Temptations of a Wallflower (22 page)

A knock sounded on the door.

He and Sarah held each other, but stilled. They both waited. “Maybe they'll go away,” he said lowly.

The knock rang out again. This time with more insistence.

“Very persistent, your visitor,” Sarah murmured.

With an exasperated sigh, he let her go and strode toward the front door. He had half a mind to tell whoever was waiting to come back another time. But he had a responsibility to his parish.

As soon as he pulled open the door, however, he found himself facing nearly a dozen men and women of the village. They were dressed in their visiting clothes,
and nearly all of them carried some kind of gift or offering, from loaves of bread to armfuls of lace and linens.

They beamed at him.

“Welcome back, Vicar,” someone said. “We've come to offer our felicitations on your marriage.”

“And get an eyeful at your new bride,” an older woman added. The gathered crowd chuckled.

He felt Sarah hovering behind him. Debating whether or not to come forward. And then she appeared beside him. “Please, everyone, come in.”

Murmuring their thanks, the parishioners filed in, shaking hands and bowing. Jeremy fought another sigh.

“I'll let Mrs. Holland know we have guests,” he said above the din of the visitors. But as he moved to shut the door, more footsteps sounded on the pathway.

Jeremy suppressed a groan. A long queue stretched from his doorway all the way into the lane, with more people coming. They all seemed intent on paying a call.

In the parlor, he could hear Sarah laughing and chatting with the guests, welcoming newcomers and circulating amongst the visitors. Warmth filled him. She might have been a wallflower in London, but here in this humble village, she was a fine rose. And he was the lucky man who witnessed her blossoming.

What new aspects of her would he discover? He could not wait to experience this life with her, to learn all her ways and the depths of his growing affection for her. If he was ever restless or bored by his work as a vicar, he must find a way to overcome it. Together, he hoped he and Sarah could find joy.

I found myself reading the newspaper often, piles and piles of them. They were quickly scanned, then discarded like so many autumn leaves. I searched for any mention of my highwayman. Time moved so slowly, as if happy to torment me. A fortnight passed, but there was no word . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

S
arah stuck her head into the cramped little room off the parlor that Jeremy used as a study. She smiled to herself to see her husband seated at his desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hands cradling his head so that his blond curls poked up between his fingers.

“Can I fetch you anything?” she asked softly. “Tea. Wine. Something to eat.”

“How about a blunt instrument to knock me unconscious?” He didn't look up as he spoke but kept his attention on the paper and quill in front of him.

She stepped into the room. “Sermon not coming along?”

With a sound of disgust, he leaned back in his chair.
“My mind is blank as this paper. Where's divine inspiration when it's called for?”

She seldom had difficulty finding a topic to write about, but then, human sexuality was a continuously evolving and wondrously fascinating phenomenon. Sex was inescapable and multifaceted. But it would make for a very scandalous sermon if Jeremy discussed lovemaking. However open-minded his parishioners had been in accepting her as the vicar's wife, they likely wouldn't take well to a frank and candid discussion of coitus. At least, not in church.

In her own writing, Lady Josephina and the professor continued their passionate liaison. Their appetite for each other seemed inexhaustible, Josephina's fidelity being especially surprising. But the lady showed no signs of tiring of her professor.

“Perhaps,” Sarah said, coming to stand behind him and placing her hands on his tense shoulders, “you're approaching it too head-on.”

“I don't understand,” he answered with a frown.

“You're thinking of the whole sermon, all at once. Like a mountain you'll never be able to climb or a mural you cannot paint with a minuscule brush. But perhaps instead of contemplating the monolith in front of you, you take it thought by thought. Word by word.” She nodded toward his quill. “Just a sentence. A single idea. Not a full treatise. Merely the kernel of a notion.”

Obligingly, he picked up his quill. The nib hovered over the paper for several moments but didn't move. He cast it aside in annoyance. “It's no use. I cannot think of anything. My mind's a pudding.”

She pulled up a chair and sat beside him. The desk
was covered in papers, letters, and books. A scholar's desk. “Is it always so difficult for you to write your sermon?”

“Not always. But I find myself distracted as of late.” He picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, smiling as he did so.

She cradled the side of his face. “Some distractions are worth it.”

“Tell that to my parishioners on Sunday. ‘Sorry, the vicar doesn't have a sermon for you today. He's been too preoccupied rogering his wife morning, noon, and night.'
”

Sarah laughed. “
Rogering
is such a beautiful way of putting it. Besides,” she added with a purr, “we haven't really explored that noon option yet.”

