“I have never seen anything like that in my life. Was there much damage done?”
“Mr. Geoff and Mr. Charles were shouting about the curtain being torn but all is in decent shape. They were actually more interested in this night’s take.” He referred to the seat sales.
That was a relief. If there had been extensive damage, Geoff and Charles might have blamed her and refused to put on her play; then all she’d done would have been for naught. “May I take a candle to the dressing rooms? I must change.”
“Of course you may, miss.” He reached for a candle stub for her and lit it off his lantern.
“I hope you know I’m trying to keep my identity a secret, Ollie. Geoff and Charles said they would stage a play I’ve written if I would do this for them. However, I would rather be known as a good playwright than as the Siren. Can I trust you?”
But it wasn’t Ollie who answered.
“I’m afraid your secret is out, Mrs. Pettijohn,” a male voice said. The blond man who had attacked her on stage stepped out of the darkness. “And if I were you, I would be proud of my performance. You captured my attention.”
She frowned at Ollie, knowing he must have a hand in betraying her. “I hope he paid you well.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” Ollie murmured and moved off into the darkness.
The man walked toward her, his intent clear. “Don’t be upset, Mrs. Pettijohn,” he said. “I know how to make a woman very happy, especially,” he added, letting his heated gaze roam over her body in the thin costume, “a woman as lovely as yourself. Let me introduce myself. I’m Rovington.”
Sarah had heard of Rovington. He had a taste for actresses and considered them free for his taking. Stories she’d heard about him teased her memory. He was not one of the favorites. He had a temper—and she knew about men and rages . . . knew better than she wished.
“You and I are going to become very good friends—” he started to promise, reaching out as if to capture her, but Sarah had a different idea.
She grabbed the high desk where Ollie usually sat by the door and threw it down in front of him before whipping around, opening the backstage door, and running.
Rovington cursed at being thwarted and then he laughed, the sound strange behind her. Evil.
Sarah’s bare feet flew down the steps and out into the alley. She heard Rovington behind her. She expected him to give chase.
Instead, he stood by the door and shouted almost happily, “Take her. The first man who grabs her will receive a fiver.”
More men?
Three men stepped out of the alley’s shadows, coming at her from different directions.
Panic brought her to a halt. She could not believe she was being attacked in this manner—and then the sound of running hooves echoed in the alley.
An ordinary hack charged forward, forcing one of the men to jump out of the way or be run over. It slowed as it reached Sarah. The door flew open. “Climb in,” a rough male voice ordered. A hand was offered to her.
She knew that voice. Baynton.
He was the last person she wished to associate with, but she feared what would happen if she stayed. Rovington was not the sort to take her refusal lightly and she could not run forever. Performances took energy and she was now beyond fatigued.
She leaped for the strong, capable hand and let him pull her inside, the hack barely slowing down. The still open door swung widely as the hack careened around the corner of the alley and into the street. Behind them, men shouted threats to stop. The driver, thankfully, kept going.
Holding her so that she didn’t topple out with the bouncing and swaying of the vehicle, the duke reached across her body and yanked the door shut. His movements brought them face-to-face.
“Hello, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
For a second, this close to him, Sarah found it hard to breathe, let alone think. He had an arm around her waist. She found her chest practically against his, her hips resting against his thigh. Their bodies rode the hack’s rolling movement together and she had no choice but to cling to him for balance.
It was not such a bad experience, being this near to him. In fact, she felt safe, but then, as soon as she could collect her wits, Sarah pushed the heel of her hand on his shoulder. Baynton did not release his hold, not immediately.
Instead, in the light of the hack’s small interior lantern, she detected a glint in his eye, an interest. Her breasts tightened in awareness. Her heart still raced from the madness of escaping the theater and Rovington and yet, there was a skip to the beat. She hadn’t pushed away as hard as she could . . .
By anyone’s account, the Duke of Baynton was a very handsome man. Dark-haired, blessed with sharp blue eyes and the sort of lean, square jaw that spoke of character, he would attract any woman’s attention. Furthermore, he exuded masculinity. It was in the air around him, enhanced by the spiciness of his shaving soap and just the being of his person.
However, no one, simply no single person in the world could annoy her more than this fellow with his arms around her waist. He was the most contrary of souls—even if he did just rescue her from a fate she’d dare not consider.
She broke the moment between them. “I know what you are thinking, and you can’t have it.”
“And what is it I’m thinking?” he challenged in his deep voice, as if he could deny the obvious truth.
Sarah let her hand come down between them, lightly touching the erection pressing against his breeches. The man was hard, boldly so.
Baynton let go of her as if she’d scalded him, turning away. “It is not what you believe.”
There was that contrariness again. In the cab’s hazy light, she even thought she saw a dull red rise to his face.
Her mind had to be playing tricks. Few men blushed, especially if they were as morally rigid as the Duke of Baynton.
She laughed quietly. “Oh, yes, it is,” she answered him. “If there is one thing I know, it’s men.”
He stiffened, but did not respond.
The hack had now slowed to a reasonable gait. Sarah straightened in the seat, edging toward the door, putting space between herself and his uncomfortable presence. Her bare feet were responding to the escapades and abuses of the evening. She wished for shoes, and a few more articles of clothing would have also been warranted.
