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“Here,” he muttered, handing her his cloak. “This will suit you better.”

Her fingers immediately clenched the clasp at her neck. She glowered at him. “This cloak suits me just fine,” she snarled back.

He bit back a smile. Such a fierce, bloodthirsty, little thing.

“That thing is threadbare and barely able to hold up in the wind,” he drawled. “I will not haul you back to the estate, simply to have you fall ill and be forced to extend your stay.”

She bristled at his words, but then she unclasped the cloak and angrily tossed it at him. He handed her his own and smiled in approval when she put it on.

“There. I have gone and put it on. Do not fret, Your Grace,” she seethed. “For on the most unfortunate occasion that I do catch a cold, I will have my mother cart me back to Southford, even if I am at death’s door.”

“Perish the thought, Lady Scarlett. Perish the thought.”

She rolled her eyes. “One would think that you would be the most pleased at my demise,” she muttered under her breath, stalking ahead of him.

Then, she turned around and glanced at him over her shoulder.

“Did you not say that we are heading back to the manor? Do not dawdle about, Your Grace. I would so hate to be the cause ofyourillness.”

Hudson bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smirking. It would take more than a little rain to fell him.

A little slip of a woman, however, was threatening to be his undoing.

He shook his head and caught up to her. The sooner he got her safely back in the manor, the sooner she would leave. The sooner she left, the sooner he would get his sanity back.

Hopefully.

Unfortunately, ever since Lady Scarlett Clarke’s unannounced visit, he had not had a moment’s peace. He doubted he would get it back soon.

Hudson—the Duke of Wolverton—was a hateful man.

Wicked, dangerous, and much more sinfully alluring than the devil himself, but just as hateful!

One moment, Scarlett was a quivering mass of need, lured into a lustful haze by his words and his touch… only to be discarded as quickly as a hot potato. It was jarring. Mortifying.

She even had to send him outside while she picked the pieces of her self-esteem off the cold floor.

From her arms, Snowdrop gave a little yip and bumped her with his snout. The affectionate gesture soothed her heart, but she continued to glare at the broad back in front of her.

“You must behave,” she gently admonished the puppy. “His Grace is not the most patient man, you see.”

She saw his back stiffen slightly and smiled. It would seem that her shot hit its mark.

“In fact, I have never met a more ill-tempered brute in all my life,” she continued.

And yet that ill-tempered brute had gone out of his way to chase after her in the rain. That very same ill-tempered brute had taken one look at her moth-eaten cloak and given her his own instead.

Indeed, his cloak was warmer and dryer and heavy enough to feel like a hug. A warm hug with a clean, masculine scent that reminded her of a pine forest.

And now she would have to live with that scent stamped in her brain, along with the vivid recollections of the embrace they had shared in the lodge.

I really should have chosen a different man to kiss.Even if it was just an imaginary kiss.

Although she had no doubt that the Duke of Wolverton could kiss. Very well.Extremelywell.

And if she was to be kissed—as she sometimes thought about—she wanted it to be toe-curling. Heart-melting. Mind-rearranging. Soul-stealing.

In short, everything that a proper kiss was supposed to be.