Page 9 of The Boxing Baroness

By the time of his alleged death, Strickland’s behavior had put him well beyond the pale. And the woman riding beside St. John had shared Dominic’s bed when he had been at his very worst, when he had shocked even jaded society—one time wagering that he could find a man who would eat a live cat. A wager he had made good on, according to reputable sources.

St. John frowned at the distasteful tumble of thoughts. Dominic’s relationship to this woman was neither here nor there. What was of critical importance was convincing Simpson that it was her moral duty to help him save his brother’s life—a life that had been jeopardized by her treasonous ex-lover.

If she did not assist him willingly . . .

Well, he did not want to think about that just now.

* * *

Marianne had expected a duke’s London residence to be sumptuous, but her imagination paled in comparison to reality.

It was the biggest house on a square that held some of London’s most magnificent residences. An astounding six-story mansion fronted with elegant Portland stone, it loomed over the grand square with a tangible air of smug superiority. Much like its owner.

Two grooms materialized as they approached, relieving them of their mounts. A man dressed in the somber clothing of a butler opened the massive front door before they reached it, bowing to his master and reaching for his coat and hat while a second, lesser flunky in gold-laced, blue velvet livery, assisted Marianne.

If either servant noticed the tension crackling between her and their employer, they did not show it by so much as the flicker of an eyelid.

The duke turned to her once he’d been divested of his outerwear, his bottle-green claw-hammer coat bringing out an almost verdigris hue in his unusual eyes. “Mr. Simpson will be joining me for breakfast. See that his mount is—”

“Please, no breakfast. I would rather have done with this quickly, Your Grace.” Marianne felt, rather than saw, the shock of the two men who hovered nearby. Clearly nobody ever interrupted the duke.

“Very well,” the duke said after a slight pause. “Excuse me a moment.”

Marianne inclined her head.

He stepped away and exchanged a few quiet words with his butler.

The servant nodded. “Right away, Your Grace.”

The duke returned to Marianne. “This way, please.” He gestured to a magnificent marble staircase.

The first-floor corridor was as wide as an avenue, the burnished wood floor covered with an ancient, elegant runner. Waist-high wainscoting was topped by silk-covered walls on which hung the artistic wealth of nations. Marianne was no expert on paintings, but even she could recognize a Titian when confronted with one.

Never in her life had she been surrounded by such opulence; she felt . . . oppressed by the weight of it, her senses overwhelmed. What must it be like to grow up in such a place? And to know that one day it would all be yours? No wonder he behaved like a god and believed himself to be above other human beings.

The grandeur that surrounded her was crushing, and she was struck by a mad impulse to run from this house that made her feel so insignificant and gauche. Only by sheer force of will did she ignore her impulse.

Two more footmen flanked a double set of doors. One of the men opened a door as they approached. Staunton was so accustomed to being served hand and foot that he didn’t appear to notice the men or the courtesy, but Marianne nodded her thanks, even though the footman did not make eye contact.

The door closed behind them, and Marianne found herself in a library so grand that it was all she could do to keep from gaping like a hayseed.

“Please, have a seat, Miss Simpson.” Staunton gestured to one of the oxblood leather wing chairs that sat across from a desk fit for a king. Or a duke, she supposed.

As she lowered her body onto butter-soft leather, Marianne became aware of how clenched and rigid her posture had become since entering this cathedral to wealth and power.

Anger pulsed through her veins and her stomach muscles tightened the way they did when she fought. Why was she allowing this man and his possessions to intimidate her? He was no god. He was only a man; a man who’d become rich off the labor and sacrifice of others.

Rather than sit tensely like a quivering boy awaiting discipline from his schoolmaster, Marianne lounged back in her chair, allowing her thighs to fall open in a relaxed, comfortable sprawl, just the way she’d seen countless men sit: as if they owned the room around them.

The duke’s pale gaze flickered over her body and his dark blond eyebrows rose slightly, his eyes lingering at the level of her hips. He had the full lips and generous mouth of a sensualist, but his stern, uncompromising mien reminded her of a painting she’d once seen of Cromwell.

Was he really as pure and noble as he appeared? Did he repress his own sensual desires? Or was he only interested in repressing those of others?

Marianne couldn’t help being amused by the faint red stain that spread over his cheekbones and the slight flexing of his jaw muscles as his gaze lingered on her buckskins and the body they covered. A virtuous woman would be offended by his bold examination. But then a virtuous woman wouldn’t wear breeches to begin with.

Marianne had given up any claim to being virtuous after Dominic made a shambles of her life.

If not for the duke’s treacherous skin betraying him, she would have had no clue that her body made him uncomfortable. Even so, she couldn’t tell if it was disgust, arousal, curiosity, or some other emotion that caused the subtle flush.