Page 4 of The Earl’s Tempting Ward (Dukes Gone Dirty #2)

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“G o to your room,” Philippa muttered as she paced. “Go to your room ?”

She hadn’t gone to her room. Instead, she’d sought solace in the library, but solitude was not helping. With each new length she strode, she worked herself into a fine rage.

And the worst part was, there was no one on whom to lash out.

He’d just walked away.

She growled low in her throat as her footsteps echoed throughout the room.

She was glad they’d leave for London in the morning. This house would be the death of her with its empty halls and closed off wings. She’d been living in grief for nearly a year now, but only on the inside. This manor, however, was filled with it. Grief was seeping from the ceilings and dripping down the walls.

She could barely breathe here. There was no escape from it. Except…

Except for those rare moments when the Earl of Foster deigned to speak to her. When he drove all the memories and the regrets far from her mind with a simple look. Or rather, a glare.

She stopped short in the middle of the room as her mind’s eye filled with the image of that glare. It would have been a ferocious glower even without the scars. But with them…

She shivered as a draft cut through the window beside her.

With them he was outright fearsome.

But she wasn’t afraid of him. Or…she hadn’t been until his unflappably stern facade had dropped and he’d made her touch his scars.

She rubbed her fingers together now, remembering the shocking feel of that smooth, rippled texture that was in such contrast to the rough stubble that had rubbed the sensitive skin of her inner wrist.

Rough and smooth. Hot and cold. Terrifying and gentle.

And yes, she had seen him be gentle. He’d kept his distance from the mare, but when she’d entered she’d seen it. A softening of his features. Worry. Concern.

Over a horse .

Granted this was not much to go on. She wasn’t about to nominate the man for sainthood. But it had tugged at her heart all the same.

It had her wondering, too. What would it be like if those coal-dark eyes were to soften with tenderness? What if that heat of desire were tempered with the warmth of affection?

A door closed in the hallway and she spun around quickly at the sound, straining her ears to hear more.

When she didn’t, she strode out into the hallway. The sound had come from his study.

Lord Foster was in there. And she’d long since lost any sense of reason. Anger had her marching to the closed door, knocking once before letting herself in.

He glanced up without so much as a flicker of surprise. “I thought I told you to go to your room.”

“I am not a child.” She made the massive mistake of ending this loud declaration with a stomp of her foot.

His irritatingly bland gaze traveled down the length of her skirts and landed at her feet. “Aren’t you?”

Blast. He was so dreadfully knowing. And she’d never felt more helpless.

No. That wasn’t true. She’d felt nothing but helpless since the accident. But this was different. She’d gotten a taste earlier…a taste of something delicious.

Every time she saw desire in his eyes, she tasted it anew. An escape. A distraction. A wave of sensations overwhelming enough to drown out everything else.

And for a little while there, she’d even had a taste of power. A feeling of control—raw and unwieldy—but control nonetheless.

She’d seen the way he’d looked at her.

She’d seen the way he’d wanted her.

A thrill raced down her spine at the memory. She wanted to see it again. She wanted to see…anything, really. His anger, his desire, his rage. She’d take any emotion over this closed-off wall he’d erected to shut her out.

Not just her, she knew that. He treated his mother and the servants with the same apathetic, taciturn derision. As if none of them were of the same caliber as him. As if he alone knew pain and isolation.

She frowned at the thought. He had no idea. The arrogant fool had no notion of what anyone else was going through.

“Well?” He glanced up as if confused to find her still standing there. “Why not be a good girl and do as you’re told?”

“Because I’m not a good girl,” she said. She hated how childish she sounded, but he brought it out in her by treating her like a child. “I’m a grown woman. I’ll be married soon enough?—”

“Yes, and at that point you’ll be some other man’s problem,” he interjected smoothly. “But until then, you will do as I say.”

Her hands twitched at her sides and she fought the urge to form fists. But even as he annoyed her, her heart was pounding hard and fast.

This was what she’d come here for.

A reaction. A feeling. Something other than the bottomless pit of darkness that was forever threatening to drown her.

But it wasn’t enough. She wanted a response from him as well. She needed to see him lose his control. Anger, passion, joy, it didn’t matter what he showed her, what she provoked.

She’d rather he strike her than pretend that she meant nothing. That he felt nothing.

Her mouth went dry and she wet her lips. “Did you think you’d scared me off before?”

That had his head coming up again, his hand pausing over the document before him.

She pressed on, moving forward until her hands rested on the edge of the desk. His gaze fixed on her fingers as if they were something foreign and strange.

“Did you think I would frighten so easily?” she continued. “I don’t. Your scars don’t scare me. Your tragedy will not run me off.”

He came to his feet slowly, leaning over the desk as well. “Are you through?”

“No.” She had to struggle to swallow because there was a dangerous light in his eyes. She was stoking the fire, prodding the beast. “You might be my guardian, but I am still a grown woman?—”

“I’ll believe that when I see any evidence of your maturity.”

The words stung but she would not let him see. Instead, she leaned over further. Her gown was low-cut, the fabric stretched taut over her breasts. Parting her lips, she pressed her elbows in, causing her breasts to lift until she was close to spilling out of her bodice.

Her heart raced wildly in her chest as he took the bait, his gaze dropping, his eyes darkening. The sheer ravenous hunger in his expression stole her breath and made her legs shake.

