Page 52 of A Virgin for the Ton's Wolf

A huff of warmth on his chest again. “I am not sleeping in your arms, Hudson.”

He fought back the ridiculous smile at hearing her say his name so casually.

“I mean it. You cannot sleep here.”

“And I told you I do not intend to.” Vexation tinged her voice. “Besides, Snowdrop might be looking for me.”

So, his company fell behind that of a dog—a scruffy, probably mangy, little thing she had pulled out of the rain. Hudson did not know whether he should be piqued or relieved.

If anyone else in London ever heard that the Wolf could not compete with a puppy, he would be laughed out of every ballroom and drawing room.

But he did not care. Not even one bit.

And that realization had his heart stuttering in his chest—that this woman he held in his arms could give him more peace than he had ever felt in his entire existence.

He had thought it impossible. It was a burden that was too much for just one human being to bear. Yet, here he was, holding her. Loath to let her leave, even as he told her she had no business being with him.

“What are you working on?” she asked suddenly, shifting in his arms.

Her bottom pressed against a very specific part of his body—one that had him scrambling for the last thread of control within him.

“What are you talking about?” he said through gritted teeth.

She was killing him slowly, and she did not even notice it.

If she did, then that was truly diabolical, and he should consider pinning her to the wall and having his way with her as revenge.

But Scarlett just pointed at the rough outline of curves on the marble. “That one. Are you working on some sort of statue? A Greek goddess, perhaps?”

He grunted. “Something like it.”

She tilted her head to look up at him with a curious expression. “Would you rather not talk about it? I mean, some artists can be rather secretive about their work. Phoebe does not even tell Ethan about her books until she’s close to publishing them.”

Ah, yes. The Duchess of Sinclair and her scandalous books. He recalled the stir it had caused when she published the first part.

“Sometimes, I do not really know what will come of it,” he admitted softly, gazing at the half-finished sculpture. “I have some vision of it, yes. But… the finished product still surprises me sometimes.”

“That sounds… beautiful,” she murmured.

Beautiful? He had been hammering at a hunk of rock, whittling at marble, for the smallest relief from the scalding lust he felt for her.

“Have you always been so talented?” she asked. “When you were a child?”

Hudson grimaced. His childhood had not allowed for much art. Yes, his education demanded his literacy in the arts, but indulging in it?

His father would have had apoplexy.

And Hudson would have done it, too—become an artist just for the sheer pleasure of infuriating him, if not for the fact that his mother would have paid the ultimate price for his disobedience.

Instead of saying all of that, however, he merely shook his head.

“It just helps to… calm me,” he managed through the strange tightness in his chest. “After the war. The motions are monotonous enough, I suppose.”

“Is that…” she trailed off, and he felt her take a deep breath.

He looked down. Eyes wide, eyebrows drawn together in concern, he saw that she wasworriedabout him.

“Is that where you acquired your scars?” she breathed. “Is that why you need to calm yourself?” She reached up to cup his cheek, her eyes shining with a depth of emotion he feared to tread. “Has taking a life scarred you more deeply?”

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