Temptations of a Wallflower (21 page)

“Pages one fifty-four and two thirty-six are particularly enlightening,” he said as she flipped open the book to its discreet title page. “Though I'd like to try page seventy-five when you're feeling more rested.”

She stared at the paper, dumbfounded. Shocked.

The Highwayman's Seduction,
by A Lady of Dubious Quality.

For several long moments, she could only gape at
the book in her hands, frozen in fear. Did he know? Was this his way of telling her that he'd uncovered her other identity?

But perhaps he interpreted her silence as something else, because he said quickly, “My cousin gave it to me. The book, I mean. He thought I might find it . . . instructional. And I have.”

“There's no other reason why you have it?” she finally asked.

His brow furrowed. Yet he hesitated for a moment. “Should there be?”

“No,” she answered at once. “It's not usual for vicars to read such things.”

“Not usual,” he confessed, “no.”

“I was just curious.”

“It's harmless,” he said, plucking the book from her hands and setting it aside.

“Harmless.” An interesting choice of words for something over which she'd labored so intensely and with such purpose. But in this context, she couldn't be too concerned. He seemed unknowing of her identity as the Lady of Dubious Quality—and for that, she was grateful. The fear ebbed slightly.

“You think less of me for owning it,” he said flatly, turning away slightly. “That I'm one of those sad, twisted men who lurk in dark alleyways and leer at women's ankles. Some filthy vicar who lusts after his congregation.”

“Those words never left my mouth.” Now that she knew about
The Highwayman's Seduction,
it made sense that there had been a vague sense of familiarity when she and Jeremy had been making love the
second time tonight. His mouth on her, his fingers. Then the third time, when he'd mounted her from behind. They had all been acts described in
her very own book.

She almost laughed, but she thought better of it and suppressed her smile.

“Actually,” she continued, placing her hand on the firm curve of his shoulder, “I'm glad.”

He glanced at her questioningly but said nothing.

“I think it shows you're broad-minded,” she went on. “That you don't shut yourself off from the breadth of human experience. If you thought books like that one were repugnant or immoral . . . then we might have more to be concerned about. But the works by this . . . what's her name?”

“The Lady of Dubious Quality,” he answered with a facility that said he was familiar with Sarah's pen name, which nearly made her smile again.

So, her husband enjoyed reading about sex. About the sex that
she
described. The irony wasn't lost on her—or her body.

“They're good,” Sarah said. “Healthy. And, I think we've seen, they benefit both of us.”

His face reddened, yet he said, “They did benefit us, didn't they?”

“The people down in the taproom surely heard how much I profited from your reading those books. I'm surprised we didn't break the bed.”

He looked abashed, but also proud. “We can try again.”

“In the morning.” A yawn burst from her. “Now I can barely keep conscious—I blame my husband.”

“And I thank my wife.” He leaned forward and kissed her.

“What's on page one fifty-four?” she asked after they broke apart some time later.

He grinned wickedly. “You'll find out.” He slid between the covers and gathered her close. “Fortunately, the Lady of Dubious Quality is prolific. We have a whole library to try out for ourselves.”

He kissed her once more, and they lay back together. In a short while, he'd fallen asleep, his breathing deep and even. Despite her exhaustion, she couldn't drift off. She'd become a bride only yesterday. Soon she'd start her new life as a vicar's wife. Every moment filled with new understandings. The sort she'd only expected to write about. She had been two disparate parts, never fully united. A writer who'd never truly lived. But now she'd experienced those understandings for herself.

Tonight had been the most incredible of her life—thanks to Jeremy. And herself. The Lady of Dubious Quality.

The city had strangely lost its savor, though every pleasure known to mankind could be found there. My days were aimless as I drifted hither and yon. I stood beneath the shadow of my favorite statue—Eros riding a porpoise—
but could not feel joy . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

“
O
ver there,” Jeremy said, pointing out the window of the carriage. “That oak tree is where the girls gather every summer solstice to see which men they're going to marry.”

