Temptations of a Wallflower (6 page)

Who was she? Why did she want to protect herself so badly? Idle curiosity shifted, became stronger.

How long had it been since he'd been truly challenged, since his mind had been fully engaged in a pursuit, something beyond his constraining parish duties?

Too long.

“Afraid I can't be much more help to you, Mr. Cleland,” Stalham continued. “But, as I said, even if I knew who the Lady was, I wouldn't tell even you, a man of God. The sales of her books help put my chil
dren through school and keep my wife in new gowns, so I'd be a blasted fool to give up my golden goose.”

A knot of regret formed in Jeremy's stomach. He didn't want to keep Stalham's children from their education, and if finding out the Lady's secret meant the end of that, Jeremy wasn't certain how he could shoulder the guilt. But his father and uncle relied on him to see this task through. He couldn't let them down—because the earl would never permit it. And Jeremy had to consider the good he could accomplish if, given the freedom of more money, he could establish his own charitable organizations. Perhaps he'd assist the widows of men killed in the war, or help returning veterans find employment. Surely that had to outweigh the benefit of a few prurient books.

“Thank you for your time,” Jeremy said, rising. He shook Stalham's hand. “Yet you ought to consider publishing something a little more . . . wholesome. It might help out when it comes time for a tallying of accounts.” He looked heavenward.

Stalham laughed. “Oh, I'm too far gone for that, Mr. Cleland, but I thank you for your concern. Include me in your prayers.”

“I will,” Jeremy promised. Given how many inveterate sinners he met here in London, it would take him a full two hours to get through his evening prayers. He prayed for himself, most of all, a man too much on the edge of dissolution. His encounter with Lady Sarah had him kneeling at his bedside for a long, long time the previous evening as he'd tried to stop thoughts of her from filling his mind.

Jeremy exited Stalham's office, then made his way
back through the main room full of desks, where writers and clerks watched him with more curiosity. He smiled and nodded as he went, then emerged onto the street. Setting his hat back on his head, he glanced up at the sky. It was hazy and stained with coal smoke, with a faint sun struggling to pierce the urban gloom.

He'd hit a temporary obstacle, but he would prevail. In that, he was determined.

“It would take a great deal of convincing to prove to me that you weren't a lady,” the highwayman said.

“Then step inside my carriage, sir,” I replied, tracing my fingers along the neckline of my bodice, where my breasts strained against the silk, “and I shall show you.”

The Highwayman's Seduction

T
he smell of butter and vanilla perfumed the air, and the atmosphere was alive with the chatter of dozens of happy women—and a handful of men. The cakes themselves were works of art, elegantly frosted with flowers and curlicues, geometric shapes and elaborate fantasias constructed entirely from sugar. In the window was a tiny pastoral scene completely fashioned in sugar, and on a table was a reproduction of Vauxhall, everything edible.

It was impossible for Sarah to go to Catton's renowned bakery and sweet shop and not have her imagination stirred. The owner and head baker was a woman, and Sarah couldn't help but feel a certain kin
ship with any female who dared make her way in a male-dominated field.

Sarah sat at a little table with her mother, an array of cakes and tea spread before them like a jewel box laid open. Picking up one small frosted delicacy, Sarah admired its intricate piping.

“It's almost too beautiful to eat,” she murmured.

“Nothing is too beautiful to eat,” the duchess answered. She bit into her cake, and Sarah did the same.

Though it was sweet, it didn't overwhelm her with cloying flavor. Rather, the orange sponge cake slowly evolved with sensory detail, evoking Mediterranean skies, sun-filled courtyards, and the strum of a guitar as ladies drifted in and out of dusky shadows.

“We should have gone to Gunter's,” her mother said, surveying the bustling shop. “It's much more fashionable.”

Sarah glanced around. Catton's could barely contain all of its customers. A queue formed out the door, and footmen bustled in and out with the shop's signature pale blue boxes tied with brown satin ribbon.

“Catton's is on the verge of stripping Gunter's of its title as London's most popular sweet shop,” Sarah pointed out. “Isn't it better to be on the leading edge of fashion, rather than one of its followers?”

“I suppose so,” her mother sniffed. She took a bite of her lemon cake and couldn't disguise her look of pleasure. “Well, the food's superior here, at any rate.”

“Which reflects well on your taste,” Sarah added.

“Oh, enough,” the duchess said with a smile. “I know when I'm being patronized. And by my own daughter.”

“We're nothing if not familiar with each other's little
tricks.” Sarah also smiled. Irritating though her mother might be, there were times they actually enjoyed each other's company, like two shipwreck survivors finding a moment's amusement in between trying to cannibalize each other.

