The Duke bent with military precision and the sort of crisp economy of motion that wins battles and folds linen without creases. After a heavy exhale, he started to retrieve the newspaper with the impetus of a man executing a minor military coup.
And that’s when she saw something suspiciously curvy.
Oh, blessed saints of sculptural symmetry. The terry robe was short (had she mentioned how short it was?) but now, it moved.
Just a shift. A betrayal of cotton.
And there it was. A sliver of thigh. Bronzed and muscled. A whisper of taut flesh above the knee. A glimpse of a curve sorefined, so poetically impossible, it nearly brought tears to her academically inclined eyes. No wonder Napoleon hated England so much. If their generals had glutes like that, it was a miracle the French didn't simply surrender out of admiration.
She stared. For research. Strictly for science.
It would’ve been unpatriotic not to. God save the glutes!
Field Note #27:Subject bent. Observed with academic interest and light perspiration.
Findings: Patriotism is an excellent justification for gluteal admiration.
Hypothesis: England may never fall, provided its dukes continue squatting with precision.
If only the towel would shift just one inch.
One heroic inch.
She waited for a gust of wind to help the cause (of England of course), but alas, the air, traitor that it was, remained still. Not even a whisper of breeze to nudge the terry higher.
So she did what any responsible glute scholar would do.
She blew.
Phss. Phss.
Lightly. Hopefully. With the optimism of a woman who’d once trusted a mule to cross a Napoleonic battlefield.
The Duke turned sharply. “What are you doing?”
Her heart shot to her throat. Think fast, Wallflower. Think fast.
She stepped forward, lips pursed. Phss. Phss.
“Blowing the steam from your eyes, of course. For clarity,” she announced, as if steam-blindness were a common malady cured with light exhalation.
"Here, let me…" Phss. Phss.
As she leaned in, the marble betrayed her. Or perhaps it was her arches, weakened by lust and improper footwear.
She pitched forward, and her lips collided with theorbicularis oculiof His Grace’s left eye.
In plain terms: she kissed his eyelid, and while she was at it, his lashes brushed her mouth in a scandalously feathery sweep.
Wanton froze. Her lips were on his globe ocular! Tactile data was being collected at an alarming rate.
Abort, abort!
Before she could flee—or combust—he caught her by the forearms. His hands wrapped around her limbs like velvet manacles of judgment and latent heat.
Great glutes of the Western Front! She came here for relaxation, not for an impromptu ocular entanglement with a duke’s left eyelid!
Her breath caught.
