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She should have known that a man as impossible as the Duke of Wolverton would live in a residence that would be just as impossible to sleep in.

She grumbled and turned once more into the pillow, screaming. Good heavens, was she going to spend the entire night thus?

Outside, the thunder had faded into a distant, surly rumble, although the rain still lashed furiously against the windows.

Then, she heard it.

Over the rain and storm, there was a strange, rhythmic thumping. And then some clinking. And then the thumping again. On and on and on.

Scarlett frowned. Was there work being carried on at the estate even at this ungodly hour?

Surely not.

Scarlett knew that the best course of action would be to roll over, press one of those soft, fluffy pillows over her ears, and sleep the noise—and her wanton fantasies—away. Maybe with a bit of rest, she would not be so prone to such lurid thoughts of her unwilling host.

It was just too bad that she had never been one to take the best course of action.

She swung her legs over the mattress and slid her feet into the luxurious slippers that had so graciously been provided for her. She slid her arms into a robe and grabbed a candlestick, before peering out of the door.

The hallway was empty, lined with the portraits of generations of disapproving Dukes of Wolverton.

Scarlett pressed her lips together to stop herself from sputtering in laughter. There certainly was no doubt as to the ancestry of the current Duke—that menacing glower of his appeared to have been a dominant trait passed down the family line, along with their titles and their overabundant wealth.

She followed the sound down the hallway, past the portrait of a Wolverton ancestress glaring at her in abject reproach. With each step, the sounds grew more prominent. Louder.

Right up the winding stairs that led to a door in the turret.

If her mama had seen her, she would have hauled her—by her hair, if necessary—away from the door. But her dear mother had the blessed ability to sleep through almost anything.

And that sliver of light that sliced through the darkness seemed to call to her blood in ways that were almost arcane.

Scarlett carefully pushed the door open and peered inside…

Only to find a broad back and rippling muscles. Dust and debris trailed from his hands as he worked at a slab of marble that was as tall as he was.

The more conscientious voice in her head screamed,Turn back now!

But another voice piped up,Stay a while longer. Enjoy the view.

And what a view it was.

There was no doubt that the Duke was a large man, much taller than most of the other gentlemen in London, with shoulders that looked as if they belonged on Atlas himself.

But Scarlett had never seen such majesty in the masculine form before. Even Michelangelo himself, or Bernini, could not have dreamed up a more magnificent physique. Indeed, David would have cowered in shame before him.

And to think that the man before her still had his breeches on!

She stood there, her heart beating rapidly. Her mouth dry. Her chest heaving with the shallow breaths she had to remind herself to take.

Her candle gave a slight hiss, the flame dancing wildly for a moment, before it dripped hot wax on her unwitting finger.

Scarlett let out a surprised yelp, and both candle and holder clattered noisily to the cold floor.

“Who goes there?”

Heart leaping in her throat, Scarlett tried to turn around and bolt to her chamber, but her feet remained rooted to the spot.

The door was yanked open with such force that it was almost torn off its hinges. The Duke glowered at her, his dark eyebrows snapping together.