Page 6 of A Virgin for the Ton’s Wolf (Ton’s Wolves #4)
CHAPTER SIX
S carlett blinked up at the lavish canopy of her obscenely large, four-poster bed. Of all her ‘harebrained’ ideas—as her mama liked to call them—this had to be the least profitable one.
Well, at least I am not marrying the Marquess of Colton .
That was a triumph of sorts. Even if she was now squarely in the Duke of Wolverton’s bad graces.
Or worse graces.
Scarlett winced at the memory of the impeccably leashed fury in his eyes. Or the pure power that seemed to course right under his skin as he clenched his fists.
He had no business being so attractive when livid, and she had no business being attracted to a man who was restraining himself from possibly wringing her neck.
I have gone mad , she thought with a slight shake of her head.
The Wolf of England? Attractive?
Undeniably so.
There. She had gone mad.
She rolled over, pressing her face into a pillow so soft it might as well have been stuffed with clouds. As it turned out, such downy pillows were perfect for drowning out screams of pure vexation.
Sleep, it seemed, would not come easily, even after all the candles had been extinguished in this huge, lavishly appointed bedchamber. Even if she lay tangled in silken sheets that slid sinfully against her skin, making her wonder what it would feel like to have his big, hard, muscular body covering hers, his large hands encircling her wrists as he pinned them over her head, his lips sweeping over hers as he ravished her…
No, no, no .
She could not be fantasizing about the Wolf under his roof.
It was not only the height of impropriety—it was downright depravity.
And Wolverton Estate just seemed to feed her darker desires.
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.
“Lady Scarlett. Why am I not surprised?”
Scarlett should have said something—a snarky reply, a coy pretense at being afraid of the storm. Anything.
But her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her eyes were glued to the broad expanse of his chest.
The Wolf cursed under his breath and turned around, angrily pushing his hands into the sleeves of a worn linen shirt.
“You should not be here,” he growled at her.
She was not going to disagree with him on that quarter.
“Seeing as you are prone to flagrantly defying etiquette, a few rules must be set until you leave.” His voice was low and menacing. “You are not to step foot in this turret again. In fact”—his eyes glinted dangerously in the flickering candlelight—“you are forbidden from even stepping onto the staircase that leads to this very room. Am I understood?”
Scarlett nodded dumbly. “Yes, of course. I am so sorry for poking my nose into your business, Your Grace.”
A dark eyebrow arched in pure sarcasm. “Are you really?”
She bristled. “Of course, I am. It was just that I could not sleep, and then I heard you working…” She paused and peered over his shoulder. “What were you working on anyway?”
A muscle ticked in his square jaw. “Go back to your rooms, Lady Scarlett,” he growled. “Before I forget what a good and patient host I am.”
“Ah, yes. Right away, Your Grace!” she squeaked, quickly turning around and running back to her bedchamber.
Twice in one day. She had provoked him twice in one day. It was a miracle she was still alive.
Scarlett groaned as she closed the door behind her.
It would be in her best interests to keep away from him and avoid invoking his wrath.
But as she slipped back into her huge bed and pulled the covers over her shivering body, all she could think about was the broad expanse of his back. The way his muscles rippled as he chiseled away at the marble with precise, calculated nicks.
Her fingers flexed into the silk as she wondered what it would be like to touch him, to feel him beneath her fingertips.
Would he be as hard as the marble he worked on?
Or warm and alive as the molten wax that dripped on her finger?
Scarlett groaned and pulled the covers over her head.
It was a long, long time before sweet slumber managed to find her.
Bloody hell.
He had underestimated just how much trouble the redhead could get into.
Or just how fierce his reaction to her would be.
He could feel his length straining against the falls of his breeches, his arousal so intense that it was a blessed miracle Scarlett even managed to leave the turret intact.
Proper young ladies should not venture out into the night in night rails and robes so thin they might have been crafted from a spider’s web. And they certainly did not stay to ogle dangerous men either.
Lady Scarlett Clarke was either very brave or very foolish, but the difference hardly mattered. He had seen the look in her eyes. Had known what it signified.
She had wanted him, even if she did not quite realize it yet—and that was far more potent and dangerous than any mind-altering draught.
No. No, no, no. NO.
She needed to go.
As soon as possible.
Before he ended up truly stealing her innocence.
He groaned as he ran a dust-covered hand over his face. If he did that, if he succumbed to his dark desires, then he would truly be irredeemable.
Just like his father.
And he had sworn that he would never be like him.
Tomorrow, he decided.
Tomorrow, he would send her and her infernal mama packing and out of Wolverton Estate, even if he had to throw them both into the carriage himself. He would get her out of his mind, and then he would send for Josephine to quell the raging inferno in his blood.
He would purge the fantasies of her brilliant, flame-colored tresses spread across his pillow like a molten river. Of her limbs tangled with his as she moaned his name over and over again…
“Damn it all to hell!” he hissed under his breath.
He needed a bath. Preferably one that was icy enough to quell his raging arousal.
He marched over to the washing section of his workspace and stripped himself naked, groaning as he grabbed his erection.
It was all her fault—that bloody, damned, glorious woman.
Without saying another word, he grabbed the bucket and poured its contents on his head. The shock of the cold water cleared his mind only the slightest bit.
The urge to drag Lady Scarlett under his body remained unabated, damn it.
Outside, the rain had slowed down significantly to a steady downpour. Not quite a drizzle yet, but not the heavy torrent that had lashed against the windows earlier.
Tomorrow, he would send her on her way.
He just had to figure out how to make it through the rest of the night with Lady Scarlett sleeping under the same roof, her assigned bedchamber right across from his own.
Sometimes, his mother could be far more diabolical than even the bloody French.