Page 17 of A Virgin for the Ton’s Wolf (Ton’s Wolves #4)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

H udson had never seen a more glorious sight than Scarlett Clarke in the throes of passion. Her head thrown back, her lips parted, her red hair running down her back like a glittering river of flames.

He had wanted her—he knew that. It was the sheer possessiveness he felt, the unbridled need that had his knees wobbling where he stood.

Lust, he could deal with rather easily. He had had enough experience in that area.

Its counterpart was uncharted territory. One he dared not venture into.

One he should not even be considering.

Tendrils of worry snared him even as he held her, glorying in the feel of her body against his.

Just a little bit longer. Let me just hold her until her climax subsides.

He did not even know who he was pleading with. All he knew was that this, what they had, was nothing but borrowed time.

Scarlett could never be his. It would have been the height of his selfishness and a fate he could not allow himself to lead her into.

“Hudson…”

Her awe-tinged voice roused him from his thoughts. “Little cat, you should go back.”

The words gutted him, although he did not know why.

“Mmm… just a while longer. Maybe when I can trust myself to walk down the stairs without falling and breaking my neck.”

He smiled a little at that. “All right.”

Just a while longer sounded perfect, anyway.

He felt a gust of warm air on his chest and looked down. Had she fallen asleep?

He could not help the proud smile that tugged at the corners of his lips.

But she was not asleep, although her thick eyelashes were fluttering dangerously close to slumber.

No, no, no. She could not fall asleep. Not in his arms. Not when it was already becoming so difficult to let her go.

“Scarlett?”

“Hmm?”

“You cannot sleep here.”

A huff of warmth on his chest again. “I am not sleeping in your arms, Hudson.”

He fought back the ridiculous smile at hearing her say his name so casually.

“I mean it. You cannot sleep here.”

“And I told you I do not intend to.” Vexation tinged her voice. “Besides, Snowdrop might be looking for me.”

So, his company fell behind that of a dog—a scruffy, probably mangy, little thing she had pulled out of the rain. Hudson did not know whether he should be piqued or relieved.

If anyone else in London ever heard that the Wolf could not compete with a puppy, he would be laughed out of every ballroom and drawing room.

But he did not care. Not even one bit.

And that realization had his heart stuttering in his chest—that this woman he held in his arms could give him more peace than he had ever felt in his entire existence.

He had thought it impossible. It was a burden that was too much for just one human being to bear. Yet, here he was, holding her. Loath to let her leave, even as he told her she had no business being with him.

“What are you working on?” she asked suddenly, shifting in his arms.

Her bottom pressed against a very specific part of his body—one that had him scrambling for the last thread of control within him.

“What are you talking about?” he said through gritted teeth.

She was killing him slowly, and she did not even notice it.

If she did, then that was truly diabolical, and he should consider pinning her to the wall and having his way with her as revenge.

But Scarlett just pointed at the rough outline of curves on the marble. “That one. Are you working on some sort of statue? A Greek goddess, perhaps?”

He grunted. “Something like it.”

She tilted her head to look up at him with a curious expression. “Would you rather not talk about it? I mean, some artists can be rather secretive about their work. Phoebe does not even tell Ethan about her books until she’s close to publishing them.”

Ah, yes. The Duchess of Sinclair and her scandalous books. He recalled the stir it had caused when she published the first part.

“Sometimes, I do not really know what will come of it,” he admitted softly, gazing at the half-finished sculpture. “I have some vision of it, yes. But… the finished product still surprises me sometimes.”

“That sounds… beautiful,” she murmured.

Beautiful? He had been hammering at a hunk of rock, whittling at marble, for the smallest relief from the scalding lust he felt for her.

“Have you always been so talented?” she asked. “When you were a child?”

Hudson grimaced. His childhood had not allowed for much art. Yes, his education demanded his literacy in the arts, but indulging in it?

His father would have had apoplexy.

And Hudson would have done it, too—become an artist just for the sheer pleasure of infuriating him, if not for the fact that his mother would have paid the ultimate price for his disobedience.

Instead of saying all of that, however, he merely shook his head.

“It just helps to… calm me,” he managed through the strange tightness in his chest. “After the war. The motions are monotonous enough, I suppose.”

“Is that…” she trailed off, and he felt her take a deep breath.

He looked down. Eyes wide, eyebrows drawn together in concern, he saw that she was worried about him.

“Is that where you acquired your scars?” she breathed. “Is that why you need to calm yourself?” She reached up to cup his cheek, her eyes shining with a depth of emotion he feared to tread. “Has taking a life scarred you more deeply?”

He stiffened. “Taking a life?”

What did she know? What had she discovered? If the servants had been talking out of bounds?—

Scarlett nodded, sympathy bright in her blue eyes. Certainly not the kind of look one would give a supposedly cold-blooded murderer.

