Temptations of a Wallflower (5 page)

A shame, really, that Sarah couldn't have been someone else. Because if she had been . . . she might have given him serious consideration.

But that was never to be. She was who she was, and he was who he was, and they would have to be friends—nothing more.

So absorbed was she in this thought that she didn't hear footsteps approaching until they were almost upon her. Turning, she saw her mother coming down the path, wearing a pinched expression.

“There you are,” Lady Wakefield said impatiently. She nodded at Mr. Cleland, barely acknowledging him. Sarah felt a small stab of shame at her mother's rudeness. But a vicar didn't warrant much attention. “This sun has given me a headache. It's time to go.”

“Yes, Mama.” Before the words had left her mouth, her mother had spun on her heel and stridden off back toward the main house.

Sarah offered Mr. Cleland a remorseful smile. “I'm so sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” he said easily, and it was clear he meant it. He bowed. “It was a genuine pleasure to meet you, Lady Sarah.”

“I feel the same way.” They smiled at each other, for a long time neither, it seemed, willing to move away.

“Now, Sarah,” her mother called out over her shoulder.

Sarah sighed. Her gaze drifted back to the hedge maze. Could she drop her fan? As they both bent to retrieve it, she might whisper to him an invitation to meet her there in a few moments. And then . . . She could taste those gently curved lips of his. Oh, she'd experienced a few chaste kisses before, but never anything she truly desired. But she wanted to kiss Mr. Cleland. She craved feeling his mouth against hers, and seeing if her imagination was correct about him.

He, too, looked at the maze. Was he thinking the same thoughts? Did he want to savor her? A delectable thought, one that made her feel both languid and powerfully alive all at once.

Their gazes met. He turned gorgeously pink.

He
was
thinking of kissing her!

“Now, Sarah!” her mother snapped, waiting.

“I must go.” Turning, she walked toward her mother. Who would talk to him now that she was going? Yet he had such an easy manner that he'd find no difficulty securing more conversation.

Lady Wakefield stood on the terrace, waiting. She
looked confused. “I'd no idea you had need of religious guidance.”

“I don't,” Sarah answered.

“Then why bother spending time with that man?”

“Because he intrigued me.”

Surprise crossed Lady Wakefield's face. “You honestly wanted to talk with him?”

“I did. He's . . .” Earthy. Intelligent. Unique. “Interesting.”

Her mother stared at her for a moment. “Good gracious, you were actually
considering
him?”

Though it was an impossibility, Sarah said, “I might have been.”

Lady Wakefield clicked her tongue. “Interesting or not, he's no match for you.”

“We got along rather well, actually.”

Her mother's lips thinned. “That's not what I meant.”

“I know.” Sarah took her shawl from the servant who offered it to her, then adjusted it around her shoulders. Oddly, she hadn't felt much of the cold when she had been with Mr. Cleland.

“Don't squander further time with him. He's useless.”

The harsh word made Sarah recoil. A protest hovered at her lips. But arguments were pointless with the duchess.

Sarah glanced back toward the garden, where, to her surprise, the vicar remained alone. Instead of looking at the flowers or statues, however, his face was tilted upward, and he contemplated the pale sky, the sunlight painting him brightly.

Was it a shame or precisely right that a man of the
cloth should be so extraordinarily good-looking? When would she see him again?

Wouldn't it make for an interesting Lady of Dubious Quality novel to have a vicar for a hero?

These questions haunted her long after she climbed into the carriage and headed for home.

“Sir,” I gasped, “you have quite terrified me!”

“That is the very last thing I should like to do to you, ma'am,” he answered with a voice like rough silk.

“And what is it that you would do with me?”

“I could never say such things to a lady,” he answered. He tucked his pistol into his sash. I noticed then that he had large, broad hands, callused from holding the reins of his horse. How might they feel on my bare flesh?

“Oh, sir,” I answered, “I am no lady. Not in the truer sense of the word . . .”

The Highwayman's Seduction

O
ne couldn't mention publishing in London without thinking almost immediately of Paternoster Row. Even a man as unfamiliar with the modern city as Jeremy was knew this. Publishers crammed together down the street, the air alive with the flow of ideas and words. Nearby was the bustle of Spitalfields Market and the dignified splendor of St. Paul's.

The lively market and its surroundings interested
Jeremy far more than the cathedral, but he felt obligated to spend a few minutes inside, hat removed, his head bowed in solemn contemplation of the task before him. Did the Lord intervene when it came to concerns of salacious literature? Jeremy rather doubted it. Surely, there were greater concerns for the Prime Mover than a handful of inexpensive—though popular—lewd novels.

Once back on the street, Jeremy donned his hat and headed north, toward Paternoster Row. Buildings pressed in closely, radiating with commercial importance. Here, the sacred and the profane were printed side by side, coexisting in the eternal dance of business. There might be art between the leather-covered bindings, but what concerned the serious men of the publishing world was the inarguable truth of money.

Seeing the books brought Lady Sarah's face into his mind. Did she ever come to this part of the city? Most likely not. A duke's daughter had little call to involve herself in the world of masculine trade, though he had a suspicion that she might actually enjoy seeing where the many books she read came from. He wanted to show her this place, to watch her as she explored a new realm, far away from the confines of a life that hemmed her in on every side.

