Page 8 of Temptations of a Wallflower
But what of passion? What of fire? She’d read and written so much of all-consuming hunger, that magnetism that pulled two bodies together and made it impossible to part. Could Sarah ever find such a thing for herself, or was it exclusive to the pages of novels? Her new character, Lady Josephina, couldn’t be the only woman to know it.
None of the men in this garden had the allure of the heroes from her books. None of them made her feel that intangible, ravenous physical need. The only desires she truly felt now were those to write, but when it came to sensual urgings, she felt . . . uninspired. The men she encountered didn’t stir her blood. Certainly never enough to give up what little power she had. Once she was married, she became a man’s property. She’d never be able to write again.
Now, as Sarah gazed around her at the charming garden scene, words formed in her head to describe it.
The Marquess of Allam always threw a wonderful garden party, thanks in large part to the efforts of Lady Allam. The garden itself was a jewel tucked away from the busy Mayfair streets—French doors opened from the house onto a wide, paved veranda, with a spaciousterrace leading down to gravel-covered paths. Though it was late in the season, some hardy blooms still made their appearance along the walkways, and here and there stood silent, mossy statuary, gazing out with sightless eyes at the parade of London’s most fashionable elite.
Small tables were arrayed throughout the garden, little islands of conversation where guests could take their rest and enjoy the plentiful refreshments. Autumnal sunlight shone down in pale splendor.
Sarah took a seat on a hard little iron chair with the widows and matrons, an array of iced cakes and tea set on a table before them. Her mother wandered off somewhere to maintain her status as one of the older set’s most charming and influential women.
While Sarah appreciated a fine garden as much as anyone else, she longed to be back inside, at her desk with pen in hand, either writing her newest tale or else working on her edits for her latest book. Her publisher could barely contain his fiscal excitement over the Lady’s next work—The Clean and the Filthy,about the amorous adventures of a laundress. That rewrite wasn’t going to be completed with her stuck at a garden party.
Sarah was uninterested in trying to drag out pointless conversations with gentlemen she had no desire to meet. Considering how many of their gazes flicked over her with barely any notice, she didn’t think any of them wanted to meet her, either. Sir William scrupulously avoided her gaze. Sitting as she was with the more mature women, her place on the shelf as a spinster looked decidedly certain.
With her practiced scribbler’s eye, she lookedaround at the assembly, seeking food for her Muse. Men and women milled about the terrace and down into the garden itself, exchanging conversation deftly. The air glinted with bright talk. Gazes danced like butterflies fluttering on the cool breeze.
To one side was a hedge maze—a convenient place for a tryst. The lilac bushes were also thick, making for a good location to sneak a kiss . . . or something more. Given the way some of the faster set looked at one another, the possibility was a distinct one. She could well imagine it now. The woman in the pink gown would brush up close to a gentleman, pretending to drop her fan. When he’d retrieve it, their fingers would brush. Once, twice. A shared look, fraught with meaning. Their gazes would glide over toward the maze. Shared understanding. Then the woman would float into the maze and await her soon-to-be lover.
Lady Josephina could find a lover in a maze . . . Sarah tucked that idea away for later.
If only Sarah could skip marriage and go straight to being an adventurous widow. Then, at last, she could do precisely what she pleased—write, take lovers—away from the strict confines of what Society expected of her. Perhaps if she went away to America and reinvented herself . . . but that would mean losing her family and everything she’d ever known.
“Does anyone have need of spiritual counsel?” one of the matrons next to her murmured slyly.
Another older woman snickered.
Following the other women’s glances, Sarah looked toward the top of the terrace, where a man was stepping out onto the flagstones.
A newcomer had arrived.
His simple clerical black highlighted the beauty of his long, sculpted face and high cheekbones. His lips weren’t precisely full, but they held a surprising degree of sensuality for a man—especially a man of the cloth. Even from a distance, his blue eyes shone like warm tropical seas. His clothing also served to emphasize his lean, tall body, as well as the width of his shoulders and narrowness of his hips. The curls in his blond hair seemed to beg for a woman’s fingers, urging them to tease and play.
He looked around at the assembly with a careful gaze, a hint of reserve in his expression. Whoever he was, he wasn’t precisely pleased to be here, but neither did he reject the setting. Like her, he seemed to be cautiously testing.
But he did not shine with a holy light. If anything, he radiated an earthy quality.
A story formed in her mind, like shards of pottery assembling themselves into a whole. He was the product of a nobleman’s tempestuous affair with a strolling actress. A man who had seen much sin and wickedness in the world. Rather than follow in his mother’s footsteps by living on the stage, the stranger sought goodness and a sense of purpose by taking up clerical orders. Yet he struggled every day with his mother’s hot blood urging him to give in to the sensuality that pulsed through him.
“I hope we won’t be treated to a sermon,” a matron near Sarah muttered.
“Maybe if I give him a donation for his church, he’ll leave us alone,” said another older woman.
“Oh,” sighed a matron, “it might be amusing to sully a man of the cloth.”
The women tittered amongst themselves. Then they caught sight of Sarah and smothered their laughter. She fought a sigh. She had that effect on people—always dampening their amusement or excitement, as if her status as an unwed woman of excellent reputation meant she couldn’t appreciate such sentiment.
I want to live, too!
But who could she say that to? How could she break the golden tether that bound her in place? Impossible.
Lord Allam strode up to the clerical man—he was too young to be that high up in the Church hierarchy, so that must make him . . . a curate? A vicar? Ah, now she remembered. As Lord Allam shook the man’s hand, she recalled that her host’s nephew was a country vicar. Though she’d never met the man before, she knew him by reputation as a serious and scholarly fellow. No one had ever told her how bloody handsome he was, however.
Sadly, he wasn’t a highwayman or a pirate. Good looking as he was, the vicar couldn’t compete with the men of her fantasies. He had probably never heard of half the sexual acts she wrote about—more the pity. Furthering their education together could be interesting.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. If anyone was to show the vicar the ways of the flesh, it wouldn’t be her, a duke’s unspoiled daughter.
Lord Allam took the vicar around, introducing him to various guests. Sarah watched the newcomer closely, seeing how he seemed to give everyone particularregard, as if each person with whom he spoke had been the most engaging and interesting one he’d ever met. His smile was luminous, filling his face. No wonder this man was in the Church.
