Temptations of a Wallflower (4 page)

Lord Allam took the vicar around, introducing him to various guests. Sarah watched the newcomer closely, seeing how he seemed to give everyone particular
regard, as if each person with whom he spoke had been the most engaging and interesting one he'd ever met. His smile was luminous, filling his face. No wonder this man was in the Church.

At last Lord Allam reached the collection of chairs where Sarah and the matrons sat. The women continued to sit as the vicar bowed.

“Ladies,” said Lord Allam, “may I present to you my nephew, Mr. Jeremy Cleland.”

Learning their names, Mr. Cleland bent over the women's hands one by one. At last he reached Sarah.

“Lady Sarah Frampton,” Lord Allam said. “My nephew.”

Sarah extended her hand. Mr. Cleland took it.

He wore no gloves, and though she wore hers, she was engulfed in warmth the moment his fingers clasped hers. A current pinged through her body, hot as summer.

They both went still. His eyes widened, as if he, too, felt that sudden spark, that unexpected heat. Mr. Cleland seemed frozen with shock. As though the truth of himself surprised even him.

Perhaps everything she'd imagined for him, all that sensual potential, hadn't been entirely her imagination. Maybe it was real and alive within him.

She cleared her throat, struggling to regain her balance. “Where is your parish, Mr. Cleland?”

“Rosemead, Lady Sarah, in Devonshire.” He had a velvet voice, low in register, that stroked along her neck and up her calves.

“You must consider London a dreadful pandemonium after the pleasures of the country.”

“I find the greatest collection of demons to be here,”
he said with a smile, tapping the center of his chest with his free hand.

“How very true.”

He still grasped her hand in his. They realized it at the same time. She and Mr. Cleland broke apart like the severing of a silk cord.

The women nearby looked from Sarah to Mr. Cleland, and back again, clearly intrigued. As if they, too, finally saw what Sarah had known all along. This man was much more than his simple black clothing. It merely hid the fires that blazed within him.

“If you'll excuse me,” Lord Allam said, “I must see to my other guests.”

Once he had gone, Sarah was left with Mr. Cleland. They regarded one another with curiosity, each trying to gauge the other after their strange, brief moment. There seemed no accounting for it. They had just met.

Maybe he saw what she recognized. Perhaps the heat that smoldered within each of them called out to the other, like to like.

If she hadn't been trapped by propriety, she would have asked him what it was that he sought. What drove him, pushed him. A faint tension rose up in him, as if he, as well, struggled with something internally—a decision to be made, a desire suppressed.

Mr. Cleland leaned down. “Would you care to stroll in the garden with me, Lady Sarah?”

“It would be my pleasure.” She never accepted such offers, but the response leapt from her mouth before she could think twice.

He offered her his arm.

To her shock, she stood and took it.

My heart pounded and I could scarce catch my breath. I pressed a hand to my chest, waiting in an agony of terror as I heard the jingle of the highwayman's spurs as he approached my carriage. I felt the sword of Damocles hanging perilously above my head. What would he do to me?

The door to my carriage opened suddenly. A man with a cloth covering the lower half of his face stood there, a pistol in his hand. But his hazel eyes widened when he beheld me. His free hand slowly came up and tugged down his disguise—revealing an exceptionally handsome face. He had a sensualist's mouth and coin-clean features. His raven-dark hair was pulled back into a queue. Indeed, I'd never beheld a man so attractive. My fear began to dissolve . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

T
all as Sarah was, Mr. Cleland stood taller by half a head. It was oddly comforting to find herself finally looking up into a man's eyes, rather than down at his
hairline—though she mostly enjoyed not having to stare up at anyone. Even so, it felt strangely nice to for once be smaller than, to be worth protecting and shielding.

Not that Mr. Cleland would defend her against an attack by a band of brigands. Bandits and buccaneers were in short supply in Mayfair, for one, and she doubted that a vicar knew much by way of sword fighting or fisticuffs. But there went her writer's imagination again, inventing things that could never—would never—happen.

Still, as they walked sedately together down one of the garden paths, she could sense in him a kind of barely restrained physicality. He certainly didn't move like a soft scholar. Rather, he had a lean grace, muscular and economical. His arm beneath her hand was delightfully solid and firm. Thinking of it, the clerical black clothing he wore rather suited him, hinting not at moral reserve but at a sort of secret danger.

“What brings you to London, Mr. Cleland?” she asked, breaking the silence.

He hesitated, then said, “Visiting family.”

Interesting, that pause. As though he had another agenda. But vicars were supposed to be upright and honest, the epitome of truthfulness. He had no reason to evade her question. She was likely just spinning tales once more, seeing things that weren't truly there.

