“Their towels,” the maid added, “are damp. Very damp. They’re demanding fluffier replacements. And the spa is out of them.”
The duke stepped back.
“Nothing here,” he said hoarsely.
She smoothed her robe. “Except a very taut duke.”
He didn’t answer.
Which, frankly, only made her smile harder.
Chapter seven
In Which Wanton is Kissed, Knocks Over a Screen, and Unearths a Mystery
They stepped inside Monsieur M's room. Silver light filtered through gauze curtains, catching on the black silk sheets that rippled across the bed like they remembered a dozen secrets.
The Duke stopped in the doorway behind her, the moonlight licking across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw. His robe was loosened, his chest partially exposed, and his breath rose and fell steadily. His eyes were locked on her with the focus of a man who had fought battles, commanded armies, and now seemed vexed by a woman with too many questions and not enough buttons.
Was it her perfume? Granted, she had changed her cologne, but this seemed extreme even for Madam Hortense'sBlend No. 7: Essence of Intellectual Despair with undertones of scandal and pear.
"Shouldn't we be investigating?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I am," he said. "Investigating."
He stepped forward.
Wanton, who had endured cannon fire, flirted with time travel, and once diplomatically escaped a Midsummer Bacchic Festival, suddenly couldn't remember how legs worked.
There was a pull between them. Something unsettling that made her skin hum and her stomach twist and her thoughts scatter like startled geese.
What was it? It made her sweat, not knowing. Could she measure it? Weigh it? Classify it under Newtonian physics or erotic metaphysics? Was it hormonal combustion or something more catastrophic?
She needed a graph. A peer-reviewed chart. Possibly a chaperone.
Still, he advanced with the slow, certain grace of a man who'd made up his mind and had no intention of hearing objections. And all she had was a heart trying to break through her corset .
She darted behind a decorative screen, heart hammering. "I meant the statue," she said, breathless. "Not my virtue."
His voice slid around the screen like warm smoke. "At this point, I would crush the damn statue if it proved an obstacle to get to this."
"To where? The spa's bathing oils?" she asked, playing for time. Or mercy.
"Your lips," he said softly.
Oh no. She liked the way his jaw clenched when she teased him. The way his brows formed accusatory art. The way his voice dipped low when she pushed too far. She liked it so much that her stomach did somersaults, and her brain fled to the back of the room to take notes.
She was developing feelings. For a stern duke. This was bad. This was the kind of situation Miss Primrose's Guide to Ladyhood had entire warning chapters about.
What would the Flowery Spinsters say?
She could already hear them:
"Darling, emotional entanglement is the leading cause of lost field journals."
"Romantic attachment? That's how Edith ended up married to a Viscount with a book allergy."
"First, you admire his glutes, and the next thing you know, you're baking biscuits for him and sighing at sunsets!"
