Temptations of a Wallflower (18 page)

At the least, he'd been reading the Lady of Dubious Quality. The books were a wellspring of information on the physical act of sex.

His body tightened in response just thinking of Sarah's soft curves, her untapped sensuality. The kisses they'd had only hinted at what potential they shared. It could be . . . beyond belief.

“You've got my blessing and compliments,” his father said brusquely, catching up. “You've . . . done well for yourself.”

The joy and burden of his father's words were like a cloak of iron feathers. Sarah was now Jeremy's—her safety and happiness were his responsibility. For all her enthusiasm, she knew little of what was required of a vicar's wife, and he would have to show her. Doubts continued to assail him and he sent prayers up to the
heavens, hoping that his status as a man of the cloth gave him some small preference.

Dear Lord, let me care for her as she deserves. Let her know no sorrow under my roof and in my arms. I will do anything you wish, so long as she is happy.

Amen.

. . . as he looked up from where he nestled between my thighs.

The night wore on. I was relieved that the rain continued, for it meant that I could not leave Jacob. Yet I knew that soon, it would be time for me to go . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

T
he carriage swayed from side to side as it sped down the road. Outside the windows, the countryside unfolded in long, green banners, embroidered with farms and small towns. The sky deepened toward dusk, from pale gray to growing spills of violet, signifying the end of a very long day.

Yesterday had marked the end of Sarah's spinsterhood. Tonight, she would fully become a wife. Here she was, an entirely different person, bound for eternity to another person.

Jeremy sat opposite her in the carriage. He'd actually fallen asleep soon after they'd started out for his parish in Devonshire—a bridal tour was something neither of them desired—and now his head tipped
back and dreams danced beneath his eyelids. He must not have slept well last night, to have drifted off so quickly. She hadn't, either. But nerves forced her into wakefulness.

She took advantage of his sleeping state to thoroughly study him. Her husband. A faint golden gleam shone on the clean line of his jaw, proof that it had been many hours since his morning shave. Soon she'd have the opportunity to watch that domestic ritual every day. It would become as familiar to her as brushing her own hair, she imagined. Yet it would always be slightly foreign to her. The province of men.

His mouth opened slightly as he breathed in the steady rhythm of slumber. She resisted the urge to trace her fingers over the curves of his lips. Amazing to think that she could now—so long as they were in private. Shyness held her back. Yesterday, she and Jeremy had been separate individuals. Now they were joined together. Forever. Yet he was still in many ways unknown to her. Would he appreciate her touching him as he slept? Or did he hold sleep to be sacrosanct, never to be disturbed?

The carriage jounced in a rut. Jeremy stirred but did not wake. He murmured, “Sarah,” then fell back into a doze.

Her heart seized. God—she must fill his mind the way he inhabited hers. She'd thought of nothing and no one but him, especially in the days preceding their marriage. Would it always be thus—her mind utterly occupied with the sound of his voice, the texture of his skin, the bright blue of his eyes? Or would it fade into something less fiery, more comfortable? She did and
did not wish for that. Domesticity seemed anathema to passion.

No way to know until she discovered it for herself. Yet she suspected it would never be calm and ordinary between them. How could it? Not when she burned so hotly for him. Seeing him waiting for her by the altar yesterday . . . so terribly handsome in black, his hair a burnished gold, his eyes shining with undisguised affection . . . the fire that already blazed within her flamed even higher. This man was
hers.
As she was his.

Lady Sarah Cleland.
A hybrid of her old and new selves. She took consolation in this as her chest ached with the loss of her parents. The marriage band on her finger proved she was a different woman now. One with a home of her own. Responsibilities. A husband. They'd recited their vows, pledged themselves to each other until the end of time.

But one part of her remained unchanged: the Lady of Dubious Quality. She witnessed and watched the whole day, her keen eye and observational powers always present. She was with Sarah now, eager for the next stage of the journey, accompanying Sarah as they transitioned to married life. But the Lady of Dubious Quality hadn't signed her name on the parish register. Did that mean she was unwed? And would she change because Sarah had?

It all felt both dreamlike and sharply real. This was to be her now.

Her body thirsted for experience.

