A Date at the Altar
Marrying the Duke #3
Marrying the Duke #3
by Cathy Maxwell
Releasing October 25th 2016
Avon
Avon
New York Times bestselling
author Cathy Maxwell’s glittering Marrying the Duke series continues—Twice he
has been close to the altar and still no duchess.
From The Book Junkie Reads . . . A
Date at the Altar (Marry the Duke, #3) . . .
Sarah was the absolute wrong person
to become the next Duchess of Baynton. She was a playwright. She was not a
Lady. She was free-spirited. She was illegitimate. She was strong, courageous,
outspoken. She was not afraid of the wrath of the duke. She was perfect.
Gavin step in it again. This time he
wanted to learn a little something for his trouble. He got a lot more than he
bargained for. Sarah was all that he need and none of what he wanted for the proper
Duchess to his Duke of Baynton. He was arrogant, rude, stubborn, self-consumed,
manipulative, and has a superiority complex.
I found the pegs that he was knocked
down were just what he needed. Sarah was the perfect woman to hand him his
self-importance on a platter and not with kindness.
Marrying the Duke series:
A
Little Thing Called Love – Marrying the
Duke, #0.5
The
Match of the Century – Marrying the Duke,
#1
The
Fairest of them All – Marrying the Duke,
#2
A Date
at the Altar – Marrying the Duke, #3
Blurb
Will the third time be the charm? A duke can’t marry just anyone. His wife must be of good family, be fertile, be young. Struggling playwright Sarah Pettijohn is absolutely the last woman Gavin Whitridge, Duke of Baynton, would ever fall in love with.
She is an actress, born on the wrong side of the blanket, and always challenges his ducal authority. She never hesitates to tell him what she thinks.
However, there is something about her that stirs his blood . . . which makes her perfect for a bargain he has in mind: In exchange for backing her play, he wants Sarah to teach him about love.
And he, in turn, has a few things to teach her about men . . .
Will the third time be the charm? A duke can’t marry just anyone. His wife must be of good family, be fertile, be young. Struggling playwright Sarah Pettijohn is absolutely the last woman Gavin Whitridge, Duke of Baynton, would ever fall in love with.
She is an actress, born on the wrong side of the blanket, and always challenges his ducal authority. She never hesitates to tell him what she thinks.
However, there is something about her that stirs his blood . . . which makes her perfect for a bargain he has in mind: In exchange for backing her play, he wants Sarah to teach him about love.
And he, in turn, has a few things to teach her about men . . .
Sarah
Pettijohn had vowed she would never play the role of the Siren again . . . and
yet here she was, tucked high above the stage behind the proscenium arch so
that the audience could not see her, dressed in practically nothing, waiting
her turn on stage. From her perch, she watched the teeming mass of male bodies
in the audience below and knew they did not bode well for her.
The
owners of the theater, Geoff and Charles, were masters at creating a stir. The
house was packed with men from every walk of life. The rich, the poor, the old,
the young, and the stupid had all paid their four shillings because, as Geoff
said, men could never have their fill of “tittie” watching. “No matter how much
it costs them, they like to look.” Sarah
was not showing her “titties.” She wore a nude shift beneath her diaphanous
costume.
Granted
there was little beneath the shift, but she was well covered compared to the
other women in the company. She’d insisted upon it. She knew from the last time
she had been compelled to play the Siren, six years ago, the male imagination
could fill in the details, whether seen or not. Keeping her identity a secret
was important, just as it had been in the past. To that purpose, Sarah wore a
bejeweled mask and mounds of face paint and powder to create a fanciful,
feminine creature with long lashes and golden skin. A black wig plaited into a
thick braid hid her red hair. She’d also refused to attend rehearsals,
preferring to practice her act in secret. She was not proud of what she was
doing. She had a reputation to protect. After all, she wasn’t just an actress.
She was a playwright. She’d agreed to play the Siren because Geoff and Charles
promised to stage her play. Her play.
For years, Sarah had rewritten and edited the work of men who used her
talent and gave her none of the recognition. This past summer, Colman at the
Haymarket Theater where she’d been part of the company for years, had promised
to produce one of her plays but when the time came, he’d reneged and put one of
his own on the schedule instead. One Sarah had rewritten for him.
Sarah
had walked. She’d left his company with her head high, and her pockets empty. That
is when Geoff and Charles had approached her. They were talented theater men
who had staged the first Naughty Review in order to raise the funds to build
the Bishop’s Hill Theater. It had been a one-night event, just as this was. At
that time, Sarah had been desperate for money so that she could provide a home
for her half-sister’s orphaned daughter. She didn’t expose her “titties” then,
either, but she would have done that and more to protect Charlene. What no one
had expected was for the Siren to become almost legendary in men’s minds. Even
Sarah was astounded and she was thankful that she’d been disguised so no one
knew who she was. For months after that first Review, personal notices were run
in the papers from men either begging the actress playing the Siren to contact them
or looking for information about her. Fortunately, those few people who knew
Sarah never betrayed her. Now, after years of running their own theater, Geoff
and Charles were deeply in debt. They were in danger of losing the Bishop’s
Hill and hoped that if the Review worked once, it would do so again. “Everyone
wants the Siren,” Charles had said.
