Wanton glanced behind her. “Me?”
“Don’t play coy, madam,” Trumbuttle hissed. “You were seen entering His Grace’s private quarters this morning.”
“Seen?” she scoffed. “That’s a bit much. I came here to relax, not receive accusations.”
“No?” the valet sneered. “Then explain this!”
He snapped his fingers.
The maid scuttled into the room, apron smudged with preserves. She wouldn’t meet Wanton’s eyes.
Wanton groaned.
“I—” the maid squeaked. “She bribed me, Your Grace. Said she just wanted to see it.”
There was a beat of silence. Oh, Lord. Wanton needed a fainting chaise immediately.
The Duke turned to Wanton. “What did you want to see, Miss Wallflower?”
Wanton blinked. Her knees turned to syllabub.
“The statue,” Wanton said, mustering her courage. “In your room.”
He took a step closer. “Which statue?”
He was holding a riding crop.
Where in God’s name had it come from?
He wasn’t brandishing it, exactly. Just... holding it. Casually. Slapping it against his open palm with a soft, rhythmic smack.
Wanton forgot how vowels worked.
“There are several statues in my room,” he continued, circling her now. “You’ll have to be specific.”
She had to keep him in view, which meant turning in a tight, awkwardly like a dizzy debutante at a dress fitting.
“It was... elevated.”
“Go on.”
“On a pedestal.”
“Most are.”
Smack.
Wanton inhaled sharply.
“The, ah… nude one,” she tried.
“That narrows it slightly.”
She groaned.
He stepped behind her, and she could feel the heat of him. The air between them was saturated with bergamot, authority, and dangerous possibilities.
“Miss Wallflower,” he murmured, just behind her ear, “did you trespass into my bedchamber... to admire my backside?”