The mysteries of sex loomed. The Lady had been a good tutor and spinner of dreams. She had guided
Sarah down unknown paths, paths they had explored together. In her thoughts. She'd learn it all soon.

But what if Jeremy got suspicious because of her understanding? Her writing still stood between them. With Jeremy and her under one roof, she would have to be very careful to keep it hidden. He was far more attentive and aware than her parents were, and a considerable amount of subterfuge would be needed to keep her authorship secret. A shadow passed over her heart. They were barely a day into their marriage, and she was already planning to deceive him. A tenuous balance was needed. Nervousness and excitement battled for supremacy.

How much experience did Jeremy possess? Was he a virgin, too? Doubtful. Most men didn't make it to their twenty-eighth year without making love at least once. His cousin, Lord Marwood, had probably taken legions of women to bed by the time he was Jeremy's age. But then, few men were as proficient or dedicated to the pursuit of physical pleasure as Jeremy's cousin. Certainly a vicar wouldn't have the time to bed so many females.

What if . . . one of his pretty parishioners had come to seek him after Sunday services, and the two of them made love atop his desk while he still wore his clerical robes?

Damn Sarah's imagination.

A wave of acidic heat shot through her. She didn't want to imagine him in someone else's arms, flesh to flesh. Yet at the same time, it would be better for both her and Jeremy if he wasn't completely inexperienced.

The carriage bounced again, and this time, Jeremy
woke. He stretched and then opened his eyes. As he beheld her, a sleepy little smile played about his lips, and she wanted to kiss it. But she merely smiled in return.

“Did you have a good rest, husband?” she asked, testing the feel and texture of the word.

“Tolerable, wife,” he answered, and grinned. “Made all the better by waking and seeing you.” His gaze sharpened, grew hungry. “Come here.” He gestured her forward.

“Where? The carriage is small, and there's no place for me to sit.”

He patted his thighs. “A comfortable chair is yours right here.”

She crossed the narrow space between them to sit on his lap, twining her arms around his neck. He held her close. One of his hands undid the ribbons of her bonnet, and he set the hat aside. He cupped the back of her head as his other hand clasped her waist.

“The seating accommodations in this carriage are most amenable,” she murmured.

“It gets better,” he said, his gaze on her mouth.

They came together in a lush kiss. Her breasts crushed against his hard chest, and she felt the strain of his muscles beneath the fabric of his coat. His tongue caressed hers. They did not waste time on gentle preliminaries. This was a kiss of claiming. It promised,
Soon we will have everything.

“I like this kiss better than the one we had after the wedding ceremony,” she sighed when they finally broke apart.

“Couldn't do this in front of the Vicar Chumley.”

“Surely he's seen such things before,” she noted.

“But not from me.” He commanded gently, “Kiss me again.”

She readily obeyed. As their lips met, his hand skimmed up from her waist, coming to rest just beneath the curve of her sensitive, aching breast. She leaned closer, wanting his touch. With that small bit of permission, he brought his hand up, cupping the fullness of her breast with his large hand. She moaned softly into his mouth as his fingers stroked over the fabric covering her. His fingertips strayed over her nipple, teasing it even beneath her clothing to a ready point that demanded more. Dampness gathered between her legs. She'd written about these feelings before, but experiencing them for herself was revelatory, as though she discovered she could suddenly perform magic.

Reaching for her, his elbow banged into the side of the carriage wall. He groaned, and rested his forehead against hers. The carriage slowed.

“Drive on,” Jeremy called to the driver.

The vehicle picked up speed.

“Want you so much,” he growled, his eyes closed. “Not enough room or time in a damn carriage.”

She'd written about carriage trysts and was eager to try one. But that might have to wait. Yet she felt a thrill at hearing him curse. “We'll have both soon.”

“Not soon enough,” he rumbled.

“Impatience is a virtue.” She squeezed his taut shoulders. “Where do you get these muscles?”

He snorted a soft laugh. “Built like a working man, not a vicar?”

“I'm not complaining,” she said quickly.

“Most mornings I swim,” he admitted. “Been out to Hampstead Heath when I was in London, but there's a lake near the vicarage that I use when I'm home.”

Shock filled her. Here was an important aspect of her husband that she'd had no idea about. What else did she not know about him? If he were a written character, she'd have to decide things such as whether or not he liked his toast pale or dark. If he sprawled in bed or slept in a neat, contained fashion. Small things, but they added up to so much—an entire self she knew little about.

