Or was this tactic to make her reconsider her worth? The Duke of Baynton had to be a shrewd negotiator. He could not be so successful if he wasn’t.
She stood and walked around the table to him.
He watched her approach, moving his chair so he faced her like a king accepting homage. Such a scene this would be upon the stage and Sarah knew the moment was at hand to play her part for all she was worth.
She was not ashamed of her body. As an actress, her body was a tool she used to create a character. However, it was one thing to appear almost naked as the Siren, and something completely different to stand before him as herself. Sarah Pettijohn, actress, seamstress, struggling playwright, loving aunt, and now mistress to one of the most powerful men in London.
She opened the sheet and let it fall down around her feet.
Chapter Ten
For a long moment, she refused to breathe, to think, or to feel. She forced herself to meet his gaze, refusing to give in to the shame inside her.
Baynton sat as if frozen. His eyes had gone bright and hungry. They took in every curve, every hair of her person.
And then he stood. Almost reverently, he walked to her and took her by both arms. He kissed her.
His earlier kiss had been timid compared to this one. He was not shy about holding her. Her breasts flattened against the material of his waistcoat. He was aroused and strong and pressed against the center of her being.
It was as if he wished to devour her.
All Sarah could do against the onslaught of his desire was try to keep herself calm, to not panic.
What role are you playing, Sarah? Bathsheba before David? Cleopatra before Antony? Judy before Punch?
Oh, yes, she was the consummate actress.
She tried to focus on the kiss and not the worries. A mistress should be willing to be kissed. She struggled to relax but her mind was too busy. She knew where this was going, could anticipate the pain already.
Don’t cry, she warned herself. Many women found pleasure in this. Think of anything other than what is happening. Think of a life where you never have to submit again.
Let him use her.
Her play was worth whatever it took, even her pride.
He must have sensed her reticence. He kissed harder as if willing a response from her.
This morning, she had submitted. He had surprised her with his kiss. It had actually been more than pleasant, but this was different. Baynton wanted more than a kiss. He would want it all and then he would learn how miserable she was at pleasing a man. Roland had always claimed that she was little more than a board in bed.
Then again, what was it to her if Baynton was not happy? He wanted to bed the Siren. The Siren was not Sarah. The Siren was a creation of many fantasies.
She also believed that what the duke wanted, whether he would admit it or not, was to best his friend Rovington, to enjoy feeling superior in that peculiar way men had about one another.
All she had to do was hush her frantic mind and be still. After all, the act of joining never took long. It was messy and abrupt, but over quickly.
The duke would do as he wished and then she would be free. She just needed to be patient.
Baynton lifted her up in his arms.
She recalled how he’d looked this morning without his shirt. He had the chest of a man unafraid to use his body.
He carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. He began to undress himself, his fingers fumbling with the buttons in his urgency.
A few minutes more.
She closed her eyes. He was fully aroused and perhaps it was better if she didn’t watch. Her breathing had gone shallow. She inhaled fully, letting the air fill her lungs, holding it, and then released it. She tried not to think of the past, of the sweatiness, the searing pain, the tearing—the loss of her child . . .
Push those thoughts away. Her fingers closed around handfuls of the coverlet. She could do this. To live the life she longed to live, to have a chance to see her work staged, she could do this.
