A Date at the Altar

by Cathy Maxwell

  “She went that way, sir,” the hack driver kindly offered. “Running as fast as one can barefoot.”

  Gavin faced the couple. “Mrs. Pettijohn doesn’t live here, does she?”

  “No. There were some women who lived here before us but we don’t know their names.”

  “Excuse me for bothering you,” Gavin apologized to the couple. To the hack driver he said, “Follow me.”

  “This will cost you a pretty penny, sir.”

  Gavin almost roared that he was the Duke of Baynton. Cost did not matter to him.

  But common sense warned him, he might not want this night’s escapade to be bandied about. He started to reach for his coin purse and then realized it was in his jacket. Damn it all.

  “I’ll pay your fare and double,” he informed the driver. “But first, I need to catch that woman.”

  There was a beat of silence as if the driver weighed whether or not Gavin would be true to his word, which was a novel experience. Few questioned his word.

  The driver came to the right decision. “Come along then, sir. We’ll catch up to her.”

  Gavin stepped up onto the hack’s step without opening the door. He put his arm through the window to hold on and was ready to jump off at the first sight of Mrs. Pettijohn. “On with it, man.”

  “Yi-up!” the driver said to his horse and they took off in hot pursuit.

  Chapter Four

  Sarah knew it was a fool’s errand to run away from the duke, but she had to try.

  She had not wanted to face him once he found out she no longer lived at Mulberry Street. Or to have him ask questions in that high-handed manner of his, questions that were not his right to ask.

  What she did with her life was her business. He might believe that because Charlene had married his brother he had the right to interfere, but he didn’t. Oh no, not at all.

  She slid her arms into the sleeves of his jacket and kept moving, her feet feeling and stumbling over what only the Lord knew was on the road. When she reached home, she was going to scrub her feet raw—

  A horse’s steady clop and the rolling of wheels across uneven stones warned her that Baynton was not going to let her go.

  Drat the man.

  And yet she’d known the duke would follow. He was tenacious, a quality that went along with being overbearing.

  The hack pulled up beside her. Baynton was standing on the step and easily stepped down beside her before the vehicle pulled to a halt. He moved to block her path.

  Sarah had to stop but she was determined to sidestep him. However, before she could, he boldly opened his jacket, slipped a hand inside the pocket—located uncomfortably close to her breast. The back of his hand brushed against her as he pulled out a small coin purse.

  He tossed it to the driver as she jerked the jacket closed around her. “Good?” he asked.

  The driver opened the purse and gave a low sound of appreciation. “There’s more than we bargained for, sir.”

  “Just stay with us, but not too close,” the duke ordered.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Sarah shook her head with annoyance and started walking again. He matched his stride to her limping one.

  “You should leave with the driver,” she informed him. “I’m not climbing back in that hack with you.”

  “You needn’t. I’m happy to walk. After all, I’m wearing boots.”

  “You can walk to hell for all I’m concerned,” she muttered under her breath before giving a little hop as the bottom of her heel landed on something sharp.

  His hand came to her elbow with a light touch as if to help her to balance. “Is that where we are going?” he asked, unconcerned. “To hell?”

  She shook his hand off. “Where I am going is none of your business.”

  “But it is. I’m the head of my family. It is my responsibility to take care of everyone, including extended family. Your niece is married to my—”

  “I knew you were going to make that claim,” Sarah said, whirling on him. “And you are wrong.” She emphasized each word with a pointed finger. “I’m my own person. You have no control over me whatsoever. So, you can climb into the hack and drive off wherever you wish.”

  Instead of the insult or anger she had anticipated in response to her declaration, Baynton looked a bit contrite. “I can’t,” he said. “I’ve hired the driver for this night and have probably paid him enough for the next seventy nights. I won’t leave you alone in the dark wearing nothing of substance but my jacket. We can either hobble around London together or I can see you home safe. Look at that,” he added, perking up a bit. “You have a choice. Hobble or ride? What shall it be?”

