“God, no.” The answer came without thinking. Sitting, focusing on words, trying to force them into some fictional scenario, resulted in more frustration than was ever worth any enjoyment he could take from it.
“You don’t enjoy reading?” She sounded incredulous. “I thought everyone enjoyed reading.”
Ah, he’d disappointed her.
“Not me.”
“Not even a good adventure story?”
He shook his head.
“You are missing out.”
She was not the first person to point out what he lacked by not devouring the tomes his contemporaries did. On occasion, he still berated himself. For the most part, however, he’d gotten over it. He’d discovered other avenues to learn about humanity.
“I enjoy walking, running, swimming.” Hell, he even climbed trees on some occasions. Amazing what one could see perched thirty or forty feet off the ground.
“And sparring,” she added indulgently.
“Yes.” Both the physical activity and the breathing techniques enhanced his life in ways he couldn’t explain.
“I meet with a handful of street urchins—to teach them to fight.” He hadn’t meant to tell her this.
But she had said she wanted to know more about him and the lessons were something he cared about.
She raised her brows. “In London?”
“Near the docks.” Mantis focused on the road ahead once again. “I have occasional business in White Chapel. Two years ago, I stumbled upon a gang of ruffians thrashing one of their own—bullies. There were five against one. I pulled the lot of them off the little tramp. He was a pathetic creature and I realized that scenario hadn’t been the first and wouldn’t be the last. So I taught him a simple fighting technique to help him avoid future thrashings.”
“A single technique could make a difference?”
“Yes. But when I returned a few weeks later, the urchin caught up with me, along with three of his friends, asking me to show him other tricks.” Mantis shrugged. “So now I teach them.”
Those meetings had since developed into regular sessions in a warehouse he’d rented. Mantis had even purchased traditional gi for the more dedicated students to wear while practicing.
“That is commendable,” Felicity commented quietly.
“I enjoy it.”
Mantis did it for himself. He hated bullies and took satisfaction knowing that the smaller boys could defend themselves. Although his valet had remained in London to ensure lessons continued in his absence, Mantis had told the boys he’d be away less than a month.
He was running out of time if he was going to keep his word.
To uphold his end of the conversation, he asked, “What do you like to do?”
“A little of everything, I suppose.” She stared off the side of the road into a small cluster of trees. “I read, of course, I play the pianoforte, I sing. I paint, I sew, I knit, I crochet. I ride. I practice my French.” She exhaled a heavy sigh.
But of course, she likely excelled at all those things. No doubt, she was also well versed in managing an Earl’s household. Contemplating the details involved in mastering such a variety of tasks made his head swim.
“But what is your favorite?” He persisted.
She must have something she enjoyed more than all the others.
“I—” Little lines appeared on her forehead. A good half minute passed before she answered. “I don’t know, Manningham.”
Manningham. Not Mantis. Not Axel.
“Why don’t you call me Mantis?” Due to his title's length, it was the name nearly every one of his acquaintances used. But it wasn’t how he got the name.
