Page 89 of Temptations of a Wallflower
“Whatever it is between you,” Lady Hutton said softly, “give it time. He’s kind and gentle, but he possesses a surprising amount of pride. Always been that way, since he was a boy.”
The pride Sarah had irreparably damaged. She knew he’d taken considerable satisfaction in the honesty between them, and she’d destroyed all vestiges of that illusion. There was no one to blame but herself, and no matter how much she brooded and stewed over the catastrophic situation, she could find no remedy. No way out. Only further darkness.
Sarah had no answer for Lady Hutton, so the older woman left her alone.
Meanwhile, the response Sarah waited for never came. Its absence spoke louder than any response.
Her mother would not allow her to return home, not even for a short while. Sarah had made her choice, the unwritten reply seemed to say, and now she must suffer the consequences.
That afternoon, Sarah vowed she would dosomething.Anything to alleviate this misery. So she donned her coat and bonnet, and, taking a maid with her, walked toward McKinnon’s. Even on her gloomiest days, the bookstore never failed to give her pleasure.
London appeared to her at a great distance. Noiseand activity surrounded her on all sides, yet it was far away. She barely registered anything.
“Be careful, my lady!” her maid chided, pulling Sarah back from a cart that sped dangerously close.
Sarah hadn’t seen it. She could hardly take note of anything, swaddled as she was in cotton wool and sorrow.
At last she reached McKinnon’s. Despite the gray weather, the rows of books displayed on the sidewalk were bright punctuations of color, each containing its own world. They promised knowledge, escape, entertainment, information. All the things she loved.
“Afternoon, Lady Sarah!” McKinnon boomed cheerfully when she entered the shop. “It’s been an age.”
“So it has,” she answered, trying her best to manufacture some enthusiasm. But even to her own ears, her words sounded flat and lifeless.
“You must tell me all about life in the country,” the bookseller pressed.
“I shall—only not today,” she managed. “I woke with a dreadful headache and haven’t been able to shake it.”
McKinnon nodded with understanding. “My wife enjoys a bowl of sugared pap whenever the headache has her. Brings her right back to the nursery.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
Sarah could speak no more. With a wan smile, she drifted into the aisles of books. Here were her friends. Her solace. Her comfort. She’d lose herself in tales of adventure or romance—no, not romance. It was a bitter draft to drink, reading of someone else’s happiness,when her own was lost. But a pirate tale, or maybe a gothic saga . . .
Yet, as she thumbed through volume after volume, nothing interested or pleased her. Everything rang hollow. It all felt trite. Even the sinister gothic tales contained pasteboard miseries. And her attention drifted. She could not read more than a few lines before seeking diversion elsewhere.
Coming to the bookshop had been a mistake. All it did was remind her even more of what was lost, and how far she’d fallen.
She could not even find it in herself to be frustrated. She felt only . . . nothingness. Absence and nullity.
Collecting her maid, she decided to hail a post chaise for the return journey. As she traveled back to Lord Hutton’s home, she could not rouse any emotion in herself, not even dread. The world, and her own feelings, had retreated, leaving her in a barren plain where she barely recognized herself.
When they arrived, she went straight to her room. She did not inquire whether Jeremy was home or out. It didn’t matter. His distance was assured wherever he was.
It was only a matter of time before he revealed to his father—and perhaps the world—her identity as the Lady of Dubious Quality. Yet she couldn’t find it in herself to care. Everything was already ruined. What difference did scandal make?
There was one source of solace . . .
Yet when she picked up her quill to write about Lady Josephina and her playful, earthy professor, no words came. Her quill hovered over the paper, drippingink. She tossed the pen down and cradled her head in her hands.
God. What had happened to her? Who was she?
A woman without purpose. Without love.
A woman lost.
Chapter 26
My body, already primed by thoughts of him, heated even more. I needed him on me. In me.
