But it was lenses connected with gold wire perched on his quite noble nose that startled her. She had come to think of him as larger than life, perpetually vital, flawless. Vain even . . . until she saw the glasses. They gave his face character and a touch of humanity.
For his part, Baynton appeared equally stunned.
His gaze took in every nuance of her appearance, the draping folds of the bed sheet, her curves, her hair, and then he lowered his eyes as if looking for her toes.
Sarah found her voice first. “Wondering what else about me is naked?” she asked. She sounded bold, in control.
“I believe I know,” he answered, a new huskiness to his voice.
However, instead of pursuing the matter, he took off the lenses and tapped what he was reading with one of the wire temples. “This is very good.”
Only then did Sarah see that he was reading her play. The Fitful Widow lay open in its leather folder across the desk.
Her heart gave a wild leap. In her fit of despair, she’d thought that she had tossed it out in the rain with the others. He must have saved her from herself. She had not lost everything. This play, the one written from her heart, still existed—and with it, her dreams.
And then a jolt of anger shot through her, a sense of violation. “I don’t remember giving you permission to read my work.”
He dropped his glasses and raised his hand as if to gently ward her off. “I meant no insult. I was curious and there isn’t anything else to read in the room.”
She glanced around as if confirming his words but truly to take a moment to calm herself and to regain her perspective. She was overreacting.
“I don’t normally read plays,” he confessed, marking his place in her play and closing the folder. “Or attend the theater.”
“Yes, I know. ‘Only the occasional Shakespeare.’” That had been what he’d told her during their chase to stop Charlene from eloping.
He nodded, conceding her point. “I know that my opinion means little to you, but I have been entertained. Well done, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
Her attitude toward his reading her work changed.
“Have you reached the part where they duel over her hand?” she wondered.
“No, I am at the section where he is in the wardrobe while the Duke of Bumble—whom I assume is the villain of the piece—”
“He is the clown.”
“Exactly. He comes across as a bit of a knobby know-it-all.”
As she’d written him to be.
And she’d put that part in the play after she’d returned from Scotland. She’d been so thoroughly annoyed with the Duke of Baynton, she’d had to use him as a character.
Had he recognized himself?
His level gaze told her nothing.
She wondered what he’d thought of the description of Bumble as being unusually handsome? She’d not meant to write those words but they had flowed from her pen, and now, short of her rewriting the page, were very much a part of the story.
“He has a tendency to want everything his way,” Sarah informed him. “The duke in the play, that is.”
He changed the subject.
“I didn’t know what you liked to eat so I took the liberty of ordering the best the kitchen offered.” He stood, crossed to the table, and lifted the covers of the dish nearest her. “This is hare. They do it very well here. And this,” he said, lifting the other cover, “is God’s gift to England, roast beef. The chef is French. I once tried to hire him but he prefers his kitchen here.”
The food smelled enticing. “Your choice,” he invited. “I’m happy with either. Oh, and there is wine, or cider, if you prefer.”
Nobly, Sarah did not want to accept his food until they had discussed the terms of what was going to happen between them, except her brain could not muster the thoughts necessary to form any demands until she’d eaten. “The hare is fine.” Sarah sat at the table, picked up a fork and tried not to dive into her plate headfirst.
Baynton appeared hungry as well. He did the gallant thing and poured her a glass of cider and then he did justice to his beef. As for herself, Sarah finished her plate and, if she’d been alone, would probably have licked up every last bit of sauce.
