Wednesday, June 17, 2015

New release: It Started At Waterloo


Dreaming of Waterloo by Lynne Connolly
Does she love him enough to let him go?

After three straight days working beside surgeon Will Kennaway to treat the wounded of Waterloo, Amelia Hartwell collapses on the nearest bed to sleep. Surely she can be forgiven for not caring that the warm body sleeping next to hers is Will’s.
Amelia’s status-hungry mother, however, couldn’t be more pleased to have an excuse to get the painfully shy, socially awkward Amelia married off, albeit to a less-than-ultra-rich husband.
Will doesn’t keep his title a deep, dark secret. His little-known earldom simply affords him the financial freedom to focus solely on healing the sick. But now that he has a wife to think about—and to admire, thanks to her unstinting bravery at Waterloo—he reluctantly takes up the mantle of earl to do his duty.
Missing her meaningful work as a nurse, Amelia finds herself floundering in society’s glaring spotlight, wondering if Will regrets being forced to marry. Perhaps it might even be better to give him his freedom, even if doing so will break her heart…
Warning: Steamy, battlefield kisses under a tent canvas lead to steamy scenes in the bedroom.
Coming June 16th from bestselling and award winning historical romance author Lynne Connolly


Read an excerpt of It Started at Waterloo:

Desire took Amelia, strong and hard. She wanted to feel this man’s skin against hers, his body curved around her as they were when she awoke, but with both of them bare. Tomorrow, when her mother would ensure she was betrothed to Sir Henry, it would be too late.
The cocoon of warmth, and the privacy here in Will’s bed gave her a dreamy sense of wanting, her usual barriers gone. Rain pattered on the canvas above them, and the memories of the terrible three days that had led them here melted into a dream.
Amelia had long known her feelings for him were more than she should allow, but she could not help herself. She wanted him badly, and here was her chance.
She wriggled uncomfortably, trying to find some space in this small bed, but in doing so she came into contact with his—member? The men called it a cock. Secretly she liked the word, but doubted she could ever say it aloud.
He made an essentially male sound, a kind of grunt, and moved closer, snuggling it against her thigh. “Much though I’d like to, we cannot. I’m so tired, for one thing.” He paused, and froze into position. “Amelia.” As if reminding himself who she was.
“Yes, it’s me,” she said steadily.
“You’re warm and safe, so let’s take advantage of that. Sleep.”
“Who removed my clothes?”
“I did.” He opened his eyes wider. “I only got rid of your stained dress and your shoes, so rest easy. Oh, and your stays. How women can sleep in those things defeats me.”
Yes, he was right. Her gown had been horribly marked, and when she wriggled her toes she realized she was still wearing her stockings, shift and petticoats. She could almost walk down the main street of Brussels like this. Except being without her stays made her feel vulnerable. She squirmed against him, savoring his warmth and essential maleness.
Will groaned. He swung up, lying over her, his shaft pressed into her stomach. “You want this?”
“Yes.”
He blinked down at her. “You were supposed to say no. Perhaps one more kiss will not do any harm. God knows we both deserve it. Then will you go back to sleep?”
Happily, she nodded. What harm could one kiss do?
They must not do more than this. But even as the thought crossed her mind, he flicked his tongue against her lips. She trembled at the intimate touch and did what came naturally. She opened her mouth and he surged in.
Her gasp of shock drew him in further. His articulated sigh swept through her, and his body surged lasciviously against hers. Scandalous. The consideration, instead of deterring her, added spice to the encounter.
Will tilted his head, sealing them together. He worked his lips against hers, sliding his tongue around her mouth, tasting and exploring. When he touched his tongue to hers, she shuddered.
This was a dream. It had to be. How could it be anything else? Tiredness lapped at the edges of her mind. But such a good dream that she gave herself up to it.
He brought his hand up and cupped her breast, moving a little so he could reach it. His lips left hers for the bare moment it took him to murmur, “Pretty.” He was back again before she had time to protest.
Not that protest had formed the uppermost thought in her mind. When she dared to curve her arm around his neck and spread her hand over the back of his head, he groaned into her mouth. The sound added to the sensations rocketing through her body.
Yes, rocketing. She’d seen rockets, the way they fizzed before shooting off at unimaginable speeds and exploding in enemy lines. At a siege somewhere, Badajoz, maybe.
Her thoughts scattered as fast as she tried to collect them. He massaged her breast, his fingers finding her nipple, tweaking and pulling, increasing sensitivity with each touch. She pressed against him, pushing into his hand, her body climbing to a peak she’d had no idea was possible.
Was this why people risked everything? Did intimacy feel like this every time?
She had no idea, but she wanted to find out. Longed to, with an urgency that shocked her.
Will kissed her again and again before touching his lips to hers in tender caresses. He moved to kiss her ear, lingering on the rim. When he nipped it, she jumped, bringing her into closer contact with him, caressing his shaft with the warmth of her body.
“Amelia, you have hidden depths,” he murmured, his voice so soft anyone standing at the tent flap would not hear him. “I am privileged that you chose me to explore them.”
A noise outside disturbed her, then sent her into shock. A man cleared his throat, his voice coming from directly outside the flap. “Mr. Kennaway, sir?”
Will closed his eyes and pulled away from her. His mouth was swollen and wet, his gaze slumberous. “We will resume this later.” He blinked and shook his head. She was so close she saw the blue of his eyes return.
He raised his voice. “Yes, Robinson?”
“Let me through!”
The strident tones of her mother came clearly through the tent flap, and before either had time to move, Lady Hartwell had shoved her way through. Robinson followed.
“Am-e-li-a!” Every syllable of her name sounded like anathema on her mother’s lips.

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