Page 70 of Temptations of a Wallflower
Mrs. Holland blushed. “Ah, some of us aren’t madefor London’s busy ways.” She glanced at Jeremy pointedly. “Are we, Mr. Cleland?”
Jeremy took a drink of cordial instead of answering. He wouldn’t have minded some whiskey instead, but he’d grown too acclimated to his father’s excellent liquor. A simple country cordial would suit him fine from now on. It had to.
How could he answer his housekeeper? He glowed with pleasure whenever he looked at Sarah, sitting here in his own comfortable parlor, though it was a far cry from the elegant drawing rooms to which she had to be more accustomed. Anticipation thrummed through him at the thought of showing her around, introducing her to his parishioners, seeing her settle into her new life.
He had passion and excitement with Sarah. Yet he still couldn’t lose this sensation of . . . incompletion.
He’d have to take up his responsibilities here in the parish again. Lead services. Counsel parishioners. Visit the sick and elderly. Listen to complaints and offer solutions. Manage the business of running the vicarage. It was, as he’d known for a long, long time, a quiet, uneventful life. One that would pass gently, calmly, with little to interrupt the shift of seasons. Births, marriages, deaths. The cycle of life endlessly perpetuating itself. And him at the center of it all, expected to serenely guide everyone along their preordained paths.
Something restless and not completely satisfied still gnawed at him. He’d thought it would go away after he married. After all, he’d found the one woman who suited him so well. Yet returning to Rosemead, he felt . . . edgy. Restive. As though energy pulsed throughhis legs, urging him to grab Sarah’s hand and just run. Run far beyond the limits of the parish borders. Letting the whole of England swallow them up so they wouldn’t be a vicar and his aristocratic bride any longer but simply husband and wife. Free to explore the country. Explore themselves.
Helping people did give him a sensation of usefulness and purpose. But life as a vicar restrained him, limited as he was to a single parish. He might try becoming a bishop—but they were much more managerial in their responsibilities. Besides, it took ambition to become bishop. He hadn’t the kind of ambition his father wanted.
“I should bring your bags upstairs and unpack them,” Mrs. Holland announced.
“I’ll manage it on my own,” Jeremy said quickly. He didn’t want her finding his now well-thumbed copy ofThe Highwayman’s Seductionamongst his belongings.
“As you wish, Mr. Cleland.” Mrs. Holland threw back the last of her cordial. “Supper needs tending, so if you’ll excuse me.”
“Thank you again for making me feel so welcome,” Sarah said to the housekeeper before she could take her leave.
Mrs. Holland glanced between Sarah and Jeremy. “A good woman is what this house needed. And by ‘house,’” she added, pointing at Jeremy, “I mean‘you.’” With that, she walked off toward the kitchen.
After Mrs. Holland left, Mr. Wolbert spent the better part of an hour telling Jeremy about what had transpired during his absence. Despite all the domestic upheavals and dramas, not much—if anything—hadchanged. Sarah listened attentively and asked many questions about who was who.
Mr. Wolbert glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly three. I ought to get back to my lodging house.”
“And let everyone in the village know that we’re home,” Jeremy said.
The curate grinned. “I’ve been told I’ll get nothing to eat for supper nor breakfast if I’m remiss in my duties as Rosemead’s town crier. Hear ye, hear ye.”
“I imagine the bell on the door will ring mightily within a day,” Sarah said, rising.
“Expect some visitors, my lady,” Mr. Wolbert said, also getting to his feet. He grabbed his hat from the nearby stand, bowed, then shook Jeremy’s hand. “Good to have you back, Jeremy.”
“Good to see you again, Fred,” Jeremy answered.
In a few moments, Jeremy and Sarah were alone in the parlor.
“I love to look at you here,” he admitted. “Never thought to have such a light in my home.”
“Never thought I would be anyone’s light,” she confessed. “But I like being yours.” She swayed over to him and threaded her fingers together behind his neck.
He kissed her forehead. “Let me show you around.”
“The bedrooms?” A sly little smile played about her lips.
Ah. She was likely expecting the arrangement of most aristocratic households. “I have to warn you, love, this is a small, old house. There’s only one bedroom.”
To his relief, her smile was wide. “It will spare me having to walk to your room every night and back to mine in the morning. My feet will get so cold.”
“Don’t want any part of you getting cold,” he said, voice low and husky as he drew her close.
“How will I stay warm?” she murmured, her gaze on his lips.
“We’re intelligent people.” He brushed his mouth against hers. “I know we’ll come up with a reasonable solution.”
She affected a pout—so very unlike her it made him smile. “But I don’t want to be reasonable.”
