A Date at the Altar

by Cathy Maxwell

  What sort of man hunts down a woman with the intent of bedding her to win wagers? Not one she wished to know.

  Lord Rovington cocked his head to one side. Perhaps another man would bow to Baynton’s claim. He was not of that mind. “You can’t have her. Not yet. I’ll give her to you when I’m done.”

  The duke shook his head as if he didn’t believe what he’d heard. “She is not a horse to be passed around, Rov.”

  “She’s an actress.”

  That statement sent Sarah’s temper soaring. She started forward, ready to give the arrogant Rovington the sharp side of her tongue, but the duke held out a hand, warning her to be still. “She’s mine,” he repeated calmly.

  His lordship shook his head. “I am not offering offense to you, Your Grace. We have known each other for a very long time. I count you among my closest friends and I’m certain you would say the same?”

  “Aye, Rov, I value your friendship.”

  “Then why let this bit of muslin come between us? I need her, Baynton. I staked a claim to her.”

  “Go conquer some other woman.”

  “I don’t have wagers on other women. Can’t you understand, Baynton? The betting is high. I could be cleaned out. Ruined.”

  “From losing one wager?” Baynton challenged. “Rov, you were done up before this. You have been spending money you don’t have for a good year and more.”

  Lord Rovington did not like that statement. His scowl deepened. “I’ve had a run of bad luck but it is not anything I can’t overcome. In fact, I will recoup my losses—if you let me have that woman. Everything will be fine then.”

  “What of your marriage, Rov? Do you believe your wife wants you to do this?”

  “She would if she knew what is at stake. Give the Siren to me, Your Grace . . . and I shall be forever in your debt. For example, we have the vote today on the Pensions Duties Act. You need my vote, remember? My influence? And I know Liverpool is anxious for the Money Bill to be out of the Commons?”

  “I will not pander flesh to earn your support,” Baynton answered, heat coming into his voice.

  “And you would throw over our years of friendship for a bitch?”

  Baynton’s hand shot out. He grabbed Lord Rovington by his neck cloth and lifted him from the floor until he stood on his toes. “She is under my protection,” the duke reiterated with an anger that was almost frightening to behold. “She is mine.”

  Lord Rovington’s face started to turn colors. Sarah put her hand on Baynton’s arm. “Your Grace, you are choking him. Please, let him go.”

  The duke released his hold and Lord Rovington almost collapsed. He reached for his throat and then rounded on Sarah as if he would strike out at her. The duke put a protective arm around her waist and pulled her to him and out of harm’s way.

  Lord Rovington caught himself in time from the rudest sort of violence, but he was not done.

  “I will have satisfaction, Your Grace.”

  Satisfaction?

  The word lingered in the air, confusing Sarah.

  But the duke understood. He answered calmly, “Name your seconds.”

  “A duel?” Sarah said, trying to make sense of what was happening. “You can’t fight a duel over me. I will not let you.”

  Both men ignored her.

  Chapter Eight

  Gavin had never fought a duel. He thought them senseless.

  However, standing in his ballroom, facing Rovington, he recognized that perhaps the long course of their friendship had always been leading to this moment.

  Rov was a brat, plain and simple.

  He enjoyed manipulating others to give himself more consequence and hadn’t hesitated to use the Duke of Baynton’s name or their friendship if it could open a door, or lead to the powerful position of Chairman of Committees. It was actually Gavin who did the work, who read the bills, who made decisions. Rov was to have been merely a figurehead, but his overweening sense of confidence led him to believe he was more important than he actually was. The faults in his nature were beginning to hold sway. A man receiving thirty-two thousand pounds annually from the position should be set for life—instead he gambled on ridiculous, shameful wagers like “bedding a woman.”

  And Gavin would not let such a man have the better of him, no matter what their history.

  At Gavin’s calm acceptance of the challenge, Rov frowned as if he had not expected it being taken up. Then again, why should he have? Gavin usually favored diplomacy over force.

