Temptations of a Wallflower (9 page)

He practically ran. Yet when he reached home, he felt no more at ease than when he'd been with Lady Sarah at the gallery. Once inside, he nearly threw his hat at the waiting footman, then took the stairs two at a time to reach his room.

Having confirmed that his chamber was empty of servants, he quickly locked the door behind him. He staggered to the bed and gripped one of the posts. With his other hand, he groped for the buttons of his breeches.

He groaned aloud when he grasped his cock. Had he ever been this hard, this demanding? Had he ever been as tempted as he'd been at the gallery? He'd wanted
to pull Lady Sarah into a waiting closet, gather up her skirts, and thrust himself into her as she bit his shoulder to quiet her moans.

Jeremy stroked himself. God, to do the things to her that were shown in those paintings! To open her bodice and take those soft, silken breasts in his hands, play upon her nipples—were they pale or dark? Or to fuck her outside, in the sunshine, beneath the branches of a sheltering tree. She would be luminous in the sunlight, partially dressed, hot and responsive as he sank deep into her sweet, tight depths.

Or to have him sit upon the floor, as in that Indian statue, and she would mount him, ride him . . .

With only a few hard strokes of his cock, Jeremy's release tore through him. He clenched his teeth to keep from shouting. He bowed with the force of it.

For a moment, he could only stand on shaking legs. Rousing himself, he cleaned up and tucked his now sated penis back into his breeches. It might be satisfied, but Jeremy wasn't.

He staggered to a chair next to the fireplace and sank into it. Resting his head in his hand, he cursed himself. Oh, he pleasured himself quite often. He couldn't survive unless he did. But always he constructed fantasies with faceless women, careful to never call to mind anyone he knew. Never before had he pictured one woman in particular, thought of all the wicked, depraved things he wanted to do with her.

It felt wrong, so very wrong, to invoke Sarah like that. To use her in that way. But, God preserve him, he couldn't help himself.

When it came to Lady Sarah, he was utterly lost.

When we had at last exhausted ourselves, we sat quietly, holding each other.

“Do you often make a habit of seducing the men who seek to rob you?” he asked me.

“Do you often make love to the women you steal from?” I returned.

He grinned. “Never.”

“This is a novel experience for me, as well.”

“Perhaps we might see one another again,” he offered.

“A dangerous game.”

“Ma'am, I am not afraid of danger.”

Ah! He was too delicious, as dark and wicked as Mordred, and I unable to resist his roguish charms.

The Highwayman's Seduction

F
rustration remained Jeremy's constant companion. He ached for Lady Sarah—and could do nothing to assuage that need.

At the least, he had something with which to distract himself. After a subdued supper, Jeremy retired back to
his room to contemplate his current task. Thank God he had his search for the Lady of Dubious Quality.

Alone, he sat by the fire and picked up a copy of
The Highwayman's Seduction.
There had to be clues to her identity buried somewhere within the text. He had to do his utmost to read it with an aloof eye, unmoved by the salacious contents. Not an easy task, but if anything could have been gained by this afternoon's exercise in self-indulgence, it was that the edge of his desire had been slightly blunted.

The fire burned low in the grate, casting dancing shadows but providing enough light by which to read. Keeping his mind fixed on its purpose—and not allowing his thoughts to drift toward Lady Sarah
at all
—he began to peruse the book's contents.

Reading the novel with a more distant perspective, the author's voice caught him. It didn't merely relate the story or provide thinly veiled scenarios that easily gave way to sex. Instead, there was actual artistry involved.

What would it be like to discuss the Lady of Dubious Quality with Lady Sarah? They'd spoken so openly about sensual matters at the art exhibit. Surely, she'd be intrigued by this book. Intrigued and . . . aroused?

It was too much to contemplate, so Jeremy forced himself back to his goal.

Whoever the Lady was, one thing was certain: she was literate, educated. Which didn't necessarily guarantee that she was of gentle birth. English education continued to evolve, and it was entirely possible that whoever posed as the Lady was someone of common blood.

Though a considerable part of
The Highwayman's Seduction
took place in some unnamed part of the countryside, including the highwayman's lair, Jeremy's interest perked up when the action briefly moved to London. Something in this location might give away even the smallest crumb of information.

“Hold a moment,” he murmured to himself.

The heroine of the book observed the way the sunlight shone on a statue of Eros riding a porpoise. Jeremy knew that statue. The small, unremarked-upon sculpture stood in a hidden corner of the city. Considering how vague most of the locations were in the rest of the novel, surely there had to be some relevance to citing this particular place. Maybe the Lady of Dubious Quality actually frequented this spot.

