She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes.”
“And did you admire it?”
“Thoroughly.”
He stepped beside her again, back in her line of vision. The crop tapped once, lazily, against his thigh.
“Describe it.”
“What?”
“Describe. The sculpture.”
She gaped at him.
He waited.
“Fine,” she whispered, flushed to the roots. “It was… life-sized.”
“Hmm.”
“Anatomically correct.”
“Is that so.”
She swallowed. “Carved with such reverent detail that it felt... blasphemous to look away.”
“And?”
“And I may have called it divine. Possibly out loud.”
He arched a brow.
“I also may have sighed. Stroked the base. Wondered if it flexed when no one was watching. But I promise you this: I didn’t steal it.”
A low hum from him.
“I see,” he said, tapping the crop once more. “And what, exactly, should I do with a woman who breaks into my room, ogles my sculpture, steals it, and then lies about it in public?”
“Please,” she said breathlessly, “don’t call the constable.”
He stepped closer, all heat and judgment.
“Oh, Miss Wallflower,” he said darkly, “I have far better ways of making someone talk.”
Her thighs pressed together entirely on instinct.
“Your Grace,” the valet snapped. “Send her to the gallows!”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Wanton said. “Do I look like I could smuggle out a life-size marble sculpture of your hindquarters in a towel? Honestly?”
The Duke didn’t answer.
Which was almost worse.
“I didn’t steal it,” she said, louder now, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders as best she could in a spa robe. “But someone clearly did.”
She turned to face the room, surveying its gleaming marble corners, its suspiciously oiled inhabitants.
