Page 53 of The Boxing Baroness

“That’s not nec—” His Grace began.

“I’m sorry . . . Sin.” She pushed the words through clenched teeth. Saying his name, which she’d thought plenty but had never spoken aloud, made her already warm face flush hotter.

Jack patted her gently. “That’s my lass.” He tilted Marianne’s chin up and winced. “You’ll have a proper bruise tomorrow.” He cut a glance at Sin. “You were right to call time. Annie’s mind is somewhere else. That’s enough for today.”

“You’ve got one more fight before you leave,” Jack said, speaking to Marianne, “and I’ll be wantin’ Sin to take my place.”

Marianne blinked; she couldn’t have heard him correctly. “What?”

“This Tuesday I want Sin with you,” Jack repeated.

“But—why? You’ll be here, won’t you? How come—”

Jack’s eyes narrowed and he took her by the upper arm and marched her toward the wings, far enough away that the duke wouldn’t be able to hear them talk. “Has Sin done somethin’ wrong to you, lass? ’Cause you’re mighty prickly with ’im.”

“No, of course not, Jack. It’s just—”

“It’s just?” he prodded.

It’s just that I can’t stop looking at his breeches, his forearms, his perfect face and—

Marianne clamped her jaws shut, horrified she might actually spew such idiocy. She cleared her throat and shoved the duke and his breeches from her mind. “I’d hoped you’d be with me on my last fight before we leave,” she said lamely. “You’re my good-luck charm, Jack.”

Jack smiled and cupped the non-aching side of her face with one big paw. “I’ll be there—watchin’ from the wings,” he assured her. “Yer a bang-up fighter, Annie. You don’t need luck.”

Marianne hoped to heaven that he was right.

But something told her that being forced to perch on the duke’s knee in between rounds—as every fighter did with their knee man, whose thigh served as a seat—enduring his touch on her body, his breath hot on her ear—all the things she’d never noticed with Jack or Andy—would play bloody havoc with both her wits and her luck.

She’d get slaughtered on Tuesday.

* * *

Sin was helping Lucy remove her mufflers when he saw Marianne break away from Jack and stalk toward him.

“I need to talk to you,” she said to Sin.

“I’ll be—”

“Now. Excuse us,” Marianne said to the startled woman. “Jack can take care of you, Lucy.” She set a hand on Sin’s back and all but pushed him toward the stage door.

“Where are we going?” he asked as she elbowed past stagehands and other performers.

“We’ll go to the dressing room.”

“Why? ”

“Because I need to talk to you in private.” She reached the door and then stopped, cutting him a pointed glare.

“What?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to open doors for you?”

She raised her hands, which were still bound in mufflers.

Rather than be annoyed by her abrupt behavior—which had gone well beyond rudeness into the realm of abusiveness—Sin had to bite back a smile as he opened the door and she shoved past him.

Marianne Simpson truly did not care about his status, money, or the fact that he would be eating dinner with the Prince of Wales that very evening.

She displayed more courtesy toward street sweepers than she did with him. When he’d once confronted her on that issue, she had cut him one of her cheeky smirks and said, “Street sweepers perform a valuable function. Dukes, however . . . well.”