Jeremy had no business thinking of her—a vicar could never cast his thoughts so high as to consider a duke's daughter in any way other than a possible patron.

She had been utterly unexpected, a lovely surprise in the midst of what he'd anticipa
t
ed to be the usual Soci
ety routine. No denying she was a pretty young woman, her soft brown hair slightly curled, her clear gray eyes shining with insightful—almost frightening—intelligence. Her looks were more emphatic than gentle, with those straight eyebrows, assertive nose, and full lips, yet she held an undeniable appeal.

She wasn't like the other soft, easily understood girls, as straightforward as roses. Lady Sarah was more like a tall wildflower, found growing in the secret places of the forest, hidden from the eyes of man but possessing a beauty that belonged to no one but herself.

He'd never thought about the constraints placed upon the daughters of the elite, but she had shown him her diamond-encrusted manacles. And now that his eyes had been opened, it was impossible for him not to feel a thread of . . . pity? Empathy? He wasn't certain.

But he felt it. Something . . . intangible. Linking him with her. A confidence shared only by themselves.

Oh, but the man in him responded to far more than her wit or her insight. He'd found himself staring at her petal-pink lips and wondering how they tasted. His gaze had touched along the column of her neck. What would her skin feel like? Did it have a scent? Despite her virginal demeanor, there was an untapped eroticism in her, in the way she turned her face to the sun or absently brushed back a lock of hair, her fingers lingering for a moment to rest upon her own flesh. He couldn't have imagined those seconds at the end of their time together, when he'd looked at the maze in the garden, thinking of what it might take to lure her in there for
a stolen touch—and she had been staring at the maze, too, her own eyes filled with wanting.

Did he wish her to be that rare gem that all men dreamed of but never found? The sensual virgin, eager for a man's touch?

He glanced at his reflection in one of the windows. A man in the staid garments of the Church looked back at him. He might think of Lady Sarah, might wonder what kind of lover she could be, and fantasize about her many tastes and textures, but she would always be a dream, forever out of reach. Even though his father was an earl, Jeremy had little fortune besides what he earned from his living. Duke's daughters didn't consider vicars as potential husbands. He and Lady Sarah were simply too far apart. He might as well court a constellation.

Not the most happy thought, but it brought him back to Earth. He was in London for a reason, and that reason wasn't the futile attempt to woo a woman who'd have nothing to do with him.

Still, he couldn't help the excitement rising up in him at the thought of when he might see her again. Between Lady Sarah and searching for the Lady of Dubious Quality, the tedium of his recent existence had certainly transformed into something exciting and stimulating.

Checking the address he had written down on a scrap of paper, Jeremy searched out one particular sign. He dodged crowds of soberly dressed men, as well as wagons carting off books to be sold all over the city and the country. Compared to Mayfair, the noise here was terrific. How could anyone concentrate on the
printed word when the audible one held so much sway?

At last, he came to a sign that read S
TALHAM &
S
ONS.
From the outside, it appeared to be an ordinary business, with a bay window fronting the street. Jeremy peered through the glass, cupping his hand to see better. Men bent over rows of desks, stacks of paper piled up all around them. A lad in a cap and ink-stained apron rushed back and forth, delivering sheaves of paper, hauling them away, and generally looking harried. At the far end of the chamber within was a glass door leading to a private office. But the window was smudged and not particularly clean, so Jeremy couldn't make out any further details.

A man carrying a paper-wrapped bundle started to enter the front door, then stopped. “Can I help you, Vicar?” he asked.

“Yes, actually.” Jeremy stepped away from the window. Sometimes there were certain advantages to being in the Church, including a small amount of deference from the laity. “I'm looking for the man who runs this business.”

“Mr. Stalham Jr., you mean.” The man frowned. “What do you want to see him for?”

“I'm afraid that's something I can discuss only with him.”

The man shrugged. “Suit yourself. Follow me, then, Vicar.”

Jeremy did as the fellow suggested, trailing after him into Stalham & Sons. A few of the clerks looked up from their desks as Jeremy entered.

“We getting into printing sermons and tracts, now?” one wag commented.

“Somehow,” Jeremy commented, “I doubt that one book is going to keep you off the paths of vice.”

“Oi, he's got you, Drew,” another man laughed.

Drew scowled and returned to his work.

“This way, Vicar,” said the first chap, who guided Jeremy down the rows of desks to the office at the end. The name L
AWRENCE
S
TALHAM
J
R.,
P
UBLISHER
was painted on the door in gold leaf.

All in all, the place looked prosperous and respectable. No signs of lambs being sacrificed to unholy gods, or naked women dancing in a frenzy of pagan madness. They could be printing cookery books and gardening instructions.

Jeremy's guide tapped on the door.

“What the hell do you want, Jones?” shouted a man inside.

“Got a visitor for you, Mr. Stalham.”

“Too busy for visitors,” came the answer.

Jones looked apologetic, but Jeremy held up his hand. He tried the doorknob and found it open, then let himself in.

