Temptations of a Wallflower (7 page)

Heavens, but she hoped this was a temporary condition. It had to be. Otherwise . . . No, she wouldn't contemplate it. A writer unable to find comfort in words was a dreadful creature.

The words could wait just a little while. At least until the footman returned. They'd find their way back to her. That, she had to believe.

Finally she heard a careful, measured tread on the floor outside. She twisted her fingers together, wondering. Had Mr. Cleland answered? Would she have to wait for his response?

There was a knock at the door, and Sarah bid whoever was outside to enter. The door opened, and the footman appeared.

Sarah tried to school her features to look as impassive as possible. “Yes?”

“For you, Lady Sarah.” He held out a small letter that bore no seal. After handing it to her, the footman bowed and retreated out the door.

Alone, she examined the missive. Her name was written in a surprisingly bold hand across the front. She'd
expected him to write in thin, spidery letters, or with very careful, deliberate penmanship. But here again, Mr. Cleland proved he was far more than his sober exterior would indicate. She pictured him at his desk with a quill in hand, hesitating slightly over his words, but with an overall sense of purpose.

Oh, but she was delaying. She did and did not want to see his answer. She'd survive, surely, if he said no. Wouldn't she? The disappointment would be sharp and cutting—or so she imagined. She hadn't wanted anything this badly in a long, long while. Would she be able to endure it should he reject her? She prayed so, but the whole experience was new and not entirely pleasant.

Best to get it over with. She opened the letter.

Lady Sarah,

I would be most honored to accept your invitation. In truth, I've done little but think of our conversation at my uncle's house, and was most pleased to have received your correspondence. Do send me the details, and I will eagerly await you.

I remain,

Yours, &c.

Jeremy Cleland

Happiness rose up within her, bright as morning. It was a fresh, unfamiliar feeling—one she'd only known
in connection with her writing. But now the emotion soared up, unfettered. Should she feel this way? Relieved and joyful? And all for such a simple exchange of words.

Jeremy. Jeremy. She liked the sound of his name, and even whispered it to herself. Yes, it suited him well. If only she could call him by his Christian name rather than the more formal “Mr. Cleland.” She wished he might call her by her own name without the honorific “Lady” in front of it—yet that was too forward and intimate for people who had met but once. If she was a character in one of her books, she would be bold and call him by his first name. She'd insist that he do the same with her. Bringing an intimacy between them.

Yet she wasn't one of her characters. She wasn't Lady Josephina. This was reality.

Still, she held his first name close to herself, like a secret.

He would accompany her to the exhibit. Perhaps the fashionable trio might object to him being there. And yet . . . what did it truly matter what they thought? What value was their opinion? Perhaps she could learn from her own books and be daring. She could go after something she wanted. She'd pursued her writing career, after all. Now she could be bold in another part of her life.

Having Jeremy at the exhibition was for herself alone. Where once she might have dreaded the day, now she looked forward to it with the excitement normally reserved for working on a new story. Now, if only for a few hours, she might be the heroine of her own tale.

At once the highwayman obeyed, climbing eagerly into the carriage and shutting the door behind him. The space within the vehicle was quite small, but it didn't matter, as soon the stranger and I were in each other's arms, caressing one another everywhere. He was strong and solid as an oak, and the instrument in his breeches was just as thick. Never were two people so frenzied, so eager for touch as we were that night. I wasted no time in reaching for his instrument of passion, taking it in my hands and . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

J
eremy had awakened that morning in a fever of impatience. The afternoon couldn't come quickly enough. And now here he was, only five minutes away from seeing her again. He thought his heart might puncture a hole in his chest from beating so fiercely. All the other young women he'd met had seemed so pallid by comparison. Never speaking their minds. Without that blaze of intelligence or curiosity. Deprived of hidden sensuality.

He stood outside an elegant town home on Mount Street, while her letter continued to reside snugly in his pocket. He'd read and reread it a dozen times between receiving it and today. The words never changed, and he'd memorized them. It didn't stop him from touching the paper she had touched, trying to find hidden meanings in the loops in her penmanship, some secret message disguised in an admittedly restrained, almost dry, letter.

The missive hadn't seemed much like her. Much more contained, less expressive than he would have anticipated from the woman who had spoken with such candor, moved with such unconscious sensuality. Whatever the letter did or didn't reveal, he'd been pleased to receive it. His father had even remarked on Jeremy's high mood after the correspondence.

“Got a grin on you, my lad,” the earl had said sternly at breakfast that morning. “Isn't seemly in a man of God.”

“Sorry, Father.” Jeremy had tried to hide his good spirits after that, though it hadn't been easy. Jeremy knew all about wearing a professional demeanor like clerical robes. Though he was in London, away from his parish, he had to remember he couldn't be entirely himself in the city. Not around his father, anyway.

Why was he so excited? It wasn't as though his association with Lady Sarah could lead to actually courting her. Yet he couldn't make himself see reason.

