Temptations of a Wallflower (11 page)

“The Bible is a remarkable document,” he mused. “It can be interpreted many ways, and reveals as much about whoever reads it as it does about the Book itself.”

“Do you have a favorite chapter or verse?” she wondered.

“I'm rather fond of the Song of Songs, myself.” He spoke, his voice as liquid and hot as silken flame, his eyes never leaving hers. “
‘Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue.'
”

Breath whooshed from her, stolen as if by an invisible caress. “
‘His mouth is most sweet,'
” she quoted. “
‘Yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem.'
”

They stared at each other for a long while, their gazes holding. His hand remained at her back, his fingers gently brushing against the flesh just beneath her nape. She felt herself falling, falling, into a whirlpool of desire.

At that moment, two young bucks entered the box. Sarah recognized them as Mr. Gregory, a baronet's
son, and Mr. Lovell, heir to a somewhat impoverished viscount. They were handsome enough—the darker Lord Gregory being of average height and just starting to paunch, and the fair Mr. Lovell thin and attractive in a reedy sort of way. Both of them had only this year started shopping for brides, or so her mother had told her after one evening's soiree.

Jeremy removed his hand. The absence of his touch was a palpable thing, and she craved its return.

“My ladies,” both men intoned in unison, bowing. “And sir,” Mr. Gregory added perfunctorily, glancing at Jeremy.

A round of greetings and introductions followed the men's entrance.

“You're looking as fresh as morning,” Mr. Lovell said to Sarah's mother.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” seconded Mr. Gregory. “Is this your first Season out?”

Lady Wakefield laughed appreciatively at the mild flirtations.

“And Lady Sarah,” Mr. Gregory continued, turning to her, “it will be hard to watch the performance with your light shining so brightly in the theater.”

“You are very kind,” Sarah answered with a wan smile. She might be somewhat pretty, yet she was no gleaming beacon of loveliness. Such compliments only reinforced to her what she could never—and did not want to—be.

“He isn't kind,” Mr. Lovell insisted. “He speaks too weakly of your charms.”

His companion shot him an angry glare, and Sarah herself wasn't much inclined to look kindly on
Mr. Lovell. Compliments were like sweetmeats thrown by the handful. They did nothing to sate hunger and only made her stomach ache.

“Are you a habitué of the theater, Lady Sarah?” Mr. Gregory said, seemingly eager to impress.

“Not regularly, no,” she admitted. “Though I think Mr. Cleland here will enjoy Lady Marwood's work. Especially now that she's related to him.”

Neither Mr. Gregory nor Mr. Lovell even glanced at Jeremy. He must have rated very little in their limited vision, which made her unease around the two newcomers shift into something tight and angry. How dare they dismiss him? How small-minded of them.

“The performance is about to begin,” Sarah said coldly. “If you don't mind . . .” She glanced toward the entrance to their box.

“Yes! Of course!” Both young men stumbled over themselves in their haste to be agreeable. “Perhaps we'll see you afterwards.”

“Perhaps,” she said with deliberate vagueness.

Shortly, the two gentlemen were gone. Sarah's mother exhaled loudly.

“Sarah . . .” she said in a warning tone.

“They were being rude to Mr. Cleland,” Sarah answered angrily.

“Little boys distracted by their own reflections,” he murmured. “Hardly worth noting.”

“Their behavior was intolerable,” she answered, her throat tight. “If they insist on treating others like rubbish, then I'll do the same.”

Her mother's expression was rigid, and she gave Sarah an unmistakable
We'll talk about this later
look.
No doubt Sarah's reputation as a wallflower would only be enhanced by her treatment of the two young men—they'd likely talk about how she was a terrible conversationalist, awkward and rude—but she couldn't bring herself to care. Anger on Jeremy's behalf boiled, even if he seemed to think the incident hardly worth noting. He wasn't a milquetoast. Far from it. But he possessed a far more forgiving nature than she.

Lady Wakefield turned back to face the theater, effectively giving Sarah a chill shoulder.

Jeremy leaned forward. “You're familiar with those two men,” he whispered.

“Fortune hunters,” she answered softly but bitterly. “They come around every so often, trying to woo the duke's daughter. It's my dowry they find so worthy of fulsome praise.”

“They should consult with the king's physicians,” he said tightly. “For surely if they cannot see your value beyond the monetary, they must be mad.”

His words touched her, but they didn't undo what she knew to be true. “It's been five years since I came out,” she replied. “Five years, and I've learned that no honeyed phrases are given to me without an ulterior motive.”

“Then that's a damn shame.” He reddened at his hard language, and they both looked over at Sarah's mother. Fortunately, Lady Wakefield was too engrossed in watching the theater fill and talking with her friends to be much concerned with Sarah's conversation.

