Sarah was embarrassed that she’d ogled the duke like a dairy maid. However, who knew he had such a remarkable form? Why, he was as muscled as a laborer and it was not a bad thing.
Having been around the wardrobe rooms of many a theater, she knew men came in all shapes and sizes. Her own husband had been a broad-shouldered man but his chest was no comparison to the Duke of Baynton’s. Nor had he had the hard abdomen. Most men did not have that.
The truth was she’d lost her temper when the butler had refused to carry her request for an audience to the duke, especially once she heard Baynton’s voice from somewhere in the house. And once lost, her temper knew no boundaries.
She’d shoved her way past the surprised butler and made a mad dash in the direction of the duke’s voice.
Of course, she hadn’t stopped to truly listen to what he was saying or else she would have realized, as she did now, that he hadn’t been speaking but grunting, huffing, and snorting in that way men did when they took part in that strangest of all sports, boxing.
Was there ever a more ridiculous pastime? Men deliberately hitting each other?
She would never have considered Baynton a pugilist—until she saw him with his shirt off.
However, it was the sight of his bare toes when she’d curtsied that had startled her into awareness.
Baynton had wonderfully made feet. Masculine feet, with long well-formed toes—and if his chest and feet were so finely made . . . would not the rest of him be as well?
Her mind immediately recalled the feeling of his very obvious desire for her against her thigh last night in the hack.
Furthermore, she wanted a favor from him and knew he would expect in return what all men wanted. It might not be that great a sacrifice to make him happy . . .
Beneath her wet cloak, she tightened her hold on the play.
The butler had started apologizing for letting her slip by the footman but the duke interrupted him. “Never mind, Henry. I am well aware that Mrs. Pettijohn does as she wishes. Besides, my order to not be disturbed did not include her.”
On those words, warm heat once again graced her cheeks. Sarah studied a point on the floor, aware of what every man in the room must think of her.
“I am sorry, Your Grace, I did not know.”
“How could you? Who thought she would come calling?” She knew the mild gibe was for her. “Have a tray with refreshments sent in. Make certain Cook includes some of those sandwiches I like.”
At the mention of food, Sarah’s stomach rumbled noisily. She knew everyone heard it.
“You’d best hurry the tray,” the duke advised dryly.
“Yes, Your Grace. Michael, see that it is done,” the butler said to a footman.
Still staring at the floor, Sarah listened to the footsteps leave the room.
“Thomas, I believe we are finished for the day.”
The man the duke had been fighting bowed. “Yes, Your Grace. Let me know when you wish another go.”
“I will. Perhaps you would like to stop by the kitchen. I’m sure you have worked up an appetite as well. Henry, take him there.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
More footsteps.
And then, they were alone.
“You may stop pretending you are not here, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
That brought a reaction out of her. “I wasn’t pretending. I was hoping to disappear.” She glanced up at him. He was still shirtless and seemed completely at ease with his nakedness and her disturbed peace of mind. “Would you please put on your shirt, Your Grace? And your boots,” she ordered fussily. “Put your boots on as well.”
He actually laughed, the sound abrupt. “You are becoming bossy.”
“I’m learning no good comes of giving the Duke of Baynton too much rein.”
