Page 75 of The Boxing Baroness

She turned to Cecile. “It is not a hideous rag. It’s simply a—”

“Chiffon hideux,” Cecile repeated, going to her open trunk and rooting about before pulling out a navy dress and then tossing a thick, fleecy cream shawl on top of it. “Here. This is good for your coloring, and you will need something warm. It is snug for me, so it will be perfect on you.”

Perfect was a bit of an exaggeration, although what Marianne lacked in bosom she made up for in breadth of shoulders and back.

“You’re very kind, Cecile, but why should I—”

“We are not in England any longer, chérie.”

“I know we’re not in England. What are—”

“Put it on.” Cecile turned back to the mirror and resumed screwing in her earbobs.

Marianne looked at the dress—which was simple in design and yet so soignée, like all the garments the Frenchwoman owned.

She imagined the duke’s expression if she showed up looking—for once—feminine.

Her face heated at the thought and she glanced up at Cecile, as if the other woman might know what Marianne was thinking.

Her friend met her look in the mirror, her full lips curved into a wicked smile. “It will make those beautiful eyes of his roll out of his head.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Marianne said weakly.

Cecile laughed.

Marianne groaned. “Lord. Is my foolish infatuation really so obvious? ”

“Yes. But it is not only you, Marianne. The two of you make sparks when you rub against each other.”

“We do not rub against each other,” she lied.

“Put on the dress.”

Marianne’s gaze slid back to the dress. Well, why not? It was just a dress.

* * *

The dining room of the Poule et Coq inn was small but cozy. Although it was separate from the taproom, the door had been left open to allow for the heat from the huge hearth—complete with a roasting pig—to circulate through the two rooms.

Barnabas, his housekeeper-slash-lover, Sonia, and his coachman, Yves, were already seated at a large table when Sin entered the dining room.

The Frenchman gave him a pinched look but gestured to the open seats. Sin lowered himself into the chair across from Sonia, giving her a brief smile in response to her simpering and eyelash fluttering. The older Frenchwoman was attractive in a lush, overripe way, but he disliked her flirtatious, cloying manner and had needed to excuse himself from her presence twice already, once on the packet and again last night at dinner in Calais.

“Did the ostler find places for the caravans?” Farnham asked.

“He’s keeping one of them at his brother’s house for the night. Smithy will sleep in it after he’s had some dinner.” There was too much money and too many weapons secreted in the caravan to leave it unattended. Although it had shutters with padlocks and double-thick doors with metal inlaid panels, they couldn’t risk somebody breaking in or even stealing it.

“How are you enjoying your trip to France . . . Sin?” Sonia asked when Farnham turned to respond to something his coachman said.

She wore the same sly smirk whenever she spoke to him, clearly bursting at the seams to tell him that she knew exactly who he was. He suspected the only reason she hadn’t said anything was because Farnham had warned her against it. But Sin doubted she was the sort to heed her lover’s warnings for long.

“It is colder than I’d hoped,” he said mildly. “Which part of the country do you hail from, ma’am?”

She looked pleased by his interest. “I’m from L’Estaque, but I’ve lived in England for twenty years now.”

“L’Estaque? I’ve not heard of it.” Sin nodded his thanks to the waiter who’d delivered a glass of wine.

She chuckled, the action jiggling her considerable bosom and taxing the tensile strength of the fabric that made up her low-cut gown. “I’d be surprised if you had, monsieur. It is a tiny bit of a place north of Marseilles.”