A Rose for Major Flint (Brides of Waterloo)

‘Love?’ She turned then, so close he could gather her into his arms, so he did, expecting a slapped cheek. But she came easily, slid her hands up to his shoulders, tilted her face to look into his.

It took him time to get his impulses under control and give her the kiss that was prudent for a couple only feet away from a society gathering. He did not feel prudent. What he wanted was to ravage her mouth, tear off that lovely gown, plunge into her body and take her over the edge again and again, gasping his name. He wanted…Rose. Just Rose.

‘Love,’ she murmured again. ‘What has that got to do with it, I keep asking myself? I don’t know, Adam. I wish I understood marriage, what it would mean for me. For us.’

Flint did not understand marriage either, he was quite certain about that. All he knew was that he wanted Rose, that he did not need to explain the fact with nonsense about love and that he was weary of balancing on the edge of his career, on the edge of a new beginning, on the edge of honour. So he kissed her because it was easier than talking, easier than trying to make sense of this. He kissed her and gave up on prudence.

He took her mouth as though it were a cup of water and he was dying of thirst. He lashed her to him with one arm as she gasped and he pushed the fragile sleeve of her gown from her shoulder with fingers that shook as they closed over the curve of her breast and found her nipple. Rose gasped again, shuddered and raked her fingers into his hair, dragging his mouth to hers.

The silk and gauze slipped and her whole breast was cupped in his palm and he had no idea if the moans came from her throat or his. It was only when he found his other hand was on the falls of his trousers that reality hit him like the butt of a rifle. ‘Rose.’

She opened her eyes, wide and dark as though she had used belladonna drops. ‘Adam. We can’t, not here…’ She fumbled with the bodice of her gown, pushed up the sleeve, turned and walked swiftly back to the doors. ‘I’m sorry. I wish…’ she murmured and was gone.

Chapter Seventeen

Adam came back into the reception room ten minutes later. Rose told herself that it was her imagination that he reminded her of the Devil who had come out of the smoke and the mud to kill the demons who threatened her, that the bleak darkness in his eyes and the unsmiling set of his face was simply the expression of a man irritated by inane chatter, an overheated room and sexual frustration. Should she have found some secluded corner with him? No, he was uncomfortable about compromising her here, he had stopped first, after all.

‘My dear Miss Tatton, your major is a rather intimidating beast, is he not?’ Lady Grantly fluttered her fan in the direction of Adam, who had propped one shoulder against a pillar and was eyeing the room over the rim of a champagne flute. ‘He looks like a great cat wondering which poor little mouse to pounce upon next. Quite…thrilling.’

‘I suspect Major Flint merely has a headache, Lady Grantly. And he is hardly my major. We have only recently become acquainted.’

‘Oh? I mustn’t leap to conclusions, must I?’ The older woman’s gaze sharpened on Rose’s face. Rose did her best to look calmly amused and not like a wanton who had been locked in an indecent embrace only minutes before.

‘No doubt I misunderstood what I overheard that sad romp Lady Sarah Latymor say outside the Chapel Royal on Sunday. She is the major’s half-sister, I believe.’

‘Yes. As you say, she is rather too lively on occasion and she delights in teasing the major. Do excuse me, I see the Misses Hughes bearing down on the poor man. I must go and rescue him.’

‘Adam?’ She had no need to touch him. He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head and she was quite certain he knew she had been working her way through the guests to his side.

‘If you say you are sorry again,’ he remarked softly, ‘I am going to announce our betrothal here and now.’

‘Then I will say that I regret not keeping my feelings to myself until we had the opportunity to…talk in private.’ She bowed to some passing acquaintances and tried to ignore the way his lips curved into a sensual, mocking smile at her euphemism. ‘I have been doing a lot of thinking. I found my diaries, you see.’

‘And you will take up your pen and start to add entries again? I would be interested to read them.’

‘You think it would flatter your self-esteem?’ She showed her teeth in a smile, used her fan, did her best to give the impression of flirtation. How could she write about making love with Adam? The paper would scorch if she ever found the words.

‘I would like to think so. But perhaps not. You said you might love me.’

What had prompted her to such an admission, one that laid her open to such pain? She shrugged and lied. ‘I was upset. Women prefer to gloss their physical desires with a coat of love, I fear. It makes us feel more…ladylike.’

That surprised a snort of laughter from him. ‘Admitting to hypocrisy, Rose?’

‘Aren’t we all hypocrites? Or, at the least, very good actors? Look around you. Look at us. How can any of us ever know what is really going on in the mind of other people?’

‘You know it when people are pushed to their extremity,’ Adam said, all the laughter gone. ‘When they are afraid, that is when you see cowardice and courage, fears and resolve. And again, when they make

love, everything, all pretence, is stripped away.’

‘Truly?’ That had never occurred to her. What had she seen of Adam when she lay in his arms, when they had been stripped of everything but the most primal pleasure? She had seen a strong man without his defences or pretence, she realised. ‘But women who are…professional, don’t they have to pretend all the time?’

‘Yes.’ Adam drained his glass and set it down on a nearby table. ‘And they are very skilled at it. But you can tell if they are holding back, reserving themselves behind a mental wall.’

Is that where they might see the truth in each other and learn to trust? In bed, making love? But now that intimacy was denied them, closed off until they were married, by which time it would be too late. Or is it?

‘Look, Mama is signalling that they are about to leave.’

‘Will they allow me to walk you home, do you think?’ Adam rested his hand in the small of her back, guiding her as they made their way over to their hostess to take their leave. She wanted to lean back against that broad palm and those long fingers, that focus of heat and that possessive touch. ‘I would like to talk with you alone.’