Page 1 of A Virgin for the Ton's Wolf

CHAPTER ONE

“Apologies, My Lord, but I never agreed to any of this!”

Contained rage was never Scarlett’s area of expertise. No. Explosive, earth-scorching fury was more in her character. However, faced with the catastrophe before her, she could only feel a soul-numbing coldness sweeping over her entire being.

“Scarlett, be reasonable?—“

“Mother, enough.” Her brother’s exasperation cut through their mother’s protestations like a hot knife through a block of butter.

Her gaze shot over to her older brother.

He was now the Earl of Southford. By all rights, he was the one who was now responsible for both Scarlett and her mother. If he so wished, he could have her married off within the fortnight, their mama packed off to some dower house to live off the restof her life. Society had given him that power, as it did to all other men.

In the past, Alexander had always doted on her, letting her have her way where other brothers might not have been so lenient. She had not expected him to be just the same as everyone else.

Her mama immediately shut her mouth with merely two words from Alexander. Scarlett lifted her chin defiantly at him even as she inwardly bristled with cold rage.

“You have had many chances to pick a match of your own choosing,” he told her flatly. His eyes were a steely blue as he leveled her with a gaze that might have had lesser men balking.

But Scarlett was not a lesser man. She was hissister.

“Years, Scarlett—you have had five years,” he continued his tirade. “And instead of choosing to use your time wisely, you gallivanted all over London, courting scandal and worse with your behavior. You have run out of time, my dear sister. This time, I will do the choosing for you.”

Over my cold, rotting corpse you will!Scarlett wanted to scream. She took a breath to do exactly that.

Her mama looked at her sadly. “You are not getting any younger, Scarlett.”

Oh, how much Scarlett hated that particular sentiment. That her youth was the best of her life. That the time when a woman was most alive should be spent in the pursuit of a husband who would only undermine her at every turn.

“Mama is right.” Alexander tapped his finger on the smooth, polished oak surface of the table—a clear sign of his agitation. “We have tolerated your tricks for far too long, letting you run wild all over the city. Your frivolity ends now. You are getting married, and that is final.”

Scarlett narrowed her eyes at her brother.

No. Nothing was ever final unless they could manage to drag her to the altar and force her to speak her vows.

She turned towards her mama, who had gone pale and silent.

The Dowager Countess of Southford had once been young like her. She had been full of dreams and life. Now, she seemed like a mere ghost of what she once might have been.

A foreshadowing of a future Scarlett did not want for herself.

Her mother’s red hair was a more muted shade than her own vibrant locks, her eyes a subdued color between blue and gray. She was the picture of a perfect aristocrat, with her neatly coiffed hair and very fine but very proper gray attire.

Scarlett inwardly scoffed at her mother’s choice.

The mourning period had long since passed, but it seemed as if her mother was still frozen in time, caught in the clutches of a man who had long been buried.

And then her gaze swiveled to the fourth occupant of the room, who seemed to be looking on the entire affair with a hint of amusement tilting his lips. Long, elegant fingers drummed over the smooth, polished oak surface, the cup of tea now grown cold.

George Miller, the fifth Marquess of Colton, and the man her dear, addled brother intended for her to marry.

Any other man might have been horrified to have to bear witness to such a debacle, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. Scarlett might even go as far as to say that he seemed to revel in the chaos. When his icy blue eyes locked onto hers, she felt a sudden chill sweep over her.

She lifted her chin, staring back at him in defiance. She would not quail, would not falter before him.

“Perhaps I might have a word with the Marquess,” she suggested icily. “After all, this conversation does not only involve myself.”

His response was to smile only wider as he surveyed her from head to foot as if he were appraisinghorseflesh. Right in front of her family.

---