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What is wrong with me?

Scarlett inwardly shook her head. Why was his pinewood scent suddenly the only thing she could smell? Why did that hint of a growl make her lips part and her breath come fast?

Why was she suddenly attracted to his barely leashed brutality?

Most of all, why was she suddenly wishing that he had reached out andtouchedher? Why would she want him to touch her?

Her mind careened from one thought to another as he took a step back.

“Perhaps you may be of use to me, after all,” he murmured.

“Of use?”

For what, exactly?

Scarlett feared she would not like the answer to that question.

But if he was willing to help her—at least for the time being—then perhaps she could buy herself enough time. Just enough for her to get out of the impending doom that was her betrothal to the Marquess.

He grinned at her, his teeth a slash of white against his tanned skin. “I hold a particular disdain for vapid, twittering ninnies who throw themselves at me left, right, and center in just about every ballroom in London,” he clarified. He lifted her chin and looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps your presence can serve as a deterrent to those ambitious chits and their even more ambitious mamas.”

He wanted her to keep debutantes from flocking over to him? Was he not capable of achieving the very same feat himself?

Scarlett stared up at him and wondered if the female population of London had gone insanely suicidal to launch themselves at him. The man radiated danger in capital letters. Underscored. Possibly with a few curlicues on the letters and some illustrated margins.

But then again, she had wanted him to touch her not too long ago. Perhaps she was just as mad as the rest of them.

She licked her lips. She might be able to make the best out of this situation.

“And in return, you will pretend to be my betrothed?” she asked breathlessly.

Yes, this could work.

In fact, it would be rather ideal—the two of them coming together to keep marriage prospects at bay. Her mama would never question her betrothal to the Duke, and she was quite certain she could easily defend him from the hordes of fanciful females who dreamed of becoming his Duchess.

It was most unconventional, but certainly much better than the prospect of marrying the Marquess.

The Duke let out a sound that might have been a cross between a scoff and a laugh, as if he found her proposal incredibly amusing.

“No, Lady Scarlett. In return, I will not duel your brother and execute him foryouroffense.”

Then, he rudely ushered her out the door and closed itin her face!

Scarlett was rendered speechless. And then fuming mad.

“Fine!” she yelled, her voice precisely pitched so the man behind the door heard every single word. “Then maybe I should take Her Grace up on her offer and find a more agreeable man!”

So much for thinking the man had a single charitable bone in his body! Whatever goodwill she felt towards him immediately evaporated, obliterated by his unbelievable rudeness.

She glared at the offensive mahogany panel that he had swung between them. How dare he throw her out as if she was mere baggage!

Men! They are all the same—every single one of them!

Really, she should have never mentioned his name to her mama. She would be much better off with another man, but eligible dukes were rather hard to come by nowadays, and she needed someone who was intimidating enough to keep the Marquess of Colton away.

The Wolf was her best option. Too bad he was not cooperative.

Well, he was not the only man in existence. Perhaps sheshouldtake the Dowager Duchess up on her offer.