Sarah gazed at the cakes displayed so magnificently along one wall of the shop. There were cakes of every sort—everything anyone could ever want in an alchemy of butter, flour, sugar, and eggs. Little placards described the filling and icing of each one. Orange and lemon, of course, as well as nuts, seeds, dried fruits. A flavor to suit every personality.

If I were a cake, what kind of cake would I be?

Something with a pale, fluffy icing. Hiding a rich, dark interior. Secretly decadent beneath an inoffensive exterior.

And what of her mother? Fruitcake—rich and sweet, sometimes a little too much to take. She'd have an elaborate icing, though, given Lady Wakefield's taste for extravagant hats.

Sarah's glance fell on a couple enjoying a fruit ice together while the woman's maid sat nearby. A courting couple, still excited by the blush of newness. What must that be like? To look forward to seeing someone, to have each moment alight with anticipation and pleasure?

Sarah hadn't seen Mr. Cleland in four days, though she had attended several social gatherings around Town. Each time she had hoped to run into him, but disappointment had inevitably followed. She shouldn't expect a vicar to attend assemblies and tea parties—though he was an earl's son, and he might have had
entree to these events. But he hadn't been at any of them. She'd scanned the corners of rooms and chambers' alcoves. All to no avail.

Instead, she would spend her time against the wall, alone save for her mother's company, like always.

It was strange . . . this urge for something besides her writing. This need for more. More of
him
.

If Mr. Cleland were a cake, what sort would he be?

No, he wasn't a cake at all. He'd be something savory and complex. Like a stew, full of many ingredients. Seemingly simple, but capable of complicated, intricate flavor. Something that seduced without trying, all through its own earthiness.

“What are you smiling about?” the duchess asked, breaking Sarah's musings.

“Food,” she answered.

“What about it?”

“It's about more than sustenance,” Sarah said. “If we only wanted nourishment, we wouldn't have invented so many kinds of food. Like bread, for example. We have dozens and dozens of types, each of them with different flavors, different textures. Clearly, we want more out of our food than just nutrition. We want pleasure and experience.”

Her mother stared at her for a moment, a curious, puzzled look on her face. Then, after a pause, she said, “Too many books, too much time at your desk. It's created a maze in your brain from which you cannot escape.”

Despite the duchess's words, Sarah's fingers itched again with the need to get back to her quill. What if she wrote a story about a baker, a shop owner, who
seduced her patrons through her food? All the emotions the baker felt would be translated into the food she prepared, and one need only sample a bite before being overcome with melancholy, or joy, or lust. There would be scenes where lovers fed each other, or else ate off each other's bodies in a delicious bounty of sugar and flesh. It would be very sticky, but that would be part of the pleasure.

Or perhaps, in her exploits, Lady Josephina could take a baker as a lover. The idea held potential.

“Woolgathering again.” The duchess sighed, but not entirely with despondency. “My little dreamer.”

“Lady Wakefield! Lady Sarah!” A woman's voice rose above the chatter of the shop.

Looking up, Sarah saw three people approach them—two well-dressed ladies and an equally resplendent dandy. She recognized them as members of the fashionable set, approximately her age but seldom inclined to give her much notice, unless it was to subtly tease her with wit as dry and flavorless as old, stale pastries. She never teased back. It was difficult to fight a sigh at seeing them. The afternoon had been largely an enjoyable one.

“Why, Lady Donleigh, Lord Lynde, Miss Green.” Sarah's mother gave a polite smile and nod in greeting as the newcomers bowed and curtsied. “A pleasure.”

“You crave something sweet?” Lady Donleigh asked, eyeing the assortment of cakes in front of them.

“Yes, well, I find Gunter's to be a bit
de trop,
” Lady Wakefield answered. “The tastes here at Catton's are much more forward thinking, wouldn't you say?”

“Of course,” all three agreed at once.

Sarah smiled into her napkin. If these three were cakes, they would be inconsequential fairy cakes, prettily iced but tasting of nothing.

After exchanging pleasantries about the nature of everyone's health, Lord Lynde said, “It's actually quite fortunate that we ran into you here. In two days' time, we plan on attending an exhibit of Oriental art. A private collection on Mount Street that's lately been open for viewing.”

“Fascinating,” said the duchess, though it was clear she found the notion anything but. To Sarah, however, the idea seemed quite intriguing. She'd read quite a bit about the Orient, especially writings about the secret sexual practices performed by certain individuals. She would have liked one of her characters to be educated in these erotic arts, but her knowledge had been limited by the scope of her reading materials. An exhibition of Asiatic objects and paintings would add more fuel to her creative fire.

“Might Lady Sarah accompany us?” Miss Green asked—though she directed the question to Lady Wakefield and not Sarah herself, as though asking if a dog might come out and play in the park.

