Page 72 of Temptations of a Wallflower
Obligingly, he picked up his quill. The nib hovered over the paper for several moments but didn’t move. He cast it aside in annoyance. “It’s no use. I cannot think of anything. My mind’s a pudding.”
She pulled up a chair and sat beside him. The deskwas covered in papers, letters, and books. A scholar’s desk. “Is it always so difficult for you to write your sermon?”
“Not always. But I find myself distracted as of late.” He picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, smiling as he did so.
She cradled the side of his face. “Some distractions are worth it.”
“Tell that to my parishioners on Sunday. ‘Sorry, the vicar doesn’t have a sermon for you today. He’s been too preoccupied rogering his wife morning, noon, and night.’”
Sarah laughed. “Rogeringis such a beautiful way of putting it. Besides,” she added with a purr, “we haven’t really explored that noon option yet.”
He gave her a kiss—but it was all too quick. “More than anything, I’d like to make that exploration with you. However, I’ve less than twenty-four hours to finish this blasted sermon, and I can’t budge from this chair until I get it done.”
She banked her disappointment. After all, she would see him later in bed. “But you’ve already got your topic.”
“I do?”
She grinned. “Marriage.”
“Write about marriage,” he mused.
“You’ve got experience with it now.”
Slowly, he nodded. “That would do very well. I could start with Mark 10:7–9. ‘And they twain shall be one flesh: so then they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.’ Yes. Yes.” He quickly grabbed his quilland began to write. The nib flew across the paper as one sentence followed the next. He paused every now and then to think but soon was back at work, scribbling away.
Sarah rose and set her chair aside. Her husband was now deeply immersed in his task, and it pleased her to watch him at his labors.
“I’m going to catch up on some overdue correspondence,” she said to his bent back.
His response was a distracted grunt. Quietly, she slipped from the room, and, with one last look at Jeremy hunched over his desk, she exited the study. Making sure that her steps were soft, she walked down the corridor to the narrow little chamber that had been cleared out for her use. It contained a small desk, a chair, and a cupboard.
It was very, very different from the Green Drawing Room—about a fourth of its size, and much less richly furnished. But the sun streamed in through a high window, and the space was truly hers alone. Her heart lifted every time she looked at it. At Jeremy’s direction, Mrs. Holland had placed a vase with wildflowers atop a tiny table. The room was homey and humble, and she adored it.
Sarah sat and, after cutting a few quills into pens, pulled out several sheets of paper. She ran her hand back and forth over the blank pages, feeling their promise, their invitation. Soon she would immerse herself again in her world of flesh and pleasure. For now she knew what that pleasure was truly, and it would have to affect her writing. She greeted the change enthusiastically. Experience made for an excellent teacher.
Though she was eager to write, she let herself dally a moment longer, her mind drifting. In truth, she was a little muzzy-headed lately. But then, she hadn’t been sleeping much this past week. She and Jeremy had been carrying on so much in bed that it was a wonder the sheets and blankets hadn’t been reduced to rags. They were drunk on each other and what their bodies could create together. Every moment was an unfolding world, with new continents and seas to discover. Her body felt supple and sleek, replete yet always in demand for more. And more.
But the private world of the bedroom ended every morning, when they both had to rise with the sun and attend their duties. He to his parish business, and she to paying calls. Her visits to the people of Rosemead were far more important and useful than the visits she’d had to endure in London. Those had been full of empty talk, gossip, ways to fill time. Here in Rosemead, she had purpose, bringing food and a listening ear to those who needed both. She wasn’t the Watching Wallflower here. She had meaning outside of being the Duke of Wakefield’s daughter.
This would be her first time back at writing since her marriage. Would it be different? The only way to know was to try. She picked up her quill and began.
Lady Josephina stared at her nude, sleeping lover. She’d never expected to find such pleasure, and with such an unlikely man. Who would ever have believed that a university professor had such knowledge and imagination when it came to lovemaking? Yet more than his skill at lovingher was the way he held her—tenderly. Reverently. As though they meant more to each other than a means to climax. None of her many, many bedpartners had ever treated her the same way. And she adored it.
She decided to wake him, in the best possible way. Carefully, she tugged the blankets down, revealing his . . .
Sarah glanced up some time later, only to discover that two hours had passed. Stretching, she looked down at the filled sheets of paper. If she had been worried that married life would rob her of inspiration, she’d been very wrong. A connection flowed between her and the page, as if the words poured from her like light.
Rereading what she’d written, she was struck by the difference in her work. Oh, there was still plenty of sex. But something else was there between the characters. Something more than the physical need of one body for the other. Was it . . . love?
She rubbed at her forehead. She hadn’t thought about what she was writing as the words had come, but looking at it now, she saw that the hero and heroine cared for each other. They respected each other.
This was aromance,not just an erotic tale.
What would her readers make of it? Hopefully they would like the new direction she was taking with her writing. Because it simply seemed to happen without thought.
Her stomach rumbled, and she realized that it had been many hours since breakfast.
After a brief stop in the kitchen to talk to Mrs. Holland, Sarah returned to Jeremy’s study. She tapped lightlyon the door and was bid enter. As she stepped inside, she saw Jeremy standing beside his desk, stretching. He made a delectable picture, with his muscles straining against the fine lawn of his shirt, his long body on beautiful display. When he saw her, he grinned.
