Nobly, Sarah did not want to accept his food until they had discussed the terms of what was going to happen between them, except her brain could not muster the thoughts necessary to form any demands until she’d eaten. “The hare is fine.” Sarah sat at the table, picked up a fork and tried not to dive into her plate headfirst.
Baynton appeared hungry as well. He did the gallant thing and poured her a glass of cider and then he did justice to his beef. As for herself, Sarah finished her plate and, if she’d been alone, would probably have licked up every last bit of sauce.
Food was a great restorative.
Pushing her plate to the side, she folded her hands in her lap to appear as composed as one could wearing a simple sheet for a dress and said, “I wish you to know my terms.”
He reacted as if she’d fired a warning shot. He sat back, a hand resting on the table. “Very well.”
Sarah eyed her play on the desk. For once, she would not let herself be sold cheap.
“You offered a house,” she said.
“I did.”
“And to help me find Geoff and Charles.”
“Perkins is looking even as we sit here.”
“I would have the company paid.”
He tilted his head. “The company?”
“The actors and the workers who helped with the Review. Many of them are in worse circumstances than I am.” She gave him a glance, wondering what he thought.
His expression was considering, as if he took her measure . . . and she felt uncomfortable. It was not her way to demand.
“I’m certain,” he said at last, “that a generous benefactor can be found for them if we are unable to retrieve what they are owed from Geoff and Charles.”
Sarah was surprised to realize she’d been holding her breath. She released it, nodded. “Thank you.”
“Is that all?” he asked.
“No.” She forced herself to meet his eye. “My mother started as an actress. She was quite good, or at least everyone assured me she was. But the theater is fickle and eventually, she received smaller and smaller roles until she said she felt like she ceased to exist.”
He was listening and Sarah shifted her gaze away from his intense study. The ability to give his full concentration to one person was one of his gifts, she noticed. It could be a bit overwhelming.
She continued. “Her first keeper was Lord Twyndale, my father, although he would never deign to recognize me as his child. Men are of two minds—some are generous to all of their children, even their bastards. And there are those who pretend their by-blows do not exist.” She couldn’t prevent a rueful smile. There had been a time when her father’s rejection had been a crushing blow. Now, it was of just passing import in her life.
“After Twyndale turned her loose, Mother had a succession of lovers until her death. Some were kind; some were not. Some I hid from.” Did he understand what she was saying?
“My half-sister Julia—she was Charlene’s mother and a child born on the right side of the blanket—took me in when I was thirteen. She gave me an education of sorts but she had her hands full with Dearne. The man lived to gamble.”
“I had heard that of him.”
“He was so self-destructive.” She shook her head. “However, Julia taught me that a woman could have honor. She was always strong and graceful, no matter what happened in her life and I vowed to be like her. I did not want to earn my living on my back the way my mother had.”
Baynton shifted in his chair.
“Does my plain speaking make you uncomfortable, Your Grace? Good,” she said, not letting him answer. “I want you to know what becoming your mistress will cost me. We are talking about my soul, Your Grace. About everything I wanted to believe of myself.”
A concerned line formed between his brows, but he said nothing.
Sarah forged on. “So here is the heart of the matter. I wish to stage my play. I would have your support.” With a benefactor as wealthy as the Duke of Baynton, she would see the Widow done right. “That is the cost of my being your woman.”
He looked over to the play spread out on the desk. “Would you have me purchase a theater?”
That was a shocking suggestion. He could buy a theater? “You needn’t purchase it. One could be let.”
He considered her statement and then said, “In turn for my meeting your requirements, what are you offering me?”
Sarah blinked. She had thought it was obvious. He’d asked her to go to bed with him, a simple transaction that happened all over London at any given moment.
Or was this tactic to make her reconsider her worth? The Duke of Baynton had to be a shrewd negotiator. He could not be so successful if he wasn’t.
She stood and walked around the table to him.
He watched her approach, moving his chair so he faced her like a king accepting homage. Such a scene this would be upon the stage and Sarah knew the moment was at hand to play her part for all she was worth.
She was not ashamed of her body. As an actress, her body was a tool she used to create a character. However, it was one thing to appear almost naked as the Siren, and something completely different to stand before him as herself. Sarah Pettijohn, actress, seamstress, struggling playwright, loving aunt, and now mistress to one of the most powerful men in London.
She opened the sheet and let it fall down around her feet.
Chapter Ten
For a long moment, she refused to breathe, to think, or to feel. She forced herself to meet his gaze, refusing to give in to the shame inside her.
Baynton sat as if frozen. His eyes had gone bright and hungry. They took in every curve, every hair of her person.
And then he stood. Almost reverently, he walked to her and took her by both arms. He kissed her.
His earlier kiss had been timid compared to this one. He was not shy about holding her. Her breasts flattened against the material of his waistcoat. He was aroused and strong and pressed against the center of her being.
It was as if he wished to devour her.
All Sarah could do against the onslaught of his desire was try to keep herself calm, to not panic.