Seeing that they had some privacy, he continued, “You ought to be courted, wooed. For yourself, not for your fortune.”

He ran a fingertip along the flesh between her sleeve and her glove, and she barely resisted moaning aloud at the clandestine touch.

She couldn't withstand him. Not when he
said such things, or when he touched her as though she was something precious and rare. Something in her softened, the barriers around herself caving in, leaving her unprotected and vulnerable. Yet she welcomed those feelings with him. Had it been anyone else, she'd fear manipulation. But she sensed with Jeremy that every word he spoke came from a place of perfect honesty. He said nothing he didn't mean. And to hear herself spoken of in such a way . . . she felt herself sliding deeper and deeper into a terrifying emotion.

“It's a futile exercise on their part,” she said, steering her thoughts away. “Seeking me as a bride.”

“The young girls of my parish have me half convinced that women seek only to become someone's wife,” he noted. “You aren't the same?”

She contemplated mouthing the countless platitudes she'd used to pacify others in the past. When the right man came along. When the time was right. Any of a dozen delaying tactics. But Jeremy deserved more than empty platitudes. He deserved as much truth as he gave her.

But what was the honest answer? It baffled even her. “I cannot say,” she finally admitted.

That was the strongest response she'd ever given, revealing how little she knew what the future of her heart might hold. Being with him made her reconsider exactly what she wanted. He made her consider things that couldn't be.

Now, uncertainty fogged everything.

“Better to be alone than suffer with someone merely enduring me for the sake of several thousand pounds.”

His expression turned thoughtful. “A woman who sees the world as you do . . . who has intelligence and courage . . . you deserve more. If you were mine . . .” he whispered, but to her dismay he did not finish the thought. He shook his head, as if the very idea was beyond him. “
‘Thou art beautiful,'
” he quoted, “
‘O my love, as Tirzah, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners.'
”

Those velvet ties between them knotted more firmly. Her heart to his. How would she ever sever them?

Music rose in a crescendo, signaling the beginning of the performance. Sarah turned back to the stage, hoping to lose herself in other people's happiness and sorrow.

She was the Duke of Wakefield's daughter. A marriageable prize, despite her status as a wallflower. Any titled gentleman would be eager to marry her. Except one that cared for her, truly cared.

Country villagers were a taciturn lot. They didn't want to divulge their secrets and hoarded them like jewels. But I was not without my own resources, wielding my charm and charisma like weapons to obtain my objective. Every man likes to have himself flattered by a pretty woman—and words flowed freely when eyelashes were batted and an ankle was discreetly revealed. No journeying hero of the old tales ever underwent such trials as I did.

With my arts thus deployed, at last I learned the location of the highwayman's lair. He was something of a hero to the townspeople, as he often donated a portion of his plunder to the needy and destitute—though he did retain a substantial amount for himself, the scoundrel. I also learned his name: Jacob Clearwater.

Determined to retrieve my stolen ring (and, I must admit, in order to see him again), I hired a horse and set out on my own in search of Jacob's den . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

I
t hadn't been very long ago that Jeremy had stood in front of his cousin's door, interested to know about the identity of the Lady of Dubious Quality. At that time, his own inquisitiveness had been the sole motivating factor to learn who she was. He'd been curious to know what sort of person felt compelled to write such salacious material, when his own life had been so circumscribed.

But when he'd gone searching for answers, instead he'd provided Marwood with guidance. And now, Cam—the quintessential rake, ever free and generous with his affections—was married. The world was full of wondrous, miraculous things.

Today Jeremy was back at his cousin's door. His question remained the same, however.

At his knock, Strathmore, the butler, answered. When Jeremy asked to see Marwood, he was summarily escorted to his study.

He found his cousin seated behind a desk, somewhat incongruously industrious with notebooks, correspondence, and folios of what looked like agricultural reports. Marwood rose with a smile at Jeremy's entrance, extending his hand.

“You're home,” Jeremy noted, coming in and shaking Marwood's hand.

“My apologies,” his cousin answered. “I'll creep out the back door and hide in the garden until you leave.”

“I never expected such a domestic scene.” Jeremy nodded toward the masses of paperwork, his gaze alighting on the recently used quill lying on the blotter.

“If you must blame someone,” Marwood said cheerfully, “blame Maggie. It's her polishing influence.”

“She ought to be canonized.” Jeremy took a seat in front of the desk, and Marwood sat down opposite him, steepling his fingers and looking almost, but not entirely, civilized. Even in some things, the remarkable Lady Marwood couldn't quite work magic.

It was astonishing. Marwood, who'd never met an actress or widow or opera dancer he hadn't adored, had finally found one woman with whom he wanted to grow old. Jeremy would have vowed upon every Bible in his church that such a marvel could never happen. And yet . . . it had. Against every prediction. Marwood was a man who'd had his first kiss at age seven. Years of kissing—and more—had followed. Yet he proudly wore a wedding band now.

