“These should be handled with extreme care. Each cheek a separate act of Parliament.”
“Wanton,” he warned, voice muffled in towel and exhaustion.
“I must conduct a full assessment,” she replied, eyes gleaming. “This one’s rounder. But the other might be slightly more philosophical.”
He groaned into the marble.
She squeezed again, experimentally.
He twitched.
“Reflex,” he growled.
“Scientific confirmation,” she whispered.
Then she leaned in and kissed the left cheek.
He jolted. “What in God’s name—”
“I felt it was owed,” she murmured. “After everything they’ve put us through today.”
He rolled onto his back, catching her wrist, pulling her on top of him with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like surrender.
“You are,” he said, staring up at her, “a menace.”
She settled against his chest, smug and sleepy and utterly relaxed.
“I prefer the term ‘glute scholar.’”
Chapter thirteen
In Which the Statue Is Unnecessary and the Duke Is a Full-Body Sedative
The Duke stood near the washstand, stripped to the waist, a gleaming blade in hand. He shaved with brisk strokes, each pass down his jaw an exercise in control. His shoulders flexed with restrained power, muscles shifting beneath skin bronzed by war and steam.
Wanton sat nearby on a velvet chaise, one leg tucked beneath her, notebook balanced on her thigh. Her limbs were still deliciously boneless, her entire body humming from recent exertions that would scandalize any etiquette guide. But her mind refused to rest. Curiosity prickled at her fingers.
She watched him openly, quill poised above the page. Noting angles. Observing tension. The exact moment when discipline met desire. For science. Obviously.
Her stay at the spa had come to an end. She would leave in the morrow. The cart and Henrietta were ready, as was her canvas bag.
She gazed at the statue in the corner. Canova's final secret.
She'd grown used to gazing at it. It had soothing qualities. Grounding, really. Especially when the Duke had her flipped upside down last night, using his mouth like a man possessed, while she stared at the stone calf and tried not to levitate.
Or that other time—against the windowsill—when she clung to the curtains like a sea captain in a storm, and caught the statue from the corner of her eye. Somehow, it had helped. Calmed her. Anchored her while her very concept of anatomy was being enthusiastically redefined.
Yes. The statue had therapeutic properties. It was an artifact. An educational tool. A reference sculpture. She had a duty to her fellow Flowery Spinsters to bring something back from this scandalous field study besides a limp and a suspicious glow.
"I wonder," she said slowly, "if I could steal it."
The blade stopped near his chin.
"For science. It would look lovely in my study. Right next to Uncle Barth's oil painting of a topless map of Sicily."
"Wanton."
She continued, encouraged. "It just has such reliable proportions. I've found it quite relaxing. Almost therapeutic, really."
