Page 84 of The Boxing Baroness

“Besides,” Marianne added in a less combative tone, “for all you know, Barnabas will want to finish the tour, so I’ll be going that way, anyhow.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he blundered right on through a war.”

“Your meeting with Dominic isn’t for weeks,” she pointed out. “What will you do for all that time?”

His raptor-like stare seemed to burn a hole through her. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone going against his word—no doubt this was a painful experience for him—but she could see he was torn. They’d only known each other a matter of weeks, but their association had been, by necessity, a close one. He should know by now that she was not going to relent.

Finally, after what felt like an hour, he said, “I’ll head straight to Metz and hope to avoid any hostilities that erupt. Dominic is not a stupid man; he will know what this news means to your uncle’s tour. I daresay he’ll expect me to show up early.”

“I don’t think this will be a good time to travel as an Englishman.”

“We’ll have the caravan, so we can maintain the fiction that we are some sort of traveling troupe.”

“An English circus?”

“I’m sure we could get somebody to change the name on the caravans to something French.”

All the caravans they’d brought with them had Farnham’s Fantastical Female Fayre painted on the side.

“To what?” she asked.

“I don’t know, I’ll think of something.”

“I don’t mean to be insulting, but the only one of you who could pass for French is Elliot.”

His eyes narrowed. “What point are you trying to make?”

“I think that you should go back to England. If anyone stays, it should be me, Elliot, and perhaps we can talk one of the stagehands into accompanying us. We can take your caravan and bring the money. We can also bring your brother back.”

He gave her a look of stunned disbelief. “Absolutely not.”

“Even if it will jeopardize your brother’s life to travel with Englishmen?”

“You have no idea what Strickland has planned for you,” he said, skirting her question entirely. “And I have no intention of going anywhere but to Metz. So let’s consider that discussion closed.”

She’d not really believed that he’d assent to such an idea, but it was worth a try. “So that means I’ll join the three of you, then. We’ll only take the one caravan and my horse.”

“Marianne.”

“Hmm?” she asked, her mind racing. They’d be cramped, and it wouldn’t be—

“You don’t have to do this.”

His quiet voice jerked her away from her busy thoughts, and she looked up. He wore an expression she’d never thought to see on his face: uncertainty.

It didn’t take a genius to guess what he was uncertain about. Part of him had to want her to come along—his brother’s life was at stake. But he was an honorable man who wouldn’t put her in danger.

His face—for all that it was covered with copper scruff—was still the same haughty, beautiful, aristocratic face she’d seen that first night in the crowd. But his eyes were no longer harsh or opaque whenever he looked at her. Somewhere along the way he’d begun to care what happened to her—and he made no effort to hide it. He was a decent man who’d given Jack his word that he would take care of her. That’s all this was—his word mattered to him.

Nobody had extracted such a promise from Marianne. She had no excuse for caring about him.

Now was her chance to run as far from him as she could, and yet she wasn’t taking the opportunity.

The reason she was insisting on going along wasn’t because she wanted to find out the truth from Dominic. At least not entirely—the duke would make sure Dominic got what he deserved. No, he was the reason she insisted on going.

Somehow, without her noticing it, he had carved out a place for himself in her life. She had begun to rely on him, to trust him, and believe he really was what he was playing at: a man who cared for her.

But he wasn’t a boxing trainer. He was a duke, and she was a female pug in a circus. They might as well be two different species.