Page 130 of The Boxing Baroness

“Men are good for one thing,” she’d often said. “And most of the time they are not even good for that. Don’t trust a man and you will never be hurt.”

Marianne had been so stunned when Dominic had offered marriage, rather than the expected carte blanche, that she’d done the unthinkable and trusted him enough to agree to spend the rest of her life with him.

She had been devastated when she’d learned the truth of their marriage. But her anger had been more for herself than him. And it hadn’t taken much time for her to realize that she was actually far better off the way things turned out. Being married to him would have been a disaster.

Dominic was as different from St. John as two men could be.

Any woman fortunate enough to marry Sin would never want for love or support or loyalty.

If Dominic was a gothic villain, then Sin was the stuff that storybook heroes were made of: honorable, strong, and beautiful.

Marianne had seen him in his evening blacks before, of course, but that had been before she’d fallen in love with him.

He’d been achingly handsome then. Now he was heartbreaking.

He felt her gaze and smiled at her—not one of his barely there smiles, but a full-blown grin, complete with dimple.

She dropped her hand to her lap and laid it on his leg, giving his muscular thigh a hard squeeze.

His eyes darkened and his smile shifted into something hungry and—

“A-hem.” Dominic exaggeratedly cleared his throat.

Marianne and Sin exchanged an amused glance; the duke cared as little about Dominic’s opinion of them as she did.

The king’s brow furrowed as he looked back and forth between them, visibly confused.

“Perhaps you might enlighten Miss Simpson now, Your Royal Highness,” Dominic suggested, making it sound more like a command.

Gustav flushed and nodded vigorously, his weak chin an excellent indicator of his character.

“You have heard of me, I am sure,” he said with an arrogance that grated.

It wasn’t a question, which was just as well because the only thing she’d heard about Gustav was that he’d been overthrown by his own officers after a disastrous campaign in Finland.

“When the traitors in the Riksdag had the effrontery to seize my crown and give it to the usurper, they were repaid by his rapid demise. But what did they do then? Why, they gave the Swedish crown to a pawn of Bonaparte!” he ranted, no longer pale and feeble, but overwrought and unhinged.

Dominic had leaned back in his chair, watching the king with the indulgent smirk of a man who’d heard everything the king had to say many, many times.

“The Prince of Pontecorvo,” Gustav spat. His gaze sharpened on Marianne. “A man too busy doing the Corsican’s bidding to even bother to visit the country that offered him a crown.” He ground his teeth. “And then there is his wife! A Catholic whore who remains in Paris, even now, no doubt spreading her legs in celebration of her former lover’s return.” He was breathing heavily. “A whore who is, in fact, your mother, Marianne Simpson.”

Marianne blinked, unable to scrape together a single word.

“I would remind you that you are in the presence of a lady, Your Royal Highness.” Sin’s voice was like a blast of frigid air.

The king gave a hysterical laugh. “A lady! That is true, but only by unholy means. The spawn of an unfaithful wife and the scourge of Europe.”

“Are you actually saying that Miss Simpson’s mother is married to the Prince of Pontecorvo?” Sin demanded in disbelief.

“That is exactly what I am saying!” Gustav was clutching his fork and eyeing Marianne as if he were going to leap across the table and stab her with it. “And she and her husband now style themselves the Crown Prince and Princess of Sweden.”

Dominic chuckled in a way that made Marianne want to break his jaw. “Perhaps I might elucidate, Your Royal Highness?”

The king gave an abrupt, savage nod.

Dominic turned to them. “Through a serendipitous series of events, King Gustav is privy to an interesting bit of information. Ever since Désirée, the crown princess, abandoned her son and the prince and moved back to Paris, there have been a number of—well, there is no pleasant way to say this—spies in her household. Some report to her husband, some to the Riksdag, and some . . . let’s just say some of the little ears listening are entrepreneurs willing to sell information to the highest bidder. His Royal Highness and I were just beginning to despair that neither of us would ever find a way out of this delightful little backwater when we learned that Désirée had been a very naughty princess twenty-one years ago.” He grinned. “Not until I was in Paris last year and saw a rendering of the crown princess in the newspaper did I realize just how serendipitous my newfound knowledge was. Because, lo and behold! I recalled exactly where I’d seen that face before: in a locket I once found in a Whitechapel theater. You can imagine my chagrin when I realized just whose portrait that was.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t steal the locket,” Marianne spat.