But it was the wet heat between her thighs that made her whimper, the sound unbidden and shameful. He dragged his gaze up from her breasts, lingering on her neck and then her lips before meeting her gaze with a look so filled with disdain it had her stumbling back.

“Is this how you show me how mature you are?” His sneer made her belly twist with humiliation. “You’re a child in a grown woman’s body, that’s what you are. You’re playing games you don’t fully understand, with consequences you cannot fathom.”

Her lungs hitched as he came around the desk in two quick strides, gripping her upper arms as he walked her backwards with sure steps. He was so close that his leg came between her thighs, catching in her skirts, like some sort of scandalous dance. He didn’t stop until her back brushed up against the wall just beside the door.

Her chest was heaving, her skin tingling with the need for more touches. She wanted him to grip her harder, to push her up against the wall with force. She wanted…no she needed to feel his bruising punishment.

She needed to feel .

And she needed it more than she needed her pride.

She tilted her head back. “You think I don’t understand the consequences?”

Memories resurfaced so suddenly that, for a moment, she was lost in them, blinking to push them away.

She wasn’t quick enough because she saw his eyes narrow with curiosity, maybe even concern.

“I know what it is to pay for our sins,” she said. “I pay for mine every day.”

His brows drew down and his gaze raked over her face. But she didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want questions. So she lifted herself up onto her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.

For a moment he didn’t respond. He stilled beneath her kiss like a marble statue. But then all at once his control gave way and he was ravenous. His mouth claimed hers in a crushing kiss, his hot, firm lips moving over hers with a hunger that made her belly clench and her thighs tremble.

Still gripping her arms, he pressed into her until his hard, massive body was a heavy weight pinning her to the wall. Her mind went blessedly blank as sensations swept through her, hot liquid heat from her breasts down to her toes.

The sensations were overpowering, the rush of heat and desire so overwhelming she thought she might drown.

And yet, she wanted even more.

She wouldn’t be satisfied until she was completely swept away in this mindless abandon, the first true relief from pain that she’d had in a year.

She moaned as one of his hands came up to cup her breast. Not gentle.

But she didn’t want gentle. She wanted to be bruised by his fingers, to feel his touch even after he was gone.

The space between her thighs throbbed and she was making desperate needy noises in her throat as her hips rocked, trying to find…something. She didn’t even know what she needed, only that she was desperate for more.

He pulled back, his breathing labored.

“Lord Foster, I?—”

“Go.” He scrubbed a hand over his face as he backed away, the fire in his eyes a mix of fury and desire.

That fire made her tremble. “But?—”

“Go!” He roared the word, and she ran.

She stumbled into the hallway, and back to her room. It wasn’t over though, she told herself as she put her hair to rights and called for a maid to mend the bodice which he’d ripped.

As she dressed for dinner, she met her reflection with the ghost of a smile. It was far from her old carefree grin, but far more real than the smile she’d been wearing for the past year.

For the first time in a long time, she felt some hope.

The man could be cruel. He would never speak of love. He didn’t even like her.

But that was good.

That was better.

She didn’t want romance. She’d learned her lesson there.

When the time came to go back downstairs, she was ready to face him. But he did not come to dinner. She dined alone with Lady Foster, a chore in itself. The woman was so absorbed in her own isolated world that she barely made an effort to speak.

Though tonight she seemed to be making more of an effort, perhaps to make up for the earl’s absence. “Are you looking forward to London, dear?”

“Yes, my lady,” Philippa said quietly.

She smiled. “Your mother would be so proud.”

Spoken so kindly, and yet ice flooded Philippa’s veins and her soup spoon hovered in the air. She would not be proud. She certainly hadn’t been the day she died.

The day I got her killed.

“You look just like her when she was your age.” Lady Foster had continued talking, seemingly oblivious to Philippa’s pain.

“I’ve heard that often,” she said, forcing a smile.

But their red hair and green eyes were where the similarities ended. For her mother was an angel—all Christian kindness and an obedient heart.

And Philippa was nothing but trouble.

A fact only the earl seemed to understand. He’d seen it in her right away—not that she’d tried to hide it. He brought it out in her, too. His disapproval and disdain, his threats of punishment…

Oh yes, he knew exactly what she was deep down. And that was liberating in a way. To be seen, for once. To be understood.

Perhaps it was best to stop fighting her true nature, but rather to embrace it. Revel in it.

Drown in her wicked ways until they brought about her own demise in addition to her parents’.

“I dare say you’ll have your pick of a husband,” the dowager countess was saying.

Philippa lifted her head. Husband . Her lip curled with a sneer at the thought. But this was all part of her punishment. She would not fight it. “I am not so certain,” she said in a humble tone. “Aside from your family’s gracious patronage, I have no good connections to offer?—”

“Nonsense, dear,” the dowager countess interrupted. “You’re an heiress with a fortune to her name.”

A fortune thanks to her parents’ untimely death. She sipped her soup. How lucky for her.

“You might not be marriage material for the likes of a duke or an earl, but I daresay you could snare yourself a baronet if you so wished. Perhaps even an impoverished viscount.”

Philippa’s stomach churned so badly she couldn’t eat another bite. A baronet or a viscount… But she was not good enough for an earl, that was what she meant.

Did the old lady see the way she’d been watching Lord Foster?

Was she worried she’d have her heart broken?

The thought nearly made her laugh as she sipped at her soup.

To have one’s heart broken, one had to have a heart to break.