Chapter Thirty
Mortification paralyzed Genevieve. She cursed herself for lingering in the loft.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Richard snarled. His grip on her hand tightened, as if to stop her running.
Greengrass’s sneer deepened. “I work here.”
“No, you don’t,” Genevieve snapped. “Neither you nor your vile master is welcome.”
With a knowing leer, the thug cocked his hip in a relaxed pose. “I figure only Vicar can give me the sack.” He sniggered. “Wonder how happy he’d be to know you two are so cozy. My, my, who’d think Dr. Barrett’s stuck-up daughter was such a goer? You might want to get the straw out of your hair before the village ladies come to tea, Miss Barrett.”
With an inarticulate exclamation, Richard released Genevieve and surged forward to plow his fist into Greengrass’s self-satisfied face. The man gasped and staggered back.
“Fucking hell!” With impressive speed, Greengrass regained his balance and aimed one meaty fist at Richard’s head.
“Richard, look out!” she screamed, lunging toward the two men.
Then she stopped, shocked and trembling, as she watched the man she’d once dismissed as a lightweight—intellectually, emotionally, and physically—dodge with a grace that lifted her heart. Greengrass’s blow connected with air, sending him stumbling within Richard’s reach.
Richard landed another punch, then another. Still Greengrass didn’t fall, but his movements became sluggish as he lurched vainly after Richard.
“Stop your bloody dancing, you bastard,” Greengrass demanded.
Blood trickled from his nose while Richard hardly broke a sweat. Despite his commanding manner with Lord Neville last night, Genevieve had never considered Richard a man of action. How wrong she’d been. She forgot her humiliation. She forgot her fear of scandal. She even forgot that if Greengrass gained the upper hand, unlikely as it seemed, he’d turn on her.
Instead she clung to the barn’s doorframe and watched in speechless admiration as Richard Harmsworth, the famous dandy, demolished a man twice his weight. Richard’s fighting technique was like ballet. Light. Sure. Devastating. In no time, Greengrass gasped like a landed mackerel, every strike swinging wild.
The fight didn’t last long. A clean clip to the jaw finished Greengrass. The big man wavered, almost recovered. Then his eyes flickered shut and he slammed onto the cobblestones in an ignominious heap.
With one foot, Richard nudged Greengrass. When there was no reaction, he glanced at Genevieve. He shook his right hand, then lifted it to blow upon the knuckles. With his unshaven face and wearing only coat and trousers, he looked like a gorgeous ruffian. A golden gypsy prince. “The bugger has a jaw like iron.”
Genevieve stepped forward. As she caught his scent, clean sweat and Richard, need tightened her belly. Watching the man she loved defending her honor stirred primal emotions. “You’re magnificent.”
To her surprise, he blushed. “Doing it too brown, darling.”
She shook her head and cradled his poor bruised hand, wincing at the grazes across his knuckles. They must hurt, although nothing to compare to Greengrass’s headache when he awoke. “How on earth did you do that? He never laid a finger on you.”
Richard still looked uncomfortable. She cringed to realize that despite all her needling, he wasn’t a vain man. He used his diamantine façade to keep the world at bay, but he had no personal conceit. It appalled her how much she, the supposedly clever Genevieve Barrett, had got wrong because she’d accepted appearances instead of probing deeper. She’d misjudged this complex, wonderful man so badly.
His lips took on a wry twist. “Good to think I didn’t waste my time with Gentleman Jackson.”
“You must be his star pupil.” She kissed the torn skin.
“Careful, Genevieve,” he said quickly. “Someone could see.”
She made no attempt to conceal her craving. “I don’t care.”
His laugh held a hint of self-derision. “Good God, if only I’d known you’d look at me like that after I floored some unsuspecting chap. I’d have done it weeks ago.”
“Don’t joke. He could have killed you.”
Richard cast an assessing glance at his fallen foe. “He’s mostly fat once you get over his size. If he sat on me, he’d do serious damage. Otherwise I was pretty safe.”
She didn’t believe him for a moment. “You’re too modest. I felt like a damsel in a legend.”
“Casting me as St. George, Genevieve?”
She shrugged and released his hand. However much luring him back into the loft appealed, she reluctantly recognized that they’d taken too many cha