Aye, Gavin was lonely, and he had been for some time. In fact, he had started to become bored with life, with doing the same activities every day and meeting the same expectations.
However, being with Mrs. Pettijohn this evening had been more than just an adventure. She was not afraid to meet him as an equal. There was a blunt honesty about her that he could persuade himself was refreshing. Certainly, he could never be able to anticipate what words would come forth from her lovely lips.
Yes, those lips. He’d rather like them with red paint. Before, he’d not truly appreciated how full they were. Now, his mind wondered how they tasted—?
Damn. He needed to stop thinking like this. He’d never sleep if he kept fantasizing about her being in his bed.
And since his mind was too busy with lust for sleep, there were other matters he should be attending. He threw on a robe and stomped to his study. He had a stack of treatises to review before a meeting he would be holding later that day with members of the Bank of England. Nothing could bore him to sleep like reading paperwork—except even these mundane documents were no match for the lure of Sarah Pettijohn.
He read, but he didn’t remember anything. Instead, the documents’ flourished handwriting reminded him of the way she’d thrown her arms up at the end of her song with a grace all her own. Arms that had clung to him in the hack so that she wouldn’t fly out the open door . . .
Slowly, a new idea took hold of his mind.
I don’t take charity, she had said.
But what if he didn’t offer charity?
What if he gave her carte blanche?
She was an actress. She’d been a wife, presumably. Mrs. Sarah Pettijohn. He’d been assured that many actresses invented deceased husbands because the status of widow gave women more freedom, especially in their associations . . . their associations . . . such as accepting a protector, one who could cherish and keep her in exchange for her favors—and Gavin wanted her favors. He ached for them.
Besides most men of his stature kept a mistress.
And taking a mistress would let the world know that he was a lover, that he was a man. Wasn’t it time to relieve himself of his virginity?
God, he hated the word. But it was what he was, a discontented, disgruntled virgin.
In truth, he’d never truly been discontented or disgruntled until seeing Mrs. Pettijohn’s bare legs through transparent skirts as they curved around that silver rope.
Her performance had ignited a fire in him and he could not, would not rest until he’d quenched it. He wanted her. Plain and simple. Taking her under his protection would actually be the best thing for her. He could save her from men like Rov who enjoyed preying on women. He could see that she was treated as she deserved to be.
Because wasn’t it universally recognized that a woman needed a man? And didn’t a man need a woman? At least, that was what his mother and his great-aunt Dame Imogen kept telling him. Yes, they were referring to a wife more than a mistress but Gavin needed help to relieve this howling lust coursing through his veins or he would never be fit company for anyone.
Indeed, when he considered the matter that way, Sarah Pettijohn should feel obligated to let him protect her. It was her fault he was so damned aroused, and he would tell her as much.
Right this very minute.
She needed rescuing from her own stubbornness.
He rose from his desk and returned to his bedroom. He dressed with the energy of a man who had slept a hundred nights. With an anticipation for the day that he’d not experienced in months, he walked to the stables and saddled his own horse, a new one he’d recently purchased in an attempt to snap himself out of his own lethargy. Ares was a dappled gray with four black socks. He nickered a welcome, rousing one of the stable lads.
“May I help you, Your Grace?” the boy said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“No, I can manage, lad.” Gavin tightened the saddle girth and reached for the bridle.
“Norton will have my hide if I don’t help, Your Grace.”
“Then it will be our secret. Hand me the lantern.”
The lad obeyed. “Will you tell me where you are going, Your Grace? Norton always wishes to know where the horses are.”
“Tell him I went to a meeting.”
“It’s not even dawn yet, Your Grace,” the lad said incredulously.
“Then tell him I had a woman to see,” Gavin answered, and just saying those words gave him a sense of exhilaration that he had never known. He put heels to horse.
After all, he wasn’t going after just any woman. He was going to claim the Siren and save Sarah Pettijohn from the misery of her current existence.
As he galloped through the night streets of London, the lantern in his hand lighting the way, he realized there wasn’t a man of his acquaintance who wouldn’t be jealous.
Chapter Five
It had taken Sarah hours to finally fall asleep.
After she’d ordered Baynton from her home, she’d had to spend a good hour pacing the floor, reliving every frustrating moment of being in his presence, and imagining quick rejoinders to put him in his place.
The worst had been when he’d been curious about her plays.
My work, she could hear herself telling him haughtily.
“Work?” he’d questioned as if women never did such a thing. Or that writing wasn’t the very hardest work, which it was. In fact, it was harder than an aristocrat like himself could appreciate because he had never worked. He had servants to work for him.
And then, in her outraged mind, she could see herself stuffing pages of her play into his arrogant mouth. She’d make him chew on her words for questioning her. Yes, she would!
Indeed, she could not wait until Geoff and Charles produced her play. She’d already chosen The Fitful Widow because it was humorous and yet, had a poignancy to the story, especially when the hero falls to one knee and declares himself in love with the Widow.
