As she continued onward, shoulders back, slippers squelching, she reminded herself that she was here for rest. Restoration. Research. Yes. And just because she’d had been almost caught while inspecting the duke's—ahem—strategic musculature did not mean she was in any way compromised.
She was a lady of inquiry. A woman of questions.
And right now, her most pressing question was whether that bath was still hot and if she could soak away both her embarrassment and the bruise forming on her left thigh.
For science.
Obviously.
Chapter four
In Which Wanton Attempts to Chill, Is Surrounded by Towel-Bound Temptation, and Is Accused of Grand Posterior Theft
Wanton stepped into the frigidarium on shaking legs, towel cinched, dignity frayed.
The marble chill kissed her bare feet, a balm to both body and shame. Cool mist curled from carved lion-head vents, sighing across the turquoise plunge pool like the breath of ancient Roman ghosts. Statues ringed the domed chamber—marble heroes frozen mid-battle or mid-bath, depending on interpretation—and between their sculpted thighs rose fluted columns veiled in steam.
It was empty.
Thank the glute gods, it was empty.
She exhaled, slowly and reverently, as though afraid she might summon another noble backside by accident.
Crossing the mosaic floor, she made her way to the sherbet stand. A footman in white livery bowed, his expression carefully blank. “Lady’s choice?”
“Something soothing,” she said, “and utterly undeserving of judgment.”
Moments later, she held a delicate glass bowl of violet-lavender sorbet topped with a curl of candied lemon peel. She took a slow bite, sighed, and turned to soak in the setting she had so very much not come here to ruin.
The frigidarium truly was the crown jewel of La Société des Eaux Scandaleuses—all sculpted opulence and soundless serenity. Here, guests came to cool down after enduring their various pleasures. The plunge pool glittered in the sunlight, reflecting off the gilded frescoes above, and chaise lounges lined the walls like fainting couches for the emotionally overwhelmed.
She eased herself onto one, legs curled beneath her, spoon poised, and willed herself into relaxation.
She had not come here for drama. She had not come here to ogle. She had certainly not come here to trespass on ducal glute territory.
She came for relaxation, not—the door opened.
Wanton stiffened, half-afraid it was the Duke. (Well—entirely afraid, if she was being academically honest. Her fear was full-bodied, foot-to-follicle, and carried a not-insignificant undercurrent of anticipatory tingling.)
But, merciful buns of Minerva, it wasn’t the Duke.
It was merely one of the spa’s resident rogues, slinking in with the air of a man who’d seduced at least three dowagers before breakfast and left his morals drying on a chaise somewhere near the eucalyptus steam room. Cassian Drake. No one quiteknew where he came from. He arrived and vanished with steam. Always damp. Never documented.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at her.
He simply paused, eyes hidden beneath wet lashes, and surveyed the room like a man memorizing escape routes.
Then, without fanfare, he stepped down into the cold plunge pool.
The steam sauna hissed.
A moment later, the door creaked open again and Milton Avery emerged, bathed in scented fog and delusions of lyrical grandeur. The spa’s poet-in-residence, a man whose work had been banned from at least three respectable ladies’ reading circles. He claimed to find inspiration in the natural beauty of human anatomy. Particularly backsides.
He'd introduced himself to her with the words, “I believe in sonnets. And squats.”
No one had asked.
His red curls were wild from the heat, sticking out in every direction as if poetry had been violently extracted from his scalp. A towel was draped over one shoulder like a toga in decline, while the other clung to his hips in a precarious display of confidence over physics.