  For a moment, Rov seemed to stand in indecision.

  Withdraw the challenge, Gavin silently ordered. Don’t be a fool.

  And then Sarah spoke, reminding them both of her presence. “Did you not hear me?” she said with growing alarm. “You will not duel over me. Oh no. No, no, no.”

  The moment to bow out gracefully passed.

  Rov would not recall the challenge with a witness present, especially a woman. It was not in his nature.

  “I shall have my seconds contact you before the day is out, Your Grace,” he said as if they had never known each other in their lives. He made a formal bow and left the ballroom, his booted heels clicking on the parquet floor with his departure—and with him may have gone Gavin’s assurances to the prime minister that Rov would move the Military Money Bill expediently out of the Commons. Damn.

  Gavin had no doubt Rov had the power to delay the bill and would out of spite. And what of the vote today? The Pensions Duties Act? Gavin had needed Rov’s vote—

  A hand waved in front of Gavin’s face. “Hel-lo? Hello?” Sarah said.

  He blinked, annoyed, and looked down at her. She’d positioned herself right in front of him, her expression reminding him of nothing less than an angry chipmunk.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” she said. “You can’t duel over me.”

  “Apparently I can.” He walked over to the tray, poured a good splash of sherry into a teacup and drank it down.

  “You don’t have to defend me,” she informed him. “I can take care of myself.”

  “This isn’t about you.”

  Her brows rose. “Oh.”

  There was a wealth of meaning in that one word.

  He’d heard men complain before how their wives could, just with the tone of their voice, convey a litany of opinions. He’d not understood how that could be until this moment when Sarah Pettijohn decided to school him, and he did not like her disdain. Perhaps she needed to be schooled back.

  “It was either accept his challenge or let you go with him,” he informed her, his mind working on the problem of Rov’s vote. Perhaps he could sway another man’s vote in his favor—

  “I would never have gone with him,” she answered nobly.

  Distracted, Gavin said, “He wouldn’t need your approval, Mrs. Pettijohn. In order to win the wagers he has made, all he has to do is bed you, one way or the other. By force if necessary.”

  “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “After you kneed him on stage last night, I believe Rov would do that and maybe more to salvage his reputation.” That statement felt good. She did bear a responsibility, albeit an unwitting one, in this new chain of unfortunate events.

  “Including shoot you?” she flashed back.

  “Or run a sword through me,” he agreed.

  He wished the sherry was whisky. Sherry would never have the same mind-steadying qualities as whisky. However, that didn’t prevent him from pouring another as his mind worked over this devilish twist to the many promises he’d made—

  “I’m done,” she announced, interrupting his thoughts. “I’m sorry I came here.” She moved toward the chair where he’d placed her cloak. She set down her precious play so that she could throw the wet garment over her shoulders. “Please, forget my request for your help,” she declared dramatically. “It is no longer of importance.”

  Her ruined hat fell to the floor. She picked it up, shook it out, started to put it on her head, realized how comical that would appear and tu
cked it in a pocket of her cloak. She picked up her play. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace. I shall see myself out.” She began walking toward the door.

  Gavin raised his voice. “Do you truly believe that if you just leave you will stop a duel?”

  Sarah stopped, faced him. “If I had never come here, it would not have happened.”

  “How little you know of men, Mrs. Pettijohn. Considering Rov’s irresponsible behavior, sooner or later it must have happened. He isn’t one to listen to reason.”

  “But I wouldn’t be involved.”

  “Not with the duel. However, Rov would have found you and then who knows what he would do? Certainly he would boast about it. Also consider your noble cause. What of your friends who have been robbed of their wages by this Tom and Clarence.”

  “Geoff and Charles,” she corrected. “Why are you arguing this?” She moved back to confront him. “They are not worth your life, Your Grace. None of them are.”

  “You touch me, Mrs. Pettijohn. You are worried that I might be killed. There has been a time or two in our short acquaintance when I feared you would be the one to wield the sword.”

