Page 109 of The Boxing Baroness

“Sin’s brother Robert had been betrothed to Baron Shereford’s daughter—the marriage arranged when the two were still in the cradle. When Robert died, the bond passed to Sin.”

“That’s positively . . . gothic.”

“Call it what you like. Not only was he honor bound to marry the woman, but the marriage brought a parcel of land with it—not a large piece, but one that was critical to the health of the village of Staunton. Without the land, the village would have withered and died. Thanks to the marriage, Staunton has access to a canal that has breathed new life into the area.”

“Why not simply buy the land?”

“Because Shereford—a man who only came into his barony thirty years ago—didn’t want money—he had oodles. He wanted a duke for a son-in-law. He wanted his grandson to be the next Staunton. Sin’s choice was simple, albeit painful: He could dishonor his name and please himself, or he could better the lives of countless others who depend on the Dukes of Staunton for their livelihood.”

Marianne had been appalled. “What a horrible decision—love or decency; happiness for two people or the good of the many.”

“Exactly. No choice at all to an honorable man.”

Marianne had been furious at Carlisle for sharing such a story. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I recognize the expression I’ve seen on Sin’s face these past weeks—I’ve seen it before, back when he was in love with Jenny.”

She’d flinched; now she had the name of the woman who’d been fortunate enough to have the duke’s love and tragic enough to lose it.

“You are wrong; he doesn’t love me.”

She had desperately wanted him to argue, but he’d only shrugged. “I don’t know how far matters have progressed. But know this: He will not keep a mistress when he marries, and he will never choose his own happiness over his responsibilities.”

She’d laughed then—a bitter laugh tinged with tears. “And a mistress is all I can ever aspire to, isn’t it?”

“You may scoff and rail against it, Marianne, but it is a reality. Dukes do not marry circus performers. The sooner you end this, the easier it will be for both of you.”

Guy had looked almost anguished as he’d said that last part.

Not until now did Marianne realize that he hadn’t been speaking only to her—he was trying to convince himself. After all, Carlisle was heir to a dukedom, too, and it was evident to anyone who cared to look that Guy was—at the very least—infatuated with Cecile.

As for Cecile’s feelings about him?

Well, that wasn’t so clear.

Marianne looked at her friend, who was savagely washing one of Guy’s shirts, her expression that of a person whose mind was elsewhere. Was Cecile thinking of her lover and the fact they would never see one another after this journey? Or was she contemplating accepting an arrangement from Carlisle? Marianne had not asked Guy if he were the type to keep a mistress after marriage. But based on all the newspaper stories she’d read about the marquess, it seemed like a possibility.

Could Cecile agree to play that role in his life?

Marianne didn’t want to think what her own decision would be if she were in that position. Would sharing part of the duke’s life be better than none? What if there were children—

Marianne shook away the thought. It would destroy the duke if he followed in his father’s footsteps. And it would destroy her, too.

She sighed, sick of her whirling thoughts, and tossed the neckerchief she’d just rinsed into the basket for clean clothes.

St. John. That is his name. Can’t you even call him that inside your head?

No, she couldn’t.

St. John was not a man she knew. Sin—with his scruffy beard, worn clothes, and protective attitude toward a common female boxer—now he might be somebody she could get to know.

But St. John was a man who spoke to kings, a politician whose decisions shaped the world, and a duke who would one day marry a lady.

Marianne didn’t realize she was crying until a tear landed on her bare forearm.

“Are you all right, chérie?” Cecile asked softly, her forehead furrowed with concern and something else . . . empathy?

“I’m fine,” Marianne said, forcing a smile. “I just splashed myself in the eye.”