Temptations of a Wallflower (16 page)

We talked at length, Jacob and I. Dashing as a knight of old, he'd been a cavalryman, riding across the breadth of the globe in service to his king and country. Like all wonderful and terrible things, the war ended. The home he returned to had no use for surplus officers. What choice was left him? The road, and its plunder, beckoned. A highwayman from a cavalryman, his only means of putting food in his belly and keeping the rain from his head. The grim tale pierced my heart. I grew too fond of my highwayman . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

J
eremy entered Marwood's box at the Imperial Theater. His cousin was preoccupied watching the rehearsal of his wife's latest burletta. But Jeremy could not wait patiently. He needed guidance. Now.

He coughed as a means of announcing himself. Marwood turned around in surprise, but smiled in welcome.

“All the souls here are black as pitch,” he told Jeremy. “Too late, old man.”

“There's only one soul here that's too far gone,”
Jeremy noted. “I'll pray for you, but it will be like throwing droplets of water on a conflagration.”

“Much appreciated.” Marwood stood, and Jeremy shook his cousin's extended hand.

“Normally you can crush coal into diamonds with your handshake,” Marwood noted. “What's amiss? Aside from the condition of my benighted soul.”

Striding over to the railing, Jeremy looked over the theater. His gaze didn't linger on anything in particular but danced around, searching for a calm place to land but finding none. Everything churned in him, a tempest.

He asked abruptly, “How does Lady Marwood's latest work fare?”

“Oh, the usual histrionics between actors—always feuds brewing. But they love each other like a big, messy family.” Marwood crossed his arms over his chest. “I have a gnawing in my gut that tells me you're not here to discuss Maggie's most recent burletta.”

Could Jeremy speak of this to his cousin? They'd been separated as youths, but now they were grown men. What more could his father threaten him with? After a moment, Jeremy asked, “How did you know that you wanted to marry Lady Marwood?”

The question seemed to catch Marwood off guard. He pondered it for a moment. “Thinking of life without her was impossible. Pretending that I could exist deprived of her was an exercise in futility. Completely impossible.”

“And the difference in your stations?” Jeremy wanted to know hotly.

“Didn't matter to me,” Marwood said frankly. “So
long as I had her, Society could go hang. Our happiness was at stake.”

Jeremy peered closely at him. Then, slowly, Marwood's brows lifted. “There's some lowborn woman who caught your eye.”

Jeremy looked down at his flexing hands. “The opposite,” he said darkly. “I'm the one that's lower than her.”

“My mind spins at the possibility—who is she?”

“Lady Sarah Frampton.”

“The wallflower,” his cousin exclaimed.

Anger surged, hot and roiling. “Don't call her that,” Jeremy snarled. “It's a damn insulting name. She's . . . so much more than that name.”

Marwood nudged a chair toward his cousin. “Have a seat, and tell me everything. Spare no detail.”

Jeremy turned the chair around and straddled it, his long legs sticking out on either side. He raked his hands through his hair.

“She and I . . .” He exhaled roughly. For a long, long time, Jeremy said nothing, visibly fighting to gather his thoughts and words. Finally, he admitted, “We've gotten very close.”

“How close?” Marwood leaned against the railing, folding his arms across his chest.

“Very,” was all Jeremy would expound on the subject. “We've . . . kissed.” His face reddened.

It looked as though sheer strength of will kept Marwood from clapping and hooting his approval. “I take it the kiss was satisfactory,” he drawled. “Never mind. Judging by that febrile blush staining your pure cheeks, it was more than satisfactory.”

“She's . . .” Jeremy's voice trailed off, and his gaze went far away. He felt tight and alive and ready to burst just thinking of Sarah—her sharpness, her keen interest in the world around her. The secret earthiness of her.

“Ah.”

“She's even suggested that we marry,” Jeremy said, his voice shadowed. “Though we both eventually agreed that it couldn't happen.”

“I fail to see the problem,” Marwood noted. “Unmistakably, the lady wants you—though I have to question her judgment.”

