Page 7 of Temptations of a Wallflower
The tension that knotted Sarah’s shoulders and coiled in her stomach slowly spiraled away. She closed her eyes and let the warm, comfortable sensation drift through her. At last, she could be her true self.
Lady Sarah Frampton. The Duke of Wakefield’s daughter. The Watching Wallflower. She was all of these things, and none of them. For her true identity was known to her readers as the Lady of Dubious Quality, author of several extremely successful and popular erotic novels.
No one at the marquess’s garden party knew. Not a single person. Including her own mother.
Precisely the way Sarah needed it. Should anyone find out that the Lady of Dubious Quality was, in fact, Lady Sarah, the scandal would be devastating. Even a man as powerful as her father might not be able to help her weather such a storm. The family might not be received by others, while she would be cut off from all of Society, forced to flee to the country or abroad. Perhaps she’d have to assume a new name, since all decent people would have nothing to do with her, knowing that she was the author of salacious novels.
And yet, despite the fact that she knew she courted danger by writing and publishing such work, Sarah couldn’t stop herself. She might as well give up eating and drinking. Writing wasessential.She’d known it from the age of four, when she’d learned how to hold a pen. Her parents had often had to take away her quill and paper and chase her outside to play, or else threaten her with no paper for a week if she didn’t put down her pen and go to bed. And when she hadn’t obeyed, and they had taken away her foolscap, she’d written in the end papers and margins of her books.
Sarah scanned the sheet in front of her, smiling ruefully to herself as she read what she’d written.
Everyone wanted her to be decorative, useless and virginal, but penning erotic stories pushed blood through her veins. If only Lord Allam’s garden party was as debauched and free as Lady Josephina would have liked. If only Sarah could be as liberated as her heroine. Her sensual education had started only a few years ago when a certain book had fallen into her hands by mistake, but ever since then, her eyes had been opened, and the world was entirely different. Yet Lady Sarah had a reputation to preserve, so, rather than experiencing the sensual realm in real life, she freed herself with writing about a woman on a sensuous hunt, searching for the perfect sexual prey.
After using a small knife to sharpen her pencil, Sarah began to write again.
She had heard that Lord E. had a most impressive—
“Sarah? Sarah?” The doorknob rattled.
Damn.
She barely had time to shove the paper into her reticule before the door opened. Her mother sailed into the room.
“What are you doing?” Mama demanded. “Writing? What have I said about that?”
“It’s just a garden plan.” Sarah hated gardening and scrupulously avoided it.
Lady Wakefield made a tsking sound of displeasure. “You shan’t find a husband scribbling in rooms, all alone.”
In truth, no fewer than four offers of marriage had been presented to Sarah in her first two years out. And Sarah had refused every one of them. But neither she nor her mother would discuss that—it was too frustrating.
Her mother sighed. “You’re spoiled by your father. Too many books ruin a girl’s mind. Not to mention reading causes wrinkles, just here.” She pointed to the corners of her eyes.
“You have no wrinkles, Mama,” Sarah pointed out.
“Because the only thing I’ll read isLa Belle Assembleé,” her mother said proudly, “and even then, I make sure I don’t peruse it for more than ten minutes at a time. You’d be wise to follow my example, Sarah.”
“I’ll try.” There were many days, especially when Sarah was younger and believed in—and wrote—fairy tales, that she hoped herself to be a warrior queen froma mythical realm. Perhaps she was a foundling. Yet she and her mother bore a striking resemblance to each other . . . appearance-wise. And she had her father’s love of reading to prove that she was, in fact, an ordinary girl, not a fierce monarch wielding an enchanted sword rather than an embroidery needle.
“Come now,” her mother snapped. “We’ll return to the party at once and make ourselves agreeable. I saw how you walked away from Sir William.”
It was useless to protest. Lady Wakefield would only goad and harangue Sarah until she agreed. Perhaps soon, in another few years, her mother would finally accept defeat and realize Sarah would never marry.
With an internal sigh, Sarah rose from the desk. She secretly patted her reticule, making sure that her writing was safe. After giving the little room one last, longing glance, she followed her mother toward the garden in the back.
“Honestly, Sarah,” Lady Wakefield protested as they walked, “I cannot understand why you don’t give potential suitors any encouragement. The years are ticking by, my dear.”
A fact Sarah was counting on. Telling her mother outright that marriage would never happen was impossible—Lady Wakefield would only see that as a gauntlet thrown down, a challenge to be met. Her efforts to pair her only daughter off would become unendurable.
They finally reached the terrace outside, and Sarah and her mother gazed out at the assembled guests.
“Smile, darling,” her mother said in an undertone. “You look far too serious and, well,literate.”
“I’ll endeavor to appear more vacant,” Sarah replied.
Her mother shot her a sour glance.
Sarah looked out over the party full of Society’s finest male specimens. Nearly all of them were titled. A good many had decent fortunes. Most still had all their teeth and hair. A few were known to be fond of their drink and gambling. The majority of them would make for acceptable husbands—after all, love wasn’t a requirement of marriage.
