Temptations of a Wallflower (12 page)

“I'm not going to assault anyone, if that's what you're concerned about,” Jeremy snapped. “I'm not going to read anyone passages from the Bible, either.”

“You want to fit in, don't you, so you don't draw unwanted attention to yourself?” At Jeremy's nod, Marwood continued. “Then it's important for you to act like you belong there. And that means acting sexual and confident.”

Jeremy drew himself up to his full, not inconsiderable, height. “I can do that.”

His cousin looked dubious. “Can you? You're probably a virgin.”

Face hot as a furnace, Jeremy said, “I'm not. There was . . .” He cleared his throat. “One woman.”

Marwood rolled his eyes. “How many years ago?”

After a long pause, Jeremy answered, “Five.”

His cousin heaved a sigh. “All right, old man, let's discuss how to act like a rake.”

Jeremy grimaced. “Must we?”

“We must,” Marwood insisted. “Approach it like you would a theosophical conundrum. Besides, perhaps afterwards you can use what I tell you to find yourself a nice, wicked little vicar's wife.”

“I won't do that,” Jeremy insisted at once, but inside, he paused. Could he? Use his cousin's skills at seduction to secure himself a woman? The only woman he wanted was Lady Sarah, but he couldn't have her. Still, it would be nice to approach her with more confidence, more self-assurance, instead of feeling as though he was blundering and lumbering around her like a bear in a clerical collar.

“Are you going to take my advice or not?” Marwood pressed.

Jeremy exhaled. “Bestow it upon me, O wise one.”

Marwood pointed to a chair by the fire. “Have a seat, and take copious notes.”

Deciding it was best to humor his cousin, Jeremy sat in the suggested chair and held up his notebook, poised at the ready.

Seeing that he had Jeremy's full attention, Marwood clasped his hands behind his back, assuming his most professorial manner and tone. “First of all,” he intoned, “you have to know that you can give a woman the best night of her life.”

“Seems an odd way of starting a conversation,” Jeremy said, looking up from his notes. “
‘Pleased to meet you. I can make you see stars in bed.'
”

Marwood made a scoffing sound. “You don't
say
it, dunderhead. You think it. You
feel
it. Then it shows in your face, your movements.” He planted his hands on his hips. “Let me see your best smoldering look.”

“What?” Jeremy set his notebook on his knee.

“Just
do
it.”

Jeremy attempted to smolder, imagining he was channeling all the sexual energy of Lothario and Casanova and Byron at some distant point across the room.

“You look like you want to murder someone,” Marwood exclaimed in disgust, and Jeremy deflated. “Imagine that you're looking at someone you desperately desire, someone whose skin you long to feel, someone you want so badly, every part of you hurts. And you're trying to communicate to her that making love to her would be the pinnacle of your worthless existence. Can my virtuous cousin attempt to imagine such a woman?”

Jeremy imagined trying to impart to Lady Sarah through looks alone all the pent-up longing he felt for her. Letting her know just how much he desired her. How greatly he wanted to worship her body for as long as she would let him. That she would become the sole object of his universe if only she gave him the chance.

“Jesus,” Marwood muttered. “I didn't think you had it in you.”

Jeremy shook his head, coming back to himself.

His cousin continued, “It almost makes me think . . .” He peered at Jeremy. “As if you were thinking of a specific woman when you gave that look.”

At once, Jeremy said, “There's no one.” He didn't want Marwood considering Lady Sarah in any way.

“Shame,” his cousin said. “A woman would want to be looked at that way.” He smiled. “If I wasn't married, related to you, and inclined toward the amorous company of women, you'd have me in a heartbeat.”

“Thank God for all those ‘ifs,'
” Jeremy said wryly,
but inside, he exulted. Perhaps it wasn't impossible for him to play the part of the rake, after all. He only needed to imagine every woman he came across as Lady Sarah. Of course, he wouldn't
act
on any of the signals he would be sending out, but it was good to have a plan. He wouldn't be swimming in completely uncharted waters.

“You've got your smolder down,” Marwood continued. “That's good. But it's about more than the lure of sexual satisfaction. You must remember that every woman you encounter is a human being, with thoughts, feelings, and ideas of her own. Treat her with respect, never as an object for sating your lusts. There is no such thing as a conquest. Conquering is for bullies. A seduction is for both parties, not just the man's gratification.”

Oh, all this was good. Jeremy wrote hurriedly, trying to keep pace with his cousin's advice.

“Take your time,” Marwood went on, fully warmed to his topic. He paced back and forth, expounding. “Nothing is less appealing than a man who's in a hurry. Which brings me to my other point—”

“Slow down!” Jeremy exclaimed as his pencil flew across the notebook page. “I can't keep up.”

“Look lively, damn it!” his cousin barked. “Genius doesn't dawdle.”

