Page 35 of The Boxing Baroness

Marianne had to admit that she’d only recognized the men because she’d known they’d be coming today.

She met His Grace’s pale green stare—there were some things a person couldn’t hide, like the distinctive color of their eyes. “I am impressed,” she said grudgingly, her gaze lingering on his hair, which was no longer a silky pale blond but a flat, mid-brown that was somewhat incongruous with his copper beard.

That beard; Marianne couldn’t help smirking. “Lord, that goes well beyond ginger to an almost flamelike orange, doesn’t it?”

He did not look amused by her observation.

“How did you get here today?” she asked. “Because if you came in that black behemoth of yours then all this”—she waved a hand at their persons—“was for naught.”

“We engaged a hackney.”

Marianne winced at the crisp, hard-as-diamond syllables. “You might look like a regular bloke but you still sound like a nob.”

“You sound a bit like a nob yourself,” he retorted coolly.

Marianne grinned at his acerbic response and his eyes widened, as if he didn’t expect a pugilistic strumpet to possess a sense of humor.

“Fair enough,” she conceded. “I’ve been accused of sounding like a toff more than once. I suppose it’s not unheard of for the lower orders to ape their betters.”

He narrowed his eyes at her emphasis on the word betters.

Now that the first shock had passed, Marianne noticed two more things that gave him away: his commanding stance and proud posture, which were those of a man who owned a goodly chunk of Britain.

Still, a person had to choose their battles. There was probably no way to beat the duke completely out of him. No matter how much she might like to.

“You have a few weeks to soften your accent a bit and also work on your posture.”

“What is wrong with my posture?” he asked, stiffening and looking even more ducal.

“You look like you have an iron rod up your . . . er, well, you are as stiff as a poker. Take a look at the men you will be rubbing elbows with for the next few months and try to emulate them.”

She could see by his haughty scowl that he didn’t fancy the notion of emulating riffraff.

Marianne narrowed her eyes at him. “It might surprise you to learn that you are not the only one who doesn’t want to be discovered playing at being a working man. I would prefer never to have my name linked with another aristocrat’s. There would be only one conclusion people would draw if they found out that I had smuggled you into my uncle’s circus. So, if you don’t mind, I would be grateful if every person along our tour route didn’t learn that you are a duke.”

His eyes glittered dangerously at her disrespectful tone.

Marianne knew she was enjoying baiting His Grace far too much, and that her petty behavior did not reflect well on her character. She didn’t care.

“Fine,” he grated. “Who are we supposed to be then?”

“Given your accent, I think we’ll just tell people that you used to be a butler in a lord’s house. They’re even starchier than their employers, aren’t they?”

Elliot Wingate chuckled, the sound unexpectedly soft coming from a man who bore more than a passing resemblance to a satyr with his sharp features. “She’s got you there, Staunton—er, sorry, Sin. Buffle is far more intimidating than any of the royal dukes.”

“Sin?” Marianne asked.

“It is a pet name,” His Grace said frostily, looking more displeased by the moment.

“You—the morally upstanding and noble Lord Flawless—have the nickname Sin?” Marianne laughed. “Is it supposed to be ironical?”

The duke’s eyes narrowed to dangerous green slits.

“It’s a boyhood shortening of his Christian name,” Elliot explained hastily, as the tension in the room thickened.

“What name is that?” she asked, and then cut the duke a sneer. “Or is it forbidden to share such information with a mere commoner?”

“St. John.” The name came out somewhere between a low snarl and a hiss.