Temptations of a Wallflower (8 page)

“Don't,” she said quietly, fiercely. “I won't give them the gratification, and you shouldn't, either.”

“I've got to
do something,
” he said through clenched teeth.

“Prove them wrong,” she answered lowly. She looked him full in the face. Hope and fury and courage wavered in her expression. “Stay with me.”

“You aren't . . . you aren't going to leave?”

“Not if it pleases them to have me do so,” she said. “Besides,” she added, almost conversationally, “it's interesting, the art. Informative.”

As informative as having all the secret hungers of his heart and body displayed for all the world to see.

“So, will you?” she pressed. She continued to gaze up at him, her heart in her eyes. “Stay?”

Refusal was his first impulse. He wanted to drag her out of there, away from those sniggering buffoons, away from this place that celebrated all things carnal and sexual. Things that she oughtn't, as a young woman
of quality, see. Really, the insult the threesome had presented to her would have to be addressed. Jeremy had no skill with pistols or swords, but he'd gotten into a scrape now and then, and hoped he could at least challenge Lord Lynde to fisticuffs. He'd beat that dandy into a smear on the ground. It would be more problematic and require other means of redress with Lady Donleigh and Miss Green, but he'd find a way.

The artwork spurred dangerous thoughts, too. He already thought of her too much in a sensual way as it was. It would tax his every ounce of self-control to look at people engaged in bedsport, Lady Sarah standing right beside him, without it shaking him deeply. He was only a man, after all. A man with boundless desires that he tried desperately to ignore.

So, no, he didn't want to stay. But looking down at Lady Sarah, he saw something in her eyes—defiance, and a kind of plea.
Don't make me face them on my own,
she seemed to be saying, her gaze determined.

“Yes,” he said at last. He could deny her nothing. “Yes, I'll stay.”

Oh, reader! The way the highwayman and I shook the carriage with our enthusiastic sport. We thoroughly ravished each other, using a multitude of creative postures to accommodate what limited space we had. Indeed, my highwayman was a most imaginative and vigorous lover. He quite took my breath while pleasuring my body. We hadn't the patience to undress completely. He lifted my skirts to my waist, revealing my . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

S
ardonic amusement filled Sarah at what was supposed to be a joke. Her erstwhile friends thought that they were scandalizing her with this erotic art. Little did they know . . .

She would not give those fools the satisfaction of leaving. She must prove to them, to herself, and to Jeremy that she wasn't someone to be toyed with, the way a cat batted at a baby bird fallen from the nest. She had her own claws. And, by God, she would skewer Lady Donleigh, Miss Green, and Lord Lynde in her
next story. A trio of nincompoop aristocrats who die awfully in a horrible boating accident.

There was some gratification in this, but not enough. No, she had to show them that she was made of stronger stuff than they'd imagined.

The joke was on them. Seeing this artwork
benefitted
her. Made her more powerful as a writer. They had no idea she was the Lady of Dubious Quality, but at the very least, Lord Lynde must have read her books. The girl he deceived was none other than the woman who made his cock hard. Now she had the means to torment him even further.

Most of what she knew of sex came from books. A few of those books were illustrated, but not nearly enough. She'd had to make do with her thoughts to envision sexual acts. Here, in this gallery, she had the images presented to her, ready to be savored. Ready to be hoarded by her imagination to use later.

She could use a scene very like this one in one of her books. Lady Josephina might visit a gallery showing erotic art. She would meet the handsome gallery owner, and then they would act out the scenes. That could do very well.

Oh, in another world . . . she and Jeremy would race, hand in hand, back to her pristine bedroom. There, they'd throw the room into chaos as they played out the pictures. Their bodies would grow damp, fevered, their limbs supple as they tested out pose after pose, straining themselves to the utmost in their exploration.

She mentally shook herself. No. That could never happen.

Yet . . . here they were. Standing beside each other.
The limits of her hungers stretched and strengthened with him so near. He, who was both pure and deeply—perhaps unknowingly—carnal.

She wanted him to stay with her. She needed it. Needed him, in a marrow-deep way that made her ache.

So she'd stared up at him, rebellious and also imploring. His own blue, blue eyes fixed on her face. So much conflict lay behind his gaze, so much uncertainty, but also, yes, a thread of wanting, of hunger. For her? For something more? Whatever that need was, she craved it.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I'll stay.”

Relief nearly staggered her with its power. It was so much better to show up those fools with Mr. Cleland at her side, rather than attempt it on her own.

“Thank you,” she whispered. It was a paltry thing to say when he'd given her so much more than simply a few moments looking at smutty art.