After stretching his hand to relieve a cramp, Jeremy continued taking notes. “Go on.”

“My other point,” Marwood said with a pointed look in his direction, “is to leave a woman wanting. Never give her everything she desires all at once. Women like the chase just as much as men do, and if there's anything they cannot abide it is a desperate man. A man
who clings like wet muslin is just soggy, not seductive.”

“How on earth am I supposed to remember all this?” Jeremy asked when his cousin paused.

“You've always had a scholarly bent,” Marwood decreed. “Only this time, you'll be studying something useful.”

Jeremy shot him a dry look, then shook his head. “I'd no idea seduction was such an art.”

Marwood raised one finger. “Depend on it, my lad. It's not a truncheon but a sword, to be wielded only by the most skilled men and women. It shows you the measure of my esteem for you that I consent to share this advice at all.”

Jeremy inclined his head. “I am deeply honored.”

“As you should be,” Marwood said solemnly. Then spoiled the whole effect by grinning. “I don't want to overload your brain and bollocks with too much information at once. I think this is a good starting point.”

“Let us hope so,” Jeremy remarked, rising. He shook hands with Marwood. “My many thanks for the gift of your knowledge.”

“Pleasure is my business,” Marwood answered. “Well, it was. Now I concentrate all my business on one woman.” But he said this with obvious devotion to his bride.

Jeremy's head swam with the surfeit of knowledge and experience imparted to him by his cousin. But if anyone knew the dance of the sexes, it was Marwood, a certified dancing master.

Marwood gave Jeremy the address in Bloomsbury, as well as the secret knock and code for the door, then escorted him toward the foyer.

Jeremy stepped back onto the street, but his buoyant enthusiasm soon faded. It was one thing to feel the giddy possibility of sex and seduction when safely ensconced in his cousin's study. Quite another to put it into practice. In a short time, he'd visit this secret club and test out his newfound knowledge. His notebook rested in his pocket, heavy with importance. It was a notebook that only his eyes would ever read.

He was truly in it now, the darker realms of the senses and animal hungers. His life had split in two—he wasn't simply a vicar anymore. He was a vicar with a clandestine mission to infiltrate a secret hedonistic society. It thrilled him to contemplate doing something so dangerous, so outside the realm of his circumscribed life. Here was the freedom he'd been forbidden—risky, delicious freedom. He could take a step closer toward discovering the Lady's identity, while pushing the limits of his own existence.

He fervently hoped Lady Sarah didn't find out about any of it.

The following night, I set off in my pursuit of Jacob Clearwater. I left the village and plunged into thick woods, guiding my horse into a deep vale. Ahead, shielded by trees, I saw an old stone ruin, overgrown with ivy and full of secrets, like a sorcerer's lair.

Someone was within, judging by the glow of a fire. I left my horse behind and crept forward on foot. Peering through one of the windows, I beheld Jacob's den. But no one was within.

Suddenly, I was grabbed from behind by muscular arms. “You took a hell of a chance, coming here,” a familiar voice growled in my ear. Excitement thrummed through me as I managed to turn around.

“You have something that I want,” I said, then kissed him . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

S
he didn't recognize herself.

Sarah stared into the mirror, and a stranger gazed back. A liberal application of cosmetics had trans
formed her face, making her appear more angular, older. She had taken extra care to change the shape of her mouth with lip rouge, since that was the most visible part of her visage. A gold silk mask covered her upper face, obscuring it from view.

If someone recognized her tonight . . . the consequences would be disastrous. Unmarried virgins didn't escort themselves to secret masked gatherings. She did, though. Starting tonight.

The clock on her mantel chimed just midnight. Fortunately, her mother and father had spent the evening at home and had gone to bed an hour earlier. In a state of nervous excitement, Sarah had pled a headache and stayed in her room. With her parents entirely certain that she was abed, she could creep out of the house without detection. It was a fast run down the back stairs, through the mews, and to the waiting carriage. She just needed to be fleet of foot and pray the servants kept their silence. They had all been persuaded with money into complicity, including the coachman. Thank God for her additional income as the Lady, which helped her afford the numerous bribes.

Her pulse throbbed. Could she do this? Over the past few days, she'd taken special precautions—even selecting a false name should anyone ask. Between her disguise and careful planning, she ought to be untraceable. But there was always a possibility of detection.

She stood back from her mirror and paced to the mantel. The carriage waited for her. But it wasn't too late to back out. She could remove her cosmetics, doff her mask and cloak, and climb into bed with none the wiser.

Yet
she
would know that her nerve had failed her.

This
was her chance to live a life like her characters'. To be as bold and daring as Lady Josephina. As Sarah had always longed to be if given the chance. If she stayed at home, would she look back on this moment with remorse? Raking herself over the coals with what might have been?

