Page 147 of The Boxing Baroness

Désirée nodded. “Yes, she is a formidable woman, that one. She came highly recommended, so we let her guide our decisions and allowed the matter to unfold.” Her lips flexed into a rueful smile. “Things would have gone more smoothly if your father hadn’t come back from Elba, of course. I was horrified that we’d allowed you to wander into such a dangerous situation. The only thing keeping me sane was the knowledge that Brown was with you.”

Jo and Angus, her guardian angels.

“Now,” Désirée said, her manner that of a woman wanting to get down to business. “I don’t have much time. I will have to get back home before too long. Things are—well, I’m sure you can imagine Paris right now.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Oh, no. I have managed to keep friends on both sides, if you can believe it. Louis has been kind to me.” Her lips puckered. “Although not kind enough to let me bring my dear sister and her husband to Paris.”

Marianne almost laughed at that. Considering that her brother-in-law—Marianne’s uncle!—was Napoleon’s brother, the King of France’s reluctance to invite him to live in the capital was understandable.

“Before I leave, I wish to speak of this duke Brown mentioned.”

Marianne’s face heated under her intense, knowing gaze.

“Ah,” Désirée said, nodding as if she’d actually spoken. “You are in love.”

Marianne opened her mouth to deny it, but then realized this was her one and only chance to speak honestly with the woman who’d given birth to her. “Yes.”

“He is the one the papers call Lord Flawless?”

Marianne winced at the nickname Sin disliked so much. “Yes.”

“You have agreed to a carte blanche?”

“No!” she said, nettled the other woman should make such an assumption.

Désirée chuckled tolerantly. “That was not meant to be an insult—I am proud of you for capturing the attention of such a man.”

“He asked me to marry him,” Marianne blurted, and then wished she’d held her tongue. What was wrong with her? Boasting of such a thing.

“Mon Dieu! He must love you very much.”

“Yes. And I love him. Which is why I cannot accept his offer.”

“But why?” Désirée demanded, visibly irked. “Is it because of what Brown says—that you suffered a humiliation at the hands of that”—her lips twisted into a vicious sneer and for one startling moment Marianne thought the woman might actually spit—“that swine Strickland?”

“That’s part of it. But do you know what I do in my uncle’s circus?”

“Brown said you are his”—she snapped her fingers, searching for the word in English—“compatable?”

Of all the things Jo had shared, why had she lied about what Marianne did for a living?

She sighed. “No. I do not manage his ledgers. I am one of the acts; I am a pugilist.”

Désirée’s eyes widened in shock. “You are a . . . boxeur?”

“Actually, I think it would be boxeuse.” When the other woman failed to smile at her jest, Marianne felt compelled to say, “Now you see why I can’t accept the duke’s offer.”

“It is certainly an . . . obstacle.” She seemed to shake herself. “But you say you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he must perhaps marry elsewhere, but you can still be with him.”

“He would never do such a thing.”

“Why not?”