Page 22 of A Virgin for the Ton's Wolf

“There it is.”

She nodded. “Thank goodness. I feared that I would have to bear with the mud sucking at my shoes for a good, long while.”

The lodge was nicely appointed—not enough to host a tea party, but comfortable enough for a small hunting party composed of gentlemen with a distinct taste.

Hudson set about making a fire, and within a few minutes, a fire was crackling merrily in the fireplace.

He stood up and eyed her warily. “You will need to take off your dress.”

“I… what?” she said blankly.

“Your dress,” he enunciated. “It is wet, and you are going to catch your death of cold if you keep it on much longer.”

“Yes, but…”

“Do not make me repeat myself, My Lady.”

She lifted her chin and glared at him. “A young woman does not undress before a gentleman.”

He shrugged those impossibly broad shoulders of his. “You should know by now that I am not a gentleman, by any means. Undress or die of cold—it is your choice.”

“How much more morbid can you get?” She rolled her eyes at him. “You had better not be looking at me!”

Again, that slow, sardonic arching of one dark eyebrow as the corners of his lips quirked into a smile. No, asmirk. One brimming with arrogance.

Oh, how she wanted to wipe the smugness off his face!

Scarlett hated how her cheeks heated up like the summer sun under his gaze. The Wolf, however, merely turned around with maddening slowness.

And then threw a bunch of blankets at her.

No. He was still every bit as infuriating. Even if he had gone out in the rain to rescue her. Even if she longed to see the muscles in his back again, wondering what they would feel like under her fingertips.

Scarlett inwardly let out a groan of frustration.

Hopefully, the rain would stop soon and they would be back in the estate, where she could have a wall—or several—between them.

Hopefully.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hudson had been mistaken. Thoroughly. Egregiously so.

If he had thought that throwing a couple of the plainest, most unattractive blankets over Lady Scarlett Clarke could dampen the rapidly growing desire—or at least stave off the unnatural hunger—he felt for her, he was wrong.

No. If possible, she was even more glorious with her hair down. And knowing that she wore nothing more than sheer undergarments underneath all that woolly mass…

Hudson quickly turned away before he could act on his lurid fantasies.

“There. That should be enough to keep me from dying of pneumonia.”

She padded towards him on her bare feet, her shoes and stockings left by the fireplace to dry. Hudson caught a glimpse of her bare toes sticking out of the mass of heavy blankets, and he wondered if they wouldcurlin the throes of passion. He had no doubt he could do just that—make them curl just so.

That did not mean he should, however.

“I can barely remember the last time I got caught in the rain.” Her voice held a hint of laughter as she sat down beside him on the warm, carpeted floor.

The dampness had made her hair a darker mass of red, flowing over her shoulders and curling at the tips. Again, with thecurling. He should stop thinking about it, whether in the context of hairortoes.

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