Sarah peered at the oak in question. “How do they do that?”

“They write the name of the man they fancy on a leaf, then set the leaf on the nearby stream. If the leaf makes it to the millpond, then they'll marry. If it runs aground or sinks, then they won't.”

Sitting back, Sarah nodded. She looked a little tired around the eyes—but then, neither of them had slept much last night. And they certainly hadn't this morning, when she'd woken him with her mouth on his neck
and her hand on his . . . Well, it had taken them at least an hour to get out of bed. By the time they'd made it down to the taproom for breakfast, they had been greeted by the other patrons with knowing smiles and winks.

Jeremy couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed. Not when he had a wife with a boundless sensual appetite. No longer did he dream of the Golden Woman. Sarah fulfilled his desires, his fantasies. She seemed to enjoy and desire lovemaking as much as he. Women weren't given their proper due when it came to sexual desires—as though they didn't have any, or merely endured men's touches. But that couldn't be the case. He had the Lady of Dubious Quality to reinforce this belief. And Sarah proved it. He was very, very lucky to have wedded her.

She was bold, open, curious. Almost indefatigable. And not afraid to ask for—or even demand—what she wanted.

Now she looked at him through slightly weary eyes, her mouth full and swollen from kisses. “A venerable ancient tradition,” she remarked, referring back to his comments about the summer solstice rites.

“It may be the modern era,” Jeremy said, taking her hand, “but in many ways, Rosemead hasn't changed much for several hundred years.”

“I can't wait to be part of your home.”

God, but he wanted her again. And again. He'd never tire of her. How could he? She was everything he'd ever wanted. More.

Thank good fortune for the Lady of Dubious Quality and her books. She gave him so much information
about making love to Sarah. And bless whatever stars he was born under that Sarah hadn't been put off by his admission that he read those books. She'd seemed surprised, but not horrified, as likely many other young women might have been. In truth, she'd been remarkably accepting. Just as she'd been when looking at the Oriental art.

His father wouldn't allow him to put off his search for the Lady of Dubious Quality forever. Yet Jeremy found himself even less inclined to discover her identity now that she'd helped him so immeasurably.

But his father wouldn't be gainsaid. The earl had a will of iron. Once he set himself on a path, nothing could divert him. Not even his youngest son's recent marriage.

Sooner or later, Jeremy would have to resume his hunt. Now that he was married, he needed the income from his allowance more than ever. She had her own inheritance, but masculine pride smarted slightly at the thought of being entirely dependent on her fortune.

He and Sarah continued to look out the window, and he called attention to various landmarks they passed on their way to the vicarage.

There was a part of him, he had to admit to himself, that worried about her reception at Rosemead. What she'd make of the place. It was a simple English village. A far cry from the glamour and sophistication of London. Much quieter. Much more sedate. Would she be bored? Angry? He'd tried to be as honest as possible when describing it to her, and what her responsibilities would be as a vicar's wife. But there was theory, then there was reality. The two weren't often compatible.

At last the carriage rounded a bend, passing through a copse of ash trees. The vicarage came into view.

“Is that it?” Sarah asked, leaning forward, her hands on the frame surrounding the window.

“Your new home,” he announced.

They watched the low building as they approached. It was a small, two-story redbrick building, built for the vicar of Rosemead during the Tudor years. The roof was sharply sloped, and the windows were abundant but small. A garden of wild roses adorned the front, showing the last of the blooms before the cold set in. A low gate enclosed the front yard and wended its way around the whole property.

Standing in front of the gate were Mrs. Holland and Mr. Wolbert. Both of them looked eager to meet the new mistress of the vicarage.

Sarah drew in a breath, as if steeling herself. The carriage came to a stop, and before either Jeremy or the coachman could open the door, Mrs. Holland was already doing it, chattering away.

“My goodness, but you've had a long journey,” the older woman exclaimed. “Come all this way from London. You must be fair worn out. I've prepared cordials and cakes in the study and—”

“Sarah,” Jeremy said, stepping out and handing his new bride down, “this is Mrs. Holland, my housekeeper.”

