Page 61 of The Boxing Baroness

Rather than look flattered by his admission—as any other woman in his experience would have done—she scowled up at him. “It is only the novelty of me that attracts you, Your Grace. A boxing woman—how quaint and unnatural, like a talking cat.”

She was a novelty. But she was also so much more: She was intelligent, clever, witty, and kind—to everyone except Sin and Guy. He had also seen her be generous with weary street sweepers, aged rag pickers, and hungry urchins.

Marianne Simpson was more nuanced and complex than any person he’d ever met.

But the last thing she needed—they needed—was for Sin to tell her exactly how much he had come to admire her.

She had just given him the excuse he needed for his rash behavior of a few moments before; he could lie and agree that was exactly how he saw her: as a novelty.

Such an admission would serve to reinforce her low opinion of aristocratic men in general, and Sin in particular, but, in the long run, it would be a kindness. Because there could never be anything between them. At least nothing that would do her reputation—or his conscience—any good.

Even though it was for her own benefit, he couldn’t make himself verbalize his agreement. But neither did he deny her accusation. “I thought you should know that I am leaving tomorrow for a week. I have already told Jack.”

Her gaze shuttered, telling him that she’d received his message. She turned away. “Fine,” she said, snatching up a cloth and turning to the mirror before realizing she’d already cleaned off her face paint. She flung the rag into the overflowing hamper.

“I shan’t be back until the day we leave for Dover.”

She spun on her heel to glare at him. “Fine,” she said again. “You may leave now.”

Sin’s body responded before his mind could stop it. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to him, until their bodies were flush against each other. And then he lowered his lips over hers.

She opened to him without hesitation, and he took what she offered, plumbing the depths of her hot, soft mouth until he was forced to come up for air. He stared down into her hooded eyes, breathing hard, furious with himself for doing exactly what he’d told himself he’d never do again only moments before.

“You should know that your pert, ill-mannered behavior doesn’t anger me, Marianne,” he said in a voice roughened by desire. “It just makes me want you more.”

He kissed her again for emphasis, hard, and left her standing there, looking every bit as stunned as he felt.

Chapter 15

After their torrid exchange in the dressing room, Sin was eager to put some distance between himself and Marianne Simpson. As hard as he’d tried to scour from his mind the memory of her kisses and the feel of her body, he’d not been able to stop thinking of her.

He could have paid a visit to his mistress—Lady Alanna Galhart, the eager, lusty widow he’d been seeing for almost two years—to sate his desire, but the thought of bedding one woman while fantasizing about another left him with a sour taste in his mouth.

He chose distance rather than Alanna. While distance wasn’t a complete cure for Marianne’s appeal, it was better than spending five hours a day with the source of temptation.

Sin had never left England for such a long period of time before and the list of things that needed to be done before his departure seemed to grow daily.

The item at the very top of his list was a visit to his aunt Julia and his steward, William Talbot, both of whom lived at Wortham, his family seat. While he was home, he would of course see his mother, not that she would notice.

Talbot had worked for Sin’s father and knew as much as Sin did about all eight of his estates, not just Wortham.

Sin had initially planned to tell Talbot the same lie he was telling everyone else: that he was going to North America. But the more he considered the matter, the more he decided that Talbot was one of the three people in his employ—his valet, Phelps, and his secretary John Morland, being the two others—who should know where he’d really gone, and why. After all, this journey was not without danger. If he were to die, Talbot would need to take measures to locate Ben, if possible, or notify the next in line, his cousin Wendall.

Sin’s aunt Julia, on the other hand, could not know anything about his real plans.

As he looked at her now, on the last morning of his visit, he felt an odd tightness in his chest. She was so very dear to him, his mother in all but name.

His father’s only sister had once, before the pox, been an extremely lovely woman. Even now, in her seventh decade and with the ravages of her illness marking her face, she was still beautiful.

But both her health and appearance had taken on a dangerous edge of fragility since she’d heard the news of Benjamin’s death last year.

She had already suffered so much in her life: the loss of her husband from an illness when she’d been only twenty-three, two stillbirths and a miscarriage, and the deaths of her elder brother, oldest nephew, and youngest niece—a child who’d borne her name—from the very illness that had left her scarred.

No, Sin could not add to her grief and worry by telling her that he was putting his own life in jeopardy by confronting a dangerous traitor without enough scruple to fill a thimble.

Nor did he want to tell her about Ben just yet. He could not share such information when he wasn’t sure he believed it to be the truth. It would be beyond cruel to raise her hopes only to dash them if Strickland was lying.

“But, darling, how can you think about going to America right now?” Lady Julia asked—not for the first time these past five days—as they sat eating breakfast on his final morning.