Page 62 of Temptations of a Wallflower
Now he paced back and forth in the corridor. He kept hovering his hand over the doorknob, then turning away and pacing some more, feeling like a beast on a tether. He paused, listening at the doorway. Silence. No sounds of water splashing from her bath, nor the creak of the floorboards as she got ready for bed.
Got ready for bed.Theirsharedbed.
Imagining her sliding between the sheets made Jeremy feel as though he was going to come. Or vomit. Or both. Hopefully not at the same time.
Breathe, damn it!He tried to follow his own command, dragging air into his lungs like he was preparing to dive beneath the surface of the sea.
Other relatively inexperienced men had bedded women. But he didn’t care about any of those other men. He was concerned only about himself and his ability to pleasure his wife.
If only he hadn’t left his copy ofThe Highwayman’s Seductionin his valise, currently inside the room. He could have thumbed through the pages, picked up a few suggestions as to how to proceed. But the highwayman hero of that novel had a sight more confidence than Jeremy possessed.
That’s what he needed: confidence. In all of the Lady of Dubious Quality books he’d read, every one of the male lovers had been supremely self-assured, almost to the point of arrogance. They knew that they could give a woman pleasure, and that informed all of their actions, their words. Marwood’s advice rang in his ears. Conviction and boldness had been key at the masquerade in Bloomsbury.
He pushed thoughts of the Golden Woman aside. Now was about him and Sarah. His wife. His future.
A door to one of the other rooms opened, and a middle-aged woman emerged. She looked at Jeremy with motherly concern.
“You don’t go in there, Vicar,” she said, glancing toward the door to his room, “she’ll head down to the taproom and find someone else to do her good and proper.”
With a pat on his cheek, the woman moved on, chuckling to herself.
Jeremy took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders and broadening his chest. He was a grown man. He was made to give Sarah pleasure. And he would do it . . . now.
He knocked on the door. “Sarah?”
There was a sudden patter of feet, and the ropes of the bed creaked as someone—presumably Sarah—climbed in. The bedclothes rustled.
He hardened like iron.
“Yes,” she called. “Uh, come in.”
He stepped inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. Sarah was in bed watching him, the covers pulled up to her armpits. Her skin had gone pink allover, concentrating especially in her cheeks. Her eyes gleamed brightly as she observed him come in and pull off his coat.
Sounds from the taproom dimly penetrated through the floor. Men laughed. Someone struck up a tune on the fiddle.
“The bath was acceptable, I hope.” He glanced over at the tub full of cooling water and tried not to picture her naked in it—without much success. His cock grew even harder. At this rate, he’d terrify her with the pier piling of his erection.
“The innkeeper’s wife put rose petals in the water,” Sarah said.
At the mention of the flower, he realized that the air was scented with its fragrance. A few wilted petals drifted in circles atop the surface of the bathwater.
“That was kind of her,” he said dully.
“It was,” Sarah answered.
Both of them looked everywhere but at each other as conversation guttered out like a candle flame. More sounds continued from below—a shout, a woman singing—and the pop of the fire in the grate sounded as loud as a gunshot.
Would he and Sarah stay like this all night, frozen with apprehension?
Confidence,he reminded himself.You will make her feel inexpressible pleasure.
“I’ll just have a wash up,” he said, tipping his head toward the washstand in the corner.
“Of course,” she answered quickly, her eyes darting to the opposite corner.
He walked to the small table, where a pitcher, basin,and small cake of soap awaited him. A mirror hung on the wall, allowing him a view of Sarah behind him. She kept her gaze firmly away from him, so he took advantage of this and hastily stripped from the waist up. Neckcloth, waistcoat. Then his shirt, which he tugged rapidly from his trousers. All of these garments he set aside on a nearby chair.
He readied the water and washcloth, then scrubbed himself. Neck, underarms, chest. Water sluiced down his torso. The room felt very hot, however, so he didn’t mind.
