Page 64 of The Boxing Baroness

The first caravans bearing sets and props—one of two such groups—had left for Dover a few days earlier and would already be on their way to their first performance in Lille by the time Marianne and the other performers arrived on French soil.

Almost all the circus employees were making the journey in caravans, and a few, like Marianne, were bringing horses. Her uncle, however, was traveling in his coach, an obscenely cumbersome thing that must have belonged to some lord or other because there was still a gold shadow of a poorly removed escutcheon on the doors.

She knew it would be Sonia—his longtime lover—who’d demanded such an extravagance. It made Marianne weary to think how much money—money they didn’t have—he must have spent on the vehicle.

Barnabas had offered Marianne a place inside, but she would much rather ride Reggie, even in the snow. The only activities her uncle and the mercurial Sonia seemed to engage in were squabbling or billing and cooing.

Marianne found witnessing either activity fatiguing.

She loved her uncle, but she could barely tolerate Sonia—a feeling that was mutual. Although Marianne had lived with the other woman from the day her uncle had saved her from having to live in an orphanage all those years ago, Sonia had never made it a secret that she resented Marianne’s presence in their lives.

Cecile had tried to convince Marianne more than a few times to move out of her uncle’s house and share lodgings with her. But whenever Marianne had mentioned moving to Barnabas, he’d always begged her to stay.

Since this business with the duke had started Marianne was actually relieved that she and Cecile hadn’t left to get their own lodgings. For weeks she’d been avoiding being alone with the inquisitive Frenchwoman—not an easy or pleasant task since Cecile was her closest friend—all because she couldn’t lie about what was going on with the three peers.

Marianne had resolved to ask the duke if she could tell Cecile at least part of the truth. She was tired of keeping secrets from a woman who was as close as a sister to her.

The sound of galloping hooves interrupted her thoughts, and she turned, her hand resting on the pistol she kept tucked in the waistband of her buckskins; the Dover Road was dangerous, even in broad daylight.

She squinted through the snow at the approaching horse and rider. Although he was dressed in his “humble man” outfit, she could easily recognize the duke, who had an excellent seat and held himself as if he owned the road. Knowing him, he probably did.

He slowed as he approached her. She’d not seen him since the night of their tussle in the dressing room, and her heart fluttered like a bird trapped in her chest.

Even dressed in old clothing he looked like a god. And now that she knew what he felt like beneath those clothes—as hard as granite—she knew he felt like a god, as well.

“I thought you’d already gone down with Smithy and Guy yesterday,” she said by way of greeting.

“I had one final matter to attend to last night.”

His eyes, when they met hers, were so cold that Marianne flinched.

She frowned. Was he angry about what had happened in the dressing room? He certainly hadn’t seemed angry when he’d left.

Or was he concerned that she might fling herself at him if he behaved with the same cordiality he’d exhibited before that fateful Tuesday?

Shame burned inside her at the thought. Well, he needn’t worry about fending off her advances.

“That was Barnabas I just passed riding in the Earl of Charring’s old coach, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes, Barnabas and Sonia, his housekeeper,” she said, every bit as coolly as he.

The duke cocked a dark blond eyebrow. “He is bringing his housekeeper with him?”

“Keeping house is only one of her duties.”

He opened his mouth—as if he were going to ask what the other roles were—but then shut it, a faint blush spreading over his cheekbones. “Ah.”

Marianne couldn’t help being amused by his prudish reaction. Well, she supposed the wholesome young women he was acquainted with didn’t speak of—or even hint at—lovers. He should know—especially after their last encounter—that she was not a wholesome virgin.

“Is her presence in the carriage the reason you are riding?” he asked.

“Partly. But I also prefer being on Reggie to being tossed around in a coach, no matter how well sprung.”

“Even in the snow?”

“Even in the snow. What about you? Why aren’t you in a curricle speeding your way to a warm, dry room at the Ship Hotel?”

“I am striving to stay in character, Marianne.”