Temptations of a Wallflower (15 page)

She couldn't ignore the fact that it would be a huge problem for her to keep writing should she and Jeremy marry. But she
had
to continue penning her stories.

He wouldn't have to find out, however. She had ways of keeping the two identities apart. True, her safeguards had been tested recently, but if she became someone's wife, if she was Jeremy's bride, they might be strengthened by her married status.

Jeremy would never need to know that she was
the Lady of Dubious Quality. She could even take the smallest break away from her writing, just a month or two—though the time apart from it might prove very difficult—to wait for the danger to die down. She could leave London for a time, as well.

Sarah paused to give a beggar a coin, despite her maid's look of disapproval, and continued on her way to the bookshop.

As for Jeremy being beneath her . . . he was the son of an earl, not a commoner. While such distinctions mattered little to Sarah, they did count in the eyes of Society, and she dwelt within those confines. The scandal of marrying Lord Hutton's youngest son would be far less than her taking just any man as a husband.

Besides, her parents were eager for her to marry someone. Far better for her to take a vicar to wed than for her to be unmarried forever. No one wanted a spinster for a daughter.

Sarah drew up short and stared at the front of McKinnon's. Somehow, she'd reached the shop already.

She stepped inside. McKinnon sat at his counter, reviewing an accounting book.

“This isn't your usual day, Lady Sarah!” the bookseller exclaimed.

“I need to ask a favor of you,” she said.

“Of course,” he answered at once.

When she told him what it was, he nodded slowly but did not press her for details. For that, she was glad. There were irreversible moments in life that needed silence far more than words.

On a fur blanket, naked, we reposed before the fire, sharing a glass of wine. He stroked my hair and murmured endearments. A fine rain began to fall, sheltering us, as though we were the only two people in England. I had never been so content . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

A
s Jeremy walked into breakfast following his morning swim, one of the servants approached him.

“A letter for you, Master Jeremy,” the footman said, holding out a small envelope.

He took the letter and dismissed the servant. The handwriting on the front of the missive didn't match that of Mr. Wolbert, his curate.

The letter was from McKinnon, the bookseller, telling him that the book he'd ordered had come in and was ready to be picked up.

To the best of his recollection, he hadn't ordered anything from McKinnon's. It had to be a mistake. Should he write the man back and let him know? Or perhaps he ought to go there himself to inform him of the error.

The clock chimed just half past nine. The day at home stretched before him, stifling. Ever since his dead end with Mrs. Chalbury, he'd been at a loss as to how to proceed with his search for the Lady of Dubious Quality, but if he stayed at home, he'd be subject to more of his father's stern looks.

His mother entered the breakfast room. She offered her cheek for a kiss before approaching the sideboard to help herself to her repast.

“You aren't staying home again, are you?” she asked, setting a rasher of bacon on her plate. “Young marriageable ladies don't simply show up on our doorstep.”

That settled it.

“No indeed.” He finished his breakfast in a few bites, swallowing a mouthful of coffee to wash it all down. Then he gave his mother another kiss before grabbing his hat. Within a few moments, he was on the street, walking toward the bookshop.

Finally, he reached McKinnon's. It was early enough that the customers were few, both outside and within. The moment Jeremy set foot through the door, the tall bookseller appeared, carrying a stack of leather-bound tomes.

“Ah, Mr. Cleland,” McKinnon said, his deep voice drawling. “You've come for your book.”

“That's why I'm here,” Jeremy replied. “I've no recollection of ordering anything from you.”

But the bookseller didn't seem to hear him. “Just a moment, sir, and I'll fetch it for you.” He unloaded his burden of other books onto the desk by the front door, then moved off toward the back room, where this mysterious volume awaited.

Deciding it was best to see exactly what this strange book was, Jeremy waited. He nodded politely to two women entering the bookshop arm in arm. They returned the greeting and disappeared into the stacks, whispering about the latest novel from a celebrated author.

McKinnon returned a short while later, bearing a small book bound in dark brown leather.

“Here you go, Mr. Cleland.” The bookseller handed him the tome. “It's all paid for, so you're free to take it home.”

Truly baffled now—books were expensive, and he didn't prepay for them without making note of it—Jeremy consulted the front cover. It was a thin treatise about astronomy based on the most recent findings of Herschel. Though Jeremy found the subject of astronomy an interesting one as he had almost no understanding of how the cosmos and stars worked, he generally didn't read much on the topic, spending most of his time consulting books of philosophy and theology.