She started to speak, then stopped. Why did she hold herself back? He was a vicar. She could be herself with him. He had nothing to gain by their acquaintance, nor she with his. All artifice could be, in essence, lost, and nothing would suffer for it. What was the point of
empty politeness? It served no purpose other than to fill time with shallow words and hollow gestures.

Liberated from her hesitancy, the words flowed freely.

“An interesting choice for a younger son,” she said. “The Church.”

His brows rose at her frankness, but he didn't look affronted. Instead, he seemed intrigued. “My brother is a barrister, but there's too much arguing in the law.”

“Don't care for conflict, then,” she noted.

“Not for its own sake, no.” He appeared thoughtful. “There are clerical disputations, but they exist to make people's lives better. The law seems engineered to be as complex and difficult as possible. It supports itself. It couldn't exist unless it wanted to muddle everything.”

She matched his pace down the path, but she didn't pay attention to the flowers and statues around them. “Then one could fashion change from within, if one so desired it.”

“I'm but one man,” he pointed out. “It would take much more than I could possibly effect to dismantle hundreds of years of tradition.”

“The tradition of muddling,” she said with a smile.

“The very one.” He smiled back at her, engulfing her in warmth. Gracious, did the man have a lovely smile.

“What of soldiering?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Much as I like the idea of defending my country,” he said, “I have no desire to order men around. Especially if that means commanding them to face their own deaths.” He glanced at her. “Forgive me. That was . . . indelicate.”

She waved her hand. “No reason to apologize. In all
honesty,” she confessed, taking up more of the spirit of candor, “I appreciate you not shielding me from such matters. Most men think women cannot manage to hear anything that might suggest unpleasant—even ugly—truths.”

“It's my experience that women are far stronger than men,” Mr. Cleland said, guiding them around a dry fountain.

She contemplated this. “How so?”

“They shoulder the burdens of life and death much more gracefully than men.”

What a surprise to hear anyone, especially a male, say such a thing. No one had ever voiced such an opinion to her before. “I imagine that, as a vicar, you must see a lot of the harsher sides of the world.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Sickness and, yes, death. But I also see its beauty. Marriages and births.”

“This must all seem frivolous to you.” She glanced back toward where the party continued, a riot of bright colors and empty conversation.

“On the contrary. Darkness and light exist side by side. We can't have one without the other.”

She laughed. “My goodness, you sounded very vicar-like just then.”

He grinned in response. “I did, didn't I? Can you write a letter to my archbishop and let him know?”

“
‘Mr. Jeremy Cleland conducted himself with the utmost vicarish behavior in the midst of a godless garden party.'
”

“Beautifully phrased, Lady Sarah.”

She couldn't stop her own grin. “I have some skill
with a quill.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to grab them back and secret them under a rock. She couldn't very well
brag
about her writing. Ladies didn't boast, and certainly not about the erotic novels they penned.

“You write?” he asked.

“A little,” she murmured. “Trifles.” It galled her a little to have to hide what she labored so hard over, but circumstance necessitated false modesty. “Nursery rhymes for my nieces and nephews.” Which wasn't entirely untrue. She had written a few little bits of childish doggerel for the amusement of her elder brothers' children.

Still, she waited for Mr. Cleland to say something about women knowing their place, or how it wasn't proper for ladies to engage in intellectual pursuits.

Instead, he only nodded. “An enviable skill. I have to write a sermon every Sunday, and it's like swimming the Atlantic every time. Cold at first, then exhausting after a while.”

No lecture? No sidelong look of censure?

What an interesting man.

“Yet you make the swim every week,” she pointed out.

“So I do,” he agreed amiably. “You'd think I'd have developed some muscles after all that exercise, but I feel like I flounder every time.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” She felt the strength of his body. He had to provide his congregation with spiritual comfort and guidance. Just a few words with him and she knew. Sharp mind, honed wit and intellect. And there was that extraordinary face of his, so
full of beauty and sensuality all at once. How had the women sitting with her earlier not seen it? Surely others had to.

Together, they fell into a companionable quiet, making their way slowly up and down the paths. Sarah glanced toward the hedge maze, her imagination spinning. Wouldn't it be delicious to steal a kiss from Mr. Cleland? He did have a lovely mouth and was handsome as . . . well, as sin. Talking with him held its share of pleasures. He didn't act like other men, trying to curry her favor. Nor was he dismissive. He listened to her, treated her as though she had worthwhile opinions.

For the first time in . . . she couldn't remember when . . . she enjoyed conversing with a man. Exhilaration moved through her. As though she was waking up from a long sleep, to blink happily in the sun.

“Do you enjoy reading, Lady Sarah?” he asked.

“Very much,” she answered. “Sentimental novels are my favorite, though I'm not supposed to say so.”

“Why not?” he wondered with genuine surprise.

“Because they aren't edifying or educational. Because they teach me to expect things out of life that aren't really possible.”