  Her feet hurt. Her legs under the costume’s filmy skirts were cold. Exhaustion threatened . . . and right now, all she wanted to do was climb into her bed, pull the covers over her head, and worry about what Geoff and Charles would say about her starting a riot in their theater on the morrow.

  Besides, Baynton was being kind instead of bombastic.

  “I would like to ride.”

  No triumphant or smug I-knew-you-would look crossed his face. He merely signaled for the hack to join them and opened the door for her. He held out a hand to help her in.

  She placed her fingers on his. For the briefest second, she could swear she felt the heat of his blood beating even in that light touch. Then again, she’d always been too aware of Baynton. Too, too attuned to him.

  However, Sarah had learned that, while she understood what men wanted from her, she was not a good judge of them. Oh, how she’d learned that lesson . . .

  The duke climbed in behind her and said, “Where do you live, Mrs. Pettijohn?”

  “On Bolden Street.”

  “Bolden? I’ve not heard of it.”

  “The driver will know.”

  Baynton opened the door so he could lean out and say, “Take us to Bolden Street.”

  “Are you certain, sir? No good comes from going to Bolden Street.”

  “Is it that bad?” the duke asked.

  “Worse than the devil’s cave,” came the answer.

  The duke seemed to hesitate a moment, then knocked on the roof. “Let us go pay a call on the devil then.” He lowered back into the cab, shutting the door behind him.

  The driver muttered something to his horse that Sarah could not hear, but the wheels began turning forward.

  She and the duke sat side-by-side. Sarah tried to ignore him, which was difficult with his thigh right against hers and his body taking up most of the space in the hack’s narrow confines.

  She expected questions. She knew he had them. He was Baynton, after all. The Supreme Being of the Truth. She knew exactly how she would put him in his place.

  He didn’t ask.

  Minutes stretched between them.

  He shifted. The seats were hard leather but there seemed to be a dip beneath hers. She slid a bit closer to him. She tried to hold her breath so she wouldn’t drink in the scent of his shaving soap. She actually liked the scent. She’d forgotten how good a man could smell.

  The duke seemed pleased to travel in silence, something she’d told herself she dearly wished for—except, his silence was unnerving. He had to have questions. Insisting on knowing what was going on was just part of who he was.

  And finally, she could not take the stillness any longer. She turned on the seat to him. “I lost Mulberry Street. I was in arrears for the rent. And before you start nosing about for more information, Lady Baldwin’s daughter refuses to allow her to have anything to do with me and she must obey if she wishes a roof over her head.”

  Sarah faced the front of the hack. “Apparently, her daughter believed—as did many others—that Charlene’s choosing another gentleman to wed was tantamount to jilting you, even though there was no true promise between the two of you as a couple. And I don’t know why everyone has an opinion on the matter,” Sarah continued, heatedly. “Whatever happened was between you and Charlene, not Charlene and all of London.”

/>   “Perhaps I’m popular?” he suggested.

  Sarah shot him a withering look, and he laughed, the sound gruff, as if he didn’t do it often.

  She dropped her gaze to his jacket and fell into a disgruntled silence. His sleeves were so long, only her fingertips showed.

  “You weren’t tossed out of Mulberry Street because of me, were you?” he asked, not unkindly.

  “We had issues before you met Char. However, once your name was linked to hers, the landlord was willing to make allowances about the rent. He let us put it off. Then, when she married Lord Jack, there was a reckoning that did not go in my favor.”

  “You could have come to me for help.”

  “I don’t take charity.”

  “Yes, but in a way I am fam—” He stopped short once he caught the look in her eye.

  Sarah lifted the flap that was over the window on that side of the hack. “We are almost there.”

  The duke glanced out, too. His frown deepened. “This is not a safe place, especially for a woman.”

  Now it was Sarah’s turn to be silent, and she was a bit pleased to see her stubbornness bothered him as much as his annoyed her.

