Page 82 of Temptations of a Wallflower
His eyes closed, and he stopped walking. That pained look crossed his face again. He looked as though he struggled with something, his mouth opening and closing, but no words emerging. His jaw worked, forming a taut line, and his lips thinned.
“Whatever it is,” she said gently, laying a hand onhis forearm, “you know you can speak of it. Anything at all—you can tell me.”
“I’m afraid,” he rasped.
She frowned with concern. “Of what?”
“Of what you’ll think of me if I tell you.” He would not meet her gaze.
Carefully, she set her fingers beneath his jaw and turned it so that he faced her. “There is nothing you could say to me that would make me care for you any less.”
“Is that a vow?”
“It is the truth,” she answered. “I remember what the priest said at our wedding. That marriage was ‘for the help and comfort given one another in prosperity and adversity.’ Any adversity.”
He exhaled. Then seemed to come to a conclusion. “We’ve nothing without honesty,” he said at last.
A blade of guilt pierced her. Someday she might confide in him her deepest secret. But that was a long time off. Until then, for their happiness and security, she could say nothing.
He looked at her. “Do you remember that book I showed you on our wedding night? The book by the Lady of Dubious Quality.”
“I remember.”
He hesitated. “You were quite . . . open-minded about the fact that I’d read her novels. I hope you retain that same open-mindedness when I tell you what I must.”
Dread climbed its way up her spine with cold claws. Pulses of fear moved through her body. “I’ll try,” she said, pushing the words out.
“The author of the novels is unknown,” he continued. “Some suspected she is a man—some hack writer churning out lurid tales for the promise of quick, ready money.”
Pride chased away some of her anxiety. Her back stiffened. “I should think not.”
He nodded. “Clues in the writing make me believe otherwise, too. I think she’s a genteel lady. Perhaps impoverished, perhaps not. But she must keep herself secret for the sake of scandal.”
A blast of icy terror washed along Sarah’s veins. “You’ve given this writer’s identity considerable thought.”
“I have to.” He raked his hands through his hair, which normally charmed her, but she barely registered it now. “The reason why I’ve been coming to London is this—I have to discover who the Lady of Dubious Quality is.”
The ground shifted and rolled under Sarah’s feet. She thought she might be sick. She swallowed hard, then again, as she swayed on her feet.
“Why?” she said numbly. “She seems . . . harmless enough.”
“That’s what I believe,” Jeremy said fervently. “But my father and my uncle think otherwise. They want me to uncover the Lady’s identity. And expose her for the sake of the city’s morality. If I don’t do as he says, I’m to lose my allowance and have only my meager living to support us.” He peered at her with concern, taking hold of her hands. “Are you all right? You look pallid.”
“Feel . . . faint,” she mumbled. Sarah allowed himto escort her to a nearby bench. He sat beside her and wrapped one arm around her.
“I should fetch a physician,” he said worriedly.
She managed to shake her head. “I’ll be all right in a moment. Just got a little dizzy. City life has wreaked havoc with my nerves.”
Absolute shock turned her limbs frozen, her mind sluggish. How could this be? Her own husband? The man who had been searching for her all this time. Who had inadvertently led her toward marriage through his pursuit of her hidden self. The man she’d come to love with her body and mind and soul.
One and the same.
“Once you e-expose her,” Sarah stammered.
“Don’t talk,” Jeremy said soothingly. “Not until you’re fully well.”
“When you find out who she is,” she pressed, “and reveal her identity . . . then what?”
