Page 2 of The Earl’s Tempting Ward (Dukes Gone Dirty #2)

2

T he great and powerful earl she’d heard so much about glared at her from behind his desk, and Philippa could not blame him. It was such a naughty thing to say.

But then again, she was rather wicked, a fact she’d learned to embrace after fighting it for so very long. Still, heat filled her cheeks as she heard her parents’ chastisements ringing in the back of her mind, shaming her more thoroughly than this large beast of an earl could ever hope to do.

Not that Lord Foster’s glower wasn’t formidable. It was. And his broad shoulders and large build were terribly intimidating. Scars marred the left side of his face, making what must have been a handsome face something warped and terrifying.

He must have been striking before the accident. That much was clear. Sharp nose, high cheekbones, a heavy brow. Striking and formidable. But add in the scars and that fiery glare, and it was no wonder the workers had stared at her in wide-eyed horror when she’d informed them that she’d find the master of the house herself.

Hadn’t been difficult to do. Just follow the growl. She’d half expected to find a feral animal in this study. Instead she’d found him . The Earl of Foster. Threatening to take her over his knee.

A surge of heat coiled low in her belly as a lewd image formed in her mind. She bit her lip and felt his gaze drop to her lips to follow the movement.

“My dear, you gave us a start,” the dowager countess said.

Philippa dipped into a curtsy, head down as she murmured a greeting and an apology for having surprised them.

The Earl still hadn’t yet spoken. He hadn’t moved from behind the desk either. He just stood there and glared at her as though she were a rodent infesting this monstrous castle of theirs.

“You’ll have to forgive my son the inhospitable welcome,” Lady Foster said. “He was not aware of your arrival today, and I’m afraid he did not inherit his father’s charm nor his grace.”

“Not at all, my lady,” she said, her gaze flicking over to see how this large brute of a man took to being insulted by his mother in front of a stranger.

He didn’t appear to have heard. His expression hadn’t altered, his glare still burned into her skin.

Had she shocked him with her comment? She supposed most ladies would have ignored the comment they’d overheard. Feigned deafness, if need be. That was her mother’s favorite trick whenever anyone said anything untoward.

What was that? Oh, my apologies, I could not hear you.

That was how she’d avoided dealing with anything unpleasant. She’d feigned ignorance in company and went both deaf and blind when it came to her own daughter. Easier to pretend Philippa didn’t exist than to face the fact that she’d sired a wayward, immoral creature.

And she’d learned the hard way that it was useless to deny her wicked nature.

She had long known her father was right when he called her their little devil. It was the red hair, her father had claimed.

He’d been superstitious like that.

The dowager countess was remarking on the suddenness of her arrival, asking after her journey.

Lord Foster continued to stare.

She smiled sweetly as she waited for the earl to recover from the shock. He’d berate her, no doubt, for having sought him out rather than waiting meekly in the entrance hall. For having dared to utter the words ‘spank me’ in his esteemed company.

A horrible urge to laugh stole over her, but it fled just as quickly, replaced once more by the dark heavy weight that had been hanging over her ever since her parents’ death one year before.

The year of mourning was over; and this was it. This was her life now.

Stuck with the man her mother had referred to as ‘that dreadful Lord Benedict’ when she was being kind. She’d relate the contents of her dear friend’s correspondence with a sad shake of her head. Such a shame poor Lady Foster sired such an incorrigible rogue. Seems he’s nothing at all like his elder brother.

Oh yes, Philippa had heard all the stories from her mother about that dreadful younger son.

Rake, reprobate , and wastrel were all terms she’d come to associate with the man before her. And that was before the notorious fire which had taken his already wretched reputation and made it outright infamous. She might have been in mourning this past year, but even she had heard tales of the nefarious younger brother who’d inherited a title and its fortune after a mysterious tragedy.

No one had outright said that he was to blame, as far as she knew…but it was clearly suspected.

His eyes seemed to darken as if he could read her thoughts. Oh my, but he did have a fearsome visage. It wouldn’t stretch the imagination to think him capable of murder.

And this was the man who was meant to look after her. How very fitting.

Philippa waited patiently for him to finish his perusal. His lips curled up in a sneer and dark, cold eyes raked over her.

All those dreams she’d had for her future. And instead she was here.

The little devil had been sent to hell.

For the best. Well deserved, really. She squared her shoulders. Might as well make herself comfortable.

“Mother,” he growled, his gaze never leaving Philippa. “You did not tell me she was grown.”

Philippa pressed her lips together to hold back a smile. He sounded so very put off by the fact. As if being grown was a sin.

“Well,” his mother fussed. “I didn’t say she was a child either.”

“You most certainly did.”

His harsh tone as he turned to face his mother had Philippa flinching. Not in fear. She wasn’t afraid of anyone. Not anymore. The only good thing to come of losing everything and everyone she loved? There was nothing left to lose, which meant nothing to fear.

But she recoiled at the way this overbearing brute was speaking to his mother, as if she were his servant or his enemy, even.

“You called her a child,” he said, his voice a menacing threat. “ Poor babe , I believe you said.”

His tone was mocking, but the dowager countess held her head high. “I am old, Benedict. To me, you are a child.”

A silence fell that had Philippa twitching with discomfort. She had the disturbing suspicion that a conversation was taking place in that silence between them, and it was not a pleasant tête-à-tête.

Eventually he looked away from his mother, and when his gaze fell on Philippa, she felt it burn through the thick wool of her traveling gown. That glare was judgement itself, and she’d come out wanting.

“What am I to do with a grown woman?” he snapped.

I have some ideas. Philippa swallowed down the words before they could escape. Naughty, naughty Philippa.

She’d thought she’d learned her lesson, but it seemed there was some part of her too wicked to learn even now. Even after everything she’d done.

