Page 32 of Temptations of a Wallflower
Their gazes met and held, a current of heat passing between them.
“But not too solemn, I hope,” she pressed. It was grim to think that Jeremy would be the sort of man to extinguish the candles, get completely under the covers, pull up her nightdress just enough to get thedeed done, and then apologize afterward for sullying her.
“There’s joy in it, too,” he amended. “But where Marwood’s concerned, before he married I doubt he knew what it meant to love. Beyond the physical act of it,” he added, then blushed both adorably and carnally. Perhaps he wouldn’t be a staid lover, after all. He rested his hand on the back of her chair, and she felt the brush of his knuckles between her shoulder blades.
More heat filled her. This was a dangerous conversation to have with him. Were she ever to marry, the most she could hope for was esteem and perhaps a mild, weak sort of affection. Love was the stuff of plays and novels—though her own books seldom mentioned that emotion. Lust motivated her characters, not love.
Yet with Jeremy . . . she dreamed of things she’d little hope of ever knowing.
Sarah wished . . . oh, she wished for many things. All at once, the strangest desire to tell him every secret surged forward. Partially because he was a man of the cloth. But more because he washim,with that openness of heart that felt so genuine and enfolding. She wanted to confide in him, let him know that she was the Lady of Dubious Quality. Much as she enjoyed holding that mystery to herself, she wanted to share it with someone. Her hidden triumph.
But if he knew, what might his response be? He wouldn’t greet the news with excitement and approval. He could be disgusted, or angry. Even if he did, astonishingly, accept her as a writer of erotic books, his role as a moral leader of the community would be jeopardized by the knowledge. He’d have to turn his back on her.
“I’ve seen far more happy brides than unhappy,” he continued.
“There must be something to the institution, then,” she answered.
“Most likely,” he said, a corner of his mouth turning up, “or else we wouldn’t keep getting married. We need someone with whom to share our most intimate thoughts.”
The wordintimatesent a shiver through her.
Another intimate secret threatened to spill, one she had to bite back forcibly. Perhaps it was the way Jeremy inspired thoughts of confession. Perhaps it was the understanding and confidence they shared. But she longed to tell him something about herself. Something no one knew.
She had invited Jeremy to the theater tonight, but she could never invite him to her next destination. In three days’ time, she was to visit a clandestine club, one that specialized in masked revelry. Often, part of the entertainment included people making love on stage. Through her publisher she’d heard that occasionally members of this club liked to enact scenes from her novels. The notion was thrilling, to know that her writing impacted people so much that they would want to re-create her work, live and in the flesh.
The idea of going to see it was impossibly scandalous. Her, a duke’s untouched daughter, venturing forth incognitoto a gathering known for actual sexual performances was unheard of. Devastating to her reputation.
And yet the possibility was far too enticing. She could not resist it, as much as she could not resist thepull of writing. The danger of it. The risk. Her life was so circumscribed, so regimented and quiet—she needed that element of chance. It was as if, by taking risks, she regained control over herself.
But if Jeremy found out . . . then, surely, he would never want to see her again.
Pain filled her, sharp and caustic.
Pushing away the urge to divulge her secrets, she focused instead on what she and Jeremy could speak of. Even the precarious topic of love was more acceptable than her carnal writings, or discussing covert masked societies with staged sexual acts.
“Perhaps Lord Marwood can learn from his cousin’s example,” she offered.
His alluring blush deepened. “He’s a sight more experienced than I.”
“It would be difficult to find anyone who could top him for experience,” she noted with a smile.
Jeremy chuckled at that, the sound like napped velvet against her flesh. She leaned back, pressing his hand against her skin. He glanced over at the point of contact but did not move away. A secret touch, its knowledge shared only by them.
His cousin would be an excellent model for one of her characters. Sensuous, worldly. A veteran of the bedroom. Yet Lord Marwood interested her not at all. Far better to write of a man like Jeremy, one who discovered and learned his potential. And there was so much promise in him . . . they could learn things together. Explore the realm of the senses. Explore each other.
Her pulse thrummed at the thought, and her body cried out silently,Yes, please!
“I like the way you speak your mind, Lady Sarah,” he murmured softly.
“I like to speak it,” she answered. “Though I don’t often get the opportunity.”
“That’s a shame.”
“I thought women were for decorative purpose, not to opine their thoughts and feelings,” she noted.
He shook his head. “I find that men who believe that are petty creatures, fragile and afraid.”
“You aren’t? Doesn’t the Bible teach us that women should be docile and biddable?”
