Page 7 of A Bride for the Duke of Sin

“I’m sorry!” She giggled again, brushing tears from the corners of her eyes. “But it really does not make any sense. How could you have been felled by some scheming mama or desperate debutante?”

She gave him a jaunty look that did funny things to his chest and tested his mental fortitude in equal measure.

“It would seem,” she chortled, “that you, Your Grace, have lost your… well…”

“Lost my what?”

“YourWolfness!” She burst into laughter again.

Wolfness? Was that even a word?

But under the faint glow of the moonlight, she was simply effervescent in her glee—never mind that she was laughing athisexpense.

Was he simply going to tolerate her impertinence?

Of course not. Lady Phoebe Barkley needed to be taught a lesson in how to not take inherently dangerous situations lightly.

Like hurtling purposefully into some seedy gentlemen’s club in the most horrendous, ill-fitting disguise, demanding that she be served the establishment’s strongest liquor.

Or laughingly taunting a Wolf in a dark street, lit only by a handful of scattered streetlamps.

And Ethan decided that he was going to teach her that very lesson before she got herself in more trouble.

He heard her slight squeak as he reached out and grabbed her by the waist, drawing her to him once again.

This close, he could see the individual golden flecks in her eyes. Feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. Smell the distinctly feminine fragrance that wafted from her hair.

“Do you want me to show you just how much of a Wolf I can be, Phoebe?” he growled, enjoying the delicate flush that spread across her cheeks.

She was dangerous—he already knew that. The reactions she elicited from him, even more so.

But Ethan could not find it in himself to stay away from her.

Did she want to find out just how much of a Wolf he could be?

The honest answer was a shamefully wantonyes.

As a proper young lady, though, she most certainlyshould not.

Or at least she should offer some token resistance by trying to push him away—which had just about as much effect as fighting against a brick wall.

“Your Grace—” she protested, pushing against his chest and trying her hardest not to curl her fingers to test just howsolidthe muscles underneath his clothes were.

At her muffled complaint, the earlier glint in his eyes faded, and he was once more the charming but sufficientlyproperDuke of Sinclair.

He straightened up and helped her steady herself as the sound of hooves and wheels clattered up to them.

“Come, My Lady.” He smiled at her, extending his hand. “That is enough revelry for one night. It is time for you to head home.”

Home.

Where she would soon be caught up in wedding preparations and the awful dance of pretending to at leastlikeher betrothed.

Phoebe shuddered. She would much rather be anywhere else than Brandon Estate right now.

Still, she quietly slipped her hand into his and allowed him to help her into the waiting carriage.

Phoebe Barkley, you truly are a coward of the highest order.

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