Mrs. Holland dipped into a curtsy. “My lady,” she murmured.

“It's an honor to meet you,” Sarah said, holding out her hand. The housekeeper shook it gingerly. “Jeremy spoke of nothing but your stews and pies the whole trip. I was fair famished just to hear of them.”

Mrs. Holland reddened appreciatively. “I'll be happy to show you how to make them, my lady. That is,” she quickly corrected, “if you'll be wanting to know your way around the kitchen.” A duke's daughter likely understood the stillroom, but not the oven.

“Anything you can teach me will be greatly appreciated,” Sarah answered.

The housekeeper looked relieved. “Of course, my lady.”

“And this is Mr. Fred Wolbert, my curate,” Jeremy said, holding his hand out toward the man in question. He was slightly concerned, because Mr. Wolbert was a second-generation Briton, his freed grandparents having emigrated from Barbados. Jeremy had no idea how Sarah would react to being introduced to the curate.

“You're the man that keeps everything running smoothly while my husband is gallivanting in London,” Sarah said, offering her hand.

“He leaves it in excellent condition for me,” Mr. Wolbert answered, shaking her hand. His smile flashed white in his dark brown face.

Jeremy silently exhaled at the exchange. There was nothing to fear here. He should have known.

“About those cordials,” Sarah said, turning back to Mrs. Holland. “The roads are so very dusty, and I know your refreshments will be excellent.”

“Right this way, my lady.” The housekeeper bustled ahead of them, with Mr. Wolbert following.

When the curate and housekeeper disappeared into the house, Jeremy pulled Sarah in close for a quick kiss.

“And the reason for that?” Sarah asked, leaning back with amusement and affection in her gaze.

“For being exactly the woman I knew you to be,” he answered.

Did a shadow pass across her face at his words? He had to believe it was all in his mind, because in a moment, she was smiling again.

“Let's go inside, love,” she suggested. “Much as I want to keep kissing you, I think I'd rather do it without an audience.” She gazed meaningfully over his shoulder, and he turned around to see a herd of goats watching them from a field. One of them bleated in greeting.

With that welcome, Jeremy took Sarah's hand and led her inside. He hoped that the two of them would find perfect happiness within the vicarage's walls and that nothing could ever take that away.

M
rs. Holland refused to sit. She hovered in the doorway of the snug parlor as Jeremy, Sarah, and Mr. Wolbert took their tea and cordials. The housekeeper did consent to take a little sip of raspberry cordial, but she insisted that the cakes and other food were for the newlyweds—and the curate, though she sent him something of a baleful look as she said this.

“But surely you'll have just a bite, the merest bite of this lemon fairy cake?” Sarah pressed, holding one out to Mrs. Holland.

“I really couldn't,” the housekeeper asserted. “I made those especially for you.”

“And they are truly delicious.” Sarah took an appreciative nibble. “You ought to go to London with these cakes. You'd give Gunter's and Catton's a run.”

Mrs. Holland blushed. “Ah, some of us aren't made
for London's busy ways.” She glanced at Jeremy pointedly. “Are we, Mr. Cleland?”

Jeremy took a drink of cordial instead of answering. He wouldn't have minded some whiskey instead, but he'd grown too acclimated to his father's excellent liquor. A simple country cordial would suit him fine from now on. It had to.

How could he answer his housekeeper? He glowed with pleasure whenever he looked at Sarah, sitting here in his own comfortable parlor, though it was a far cry from the elegant drawing rooms to which she had to be more accustomed. Anticipation thrummed through him at the thought of showing her around, introducing her to his parishioners, seeing her settle into her new life.

He had passion and excitement with Sarah. Yet he still couldn't lose this sensation of . . . incompletion.

He'd have to take up his responsibilities here in the parish again. Lead services. Counsel parishioners. Visit the sick and elderly. Listen to complaints and offer solutions. Manage the business of running the vicarage. It was, as he'd known for a long, long time, a quiet, uneventful life. One that would pass gently, calmly, with little to interrupt the shift of seasons. Births, marriages, deaths. The cycle of life endlessly perpetuating itself. And him at the center of it all, expected to serenely guide everyone along their preordained paths.