The night outside was thick and dark, the moon obscured by a haze of clouds. It was precisely the sort of night for assignations and adventures.
Her
adventure. At last.

Before any more doubt could shackle her, she grabbed her cloak, pulled up the hood, and drew open the door to her room. She made certain the hallway was clear before shutting her door and slipping down the silent darkened corridor. Her dancing slippers barely made a sound on the carpet or when they padded softly down the stairs.

With only a few lights burning dimly, everything in her home was shrouded in shadow. More than once she'd gone down to the library in the middle of the night when the rest of the house had been asleep, but that had felt entirely different from tonight. At worst, if she'd been caught in the library, she might have received a mild scolding from her mother about catching a chill. Yet if her parents saw her this evening, completely disguised, sneaking out of the house—she'd never have a moment's freedom again.

But she wouldn't turn back. Not now.

Walking speedily, she hastened to the back of the house. After double-checking that no one was in the stairwell leading to the kitchen, she scurried down.
She nearly yelped when she saw a tired maid sitting at a table, pillowing her head on her folded arms, but the girl's breathing remained deep and steady in sleep.

After waiting a moment just to be certain the servant wouldn't stir, Sarah slid from the kitchen out the back door. She hurried into the mews alongside the house. Her heart jumped to see the carriage waiting for her, a lone driver perched on the seat. The horse's breath steamed in the cool night as it pawed the ground.

Seeing the animal's exhalation convinced her that this was all very, very real. She was truly going to do this.

Catching sight of her, the driver secured the reins, then jumped down to help her in. Sarah reached into her reticule and produced a coin, which she slipped into the driver's hand.

“Speak of this to no one,” she whispered.

“Aye, Lady—I mean, miss.”

“Madam,” Sarah corrected him. Even in disguise, a young, unmarried woman could not travel alone at night. “Mrs. Chalbury.”

“Yes, madam.” The young man carefully helped her into the carriage.

She sat down with a rustle of silk, pulling her cloak close. The driver shut the door, and the carriage swayed as he climbed up into the seat. He called softly to the horse. Then they were off.

The carriage rocked as it drove down the dark, empty streets. A few stragglers were out on their own. Some people pulled carts, and a handful of drunken men tottered along the road, leaning on each other. But for the most part, London was quiet.

She had never been out at this hour on her own. The city felt huge, laden with possibility. She could just keep going in the carriage, roll on into the night and not stop until she was far from home, far from what anyone expected of her. Liberation tugged at her. It would be so easy . . . she could write anywhere. She pictured a snug little study on a Scottish island, a view of gorse leading down to a roaring sea, with all day to write and no one to disturb her or drag her anywhere she didn't want to go.

And . . . if she was spinning fantasies . . . Jeremy would be there, too. He'd come in to see how she was faring, bearing a cup of tea. No, it was her dream. Let him come with glasses of wine. But they'd set their wine aside as they drank from each other, instead. He'd lift her up out of her chair, and set her on the edge of the desk, then slowly lift her skirts . . .

She shook herself. Now was not the time to indulge in such flights of imagination. Though the club was known for catering to sensual whims, she needed her wits about her. It would be unfamiliar territory, an obscured part of the map, and for her own safety she had to treat the endeavor much as an explorer would. Eyes open, hands to herself.

At last the carriage drew to a stop outside a house in Bloomsbury. The den of iniquitous indulgence looked like any other house on the block—three floors, a columned entryway, even a tidy garden out front. All the curtains within were drawn, and very faintly, the trill of music rose above the stillness of the night. If she were to write such a place, it would be ablaze with light and laughter—though that wasn't very discreet.

“This it, madam?” the driver called down uncertain
ly
.

She checked the address scribbled on a scrap of paper. “It is. Drive on, about five blocks from here.”

“Yes, madam.”

When the carriage stopped the requisite distance away, she opened the door and stepped down.

“Wait here. I shouldn't be above an hour.” There was always the chance that someone at home might discover her missing. She didn't want to tempt fate by staying out too long.

“As you wish, madam.” He didn't question her rationale, but it was all part of her carefully thought-out disguise.

She left the carriage behind and approached the house on foot. All was quiet. Hardly any noise disturbed the sleeping neighborhood. Sarah climbed the front stairs and gave the secret knock at the door. She had only learned of this place from her publisher, who'd had half a mind to shut the whole operation down, but she'd assured him in a letter that having aficionados stage scenes from her work could only help increase sales, not hurt them.

Her heart thudded as she gave the coded knock again.
Tap. Tap tap. Tap.

After a moment the door opened, and a slim, black-haired woman stood before her, looking gorgeous in a bloodred mask and matching gown. Her skin was a lovely, deep-golden hue, revealing mixed heritage. She said nothing, only stared with sharp green eyes at Sarah.

