Temptations of a Wallflower (24 page)

He growled as he came, gripping her hips so tightly it nearly hurt. The slight pain only added to sensation.

At last, she collapsed against him, breathing heavily. He held her close, the hat still covering his face, but she heard and felt him gasping.

Finally he removed his hat. His face was red, filmed with sweat. He gazed up at her with awe and affection. She knew she looked down at him with the same expression.

“My lass,” he said in his normal accent.

Fulfillment was a lazy river moving through her. Up to now, she'd only understood sex as something two bodies engaged in as a means of shaping individual
pleasure, of reaching climax for its own selfish purpose. But this . . . what they made together . . . defied her capacious imagination. Went far beyond whatever she had known, or believed she'd known. Pleasure led to emotion, and emotion led to pleasure. They fed each other, and it grew and grew until it was the size of the universe.

This, she realized, was love.

I went to Vauxhall, seeking diversion. There, I encountered one of my previous lovers, a sea captain on leave. I remembered how thick and delicious his cock had been, a crude instrument of passion. He offered to take me to bed, and though I remembered him fondly as a very energetic partner, my interest in pursuing our mutual pleasure was too minimal to accept his offer. I returned home alone . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

J
eremy didn't mean to eavesdrop—yet as he walked down the hallway toward his study, he couldn't help but overhear the female voices floating out from the parlor.

“It's not that I don't
enjoy
being abed with my husband, Lady Sarah,” sighed a woman who sounded suspiciously like Mrs. Edmonds. “It's just that . . . well . . .”

“It's all right,” Sarah answered soothingly. “You needn't speak of it if you don't wish to.”

“But I do. I cannot talk about this to anyone else, and . . . in truth . . . you've a way about you. I feel I can trust you to speak honestly. Yet you'll hold my secret.”

Jeremy understood exactly what Mrs. Edmonds meant. Often, late at night, when he and his wife had temporarily exhausted their physical need for each other, they lay in bed and spoke of significant things, trivial things, the deepest secrets and the most mundane observations. He told her more of his wish to found a charity, of his desire for freedom that the Church—and his father—never permitted. She often found the beauty in small things, such as the silhouette of a cat sitting on a wall, or the color of wine held up to the light, and would recount them to him at these moments. She hated coconut. He loved the feel of silk. A thousand little intimacies.

He'd never talked to anyone the way he talked with Sarah. She held his heart in her capable hands.

“Anything you say to me, I will keep between us,” Sarah assured the other woman.

“You won't even tell your husband?” Mrs. Edmonds pressed. “I've never seen a couple so lost in each other. The vicar has the world in his eyes whenever he looks at you.”

Heat filled Jeremy's face. It was a good thing he didn't play cards—bluffing had never been his strength.

He could well imagine the blush that likely stained Sarah's cheeks at this statement, too. She concealed little from anyone; her honesty was humbling and inspiring.

“Nothing we speak of today shall leave this parlor,” Sarah assured Mrs. Edmonds.

Jeremy couldn't resent his wife's discretion where this was concerned. He had to keep the confidences of an entire parish. Secrets overburdened him, but he had to keep silent. She never pressed him for more.

Which meant he really had to move along, lest he hear things he wasn't supposed to. So, as silently as he could, he crept down the hallway toward his study. He had lessons to plan for his thrice-weekly school sessions.

Teaching the village children remained a constant pleasure. Of all his duties as vicar, educating young minds continued to be his favorite. He loved watching their faces as they took in new knowledge, and he carefully answered every question that was put to him. He firmly believed in listening rather than grinding in education by rote. Dull obedience made for an even duller mind. This wasn't always a popular approach, yet he managed to retain most of his students even after their compulsory years had passed.

This, too, he spoke of to Sarah in the depths of night. And always, she listened.

He reached his study, crammed full of books and papers. It was a comfortable room, not particularly elegant or sophisticated. Propped up on one of the bookshelves stood a recent addition—a framed sketch, done by a local mercer who was also an artist, of Sarah sitting under an elm tree, reading. Jeremy often studied that drawing. Whenever he did, the restlessness that sometimes scraped at him calmed, and he felt both peaceful and expansive.

