Her gaze fell upon a glass of claret wine by the lamp. How thoughtful of him. He should have left the bottle.
She walked around the bed to the table and lifted the glass. The wine had a bite to it. She was not fond of the taste, but considering her new circumstances, anything to dull the senses was appreciated.
As was the bath.
Looking over to the washbasin beneath the room’s mirror, she found tooth powder and a brush for her hair. He had thought of everything.
Running a hand through her curls, she realized that very few of the pins she’d used that morning were left. Draining the last of the wine in the glass, she set it aside and picked the remaining pins from her hair, placing them carefully next to the brush. She undressed.
It had been months since Sarah had enjoyed a hot bath, and back then, she’d had to heat the water herself and prepare the tub. No easy task.
She allowed herself to luxuriate in the water’s warmth a moment before lathering up the soap on a cloth. She washed as if she could remove the uncertainty and frustration from her very soul. There was a pail with water for rinsing so she washed her hair and rinsed it well.
Not even Cleopatra could have ever enjoyed a bath the way she did this one. She could almost allow herself to forget her circumstances—until a knock sounded in the sitting room on the outside door.
She heard the door open and the low rumble of male voices. She could not make out the words, but she smelled food. Sarah’s belly rumbled in anticipation.
The sitting room door closed. She listened closely, expecting Baynton to interrupt her haven.
He didn’t. And he was so quiet, she couldn’t tell what he was doing.
Finally, it was curiosity more than hunger that brought her out of the bath.
She dried herself off and for a moment considered putting the green dress back on. After all, it was currently the only piece of clothing she owned.
And then she decided she’d not sully her body, all warm and smelling like a field meadow with the abused dress. Besides, if her memory of her mother’s many lovers served her correctly, mistresses rarely required clothes.
She pulled the top sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her, fashioning it into a gown without sleeves. Her hair was beginning to dry, its heavy weight curling below her shoulders. Studying herself in the glass, she knew there was nothing she could do about the apprehension in her eyes.
Think of the time when you loved Roland, she ordered herself. Not as it grew to be, but back in the beginning when he’d been kind and you were innocent.
Of course, the Duke of Baynton was a far cry from her late husband who had taught her to hate the marriage bed. To hate what a man could do to a woman.
She didn’t believe Baynton would be brutal . . . but he would expect her to submit, something she’d promised herself she would never do again.
Her mother, once, after a beating by the hand of one of her lovers, had informed Sarah that all men could be cruel. Sarah had not wanted to believe her, until Roland had proved her mother’s words prophetic.
Sarah placed both hands again her abdomen, there, where a baby had once grown inside her. A child she’d never stopped mourning even though she’d never held her in her arms.
“You believed your life was destroyed then,” Sarah softly reminded her reflection. “You survived.”
It was a good reminder. She would always survive. Look what she had managed to live through already.
That didn’t still the tremble in her lips or ease the tension in eyes that threatened to swallow her face. Her cheekbones were very pronounced. She’d lost weight over the past several months. Perhaps she had become too thin?
But she had not lost her spirit, her will.
She would give Baynton what he wanted, but she would dictate the terms. Her body would not be sold cheap.
Sarah moved to the door and opened it.
The sitting room was ablaze with the sort of light provided by one who never worries about the cost of candles. There was no fire in the hearth but the room exuded a cheeriness Sarah was far from feeling.
On a table was a tray with several covered serving dishes. The aroma of roasted meats and fresh baked bread almost brought her to her knees.
She forced her attention away from those tantalizing dishes to face the man in the room, and then her mouth almost dropped open in shock.
The duke sat in a chair at the desk. He was reading from a stack of papers. He had removed his jacket and loosened the knot on his neck cloth. A man at home with himself.