He made a scoffing sound. “Rubbish. Not the books, but those opinions. There's nothing wrong with a little escape. And there's certainly nothing at fault with teaching someone how to hope for a better life.”

“So you aren't going to press me with some spiritual texts? Things that teach me the value of patience and humility?”

He laughed, and the sound was like brandy, rich and full. “Saints preserve me from moralizing literature.
While I do read my Bible every day, I find myself particularly fond of the novel
Waverley
and the poems of Blake.”

“The battle scenes in
Waverley,
” she said, excitement rising at mention of the book. “I swore I heard the gunfire and smelled the blood and powder.”

“Have you read
Guy Mannering,
by the same author?” he pressed with equal excitement.

“I even saw it performed as a play at Covent Garden earlier this year,” she exclaimed.

He looked blissful. “That must have been wonderful.”

“
‘Wonderful' is a paltry word compared to the experience.”

“How I envy you,” he said, a touch of wistfulness in his voice.

Now it was her turn to laugh. “I'm hardly enviable, Mr. Cleland.”

His expression shifted to thoughtfulness. “I wonder why you might say that.”

“I have . . . everything a woman could want,” she acknowledged.

“Such as?”

“Wealth, position. If there's a material thing that I desire, I simply have to ask, and it's mine.” She shook her head. “And I'm grateful for these things. I truly am. And yet . . .”

“And yet . . . ?” he prompted gently.

“It comes at a high price,” she admitted.

“What is that price?”

She considered this. Never before had she spoken so openly to anyone. Not her friends or her family. But here, now, to be with this man, and to consider the
foundations of her life, was both odd and deeply right. At last, she said, “Freedom.”

He contemplated her perceptively. “Must be very restricting,” he murmured. “The responsibilities of your position in Society. Not to mention the fact that you're a woman.” He blushed a little at that word.

It was a charming—but also gently erotic—blush. Her own cheeks warmed.

He continued, “You haven't the liberty that a man in your place might have.”

“Indeed, no.” She gave a small, strained laugh. “You must think me dreadful to take issue with my admittedly fortunate circumstance.”

He fell briefly silent. “I know a little about having one's role be predetermined.” They stopped walking, and she gazed up at him. Cool sunlight carved hollows in his cheeks and gilded his eyelashes. “Being a vicar means I must be a model to everyone in my parish. I have to be more pious, more humble, more self-sacrificing. I have to be better at everything while also being deferential. I certainly cannot admit to being an ordinary human man.”

Their gazes held at that word,
man.
Awareness of him sizzled. His height, his physicality. That suppressed desire. Her own body warmed in response.

She tilted her head to one side, imagining what it had to be like to live such a restrained life. “Sounds exhausting.”

“Not unlike being a duke's daughter, I imagine.” He smiled at her, and that lush warmth continued to gather through her.

“I never would have thought I'd have much in common with a vicar,” she said with a laugh.

“Nor I with you,” he answered, his smile softening. “But here we are, in this garden.”

“So we are.” Strange how the world worked, that she would discover a man such as him on a day that had started out so perfectly ordinary. It was almost . . . miraculous. Did miracles happen? She went to church as a matter of form, not faith, though the ritual gave her comfort. Still, it was a revelation to learn that men of God were mortal, just like everyone else, with the same needs and frustrations anybody might experience.

She ought to have imagined as such. In her mind, she often imbued people with hidden motivations and secrets. He was no exception.

“And does your . . . wife . . . feel as you do?” She inwardly grimaced at her lack of tact, but she needed to know whether or not he had someone in whom he could confide. It seemed a shame, a right shame, that he should be alone in this world.

“No wife, I'm afraid,” he said with a self-deprecating grin.

A strange relief shot through her. She reasoned that it was because it wouldn't do to flirt with a married man. “Stick around the London Season long enough,” she replied. “An earl's son, with a living? You'll make someone a fine catch.”

“I'm just a humble country vicar,” he answered. “Hardly the stuff of a doting mama's dream for her daughter.”

“You might be surprised.” Without a doubt, she and Mr. Cleland could never be a match. Even if she wanted to marry, he stood too far beneath her to warrant any possibility of courtship. Duke's daughters and vicars—
though they might be sons of earls—made for an improbable, mismatched pairing.

A vicar could never be married to a woman who wrote anonymous erotic novels, either. The very idea was ruinous.

But damn and all the other curse words she wasn't allowed to use—she
liked
Mr. Cleland. The way his mind worked, how he spoke to her like a person of equal intelligence, the sensual quality within him. It wasn't all her writer's fancy. Something burned in him, and it lured her closer, closer, drawn toward the mysteries of this man. Even Lady Josephina wouldn't find someone half as interesting in her adventures.

And . . . he was exceptionally attractive. In a way she'd never experienced with another man before. She'd met handsome gentlemen in the past, but Mr. Cleland lit a spark within her, low and hot.