He stood before it now, admiring the strong line of her profile as she bent over her book. Mrs. Edmonds was not the only village woman to seek Sarah's counsel. Many of his female parishioners had appeared at their door over the past month, each eager to consult with her. At first, Sarah had been a little reluctant to offer advice.

“Who am I,” she had asked at supper one night, “to tell anyone how to live their lives?”

“Perhaps they see a woman willing to listen without judgment,” he'd answered. “Which is what many of us need.”

She'd poked at her roast pigeon. “They think I'm some grand and sophisticated lady from London. But to many, I'm just a wallflower.”

He'd taken her hand, gripping it tightly, and stared into her eyes. “You're not
just
anything. You are yourself, and that, my love, is everything.”

She had kissed him, then. Hotly. And the rest of the meal had gone uneaten.

Since that time, she had received the women of Rosemead with grace and confidence. The visits took up a considerable amount of her time, like the copious amounts of correspondence she seemed to engage in. She often sequestered herself in her own study, writing letters every day, for hours. Her mother never wrote her, as Sarah's father had insisted, but that didn't stop Sarah from penning her own missives.

She had told him that she also occupied her time with writing a journal, and though he was surprised that a country vicar's wife could find so much to write about, he was glad she wasn't bored. He had feared that her new role would fill her with ennui, but that hadn't come to pass, and for that, he felt gratitude.

Turning away from Sarah's portrait, he moved toward his desk. He planned on reviewing geometry and history with his students this week, and both subjects required considerable planning. But as he sat down, he noticed a letter waiting for him, sitting atop a stack of books.

His father's handwriting on the exterior of the letter was unmistakable. A traitorous sinking pitched in Jeremy's stomach. He hadn't heard from the earl since his wedding, and his father was seldom one to simply jot off a note of greeting. Clearly, Lord Hutton wanted something.

After a moment's hesitation, Jeremy broke the red wax seal, marked with the insignia of the Earl of Hutton, and read.

It was, in fact, a command. The letter detailed that rumors circulated: the Lady of Dubious Quality was to publish a new book within the next few weeks. This, Lord Hutton insisted, could not stand. Jeremy had to return to London immediately to resume his search for the author and expose her before this newest novel could reach an eager, susceptible public. No reply to the letter was expected, as Jeremy was to obey it at once.

He set the missive aside, seething.

Jeremy was a grown man, with employment and a wife. He glanced at a blank sheet of paper and had the impulse to write his father back, refusing to journey back to the city. Anger surged at the imperiousness of the earl's tone, his expectation that he would be obeyed in all things. Yet if Jeremy disobeyed, his father would hound him mercilessly. Lord Hutton's tenacity was the stuff of legend. In Parliament, he ground down opponents with the force of his moralizing will. No one denied him anything. They couldn't. The earl refused any attempts to say no.

How could he tell his father that his life here in Rosemead was too full, too encompassing? Such notions
would be rejected. Duty came first to the earl. And a son's duty was to his father.

And if he exposed the Lady of Dubious Quality?

He didn't want to. He wanted to preserve her secrecy. Through her, he'd learned the many ways of pleasing a woman, and for that, he felt profound gratitude. Sarah rose from bed—or the sofa, or the table, or the floor—with a smile on her face. A smile he'd put there. He'd not give up those smiles for the world.

How could he reconcile himself to this? The responsibility his father demanded, the threats he made, and Jeremy's own desires?

The cage seemed so small around him, cutting off freedom.

He would give this one last try. One final attempt to uncover the Lady's identity. And if he failed, he would tell his father,
No more.
Then his duty would be discharged, and he could return to his life with Sarah, though he would have to learn how to live with less money.

Perhaps then he'd have the freedom he longed for. Perhaps start a family—in a few years. He wanted to enjoy his time with her alone. But the thought of a daughter with her gray eyes made him smile.