  “There are times when I do think of doing you bodily harm, Your Grace, such as right now. How can you possibly imagine I would wish you harm? I could pull out your arrogant tongue for even voicing the thought.”

  Gavin pretended to frown, enjoying the moment. “If you think about taking out my tongue, then that is wishing me harm.” He had her on this one.

  She started as if confused by his logic and then made a frustrated sound. “You know what I meant. I wasn’t being literal.”

  He had to tease. “I’m not entirely certain I do—” His voice broke off into a grunt as she kicked him in his booted shin.

  Sarah was incensed that Baynton could mock her worry over him. Had he no sense? Men died dueling.

  Of course, kicking a duke was not the most mature action but there were moments when he annoyed her beyond all reason. Such as when he believed his impervious will was the only one that mattered.

  Worse, kicking a man wearing boots, especially such a brawny man as the duke when one was wearing well-worn kid slippers, did not protect the toes.

  The pain that shot through Sarah’s foot almost caused her to drop the Widow.

  She hobbled several steps, waiting for the sharp pain to subside to a dull ache.

  And, no, she was not pleased when he said with mild amusement, “Mrs. Pettijohn, have you hurt yourself?”

  “No, I just jump around like this because I wish to dance.”

  “That is a relief,” he said. “I would not want you to have broken a toe because you wished to ‘harm’ me.”

  For one sizzling second, Sarah had the image of taking the Widow and pounding him around the ears with it.

  Instead, she managed to match his overpolite tone and say, “I now understand why there are people who would adore to run you through.”

  His laughter this time was full-bodied, unrestrained, and rich. However, before he could respond, someone cleared their voice from the door to announce his presence. Sarah turned to see Talbert accompanied by another, exceedingly nondescript man. He had brown hair and wore brown clothes. He was the sort one would not notice immediately.

  “Ah, there you are, Perkins,” the duke said in greeting. “Please come in and meet Mrs. Pettijohn.”

  “Your Grace,” Mr. Talbert said, “I need to remind you that we must leave for the Pensions vote shortly. I’m certain you wish to change. Michael is upstairs and I have your town coach outside.”

  “Yes, yes, I must go, but a moment with Perkins.” The duke waved Mr. Talbert to leave them. He motioned Mr. Perkins forward. “We have a task for you.”

  “We do not. Not any longer—” Sarah started to remind him, but he held up a hand to cut her off.

  “We do,” he informed Perkins who bowed to the duke, a sign he was going to do anything Baynton ordered. “We need you to find two men who ran off with the money from a theater last night. The Bishop’s Hill Theater. What are their names?” He turned to Sarah.

  “Are you going to duel with Lord Rovington?” If he could be stubborn, she could be stubborner.

  To her joy, a look of annoyance twisted his noble lips. “Of course I am.”

  “Then I don’t know which two men you are asking about.” And with those coolly spoken words, Sarah walked out of the room with great righteousness and a good amount of pride.

  She doubted if anyone had ever defied him before. However, as the two of them had discussed, she had principles.

  “Mrs. Pettijohn, come back here,” he said, his voice reasonable. She kept moving.

  “Sarah.”

  At her given name, she faltered a bit. How strange to hear him speak it. How familiar—and yet she recovered her stride, her toes still tender, and kept walking.

  In the front hall, the butler and the two footmen who had tried to accost her earlier lingered by the door. Behind her, Mr. Talbert, who had been waiting in the hall outside the ballroom, reminded His Grace that he needed to dress for “the vote.” She easily pictured the officious looking secretary blocking the duke from coming after her, that is, if he was of such a mind to chase her down. She nodded to the surprised servants, opened the door and let herself out.

  Rain was pouring from the sky.

  She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and started walking toward home. Beneath the folds of wool she protected Widow. Her plays were all she had of value. She would see them staged. She would.

  And Baynton would call off the duel. He may be overconfident and ducal, but he was sensible. She’d seen that in the way he’d let Charlene marry the man she loved. He would come around.