He'd go there in the morning and perform some reconnaissance. Anything was better than the minimal amount of evidence he had to go on. He could perform his task and not think of Lady Sarah or her lively eyes or soft lips. Not once.

But as he undressed and climbed into bed, her image continued to dance behind his closed eyes. Her bravery today continued to resonate through him. Her strength, and her perceptiveness. She was no wilting blossom. No pallid flower. She reminded him more of a lioness, tawny and proud. No one's fool.

Thoughts of her tormented him all the way into a restless sleep.

J
eremy stood contemplating the statue of a young boy riding atop a porpoise. He glanced around at the small courtyard that contained the statue. Quiet homes
ringed the sculpture. Perhaps he'd have better luck out on the street. He crossed a narrow lane, then emerged onto a busy urban intersection.

Late-morning traffic crowded the streets. Jeremy dodged a dray loaded with kegs of beer, then wove between more wagons, carts, and carriages. The din was considerable, and crowds pressed close on every side. He'd grown too familiar with life in the country, its slower rhythms, its soft sameness from day to day, change ruled not by the clock but by the sun and shifting seasons.

He rather missed the chaos and excitement of London, yet he ought to be grateful for his comfortable living, his secure employment.
Ought to
being the operative words.

“Out of the way!” someone shouted.

Jeremy leapt up onto the sidewalk just in time to keep from being plowed down by a hired carriage barreling toward him. Not much respect for a man of the cloth here in the city. As evidenced by the way Lady Sarah's awful acquaintances spoke to him, he wasn't entirely seen as man. Neither lion nor lamb. Which left him adrift.

He was here now, in the midst of the city's businesslike madness. He stood on the corner and looked around, hoping for something, some mote of knowledge to fall upon him.

He saw a grocer's, a mercer's shop, an office conducting some kind of business, as evidenced by the clerks hustling in and out with sheaves of paper. Not especially revealing.

His gaze caught on one storefront. J
&
C M
C
K
IN
NON,
B
OOKSELLERS.
Jeremy snapped to attention. That might prove useful. The Lady revealed through her writing that she was well read. Did she frequent this bookshop?

Carefully, he crossed the street and approached the shop. Shelves stood out front, offering leather-bound volumes for perusal. The cost for each book was written in pencil inside the cover. He paused to look over the shelves. The volumes they held covered a wide range of subjects, from scientific inquiry to sentimental novels. On the pavement, a gentleman and a lady were busy reading, neither of them paying him any mind. He surreptitiously scanned their faces. Could either of them be the Lady of Dubious Quality? The man was middle-aged, with a round nose and wisps of white hair peeking out from beneath the brim of his hat. He seemed like someone's kindly uncle—but that wouldn't impede him from secretly writing erotic books. Anyone could be the author. Anyone at all.

The woman was also middle-aged, with ash-blonde hair and a soft, comfortable look. She appeared to be reading a book about interior design. Might she have penned salacious novels?

Perhaps he ought to inquire with the proprietor of the bookshop. See if anyone was a regular customer, and, if so, what kind of books they commonly bought.

He stepped across the threshold, entering the shop, and was met with the smell of leather, paper, and a faint sugary scent, as though someone often enjoyed tea and cakes while reading. Which seemed a perfect way to spend a day.

In fact, had he not been on an objective from his
father, the bookshop would have been a wonderful place to spend many hours. More shelves lined the walls and formed a maze, all of it full to bursting with rows upon rows of books. There were books on the shelves, on the floor, stacked onto tables and covering every available surface. A large orange cat curled up on a pillow, dozing, beside a heap of books. It was a bibliophile's paradise.

First he needed to track down the proprietor, who'd abandoned the desk by the door. Jeremy straightened his shoulders and called to mind all the religious authority he could manage in order to glean the necessary information.

He turned down an aisle and stopped short.

“Lady Sarah!” he said automatically.

For there she was, looking perfectly edible in a peach gown with a dark blue spencer over it. She glanced up in surprise at hearing her name. But the moment she saw him, surprise gave way to something far warmer.

Pleasure burst in his chest. Would she be glad to see him? He'd given the three fashion plates a set-down the other day. But had she wanted his cutting candor?

He stepped closer, yet gave her enough of a respectful distance. It wouldn't do to crowd her.

“Are you following me?” she asked with a teasing glint in her eye.

“Spycraft is not one of my skills,” he said. Then, “I feared you might be angry with me.”

“Why would I?” she whispered.

“Because of yesterday. I was . . . abrupt with those people.”

She shook her head, soft curls framing her face. “They deserved it.”