“You
do this for us and we will stage your play. We’ll all have what we want.” Sarah had reluctantly agreed. She’d had no
choice, really. She didn’t have the means to stage the play herself. Charlene
was now happily married and living in Boston, an ocean away. The time had come
for Sarah to live her own life. If dancing and singing almost naked would bring
her what she wanted, then so be it. A woman alone had to do what she must to
survive—and if Sarah was one thing, she was a survivor.
She
shifted her weight on the narrow shelf and tightened her hold on the silken
rope that would be used to lower her to the stage. The Siren would be the last
performance of the evening. She’d secreted herself an hour before the curtain.
Below her, two female gladiators with swords shaped like phalluses left the
stage. William Millroy, an Irish tenor, came out and began singing about being
cuckolded by his wife. The audience wasn’t paying attention. They had come for
women. Someone threw a cabbage at Will but he ducked. More vegetables and a few
fruits were thrown to the delight of the crowd, especially when they hit their
target. William scampered off stage to the sound of cheers.
“Where’s
the Siren?” someone called out. A chant began. “Siren! Siren!” Sarah shook her
head. Men could be so ridiculous. They had been doing this all evening. Her
nerves were frayed.
A
group of bare-breasted dancers costumed as sheep came out onto the stage and
the men forgot their chanting and roared their approval. One gent leaped from
one of the boxes upon the sheep nearest him. Sarah knew the girl. Irene. She
screamed and pushed his hands away from her breasts just as the bullyboys Geoff
and Charles had hired rushed forward to toss the man into the pit. Laughter and
ribald comments met his comeuppance. The music started and the sheep pranced around
while a shepherd ran among them poking them in the bum with his staff. Every
time he touched a sheep, she’d cry “Baaa” and the audience started mimicking
the sound with an obscenity in place of the “Baa.” Sarah had an urge to go down
on that stage and lecture the men on manners. If they kept up this rowdiness,
her performance would be a short one. In fact, she would make it quick.
She
would sing one song, escape this theater without anyone being wiser to who she
really was, and then she could start living the rest of her life the way she
wished. She’d cast her play, The Fitful Widow: A Light Comedy Concerning the
Foolishness of Men, and prove that her talent was equal to any male playwright’s.
Her
fierce determination came to an abrupt halt as she recognized one of the men in
the very expensive boxes to the side of the stage. Uncertain she could believe
her eyes, she leaned forward as far as she dared on the platform for a better
view, balancing herself by holding on to the rope. It was him. There was no
mistaking the broad shoulders or that arrogantly proud tilt of the head.
The
Duke of Baynton, that Pillar of Morality, the Nonesuch, the Maker of Ministries
was at the Naughty Review. Sarah sat back, stunned, and then drew a deep breath.
Who knew? Baynton was mortal after all. Or perhaps he had wandered in by
chance? Oh no, he wouldn’t. She distinctly remembered him coolly informing her
that he did not attend the theater. Well, he had added, save for the occasional
Shakespeare.
This
was no Shakespeare. And it was intriguing to see him here. The duke had once
wooed her niece Charlene. When Charlene had run off with another, his twin
brother, no less, Baynton had gone after them and Sarah had insisted on
accompanying him so that she could protect her beloved niece. In the end,
Baynton had not won the lady.
Charlene
had married the man she loved and the duke had been somewhat gracious about
it—that is, to everyone save Sarah. Apparently he did not appreciate outspoken
women. She had little admiration for him as well. Two days of traveling to
Scotland with him had convinced her that no other man on earth could be more
insufferable or self-righteous than Baynton. At their parting, she had prayed to
never set eyes upon him again—except this was good. This was a moment to be
relished. Watched only Shakespeare. The hypocrite. If she’d had a shoe on, she
would have thrown it down right on his head. Let him think it was the judgment
of God Almighty for being in such an immoral place. Sarah would have adored
seeing the expression on his handsome face . . . and he was handsome. Sarah was
not blind to his looks. It was the words that came out of his mouth she didn’t
like.
But
gazing at him, well, that was pleasure. In truth, she’d been overjoyed when
he’d first called on Charlene. She’d wanted what was best for her niece and the
Duke of Baynton was the best London had to offer. He was wealthy, respected,
honored, and Char would have made a lovely duchess. Sarah could even recall the
last words she’d heard the duke speak. Baynton had paid Sarah’s way home from
Scotland by private coach rather than endure more travel time with her. He’d mentioned
within her hearing that it had been “money well spent. She is too opinionated
by half.” Words that Sarah had found surprisingly hurtful, although she’d had
her fill of him as well. The sheep were almost done with their act. It had gone
on overlong. The crowd no longer yelled crudities or baaa’ed. They grew
restless. That was the problem with this sort of entertainment. It could never
capture the imagination—not in the way a well-written play could. The Siren was
up next. Had Sarah thought to make her performance quick and be done with it?
That had been before spying the Duke of Puffed Up Consequence in her audience.
She stood and wrapped the silken rope around her hand, readying herself to step
off the platform the moment the dancers on stage finished. She felt strong,
powerful, and inspired to give the performance of her lifetime. If Baynton
thought his matched set of grays were high flyers, wait until he witnessed the
Siren.
Author Info
New York Times Bestselling
Author, Cathy Maxwell spends hours in front of her computer
pondering the question, “Why do people fall in love?” It remains for her the
great mystery of life and the secret to happiness. She lives in beautiful
Virginia with children, horses, dogs, and cats.
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