The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott

no doubt of that. The fight had left them restless and roused, every nerve, every sensitivity exposed.

      She finished with the cravat and dragged it from his neck, her fingers moving on to his quickly discarded collar, his neck exposed to her at last. She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse beat hard and confident beneath her lips. It still wasn’t enough. Sweet heavens, how she ached! Her body had no trouble recalling what it now knew existed. There could be so much more than this!

      Instinctively, her hips ground hard against his, asking for more. He gripped her waist. ‘You will be the death of me, Claire, if you keep that up,’ he warned, or was that encouragement she heard in his rough voice? Gone were the cultured, easy tones she was used to. ‘I know what you want, love.’

      His hand slipped beneath the tangle of her skirt, his warm touch sliding up her thigh, unerringly coming to the core of her and the source of her ache. Perhaps later she’d be embarrassed, or feel some shame over the thought of his fingers teasing apart her folds, of them sliding inside her to find her wet and wanting yet again and in a coach no less, not even surrounded by the trappings of a bedroom. But now, in the moment, it was the most glorious sensation she’d ever felt. His thumb grazed the tiny nub, sending a familiar shiver through her. Only now, she knew it was merely the beginning.

      ‘Like that, did you?’ He kissed her long and slow, his teeth drawing out her lower lip as his thumb made another pass and she gasped, helpless against the twin pleasures he’d coaxed from her.

      ‘Move against my hand, Claire. Yes, like that. Do it again, and again.’ She did, her breathing turning to pants, the exquisite sensation growing with movement, with each of his passes, caresses. Their kisses turned savage, matching the tempo set by his hand and his wicked thumb—oh, sweet heavens, that thumb!

      ‘I think I shall burst,’ Claire confessed in ragged breaths, the pressure and the pleasure building in her without release, proof that last night had not been an anomaly; proof that he could be the source of endless pleasure for her.

      Jonathon laughed against her throat, a seductive sound all its own. ‘You most certainly will. Let it happen. It’s what you’re looking for.’

      She was beyond words when release came, her ability to express herself reduced to husky moans and gasps and a final, rather loud cry as the ultimate pleasure crashed over her and she clung to Jonathon as it claimed her and passed, one thought occurring to her: She hadn’t known it was possible to feel this sensation not only once but twice, this sensation for which she had no name, no adjectives in spite of having four languages at her disposal. And she certainly hadn’t known him. This evening’s events confirmed it. He was so much more than she’d ever imagined.

      His arms were about her, her head resting against his shoulder, her legs on either side of his thighs. She was close enough to smell the faint remnants of his soap at day’s end mixed with his sweat, and the scents of the street. How perfectly those smells represented the mystery of him: the boxer, the fighter, mixed with the gentleman. She was close enough to know that while she’d had her need assuaged once more, his was not. She slipped her hand between them to where his erection strained unsatisfied in the darkness of the carriage. She put her hand over him, tracing the length of him through his trousers until she felt the tip of him and heard him groan.

      ‘Claire, you don’t need to—’ he began but she silenced him with a kiss and whisper. If he was part-street, part-gentleman, perhaps the same could be said of her. Did she smell not only of the lady but the wanton, too? The bold woman who wasn’t afraid to cry out in his arms and give herself over to the passions he roused?

      ‘I want to.’ Her other hand hunted in the dark for the fall of his trousers. Already, the cloth was too limiting. She wanted to touch him the way he’d touched her, no clothes, no barriers between them.

      She freed him, wishing for more light. She wanted to see him and yet the darkness gave her a sense of liberty she might not have felt otherwise. There was no reason to be shy in the dark. Claire ran her hand up the length of him again, her hand encircling him, her thumb exploring the rough under-ridge of him, feeling the wet bead at the very apex of him. ‘I wonder if my thumb is as wicked as yours...’ she purred, skimming over the tender tip.

      The answer was a croaked and validating, ‘Yes.’

      She stroked him harder, faster, then slower, listening to the sharp inhalations of his breathing to guide her.

      ‘Please, Claire, faster.’ He arched against her hand. ‘Bring me off, now.’ His voice was no more than a groan of agony and ecstasy. His body was gathering itself, she could feel it in the tensing of his muscles. She stroked faster, once, twice and then the release took him in pulsing spasms while she held him, jerking and twitching with life. As intimate as the moment was, it left her much as it had last night. This was not enough, nor was it an answer to the questions that remained unsettled between them.

      Perhaps Jonathon felt it, too. He was silent in the aftermath. The quiet of the carriage was broken only by the sound of their breathing and the rustle of garments. He handed her a handkerchief and she took her reluctant cue to take her own seat across from him. ‘I’ll see if I can scare up some dinner.’ Jonathon rapped on the roof and leaned out the window, the carriage coming to a halt not long afterwards. He jumped out. ‘I’ll be right back. When you’re ready, have my driver light the lanterns.’

      Dinner was produced in rapid order: cold meat, cheese, bread and a bottle of wine from a nearby tavern. Jonathon winked as he pulled the cork from the bottle. ‘I bet you’ve never had a carriage picnic before.’ He poured her a small glass of the wine. ‘Careful, it sloshes easily.’ To prove his point, the carriage chose that moment to lurch into action. Claire was ready for it.

      She wished she was as ready for the man who sat across from her, coatless, sleeves still rolled up from fisticuffs, slicing bread and cheese. He handed her the food, a tower of meat and cheese built on a piece of bread, and gave her a devilish smile that flipped her stomach. ‘You’re quite a revelation, Claire.’

      ‘As are you.’ She met his gaze steadily, knowing there were things that needed to be said and questions that need to be asked. ‘It seems we’ve come quite a way from French lessons in the garden, yet I know nothing about you.’ She took a sip of wine and waited for his response. How would he play this? Confession or denial?

      ‘You’ve known me for years, Claire,’ he replied with a certain nonchalance. But Claire was not fooled. The answer was too casual. The statement discomfited him. She pushed her advantage.

      ‘Au contraire. You, Jonathon Lashley, are not the man I thought you were.’

      ‘For better or for worse?’ His eyes glittered dangerously, calling to mind the consummate seducer instead of the ballroom prince.

      ‘For better, I think.’ Perhaps Beatrice was right after all. One never truly knew the measure of a man. And yet, she found this new side of Jonathon...exciting. It would be an adventure to discover this man who had fought for her, who had drawn blood for her, this man with flashing eyes and a sharp knife, who’d pleasured her thoroughly and intimately twice now and who’d allowed her to do the same for him.

      He arched an eyebrow. ‘But you’re not sure?’

      That was the understatement of the evening. Claire put down her bread and fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Of course I’m not sure. How could I be? We’ve ventured far from the beaten path, you and I. Nothing between us is defined. There are no rules about what will happen next, what can happen next.’ In all her daydreams of being courted by Jonathon, none of them had taken this eventuality into account. Those daydreams looked naïve and shallow when compared to this consuming passion and the complexities surrounding it. Perhaps it was true, that one should be careful what one wished for.

      ‘What am I to make of this? The only thing I am sure of is that you’ve engaged my services as your French tutor. Beyond that? Nothing. You won’t tell me why we have to accelerate the lessons, yet you send me flowers I never asked for. You’ve danced with me more than necessary.’

      You’ve