What role are you playing, Sarah? Bathsheba before David? Cleopatra before Antony? Judy before Punch?
Oh, yes, she was the consummate actress.
She tried to focus on the kiss and not the worries. A mistress should be willing to be kissed. She struggled to relax but her mind was too busy. She knew where this was going, could anticipate the pain already.
Don’t cry, she warned herself. Many women found pleasure in this. Think of anything other than what is happening. Think of a life where you never have to submit again.
Let him use her.
Her play was worth whatever it took, even her pride.
He must have sensed her reticence. He kissed harder as if willing a response from her.
This morning, she had submitted. He had surprised her with his kiss. It had actually been more than pleasant, but this was different. Baynton wanted more than a kiss. He would want it all and then he would learn how miserable she was at pleasing a man. Roland had always claimed that she was little more than a board in bed.
Then again, what was it to her if Baynton was not happy? He wanted to bed the Siren. The Siren was not Sarah. The Siren was a creation of many fantasies.
She also believed that what the duke wanted, whether he would admit it or not, was to best his friend Rovington, to enjoy feeling superior in that peculiar way men had about one another.
All she had to do was hush her frantic mind and be still. After all, the act of joining never took long. It was messy and abrupt, but over quickly.
The duke would do as he wished and then she would be free. She just needed to be patient.
Baynton lifted her up in his arms.
She recalled how he’d looked this morning without his shirt. He had the chest of a man unafraid to use his body.
He carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. He began to undress
himself, his fingers fumbling with the buttons in his urgency.
A few minutes more.
She closed her eyes. He was fully aroused and perhaps it was better if she didn’t watch. Her breathing had gone shallow. She inhaled fully, letting the air fill her lungs, holding it, and then released it. She tried not to think of the past, of the sweatiness, the searing pain, the tearing—the loss of her child . . .
Push those thoughts away. Her fingers closed around handfuls of the coverlet. She could do this. To live the life she longed to live, to have a chance to see her work staged, she could do this.
A boot hit the floor, then another. She heard the slide of clothing against skin.
The mattress gave as he placed his weight upon it.
The spiciness of his shaving soap mingled with the scent of masculine need—and then he stretched out beside her.
His hand cupped her breast. Her nipple tightened, responding to the warmth of his touch.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. His voice had deepened, and instinctively, between her legs, she felt a need. Her mind might be shrieking to be wary, but a part of her responded, and that frightened her all the more. No good came of losing control.
No good came of stalling the inevitable.
Without opening her eyes, she spread her legs. Cold air brushed the most delicate folds of her body.
She expected him to pounce on her then. She knew he was ready. She anticipated the weight of his body, the intrusion.
And yet, he did nothing.
In fact, his hand on her breast had not moved. She’d been so overwrought, it had taken her a moment to realize how still he’d become.
She kept her eyes closed. She knew what was coming. He would be disappointed. Roland had always had sharp words when they reached this stage. Angry barbs that he hurled before he pounded himself into her, claiming her dry and haggard.
“Sarah?”
Baynton did not sound angry. He sounded confused.
Be quick. Be done quick, she wanted to whisper . . .
“You’re trembling.”
She didn’t answer. She kept her eyes closed.
His hand caressed her breast again. She waited for him to do more, the tension almost beyond what she could bear—and the mattress dipped as he rolled off the bed.
Sarah opened her eyes, surprised.
He was pulling on his breeches. She frowned, not understanding. She reached for the coverlet to hide her nakedness before sitting up. “What is the matter?”
She knew the answer. She feared it. He found her disappointing.
Baynton reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. She could see he was still aroused and probably uncomfortable. Roland had always told her that being hard and unfulfilled was a very painful state for a man.
He turned to her, ready to say something and yet he did not speak. Those all-too-seeing eyes assessed her. She held the coverlet to her breasts. She shook her hair back out of the way.
Baynton sat on the edge of the bed, and she tensed.
He leaned toward her, and she stiffened.
“It isn’t me, is it?” he said, his voice low as if he was reasoning more with himself than expecting an answer from her.
“What isn’t you?” She threw the words out as if they were a challenge.
“The way you are right now. You are afraid.” His expression wasn’t one of repulsion or anger. Instead, he appeared concerned—and she couldn’t stand it.
“Do this. Have me,” she ordered, anger making her voice harsh, ugly . . . as ugly as she felt inside. She threw herself back on the bed. She tossed aside the coverlet and focused on the ceiling so that she wouldn’t have to look at him. “Do it.”
“You act as if I will hurt you. Why, Sarah?” He spoke with empathy, and she hated him for it.
She rolled away from him and stood, the bed between them. Heedless of her nakedness, her fury all-consuming, she ground out, “Now I know why you are still a virgin. If this is the way you are around women, is it any wonder the deed hasn’t been done?”
And then she braced herself.
Roland’s temper had been quick. He’d not liked her tongue and there had been many a time she should have bitten it.
