Page 17 of A Virgin for the Ton's Wolf

“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 andmenacing. “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 andpatienthost 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 himtwicein 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, tofeelhim 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.

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