Jeremy glowered at him.

Clearing his throat, Marwood continued. “Is she beholden to her parents for their approval?”

“She's of age,” Jeremy explained. “Their endorsement isn't necessary.”

“What of their blessing?”

He shrugged. “Whether she needs it or not, I cannot say.”

“If she makes you happy—”

“She makes me very happy,” Jeremy said at once. Confused, restless, but happy.

“Then,” Marwood said, spreading his hands wide, as though they encompassed the answer, “do what you need to do.” He studied Jeremy closely. “It's not all that simple, eh?”

Jeremy couldn't meet Marwood's gaze. “I've kissed someone else,” he gritted.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I went to that damn masquerade and kissed another woman,” he growled. “A woman wearing a gold mask. I think,” he added unhappily, “that she was
the Lady of Dubious Quality.” He wanted them both—Sarah and the Golden Woman—but he couldn't have them both. Yet it was Sarah who had taken up residence in his mind, his body and heart. The Golden Woman was unmitigated physical pleasure. Sarah was so much more to him.

“And that makes you miserable,” Marwood said, confused.

“It . . . lit something in me.” Jeremy stared off into the memory. “Something wild. Don't know how to explain it.”

“I think I understand.” Marwood nodded in consideration. “I've had kisses like that.”

Anger and mystification warred within Jeremy. “How can I offer myself to Sarah if I've had thoughts about another woman?”

“Of course you can,” Marwood said at once. “Maggie and I didn't come to each other as virgins.”

Jeremy stood abruptly, tipping the chair to the floor. “I didn't make love to that other woman.”

“But you still feel the betrayal,” his cousin noted.

Jeremy could only nod unhappily. He thought of those stolen touches at the theater, of the kiss at the Observatory, and confusion mired him. Could he desire two women? When he truly only wanted one?

Walking up to him, Marwood placed his hands on Jeremy's shoulders and looked hard into his eyes. “Don't confuse what your cock tells you for what your heart wants,” he cautioned. “Clearly, it wants Lady Sarah.” He smiled wryly. “Not so long ago you were the one dispensing advice, Vicar. The honor's mine now. Though I'm no man of God.”

Jeremy exhaled but felt no more certain than he had when first he'd entered the theater box. “I just don't bloody know.”

“You want the woman,” his cousin said with careful patience. “She wants you. Yes, there will be hurdles to leap, but you've got long legs and a strong heart. There's nothing more to discuss. Marry her. Besides,” he added with a wry smile, “taking a bride might repair that dented reputation of yours.”

Alarm gripped Jeremy. “What do you mean?”

“I've heard a few things,” Marwood answered smugly. “Going into shops that sell women's undergarments, for one thing.” Before Jeremy could exact more answers, Marwood continued, “Listen, you once asked me what I was afraid of. Time to ask yourself the same question.”

T
he quill sharpener was poised in Sarah's hand when the door to the Green Drawing Room opened and Jeremy strode in. He looked intent, focused, barely aware of the rain darkening the shoulders of his coat, and hardly attentive to the footman hurrying up behind him.

“I'm sorry, my lady,” the servant began. “He just came right in and—”

“That's all right, Paul,” Sarah said with as much calm as she could muster. Jeremy's sudden, unannounced appearance rattled her—especially after the way they'd left things two days ago, without a word of communication between them since.

The last few days had been knotted with anxiety and confusion. She didn't believe her own bold actions. Had
she actually presented him with the option of marrying her? And he'd gone and kissed her in response—a kiss as melting and powerful as the one she'd gotten from the man in the blue mask. She'd known it would be good between her and Jeremy physically. Actual proof changed everything. They lit the world on fire with the heat they shared. It was as spontaneous and instant as a midsummer blaze.

Had it been her imagination? She'd exhausted herself trying to convince herself it couldn't have been so blistering, so devastating. Yet here he was, stalking into the Green Drawing Room, the center of her most private self. It was both appropriate and strange to have him here. Her palms dampened and her mouth dried, and she couldn't stop her gaze from straying to his lips. The same lips that had tormented her for hours, both awake and asleep.