Something was inside the book, forming a slight gap between the pages. He flipped the pages open until he reached the object, then started in surprise when he saw that it was a note, folded into a neat rectangle. His name was written on the note. And it was in Lady Sarah's hand.

He glanced up to see if McKinnon watched him, but the bookseller had vanished in the peculiar way in which tall people could make themselves disappear noiselessly.

Jeremy's heart sped up. What was the meaning of the note? After looking around to make certain he was truly alone, he pulled open the small bit of paper.

Dear Jeremy—

She'd used his Christian name. He traced his fingers over it, imagining her writing out the letters.

He continued to read.

Please meet me tomorrow afternoon at the Observatory at Greenwich.

Yours, &c.

Sarah

And there, she'd used her first name, as well, leaving off the honorific. What could it mean? There was a strange, laconic urgency to her note. She wasted no time on pleasantries. But then, when one left a secret letter for someone tucked inside a book, a long-winded missive discussing the weather didn't seem quite called for.

But why had she been so secretive about asking to see him? She'd been much more open when inviting him to the exhibition of Oriental art. Now . . . well, he wasn't sure what to think. Only that he'd soon see her again.

He could not wait.

T
he Royal Observatory at Greenwich stood impressively on the south bank of the Thames. Jeremy walked, then took a wherry across the stagnant river to reach his destination. He hadn't slept well, excitement dancing along his nerves and Sarah's visage appearing behind
his eyelids every time he'd tried to shut them. So he'd spent most of the night reading—
not
the Lady of Dubious Quality's work—and writing up plans for a winter festival in his parish. Winter wouldn't be coming for a few more months, but it didn't hurt to be prepared for the season.

The small skiff glided across the river, and Jeremy tried not to breathe in the stink of the water, thick as it was with fetid debris.

The wherry rocked as it approached the small pier just down the river from the Observatory. His own heart rocked with it.

After paying the ferryman, Jeremy climbed up the bank and headed toward the Observatory, standing proudly as it had for the past hundred and fifty years, a monument to man's quest to look beyond himself and the limitations of this strange, small planet. The brick and white stone of the façade gleamed dully in the gray afternoon light, and its domes arched toward the sky. Where was Sarah?

Footsteps sounded, and he turned. His pulse thundered when he beheld Sarah walking toward him, dressed in a dove-gray spencer and pale pink bonnet. Her gaze was fixed only on his face as she neared. It seemed as if years had passed since he'd last seen her, though it couldn't have been more than a week. She looked pale, her eyes shadowed but still impossibly lovely to his mind. He'd come to prize the assertiveness of her features, her unusual, strong beauty. How could anyone mistake her for a wallflower when she stood out from all the other soft, colorless young women?

She was quite alone.

No maid, no mother. No friends. Just herself. Clearly, this wasn't a simple outing.

“Are you by yourself?” she asked, coming to stand in front of him.

He spread his hands. “Entirely. And you?”

“My maid is in the carriage.” She glanced toward the far bank of the river. “I had to bribe her silence with a pearl pendant.”

She still seemed tense and on edge, so he tried for a scrap of humor. “Secret messages hidden in books. I felt like the king's spymaster. Perhaps being a vicar is an excellent disguise.”

She only smiled thinly. “The subterfuge was an unfortunate necessity.”

“Something's wrong,” he deduced.

“Yes. No.” She shook her head. “Might we walk?”

He silently and readily offered her his arm. His already frenetic heartbeat kicked when she placed her hand on his sleeve and held him snug against her chest rather than a polite touch of her fingers on his arm. The soft roundness of her breast pressed against his biceps.

They sedately trod along the paths surrounding the Observatory. When she was ready to speak, she would. But until then, he'd give her what space she needed to collect her clearly disordered thoughts.

“Have you ever considered marrying?” she said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

The question caught him entirely off guard. He said slowly, “I
should.
Many vicars do. They stress that in seminary. That one of our responsibilities is the taking of a wife.”

“An odd thing to urge on you,” she murmured.

“They tell us it's important for us to have wives to reach out to the community. Makes us models to those around us. Makes us approachable, too, I suppose. Shows that we're human like everyone else.”

She mulled this over, her pace easily matching his. “But what do
you
want?” she asked after a moment.