But Baynton didn’t rise to her goading. Instead he answered, “Or perhaps I want something more from you than just doing ‘the deed.’”
More?
The word vibrated in the air between them. He reached down and calmly started putting on his socks and his boots and she could have damned him.
Instead, she said, “There isn’t any ‘more.’”
“Aye, you may be right.” He stood, pressing his heel into his boot. “But if there is, Sarah, then that is what I want. I certainly don’t want rape.”
He acted at ease and without rancor . . . but that could not be possible. Men did not like being thwarted.
“Don’t resent me later because this was not done,” she warned him. “I will not have you hold it against me. I offered myself.”
“That you did. Duly noted.” He picked up his vest coat as he walked to the door. “Be ready on the morrow. Talbert will take you around to look at theaters. Then there is the matter of a house. I don’t know if you will have time to search for both.” He paused at the door, looked back at her. All of her. “And we’ll need to buy clothes. I didn’t realize mistresses were such devilishly tricky creatures. I shall see you tomorrow evening for dinner.”
He walked out the door.
Sarah stood a moment, puzzled by his quiet acceptance of her. He wasn’t angry.
Then what was he?
She suddenly felt exposed, naked in a way she’d never experienced before. She picked up the coverlet, held it in front of her. “What of our bargain?” she called out, moving toward the door.
The duke was in the sitting room, shrugging on his jacket. “What of it?”
“Do we have one? You asked me for something specific.” He reached for his spectacles and placed them in an inside pocket. He tossed his neck cloth around his neck and began to absently retie it. “Don’t you want me? Isn’t that what all of this is about?”
“Do I want you?” he repeated softly with a hint of self-mockery. He approached her, stopping when the toes of his boots met her bare feet. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against the delicate place where her neck joined her shoulder. He held them there as if drinking in her warmth, her presence, her scent. She felt his breath release against her skin before he straightened.
Looking into her eyes, he admitted, “I want you very much. But not this way.”
He stepped back. “I want to know you, Sarah. To understand you.” He turned to the door.
“We shall do this,” he promised pointing back toward the bedroom as he made his way across the sitting room. “It is the bargain between us. However, when I come to you, Sarah, it will be because you want me as much as I desire you.” He reached for his hat and coat off the rack by the door.
“Then you shall never have me,” she assured him.
If he heard, he did not reply. Instead, he opened the door and left.
He was gone.
Sarah stared at the closed door, her feelings in a jumble. I want to know you, Sarah. To understand you.
He asked for trust. She had none to give. Ever.
She moved to the sitting room. His presence lingered in the air around her. He was that powerful and she—well, she was nothing. If she were to vanish, to shrivel up and disappear, no one would know that she had even existed . . . and then her eyes fell upon the leather folder holding the only play she’d written that still existed. Her work.
Talbert will take you to look at theaters.
Men had made so many promises to her over the years. The most laughable had been her marriage vows because when she’d been physically broken, that is when Roland had abandoned her completely.
But you want to believe, a small voice inside said.
That was true. In her plays, she wrote about love, abo
ut honesty and goodness between men and women, and about all the amazing things she prayed must exist someplace in the world and not just upon a stage in a theater. She wished to believe, but wishes were not truths.
Sarah walked over to the table, ran her hand across the leather folder as if the words inside could give her strength, and they did. They were her soul.
Whatever else befell her, she must try to see her work staged. She’d borne too much to give up now.
Then you shall never have me.
God, he was a fool.
Pride, his temper . . . and shame stopped Gavin at the top of the stairs in the hotel hall.
She had him in knots. Primal need begged him to go back, to crawl to her if necessary, to take what he wanted from her.
What did it matter that she offered herself to him with all the charm of a bored whore? He could imagine himself fumbling his way with her, laboring over her while she stared at the ceiling and wished she was anywhere else but under him.
Aye, he could have claimed the pound of flesh his money had purchased, could have had his rite of passage—but he would have been disgusted with himself.
Someone was coming up the stairs. Gavin set his hat on his head, pulling the brim low over his eyes as he made his way down. It was hard to walk, to be sane. His body ached for her.
It had taken every measure of his vaunted self-control to not ravage her. But if he had slaked his lust on her, she would hate him forever.
And he didn’t want that from Sarah.
The realization was a bit of a shock. He should not have such strong feelings for her. No good could come of it because there could be no future between them.
She was an actress and he was a duke expected to marry a woman of good family, breeding, and fortune. Why, Sarah was as old as he was. How could he be so attracted to her?
Perhaps her lure was the bit of a mystery about her. She’d put forth a brave face but it had been a false emotion. Her body on the bed had been as taut as the rope on a windlass. The proud spirit he’d always associated with her had vanished and in its place had been fear.
He hadn’t liked seeing her that way. She had been expecting ill treatment. She’d steeled herself for it. Worse, she’d retreated inside herself. He could have been any man. She hadn’t cared.
A Date at the Altar Page 11