Page 55 of The Boxing Baroness

When his chest began to burn, he reluctantly exhaled. The room was quiet but for the sound of their labored breathing and the muted noises coming from beyond the dressing room door. A strand of hair had become tangled in her lush eyelashes and he carefully teased it out and tucked it back with the others, his hand shaking ever so slightly.

“I am no saint, Marianne,” he said gruffly. “I have never claimed to be. I am not without flaws, by any means. And I am a man with physical desires.” He allowed his eyes to roam her face and throat, lingering on the pulse that pounded at the base, before meeting her gaze again. “My reasons for the anti-brothel sentiment I espouse in Parliament are the same reasons I don’t use prostitutes to satisfy my own sexual needs.”

Her hazel eyes darkened as she stared up at him, her fascinating bowed lips slightly parted.

Temptation and restraint warred inside Sin’s body and his iron-hard shaft throbbed against the placket of his buckskins. There would be no concealing his condition when he forced himself to step away from her.

But step away he did, and it was perhaps the hardest step he’d ever taken.

Sin stared down into her hooded eyes—was that a hint of disappointment he saw? Or was it relief?

“Stop baiting me, Marianne,” he said, his voice harsh with the effort of the struggle he’d just endured. “I know you never wanted me in your life, but I’m in it—at least until April fifteenth.” He pivoted on one heel and strode toward the door, not bothering to turn as he said, “I shall see you bright and early tomorrow morning at the park.”

* * *

Marianne felt as if she’d just been run down by a mail coach. She held up her hands and wasn’t surprised to see they were shaking.

She lowered them to her sides and then closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the wall with a thunk. Good Lord, if he’d not come to his senses and stepped away from her, she very well might have launched herself at him and—

Marianne stopped the thought before it came to fruition. No use borrowing trouble; he had come to his senses.

But it had been close.

She lightly banged her head against the wall, as if that might jar some sense into her.

But it was pointless. She was physically attracted to the man—how could she not be? He was rich, powerful, handsome, and—it appeared—honorable.

Marianne groaned. How had this happened? How had he gradually chipped away at her resistance until he now occupied a sizeable portion of her thoughts?

What was wrong with her? Yes, he was caring, gorgeous, and principled, but he was also an aristocrat—that breed of man who believed they were better than everyone else and took what they wanted, suffering no consequences but leaving pain and wreckage in their wake.

And yet . . . although Staunton was undeniably a member of that exclusive circle, he did not live by their credo.

That just made him all the more attractive.

“Lord,” she whispered, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

How was she ever going to make it to April fifteenth without doing something disastrous?

Like fall in love.

Chapter 13

Suzi Fisk delivered a punishing jab to Marianne’s jaw just seconds before the bell rang, ending the fifth round.

Marianne staggered back from the blow, shaking her head to clear it of stars.

Two large hands settled on her shoulders. “Here, come sit down,” the duke shouted as he guided her back to her corner. The crowd—which was always raucous—seemed even more bloodthirsty than usual.

The reason for the enthusiasm was two-fold: this would be the last performance until next winter, and Suzi was always a favorite with crowds. She was remarkable in the world of women pugs for her beauty, and her manager—also her husband—knew how to play up her appearance and dressed her in gowns so low that it wasn’t unusual for a breast to pop out in the middle of the fight, a prospect that always drove ticket sales through the roof. Marianne couldn’t recall seeing the theater so full—even the aisles were packed with men—and knew her uncle had shamelessly oversold tickets.

The duke lowered himself to one knee and gently pulled her down onto his other leg. It was the fifth time she’d sat on his thigh that evening. Even with her head ringing and jaw aching, her entire body tensed at the hardness of his thigh beneath her bottom and the tantalizing scent of him. She inhaled deeply, savoring the faint odor of some cologne—likely expensive—mingled with wool, sweat, and leather.

“Are you listening, Marianne?” His deep voice rumbled against her temple, accompanied by a hot puff of air and the faint scent of citrus—likely from the oranges he always brought with him. The way he asked the question made her realize it wasn’t the first time.

She opened her eyes, relieved to see only one of everything. “Yes, I’m listening.”

“Here, give her this.” Elliot pushed through the heavy velvet ropes that made up the boxing ring. In his hands were a bottle and half an orange, cut into quarters.