“Technically,” Wanton said, peering over his shoulder, “it’s about the emotional consequences of cleavage.”
She wandered toward the writing desk, where a stack of parchment bore titles such asSonnet to a Cheek Unclenched,O Glute, My Glute, andElegy for a Forgotten Towel.
And then she saw a drawing of his grace’s backside. Rendered in exquisite charcoal and indecent detail. Glutes taut, rounded, and lifted with what could only be described as divine hostility.
Wanton inhaled sharply. Her mind went rogue. She imagined pulling back that ridiculous ducal robe, and setting eyes—finally—on the original sculpture. Running a finger down the disciplined slope of muscle, mouthing something she’d later pretend was Latin.
“I came for relaxation,” she whispered, throat dry, “not intrusive thoughts about imperial buttocks.”
“What was that?” the Duke asked sharply.
“Nothing,” she lied. “I’m certainly not envisioning things I shouldn’t be envisioning in a poet’s boudoir.”
He crossed the room in three long strides, snatched up the drawing, and glared at it as though it had betrayed the Crown.
“Unacceptable.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said lightly, folding her arms. “It’s anatomically quite faithful. Striking, even.”
His eyes snapped to hers. “Why this obsession with my… with my…”
“Your glutes,” she said sweetly. “Buttocks. Posterior. Derrière?”
He turned scarlet.
For a man who’d been forged in the fires of war—who had likely parried cannonballs with his high cheekbones and stared down artillery with the quiet disdain of a man late for tea—it was profoundly satisfying to watch him crumble under a single syllable: “Glutes.”
He dropped the parchment.
Stepped closer.
Oh, figs in a cravat.
Wanton inhaled sharply. “It is a well-researched fact,” she began, “that when a duke glowers, he will—”
But she never finished the hypothesis. Because he pinned her. Firm. Fast. Terribly close. Her back hit the silk-papered wall with the sort of gasp that might be cited in future letters to the editor. His hand caught her wrist and raised it high above her head, pressing it into place like a scandal waiting to happen.
And then his body caged her with glacial intent and military-grade heat, every hard inch of him aligned against her with such precise menace she briefly forgot how vowels worked.
Steam curled between them. Her corset whimpered. And somewhere, deep in her scholar’s soul, a footnote was born:
*Dukes under duress may become violently instructional. See: Gluteal Provocation, Vol. IV.
He leaned in, his breath wicked against the shell of her ear. “I will show you what I do with naughty ladies,” he murmured, his voice a caress laced with threat.
Her knees turned to honey. Why had she taunted a duke with taut buttocks?
And yet something deeper stirred. An ache. A gravitational collapse. It was more than attraction—it was cosmic mischief. Oh no. Uncle Barth had warned her: never mix dukes and duties. A woman could survive scandal, science, and even public speaking, but not a nobleman with eyebrows like verdicts? It was a recipe for ruin.
But ruin, it turned out, smelled like bergamot and unreasonable authority, and she… She was curiously attuned. Deeply susceptible. Possibly allergic to whatever pheromone-laced arrogance he was emitting. It sent her instincts into a spiral and her knees into early retirement.
This was a matter for deeper investigation. If she survived.
And then—Knock knock.
A voice chirped from the hallway. “Pardon, Your Grace! The gentlemen in the frigidarium are growing... restless.”
Wanton froze.