Such a thing happened for a rogue like his cousin. What did it mean for Jeremy?

Lady Sarah's clear, strong presence nestled snugly within the confines of his heart. Her keen intelligence, coupled with an innate sensuality, was a rare and precious combination, one he'd never truly encountered before.

But that door had to be closed. It couldn't happen. Country vicar. Duke's daughter. Never to be.

Instead, he now focused on his goal and what brought him to his cousin's home.

“Ah, but Maggie's no saint.” This Marwood said with a fond, though slightly lascivious, smile. “I was very disappointed you didn't perform the ceremony, of course.”

“Except all I knew of your marriage was a polite letter informing me that it had already happened.”

His cousin spread his hands. “When am I ever polite?” he countered.

“The letter was from your wife.”

Marwood grinned. “I was afraid you'd show up drunk to the ceremony.”

“For
your
wedding, there's such a thing as too much sobriety.”

“Now,” his cousin said, “with courtesy dispensed with, I can ask you what brings you to my door.”

“It's a confidence that must be kept between us,” Jeremy insisted.

“Of course,” Marwood answered at once.

From his pocket, Jeremy removed his copy of
The Highwayman's Seduction.
“Remember when you gave me this?” He placed it on the desk and slid it toward Marwood. Too late, he realized that the book was in slightly worse shape than when his cousin had given it to him. It bore the telltale signs of numerous readings.

Marwood picked up the book. His eyebrows lifted. “Enjoyed it, did you? Want more? Just a moment. There are some around.” He searched the drawers of his desk.

Jeremy cleared his throat. “I've got them.”

His cousin grinned. “Sly dog! Here I thought you were ready for entombing.”

“Save the pennies on my eyes for later. Right now, I need to know more about the book's author.”

Marwood leaned back in his seat. “The Lady of Dubious Quality.”

“I need to find out who she, or he, is.”

A corner of his cousin's mouth turned up. “Oh, she's definitely a woman.”

“You sound confident of that assessment,” Jeremy noted drily.

“Because the Lady shows a tremendous understand
ing and concern for how women feel pleasure,” Marwood explained. “Men are more interested in their own gratification.”

“Doesn't speak well for our sex,” Jeremy observed.

“Not much does,” Marwood agreed brightly. “Why do you want to know who the Lady is?”

“I've got reasons that I cannot reveal.” Being evasive pained him, but his rakehell cousin would never agree to locating her if it meant ending the Lady's books. There was always the possibility, however slim, that Marwood could also reveal Jeremy's secret agenda to someone—his bride, perhaps—and that could circulate back to Lady Sarah. Which Jeremy couldn't have.

“That's your prerogative, of course,” his cousin replied. “What have you done so far to track her down?”

“I've been to her publisher and went to a bookshop I thought she might frequent.” He shook his head at this list. “Neither lead has taken me anywhere fruitful.”

Marwood crossed his arms over his chest, looking pensive. “There is a possibility . . .” he said after a long pause. “Might be a little dim, but it could work.”

Jeremy leaned forward. “At this point, I'll take any direction I can get.”

“Every now and then,” his cousin explained, “there's a masked club, a secret society, that meets in a house in Bloomsbury.” He looked at Jeremy pointedly. “What I tell you, you cannot tell another soul. Nor,” he added, “can you use this information to shut down this secret society.”

“I won't,” Jeremy said immediately.

“They're actually meeting in just a few days' time.”

“And what do they do there?” Jeremy wondered.

His cousin stared at him. “I'll be honest with you, cuz. People like to go there to have sex,” he said bluntly. “With strangers.”

Sitting back, Jeremy absorbed this information with a touch of shock. It wasn't truly a surprise that such places actually existed. London was a worldly, sophisticated city with worldly, sophisticated citizens who had probably seen, and done, more things than he could ever imagine.

“I see,” he said after a moment, striving for a level of sangfroid he didn't quite possess. “Have you ever been there?”

“What do you think?” his cousin answered with a smile.

“I think I'd rather not know.”

“Good lad. They like to have entertainments at this club,” Marwood continued. “People performing sexual acts in front of an audience.”

Jeremy's face and body nearly went up in flames. To take something so incredibly private and make it public . . . it . . . excited him. He couldn't dream of making love in front of an audience, but watching something like that, seeing it happen before his very eyes while he stood nearby . . . would be an exercise in sensual torment. Wondrous sensual anguish.

Would Lady Sarah be excited by something like that? By his very interest in it? Or would she be appalled?

“I see,” Jeremy said again, his voice a thick rasp.

“Sometimes the acts are improvised,” Marwood went on. “And sometimes they stage scenes. From the Lady of Dubious Quality's books.”

