Page 42 of The Boxing Baroness

He re-corked the bottle and slipped it into the bag before dismounting. “I shall accompany you,” he repeated.

“Why? I am only just—”

“I cannot go back to my warm bed as I will be meeting Lucy at the theater in an hour—thanks to your kind suggestion that I show up every day. Or one of your suggestions—because I believe you were the reason I spent two hours yesterday polishing every single dumbbell—”

“They were dirty,” she said, not bothering to hide her smile.

“—and also the one who convinced Farnham that Elliot and I should move every single chair and bench in the stalls because you’d conceived of a new seating arrangement that would accommodate more punters? Which it didn’t. So then we had to move them all back the way they were initially.”

She shrugged. “There can be no progress without failure.”

He gave her a look that made her skin burn.

“Besides, I will not leave a gently bred woman in this part of the city unattended. No matter what you have to say about it.” He raised an eyebrow at her, a supercilious action that irritated her almost as much as his presumptuous, arrogant, masculine assumption that she needed his protection. Or, indeed, that she needed anything from him.

You’re the one who insisted he be here . . .

Marianne gritted her teeth at the unwanted reminder. Instead, she spun on her heel and marched down the road.

* * *

Sin led the ancient horse and followed her. Although she didn’t speak, anger vibrated off her like the hum from a tuning fork.

That was too damned bad. It had been her idea to run him ragged, so now she could deal with the fruits of her labor.

Sin almost smiled at the irony; hoisted by your own petard, eh, Miss Simpson?

He smelled the bakery before he saw it. Although it was early, a short queue had already formed, so they joined the line. She pointedly ignored him while they waited.

The baker’s assistant, a pretty dark-eyed brunette, leaned on the ledge of the Dutch door and gave Marianne a worshipful smile that said the two had met before. “Hallo, Mr. Simpson.” Her eyes flickered to Sin and widened. “Ye’ve brought a friend today.”

“Mornin’, Sally,” Marianne said gruffly. “Two of the pork, please.”

“Anythin’ for you, Mr. Simpson.” The girl smirked and ducked back inside.

How in the world could anyone believe Marianne Simpson was a man? Her features were decidedly feminine, as were her mannerisms, but all most people seemed to see was her clothing.

When the girl returned with two paper-wrapped packages, Marianne gave her some coins. “Ta, luv.”

“See you next week, Mr. Simpson?” she asked in a breathy, hopeful voice.

Marianne just smiled, shoved one of the packages at Sin, and then stalked back to the post where he’d tethered Dobbin.

Sin stared at the warm, fragrant package, his brow furrowing. She had bought him breakfast.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, unwrapping her food and scowling up at him. “Are you too good for growlers?”

“No, I’m not too good for a growler,” he snapped, too exasperated by her relentless sniping to hide his irritation. “It’s just that I’ve not had one for many years,” he added pointlessly.

And never in his life had a woman bought him . . . anything.

Take hold of yourself, St. John. It’s not a wedding ring, old boy. It’s just a pork pie.

“Well, sorry if the location isn’t up to your usual standards, but these are the best in London,” she said, and then set about devouring hers.

Sin ignored her dig and unwrapped the brown paper, the savory smell making him woozy. “I’ve only heard them called growlers in Yorkshire,” he said, and then took a bite and was ashamed of the noise he made.

She grinned up at him, the open expression transforming her from a scowling hoyden into a lovely young woman, and temporarily robbing him of breath.