Together, they turned back to the picture of the woman playing a stringed instrument, her lover plucking at her nipples. The soft colors of the scene highlighted its lush, charged sexuality. What must it be like to be engaged in an activity while being the object of seduction? She could be sitting at her desk, writing peaceably, but then her imaginary lover would come in and trail kisses down her neck while his hands caressed her breasts. She'd try very hard to keep writing, but it would be impossible when her fantasy lover moved lower, to go beneath her desk and kneel between her legs, and then his curly blond hair would brush the insides of her thighs as he—

“Very, ah, pretty,” Jeremy offered.

“I wonder that she can pay attention to what she's doing,” Sarah answered, her voice slightly breathless. Heat and slickness gathered between her legs, and she fought to keep her thighs from brushing together. Warmth bloomed in her face. It was a marvel she didn't glow.

He looked at her for a moment, as though surprised she still hadn't fainted dead to the floor. But then he nodded.

“Perhaps she's composing a song,” he said, his deep voice slightly rough.

“Something to fit the moment.” What would that song sound like? Though Sarah could play piano with some skill, she had no real gift for music. But still, a song inspired by passion . . . now there was an idea. A musician who drew creativity from sex. Each composition providing a musical retelling or accompaniment to an act of love.

“Shall we . . . move on?” Jeremy suggested.

Sarah glanced back at Lady Donleigh, Miss Green, and Lord Lynde. They wore stunned looks on their faces, as though astounded that she hadn't fled in virginal terror. Let them gape.

Drifting away from the painting, she glided toward the next piece of artwork on display. Jeremy's lanky, sleek presence warmed her as he stood close. They stopped at a lovely, verdant landscape, filled with intricately crafted trees—each leaf seemingly painted one at a time with a minuscule brush.

“This must be here by mistake,” she murmured. “I don't see—”
Fucking,
her mind filled in for her, but she'd never say that word aloud.

“In the . . .” Jeremy coughed. “. . . lower right corner.”

Sarah bent closer, peering at the artwork. “You must have very good eyesight.”

“I do.”

Sure enough, half hidden by the branch of a tree, a couple embraced one another. The embrace wasn't entirely shocking, but the couple's state of partial dress was more so. It was also evident that the man in the scene had a rampant erection.

“Imagine doing that, right out in the countryside,” she said, mostly to herself. She'd written scenes that took place in the out-of-doors. A farmer and the washerwoman. A lady and her groom. But it was one thing to write about something, entirely different to see it enacted before her very eyes. If one made love outside, anyone might walk by and see. The risk of being caught seemed like it would be an exquisite thrill.

“Have you ever . . . ?” she found herself asking.

He looked at her with violent alarm.

“Come across anyone,” she hastily amended. At his continued silence, she murmured, “I'm sorry. I oughtn't ask such personal questions.”

“Well, I—ah—” His voice was nearly an octave deeper. “Once, I walked into a stable and saw two young men hurriedly straightening their clothing. They'd been . . . enjoying themselves.”

She'd read about amorous encounters between people of the same sex, but everything was rumor and other people's experiences. Still it came as a double surprise: firstly, that people truly did engage in such behavior, and secondly, that Jeremy would confide in her about it.

He seemed to think the same thing, giving a soft, incredulous laugh. “I'm sorry. Never in the depths of my most fevered dreams did I think I would say such things to you.”

“I'll tell no one,” she answered, humbled by his trust. “Besides, I think you and I, we rather understand each other. Don't we?”

He gazed at her for a moment, and she felt it all the way to her toes. “We do. To an extent.”

“No one can know someone completely.” She thought of all the secrets she carried, a trove of confidences that sometimes weighed more than bars of gold, yet she would never willingly part with any of her burden. What mysteries did he carry? It seemed like a great many, perhaps ones he might not even be aware of.

“We're each of us enigmas, especially to ourselves,” he answered, as if reading her thoughts. “That might be our life's work—to unlock those mysteries.”

“Oh, but mysteries make things so much more interesting,” she said. It seemed odd and not quite real to be having this conversation with a vicar in front of a Persian miniature painting of two lovers fondling each other. And yet, when it came to Jeremy, she wanted everything as extraordinary as he was. As unexpected and remarkable as the man himself. “And some of them are best left unsolved. Otherwise, everything becomes featureless and dreary.”

“But what of the thrill of the hunt? The pursuit of . . . knowledge.” That word in his mouth, with his rich voice, seemed imbued with possibility.

