Page 24 of Temptations of a Wallflower
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ll stay.”
Relief nearly staggered her with its power. It was so much better to show up those fools with Mr. Cleland at her side, rather than attempt it on her own.
“Thank you,” she whispered. It was a paltry thing to say when he’d given her so much more than simply a few moments looking at smutty art.
Together, they turned back to the picture of the woman playing a stringed instrument, her lover plucking at her nipples. The soft colors of the scene highlighted its lush, charged sexuality. What must it be like to be engaged in an activity while being the object of seduction? She could be sitting at her desk, writing peaceably, but then her imaginary lover would come in and trail kisses down her neck while his hands caressed her breasts. She’d try very hard to keep writing, but it would be impossible when her fantasy lover moved lower, to go beneath her desk and kneel between her legs, and then his curly blond hair would brush the insides of her thighs as he—
“Very, ah, pretty,” Jeremy offered.
“I wonder that she can pay attention to what she’s doing,” Sarah answered, her voice slightly breathless. Heat and slickness gathered between her legs, and she fought to keep her thighs from brushing together. Warmth bloomed in her face. It was a marvel she didn’t glow.
He looked at her for a moment, as though surprised she still hadn’t fainted dead to the floor. But then he nodded.
“Perhaps she’s composing a song,” he said, his deep voice slightly rough.
“Something to fit the moment.” What would that song sound like? Though Sarah could play piano with some skill, she had no real gift for music. But still, a song inspired by passion . . . now there was an idea. A musician who drew creativity from sex. Each composition providing a musical retelling or accompaniment to an act of love.
“Shall we . . . move on?” Jeremy suggested.
Sarah glanced back at Lady Donleigh, Miss Green, and Lord Lynde. They wore stunned looks on their faces, as though astounded that she hadn’t fled in virginal terror. Let them gape.
Drifting away from the painting, she glided toward the next piece of artwork on display. Jeremy’s lanky, sleek presence warmed her as he stood close. They stopped at a lovely, verdant landscape, filled with intricately crafted trees—each leaf seemingly painted one at a time with a minuscule brush.
“This must be here by mistake,” she murmured. “I don’t see—”Fucking,her mind filled in for her, but she’d never say that word aloud.
“In the . . .” Jeremy coughed. “. . . lower right corner.”
Sarah bent closer, peering at the artwork. “You must have very good eyesight.”
“I do.”
Sure enough, half hidden by the branch of a tree, a couple embraced one another. The embrace wasn’t entirely shocking, but the couple’s state of partial dress was more so. It was also evident that the man in the scene had a rampant erection.
“Imagine doing that, right out in the countryside,” she said, mostly to herself. She’d written scenes that took place in the out-of-doors. A farmer and the washerwoman. A lady and her groom. But it was one thing to write about something, entirely different to see it enacted before her very eyes. If one made love outside, anyone might walk by and see. The risk of being caught seemed like it would be an exquisite thrill.
“Have you ever . . . ?” she found herself asking.
He looked at her with violent alarm.
“Come across anyone,” she hastily amended. At his continued silence, she murmured, “I’m sorry. I oughtn’t ask such personal questions.”
“Well, I—ah—” His voice was nearly an octave deeper. “Once, I walked into a stable and saw two young men hurriedly straightening their clothing. They’d been . . . enjoying themselves.”
She’d read about amorous encounters between people of the same sex, but everything was rumor and other people’s experiences. Still it came as a double surprise: firstly, that people truly did engage in such behavior, and secondly, that Jeremy would confide in her about it.
He seemed to think the same thing, giving a soft, incredulous laugh. “I’m sorry. Never in the depths of my most fevered dreams did I think I would say such things to you.”
“I’ll tell no one,” she answered, humbled by his trust. “Besides, I think you and I, we rather understand each other. Don’t we?”
He gazed at her for a moment, and she felt it all the way to her toes. “We do. To an extent.”
“No one can know someone completely.” She thought of all the secrets she carried, a trove of confidences that sometimes weighed more than bars of gold, yet she would never willingly part with any of her burden. What mysteries did he carry? It seemed like a great many, perhaps ones he might not even be aware of.
“We’re each of us enigmas, especially to ourselves,” he answered, as if reading her thoughts. “That might be our life’s work—to unlock those mysteries.”
“Oh, but mysteries make things so much more interesting,” she said. It seemed odd and not quite real to be having this conversation with a vicar in front of a Persian miniature painting of two lovers fondling each other. And yet, when it came to Jeremy, she wanted everything as extraordinary as he was. As unexpected and remarkable as the man himself. “And some of them are best left unsolved. Otherwise, everything becomes featureless and dreary.”
“But what of the thrill of the hunt? The pursuit of . . . knowledge.” That word in his mouth, with his rich voice, seemed imbued with possibility.
