“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.
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.
