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After indulging in a lengthy bath, Verity attempted to read the riveting serial The Tower of London by William Ainsworth, but it provided little distraction against the trepidation and excitement dominating her thoughts. At six thirty, the dinner gong rang. Supper with her brother and mother was its usual torturous affair, but she bore it, and retired early pleading another headache. Though her mother had gone to her literary society meeting, and her brother to one of his clubs, she was very careful in dressing in a simple and serviceable dark bombazine gown. Verity slipped the veil and hat over her tightly pinned chignon and made her way outside to the back of the mews. Once again, the nondescript coach waited, and she lingered for a few minutes watching the surroundings before she hurried over to the equipage.
As she approached, the coachman hopped down from his seat, and knocked down the carriage steps. After entering and settling against the squabs her thoughts drifted to the upcoming lesson and she tried to convince herself the heady anticipation flowing through her veins and tumbling low in her belly had nothing to do with actually seeing the earl.
Nothing at all.
Chapter 8
Almost an hour after their lesson had started, Verity took a break. Dressing in breeches and a flowing linen shirt had allowed her much freedom of movement and flexibility as Lord Maschelly had shown her how to make a proper fist, and then how to throw it. Those motions had been repeated several times until she was confident, she could actually plant a facer on someone if it was warranted.
She had declared it, and the man had winked at her.
“It is time to resume,” he said, prowling towards her once more in that graceful masculine way of his.
She swallowed the last of the water and set the glass on the table beside the carafe. Verity met him in the center of the room.
“Remember my aim is to teach you to defend…to escape,” he said, watching her keenly.
She nodded a bit uncertainly.
“Everything before had been about making a fist, the poise and elegant footwork of boxing. Knowing those moves will build up your agility and confidence. Each session we will practice until those moves become an extension of yourself. You are a very quick learner, one of the quickest I’ve ever seen, I assure you in no time you will be proficient.”
Warmth burst inside her chest like sunshine itself, and she grinned. “I do believe I am,” she drawled, shuffling her feet in the manner he had shown her.
He laughed, the sound a low rumble of delight which stole her breath. “You should laugh more,” she said.
“I shall when I am given a reason.” He said this with a smile, and an almost tender expression in his eyes. “I want you to learn about escape. Do I have your permission to touch you?”
She licked her lips, an unexplained nervous tension thrumming through her. “Yes.”
“I do not refer to a fleeting touch.”
“I understand,” she replied huskily.
“Good.”
Then he moved with swiftness and grabbed her from behind. A loud roaring sounded in her ears and she panted furiously.
“Relax,” he murmured, his tone gentle and soothing as if he spoke to a skittish horse. “It is only me. That panic you are feeling now…that helplessness, breathe through it, and take control of the situation. You can drop your weight. The surprise of it will break my grip.”
She complied and they tumbled. They repeated the exercise with him showing her various ways to escape his unrelenting clutch. With each success her confidence grew, and somehow so did the anger inside of her. At one point when he held her down, the sense of powerlessness had been so great she had screamed her rage and frustration. And had gone for his eyes, a very vulnerable spot as he had taught her.
He had recoiled from her with agile speed and grace and grinned at her proudly. “As I said, very quick pupil.”
“My lord! I could have hurt you,” she cried, considerably distressed.
“I do believe it is time you called me James, especially after almost plucking my eyes out.”
Verity gasped and the man laughed. “Very well…James.”
His eyes darkened. “Thank you, Verity.”
They had another brief period of rest. She drank more water, nibbled on a delicious sandwich, and then they were back at sparring. Several moments later, she rolled away from him and scrambled to her knees. Every muscle in her body was sore; she could manage only a pained shuffle. “We have been training for over two hours,” she panted.
“Your endurance needs improvement. Giving up?” he drawled.
Verity grinned, amazed she could feel so sore yet gloriously alive. “Never.”
At least another hour passed in a blur of learning where to hit, punching, kicking, resting in between, and eating oranges. Now they lay on the floor, and she felt worn. “I never knew boxing involved learning about kicking a man…a man…you know where,” she muttered, horrified to realized she still blushed at that bit of knowledge.
