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Once upon a time—well, not so long ago—she was simply another overlookedyoung lady in a parlor stuffed with petticoats, lace, and yawns. A bluestocking, they called her. A girl with too many books and not nearly enough interest in eligible gentlemen.

But while the ton played cards and perfected their embroidery, she dreamed of ships and stars. Of maps and mayhem. Of the kind of adventures granted only to men with swords, beards, and wildly inappropriate amounts of freedom.

Her skirts, however, were an anchor. Society, a leash.

So she did what all clever women must do—she started a club.

The Flowery Spinsters.

A secret circle of women hungry for stories, connection, and vicarious scandal. They read. They swooned. They argued over the merits of pirate lovers versus rakish philosophers. And they yearned.

Until, one day, quite unexpectedly, she received an inheritance.

From her beloved, eccentric, and utterly unrepentant Uncle Barthélemy—a legendary explorer who once, when jailed in Constantinople, sent a postcard saying, "I'll be late for dinner. Send brandy."

It wasn't a fortune. But it was enough.

Enough to buy freedom.

And so, Wanton Wallflower—explorer, scholar of sensation, heroine of her own making—packed her books, kissed her club sisters goodbye, and declared,

"I shall be intrepid. I shall seek out life, liberty, and pastry. I shall be a heroine worthy of footnotes."

The wind slapped her face like a scandalized dowager.

Salt spray lashed her cheeks. Her bonnet flapped wildly, tethered by only one heroic hatpin. Her sensible boots squelched with every step across the pitching deck. And somewhere behind her, a sailor muttered a prayer in Portuguese that contained far too many saints for comfort.

Wanton Wallflower—explorer, scholar of sensation, heroine of her own making… stood proudly near the prow.

Because she'd been tied there.

A coarse rope encircled her waist, lashing her to the mast like a particularly optimistic figurehead.

She twisted awkwardly to glare at the sailor behind her. "Is this really necessary?"

"A precaution," he chirped, securing the final knot. "We only tie the passengers down if there's a storm."

"Oh dear. Is it a bad one?"

"Only dangerous if the waves start to break."

She frowned. "And if they do?"

"Then we meet Saint Peter in our skivvies."

"Oh. How jolly."

He straightened and eyed her with mild curiosity. "Do you want a bucket?"

Wanton blinked. "A what?"

"A bucket. For the heaving. Captain doesn't like when the English soil his deck."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'll have you know, an Englishwoman never casts her crumpets in such mild sea!"

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Still, Wanton faced the horizon with determination. The wind tugged at her skirts. The ropes itched. Her nose was dripping. But none of it could dampen her spirit.

"This is it," she whispered. "My virgin voyage."

A snort.

She turned her head—slowly, because of the ropes—to find the sailor eyeing her with a smirk.

"A virgin, aye?"

Not for long, she added silently. If she had her way, Portugal would see to that. She straightened, drawing herself up as much as one could while tied to a mast.

"That's none of your business. Why don't you mind the waves and leave a lady to mutter to herself in peace?"

The sailor chuckled and shuffled off, and Wanton turned her face back to the sea—cheeks flushed, bonnet askew, dignity mostly intact.

That had been a mistake. She remembered Uncle Barth's Rule #47: Never reveal your plans. Especially the scandalous ones.

Wanton struck a dramatic pose—arms slightly akimbo, head high, ropes creaking around her waist. Portugal!

Land of Cam?es and epic poems! She would read its stanzas, admire its cliffs, worship in its candlelit cathedrals, and consume its egg yolk sweets.

She raised a gloved hand as far as the rope allowed.

"You may have lost your empire, but you shall gain me."

She imagined her club sisters back home reading her letters aloud in the parlor, swooning over every syllable of her bravery. Florence would faint outright. Mildred would need sherry. Prudence might finally remove her gloves.

Her bonnet—a valiant soldier of sun protection—tore free and went sailing into the sky like a lady's underthings on washing day.

" Dona , are you sure you not be wanting the bucket?" the sailor asked, though his complexion had gone the color of day-old porridge.

She braced herself, lifting her chin and her manacled wrists as far as the rope would allow. The wind howled. The sky darkened. The ship groaned like it was contemplating early retirement.

Still, Wanton stood tall—ish.

"I am an Englishwoman," she declared to the furious Atlantic, "and the sea has ever been our playground!"

Never mind, she'd grown up in Hertfordshire and got seasick in ornamental rowboats. It was the principle of the thing.

"I am not afraid of a little storm."

She was an explorer. Atlantic, bring your worst.

A shriek of wind.

A distant whoosh.

"Excuse me," she called to the sailor. "That foamy thing out there—what is it?"

He made the sign of the cross. "That," he said grimly, "is a wave breaking."

Wanton swallowed. "I'll take that bucket now."