Page 52 of The Boxing Baroness

No, that wasn’t true—the last thing she wanted was to be the focus of his intense gaze while she fought. He made her feel anxious, jittery, and—ultimately—sloppy.

And why is that, Marianne? Could it be you’ve done that thing you swore you’d never do again? Do you fancy the Duke of Staunton? Could you be so foolish?

She wanted to punch that mocking voice right in the face. Unfortunately, it was inside her own head.

Marianne refused to believe that she was becoming infatuated by the most perfect man in Britain.

Refuse it all you like—it’s still the truth.

Ugh. It was.

She wanted to weep at her stupidity. How could she be so weak and foolish? Hadn’t one tragically humiliating affair with an aristocrat been enough?

Apparently not.

“Marianne!”

Jack’s angry voice jolted her out of her internal misery just in time to parry a jab from Lucy’s fist.

“Criminy!” Jack hollered.

Marianne paid attention for perhaps five seconds and then, as if her eyes were on lead strings, her gaze slid back to Staunton.

The duke was supposed to be observing Lucy while Jack watched Marianne. But Marianne felt the weight of his stare. And every time she snatched a glance at him—which was far too often for her safety—she found him watching her with his brooding eyes.

Like Jack, Andy, and Elliot—all of whom were there today—the duke had stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, baring surprisingly muscular forearms that were dusted with ash-blond hair, the veins on the back of his long-fingered hands a pronounced blue beneath his pale skin.

His forearms were distracting enough, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

Lately, he’d taken to wearing ancient, butter-soft buckskins, the breeches so worn and thin they clung like silk to his muscular thighs, taut hips, and firm buttocks.

Marianne snatched a quick glance at said buckskins and barely dodged a cross from Lucy.

“Annie!” Jack shouted, all but frothing at the mouth.

Marianne gritted her teeth and yanked her mind away from the duke’s hips and thighs.

But like a willful, untrained hound, her thoughts veered back toward him only moments later.

It was a disgrace. Dressing like that in public! How was a woman supposed to concentrate when he insisted on parading about in—

Lucy’s fist struck Marianne’s chin and drove her head back hard enough to make the bones in her neck pop.

“Bloody ’ell!” Jack shouted as Marianne staggered back from the hit. “Where’s yer ’ead, Annie?”

Marianne doubted he’d like the answer—that it was on the duke’s buckskins. Or worse, in the duke’s buckskins.

She shook herself, blinking to clear her trebled vision.

“Time!” the duke called.

Marianne spun and scowled at him—or at least at one image of him. “I don’t need—”

“Oy!” Jack said, setting a huge paw on her shoulder. “When Sin calls time, you listen to ’im the same as you listen to me, my girl.”

Marianne’s face heated at the uncharacteristic chastisement. “Sorry, Jack,” she mumbled, her vision still blurred.

“No, ’tisn’t me you need to be sorry with.” Jack jerked his chin in the duke’s direction.