Jeremy's eyebrows went up. “Oh.”

“Perhaps,” his cousin mused, “just perhaps, the lure of such a thing might draw the Lady out. The idea of seeing her work performed live might be too much for her to resist. She might be there. And you could go, too. Catch her in the act, as it were.”

Shooting to his feet, Jeremy declared, “I'm not going to any masked orgy.”

“Come now, Jeremy, if it really is that important for you to find her,” Marwood chided, “this isn't the time to fall back on your vicar's prudery.”

How could Jeremy explain? Prudishness wasn't the issue. His whole body burned with the thought of it. His own reaction to the prospect alarmed him. It was . . . frightening. Alluring. Calling to all of his buried hungers, his hidden desires. Unfettered sexuality. Freedom. What if he was lost to it? What if it consumed him and he couldn't find his way back?

“That's . . . it isn't . . .” Jeremy paced the length of the carpet, trying to marshal himself. His thoughts. His riotous body.

Marwood got to his feet and came around the desk. He seized Jeremy by the shoulder, holding him steady.

“Be at peace, cuz,” he said soothingly. “It's just a night. One night. And right now, if you truly want to locate the Lady, it's the best chance you have of doing so. If she isn't there,” he continued, “perhaps someone at the club will have information about her. That's all you have to do. Beard the lion in his den, and then emerge unscathed.”

Could he? Would it be possible? He didn't have to participate in anything. Just look around, ask a few
questions, and leave. He could hold temptation at bay for a little while—vicars did not participate in covert sex societies. If word somehow got out that he'd not only attended but also actively taken part in the club, the consequences to his reputation would be disastrous.

It would be like visiting another country. He didn't have to become a native of that land, merely visit, and then return to the life that he knew. Staid and reserved. No one would have to know.

“Very well.” He exhaled. “If that's the best option, I'll go.”

His cousin grinned. He was altogether too invested in Jeremy's descent into the underworld. “Wonderful.”

“I just need the address,” Jeremy continued.

Marwood stepped back, releasing his shoulder. “Hold a moment. You can't go like that.”

“Like what?” Jeremy frowned.

“Like a walking sermon,” his cousin explained. “You'll never fit in that way.” He waved at Jeremy's simple black clerical clothing. “No one will act naturally around you. At the very least, you'll have to change your clothes.”

“To what?”

“No ecclesiastical black, for one thing. You can be a little more exuberant in your choice of colors.”

“I don't have anything else,” Jeremy complained.

“Tomorrow, go to my tailor on Jermyn Street,” Marwood said. “Tell him you're my cousin. He'll have you fitted with something in a trice. Don't worry, old man, you can still wear dark colors, but please, lose the black.”

“I can't afford to have a suit of clothes made up in a day,” Jeremy exclaimed.

“Don't worry about the cost,” his cousin assured him. “I'll pay any price to sully my uncorrupted cousin.”

Jeremy was going to object, but, hell, if receiving one suit of clothes meant finding the Lady, then he'd accept it. Marwood was appallingly wealthy. Such a thing meant nothing to him. Even so, Jeremy vowed to himself that he'd pay his cousin back.

“So my wardrobe is settled,” Jeremy said decisively. “That means I'm ready to go.”

“This is just the beginning!” Marwood threw wide his arms. “You'll need a mask.”

“I haven't got one lying around,” Jeremy answered wryly.

“Just a moment . . .” Marwood strode to his desk and rifled around in the drawers for several moments. “Aha!” he cried, pulling out a half mask.

“What are you doing with a mask in your desk?” wondered Jeremy.

“If you have to ask . . .” His cousin handed the item to him. It was ink-blue leather, with finely wrought gold embroidery around the edges. “Be sure to wear that,” Marwood continued as Jeremy pocketed the domino. “Don't shave for a few days so you have some stubble. And slick back your hair,” he commanded. “Darken it, as well. The color's too distinctive.”

His head spinning, Jeremy removed a notebook from his inside pocket. “Just a moment.” He scribbled on the pages with a pencil. “Don't shave,” he muttered as he wrote. “Hair. Darken.” He glanced up to see his cousin laughing.

“Only you would take notes on how to attend an orgy,” Marwood said with a shake of his head.

“It's a considerable amount to remember,” Jeremy muttered. “So, my ensemble and appearance are taken care of. I'm prepared.”

Marwood held up his hand. “Easy on the reins, cuz. We've taken care of the externals. But it's the internals that are equally important at an event like this one.”

Jeremy's brow furrowed. “What are you blathering on about?”

“It's not blather if it comes from decades of experience,” his cousin answered good-naturedly. He tapped Jeremy in the center of his chest. “How you conduct yourself at the club is as important as, if not more so than, how you look.”