Page 19 of Temptations of a Wallflower
“Now I know how conscripted soldiers feel,” Sarah muttered once she and her mother were alone.
“Nonsense,” Lady Wakefield said crisply. “It will be an enjoyable afternoon. Get you out of the house and, most importantly, out of your daydreams.”
Sarah preferred it in her daydreams. Those dreams fed her purse. They inspired and impelled her. They were lurid and lascivious and wonderful. The world bent to her will in her imagination.
And there, she could keep company with people she wanted to be with . . . such as the alluring Mr. Cleland.
The idea occurred to her later that afternoon. Whyshouldn’tshe spend time with someone who actually interested her? If she was going to be dragged along as an object of amusement for the fashionable threesome, oughtn’t she find a way to make the experience a little more endurable, more enjoyable? Her characters lived far outside the realms of conventional behavior. In fact, she had written a scene where her amorous washerwoman visited a dockside tavern all on her own—and found two randy sailors to play with. Lady Josephina also didn’t care about what Society thought, taking lovers from both high and low ranks.
What if Sarah also disregarded Society’s rules, just this once? Could her real life and her dream life blur together, for one afternoon?
Her plan wasn’t at all respectable. It was, in truth, a little fast, a little racy. Her heart sped up at the mere thought. Yet she was willing to chance a tiny bit of scandal for herself. It was nothing compared to the scandal of her identity being revealed, after all.
So she went to her desk, sat down, and wrote. Once it was finished, she reread it, grimacing.
Such a dull, prosaic piece of writing. She was constrained by politeness, unable to tell Mr. Cleland about imagining everyone as food. Certainly, she couldn’t tell him about the idea she had for a sensuous, magical baker. The alchemy of the kitchen.
All these notions, she longed to tell him. But it was impossible. They didn’t know each other that well.Even if they did, an unmarried woman never spoke of such things to a single man.
God—what if she sent him one of her manuscript pages instead, such as the scene when Lady Josephina amused herself with the stable master? Mr. Cleland’s servants might rush in to find him having an attack of apoplexy on the floor of his drawing room, the paper clutched in his hand.
But no, she was certain she was sending him the right letter.
After reviewing the missive once more for spelling errors, she sanded it, then folded it up. Sarah sealed the letter and handed it to a footman.
“Shall I await a reply?” asked the servant.
She considered it. It might be impertinent of her to send the invitation, but it would be even more so if she expected an immediate response. “Not unless he asks.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The footman bowed and left. Sarah sat and fretted. Would Mr. Cleland reject her bold invitation? How might he react? With shock, repulsion or . . . excitement? There had been a shared heat between them at Lord Allam’s garden party. Or perhaps she’d only imagined it. Perhaps all she’d experienced had been his politeness, or the courtesy he showed everyone. Yet by writing this letter and overstepping her bounds, it was possible she’d ensured that Mr. Cleland wouldn’t want anything to do with her.
Would he send a reply right away? He was a vicar. Certainly he would be prompt in his correspondence, unless he wasn’t home and something else claimed his attention. In that case, she’d likely have to wait.
She paced the length of her sitting room. Writing could distract her. Lady Josephina had tired of her footman, as well as the stable master, and was seeking diversion elsewhere. Who might she encounter next? Perhaps a change of scenery from London . . .
The words were eager to leap off Sarah’s quill, but she couldn’t find the necessary place in her mind to concentrate. Strange. Writing had always proven a comfort to her, a ready source of solace. Not now. Words tumbled over themselves, refusing to be sorted out.
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’dexpected 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,