Another surge of relief rushed through him.

“Besides,” she murmured, “it's I who should wonder whether or not you'd be upset with me.”

“No reason to,” he answered at once.

“There's every reason. I . . . pushed you too hard.”

He felt his face redden at that, but not for her reason. Words like
push
and
hard
took on much more salacious meaning to him when she said them.

“I should have known that what I asked of you wasn't appropriate,” she said regretfully.

“It's your friends that should apologize,” he replied. “What they did was inexcusable.”

She gave a rueful, angry laugh. “They are no friends of mine, and after that trick they pulled yesterday, I've vowed never to speak to them again.”

After a moment, she glanced up at him through her lashes, looking shy and lovely. “Then . . . there are no resentments or feuds between us?”

“None,” he said quickly, stepping nearer so that only a dozen inches separated them.

A smile bloomed on her face, easing the worry that had tightened her features. “I cannot tell you how pleased that makes me.”

“And your pleasure is mine.” He realized too late how that comment might be read more than one way, and her eyes widened. “That is . . . I meant . . .”

“I know what you meant.” She laughed again. The sound rang like a bell deep in his chest.

They stood in sociable silence for a moment, and he smelled the delicate jasmine fragrance that followed her wherever she went. It shamed him to consider how he'd invoked her yesterday when touching himself.
Could she see what he'd done? Was it written on his face? He'd been overcome with desire for her. Helpless before the ravenous beast of his need.

“What brings you here?” she asked, unaware of his thoughts.

“I'd heard about this bookshop from my father.” The lie came too quickly. But he couldn't very well tell her the exact nature of his visit. A fine woman like Lady Sarah likely knew nothing of the Lady of Dubious Quality.

She frowned. “I didn't think Lord Hutton was familiar with a place like this. It's not precisely known by the gentry. It's more a favorite of prosperous bankers and brewers.”

“Yet you're here,” he pointed out.

“Because the McKinnons are the best booksellers in London,” she answered with a curve of her mouth. “Their book selection is incomparable.”

“Perhaps it was someone else who recommended this shop,” he prevaricated. “Difficult to remember. What do you read now?”

She held up the cover. “A treatise on knot tying.”

“And here I didn't take you for a sailor,” he said with a smile.

“Perhaps I'll ship off to tropic seas.”

“Careful,” he warned. “It's said that those tropics can lead to all sorts of wild behavior.”

“Does that include talking with vicars?”

He grinned. “Most assuredly. Everyone knows vicars are stepping stones to wild, drunken orgies.” Good God, had he actually said the word
orgy
in her presence?

At that moment, a tall fellow with deep-set eyes appeared beside them. He carried several volumes in his hand. “Lady Sarah!” he exclaimed with pleasure. “Back again.”

“I've brought a friend,” she said.

Was that the right word to describe him? He did feel warmly toward her, but not all of his urges were platonic.

“Oh, a friend! How lovely!” The man turned to Jeremy. “She's here at least twice a week. Always reading about different things. Novels, philosophy, art.”

“Then you supply books to all tastes?” Jeremy asked, assuming the man was the proprietor.

“Indeed,” the tall man said. “Whatever a body could want, we can get it for them. Speaking of which,” he added as he glanced at Lady Sarah, “your special order has arrived. It's in the back. All wrapped up nice and secure.”

A furious blush spread across Lady Sarah's cheeks. “I'll pick it up later,” she muttered.

The proprietor looked over at Jeremy. “Of course! Another time.” He cleared his throat. “I can help you with something, Vicar?”

There was no way that Jeremy could ask about other regular patrons in front of Lady Sarah without looking suspicious. “Just enjoying your shop,” he said instead.

“Let me know if you need anything. Just ask for McKinnon.” With that, the man bowed and took his leave.

The air between Jeremy and Lady Sarah seemed charged, ripe with potential. Or perhaps he only wished that was the case? It prickled along his flesh,
and there was answering interest in her eyes. Did Lady Sarah think of him the way he thought of her? Part of her was secretly sensuous, and certainly after the art exhibit yesterday, she wasn't entirely innocent. The engrossed way she'd looked at the exhibits, the questions she'd asked . . . she might be a virgin, but she wasn't entirely virginal.

She had that quality of mind that so intrigued him: open yet assessing. Astute, but appreciative.

Surely she saw how much she affected him. A part of her seemed to welcome that interest.

Could he take it further? An impossible desire. If he dared presume to court her, he'd be laughed out of her father's house.

She broke the spell between them by checking a small jeweled watch pinned to her spencer. “Oh, blast,” she muttered. “I have to go.”