After everything she’d ruined.

“You’ll take her to London, of course,” the dowager countess said.

The look of horror on Lord Foster’s face might have been humorous…if it wasn’t so terribly foreboding.

He would take her to London, wouldn’t he? He did not expect her to languish here in this miserable, empty house forever…did he?

His gaze found hers as if he could hear her thoughts.

Perhaps he did.

She swallowed thickly. Maybe he thought to hold her prisoner here. To have her do his bidding and be his indentured servant.

Her mind—that unceasingly wicked mind—it chose that moment to call up every scandalous book she’d stolen from Herr Heinrich’s collection. A friend of her father’s, his terribly hidden secret library had been eye opening, to say the least. Her mother likely wished Philippa had stayed behind on that last tour of the continent.

Far too many libraries for her to pillage.

But then again, the real damage to her heart and her soul had taken place in Italy, in the safety of her own home.

She wondered what her parents would think of that ironic twist.

They’d think nothing, because they are dead.

She nearly tsked aloud at her own wayward thoughts. Her mother was the religious one, her father the superstitious sort. She was neither. All she believed in was what she saw around her. Cause and effect. Actions and repercussions.

Mistakes and consequences.

That’s what this was.

She let her gaze wander around the room. Let this giant beast glare. Let the countess speak of her as if she were not there. It hardly mattered in the end. She would not be here long—as Lady Foster was so succinctly pointing out.

“She needs to find a husband,” the dowager countess was saying in a hushed voice, as if perhaps Philippa could not hear. Or maybe the servants were not to know that she was a pathetic and lonely orphan in need of a protector?

“And?” The man she was beginning to think of as Lord Arse shot back.

“And you must take her.”

He stared at her for so long, Philippa fidgeted on the older woman’s behalf.

“You can be her chaperone,” he said. His gaze flickered over to Philippa, a hint of wariness there, like he was waiting for her to swoon or weep or something of the sort.

Perhaps he thought she’d be offended by his rude welcome. Indeed, she was not. It was rather a relief to have such a crass, unfeeling gentleman as her guardian. Ever since her parents’ death she’d been surrounded by sympathy and kindness. So much kindness she thought she might drown in it.

His lack of civility, even the harshness of his countenance and the cruelty in his glare—it fell over her like a gust of fresh air.

She wanted more of it.

That part of her that was always needy, always seeking more…it sat up at attention now.

Down, girl.

The dowager countess was still hissing at her son under her breath.

“I am in mourning?—”

“And I am not?” he snapped.

The whip of his voice had Philippa returning to the conversation with a jolt.

His mother barely even noticed, continuing as if he hadn’t interrupted.

So this was his normal behavior then?

Wonderful.

“I will accompany you to London if you wish,” the dowager countess was saying. “But we both know you need to return if you plan to find yourself a wife.”

His jaw twitched slightly and he cast Philippa a sidelong look.

She swallowed hard. So he was in search of a wife then. Interesting. She almost pitied the woman who’d be stuck with this gruff, growling beast.

Almost.

She could think of worse fates than being ensnared by that glare. She’d already decided that his coarseness was better than the sweet sympathy she’d been drowning in amidst her mother’s friends back home.

Would he truly take a hand to her if she were to misbehave?

She nibbled on her lip, a heat pooling low in her belly.

He might.

And she found she wanted to test this threat. To push him to the breaking point and see just how cruel the dreadful lord could be.

His mother was still talking. About London. About his obligations. About what they owed her—or rather, her mother.

She didn’t pay attention. Truthfully, she didn’t much care. This was her life now. She would go where they told her. She would marry whomever they deemed fit.

She’d lost the right to protest, and she well knew it. It was her own fault she was here. Her own fault her parents were gone.

Apparently losing patience with his mother’s speech about his obligations and responsibilities, the earl turned to look at the clock over the mantel, and in doing so, Philippa found herself staring head on at the scarred, mutilated side of his face.

Her breath caught at the brutality of it. The rawness and the pain that could not be hidden.

Her stomach twisted—not with disgust but empathy.

The scars on his face were a physical, undeniable sign of his pain and she was almost positive that she had the very same scars. But hers were deep inside where there was no light. Her wounds festered in the darkness. And as she stared at the earl’s visible pain, she could have sworn she felt her own scars shriek in agony.

A sharp inhale escaped. Loud enough to draw his attention and she did not look away quickly enough.

He caught her stare. And whatever he saw in her expression and in her eyes, it had him sneering in her direction. The glare in his eyes wasn’t just anger, it was hatred. Toward her.

She found herself backing away a step out of instinct.

She wasn’t scared. She had nothing to fear anymore. But that didn’t stop her body from responding to the sight of a predator in her midst.

A predator who looked as though he meant to rip her apart.

She tilted her head up. She had a feeling neither of them heard a word his mother was saying.

Didn’t matter anyway. She’d go to London. She’d do whatever her guardian wished.

When he dismissed them both, she let the dowager countess lead her to her new room where her trunks were already waiting.

No one seemed to care if she spoke, so she kept quiet until the dowager countess informed her she would see her that night at dinner.

And then she left, and Philippa was once more alone.

The loneliness was the worst part of this new life she’d found herself in.

The loneliness was what threatened to crush her.

But she pushed all that aside and focused on examining the fusty old antiques that adorned this stale room. She’d seen the workers coming and going from the other wing—the one that had burned down.

She’d been told by the local woman who’d been sent to fetch her from the carriage that it was being rebuilt and would have all the modern trappings.

But for now she was in an ancient, seemingly forgotten room in an old, forbidding, mournful manor.

So this was it.

This was her hell.

Perfect.

Her hands trembled as she put her clothes away, dismissing the maid.

This was precisely where she belonged.