“I always thought that I would take a wife,” he eventually replied. “Never really knew when. Or whom.” He hadn't known himself well enough to offer his hand to anyone. His own carnal impulses were so intense that he felt he always needed to keep them tethered.

“So there's no one in particular that you'd really want to marry,” she said.

He could prevaricate, if not outright tell an untruth. But he couldn't. Not with her. They both deserved better. And he was tired, so tired, of fighting this war inside himself. He could let her know how he felt—and if she didn't reciprocate, he'd find a way to go on. A man with a hole in his chest.

He stopped walking. “There wasn't,” he said, gazing at her.

She stared up at him, her eyes wide and lovely. “Has that changed?”

Everything in the world went into one word. “Yes.”

He watched the pulse in her throat flutter, and a pink stain rise in her cheeks.

“What if . . .” she began. She swallowed. “What if we were to marry?”

He jolted with the immensity of what she suggested. For a moment, he could do nothing but gape at her, like someone seeing the stars for the first time.

“You and I?” he asked.

She spoke quickly, as though afraid he might object. “We like each other, don't we? We share something . . . a bond. I'm not imagining things. I have a very good imagination, but I'd never concoct a man's esteem for me. I couldn't be so foolish. That's—”

“I care for you,” he said, trying to assuage her fear. Fear that touched him, deeply. She was afraid of his answer. Afraid he might say no. “Very much.”

“Enough to take me as a wife?” she pressed.

He stared at her. She voiced the very thoughts he'd been afraid to speak. Dazed, he said, “It's not possible. You . . . outrank me. And your parents. They'd be furious at the match.”

The color darkened in her cheeks. “I'm two years past my twenty-first birthday. I've reached my majority. Their approval isn't necessary.”

“And what of the approval of the rest of Society?” he asked softly.

She made a scoffing sound, and her eyes were bright and hot. “What has Society ever done for me?”

“You're saying,” he said, “that you'd have me as a husband? Against all the odds, you want me?”

“What if I said yes?” she threw back at him. “What would you do?”

In response, he wrapped his arms around her. Pulled her close. And kissed her.

Heat exploded through him at the touch of their lips. His mind urged him to go slowly, gently. This was their first kiss. He should be a gentleman, show her respect. But at the brush of her lips against his, the feel of her so close, primal hunger and need roared through him. She was soft. Spicy and sweet. And she responded to him
immediately. No fearful, virginal restraint. No uncertainty. She wanted him, as much as he yearned for her. Her mouth opened to his, and she accepted the sweep of his tongue eagerly.

Her body pressed snug against his, soft and curved. The world spun around him.

There was something strangely familiar about the feel of her, the taste. But no—it had to be his lack of experience.

He devoured her, letting her know through this intimate contact that she was all he wanted. And she responded in kind, her fingers curved around the back of his neck, pulling him down, closer, closer. She held nothing back. Her honesty. Her openness. He would take anything she offered him, wanted everything.

At the sound of her moan, he surfaced. Broke the kiss, though it felt as though he was being torn apart.

“We . . .” He panted. “Shouldn't be doing this.”

Her eyes opened, shadowed by disappointment. “But I want to,” she breathed.

Fire shot along his veins. His cock leapt at her words. “I want to, as well.” He forced himself to loosen his hold of her. “But we both know that a duke's daughter isn't meant to be a vicar's wife.”

Her fingers slid from behind his neck until her fists curled at her sides. She glanced away, a suspicious sheen in her eyes. “I know,” she said on a sigh. “This was my idea. I wanted it so much . . . but it can't happen. I just wish . . . I'd been born someone different. That we could have known one another under different conditions.”

“As do I.” His throat was raw, his voice a grating
rasp. “We're not eccentrics, my family. Everything we've done has been scrupulously well behaved.”

“Mine, too,” she said, choked.

“But perhaps that doesn't mean you and I cannot break free,” he suggested.

Her gaze gleamed, as though wet with tears. “I shouldn't have suggested this. It was wrong. I was wrong. In the eyes of my kin, in the eyes of Society, I've more to lose. A man may ascend, but a woman cannot follow her heart, no matter where it takes her.”

Without another word, she turned and strode away. He could do nothing but watch her go, wanting so desperately to go after her.

He was alone. Again. He'd gone from the pinnacle of his existence to its lowest
point
in a moment.