Page 56 of The Boxing Baroness

“Thank you,” Sin murmured, holding the fruit in one hand while he handed Marianne the bottle of water.

“Listen to me,” he repeated as she drank. “You can’t take many more hits like that last one.”

“Believe me, I know. She caught me on the same spot Lucy did when we sparred.”

“And why is that?” Sin asked, more than a little sarcasm in his tone.

“I know, I know,” Marianne said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and wincing at the soreness in her jaw before handing the bottle to Elliot. “It’s because I keep dropping my left.”

Sin gave her one of the orange pieces and then briskly toweled her neck and the damp hair at her temples while she ate, leaning closer. “Do you remember Rule One?”

He was referring to the rules in the great Mendoza’s book, The Art of Boxing. She’d read it at least a dozen times, but it had been years since the last time she’d thought of it. Rule One was that you should always watch your opponent’s face—unless not doing so brought you an advantage.

“Of course I do,” she said.

“You’ve a tendency to hold your opponent’s gaze and Suzi knows that. Now would be a good time to use her knowledge against her.”

“You want me to feint?”

He grinned fiercely, and it was like a second punch to the head. His face was beautiful in repose—but with a smile like that, he was almost painful to behold.

“—only the once,” he said.

Marianne stared. “I’m sorry?” What was wrong with her? It wasn’t like her to be so bloody distracted.

“You weren’t paying attention, were you?” His stern expression caused its own collection of disturbing effects to cascade through her body. “Do you need me to tell your uncle to call this—is your vision impaired?”

“No, you absolutely cannot call this fight. I’m fine, I just, er, well, I wasn’t listening. But I’m listening now.”

“I was saying that I also noticed she always drops her right just before she throws her left, leaving herself unguarded.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Marianne admitted.

“That is why I’m here: to notice.” He handed her the other orange segment. “Next time she does it, don’t parry. Instead, move to the right and then hit her straight on.”

Marianne nodded.

“Here, turn a bit,” he ordered, his hands on her waist, shifting her until she was facing away from him, straddling his thigh.

Marianne bit her lip to keep from groaning as the sensitive flesh of her sex pressed against hard bone and muscle. Did the man have any notion how that felt?

“You’re tight,” he said, leaning forward so close that his lips brushed against her ear.

Marianne’s jaw dropped.

“I’m going to loosen you up a bit.” Strong fingers dug into her shoulders as he kneaded the taut, knotted muscles and . . .

Oh, God. Marianne knew that she should be ashamed of the small, whimpering noises that slipped from between her lips, but she was past caring.

Who knew that hands so beautiful could be so powerful? And how could a man who’d never done a day’s work in his life have such strength?

The orange rind slid from her limp hand as he worked new life into her, his magic fingers getting her blood flowing and infusing her muscles with vigor, until she was all but vibrating with energy.

All too soon he stopped and shifted her again, turning her body perpendicular to his thigh. “Look at me.”

She forced up heavy lids and looked at the man it was getting harder and harder to remember was a duke. She was as close to him as she’d been during their argument in the dressing room, but this time the lights over the stage were blazing, illuminating his eyes behind his spectacles. A complex constellation of greens made up his irises—from juniper to moss to peridot, along with countless shades she couldn’t name. This close, his eyes didn’t look cold and reserved at all but burned with intelligence and life and . . . something else: desire.

Marianne was no stranger to that expression, but never thought to see it on this tightly controlled, proud man’s face.