She could vividly see the scene staged in her mind. She knew Londoners would flock to the theater after the first performance. Word would spread throughout the city of how wonderful her play was until it reached the ears of the Duke of Baynton—and he would wonder, who was this marvelous new playwright who had captivated the capital?
Perhaps he would be curious enough to seek her out?
She could picture their meeting. For some reason, she saw herself dressed in Georgian fashion with powdered hair and even a patch. Paste jewels were in her ears. She’d chosen for her imaginings, she realized, the costume that her mother had worn in her performance of She Stoops to Conquer, the last role she’d ever played before Lord Twyndale had made her his mistress.
The costume was perfect for Sarah to appear regal and self-assured. That was the attitude she wanted around Baynton.
For his part, in her mind’s ramblings, she saw him in somber clothing. Drab browns. He appeared contrite, humbled. It was a very good image . . . however, she could not discount reality.
Baynton would never humble himself to her.
Furthermore, her thoughts had led her down the path of regret and of those things that could never be.
Aloneness had filled her being.
Baynton would never see her play. It was beneath his dignity. And her mother was gone. Disappointment, cynicism, and a taste for the poppy had let her drift away with only Sarah left to mourn her.
Sarah had looked around her room then, seeing it as she believed Baynton had. There wasn’t anything to her surroundings. It was a shell compared to the life she’d once lived and she was fiercely glad that Charlene was gone, safe away from her. Her life was in Boston. She’d have children and love and all the good things that came with them—things that were lost to Sarah.
Her temper spent, Sarah knew she had grown maudlin. She should put herself to bed. Tomorrow was an important day. She had a meeting to discuss her play with Geoff and Charles. She should not let the Duke of Baynton ruin it for her.
So, she’d undresse
d, carefully folding her Siren costume away and placing it in a bandbox. She had pulled her heavy cotton nightdress over her head and had blown out the candle. Her pallet was not comfortable but she cheered herself with thoughts of the morrow and drifted into a turbulent sleep.
Sarah had never been one to dream, except now she did. She found herself walking in a dark and dangerous place that she couldn’t quite define but she wasn’t alone. The Duke of Baynton was beside her, guarding her, guiding her. She was glad he was because she heard voices mocking her. She thought she saw faces and yet, it was unclear in that hazy, jumbled way of dreams.
Her only certainty was that Baynton was by her side—until the knocking started.
At the sound, he stopped, but she kept walking. She had a thought that he would catch up. He didn’t. He just disappeared and she was left with the awful knocking that kept growing more and more insistent—
Sarah came awake with a start, shocked to realize she was in her bed and not walking the streets. Certainly her body ached as if she’d traveled for miles, and she had, she realized. She’d exercised herself very well the past evening and had received little sleep in return.
“Mrs. Pettijohn? Wake up!” The Duke of Baynton began rapping heavily on her door again.
“What in the world—?” She combed her hair back from her face. She hadn’t bothered to braid it before turning in and its heavy mass was tangled. The side of her face felt as if she’d been sleeping too hard and her eyes were crusty. She rubbed them.
“Mrs. Pettijohn, open the door. I have a matter of great urgency to discuss with you.” There was a light around the door as if it was day, but it couldn’t have been.
The word “urgency” captured her attention. What could be urgent that he hadn’t said to her last night? Her mind immediately went to Charlene.
What with England and the United States at war, letters between Sarah and her niece were now difficult to exchange. If anyone could receive information, it would be the mighty Duke of Baynton.
Fear for Charlene gripped her. She stumbled to the door and cracked it open just as he was about to knock again. The light around the door was from the lantern in his hand. She threw the door open wider, squinting.
“Is all well with Charlene?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” he replied as he walked right by her, inviting himself in. He removed his hat and set it and the lantern on the table.
“Then what is so urgent?” Sarah asked, confused.
But he wasn’t paying attention to her. Instead, his gaze fixed on her bare toes peeking out beneath her nightdress and she remembered the warmth in his voice when he’d wondered earlier what else about her might also be naked. She tucked her toes in from his view, which only brought his interest to her tangled hair around her shoulders. Wherever he looked, it was as if he touched her, and she struggled with a desire to hide.
And then he announced, “I wish to spend the night with you.”
It took a moment for those words to penetrate her still sleep-heavy brain, but when they did, she almost laughed—until she realized he was serious.
His presence, his person, filled every nook of her mean little room. He was too fine to be here. Too full of vitality and life.
And of his own consequence.
Standing by the still open door, Sarah said, “That fact was established when you mentioned my breasts tonight, Your Grace, and complimented my legs. You will not be surprised by my answer—no. Now good night, or good day to you, whichever it is at this hour.” With a sweep of her hand, she urged him out the door.
He did not move. “Hear me out, and—” he continued as if knowing she would not be convinced, “if you still wish me to leave, then I will do so.”
“If?” In spite of her sarcasm, Sarah had a kernel of curiosity as well. Baynton had never taken a mistress. She’d heard the gossips among the actresses and dancers who kept track of that sort of thing. He was the most eligible bachelor in London and a prize for every conniving woman.