“Even for me?” he asked Stalham.

The older man—a decent-looking fellow in a slightly rumpled jacket and waistcoat, his cravat undone—widened his eyes when he beheld Jeremy.

“What's he doing here?” Stalham asked Jones, pointing his finger at Jeremy.

“Why don't you ask him?” Jones answered.

“And I'd be more than happy to answer that question,” Jeremy said, “in private.”

The publisher raked his fingers through his thinning hair, making it stand on end, but then he shook
his head. “All right, come in and shut the door behind you, Vicar.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones,” Jeremy said, giving the man's hand a shake.

“Put in a good word for me,” Jones replied. “With Him.”

“I shall.”

With that, Jones strode away, leaving Jeremy still standing outside Stalham's office.

The publisher waved. “Come in, Vicar, and take a seat. Is it ‘Reverend'?”

“Just ‘vicar' or ‘Mr. Cleland' is fine.” Jeremy closed the door, then sat down. Like the rest of the business, Stalham's office appeared perfectly ordinary, with galleys for books heaped up on tables, and manuscripts piled here and there. A miniature of Stalham's wife adorned his desk, along with some correspondence. But there were no signs proclaiming the Lady of Dubious Quality's identity, no letters with her (or his) signature announcing who she (or he) might be.

Stalham caught Jeremy's inquisitive gaze and returned it with a puzzled look.

“We're not in the market for religious works, Mr. Cleland,” the publisher noted, interlacing his fingers over his stomach.

“Sermons for my parish are the extent of my writing endeavors.”

“Then what brings you to Stalham and Sons? My family runs a respectable business and has done so since the time of our monarch's father.”

“There are those who might say that what you publish isn't entirely respectable,” Jeremy noted.
From his pocket, he pulled out
The Highwayman's Seduction.

Stalham's eyes went wide again. “Didn't know the clergy read our humble little books.” He leaned forward. “Life in the parish getting a little dull, eh, Mr. Cleland?”

Though it was the truth, Jeremy maintained his collected demeanor. He had been given deportment lessons as a child, after all.

“I would like,” he said coolly, “to know more about this Lady of Dubious Quality.”

“What about her?”

Was that a clue? Was the author truly a woman, or was Stalham merely trying to throw him off the scent?

“Who is she?” Jeremy asked.

A corner of the publisher's mouth turned up. “Want to meet her?”

“I simply want to know her identity.”

“Why? You could be trying to get her to find religion and stop writing her books.”

“Call it intellectual curiosity,” Jeremy said. “It has nothing to do with faith. I merely want to know what kind of person could pen such works.”

“You aren't going to shut her down?”

Jeremy couldn't outright lie, so he offered, “I'd like to talk with her.” Which was true. What made someone write such works, especially if they had so much to lose by being discovered? It had to be some kind of compulsion. Unless they needed the money that badly. Perhaps whoever it was might be a commoner. Or an impoverished noble.

Whoever it was, Jeremy needed to understand that desire, that drive. Perhaps something could be learned
there, though he wasn't certain what. Vicars and authors of smut generally had little to unite them.

Yet the world was a strange and mysterious place. It shifted and changed from moment to moment, revealing connections that might never have been seen before. Consider himself and Lady Sarah. They were two people with very little in common, yet it turned out they shared an attraction and a potential bond.

Lady Sarah wouldn't think much of him if he revealed his true reason for coming to London—as though it might taint him somehow. Perhaps, if their paths ever crossed again, she would ignore him or be cuttingly polite and distant.

A pain stabbed in the center of his chest. His fingers rubbed absently at his heart. His health was good, so why did he feel this ache?

Was it . . . the thought of losing any connection with Lady Sarah? She seemed to be one of the true bright spots here in the city, and he was loath to lose her light.

“Talk?” Stalham asked.

“Talk,” Jeremy echoed. He hoped God would forgive him the omission. It was for the greater good, he hoped.

Stalham scratched at his face. “Even if I wanted to tell you who the Lady was—and I don't, because she sells more books being anonymous—I couldn't.”

“Why not?” Jeremy demanded.

“It's all done through secret channels, you see.” Stalham stood and paced to one corner of his office, hooking his thumbs into his braces. “She routes all her manuscripts through a fourth party.”

“Who?”

“No idea.” Stalham shrugged. “Once I tried to have the chap that delivers the manuscripts followed, but he shook the tail—that is, he lost the man I had follow him.”

“You must have tried more than once,” Jeremy deduced.

“Half a dozen. All came up empty. I even hired me a Bow Street Runner to get the job done.” He shook his head. “To no avail. They couldn't find her. Whoever she is—”

“Or he,” interjected Jeremy.

“Or he,” Stalham allowed with a nod, “they don't want to be found. They're damn—I mean, quite—careful.”

On that, Jeremy had to agree. The steps taken by the Lady to protect her identity were indeed elaborate. It would take a considerable amount of thought and deduction to ferret her out. Yet, far from deterring him from his goal, he found his excitement and interest growing, like a spark that wanted to burn hotter and higher. This was a world of which he knew little—a slightly lurid realm of the senses.