  She recognized the corner of Bolden Street and reached up to knock on the roof. The hack rolled to a stop. She opened the door and hopped out, anxious to shut the door, but Baynton blocked her action with his arm.

  The hour was well past midnight. A group of loud young men, obviously in their cups, stumbled their way up the steps of a nearby building and knocked on the door. Light spilled into the street as they were laughingly admitted among female calls of welcome.

  The hack’s lamplight highlighted the lines of concern on the duke’s face.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. You may go on your way now.”

  Sarah started walking. Of course, he followed, and she knew she had no choice but to let him.

  Gavin was more than concerned about Sarah Pettijohn’s lowered circumstances. He was alarmed. Even in the dark the buildings appeared derelict. The atmosphere seemed more ominous than he could have imagined.

  “Shall I wait, sir?” the driver asked, sounding decidedly nervous.

  “Yes,” Gavin shot over his shoulder. He hurried to follow Mrs. Pettijohn, thankful for the light material of her skirts so that he could see her in the darkness.

  She rounded a corner and then stepped into an alley between buildings. From somewhere, a man moaned. Her step didn’t flag and neither did Gavin’s. They moved through the narrow corridor to a set of stairs at the rear of one of the buildings. She stopped and took off his jacket, thrusting it toward him.

  “I live here. You don’t need to follow me further.”

  “I’ll see you to your door,” he insisted doggedly.

  Mrs. Pettijohn made an impatient sound but didn’t put up further protest. Instead, she climbed the stairs leading to first one floor and then the next.

  Gavin was aware of her graceful form moving ahead of him. Her hips were at his eye level. She did not look back.

  On the topmost floor, she followed a railed walkway to a door. Two cats had been preparing to fight. They dashed off with yowls of protest as Sarah approached. She stopped in front of a door and he heard the scrape of metal as she found the key she’d hidden.

  “You should keep that on your person,” he warned her.

  She turned to him. He couldn’t make out her expression in the dark, but he had the sense she childishly stuck out her tongue at him. The key turned in the lock.

  “See? I’m home,” she said, the words flowing out of her in dismissal. “Thank you, Your Grace. It was a pleasure to see you again. Good night.”

  Mrs. Pettijohn would have shut the door, except Gavin pushed his way into her rooms. Hades could not be as dark. “I’ll wait until you light a candle.”

  “You are annoying,” she lashed out. But he heard her fumbling for what she needed. A beat later, a spark was struck, then another. The tinder caught flame. Her hands carried it to a candle that only she could see.

  At last, a warm, yellow light brought the room into focus.

  Gavin looked around. He couldn’t help himself. He knew she would disparage him for it, but he was human.

  He had actually been quite fond of the atmosphere in her house on Mulberry Street. It had been rather shabby but genteel and with a good amount of personality. He’d always found the house welcoming. Of course, he had been quite enamored of one of its occupants, Lady Charlene . . . but he’d also noticed Mrs. Pettijohn as well. Or at least, he had been a touch more than aware of her. Her eyes had captured his attention at first. They were the color of emeralds. Unusual eyes with the spark of intelligence.

  This room was unworthy of her. It was bare save for a table, two rickety wooden chairs, and a pallet on the floor. A few bandboxes were in a corner beside a neatly stacked tower of paper that was as high as the table. There wasn’t even a hearth to provide heat in the space.

  Layers of hardened tallow wax spread out on a corner of the table. She melted a portion of it with her candle and then stuck it upright there, a makeshift candlestick. The glow fell upon the meager remains of a meal: stale bread, a hunk of cheese, a small pitcher. She did not eat well. No wonder she was thinner than he remembered.

  “Are you pleased now?” she said. “Will you let me be?”

  “This is beneath you,” he murmured, taking a step toward those papers, curious about what they were.

  As if seeing where he was heading, she quickly blocked his path, even putting a hand out as if to stop him. “I am safe. You may go now.”

