Page 29 of The Boxing Baroness

“Good evening, Miss Simpson.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, not feeling inclined to pleasantries.

“I own a small house not far from here.”

Marianne raised an eyebrow.

The duke sighed. “I have no designs on your person, Miss Simpson. However, what we are about to engage in is not something I want connected to my name.” He cocked his head. “We will be spending a good deal of time together over the coming weeks and months, Miss Simpson. Is it your intention to be combative that entire time?”

She propped her elbows on her knees and leaned forward, closing the gap between them. “I don’t see myself warming up to my extortionist anytime soon, Your Grace. So, yes, I will likely be combative for the foreseeable future. Is that going to be a problem for you? Perhaps you might want to change your mind and find somebody else to strongarm into doing your bidding?”

His lips curved into a smile that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but he didn’t speak. Marianne turned away and they rode in silence. Less than five minutes later, the carriage stopped in front of a three-story redbrick house.

The duke opened the door, put down the steps, and then turned to help her.

She ignored his hand and hopped out.

“After you.” He gestured for her to go first.

Marianne glared up at him. “I dressed like a man so that I might retain what little vestige of my tattered reputation that remains, Your Grace.” She didn’t wait for a response but strode ahead. The door opened before she could grab the handle.

Lord Carlisle stood in the doorway, his full lips curved into a smile that promised sensual delights. But his eyes were as hard as stone.

“Hallo, Staunton,” he said, not taking his gaze from Marianne as he stepped back. “And this must be Miss Simpson.”

Marianne pulled off her gloves before removing her hat and dropping them inside. She tossed it to Carlisle, who reflexively caught the hat and then frowned.

“Ta,” she said, unbuttoning her coat, shrugging out of it, and holding that out to Carlisle, too.

He took the garment, his expression sardonic. “It’s my pleasure to serve you, Miss Simpson.”

“How delightful to encounter an aristocrat with a desire to be useful,” Marianne said, earning a bark of laughter from the gorgeous peer.

The duke ignored their exchange and laid his own hat and gloves on a console table, then took the stairs two at a time, not waiting for Marianne this time.

“After you,” Carlisle said, handing the garments to the footman who’d followed them into the house.

“Second door on the left,” Carlisle instructed when they reached the first floor.

The room held not only the duke, but another man. Unlike Staunton and Carlisle, this man was neither tall nor strikingly handsome. He had medium brown hair, dark blue eyes, and regular features. Indeed, if she’d been asked to describe him, she would have said he was almost exceptionally average.

Or maybe that was just how he looked when compared to his two godlike associates.

“Good evening, Miss Simpson, I am Elliot Wingate.” He bowed.

Marianne ignored his greeting and strode to where a fire crackled, dropped into the nearest seat, and propped her booted ankle on her knee. “It is late, and I am tired. Can we get on with this?”

Wingate cocked an eyebrow and the duke compressed his mouth into an even thinner line. Only Carlisle appeared delighted by her rude behavior. He took the seat nearest her, visibly entranced by her mannish clothing. It was a reaction she’d encountered far too often from aristocratic admirers to find charming.

“Drink, Miss Simpson?” The duke gestured to a silver tray that held several decanters.

“No, thank you.”

Staunton sat without pouring anything for himself.

The three men stared at her, each of them intimidating in his own way.

Marianne couldn’t help feeling as if she was facing some sort of tribunal. She was almost afraid to ask, but . . . “As I am being forced to do your bidding, I think I should know what was in the letter from Baron Strickland.”