“As a soldier, you would have been forced to take the lives of others,” she murmured. “I can only imagine how horrific that would be?—”

He squeezed the hand on his cheek.

“That is hardly a question a young lady should ask,” he snapped a little too harshly.

He noticed his error a little too late when she winced.

You are one to talk , after you just bent her over your worktable and did things to her that a gentleman would never consider doing to a young lady.

“You do not have to be so angry,” she told him, bristling at his sharp tone.

Hudson pressed his lips into a thin line. He saw the familiar tilt of her chin. The flash of hurt in her eyes, before they narrowed on him. Knew that she was raising her walls once more.

As she should .

“You should leave,” he told her hoarsely. “The tower gets cold at night.”

And you have much more to fear from me than catching a cold.

“You are right,” she said glacially, standing up on wobbling legs. “I have overstayed my welcome. Good night, Your Grace. ”

Hudson fought the grimace that nearly twisted his features as he watched her hobble to the door. Her robe fluttered with her brisk steps, and he caught a glimpse of her delicate ankles beneath the hem.

Damn, even her feet looked downright erotic to him, and he was not even one of those depraved louts with bizarre tastes.

Though his tastes had narrowed to a terrifying degree to a particular fiery redhead with lips that could tempt a saint to sin.

She fumbled with the doorknob. Gave it an almighty shake. And then stumbled back, confusion on her beautiful face.

“It’s locked.”

He frowned and strode towards her. “What do you mean, it’s locked?”

She pointed an accusatory finger at the door. “The door, Your Grace, is locked . It would not open. The doorknob would not turn. It. Is. Locked .”

He twisted the doorknob. And did so again with enough force to wrench it from the wooden frame.

It did not yield.

Bloody hell.

The estate was old, and while most of it had been fixed and renovated over several generations, there were still parts of it that remained neglected. Like this particular door.

Before Scarlett, he had resolved this particular problem by merely leaving the door open. After all, nobody but his most intrepid butler and valet—or his nosy mother—would ever dare to seek him out when he was in his tower.

How was he to know that she would not just pack up and go when he told her to? That she would come up to his tower when he explicitly told her not to?

Damn it. He should have had the bloody door outfitted with a new knob and lock the moment she set foot in Wolverton. On that note, he should check if his bedchambers were sufficiently warded.

She crossed her arms over her chest, and he fought to keep his eyes away from the gap in the neckline of her night rail. Moments ago, he’d had his hand down there, on her breast…

“You know I do not want to linger here any longer than you do,” she pointed out none too kindly. “But you do not see me cursing about it.”

Another thing about young ladies that he had particularly forgotten in his seclusion? They did not appreciate coarse language.

Hudson ran a hand over his face in frustration. Bloody hell .

“I apologize for my harshness,” he sighed. “It was uncalled for.”

As proof of his sincerity, he took off his jacket and draped it over her shivering frame. For one so fiery, she was so physically delicate. The coat seemed to swallow her whole, but there was just something so right about her wearing his clothes that he smiled despite himself.

Even when she had come so dangerously close to uncovering the demons he had locked away in his closet.

“So, tell me about this list of yours,” he asked her instead. “I’m afraid I did not quite catch the rest of it.”

“Oh.” Color suffused her cheeks, inviting him to reach out and trail a finger over her warm skin. “That one.”

He smiled wider. “Yes, little cat. That one.”

Oh, he was going to love hearing what she had to say about this. Just as much as he would love to help her slowly tick off the boxes one by one.

Scarlett knew that she was not going to like the mischievous glint in his eyes—and she was right. Hudson rarely ever had such a light in his eyes, but she was now finding that when he did, it was almost always at her expense.

And she loved it. Loved him lighting up because of her .

Since when did I care what the ornery beast thinks?

“The list.” Suddenly, her mouth had become very dry. “Well, about the list…”

“Go on,” he prodded, his voice silky smooth as it glided along her nerves and did the most absurdly mind-altering things.

She licked her lips. “These are not exactly the sort of things a lady shares with a gentleman,” she said helplessly.

“I think we have gone past the mere lady-and-gentleman arrangement,” he pointed out. “Right about the time you came and accused me of kissing you.”

“Well, it is not exactly a baseless accusation now, is it?” she muttered, wrinkling her nose.

“Not anymore,” he agreed.

He really should stop speaking. His voice, deep and seductive, was doing truly dangerous things to her sanity.

“But back to the original topic at hand, little cat,” he said smoothly. “Tell me more about your list.”

Deep. Compelling. Utterly devastating.

Scarlett groaned inwardly. His voice should be outlawed.

“Well, about that…” she sighed. She supposed she could tell him one little truth. “You actually ticked off an additional item for me earlier.”

She really, really should not trust the decisions she made under the influence of Hudson Barrow. Scarlett buried her face in her hands.

And now, cue in my death by absolute mortification.