“Let us seek, then,” she conceded, “but always have something left strange and unknown to us.”

He inclined his head in agreement. Yet there was a flush in his cheeks, as though he was still under the influence of the sexual artwork displayed not but a few feet from them.

“I should think that a stable would be an excellent place for an assignation,” she said conversationally.

His cheeks darkened further. “I wonder how you might even know of things like that.”

“I read,” she said, knowing she sounded coy and enigmatic. She bent close to study the delicate, sensual painting, biting her lip in concentration.

He seemed to go very still. She glanced at him through her lashes. His gaze ricocheted between the artwork and her, never resting. His breath came at an accelerated pace.

Did he picture her in the scenario before them? Was he the man, in his imaginings? It was a dreadful thing of her to wonder, yet she couldn't help herself. Because when she saw the painting, she thought of them, together.

They hardly knew each other, yet her body didn't think so. It wanted him.
She
wanted him. The realization hit her as she stood there, placidly examining erotic artwork. She'd written pages and pages of it, and she'd longed to know what sex was and experience it for herself, but this was the first time she'd desired a specific man. Craved his touch. Wanted him in her bed.

She should leave. Forget about Lord Lynde, Lady Donleigh, and Miss Green—they could have this victory for now. She ought to go and not look back. There was nothing to be gained by tormenting herself with what couldn't be.

Remain? Go?

Hearing their suppressed laughter firmed her spine. Stay.

This was where she belonged. Here, with him. If not for her own selfish desires, then . . . for her writing. In the future, who knew? She could use this all. This helpless longing. This ravenous need for one person.

She walked away from the painting and heard him follow. A statue of a couple caught her attention. The male figure was much larger than the female. He sat cross-legged, and the woman was in his lap. Straddling him. They wore rather serene expressions. Were they merely cuddling?

Only when Sarah looked closer did she see that the man's penis was erect and partially sheathed within the woman's body.

Beside her, Jeremy saw it at the same time. He gave a startled grunt, as though hit in the stomach.

She thought she heard him curse under his breath.

“Should we go?” she ventured.

He shook his head, though his expression was pained. As if he suffered physically. His voice was raspy. “She's very . . . limber.”

Pleasure rose up anew at his continued presence. He could have made excuses, invented an appointment that called his attention. But no, he stayed. For her.

It was an odd thing for a knight valiant to do—look at lewd art. Yet by so doing, he proved that he wouldn't back down in the face of obstacles. He remained strong and steadfast. Her heart brightened.

“She must stretch beforehand,” Sarah agreed. Yet she gazed at him, wordlessly communicating her thanks.

By mutual, silent agreement, they did not linger long at the statue. They walked rather quickly from piece to piece, their conversation limited. Yet he remained with her the whole time.

At last they returned to Lady Donleigh, Miss Green, and Lord Lynde.

“Commendable,” Jeremy said, his voice cutting. “An extraordinary showing.”

“I . . . I . . .” stammered Lord Lynde.

“It's rather an interesting aspect of art,” Jeremy continued, speaking over the faltering man. “Whatever the subject matter may be, it reveals more of us than it does itself. For example, it showed that Lady Sarah is a woman of uncommon courage.”

She went giddy and hot, dizzy and elated.

But Jeremy wasn't done. “It also,” he went on, “revealed that you three”—he skewered the trio with his bright blue gaze—“are better suited to the nursery than respectable Society.”

All three gaped in response.

“Lady Sarah,” he said, turning to her. “It's been my privilege.” He bowed low, one hand pressed to his chest.

“Mr. Cleland,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure was mine, I assure you.” With that, he turned and strode from the room.

She heard his footsteps on the stairs, then his low voice as he retrieved his hat from the servant in the foyer. The front door opened and closed.

He was gone.

“The artwork has been educational,” Sarah said, looking at the three gaping people. “But, aside from
Mr. Cleland, the company has been juvenile.” With that, she turned and walked away.

As she made her way down the stairs, she thought of what Mr. Cleland had done. That defense of her . . . no one had ever given her the same honor.

Yet . . . had she pushed him too far? Was he utterly disgusted by her? Dear God, she hoped not.

She wished she would see him once more. It would be for the best if they never crossed paths again. Yet her mind and body couldn't be dissuaded.

Lord help her, but she was in deep, deep lust with a vicar.

T
he fast walk home did nothing to calm Jeremy. His cock remained a thick, insistent presence in his breeches. Walking with an erection as big as a tree wasn't an experience he longed to repeat, but he needed to find some way to calm himself, and a hired carriage ride back wouldn't help.