And then she braced herself.
Roland’s temper had been quick. He’d not liked her tongue and there had been many a time she should have bitten it.
But Baynton didn’t rise to her goading. Instead he answered, “Or perhaps I want something more from you than just doing ‘the deed.’”
More?
The word vibrated in the air between them. He reached down and calmly started putting on his socks and his boots and she could have damned him.
Instead, she said, “There isn’t any ‘more.’”
“Aye, you may be right.” He stood, pressing his heel into his boot. “But if there is, Sarah, then that is what I want. I certainly don’t want rape.”
He acted at ease and without rancor . . . but that could not be possible. Men did not like being thwarted.
“Don’t resent me later because this was not done,” she warned him. “I will not have you hold it against me. I offered myself.”
“That you did. Duly noted.” He picked up his vest coat as he walked to the door. “Be ready on the morrow. Talbert will take you around to look at theaters. Then there is the matter of a house. I don’t know if you will have time to search for both.” He paused at the door, looked back at her. All of her. “And we’ll need to buy clothes. I didn’t realize mistresses were such devilishly tricky creatures. I shall see you tomorrow evening for dinner.”
He walked out the door.
Sarah stood a moment, puzzled by his quiet acceptance of her. He wasn’t angry.
Then what was he?
She suddenly felt exposed, naked in a way she’d never experienced before. She picked up the coverlet, held it in front of her. “What of our bargain?” she called out, moving toward the door.
The duke was in the sitting room, shrugging on his jacket. “What of it?”
“Do we have one? You asked me for something specific.” He reached for his spectacles and placed them in an inside pocket. He tossed his neck cloth around his neck and began to absently retie it. “Don’t you want me? Isn’t that what all of this is about?”
“Do I want you?” he repeated softly with a hint of self-mockery. He approached her, stopping when the toes of his boots met her bare feet. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against the delicate place where her neck joined her shoulder. He held them there as if drinking in her warmth, her presence, her scent. She felt his breath release against her skin before he straightened.
Looking into her eyes, he admitted, “I want you very much. But not this way.”
He stepped back. “I want to know you, Sarah. To understand you.” He turned to the door.
“We shall do this,” he promised pointing back toward the bedroom as he made his way across the sitting room. “It is the bargain between us. However, when I come to you, Sarah, it will be because you want me as much as I desire you.” He reached for his hat and coat off the rack by the door.
“Then you shall never have me,” she assured him.
If he heard, he did not reply. Instead, he opened the door and left.
He was gone.
Sarah stared at the closed door, her feelings in a jumble. I want to know you, Sarah. To understand you.
He asked for trust. She had none to give. Ever.
She moved to the sitting room. His presence lingered in the air around her. He was that powerful and she—well, she was nothing. If she were to vanish, to shrivel up and disappear, no one would know that she had even existed . . . and then her eyes fell upon the leather folder holding the only play she’d written that still existed. Her work.
Talbert will take you to look at theaters.
Men had made so many promises to her over the years. The most laughable had been her marriage vows because when she’d been physically broken, that is when Roland had abandoned her completely.
But you want to believe, a small voice inside said.
That was true. In her plays, she wrote about love, about honesty and goodness between men and women, and about all the amazing things she prayed must exist someplace in the world and not just upon a stage in a theater. She wished to believe, but wishes were not truths.