As if reading her mind, he took off his jacket. “Here,” he offered.
“That is not necessary. I’m fine.”
“Put it on.”
“I don’t wish to,” she responded coolly. “I am not chilled.” She belied her words by crossing her arms. Now that she was out of the range of his body heat, gooseflesh ran up and down her. She even shivered, a response, no doubt, to the wildness of the evening instead of the night air . . . or her companion in the hack.
“Perhaps I wouldn’t be so—” He paused a moment as if searching for the right word and chose a polite one, “Uncomfortable if you were not naked.”
Now it was her turn to have heat rise to her cheeks. She lifted the shade over the window so that she could see out of the vehicle and avoid him seeing her embarrassment. “I’m not naked,” she informed him. “I am fully clothed. I have on an underdress. You saw nothing.” She had to add, “You may have thought you saw something, but it was only the nonsense going on between your male ears, not anything you could see with your eyes.”
“Your feet are bare.”
She pulled her feet together, placing one foot’s toes on top of the other as if she could hide them. “They are only feet.” The scenery they passed was beginning to seem familiar.
“Your legs are bare.”
Yes, he would have noticed that during her dance on the rope. She crossed them away from him. “They are only legs.”
“Makes me wonder what else is bare.”
A new resonance, a suggestive one had entered his voice. A tone that she’d not imagined the haughty Duke of Baynton possessed, and it set off a tingling warmth in some of her other bare places.
&n
bsp; Sarah tried not to squirm. Or to look at him. She didn’t want to see the interest in his eye or think of Baynton as a . . . lover.
Oh no, she didn’t. Well, her brain didn’t. The naked parts seemed to have thoughts of their own.
He shoved his jacket almost in her face and shook it at her. “Put on my coat.”
There was no denying the order.
Still, when she accepted it, she did so because right now, she needed protection from her own reactions. She didn’t like this coil of feelings, especially around him. It had been a long time since she’d slept with a man or felt his strength moving within her. The last time she’d experienced this piercing hunger, it had almost destroyed her. She mustn’t forget. She need never forget—
Of course, Baynton’s scent was in the folds of his jacket, circling her, teasing her—
The hack came to a halt. Sarah was surprised to see they had stopped before the house on Mulberry Street where she had lived with Charlene. A house that held almost all the very best memories of her life . . .
And then she realized, of course, Baynton would bring her here. He believed this was her address. He had no idea of what had befallen her, and she wasn’t about to let him know.
Without waiting for the driver or the duke, she opened the door and started to let the jacket slip off her shoulders.
“Leave it on,” Baynton ordered. “I don’t want you parading around your neighborhood in that dress. Your neighbors might not realize you are ‘not naked’ beneath it.”
“At this hour, my neighbors will be asleep.” Sarah stepped out of the hack but she kept the jacket. He was right about the wisdom of her racing around the streets of London dressed as she was, especially where she was going. Once again she wished she wore shoes. She had a ways to walk.
But for right now, her purpose was to rid herself of Baynton’s troubling, overbearing presence.
“Thank you very much, Your Grace, for the rescue and the ride.” There, she’d done the pretty but she was speaking to air. He had exited the other side of the hack and was coming around toward her.
Baynton fully dressed was a formidable presence.
However, Baynton in shirtsleeves and brocade vest and hatless, especially in the dim lamp of the hack’s coach lamp, was something else entirely. He appeared relaxed. At complete ease—while the tension inside her from this night threatened to break like the string on an overplayed violin.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“Seeing you to the door,” he answered.
“There is no need. It is only steps away. Good night, Your Grace. Thank you for your help. Move on now.”
He stopped, a mere foot away from her. “I shalln’t leave until I see you properly inside.”
Her chin came up. “I know your gambit. ‘Safely inside,’ eh?”
The duke frowned. “What else do you think I mean?”
She cocked her head with a meaningful glance to that juncture between his thighs.
From the second Sarah Pettijohn had appeared on the stage, Gavin had gone as hard as an iron pike, and he’d stayed that way.
Being in the hack with her had been the worst. He was aware of her every gesture, of her breathing, of the defiance in the lift of her chin, the arch of her brow, of the subtlest movement of her lips. Even the act of snatching her away from those men chasing her had added to the almost animal tension thrumming through his veins. When she’d been bold enough to touch him, he’d almost embarrassed himself.
However, he was not one to give in to impulse.
He was the Duke of Baynton. He had a will of steel. He controlled himself. He did what was honorable—except he would like to take her in his arms and bury himself to the hilt in her body.
Didn’t she realize she didn’t have to be naked in that dress to unleash the wildness in a man’s blood?
It was the legs, he decided. The bare legs and feet. How could she be anything but vulnerable with her toes showing? And Sarah Pettijohn vulnerable was a very attractive bit. He wanted to lift her up in his arms. Protect her.
And in turn, she’d probably spit on him. Certainly she wouldn’t thank him for it.
Ah, yes, Mrs. Pettijohn had a sharp tongue. He was the fool with the cock who conveniently forgot how independent she was. Damn it all.
