A Date at the Altar

by Cathy Maxwell

  “And now, if my peers should find out . . .” He let his voice trail off, filling in words with a wave of his hand, and Sarah had to stifle the urge to laugh.

  Here was Baynton, handsome, noble, possessing all the qualities anyone could wish to live a fine life—and he was worried about this?

  Sarah could not relate. She shook her head. “Then change it,” she said. “Go sow your oats.”

  “I’m trying to,” he answered, sitting down in front of her again. “I want to.”

  “With me?”

  His brows came together. “Of course. That is why I’m here.”

  “No.”

  “No, what? That I’m not here? I am here.”

  “I’m not going to be the field for your ‘oats.’”

  “You aren’t thinking clearly—”

  “Oh, I am thinking very clearly—”

  “—Because otherwise you would see the advantages.”

  “What advantages?” Sarah stood. She looked around her hovel of a room. “Yes, a house would be nice. Not worrying about money would be even sweeter. But I’ve been this route before, Your Grace.”

  “You have had a protector?”

  “My mother did. That is what happens to women alone. If we don’t become dressmakers or governesses, personal maids, nannies, or that worst of all occupations, companions to crotchety old ladies, well, there isn’t much left in the way of supporting ourselves. But I want something more from my life. I don’t want to just make a living, I want my life to matter.”

  He stared at her as if she’d spouted gibberish. “Of course, your life matters.”

  She returned to the chair facing his and leaned in, needing him to understand. “You have purpose. Well, I have purpose as well. My writing is my reason for being. My mission, if you have it, for walking with my head high and not earning a living on my back.”

  “I’ve insulted you,” he answered, still sounding confused.

  “Oh yes, you have.”

  Again those brows came together. A muscle worked in his jaw. “But you don’t wish charity.”

  “No.”

  “I’m not offering charity.”

  Sarah had an inkling of where his argument was going. And it both astounded and amused her. “You believe that my being your mistress will allow you to take care of me while making me feel productive?”

  He considered her words a moment. “That is my intention.”

  “And you don’t understand why I would refuse your offer, do you?” she continued.

  “Quite frankly, I’m astonished. I believe this solves several problems.”

  “And would you make such an offer to a lady of rank? Or one who is considered genteel?”

  Now, he began to sense that he’d best be wary. His sharp blue eyes slid away from her gaze. “You know that would not be right.”

  “Because?” she prodded, with the primness of a governess.

  “Such an offer might be considered an insult.”

  Sarah leaned forward. “My father is Lord Twyndale, the late one. I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, Your Grace, but how does that make me less respectable than his daughters born by his lady wife?”

  “I believe you know the answer to that.”

  “You are right. I fought it for years. In fact, my sense of worth doesn’t come from who my father was. It comes from who I believe I am.” Proud words. Bold ones. They wrapped themselves around her.

  Baynton heard them. He might not believe them, but between them passed a moment of complete understanding.

  And she expected him to apologize. She was ready to hear him babble on about how he mistook her situation. She was even ready for him to ask forgiveness, which would please her very much. She doubted if he spoke those words very often.

  Instead, he sat silent, his expression unfathomable—and then he leaned toward her, cupped his hand around her face before she realized what he was about, and kissed her.

  Shock paralyzed her mind.

  His hands were warm against her jaw. His lips upon hers hot.

  It was not the kiss of an experienced lothario. There was no demand to it, only naked yearning and a sense of wonder.

  In spite of her best interests, Sarah responded.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed. Years ago it was. She would not count the sloppy kiss of one of the young actors who had caught her in the wardrobe room. Baynton wasn’t groping her. He was speaking to her, and wasn’t it lovely to be spoken to in just this language? To have a man offer to worship her? To envelop her in his arms? His body?

  She’d forgotten so much but his kiss made her remember.

  Her lips parted, softened. She found she didn’t wish to hold back. She discovered a desire for something more.

  The duke caught her movement and mimicked it.

  Baynton was a novice at seduction. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing. His kiss was earnest, honest, and, surprisingly, delightful.

  For one sparkling moment, Sarah breathed him in and it was good.

  Very good.

  One of them sighed. She realized the soft sound of pleasure was from her. The duke was too busy placing his arms around her, drawing her closer.

  For a span of time, she could see herself and Baynton in the room. See them kissing and the growing heat. If she wasn’t careful, his hand would be on her breast—

  His hand went to her breast and Sarah jumped out of her chair. She moved to place the table between them. She touched her lips. She had to. They didn’t even feel the same.

  Not only that, but her heart raced in her chest. Her blood beat in her ears.

  He appeared as startled as herself. His broad shoulders turned to her. Their eyes met. She saw the question there. Understood it. He, too, had been caught off guard.

  Who would have thought the two of them would respond so strongly to each other?

  And she had responded. Even now, her naked body beneath her nightdress wished nothing more than to climb into his lap to see if a second kiss would be as tasty.

  “Out,” Sarah heard herself say, the sound almost guttural. “Out of my house.”

  The duke didn’t move. He acted as if he was still caught in the spell of that kiss, but Sarah now had her bearings. She marched to the door and threw it open. “Out.”

