Not only that, but her heart raced in her chest. Her blood beat in her ears.
He appeared as startled as herself. His broad shoulders turned to her. Their eyes met. She saw the question there. Understood it. He, too, had been caught off guard.
Who would have thought the two of them would respond so strongly to each other?
And she had responded. Even now, her naked body beneath her nightdress wished nothing more than to climb into his lap to see if a second kiss would be as tasty.
“Out,” Sarah heard herself say, the sound almost guttural. “Out of my house.”
The duke didn’t move. He acted as if he was still caught in the spell of that kiss, but Sarah now had her bearings. She marched to the door and threw it open. “Out.”
At last, he came to his senses. He snatched up his hat from the table and walked toward her.
Sarah had an urge to step back; however, pride would not let her. She steeled herself against him, uncertain what she’d do if he gave her another kiss. She pressed her lips tight to deny him, and herself.
He stopped in front of her. Sarah was tall for a woman but Baynton lorded over her.
A tight muscle worked in his jaw.
“Go . . . please,” she whispered. “Now.”
At her plea, Baynton took a step out, and then stopped. “If you ever need me—”
“I won’t.”
“But if you do, send for me.”
She wouldn’t. He’d already gotten too close to her.
“Thank you for your call, Your Grace.”
He hesitated as if to argue, but then squared his shoulders. He gave a curt, short bow, and went out the door. Sarah closed it as quickly as she could and turned the key in the lock. She heard his boots going down the stairs.
Then, all was silence. That deep silence that didn’t ever bode well.
That silence that spoke of loneliness.
Slowly, she put her back against the door and sank to the floor. He’d left the lantern. The light seemed a piece of him, filling the air around her.
Another man might come storming back, demanding she listen to him, bullying her. But not Baynton. He was too proud. She understood. She also had pride.
Her eyes fell on the manuscripts she had carried with her every time she’d moved in her life. Her work. The very embodiment of herself . . . but that kiss . . .
Baynton’s kiss had been simple, naïve even, and innocent in its longing, its passion. It had reminded her of whom she had been.
“Don’t believe,” she warned herself. “Don’t allow yourself wishful thinking.”
Still, that kiss would haunt her.
Chapter Six
Sarah woke up with a start the next morning, disturbed to find herself hunched over on the floor by the door.
Every muscle in her back and legs ached. Not all of those pains were from her sleeping position. A good number of them were from the exertion of her Siren performance and her barefoot charge across London.
Memories of the night before came swirling back. She looked at the lantern, proof that she had not imagined the meeting with Baynton. The wick was almost burned down. Sarah hopped up and gingerly moved to the table to blow it out and save what was left of the oil in the lamp.
She sat in the nearest chair. The chairs were still facing each other. She could picture Baynton’s broad-shouldered form as he had been last night.
