Page 82 of The Boxing Baroness

She heard the clinking of glass, and then the duke’s hand appeared holding a glass of water.

“Thank you,” she said, her hands shaking as she took it.

“I’m going to ring for a servant.”

“Won’t the kitchen be closed?”

“It’s late, but I’m sure they’ll still have something.” He took a spill from the mantel to light some candles.

“Not too many, if you don’t mind,” Marianne said. “The light hurts my eyes.”

He took the candelabrum to someplace behind her before lighting it, causing a soft, warm glow to fill the room.

“Did you undress me?”

“No. Cecile did that before she left.” He leaned against the door and surveyed her with his far too piercing eyes.

“Where is Cecile?”

“At the meeting your uncle called, with all the other employees.”

“So late?”

“Well, he had to wait until the show was over.”

“Is he thinking to leave already?” she asked.

“Yes. You probably didn’t hear it before you lost consciousness, but Bonaparte has gathered even more soldiers and is marching on Paris. The town has begun to faction. There have been fights in the streets—even in the dining room tonight—and tempers are high on both sides.”

“Royalists and Bonapartists?”

“There is no great love for this king, so I think it’s not so much Royalists as those who are sick and tired of war. But Bonaparte’s appeal seems . . . well, let’s just say that a year of bickering in Vienna and some foolish actions on the part of Louis have made more than a few people nostalgic for the Corsican.”

There was a soft knock on the door.

Sin opened it and Marianne saw it was her favorite maid, Yvette.

She smiled warmly when she saw Marianne. “Ah, you’re feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Would it be possible to get something to eat?” the duke asked. “Mademoiselle Simpson did not have any supper.”

Yvette cut the duke a saucy look. “Either did you, monsieur.” She turned to Marianne and jerked her head toward the duke. “This one was so worried for you that he didn’t go down to dinner—even when Mademoiselle Tremblay offered to sit with you.”

Marianne looked at the duke, her eyebrows arched.

Thanks to his beard she couldn’t see much of his face other than the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears, but those parts she could see turned a pinky red.

He ignored her inquiring look. “What choices do we have for supper?” he asked Yvette, who was openly grinning at Marianne.

Once they’d settled on stew, bread, some cold game bird, and one of the magnificent fruit tarts the chef was known for, Yvette said, “Would you like me to bring up some hot water for you, mademoiselle?” Her gaze lingered on Marianne’s hair, which was no doubt a bird’s nest.

“That would be lovely,” Marianne replied.

Once the door shut, Marianne asked the duke, “What options is my uncle going to offer tonight?”

The duke moved the chair so she wouldn’t have to twist around to speak to him. She couldn’t help noticing that he was wearing her favorite outfit—yes, it was pitiful that she knew all his clothing—the soft, worn buckskins, a dark green vest, a black neckerchief, and a rough cotton shirt rolled up to expose his delightfully muscular forearms.