  At last, he came to his senses. He snatched up his hat from the table and walked toward her.

  Sarah had an urge to step back; however, pride would not let her. She steeled herself against him, uncertain what she’d do if he gave her another kiss. She pressed her lips tight to deny him, and herself.

  He stopped in front of her. Sarah was tall for a woman but Baynton lorded over her.

  A tight muscle worked in his jaw.

  “Go . . . please,” she whispered. “Now.”

  At her plea, Baynton took a step out, and then stopped. “If you ever need me—”

  “I won’t.”

  “But if you do, send for me.”

  She wouldn’t. He’d already gotten too close to her.

  “Thank you for your call, Your Grace.”

  He hesitated as if to argue, but then squared his shoulders. He gave a curt, short bow, and went out the door. Sarah closed it as quickly as she could and turned the key in the lock. She heard his boots going down the stairs.

  Then, all was silence. That deep silence that didn’t ever bode well.

  That silence that spoke of loneliness.

  Slowly, she put her back against the door and sank to the floor. He’d left the lantern. The light seemed a piece of him, filling the air around her.

  Another man might come storming back, demanding she listen to him, bullying her. But not Baynton. He was too proud. She understood. She also had pride.

  Her eyes fell on the manuscripts she had carried with her every time she’d moved in her life. Her work. The very embodiment of herself . . . but that kiss . . .

  Baynton’s kiss had been simple, naïve even, and innocent in its l
onging, its passion. It had reminded her of whom she had been.

  “Don’t believe,” she warned herself. “Don’t allow yourself wishful thinking.”

  Still, that kiss would haunt her.

  Chapter Six

  Sarah woke up with a start the next morning, disturbed to find herself hunched over on the floor by the door.

  Every muscle in her back and legs ached. Not all of those pains were from her sleeping position. A good number of them were from the exertion of her Siren performance and her barefoot charge across London.

  Memories of the night before came swirling back. She looked at the lantern, proof that she had not imagined the meeting with Baynton. The wick was almost burned down. Sarah hopped up and gingerly moved to the table to blow it out and save what was left of the oil in the lamp.

  She sat in the nearest chair. The chairs were still facing each other. She could picture Baynton’s broad-shouldered form as he had been last night.

  The thought brought a shooting pain of tension to her temple. She pushed the mess of her hair away and massaged her head with one hand. From somewhere in the building, a baby squalled and from another corner, some male made big, hacking sounds.

  Last night had been her opportunity to take the easy life.

  “And you didn’t,” she reminded herself. “You would not.”

  She could hear her mother shaking her head, tsking.

  “I’m doing this my way,” she informed her mother’s ghost, and decided she’d best be on with it. She was fairly certain from the sounds of activity passing through the building’s thin walls that the morning was well advanced. The Naughty Review company members would have started gathering at the theater for their pay. One should never wait too long after a performance to be paid. After Geoff and Charles were finished with that task, they would be ready to talk to Sarah about her play. She planned to make it a productive meeting.

  Bathing was always a challenge in her lowered circumstances. Water was collected from a pump further up Bolden Street. Sarah made the trek every day. First, because she believed in daily bathing and second, because she wished to appear her best for her meeting. The latter would be a challenge. She was certain she had huge circles under her eyes and placed the blame for her lack of decent sleep right where it belonged—on Baynton.

  Throwing one of her serviceable dresses over her night clothes, she pulled on her shoes and, after giving her hair a brush, went to fetch water. She was back within the quarter of the hour and set about making herself presentable.

  Sarah broke her fast with water, what was left of the bread, and a small piece of the dry cheese she’d been saving. She then dressed with care, choosing her forest-green walking dress because the color highlighted her hair. It was also the best dress she owned. She twisted her hair high on her head, pulling long curls to frame her face.

  Today was going to be a damp day in London. She’d noted the low, gray clouds. She prayed she would make it to the theater before the rain fell.

  She had only one hat and she took very good care of it. The material was a bronze silk trimmed in blue-and-green striped ribbons. Charlene had helped her choose the ribbon and Sarah liked the combination of colors, which was good since she could not afford new. Once her play was a success, then she would spend a whole afternoon picking out nothing but hats and ribbons and shoes. She could not wait to wear shoes with decent heels or stockings that had not been darned a dozen times.

  She would also purchase cream for her face. Peering into the piece of mirror she used for her reflection, she was not happy with the lines beginning to show around her eyes. She was thankful her lashes were dark. So many with her coloring had light lashes.

  Decked out in her best, she was finally ready to go. She set her hat at a smart angle, put on gloves, threw a cloak over her shoulder in case the rain started while she walked to the theater and then picked up The Fitful Widow from the stack of papers by her bandboxes. She believed it her best work.

  The play was loose pages. She carefully placed them into a leather folder. She’d already started copying the pages for the different parts to give to the actors but she was out of paper and fearfully low on ink. She must talk about this with Geoff and Charles.