“I've come for the plums,” Sarah said breathlessly.

“We haven't any,” came the low reply.

“Peaches will suffice.”

It was an exchange from her novel
Alone with the Rogue.
Sarah exhaled when the woman stepped aside, the coolness in her expression giving way to a warm smile. “Welcome. I am Amina.”

“I'm Mrs. Chalbury.” Sarah almost stumbled over the false name, but she'd practiced saying it over and over at home so that there would be hardly any hesitation.

Amina held up a finger. “Other than myself, we use no names here.”

“Sorry,” Sarah mumbled, feeling like a green fool.

But Amina only continued to smile. “Don't concern yourself. It's a common enough error for newcomers. May I take your cloak?”

“No! I mean, I'd rather keep it.” Keeping the hood up provided Sarah with an extra measure of disguise, and a barrier between her and what she was about to witness.

Amina nodded, as if this was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. “This is your first time, yes?”

“It is,” Sarah admitted.

Amina's smile widened. “Your first time costs nothing, but if you return, there is a fee. There's nothing to fear here. We all abide by the same rules. There is to be no forced contact. All participation is optional. Those who wish to engage may do so, but if you prefer to simply watch, that is also perfectly acceptable. We've had men and women attend our salon many times who have done nothing more than drink negus before going home alone.”

Sarah exhaled in relief. “That's good.”

“Please,” Amina said, gesturing toward the corridor behind her, “make yourself comfortable. If you've any questions, or if you object to anything you see here, find me.”

“I will,” Sarah vowed.

“You're amongst friends here. Friends with an appreciation for the Lady of Dubious Quality.”

A thrill of excitement worked up Sarah's spine to hear herself referenced. She almost blurted,
That's me!
but managed to keep her silence. Trying for her best sophisticated nod, Sarah moved on from the foyer, drifting down the hallway toward the sounds of music, talk, and laughter. It seemed like any other party where one might meet friends and potential suitors.

What if Jeremy saw her here, like this? He wasn't just a gentleman but a vicar. Morality was his chief concern. But she also wondered what it might be like to take him to a place like this. Would he appreciate her compulsion to come here, or would he condemn her choice? He was a man of the cloth, after all.

A doorway opened onto the corridor, and she looked into a large chamber. The candles burned low, and the room was full of masked guests. Some people wore deep jewel tones, others sported cloaks, and a few had on the kind of fancy dress one might have seen at a party thirty years ago. The scent of sweat and perfume pervaded the air—not unlike any other social gathering.

In fact, at first glance, it truly did resemble any number of assemblies she had attended over the years. Servers circulated amongst the guests with trays of
wine and cakes. Groups of men and women gathered here and there, chatting and laughing. Through a doorway that looked into another large room, Sarah observed couples dancing—a waltz, she noted. It was, initially, a little disappointing. Not nearly as scandalous as she'd feared and hoped.

But then . . . at further inspection . . . she saw that it was far from an ordinary party. Hands moved liberally over guests' bodies. In corners and even standing in the middle of the room, men and women kissed boldly, openly, in front of everyone. On a sofa, a woman in white sat on the lap of a man in green, her fingers freely toying with the buttons fastening his breeches. Two women were locked in a passionate embrace, their hands and mouths all over each other, and three men in one corner were also kissing and fondling one another.

Sexuality saturated the whole chamber, soaking into her own body. Her pulse raced heavenward when she observed a man slide a woman's bodice down to reveal her breasts. Sarah had never seen another woman's bare breasts before, though she'd written about such scenes often enough. And in another corner, a woman was reaching down into a man's trousers. She fumbled with the fastenings, the action not quite as smooth and effortless as Sarah expected. The woman was about to reveal the man's cock. Here. In public.

Sarah glanced away. She wasn't ready to get her first glimpse of an erect penis. Not quite yet.

No one was actually making love, but they were coming very, very close.

Grabbing a glass of wine, Sarah hurried into the next chamber, where the dancing took place. Here, too, more
sensuality imbued the air as the dancers pressed their bodies close to one another's and people kissed deeply right in the middle of the ballroom. She noted with a soupçon of thrilled alarm that a stage stood at one end of the room. With a bed on it. The bed was unoccupied—for the moment.

That's where it was going to happen. The scenes from her books would take place right there. Before the eyes of the entire company.

My God.

She had truly entered into the realm of her books, where reality was fantasy, and fantasy was reality.

Terrifying—and wonderful.

After taking a healthy drink of wine, she continued to watch the dancers move through their paces. The waltz was performed at many assemblies and balls, but not quite as lasciviously as it was here, with the dancers holding each other so closely that there was no space between their bodies. Deeply sensual, this dance. The swaying rhythm, the isolation of each couple becoming their own spinning constellation of two.