“I’ll see you to the door and no further,” he bit out. “I understand you find my company loathsome. You needn’t worry I will force myself upon you.” With those words, Gavin started toward the house, but she didn’t follow.
Of course not. That would be simple.
He faced her. “Are you coming?”
“I don’t find you loathsome,” she answered.
He blinked, uncertain what she meant until he remembered his own heated words. He cut the air with the movement of his hand, denying her denial.
“I don’t,” she insisted, approaching him. A cat would envy the shape of her eyes, or the way the dark lashes framing them added to her every expression. She rested those eyes on him now. “Indeed, I appreciate your help this evening—” She stopped herself, even raising her palm as if to stem the flow of words.
Taking a moment to release her breath, she gathered his coat tighter around her shoulders and started again, “I don’t dislike you. I am aware I may have given that impression, but it is because of my own flaws, not yours, Your Grace.”
Back when they had spent days together chasing her niece, she had rarely addressed him by his title, and when she did, not politely.
Her use of it now put him on guard—and yet, she sounded contrite. Or, as contrite as her outspoken nature would allow her.
“You should remember,” she continued, “that I was the one who championed your suit for my niece’s hand. I thought you would be a good husband to her.”
“That’s not how I remember our argument at this very house when I set out to stop her from eloping with my brother Jack.”
“You were furious. I needed to protect her. Certainly you can appreciate that desire?” She lifted her shoulders to indicate his coat he’d forced upon her.
“I would not have harmed her.”
“But your brother?”
Her question resonated in the air. Jack was more than just Gavin’s brother; he was his twin. The elopement had kept the gossips going for months afterward.
“In the end, I gave them my blessing,” he pointed out, noncommittally.
“Yes, you did. I recognize that could have been difficult.”
This time it was his turn to shrug.
Her answer was a shrug back, and then she held out her hand as if they were equals, as if she were a man. “Let us set tensions aside between us. I do not find you loathsome, or think ill of you in any way.”
Even of my arousal? He swallowed the words.
The faintest hint of a smile crossed her face as if she’d read his mind. She had. “Or your manhood,” she confirmed.
For the second time that night, he felt heat creep up his neck. No one had the skill to disarm him. No one—except her. Which was unsettling. It was actually best they did keep apart. Especially since Gavin preferred dealing with people who knew their place, whom he could control.
Thankfully, the hack driver interrupted them. “Do you wish me to continue to wait, sir?” he called, a reminder that he had other fares to earn.
“A moment more,” Gavin said. He looked to Mrs. Pettijohn. “Well, I suppose we’re done.”
“Yes,” she agreed, a bit of a rueful note to her voice as if she was possibly a bit disappointed he was taking his leave of her. “Thank you again,” she added with a bit more cheer.
“You are welcome.” He waited for her to go inside.
She didn’t move. “You may go now. The driver is anxious,” she informed him.
“We will leave after you have gone inside. It doesn’t appear that Lady Baldwin is awake.”
Lady Baldwin was a close friend to Lady Charlene and Mrs. Pettijohn. Gavin understood that she lived with them. He h
ad been quite accustomed to thinking of the three of them together.
“She is probably asleep. You don’t have to wait. I’ll watch you drive off.”
“And leave you standing on the step? Especially after the near riot at the theater? And the attack in the alley? Once you are safely inside, I shall go.”
“I’ll go inside once you leave.”
Exasperation replaced bonhomie. “Mrs. Pettijohn, go in your house.”
She didn’t even bother to consider. “After you drive off, I will.”
Gavin frowned. Was there ever a more pigheaded female?
He went onto the step and began knocking on the door.
That sparked a reaction out of her. “What are you doing?”
“Waking Lady Baldwin.”
Mrs. Pettijohn reached for his arm to yank his fisted hand away from the door. “She’s not there,” she said, speaking in a furious whisper. “She was only visiting when you saw her with us in the past. She actually lives with her daughter.”
“And yet, now you are whispering,” he observed, “as if you do not wish to wake someone.” Even as he said that last word, he was surprised by a jolt of jealousy. Who did she not want him to meet? Why else would she be so anxious?
He pounded the door this time, her hold unable to stay his arm now that he was determined to see the matter through. The wood-and-lacquered door jumped with the strength of his fist. He had to know who she was hiding.
“Stop it,” she ordered in a furious whisper. “Stop now—”
The door opened. The house inside was pitch black but two elderly faces, ghastly pale in the hack’s lamplight, peered out at them. The man wore his night cap; the woman’s hair was braided.
“Yes?” the man asked, his voice creaky with alarm.
Gavin brought his brows together, conscious that Mrs. Pettijohn had stepped back off the step into the darkness. He had the good grace to bow and said calmly, “I’m sorry to wake you. I only wished to return Mrs. Pettijohn to her home.”
“Mrs. Pettijohn?” the man asked, craning his neck to peer out into the night.
“Yes,” Gavin said, feeling awkward. He turned to draw her up onto the step, but she wasn’t there lingering in the night beyond the lamplight. He looked to the hack.
A Date at the Altar Page 3