Chapter one
In Which a Wallflower Travels by Poultry and Pretends It Was All Her Idea
Wanton Wallflower would not be detained by a coach driver with bad breath and a poor understanding of physics. No one kept her from her destiny, metaphorically or literally speaking. She had inherited a sum of money, and she was entitled to use it. She owed it to Uncle Barth, who once scaled an Ottoman minaret for love (and minor cartography), and to her correspondents from the Flowery Spinsters, who awaited her field reports with ink-stained anticipation. But most importantly, she owed it to science.
Science was the light in the dark, the noble pursuit that elevated her from common wallflower to explorer of sensation and empirical improbability. It was the lens through which she studied the male form in motion, the intellectual shield that justified her examining thighs with... academic rigor. It was—
The goat bit into her satchel with the single-minded passion of a creature raised on hay and spite.
Wanton yelped, tugging it back. "Unhoof yourself, sir. this is scholarly property."
The goat gave her a look that could only be described as dismissive, then attempted to eat her antique map.
She sighed, clutching the satchel to her chest. "Fine. But if you digest the Peloponnesian peninsula, I'm blaming you for every future misstep in Athens."
Wanton adjusted her bonnet with the solemn grace of a woman who had recently been expelled from a mail coach and was now sharing a peasant cart with a goat, a barrel of onions, and a chicken named Henrietta. The goat had eaten one of her sleeves. The onions had made unkind remarks about her perfume. Henrietta, at least, offered companionship, although her opinion on personal space was questionable at best.
It wasn't how Wanton had planned to arrive at La Société des Eaux Scandaleuses, the most exclusive and scandalously whisper-worthy steam spa this side of the Channel. But she had made a decision. A bold, educated, and entirely self-justified decision. After surviving medieval plumbing, fire-wielding peasants, and a knight who made trousers feel optional, she had earned a respite. A proper scientific one. With cucumbers and towels and nothing that required a crossbow.
She gave Henrietta a polite nudge back into the basket and then settled herself with theatrical poise, brushing hay from her lap. The cart lurched. Straw floated skyward. The goat sneezed.
"There now, Henrietta. A little rustic ambiance. Far superior to the coach, really. More ventilation. Better conversation. And far fewer objections to discussing Newton's gravity with that angry coachman while the coach was careening down a cliff."
Henrietta clucked, either in agreement or contempt. It was hard to tell.
Wanton squinted toward the horizon, where mist rose like scandal from the valley below. Somewhere past the trees,past the hedgerows and questionable detours, her well-earned sanctuary awaited. Baths steeped in herbs. Silken towels the size of ship sails. Soft music, softer chairs, and perhaps—if the rumors were to be trusted—a discreetly positioned duke with glutes carved by fate and sin.
She tucked her satchel closer and sighed with the contentment of a woman who had faced history, mortality, and one aggressive trebuchet and now planned to do nothing for precisely three days.
She would relax. She would steam. She would perhaps jot down a few hypotheses about the recovery rate of post-time-traveling nerves when exposed to eucalyptus.
The cart hit a rut. A cabbage rolled over her foot. Henrietta clucked indignantly and launched herself into the air, flapping across the driver's head with all the grace of a down-filled cannonball.
The driver cursed. The cart listed. The goat bleated something profane.
Wanton adjusted her bonnet.
As Uncle Barth always said:If the journey didn't threaten your dignity, you weren't adventuring properly.
Chapter two
In Which the Times Fly, the Duke Bends, and the Wallflower Stares
The spa's atrium was marble, mist, and murmured money. Columns arched toward a domed ceiling painted with cherubs of questionable virtue. The air smelled faintly of thyme, eucalyptus, and generational wealth. Wanton took it all in with the air of a woman who had absolutely earned her place here, even if she'd arrived in a cart with a goat and poultry-based emotional support.
She spotted a vacant chair. It was long and elegant, flanked by potted citrus trees and draped in a pristine white towel. A small silver plaque sat on the armrest. She did not read it.
"It's practically beckoning," she said, and sank into it with a sigh that came from her spine.
From her satchel, she pulled a slim leather-bound volume entitled The Lady’s Guide to Not Getting Ravished, organized by order of peril. She flipped to the first page.
Thorne Vangloot, His Grace the Duke of Arsbury
Also known as "The Sovereign of Steam Rooms." Famous for his silence, his glower, and his reputation as the most skilled spanker in the continental elite. One courtesan reportedly burst into tears of gratitude after a single brow raise and a firm hand.
Wanton raised both her own brows, her stomach fluttering. "That feels... performative."
His posterior is widely considered a sculptural marvel. Canova himself is rumored to have modeled his backside at the request of a former mistress.
