Three men stepped out of the alley’s shadows, coming at her from different directions.
Panic brought her to a halt. She could not believe she was being attacked in this manner—and then the sound of running hooves echoed in the alley.
An ordinary hack charged forward, forcing one of the men to jump out of the way or be run over. It slowed as it reached Sarah. The door flew open. “Climb in,” a rough male voice ordered. A hand was offered to her.
She knew that voice. Baynton.
He was the last person she wished to associate with, but she feared what would happen if she stayed. Rovington was not the sort to take her refusal lightly and she could not run forever. Performances took energy and she was now beyond fatigued.
She leaped for the strong, capable hand and let him pull her inside, the hack barely slowing down. The still open door swung widely as the hack careened around the corner of the alley and into the street. Behind them, men shouted threats to stop. The driver, thankfully, kept going.
Holding her so that she didn’t topple out with the bouncing and swaying of the vehicle, the duke reached across her body and yanked the door shut. His movements brought them face-to-face.
“Hello, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
For a second, this close to him, Sarah found it hard to breathe, let alone think. He had an arm around her waist. She found her chest practically against his, her hips resting against his thigh. Their bodies rode the hack’s rolling movement together and she had no choice but to cling to him for balance.
It was not such a bad experience, being this near to him. In fact, she felt safe, but then, as soon as she could collect her wits, Sarah pushed the heel of her hand on his shoulder. Baynton did not release his hold, not immediately.
Instead, in the light of the hack’s small interior lantern, she detected a glint in his eye, an interest. Her breasts tightened in awareness. Her heart still raced from the madness of escaping the theater and Rovington and yet, there was a skip to the beat. She hadn’t pushed away as hard as she could . . .
By anyone’s account, the Duke of Baynton was a very handsome man. Dark-haired, blessed with sharp blue eyes and the sort of lean, square jaw that spoke of character, he would attract any woman’s attention. Furthermore, he exuded masculinity. It was in the air around him, enhanced by the spiciness of his shaving soap and just the being of his person.
However, no one, simply no single person in the world could annoy her more than this fellow with his arms around her waist. He was the most contrary of souls—even if he did just rescue her from a fate she’d dare not consider.
She broke the moment between them. “I know what you are thinking, and you can’t have it.”
“And what is it I’m thinking?” he challenged in his deep voice, as if he could deny the obvious truth.
Sarah let her hand come down between them, lightly touching the erection pressing against his breeches. The man was hard, boldly so.
Baynton let go of her as if she’d scalded him, turning away. “It is not what you believe.”
There was that contrariness again. In the cab’s hazy light, she even thought she saw a dull red rise to his face.
Her mind had to be playing tricks. Few men blushed, especially if they were as morally rigid as the Duke of Baynton.
She laughed quietly. “Oh, yes, it is,” she answered him. “If there is one thing I know, it’s men.”
He stiffened, but did not respond.
The hack had now slowed to a reasonable gait. Sarah straightened in the seat, edging toward the door, putting space between herself and his uncomfortable presence. Her bare feet were responding to the escapades and abuses of the evening. She wished for shoes, and a few more articles of clothing would have also been warranted.
As if reading her mind, he took off his jacket. “Here,” he offered.
“That is not necessary. I’m fine.”
“Put it on.”
“I don’t wish to,” she responded coolly. “I am not chilled.” She belied her words by crossing her arms. Now that she was out of the range of his body heat, gooseflesh ran up and down her. She even shivered, a response, no doubt, to the wildness of the evening instead of the night air . . . or her companion in the hack.
“Perhaps I wouldn’t be so—” He paused a moment as if searching for the right word and chose a polite one, “Uncomfortable if you were not naked.”
Now it was her turn to have heat rise to her cheeks. She lifted the shade over the window so that she could see out of the vehicle and avoid him seeing her embarrassment. “I’m not naked,” she informed him. “I am fully clothed. I have on an underdress. You saw nothing.” She had to add, “You may have thought you saw something, but it was only the nonsense going on between your male ears, not anything you could see with your eyes.”
“Your feet are bare.”
She pulled her feet together, placing one foot’s toes on top of the other as if she could hide them. “They are only feet.” The scenery they passed was beginning to seem familiar.