Sarah didn't expect the invitation to be directed at
her
. Certainly not from these people, who seemed to enjoy carefully, delicately tormenting her.

“It might prove . . .” Lord Lynde coughed to cover a snicker. “. . . educational.”

The other two women giggled.

Sarah didn't like this at all. Much as she wanted to see the Oriental art, something seemed awry. The invitation. The snide laughter. It didn't add up to anything she had an urge to be involved with.

Yet before she could politely decline, her mother spoke.

“Of course Sarah would be delighted to join you!” the duchess exclaimed, beaming.

“Mother, I don't think—”

“Perhaps this could be a way out of that cerebral maze of yours,” her mother whispered under her breath.

Sarah answered in a low voice, “Yes, but I don't think they really expect me to go with them to the exhibit.”

“They wouldn't offer if they didn't want you to accompany them,” the duchess said primly. “Now be a dear and say yes.”

The iron in her mother's tone said that there would be no refusing the invitation.

“I would be . . . overjoyed,” Sarah finally said to the expectant trio.

“Excellent!” Lady Donleigh clapped her hands. “I'll send the address to you, and we'll all meet there on Thursday.”

“Sarah cannot wait,” her mother said.

With a few more exchanges of polite nothingness, Lady Donleigh, Lord Lynde, and Miss Green took their leave.

“Now I know how conscripted soldiers feel,” Sarah muttered once she and her mother were alone.

“Nonsense,” Lady Wakefield said crisply. “It will be an enjoyable afternoon. Get you out of the house and, most importantly, out of your daydreams.”

Sarah preferred it in her daydreams. Those dreams fed her purse. They inspired and impelled her. They were lurid and lascivious and wonderful. The world bent to her will in her imagination.

And there, she could keep company with people she wanted to be with . . . such as the alluring Mr. Cleland.

T
he idea occurred to her later that afternoon. Why
shouldn't
she spend time with someone who actually interested her? If she was going to be dragged along as an object of amusement for the fashionable threesome, oughtn't she find a way to make the experience a little more endurable, more enjoyable? Her characters lived far outside the realms of conventional behavior. In fact, she had written a scene where her amorous washerwoman visited a dockside tavern all on her own—and found two randy sailors to play with. Lady Josephina also didn't care about what Society thought, taking lovers from both high and low ranks.

What if Sarah also disregarded Society's rules, just this once? Could her real life and her dream life blur together, for one afternoon?

Her plan wasn't at all respectable. It was, in truth, a little fast, a little racy. Her heart sped up at the mere thought. Yet she was willing to chance a tiny bit of scandal for herself. It was nothing compared to the scandal of her identity being revealed, after all.

So she went to her desk, sat down, and wrote. Once it was finished, she reread it, grimacing.

Such a dull, prosaic piece of writing. She was constrained by politeness, unable to tell Mr. Cleland about imagining everyone as food. Certainly, she couldn't tell him about the idea she had for a sensuous, magical baker. The alchemy of the kitchen.

All these notions, she longed to tell him. But it was impossible. They didn't know each other that well.
Even if they did, an unmarried woman never spoke of such things to a single man.

God—what if she sent him one of her manuscript pages instead, such as the scene when Lady Josephina amused herself with the stable master? Mr. Cleland's servants might rush in to find him having an attack of apoplexy on the floor of his drawing room, the paper clutched in his hand.

But no, she was certain she was sending him the right letter.

After reviewing the missive once more for spelling errors, she sanded it, then folded it up. Sarah sealed the letter and handed it to a footman.

“Shall I await a reply?” asked the servant.

She considered it. It might be impertinent of her to send the invitation, but it would be even more so if she expected an immediate response. “Not unless he asks.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The footman bowed and left. Sarah sat and fretted. Would Mr. Cleland reject her bold invitation? How might he react? With shock, repulsion or . . . excitement? There had been a shared heat between them at Lord Allam's garden party. Or perhaps she'd only imagined it. Perhaps all she'd experienced had been his politeness, or the courtesy he showed everyone. Yet by writing this letter and overstepping her bounds, it was possible she'd ensured that Mr. Cleland wouldn't want anything to do with her.

Would he send a reply right away? He was a vicar. Certainly he would be prompt in his correspondence, unless he wasn't home and something else claimed his attention. In that case, she'd likely have to wait.

She paced the length of her sitting room. Writing could distract her. Lady Josephina had tired of her footman, as well as the stable master, and was seeking diversion elsewhere. Who might she encounter next? Perhaps a change of scenery from London . . .

The words were eager to leap off Sarah's quill, but she couldn't find the necessary place in her mind to concentrate. Strange. Writing had always proven a comfort to her, a ready source of solace. Not now. Words tumbled over themselves, refusing to be sorted out.