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.
Aye, Gavin was lonely, and he had been for some time. In fact, he had started to become bored with life, with doing the same activities every day and meeting the same expectations.
However, being with Mrs. Pettijohn this evening had been more than just an adventure. She was not afraid to meet him as an equal. There was a blunt honesty about her that he could persuade himself was refreshing. Certainly, he could never be able to anticipate what words would come forth from her lovely lips.
Yes, those lips. He’d rather like them with red paint. Before, he’d not truly appreciated how full they were. Now, his mind wondered how they tasted—?
Damn. He needed to stop thinking like this. He’d never sleep if he kept fantasizing about her being in his bed.
And since his mind was too busy with lust for sleep, there were other matters he should be attending. He threw on a robe and stomped to his study. He had a stack of treatises to review before a meeting he would be holding later that day with members of the Bank of England. Nothing could bore him to sleep like reading paperwork—except even these mundane documents were no match for the lure of Sarah Pettijohn.
He read, but he didn’t remember anything. Instead, the documents’ flourished handwriting reminded him of the way she’d thrown her arms up at the end of her song with a grace all her own. Arms that had clung to him in the hack so that she wouldn’t fly out the open door . . .
Slowly, a new idea took hold of his mind.
I don’t take charity, she had said.
But what if he didn’t offer charity?
What if he gave her carte blanche?
She was an actress. She’d been a wife, presumably. Mrs. Sarah Pettijohn. He’d been assured that many actresses invented deceased husbands because the status of widow gave women more freedom, especially in their associations . . . their associations . . . such as accepting a protector, one who could cherish and keep her in exchange for her favors—and Gavin wanted her favors. He ached for them.
Besides most men of his stature kept a mistress.
And taking a mistress would let the world know that he was a lover, that he was a man. Wasn’t it time to relieve himself of his virginity?
God, he hated the word. But it was what he was, a discontented, disgruntled virgin.
In truth, he’d never truly been discontented or disgruntled until seeing Mrs. Pettijohn’s bare legs through transparent skirts as they curved around that silver rope.
Her performance had ignited a fire in him and he could not, would not rest until he’d quenched it. He wanted her. Plain and simple. Taking her under his protection would actually be the best thing for her. He could save her from men like Rov who enjoyed preying on women. He could see that she was treated as she deserved to be.
Because wasn’t it universally recognized that a woman needed a man? And didn’t a man need a woman? At least, that was what his mother and his great-aunt Dame Imogen kept telling him. Yes, they were referring to a wife more than a mistress but Gavin needed help to relieve this howling lust coursing through his veins or he would never be fit company for anyone.
Indeed, when he considered the matter that way, Sarah Pettijohn should feel obligated to let him protect her. It was her fault he was so damned aroused, and he would tell her as much.
Right this very minute.
She needed rescuing from her own stubbornness.
He rose from his desk and returned to his bedroom. He dressed with the energy of a man who had slept a hundred nights. With an anticipation for the day that he’d not experienced in months, he walked to the stables and saddled his own horse, a new one he’d recently purchased in an attempt to snap himself out of his own lethargy. Ares was a dappled gray with four black socks. He nickered a welcome, rousing one of the stable lads.
“May I help you, Your Grace?” the boy said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“No, I can manage, lad.” Gavin tightened the saddle girth and reached for the bridle.
“Norton will have my hide if I don’t help, Your Grace.”
“Then it will be our secret. Hand me the lantern.”
The lad obeyed. “Will you tell me where you are going, Your Grace? Norton always wishes to know where the horses are.”
“Tell him I went to a meeting.”
“It’s not even dawn yet, Your Grace,” the lad said incredulously.
“Then tell him I had a woman to see,” Gavin answered, and just saying those words gave him a sense of exhilaration that he had never known. He put heels to horse.
