“Because I’m a virgin, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
Sarah went still, uncertain if she’d heard him correctly.
He didn’t laugh or act as if he jested. He was remarkably serious about the matter, and she realized he was speaking the truth.
She straightened her shoulders, folded her hands in her lap and said simply, “Don’t worry. It isn’t a permanent condition.”
He bolted from his chair as if he objected. “But it has been,” he announced. “Do you think I wish to be this way? At my age?”
“Then why are you?”
“You are not the only one with principles. I believed that if my wife was a virgin then it was only right I should come to her chaste as well. Pure, so to speak.”
“Why, Your Grace, you are a romantic.”
He frowned confusion at her statement. “Of course I am.” He shrugged and then plunged forward with his story. “However, you are aware of my wife challenges.”
“I am.”
“And now, if my peers should find out . . .” He let his voice trail off, filling in words with a wave of his hand, and Sarah had to stifle the urge to laugh.
Here was Baynton, handsome, noble, possessing all the qualities anyone could wish to live a fine life—and he was worried about this?
Sarah could not relate. She shook her head. “Then change it,” she said. “Go sow your oats.”
“I’m trying to,” he answered, sitting down in front of her again. “I want to.”
“With me?”
His brows came together. “Of course. That is why I’m here.”
“No.”
“No, what? That I’m not here? I am here.”
“I’m not going to be the field for your ‘oats.’”
“You aren’t thinking clearly—”
“Oh, I am thinking very clearly—”
“—Because otherwise you would see the advantages.”
“What advantages?” Sarah stood. She looked around her hovel of a room. “Yes, a house would be nice. Not worrying about money would be even sweeter. But I’ve been this route before, Your Grace.”
“You have had a protector?”
“My mother did. That is what happens to women alone. If we don’t become dressmakers or governesses, personal maids, nannies, or that worst of all occupations, companions to crotchety old ladies, well, there isn’t much left in the way of supporting ourselves. But I want something more from my life. I don’t want to just make a living, I want my life to matter.”
He stared at her as if she’d spouted gibberish. “Of course, your life matters.”
She returned to the chair facing his and leaned in, needing him to understand. “You have purpose. Well, I have purpose as well. My writing is my reason for being. My mission, if you have it, for walking with my head high and not earning a living on my back.”
“I’ve insulted you,” he answered, still sounding confused.
“Oh yes, you have.”
Again those brows came together. A muscle worked in his jaw. “But you don’t wish charity.”