  “What are those papers?”

  “My work,” she said.

  “Work?”

  “My plays.”

  “All of that?”

  The brilliant green in her eyes turned into sharp, proud glints. “Yes, all of that. I am dedicated to my writing. Now, leave, Your Grace. I’m done with you in my life.”

  Harsh words. He turned to her, wanting to say something conciliatory.

  She would not let him. “Go,” she ordered. “Please. I’m tired. I’m done.”

  And what more could he say?

  He took a step, then another. He moved out of the door but then faced her. “Mrs. Pettijohn—”

  She slammed the door in his face. A key turned in the lock.

  Gavin was stunned. He was the Duke of Baynton. No one slammed a door on him. No one would dare to be that unwise—save for one.

  For a second, he debated breaking the door down. It was not that strong and he was that infuriated with her.

  She acted as if he meddled but she needed someone to meddle. Did she not understand what those young bucks had been about clambering up the steps to that house, that bawdy house?

  The area was surrounded with them. Furthermore, this alley tucked away as it was, would be a haven for a den of thieves. Why, in short order he could name a half-dozen reasons for her to not stay here . . . and yet he knew Mrs. Pettijohn would not listen to reason.

  Nor would she thank him for rescuing her. She was too bloody independent.

  He stood staring at her door for another good five minutes until his temper ebbed. In truth, he had no course other than to leave.

  That still didn’t stop Gavin from taking a step away, then coming back two steps toward her, and, finally, forcing himself to go down the stairs. His hack driver was happy to see him. Even the horse appeared relieved.

  Across the street, at the bawdy house, one of the young bucks who had entered it when Gavin had arrived was now being summarily tossed out the door. The lad lay on the ground, rolling in drunken laughter. Several of the bawds opened their windows to shout insults at him.

  “Drive,” Gavin ordered the driver, giving him the address for Menheim, the Duke of Baynton’s London house. He did not have to repeat the order. He sat back in the hack, conscious of how empty the cab seemed now, and yet her presence lingered in the air around him. She’d not worn perfume. She had no need of it. She had a fragrance all her own.<
br />
  Funny how he’d never noticed that about other women. Or could it be that Sarah Pettijohn’s boldness made her stand out from her sex?

  I don’t take charity. What an inane thing for a woman to say. Charity was how men took care of women. Seeing to their needs was a moral obligation, a code of conduct.

  He could almost hear Mrs. Pettijohn snort at that argument.

  Menheim was quiet when Gavin returned. A word with the footman waiting by the door gave Gavin the knowledge that his mother had come home hours ago and was safely in her bed. Well, at least, there was one woman in the world he could protect.

  He went upstairs to his rooms to find his valet Michael asleep in a chair. Gavin roused him and sent him to bed. He could undress himself.

  In truth, he was tired but he was also restless. He did not like thinking of Sarah Pettijohn alone in that place.

  Stretching out naked on the clean sheets of his bed, as was his custom, he shut his eyes but sleep did not come. Instead, what came was the memory of her, spinning high above the crowd of men, her bare legs parting to control her motion. She said she had not been naked, but Gavin could easily picture what she’d look like if she had been. The image was delectable.

  God, and that hair . . .

  No one had hair as vibrant as hers. In his mind’s eye, she wasn’t wearing the black wig. No, there was no mask and her own long, glorious red hair whirled around her—

  He tried to roll onto his belly to break the lust weaving images in his imagination but that was uncomfortable because he was once again hard and aroused in a way he’d never imagined he could be.

  And it wasn’t just any woman he yearned for. He wanted her.

  He needed her.

  Gavin climbed out of the bed and looked down at his proudly errant male part. Always before it had obeyed, but not this night. Tonight it made him keenly aware that it was past time he’d put it to use. That at his age, most men were married, with a nightly bedmate to give them the sweet comfort of release, a bedmate to ease the twin pangs of desire and, yes, loneliness.