Page 85 of Temptations of a Wallflower
The penmanship appeared painfully recognizable, as though the author lingered just at the fringes of his thoughts but kept herself obscured in a filmy cloud.Where had he seen it? Whose handwriting was this? A friend’s? A parishioner’s? A family member’s?
No—
He wouldn’t allow the thought. He had to prove it wasn’t true. His hand moved automatically toward the inside pocket of his jacket, where he kept one of Sarah’s notes. He always carried with him a scrap of something that belonged to her. To keep her close at all times. The note was something simple and inconsequential regarding the tending of the glebe near the vicarage.
He reread the note now. Then looked back at the manuscript. Back and forth his gaze went. The truth hit him long before understanding did.
The handwriting was the same. Identical. Same loopingl,same drifting dot over thei.Even the spacing between words and letters was exact. It was right there, in his hands. The proof he needed.
Sarah—hiswife—was the Lady of Dubious Quality.
He ambled through the city streets for hours, too numb and stunned to do anything else besides walk. Every time he tried to wrap his mind around his discovery, his thoughts revolted, his mind rearing back like a horse refusing a bridle.
How could it be? All this time, for years, long before she’d ever known him, Sarah had been writing anonymous erotic novels. Risking herself, the reputation of herself and her family—all to write about sexual misadventures.Why?How could she take that chance? What provoked her to do it? How long had she been keeping this secret? Keeping it from everyone, includinghim.
A sick understanding hit him. She’d kept the truth from him when they’d married. Had deliberately deceived him.
Damn—if she was the Lady of Dubious Quality, then it stood to reason that she was also the Golden Woman. Another secret she’d hidden from him. Another identity draped in deceit.
No.No.He refused to believe it. They had given each other everything. They shared understanding and trust that existed between them alone.
She couldn’t purposefully throw that away. She would not.
You don’t have proof,his thoughts whispered.Just a bit of handwriting. So they look very similar. Doesn’t mean she’s the Lady. Just ask her.
Yes. He would ask her. When confronted directly, she would have to tell him the truth. She couldn’t lie straight to his face. Not his Sarah.
And then she’d laugh and tell him he was being ridiculous—and whoever wrote that manuscript had been educated by the same governess or some other explanation that would turn all of his suspicions to ash.
He was being ridiculous. Utterly foolish. He made himself laugh aloud, though the passersby around him looked at him strangely, then gave the laughing vicar a wide berth as they proceeded down the street.
It was late afternoon. They would be getting ready for dinner at home. He’d simply go back, ask Sarah before the meal, she’d set his mind at ease, and then . . . then he’d throw the manuscript in the fire and go back to life as he knew it. A happy life full of love and honesty. He would make love to Sarah all night, both ofthem giddy with the absurdity that he could have ever suspected her of being the Lady of Dubious Quality. Yes. That’s exactly what would happen.
He turned around and headed for home. Already the words were forming on his tongue.I know this is completely ridiculous, love, but are you the woman who writes those salacious books?He felt frenzied with the need to simply spill the words and have all his doubts thrown away. It would take a single question. A single response. And then it would be done.
He practically bounded up the stairs to the front door. The butler let him in, and Jeremy walked straight to his parlor. He hid the manuscript in a locking drawer of the desk, pocketing the key. Having the pages out and loose in the house seemed an invitation to disaster. Besides, he didn’t need to show Sarah the manuscript. A simple question would suffice. He wasn’t a Bow Street Runner, trying to gather evidence against a criminal.
After inquiring of a servant, he learned that Sarah was reading in one of the salons. He knew the route, so he took himself to the chamber. The door was open. He approached quietly, his footsteps slowing as he neared, as though treading on a fragile secret. He paused in the doorway and looked at her, unobserved.
Sarah perched on the edge of a settee, a small book in her hands. Late sunlight drifted in through the window, outlining her in gold. Little wisps of hair curled at her nape, giving her a deceptively fragile appearance. Experience had taught him that she was much more resilient than anyone credited her for. She was lovely to him, so lovely his chest and throat ached. Her strength made her even more beautiful.
He must have made a sound, because she looked up. Seeing him, a smile wreathed her face.
“Hello, love,” he said, coming into the room. Words pushed at him. Just a question. And then it would be done. He had only to speak it.
Now.
Say it now.
“Do we know what’s for dinner?” he asked.
He barely spoke through the meal. His food tasted of clay and sodden cotton. His unease soon spread to the rest of the table, and almost no one spoke. Even his usually cheerful mother could find nothing of which to speak. The only sounds were the clink of silver on china, or the pour of wine into a glass. Sarah kept glancing at him with a silent question, but he had no means of communicating what tore at him. He would look at her, then look away, his mind batting back and forth like a shuttlecock. Surely there had to be a mistake. She couldn’t be the Lady of Dubious Quality. It simply could not be true.
It would mean that the entire time they’d known each other, she’d been deceiving him. Everything would be built upon deception and trickery. A house on shifting sands could never endure. It would crumble into rubble and dust at the slightest breeze.
But his question went unasked. All through the torturous meal—he’d never ask her in front of his father, anyway—and afterward, when dinner ended and the women adjourned, he kept quiet.
His father even took stabs at conversing with him over brandy and tobacco. Yet Jeremy’s distracted responses were monosyllabic. At last, in exasperation, Lord Hutton retired to the drawing room, there to seek better company. Jeremy trailed after him, but not before undertaking one specific errand within the house. He arrived at the drawing room a few minutes behind his father, to find his mother embroidering, his father reading, and Sarah staring out the window, looking at darkness.
