She did not.
“Damn it, woman—get down this instant or I will spank you so hard you won't be able to sit for a week!”
Her stomach did a pirouette. Her spine tingled in a most unhelpful fashion. And between her thighs? A scandalized flutter. Great glutes of national security! There was a gun pointed at her chest! A literal, loaded weapon! And yet her body had the audacity to file this entire moment under erotic tension.
Field Hypothesis #42: The human nervous system is deeply unreliable. May exhibit inappropriate arousal in life-threatening situations. Possibly related to voice timbre and threats of light spanking. Further study required.
“Your Grace,” she called back, “let’s keep the promises of corporal affection for after we solve the crime, shall we?”
Trumbuttle jabbed the pistol with theatrical venom. “Stop flirting and die!”
“Wanton!” The Duke roared and lunged for her.
They collided in a blur of limbs and towels and toppled backward.
Splash.
As they tumbled into the plunge pool, water surged, steam hissed, towels flew.
They surfaced with a gasp. Wanton sputtered, soaked, her hair clinging to her cheeks. The Duke grabbed her, hauling her upright as water streamed down his furious, glistening forearms.
The valet aimed again and pulled the trigger.
Click. Nothing.
Everyone froze.
While the valet was cursing the lame weapon, two footmen dragged him away, still screaming about betrayal, flatness, and spa injustice.
Silence settled like mist. Wanton blinked at the soaked duke as water lapped around them, heated and mineral-slick.
The Duke pulled her closer, fingers splayed low on her back. His chest was hard, heaving. His jaw clenched like it might snap.
“You mad, reckless, daft woman!”
She gasped—genuinely offended this time. “Daft?”
She placed a hand on her chest like she’d just been accused of misfiling footnotes.
“I’ll have you know my cognitive processing is running at full scholarly velocity. I’ve outwitted medieval tribunals, decoded suspicious poetry, and located stolen glutes under extreme ducal pressure. Kindly insult my temperament all you like—but my intellect remains spotless!”
He was soaked, furious, and devastating. “I told you to get down!”
“I knew the gun wouldn’t fire,” she said primly, as if it were all rather obvious. “The steam content in this environment exceeds optimal thresholds for powder combustion. Moisture compromises ignition.”
He glowered, water dripping down his temple.
Curious, her brain supplied unhelpfully: While gunpowder loses its combustibility in steam, dukes appear to become exponentially more flammable.
She filed it mentally under “Phenomena Requiring Further Study” and tried very hard not to stare at the droplet inching toward his collarbone.
“Trumbuttle didn’t kill you. But I might.”
Her fingers brushed along his collarbone. “Still—case closed.”
His grip tightened at her waist.
“No. This case remains open." He brushed his nose along her neck. "And so do you, until I say otherwise.”