Something restless and not completely satisfied still gnawed at him. He'd thought it would go away after he married. After all, he'd found the one woman who suited him so well. Yet returning to Rosemead, he felt . . . edgy. Restive. As though energy pulsed through
his legs, urging him to grab Sarah's hand and just run. Run far beyond the limits of the parish borders. Letting the whole of England swallow them up so they wouldn't be a vicar and his aristocratic bride any longer but simply husband and wife. Free to explore the country. Explore themselves.

Helping people did give him a sensation of usefulness and purpose. But life as a vicar restrained him, limited as he was to a single parish. He might try becoming a bishop—but they were much more managerial in their responsibilities. Besides, it took ambition to become bishop. He hadn't the kind of ambition his father wanted.

“I should bring your bags upstairs and unpack them,” Mrs. Holland announced.

“I'll manage it on my own,” Jeremy said quickly. He didn't want her finding his now well-thumbed copy of
The Highwayman's Seduction
amongst his belongings.

“As you wish, Mr. Cleland.” Mrs. Holland threw back the last of her cordial. “Supper needs tending, so if you'll excuse me.”

“Thank you again for making me feel so welcome,” Sarah said to the housekeeper before she could take her leave.

Mrs. Holland glanced between Sarah and Jeremy. “A good woman is what this house needed. And by ‘house,'
” she added, pointing at Jeremy, “I mean
‘you.'
” With that, she walked off toward the kitchen.

After Mrs. Holland left, Mr. Wolbert spent the better part of an hour telling Jeremy about what had transpired during his absence. Despite all the domestic upheavals and dramas, not much—if anything—had
changed. Sarah listened attentively and asked many questions about who was who.

Mr. Wolbert glanced at the clock. “It's nearly three. I ought to get back to my lodging house.”

“And let everyone in the village know that we're home,” Jeremy said.

The curate grinned. “I've been told I'll get nothing to eat for supper nor breakfast if I'm remiss in my duties as Rosemead's town crier. Hear ye, hear ye.”

“I imagine the bell on the door will ring mightily within a day,” Sarah said, rising.

“Expect some visitors, my lady,” Mr. Wolbert said, also getting to his feet. He grabbed his hat from the nearby stand, bowed, then shook Jeremy's hand. “Good to have you back, Jeremy.”

“Good to see you again, Fred,” Jeremy answered.

In a few moments, Jeremy and Sarah were alone in the parlor.

“I love to look at you here,” he admitted. “Never thought to have such a light in my home.”

“Never thought I would be anyone's light,” she confessed. “But I like being yours.” She swayed over to him and threaded her fingers together behind his neck.

He kissed her forehead. “Let me show you around.”

“The bedrooms?” A sly little smile played about her lips.

Ah. She was likely expecting the arrangement of most aristocratic households. “I have to warn you, love, this is a small, old house. There's only one bedroom.”

To his relief, her smile was wide. “It will spare me having to walk to your room every night and back to mine in the morning. My feet will get so cold.”

“Don't want any part of you getting cold,” he said, voice low and husky as he drew her close.

“How will I stay warm?” she murmured, her gaze on his lips.

“We're intelligent people.” He brushed his mouth against hers. “I know we'll come up with a reasonable solution.”

She affected a pout—so very unlike her it made him smile. “But I don't want to be reasonable.”

“Then we can be unreasonable together.” He kissed her deeply. She tasted of cordial, cakes, and her own spicy sweetness.

As he kissed his wife, he glanced quickly toward the sofa. It wasn't especially large, but if he and Sarah were creative, they could find a way to fit on it. Mrs. Holland was busy with supper, and Fred Wolbert had taken himself off to his lodging house. They were alone. It had been hours since he and Sarah had last made love. Too long. The sofa might do very well . . .