He gave her a kiss—but it was all too quick. “More than anything, I'd like to make that exploration with you. However, I've less than twenty-four hours to finish this blasted sermon, and I can't budge from this chair until I get it done.”

She banked her disappointment. After all, she would see him later in bed. “But you've already got your topic.”

“I do?”

She grinned. “Marriage.”

“Write about marriage,” he mused.

“You've got experience with it now.”

Slowly, he nodded. “That would do very well. I could start with Mark 10:7–9. ‘And they twain shall be one flesh: so then they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.' Yes. Yes.” He quickly grabbed his quill
and began to write. The nib flew across the paper as one sentence followed the next. He paused every now and then to think but soon was back at work, scribbling away.

Sarah rose and set her chair aside. Her husband was now deeply immersed in his task, and it pleased her to watch him at his labors.

“I'm going to catch up on some overdue correspondence,” she said to his bent back.

His response was a distracted grunt. Quietly, she slipped from the room, and, with one last look at Jeremy hunched over his desk, she exited the study. Making sure that her steps were soft, she walked down the corridor to the narrow little chamber that had been cleared out for her use. It contained a small desk, a chair, and a cupboard.

It was very, very different from the Green Drawing Room—about a fourth of its size, and much less richly furnished. But the sun streamed in through a high window, and the space was truly hers alone. Her heart lifted every time she looked at it. At Jeremy's direction, Mrs. Holland had placed a vase with wildflowers atop a tiny table. The room was homey and humble, and she adored it.

Sarah sat and, after cutting a few quills into pens, pulled out several sheets of paper. She ran her hand back and forth over the blank pages, feeling their promise, their invitation. Soon she would immerse herself again in her world of flesh and pleasure. For now she knew what that pleasure was truly, and it would have to affect her writing. She greeted the change enthusiastically. Experience made for an excellent teacher.

Though she was eager to write, she let herself dally a moment longer, her mind drifting. In truth, she was a little muzzy-headed lately. But then, she hadn't been sleeping much this past week. She and Jeremy had been carrying on so much in bed that it was a wonder the sheets and blankets hadn't been reduced to rags. They were drunk on each other and what their bodies could create together. Every moment was an unfolding world, with new continents and seas to discover. Her body felt supple and sleek, replete yet always in demand for more. And more.

But the private world of the bedroom ended every morning, when they both had to rise with the sun and attend their duties. He to his parish business, and she to paying calls. Her visits to the people of Rosemead were far more important and useful than the visits she'd had to endure in London. Those had been full of empty talk, gossip, ways to fill time. Here in Rosemead, she had purpose, bringing food and a listening ear to those who needed both. She wasn't the Watching Wallflower here. She had meaning outside of being the Duke of Wakefield's daughter.

This would be her first time back at writing since her marriage. Would it be different? The only way to know was to try. She picked up her quill and began.

Lady Josephina stared at her nude, sleeping lover. She'd never expected to find such pleasure, and with such an unlikely man. Who would ever have believed that a university professor had such knowledge and imagination when it came to lovemaking? Yet more than his skill at loving
her was the way he held her—tenderly. Reverently. As though they meant more to each other than a means to climax. None of her many, many bedpartners had ever treated her the same way. And she adored it.

She decided to wake him, in the best possible way. Carefully, she tugged the blankets down, revealing his . . .

Sarah glanced up some time later, only to discover that two hours had passed. Stretching, she looked down at the filled sheets of paper. If she had been worried that married life would rob her of inspiration, she'd been very wrong. A connection flowed between her and the page, as if the words poured from her like light.

Rereading what she'd written, she was struck by the difference in her work. Oh, there was still plenty of sex. But something else was there between the characters. Something more than the physical need of one body for the other. Was it . . . love?

She rubbed at her forehead. She hadn't thought about what she was writing as the words had come, but looking at it now, she saw that the hero and heroine cared for each other. They respected each other.

This was a
romance,
not just an erotic tale.

What would her readers make of it? Hopefully they would like the new direction she was taking with her writing. Because it simply seemed to happen without thought.

Her stomach rumbled, and she realized that it had been many hours since breakfast.

