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“You want tospankme?” she spluttered. “Like a child? You’re going to cane me?”

“I never mentioned a cane.” Stephen glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “I shan’t need a cane.”

Beatrice wondered, not for the first time, whether this was a dream. One of the hot, sticky, confusing, and thoroughly frustrating dreams she’d been having of late. Swallowing hard, she stared at Stephen’s well-shaped hands and tried to imagine them delivering a hard slap to… Where would he want to spank her? Only one location suggested itself.

“Of course, if you’d prefer not to take your punishment like a grown woman,” Stephen said carelessly, “I cannotmakeyou do anything. I’m sure Mouse would be delighted with a little extra help with the plants.”

Beatrice cleared her throat, smoothing her bodice. Her hands, to her horror, were shaking. She was speaking before she even realized that she had decided to speak.

“I didn’t say no.”

Stephen turned the full force of his sharp gaze on her, and she saw something like desire glimmering in their depths.

Beatrice felt the place between her legs pulse with anticipation. She wasn’t entirely sure howthatsuggestion could elicitthisreaction, but there seemed little point in questioning it.

“And how many… how manyrepetitionswould be necessary?” she heard herself say, determinedly meeting his gaze.

Stephen eyed her, pursing his lips. “Twenty.”

“Twenty! I should think not. Five.”

“Five? Five is hardly a punishment. Fifteen, then.”

Beatrice tilted up her chin. “Seven.”

“Seven is barely better than five.Fifteen.”

The haggling was making Beatrice’s breath come harder. Stephen was inching closer without seeming to move at all, and now he was within arm’s reach. At some point, Beatrice had shifted away from the small table with the sextant, and now her back was pressed against the larger table covered in books and papers.

“Ten. Final offer,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

Stephen held her gaze for a long moment. “Done.”

Beatrice exhaled, suddenly shaky.

What exactly have I agreed to?

Stephen came closer, placing both hands on her shoulders. The edge of the table pressed against her hips.

“You are going to have to turn around,” he said, sounding faintly amused.

Beatrice obeyed, her heart thudding.

Arousal pulsed through her, and she was not entirely sure whether it was warranted or not. She might as well waddle out of this room in a moment, with her backside stinging, feeling sore and stupid and thoroughly humiliated.

She placed her hands on the table, but Stephen tutted under his breath.

“A little lower than that, I think, my dear Duchess.”

Biting her lip, Beatrice lowered herself to her elbows. Papers crackled under her elbows. The whole situation was so ludicrous she wanted to laugh if her nerves would allow it.

She flinched at the warm weight of Stephen’s hand on the small of her back. He hesitated, just for a moment.

“If you would like me to stop,” he said, sounding faintly amused as always, “you only have to ask.”

“Thank you for enlightening me,” she retorted. “Shall we get on with it?”

He chuckled. His hand slipped lower, curving around the voluminous skirts that covered Beatrice’s rear. Through the layers, she could scarcely feel a thing.