For some time, they sat in companionable silence with her still on his lap. Warmth and a sense of security and comfort crept through her. Yet there was excitement, too. No one could stop them now. They were husband and wife, and if she wanted to sit atop him, then, by God, she would.

“Have you been to Devonshire before?” he asked, continuing to hold her close.

“We went to Torquay once about three years ago,” Sarah said, resting her head against his chest. “Mother heard it was becoming fashionable.”

He laughed. “I'm afraid Rosemead isn't very
au courant.
Our High Street cannot compete with Bond Street. We have one mercer's shop, though Plymouth is about half a day's ride if you've a yearning for fashion.”

“I seldom have a yearning for fashion,” she said. “What else can you tell me about my new home?”

“There are a thousand souls who dwell within the parish of Rosemead. We've got a tea shop, a tavern. The mercer's shop, as I said. Raised a respectable militia during the War.”

“But the
people,
” she pressed. “What are they like?”

He paused thoughtfully. “Some good, some less so—just like London. They prefer things to remain as they've been for the past two hundred years, though the younger folk push for more modernity. My parishioners like it when my sermons are about current events, not just the Bible. Our latest excitement was the establishment of a lending library. The usual farming journals and moralizing books—but there's a secret stash of romantic novels that have been making the rounds. Which I've read to stay abreast of what my parishioners have been up to.”

“Very conscientious of you,” she said drily. Had the Lady of Dubious Quality's books made it into circulation? Unlikely.

“Indeed, madam,” he intoned seriously, “I am quite dutiful when it comes to my responsibilities.”

She spoiled the effect by combing her fingers through the curls at the back of his neck, making him purr.

“Will they like me?” she asked, more than half serious.

“How could they not?” He asked this with genuine bafflement.

“Because . . .” She gave voice to the fear that had been nagging at the back of her mind. “I'm not one of them. My father's a duke. I don't want them to think that I believe myself better than them. Like that dreadful Mrs. Elton in
Emma
.”

“That's contingent on you,” he answered, and she was grateful he didn't try to coddle her or give her a sugary palliative about her inherent captivating charm.
“It depends on how you treat them, how you think of them. They'll know if you consider yourself superior. Most likely, they'll be a little shy around you at first—which might come off as distance. But give them time. They came around for me. Be yourself, and they'll do the same for you.”

She exhaled. “I'm more nervous about meeting your parishioners than I was for my debut.”

“I'll be beside you every step of the way.” He embraced her tightly for emphasis, and some of her fear did drift away, knowing that he was with her. Her ally. She'd never trusted anyone as she trusted him. He would not throw her to the wolves. But he respected her enough to let her stand on her own.

She actually dozed a little, soothed by the rocking of the carriage and by the warmth of Jeremy's arms around her. The next thing she knew, his lips were at her temple, and he whispered, “Time to rise, sweet. We've arrived at the inn for the night.”

She stirred, unwilling to break from the delicious heat of his embrace, but at the mention of the word
inn,
she started awake. She'd written dozens of scenes set at inns. Much more than sleeping and eating transpired at these liminal places, private and exotic.

This was it. Mysteries teemed—his body, sex—and she'd soon learn them. Terrifying. And exciting.

She went back to her seat just as the carriage rolled to a stop outside a coaching inn. Peering out the window, she saw it was a neat, comfortable, two-story building, with two dogs playing in the yard and a young groom waiting outside. Once the vehicle stopped, Jeremy immediately disembarked.

“I'll see about a room. Wait here.”

Was that a tremor in his voice? Or did she imagine him as nervous as she? Sarah bided her time watching the front of the inn, seeing the warm light of the taproom pushing back the growing evening's darkness, and listening to the cheerful voices within. She marked it all for future writing—though this was
her
story now. After a few minutes, Jeremy emerged from the front door.

“Our accommodations are arranged,” he said. “We'll be dining in a private room, if that meets with your approval.”

Anyone looking at her and Jeremy would likely spot them at once as newlyweds and guess at what the night's activities would hold. She didn't want to be the object of amused, ribald speculation—certainly not when her every nerve was alight.