact that his nearness was discomposing her in the most delightful manner. “And why should a bluestocking care what a Corinthian thinks? I would guess that a word of concern from my lips would hardly be enough to dissuade you from your intellectual pursuits.”

His statement only made her aware of how close his lips were to her own. “Quite…quite right,” she stammered. This was not at all what she had had in mind. She was losing control of the situation. And he was entirely too close. However, her attempts to move away only brought her up against the refreshment cart, which rattled alarmingly. She stumbled, and he caught her in his arms as if to prevent her fall.

She gazed up at him, frozen. His strength wrapped around her, his breath brushed her forehead. Her curves seemed to fit against all his angles. He was smiling down at her almost tenderly, and she realized he was going to kiss her moments before his lips brushed hers.

She had never been kissed before, not by her suitors during her come out year, certainly not by those who had sought her out since. She had read a few novels in which the act had been described, and once she had come across a couple together in the moonlit balcony at a ball. Nothing prepared her for Kevin’s kiss. It was sweet, it was warm, it was infinitely pleasurable. More, it filled her with a longing to stay this way forever. She trembled at the sheer desire that seemed to be welling up inside her. When he raised his head to gaze down at her, it was all she could do not to pull him to her again.

“I think, Miss Welch,” he murmured, “that we have found one area in which we suit admirably.”

She stared up at him, too surprised and delighted by the feelings singing through her to move from his embrace.

His smile deepened. “My dear, if you don’t do or say something, I’m very much afraid I shall be forced to kiss you again.”

She managed to swallow, her eyes on his face so close to her own. “I…I can’t seem to move,” she whispered.

A look of concern crossed his face, and he lessened his hold on her. She almost stumbled again as her body betrayed her need for contact.

“Have I shocked you so greatly then?” he asked, color waning from his cheeks. “Perhaps I should go.”

“No! I mean yes. Yes, perhaps you should.”

“Forgive me.” He bowed and turned toward the door, steps slow, as if he regretted what he’d just done. Perhaps he thought himself no better than any other fortune hunter to take advantage of her.

But it didn’t feel as if he’d taken advantage. It felt, well, marvelous. She needed time to think through what had just happened. But all she could think about now was being in his arms again.

She glanced up at his retreating back and saw how his broad shoulders stooped and his handsome head hung. He thought she was dismissing him. She roused herself.

“Mr. Whattling? Thank you so much for the instruction on boxing. I shall probably have other questions. Do you think you could come again tomorrow afternoon and we could continue our…conversation?”

He turned to her, emotions flickering across his handsome face, relief that she wasn’t sending him away, a wariness that he could not be sure of her. And something more, something as wonderful as the feelings he’d roused in her. Was she mad to think the kiss had affected him as much as it had her?

He bowed again. “As you wish. Until then.”