As he continued to wait, three extremely well-dressed people approached the town house. Two women and one man, all of whom could have stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. They seemed well aware
of their magnificence as they posed and preened in the pale sunlight.

“My goodness,” one of the women, a blonde, whispered loudly to her companions. “A vicar.
Here.
”

“He's just a priest,” the brunette woman answered, not bothering to lower her voice. “Not a panther.”

“But what is he doing
here
?” the blonde pressed. “There isn't a church for a quarter of a mile.”

“Maybe he's looking for souls to save,” the man drawled. “Yours is stained enough, Lady Donleigh.”

“Hush, you beast!”

Jeremy pointedly didn't look at the three people as they spoke. Apparently, they thought being a man of God meant he was deaf, like a young man gone old before his time. Either that, or they simply didn't care that he could hear them talking about him so blatantly. Neither option particularly appealed to him.

“I say, Vicar,” the man said, approaching, “are you lost?”

Jeremy turned and saw that the man was not only well dressed but handsome, as well. “Thank you for your concern,” he answered. “I'm waiting for a friend.”

At least he thought he might be a friend to Lady Sarah. He wasn't really certain, since they had only shared a few moments in a sunlit garden.

Yet he did know her. Understood her a little. A young woman with a hidden vein of sensuality, constrained by her role in Society.

“A friend?” the man repeated, as though vicars couldn't possibly have friends.

Just as he spoke, a very elegant carriage with a liveried footman perched on the back and a crest upon the
door pulled up alongside them. The footman jumped down from his roost and opened the carriage door. He reached in and took a woman's hand to help her get down from the vehicle.

Lady Sarah. She wore a pale green muslin paired with a darker green spencer, with matching ribbons on her bonnet. The color made her glow with soft vitality, her lips rosy pink, her eyes alight. Having escaped its pins, a curl of pale brown hair trailed down her neck. Jeremy caught a glimpse of embroidered clover on the ankle of her stocking and had to force himself to look away from that enticing curve.

She looked delicious. And he was headed straight for hell, the way he wondered about her long legs encased in silk stockings, and whether or not her garters were green, to match the ribbons on her bonnet.

“Am I late?” she asked.

Jeremy checked his pocket watch. “It's just two minutes past two o'clock.”

She beamed, and her smile warmed him. “Excellent. I should hate to think I kept you waiting for long.”

The dandy had been watching this exchange with a puzzled frown. “There's a connection here?”

“Lord Lynde,” Lady Sarah said to the man, “may I present Mr. Jeremy Cleland.”

The two bowed at each other, falling back on politeness. Lady Sarah introduced the blonde as Lady Donleigh, and the brunette as Miss Green. Everyone bowed and curtsied, which seemed rather ridiculous, given the way they had been talking about Jeremy moments earlier. Now, suddenly, he seemed to possess significance.

“I hope you don't mind,” Lady Sarah said to the
threesome. “I invited Mr. Cleland to join us today. It
is
a cultural activity,” she offered by way of explanation.

For some reason, the elegant trio looked a little mystified, glancing back and forth between them. Lord Lynde spread his hands in a
Now what?
signal. Lady Donleigh, the elder of the three, shrugged. They gathered close for a minute, whispering.

Jeremy looked at Lady Sarah. She looked puzzled by the behavior of her friends. Though they both gazed at each other in bewilderment, he liked looking into her eyes and sharing even this moment of connection.

Finally, Lady Donleigh said, “It sounds like a capital idea.” She fought a giggle as she said this.

“Yes,” agreed Miss Green, snickering. “Capital.”

Something was clearly going on here. What? He wanted to take Lady Sarah somewhere else, somewhere away from these people and their sly looks and hidden agendas, but societal demands to remain polite at all times bound him.

“Shall we go inside?” Lord Lynde suggested.

“Let's,” Lady Donleigh said gleefully. She took one of Lord Lynde's arms, while Miss Green took the other.

Lady Sarah turned back to her carriage. It was then that Jeremy noticed that her maid waited in the vehicle.

“Please stay with the carriage,” she said to the maid, then turned back to him.

Jeremy offered Lady Sarah his arm and exhaled when she placed her hand on his sleeve. Her hand was a light but burning presence upon the fabric of his coat. Just the barest of touches. There were layers of fabric between them. Yet her nearness beside him, and how she smelled faintly of jasmine, thrilled.

Sarah smiled up at him. Her smile wavered as she glanced toward the trio walking up the steps to the town house.

“Come on,” called Lady Donleigh—clearly the leader of this group.

Was it his imagination, or did Lady Sarah square her shoulders and draw up her chin, as though preparing to meet an adversary? No, it hadn't been his idle fancy. She really did look prepared for some kind of battle.

“Let's go,” she said to Jeremy. Determination firmed her words.

Together, they climbed the stairs.

Entering the foyer, Jeremy's eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior. A servant took his hat and placed it with a small collection of other hats sitting atop a long, narrow table. Lady Sarah handed the footman her bonnet, giving Jeremy a fuller glimpse of her profile and the curve of the back of her neck.