“Forgive me,” he said tightly. “I couldn't wait to be announced.”

She set the quill sharpener down with more calm than she felt. “I'm glad you're here.” Turning to the footman, she directed, “Please have Cook send up some tea.”

But Jeremy shook his head. “Not here for tea.”

“Well, I'd like some.” At her nod, Paul disappeared to fetch some refreshments. She didn't truly want tea or anything to eat, but it would give her a reason to divert her attention from the tension that filled the room and pushed at the windows.

“Please, sit.” Sarah rose and walked toward two chairs facing each other in front of the fire.

At first, it looked as though Jeremy would refuse.
She sensed that he had a goal, but she had no idea what it might be. He appeared to be wrestling with something within himself. After she sat, however, he lowered himself down into a chair. His long legs stretched out before him, and she distracted herself by looking at the gleam of firelight shining on the leather of his tall boots rather than staring into his blazing face.

Nervousness seized her. She twisted her fingers together, listening to the pop of the fire and the patter of gentle rain on the windows. A thousand questions flooded her mind, jostling against each other, making it almost impossible to sit still. She chanced a peek at him through her lashes. She'd never seen him so resolute, his brow lowered, his jaw a hard square line. He did not look like a man on a happy errand. Rather he resembled someone with a purpose, as though there was a tree that had to be felled before a field could be plowed.

“You don't have to say anything,” she burst out. “I . . . I understand. It was a thought, a suggestion. I didn't really think that you and I . . . that we . . .”

His blue eyes bored into her. “It wasn't serious then? What you said at the Observatory.”

She pushed up from her seat, and he stood, as well. Both of them couldn't be contained. She paced away from him. If he rejected her, how would she bear it? Yet she couldn't hide behind obscuring half-truths. He deserved her honesty—and so did she.

“I did mean it,” she admitted. “But,” she added hastily, “I don't hold you to anything. We can . . . we can remain friends. If that's what you want.” Though she couldn't truly be friends with a man who'd kissed her into insensibility. When she'd want that same kiss
again and again, and wish and wonder where it might lead, what it could presage.

“It's not what I want at all,” he gritted. “I can't be your
friend,
Sarah.”

“Ah.” Disappointment rocked through her, scooping her out and leaving her hollow. The burn of unshed tears ached behind her eyes. The polite thing to do was offer her hand to shake, and then part company with him as civilly as possible. But she didn't have much in her to be polite. She wanted to run far away to some dark cavern, where she could weep and howl and lick her wounds. Possibly never to emerge.

He took two long steps and stood in front of her, taking her hands in his. A faint tremor shook him, and he was a burning coal beneath her touch. She stared at their joined hands.

“What I want,” he said, his voice deep and low, “is to be your husband.”

Her gaze flew up to meet his. “You . . .” But she couldn't finish the sentence. Emotion and disbelief clogged her throat.

“Sarah,” he said urgently, the world in his eyes, “if you meant what you said, if you'll have me . . . I want to marry you. I need you as my wife.”

He continued, “I care for you, Sarah.” He was bright and serious, and impossibly beautiful as he said these words, lit from within. “I hope you'll come to feel for me even a tenth of what I feel for you.”

“There's no need to wait for that,” she declared. Emotion overwhelmed her, carrying her off in a tide of sensation. “Because I care for you, too, Jeremy. Very much.”

They met for a kiss.

She clung to him. Her hands gripped his biceps, and her head tipped back to allow him full access to her lips, her mouth, her entire self. He kissed her hotly, hungrily. A claiming. His hands pressed on the low curve of her back, holding her close, as close as possible. She was lost in him. In the need they created together.

She hadn't known that a second kiss could be better than the first. Yet it was. Because they knew each other now, and heat rose up, instant and assertive, the moment their lips met. That same heat built and built with each stroke of his tongue, each delving and taste.

An insistent need built up within her, centering lowly in her belly and climbing higher, higher. Into her breasts, into her whole body.