Page 168

The kiss had gone to her head.

That—or she had truly suffered a concussion in the ditch.

Because the moment his mouth met hers—firm, coaxing, with just enough command to make her knees forget their purpose—Wanton Wallflower melted like a candle at a midsummer ball. Her toes curled. Her corset strained. Her petticoats grew scandalously humid. Possibly criminally so.

She clutched at his bare shoulders—those perfect, bronze-sculpted shoulders that had carried her across a literal battlefield—and whimpered. Yes, whimpered. A woman must be honest in her memoirs. And she had whimpered like a maiden with a copy of The Corsair and a scandalous amount of syllabub.

He deepened the kiss.

One hand cradled her cheek, the other braced beside her on the cot, his body heat seeping into her bones like he had been designed by a committee of wicked poets.

When he finally pulled away, she lay stunned beneath him, lips tingling, lungs refusing to function properly.

“Mercy,” she whispered. Possibly to him. Possibly to the universe.

He looked down at her, blue eyes dark and dangerously amused, lips swollen from the kiss, and his smile—lazy, confident, and entirely too satisfied. Like a man who’d just seduced his way through a fortress and knew the drawbridge would never close again.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

Did she want him to stop? Did Columbus want to turn around before reaching the Americas? Did Newton want the apple to fall sideways? Did Uncle Barth ever refuse a duel or a dessert cart?

“No,” she said quickly. Then added, with as much composure as a woman spread across a stranger’s cot could manage, “But I do want you to be… gentle.”

He stilled. The smile slipped, replaced by something heavier.

“Gentle?” he echoed, like the word was foreign to his vocabulary. Or insulting. Or both.

She flushed, lifting her chin. “This is my maiden voyage.”

He blinked. Then ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath—something about damned timing and bad karma.

“You’re a virgin?”

“Technically,” she replied, adjusting her spine with all the dignity of a woman clinging to self-respect, a torn gown, and a very active interest in his hips. “I’ve never… but I’ve read extensively.”

He leaned back, bracing his hands on his thighs—thighs that, frankly, should be classified as a moral hazard.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Virgin. And here I am, half-naked and halfway to hell.”

Wanton frowned. “Are you… angry?”

He shot her a look. “I’m restraining myself. That’s not anger. That’s agony in a very tight pair of breeches.”

She sat up, planting a hand on his chest—purely for rhetorical support.

“Listen, sir. I may be a virgin, but I am not a fool. I am an adventuress. A scholar of sensation. A woman with charts. And I do not intend to return to London having only been...” She gestured vaguely between them, “nearly exploded.”

His mouth twitched. “Nearly exploded?”

“Well, you are a grenadier, are you not?” she huffed. “And if I’ve come this far, I should very much like to experience the full blast.”

That got him.

The lazy smirk sharpened into something molten. “That is a memorable way to phrase it.”

She nodded, breathless and exasperated. “If I am to survive cannon fire, a runaway mule, a ditch, and your absurdly kissable mouth, I deserve to understand the full scope of the battlefield.”

His gaze flicked to her lips. Then lower. Then back to her eyes, heavy-lidded and gleaming.

“You want pleasure,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I’m glad we’re in agreement. It’s a matter of intellectual principle.”

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. The kind that came with trouble. And rope. And very little sleep.

“And here I thought you were some fragile flower.”

“I’m the Wanton Wallflower,” she said, lying back against the cot, her gaze never leaving his mouth. “Now show me why they call you a grenadier.”

Her undressing progressed as efficiently as the assembling of field artillery. Her stays? Disarmed. Her chemise? Discarded. Her modesty? Deceased. Every inch of his touch was a revelation. Every brush of his mouth was a declaration of war against her restraint.

Wanton reached for her reticule. She had to take notes.

He caught her wrist. "What are you doing?"

"I have to write this down," she said while he placed open-mouthed kisses on her jaw. "I have correspondents."

He paused. His mouth brushed her ear, warm and commanding.

"No notes."

"But, I?—"

"No opening your mouth either." He bit her earlobe. "Unless it is to scream."

"Why would I?—"

"In pleasure of course. Now, hands above your head. That's an order, Wanton."

Wanton obeyed before her mind caught up, her fingers snapping to attention above her curls.

"You're in my bivouac now," he growled, his voice like musket smoke and temptation. "And I run a tight campaign."

She whimpered. It was dreadfully hard to produce sensible words when his hand slipped lower, retracing every inch of territory he'd already conquered.

He groaned. "If you keep writhing like that, I'll have no choice but to launch another offensive." And when he moved lower, his tongue tracing down her belly like a promise she'd never recover from, Wanton nearly levitated off the cot. Her toes curled. Her sanity took a leave of absence.

Her fingers twisted in the coarse blanket beneath them. Her legs trembled.

"Sweet sacred starch," she gasped.

He growled. Wanton arched. And then his mouth was there, and she forgot her name, her birthdate, and possibly the entire reign of George III.

When he finally, finally moved over her, poised at her entrance, her entire body shook with anticipation.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, voice barely human.

She grabbed his hips. "If you stop, I'll bite you."

He laughed. It was a beautiful sound, full of disbelief and dark promises.

Now she finally understood what all the bawdy writers meant when they said the gentleman entered the lady.

She'd always found that phrasing a touch absurd—after all, a woman wasn't a house to be wandered into willy-nilly. And yet… there was no better word for what happened next.

Because after the head of his glorious, battle-hardened appendage flirted with her entrance—teasing, nudging, promising mischief—he flexed his hips, clenched those perfectly indecent buttocks, and entered her.

Wanton's mouth fell open. Her back arched. Her very thoughts scattered like startled pigeons.

And then he did it again.

Deeper.

"Oh! This is—oh, saints above—where are you going inside me?" she cried, half-hysterical.

His grin was wicked, breathless. "Home," he growled—and drove in harder.

"You're perfect," he groaned, hands bracing her hips. "So bloody perfect."

She didn't know what he meant by perfect, but she chose to believe it included the way she clung to him like a scandal and made sounds that could get a woman banned from the lending library.

Wanton came apart, pleasure detonating through her like a well-placed cannonball. She screamed. Possibly in Latin.

He followed with a low, guttural moan, collapsing over her, braced on his elbows, his face buried in her neck.

They lay like that for a long moment.

Breathless.

Sweaty.

Stunned.

Eventually, Wanton found her voice.

"I shall need to revise my theories on the male body."

He laughed against her neck.

"And your name, soldier?"

"Edward," he said. "Edward Grant."

"Grant," she repeated dreamily. "You granted me the most carnal education this side of the Alps."

He laughed again.

Wanton Wallflower had done many things in her short life.

She'd read scandalous poetry in the bathtub. She'd once attended a dinner party without a corset. She'd even corrected a vicar's Latin in public.

But this? The bursting of passion on the battlefield had to be the most scandalous. How would she relate this to her club without combusting?

She'd have to edit, of course.

Gloss over a few thrusts. Possibly replace "grenadier" with "gentleman caller." And certainly, find a less accurate, less anatomically enthusiastic synonym for "entered."

Some members of the ton would be scandalized. But Uncle Barth would be proud. He was not one to differentiate between the rights of the sexes. All in all, her skirts might recover. But her soul? Ravished. Enlightened. Exceedingly well-traveled.

And now, she thought, curling into the warmth of his chest, she was truly an explorer.

Of lands.

Of passions.

Of grenadiers.

Her stomach rumbled, and it was hunger, not cannons. Next time, she’d have to bring extra biscuits.