Gavin mounted. Ares picked up on his mood and danced, testy. With a kick, Gavin sent him on, but his mind was not on his riding. No, he was reliving the scene between himself and Sarah.
Was there ever a more independent minded woman? She’d rather starve than accept his largesse.
Well, it wasn’t truly largesse. Sitting there with her wearing that ugly, heavy nightdress that covered her from her neck to her toes, he’d desired nothing more than to gather her in his arms and roger her with all the pent-up passion of his being.
He couldn’t imagine another male in London who didn’t want the same thing.
Although he was probably the only male who felt confounded by her refusal—and he didn’t understand why.
When his long-standing betrothal ended because Elin had chosen another, Gavin had let her go. When Lady Charlene had eloped, Gavin had been insulted, but he had let her go. These women meant more to him than Sarah Pettijohn. They were of his class and he had been planning to marry them.
He just wanted Sarah in his bed. One good night, that is all he wished.
And then there was that kiss.
It had not seemed to have any impact on her, but for him . . . well, he could have fallen on his knees before her—something he would never do. Dukes did not beg. That was one of the first rules his father had taught him.
Still, he’d been tempted to plead for another kiss.
Gavin rode through the park on his way home, giving Ares his head. The sun was just starting to come up. London was stirring. There were other riders at this hour but not many.
It wasn’t until he’d traveled around the park that he remembered he had left the lantern in Sarah’s room. So be it.
He returned Ares to the stables.
His valet Michael was waiting for him when he reached his bedroom. Talbert, his secretary, always left a list of what appointments and meetings Gavin had for the day so that Michael would know what the duke should wear. Today was to be a busy one but Gavin waved away the elegant jacket his valet had prepared. He knew he would not be worth a farthing until he worked Sarah Pettijohn out of his system.
“Send word round to Jackson.” He referred to the renowned Gentleman Jackson who owned the boxing saloon Gavin favored. Since whenever Gavin went there to practice the sport, someone was always vying for his attention to ask a favor or push a pet project, Jackson often sent one of his best pupils to Menheim to give the duke privacy and a challenge. “Tell him to send over someone good. As soon as possible. If I don’t pound something I shall explode.”
If this declaration sparked alarm in Michael, he was too well trained to show it. “Yes, Your Grace. May I then suggest a simple shirt and breeches with the green jacket?”
Gavin waved his assent. The valet set out the clothes and left to relay Gavin’s message for someone to deliver to Jackson’s rooms.
While he was gone, Gavin took the liberty of shaving himself and didn’t like what he saw in the mirror. He looked as if he was a man possessed. “Take hold of yourself,” he warned his image and decided that breakfast, a few rounds of good physical exertion, and he would be himself again.
Down in the breakfast room, he came upon his mother. Marcella, the Dowager Duchess of Baynton, was a lovely woman with silver hair and a regal bearing. Gavin had great respect for her. Over the years since his father’s death, she had become his most trusted advisor.
She smiled her welcome. “Good morning, my son. Did you sleep well?”
“Absolutely,” Gavin murmured. He wasn’t about to confide his difficulties in his mother.
“Good, and I’m happy to see you this morning. Saves me from hunting you down later.”
Gavin helped himself to the breakfast dishes on the sideboard. He was pleased to see Cook had included his favorite, beefsteak. “What is it you wish?” he asked.
“I believe Imogen and I have found a wife for you.” She referred to his great-aunt Dame Imogen. Imogen was a stickler for bloodlines and had become quite involved in his search for a suitable bride.
He choked back a groan. “How nice.”
“This young woman is nice,” his mother said, leaning across the table toward him as he sat down. “I didn’t want to say anything until Imogen had a chance to meet and approve her. You know Imogen feels responsible for what happened with Lady Charlene. She had vouched for the girl and had thought her better mannered.”
Gavin shrugged as he cut his beef. “There was nothing wrong. She is making Jack a good wife.”
“But it is your wife we worry over. My son, you must marry and soon. You are in the prime of your life, the right age for a family.”
He nodded. She wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t told him a hundred times before. Mothers could be that way. “So who have you found?”
“Her name is Miss Leonie Charnock.”