  She’d also need to talk to them about a loan. She had waved aside payment for playing the Siren in order to have them agree to staging Widow. However, her rent was late and she had no desire to be tossed out of her current quarters, no matter how shabby.

  There was also the inkling of a thought in the back of her mind that Geoff and Charles might let her serve as the play’s manager. Certainly, she had plans to be backstage and even on stage if need be. She believed she would make the perfect “Widow,” the female lead in the play.

  But she definitely wished to be the manager. This story had been living in her mind for a good five years and no one knew it better. Or cared more. At last, she would find her place in what had often seemed to her an uncaring world.

  The walk to the Bishop’s Hill was a good stretch of the leg. A bit of mist was in the air. She kept her cloak over the pages of her play and made her way.

  As she came within sight of the theater, she was surprised to see a number of the last night’s company still milling around outside. They were obviously not pleased. Several stared at her as she approached. Few would know her. She’d worked hard to keep the identity of the Siren a secret.

  William Millroy the tenor did know who she was and he came toward her. “If you are here to be paid, you might as well keep walking,” he informed her in his lovely brogue. “They’ve skipped on us.”

  Sarah came to a halt. “They what—? Who?”

  “Skipped. Run off. See the boards over the door. The landlord came by an hour ago and put them up. The buggers left him high and dry as well.”

  “Are you talking about Geoff and Charles?” Sarah had to ask. “They made a fortune last night.”

  “Yes, and apparently they took it with them,” an actress Sarah knew as Irene agreed. “When they didn’t show by noon, one of the lads went around to their quarters. The place is packed up. The neighbors said they heard them leaving in the night. They have flown.”

  “No,” Sarah denied. She had difficulty wrapping her mind around what she was being told. “I’ve known them for years. They would not do such a thing.”

  “Well, they have,” Irene countered.

  “Bloody bastards,” the man who had played the shepherd in last night’s performance said. He took off walking. One of the actresses, the one with very curly black hair trailed after him.

  “Where are you going? What should we do?” she called after him.

  “Find a pub,” he answered, turning to walk backward but not slowing his step. “Coming with?”

  She looked to the others.

  “I’m due at the Covent,” one said.

  “I’ll come,” replied another. The two women took after the shepherd. William Millroy started moving in that direction as well.

  In minutes, most of the company dispersed to go their own ways. Sarah stood as if planted to the ground. She did not want to leave.

  Irene was still there. “I’ve known Geoff and Charles since they first came to town,” Sarah said to her. “I would not have thought it possible for them to do this. They were going to use the money from last night to keep their theater open.”

  “That is what they told us. Now, we know the truth. You knew they were deeply in debt?”

  “They had expensive tastes, but they always paid their actors.”

  “And apparently no one else. I’ve been here since half past nine and we aren’t the only ones upset. Their tailor, their butcher, everyone has been here with a hand out.”

  “I just can’t believe this of them.” Sarah shook her head. “They promised to stage my play.”

  “Your play? Ah, now I know who you are.”

  “You do?” Sarah replied cautiously.

  “You are the one Colman relied on over at the Haymarket.”
/>
  Sarah nodded mutely, too stunned by the turn of events to speak and thankful Irene didn’t call her out as the Siren.

  “He misses you. Everyone knows that,” Irene said. At Sarah’s continued silence, she offered, “He would probably take you back.”

  “At what cost?” Sarah wondered sadly.

  “I don’t know,” Irene said.

  “He’d gloat. He’d tell me I needed him.”

  “Aye, he would. But, listen,” Irene said, taking a step closer to Sarah. “You might need him. You have a more pressing problem on your hands.”

  “More pressing than Geoff and Charles playing me for a fool?” Sarah could have scoffed at the idea.

  “Yes,” Irene answered and knelt down to pick up a handbill on the ground. There were a number of them blowing around. “Read this.”

  Reluctantly, Sarah looked at the paper and then felt her stomach drop in horror. “Ten pounds for information leading to the actress known as the Siren?” she read aloud. “Contact Lord Rovington.” There was an address to submit information. She looked at Irene. “What is this? A price on the Siren’s head?”

  “Do you know Rovington?”

  “I’ve heard stories.”

  “If they are bad ones, then believe them. He is a bastard through and through. Likes actresses, he does. He’s ruined many a girl without a moment’s remorse. Thinks himself some grand lover. He is not a gentleman. Worse, few want his leavings and perhaps with good cause.”

  Sarah frowned, uncertain of what Irene meant and yet, there was no doubt it meant ill for her.

  Irene tapped the handbill. “They say he’s placed wagers all over the city that he will bed the Siren. He was the one whom you kneed last night.”

  At Sarah’s start of alarm, Irene said, “Yes, I knew it was you. I remembered you from your performance years ago. I was in the first show as well. However, thanks to Rovington pulling off your wig, anyone around the theater, including that crowd that was just here now, knows who you are. Your hair color is unforgettable.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Sarah said, holding up the handbill. “I do not know this man.”

  “You don’t have to. I told you, Rovington is a dog. If it moves, he pokes it and he has decided to poke you. You’d best beware. Millroy was telling us that since last night’s scene, the wagers have gone up.”