“The gallery is upstairs,” the manservant intoned, gesturing toward a winding staircase. Already Lady Donleigh, Lord Lynde, and Miss Green stood waiting for them on the landing, their eyes strangely hectic with suppressed merriment.

“They're up to something,” Lady Sarah murmured quietly to him.

“Perhaps we should leave,” he offered.

Her chin came up another notch. “Let's see what they have planned. I know we can face it.”

Many other people in her position would have turned tail and fled, but she refused. She might be a genteel lady, but one with a hidden backbone of iron.

He escorted her up the stairs, liking the feel of her on his arm as they took each step, well-matched in height and pace. He usually had to shorten his strides to accommodate a woman, but not with Lady Sarah.

Typical landscapes adorned the walls of the stairwell, but Jeremy didn't pay them much mind. He was fuzzy-headed from having Lady Sarah so close.

He struggled to converse like a normal human being. “Admittedly, I know very little about the East,” he confessed.

“Likewise,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. “But I've always longed to travel there. Just the names of the places sound so wonderful. Peking. Baghdad. Bombay. Wonderful things must happen there.”

“We'll have to resort to using our imaginations,” he answered.

“My imagination has a considerable capacity,” she replied, her smile growing slightly more secretive.

What did that little smile mean? And what, exactly,
were
the limits of her creativity?

They finally reached the landing, where the trio exchanged barely suppressed grins. “It's just this way, Lady Sarah, Vicar,” Lord Lynde said, waving them toward a nearby long gallery.

A dozen people milled through the exhibit, all of them likely denizens of St. James and Mayfair, judging by their fine clothing and upright posture. They milled in couples or alone, men and women. The women were all accompanied by men.

Paintings and sculptures were arrayed in the gallery, the sheer curtains drawn to keep damaging light to a relative minimum. Placards describing each piece
were mounted beside the artwork, and a few gentlemen examined them using spectacles or quizzing glasses. People spoke in low voices, as befitting a museum, though it was a privately owned collection.

“What do you know of the owner of these pieces?” Lady Sarah asked Lady Donleigh.

“Only that he is a man of particular tastes,” Lady Donleigh answered. “As you shall see.”

“Indeed, most particular,” echoed Miss Green.

Not much of an answer.

“Please,” Lord Lynde said, gesturing them forward. “See for yourself.” He seemed on the verge of laughing aloud, scarcely restraining himself.

Frowning, Jeremy escorted Lady Sarah to the first displayed painting. Together, they peered at it.

“Chinese,” she said quietly, tapping the description on the placard. The faces and dress of the people depicted in the artwork revealed that it hailed from the Far East.

Jeremy started, and stared. Dear
God . . .

The painting showed a woman playing some kind of stringed musical instrument that rested on the ground. A man sat just beside her. They were in some kind of garden pavilion, draped with flowers. But Jeremy's gaze went straight to the middle of the painting. The female musician's robes had fallen open, revealing her bare breasts, pointed with cherry-colored nipples. And the man seated behind her was currently in the process of gently pinching those nipples.

Jeremy tore his gaze from the painting to stare at the other artwork. The larger paintings and sculptures showed couples in various states of nudity, displaying
acrobatic skills as they coiled their bodies together, limbs entwined, heads thrown back with expressions of ecstasy.

Good Christ—it was an exhibition of erotic art.

“Oh, my,” Lady Sarah breathed beside him, apparently reaching the same conclusion.

Jeremy threw an accusing look over at Lady Donleigh and her companions. All three of them had their hands pressed to their mouths, trying to smother their laughter.

Two emotions hazed his vision. Anger on behalf of Lady Sarah, that these three jackasses would dare insult her like this, using her obvious virtue and lack of experience as the brunt of their crude joke. If only he could stride over to Lord Lynde and plant his fist right in the nobleman's face, then bodily shove the women out onto the street.

But he couldn't deny his other reaction. Pure, unadulterated lust. It roared in his ears and taunted him, as though throwing his own appetites back into his face. His cock surged to attention. Thank God he wore black rather than white breeches, so he didn't treat everyone to the sight of his rousing erection.

He quickly returned his gaze to Lady Sarah. Her cheeks were stained pink, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. She looked astonished but also . . . intrigued.

“They've had their jest,” he whispered to her, after clearing his throat. “Time we leave.”

“That's what they want,” she said after a moment. She glanced over at her three so-called friends. “To see me run out, my face on fire. Or else they want me to swoon with the shock to my fragile sensibilities.”

The three seemed to be waiting for something. Jeremy wished he wasn't a vicar so that he could pick up a nearby painted porcelain vase and smash it down on Lord Lynde's head, followed by a punch to the man's gut.

“How bloody
dare
they?” he growled.

She exhaled. “They dare because I'm an easy target. Haven't you heard? You will soon enough. I'm called the Watching Wallflower.”

He longed to curse roundly. Damn Society. Damn everyone. Her honor demanded defending.

The hell with it. He started to take a step toward her three tormentors.