After a brief stop in the kitchen to talk to Mrs. Holland, Sarah returned to Jeremy's study. She tapped lightly
on the door and was bid enter. As she stepped inside, she saw Jeremy standing beside his desk, stretching. He made a delectable picture, with his muscles straining against the fine lawn of his shirt, his long body on beautiful display. When he saw her, he grinned.

“The timing could not be better,” he said. “I've just finished. A record time for me.”

She stepped forward. “Wonderful!”

He looked slightly bashful. “Will you read it later, after I've reviewed it again, and give me your thoughts?”

The fact that he trusted her opinion with so important a task staggered her. “Of course.”

He looked her up and down, wolfish. “What were you saying about some noontime exploration?”

“Sustenance first,” she said, raising a finger. There was a rap on the study door, and Sarah went to answer it. As she hoped, Mrs. Holland was there, with a full picnic basket, which she handed to Sarah.

“A lovely day for it, my lady,” the housekeeper said with a wink before heading back to the kitchen.

Sarah turned back to Jeremy.

“What's this?” he asked.

“A woven container that holds comestibles,” she answered pertly.

“I know it's a picnic basket,” he said with amused exasperation. “But what are you doing with it?”

“Isn't that obvious, my erudite and very observant husband? You and I are going to take some refreshment outside. The day is fine, and we've both been cooped up too long within these walls.”

“Sounds pagan,” he answered, stepping forward. “Don't know if my parishioners would approve.”

“Fortunately,” she replied, “none of them are joining us. Come.” She held out her hand. “Let's you and I be pagan together.”

A
fter Jeremy grabbed a wide-brimmed straw hat, he and Sarah walked out of the vicarage hand in hand. She'd heard from Mrs. Holland that a tree-encircled meadow lay a small distance beyond the house. With a blanket tucked under Jeremy's arm, and her carrying the picnic basket, they wended their way along a barely used bridle path toward the meadow.

It was blissfully quiet and still, only the droning of the bees and sounds of the wind ruffling the tall grasses to be heard. A soft golden sun shone down over the barley waving slightly in the breeze. The last of the wildflowers dotted color here and there, like drops of paint from a paintbrush onto a canvas.

“London could never compare with this,” she said as they walked, swinging their joined hands.

“It might not have the energy or pace of the city,” Jeremy agreed, “but it's hard to find fault with the country on a day like today.” He grinned at her. “Or with such company by my side.”

“Ah, but you've picked up the flattering ways of the city,” she chided with amusement.

“I am the perfect courtier.” He stopped and made an old-fashioned bow. “They'll talk of me as far away as Paris.”

“But I hope you remain here in England,” she said. “With me.”

His expression sobered. “Always. You tempt me so.”

Though she wanted to pull him close for a kiss, she
continued on toward their destination. A thought had been brewing ever since she had finished writing, and she was intent to see her goal fulfilled.

They set an easy pace, climbing the stile of a fence, then wending along past a little creek before crossing a narrow footbridge. They breached a bank of trees, and there it was, the promised meadow. It wasn't especially large, but it sloped gently downward in a carpet of late grasses. A handsome old oak stood nearly at the center of the field, spreading speckled shade upon the ground.

“There.” She pointed to the tree. “That's where we'll have our picnic.”

“I do as commanded,” he answered.

She sent him a cheeky smile as they walked toward the oak. “Married only a few days, and already he's learned the wisest course of action.”

“Don't forget,” he replied, “that I've counseled many a wedded couple here in the village. I've heard every sort of complaint there is. Most every grievance could be addressed by simply doing as the woman desires.”

She laughed. “Is there no room for compromise? Surely the wife must accede to her husband's wishes every now and then.”

“It's a peaceful household that bends to the whims of womankind,” he answered. “
‘Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it,'
” he quoted. “Ephesians 5:25.”

“No wonder the women of this parish adore you.” They had reached the base of the tree, and Sarah watched as Jeremy spread out the woolen blanket upon the ground.

“As it turns out,” he said with a small measure of
pride, “there are fewer husbands and wives living apart since I took on as vicar. Perhaps I've a little to do with that. But a very little.”

“You are modest, Vicar. But then, ‘Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.' Matthew 25:12.” She sat herself down, spreading her skirts around her.

“Been studying your Bible?” he asked, stretching out on the ground.

“I'd make for a poor vicar's wife if I didn't know my way around some Scripture. Besides,” she added, “I have been going to church every Sunday since I was baptized. I should think I know a verse or two.”

“Not everyone is attentive during services.”