Going to London meant parting company with Sarah for several weeks. A heavy weight settled in his chest. He'd been so used to being alone for so long, but now that she'd come into his life, he couldn't conceive of waking up without her beside him. Without her wit and sly smiles across from him at the table. Without her hand sliding into his when they walked. Letters home would have to suffice in her absence, but it was a paltry
substitute. He'd need to wrap up his business in the city as soon as possible. Weeks without her seemed barren as a wasteland blasted by cold, desolate wind, lacking the sun.

Breaking the news to her was not a prospect he relished. He'd have to come up with some rationale—he couldn't tell her the true purpose of his errand, and the thought of lying to her, even as a means of protection, stuck hard in his throat.

After checking the parlor and finding it empty, he ventured toward Sarah's little study—she was there nearly half the day, so the odds were in his favor.

After tapping on the closed door, he heard the shuffle of papers, and then her call to bid him enter. He went inside.

Sarah sat at her desk, locking the top drawer. She glanced up with a bright smile at his entrance, and he returned the smile.

He crossed the small chamber and kissed his wife. “More of your wisdom dispensed to the women of my parish,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

“I'm a paltry substitute for the vicar.” She leaned into his touch, her eyes drifting shut.

“They can talk to you about things they'd never dare ask me,” he replied. “They can trust you. You'll have to serve as their only source of counsel for a little while, I'm afraid.”

She pulled back, frowning. “Leaving me so soon?”

“Only for a few weeks,” he said quickly. “My father calls me to London.”

“And you must go.”

“Have you met my father?”

Her mouth turned wry. “The stern man with a backbone of forged iron. But what does he want of you?”

Unease twisted in Jeremy's stomach. It had not been easy to prevaricate when he and Sarah had merely been friends, and now the pain of it was sharp and unrelenting.

“A matter of responsibility” was all he could manage. A more elaborate ruse refused to form in his mouth.

Sarah stood. “I'll come with you.”

Panic sprang to life. How could he conceal his activities with her so close by? “It will be exceedingly dull. Not much time for parties.”

“Parties have never been a particular delight of mine,” she said drily. “I'll visit with my mother—or try to.” Her look darkened, but she visibly shook it off. “I can go to the bookseller. I have an unusual capacity for entertaining myself.” Another frown creased her brow. “Unless . . . you don't want me to accompany you.”

It would be easy to find some excuse. The running of the vicarage while he was away. The tending of the sick and poor, which she'd taken on so admirably. Some vicars held multiple parishes and were often away—but Jeremy held just the one, and had been gone for too long. It would be a show of good faith to have his wife remain in residence while Mr. Wolbert took over spiritual duties.

But as he looked at Sarah, his chest clenched at the thought of being apart from her. Even an absence of a few weeks was too long. He wanted to bind her to him in every way, as he was bound to her. Going to London might cause some kind of change or rupture. Or were his concerns unfounded?

“I'd be honored if you would come with me,” he heard himself say.

Because he was a lesser man when she wasn't at his side. It would take some maneuvering to keep his task secret, but he'd rather undergo a few factual contortions than face a day—or night—without her.

Her smile was wide and brilliant. She stepped into his arms and kissed him, long and deep. “I make for a very pleasant traveling companion,” she said, finally surfacing.

“I'd rather we didn't have to go anywhere at all,” he grumbled.

“But if we must travel,” she said, “isn't it better that we do it together?”

“Everything is better with you and I together,” he answered.

She grinned. “Oh, heavens, have we become one of those nauseatingly happy couples?”

“Afraid so.”

“You don't sound the least bit regretful.”

He pulled her close. “My lady wife, I think it's time we repair to the bedroom so I can show you how little I regret our current happiness.”

Her mouth curved. “Why go so far as the bedroom?” She put her lips to his ear. “Lock the door.”

Jeremy didn't hesitate.

After locking the door, he returned to Sarah and gathered her against him, determined to chase away his fears with shared pleasure.