Page 3 of The Boxing Baroness

Cecile yanked his head down and kissed him on both cheeks, making his homely face flush. “It is good to see you, Jack.”

“It’s good to be ’ome.” He shoved aside the tangle of costumes and clothing that covered the dressing room settee and lowered his six-foot-three frame. “It was a long trip.” His good humor drained away when he saw Marianne’s swollen jaw. “Criminy, Annie—what’s that I saw out there tonight? ’Ow often ’ave I told you about keepin’ yer mind in the game?”

“I know, Jack. I was distracted and I was punished for it.”

He grunted, his expression telling her she’d not heard the end of it.

“Marianne needs another line of work,” Cecile said. She stood up and gave a firm downward tug on her black satin bodice, pulling it low enough that her nipples couldn’t be far below the top.

Even Jack, long accustomed to being around half-dressed women, swallowed hard as he gazed at Cecile. Cecile was a beauty, and the black satin complemented her lustrous inky hair, which was a dramatic contrast to her porcelain skin and dark brown almond-shaped eyes. She looked wicked and sensual. And when she slung the custom-tooled leather pistol holster around her waist and buckled it low on her generous hips, she looked like danger in female form.

“Don’t you think, Jack?” Cecile asked.

Jack pulled his eyes away from Cecile’s décolletage with visible effort. “Er, what?”

“Marianne—she needs to stop fighting.”

“Oh. Aye, I’ve told ’er that. I told ’er that before she even started.” Jack began to warm up to one of his favorite subjects. “A pretty, smart girl like you should—”

The dressing room door flew open hard enough to bang against the wall and Uncle Barnabas’s angry red face appeared in the doorway. He jabbed a finger at Cecile. “There you are! Get your arse out there, missy, you’re bloody late and the lads are getting restless.”

Cecile, who responded to orders as well as a cat, suddenly decided it was time to examine her cuticles.

Barnabas made a strangled noise of frustration but prudently forbore nagging.

Instead, he turned his attention to Marianne. “And you,” he said, cutting Jack a quick look. “I want her in tip-top shape before we go on tour. Quit fobbing her off on your mate Andy to train; she needs you.”

“What she needs is anovver job, Barney.”

Barnabas scowled, either at Jack’s advice, the unwanted nickname, or both. “I want her training with you three days a week until we leave.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but Marianne nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Barnabas said. “The Duke of Staunton wants to talk to you.”

Marianne almost laughed out loud at the notion of her uncle almost forgetting to relay a message from a duke.

“No.”

“Marianne, don’t be foolish. This is the second—”

“No.”

He managed to look annoyed and aggrieved at the same time. “The man just wants to speak to you. You can invite him next door to the house, receive him in our book room, and—”

“No.”

Barnabas growled. “Stubborn.”

Somebody walked behind her uncle, and Barnabas—infamous for having eyes in the back of his head—whipped around. “You!” he shouted at the unfortunate victim to have caught his attention. “Get those bags tied tighter.” He left the door hanging open as he continued his harangue. “I felt bloody sand on my head while I was . . .” His voice faded as he strode after his target.

Marianne couldn’t believe that he’d had the gall to nag her about Staunton. Again.

Cecile jerked her chin in the direction where Barnabas had been standing. “Want me to shoot him for you, chérie?”

It was an old jest, but it always made Marianne chuckle. “It’s a tempting offer.”

“Talk some sense into her, Jack.” Cecile tossed the words over her shoulder as she sauntered from the room, closing the door behind her.