“I know, Your Grace,” Talbert said in commiseration. “The Commons sent the bill to the Chairman of the Committees to review. He does not seem to be moving quickly on the matter. The prime minister asks if you can use your influence with him?”
Gavin nodded. He had meant to talk to Rovington yesterday about the Money Bill but there had not been a good opportunity. Here was another example where Rov was proving to be a disappointment. Thankfully, Gavin was certain Rov did not know he had been in the hack that had stolen Sarah away or else nothing would be done in the government’s favor. “I’ll bring him round.”
“I shall pass the word to the prime minister’s secretary.”
A sound at the door interrupted them. A footman informed him that Jackson’s man had arrived.
“Enough of this,” Gavin said, pushing away from his desk. “Draft the letters I’ve requested and send a note to Rovington inviting him to dinner or lunch, whatever. You know the wording.”
“Yes, Your Grace, I do,” Talbert announced, happily efficient.
“And now, I do not want any interruptions for the next hour,” Gavin said, knowing Talbert would pass on his instructions to Henry.
He went downstairs to the ballroom and was pleased to see Jackson had sent Thomas, a boxer five years Gavin’s junior and one not afraid to give him a fight.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Thomas said, bowing and pulling a forelock as he did. He was a country lad, big, brawny, and well matched for Gavin. “Ready to give it a go?”
“Past ready,” Gavin said, meaning the words.
Both men removed boots, socks, and shirts and Thomas wrapped strips of rough cotton around Gavin’s hands as he had his own. These would soften any blows and protect the knuckles.
“Are you up for a practice or a mill?” Thomas asked in his broad Scottish brogue.
“A mill.”
“Very well then, Your Grace.” They took up a stance in the middle of the ballroom and set about their business in earnest.
Soon the two men were coated in sweat with the only sounds between them the grunts of physical exertion and the noise of bare skin hitting bare skin. Gavin was pleased. Thomas was a shrewd and clever fighter and Gavin couldn’t think about Sarah or he’d have his head knocked off his body.
That didn’t stop a stray thought or two, but considering how deeply he’d been mooning over her rejection for most of the morning, this was a welcome relief. Slowly, he was exorcising her from his mind. He was regaining his sanity. Who was Sarah Pettijohn when there were other women in the world?
The question spun through Gavin’s mind as round and round the ballroom the two men went, each managing his fair share of good hits—
A commotion at the door caught his attention.
Gavin put his hand up in time to stop Thomas’s next blow. The younger man straightened, now aware that they were being interrupted as well.
There was a struggle going on between two footmen, Henry the butler, and a furious figure in a wet wool cloak.
And then the figure stomped on one of the footmen’s shoes. The man yowled his pain and the figure, a woman, slipped under his arms and ran into the ballroom, her wet shoes squishing with each step. She came to a sliding halt when she realized she was before the duke.
“Your Grace,” Sarah demanded in typical Mrs. Pettijohn style, her voice one of authority. And then, as if realizing how bold she sounded, she sank into a deep curtsy that took her all the way to the floor with a subservience he would never have credited her. “I must talk to you,” she said. “I beg an audience.”
Last night, she had been any man’s lustful vision; today, she had the look of an angry kitten caught in the pouring rain. Her bonnet may have once been stylish and smart but now appeared a damp rag on top of her head. Strands of her hair were plastered to her skin. Her cloak was dripping a puddle on Menheim’s always immaculate floor.
And then, Gavin had the strangest sense that she was staring at his bare toes. They actually tingled in reaction. He knew he was right when she lifted startled green eyes and then openly gawked in surprise at his naked chest. Apparently she had been in such a rush to see him, she hadn’t taken in his state of undress.
Red heat flooded her face, and Gavin smiled. He’d had the same reaction last night when he’d seen her on the stage.
He had to say it. He couldn’t help himself. “I am not naked,” he chided softly, echoing her prideful words to him last night.
Without missing a beat, she answered in a humbled voice, “But you practically are.”
“Only in the nonsense going on between your female ears, not anything you can see with your eyes.”
Chapter Seven
Only in the nonsense going on between your female ears.