  She would be wiser to worry about herself. Her rent needed to be paid. She might have to humble herself and return to Colman. What had seemed impossible months ago—working for him after he’d reneged on his promise to stage one of her plays—now seemed to make sense as the water oozed though her shoes and beat down upon her head.

  Sarah had not traveled far when she heard a coach approaching from behind. Since she was now on a main thoroughfare, she did not think much upon it. She was too busy trying to protect her play and to stop her teeth from chattering. There was something about the damp that could give a person a chill no matter the warmth of the day.

  The coach pulled past her and then stopped. The door opened, blocking her path.

  “Mrs. Pettijohn, climb in the coach,” the Duke of Baynton ordered.

  She frowned at him. He was snugly inside with the disapproving Mr. Talbert.

  “I’d rather walk,” she answered and would have gone on, except he unfolded his tall frame from the coach, reached for her before she could take another step, and unceremoniously tossed her in the coach.

  “Onward, Ambrose, to the address I gave you.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” was the reply a beat before Baynton folded himself back into the coach beside Sarah.

  This was no hired hack. The seats were of luxurious velvet. The air seemed to be scented with sandalwood and Sarah was nigh on overjoyed to be out of the rain, even if her wet garments were not good for the seat—but she wasn’t about to concede defeat. A woman must never give in when she was in the right.

  “Stop this coach immediately,” she ordered.

  “I will do no such thing,” Baynton answered. “It’s raining.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” Sarah answered with a toss of her wet hair.

  He muttered something about stubborn women. Mr. Talbert gave a sly grin of agreement and Sarah wished she could kick the duke’s shins again, except her toes still hurt from her last attempt.

  So, since he’d given the driver the address to her rented room, the least she could do was rest a moment. She had no doubt there would be another argument between the two of them in the near future, but for right now, she needed a bit of peace.

  She noticed that Baynton had managed to be suitably dressed and was impressed he co
uld change so quickly. His neck cloth was impeccably knotted and he now wore a canary-yellow waistcoat beneath a jacket of fine marine-blue worsted. A bolt of material of that quality cost a pretty penny and made her feel all the shabbier.

  Of course, what she truly coveted was the oiled canvas coat he wore over his jacket. No rain could penetrate it. Meanwhile, she felt soaked to the skin and she feared her best dress was ruined.

  “I gave Perkins what little information I could remember about those theater men,” he said. “I remembered the name Salerno. He’ll be able to do something with it. He is a master.”

  Sarah refused to respond, although it would be a good thing to see Geoff and Charles caught before they could spend everyone’s money. As for herself . . . the Widow weighed heavy in her lap. The pages had got a bit damp. When she returned home, she’d spread them out on the floor to let them dry. Because of the leather folder, she was certain the ink had not run and counted herself fortunate.

  “Your Grace,” Mr. Talbert said, “do you wish to review the list of votes in our favor before arriving at Westminster?”

  “Later, after we have seen Mrs. Pettijohn safe. Although one would never be safe in such a neighborhood.”

  “Says those who don’t live there.” The words just flowed out of Sarah’s mouth. She couldn’t stop them. Baynton was a hard man to ignore, especially when he was baiting her.

  In truth, secretly, she was beginning to admire him. He was everything a nobleman should be—tall, strong, trustworthy, and blessed by God with good looks. And that chest. She considered that chest a blessing.

  If she ever did take a protector—which she would never do—she would want someone like him. She was actually going to be a bit sorry when their association ended. There was an energy around him that made her feel present and alive, something she hadn’t felt since Charlene left.

  And safe. She did feel safe with him.

  Sarah glanced over at him. He watched her, his sharp blue eyes filled with concern.

  The most natural thing in the world would be to slip her hand around his arm to reassure him she was fine, maybe to cozy up to him and his body heat and the scent of the shaving soap he favored. If she closed her eyes, she could swear she was so aware of him in this moment that she could hear the beat of his heart.