Furthermore, she’d never received an offer of this sort before.
Yes, when she’d been younger there had been men who chased; however, since the painful farce that had been her marriage, she’d never given anyone a chance to close in on her. She rather liked being her own person. A bad husband could do that to a woman.
She closed the door. “Speak.”
“You do not like me. I understand,” he hurried to add. “But I am not set against you.”
This was news to Sarah.
“I do find you headstrong,” he added, “and wrong thinking, but I believe that is no crime.”
“How generous of you, Your Grace.”
He didn’t react to her mild derision. Instead, he began pacing the small confines of her room, just as she’d done not more than an hour or two earlier.
“I have a problem,” he said. “I must marry. I will. I have money. I’m a duke. Some woman will want me.”
“Two have already said no,” she silkily reminded him.
He stopped. “Yes, they have and that is part of the difficulty. You are one of the few people who knows that I’ve done the honorable thing to let them marry the men of their choice. It was not because they faulted me. However, the rest of the world is not aware of the full story.” He paused as if wrestling with himself and then admitted, “Some see me as less of a man.”
“That is nonsense,” Sarah answered.
“And yet it is true.”
She wanted to refute his claim . . . then again, he was right. She’d heard whispers from small minds. They wondered what was wrong with him that Charlene had chosen another? And they had prodded Sarah, hoping to glean knowledge and were disappointed when she’d kept her mouth shut. She knew the gossips were unfair to Baynton; however, what could she say to help? Who cared what an actress thought?
He took her hand and brought her over to sit in one of the chairs. He pulled the other up so that they were facing each other, their knees so close they almost touched.
“Last night, Mrs. Pettijohn, you created a vision every man in that theater wanted.”
That was true. She had been a sensation. “I did not encourage them.”
“You needn’t. Men are covetous. They see; they want. Having you on my arm will do much to restore my reputation.”
“I am not a whore.”
She would have risen from the chair but he caught her hand. “This is a business proposition.”
“I. Am. Not. A whore,” she reiterated.
“I would never call you so. However, you have created an impression—a false one, perhaps—but people think what they will.”
“And for what others think I am to sell myself?”
“Or use this moment to your advantage. What do you want that you can’t have, Mrs. Pettijohn? What of security? Of owning a lovely house to call your own?”
“Attempting to take care of me again, Your Grace?”
“You have refused charity.”
Sarah made a sound of annoyance. Leave it to Baynton to use her own words on her. She crossed her arms. “I have principles.”
“Aye, the world is aware that Mrs. Sarah Pettijohn is no mere actress. She has principles,” he replied. “She’d never stoop so low as to sing away while pumping her legs on a swing over the heads of a pack of hungry lords behaving like dogs.”
For a bald second, Sarah hated him.
Nor would she defend herself.
She had good reason for participating in the Naughty Review. A woman alone had to do what she must to survive. She didn’t need to explain herself to His Haughtiness. She’d meet his haughty and raise it with her haughty. “A pack of dogs in which you were a member,” she reminded him archly.
“I was there,” he conceded.
She glared at him, angry . . . and tired. Exhausted actually.
For a moment, the struggle of her life threatened to overwhelm her. How hard would it be to say yes and own a house, a home no one could take away from her?
/> She could not give in to temptation. That is what her mother had done. Still, she was curious . . .
“There are a half a dozen birds around London men would be jealous to see you with, Your Grace. Why me?”
“Why not you? Besides, I require someone who will not be foolish. I do not wish to bring bastards in the world.”
He was being smart. Baynton was wealthy. He would be honor bound to support any child he bred. The mother could find herself set for life.
This was also an issue he needn’t fear with Sarah. She wondered if he knew, but he couldn’t. This was her secret.
“I also,” he continued earnestly, “need someone whose discretion I can trust.”
“And you believe that is me?” she asked, incredulous.
“As a matter of fact, yes. You actually do have principles, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yes, you have me confused. You wish discretion and yet you obviously plan on letting everyone in London know we are lovers. What game are you playing?”
“No game, Mrs. Pettijohn. I need help and you are the only one I can trust.”
“Because,” she prompted.
“Because I’m a virgin, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
Sarah went still, uncertain if she’d heard him correctly.
He didn’t laugh or act as if he jested. He was remarkably serious about the matter, and she realized he was speaking the truth.
She straightened her shoulders, folded her hands in her lap and said simply, “Don’t worry. It isn’t a permanent condition.”
He bolted from his chair as if he objected. “But it has been,” he announced. “Do you think I wish to be this way? At my age?”
“Then why are you?”
“You are not the only one with principles. I believed that if my wife was a virgin then it was only right I should come to her chaste as well. Pure, so to speak.”
“Why, Your Grace, you are a romantic.”
He frowned confusion at her statement. “Of course I am.” He shrugged and then plunged forward with his story. “However, you are aware of my wife challenges.”
“I am.”
A Date at the Altar Page 5