Page 10 of The Wolf of Mayfair
“Give the lady some coins and show her the door.”
She blinked wildly.
Then Lord Wingrave’s crisp directive penetrated Helia’s misery.
“I don’t need to be shown the door,” she pleaded. “One night. Please, and then ye have my promise I willnae ask for anything more.”
The duke spun so quickly he knocked the rest of that thought from Helia’s mouth.
“You’re dismissed,” Lord Wingrave murmured.
She stiffened, and for a moment, she believed that terse order to be directed at her.
In one rapid move, the butler brought the doors closed and then bolted from the foyer, leaving Helia and the marquess.
Alone.
The penetrating chill his presence wrought proved a greater cold than even the tempest raging beyond those panels.
His silence was ominous, savage.
Finally, the marquess spoke. “All right, you may stay.”
A relief so profound went through her, it brought tears to her eyes, blurring his harshly beautiful visage.
Her joy died a swift death.
“Do you know, Miss Helia Wallace of Scotland,” he said silkily. “For a virginal young lady on her own, with only your virtue to barter for your existence, you seem very willing to throw it away by sharing the same household with a dastard like me. No companions or respectable figures about to shield your reputation and honor ... just me.”
He sought to scare her ... and it was working. “Snow will soon blanket London. It is but a night.” She reminded herself of that as much as him. Tomorrow she would be off for the country, with the world none the wiser.
“Ah, but it is not just any night, Miss Wallace.” Lord Wingrave stroked his index finger along the curve of her cheek. “It is a night withme.”
She trembled—not with a deserved fear or disgust but for reasons unknown to her. He glided that long, lone digit in a haunting caress that stirred ... something, something unfamiliar deep in her belly.
An arrogant grin slashed his lips up.
“And when you are ruined,” he murmured, “you can rely on one truth—I will never marry you. At best, you’ll be my mistress, and then only if I can rouse enough interest to want a place between your legs.”
With a scathing smile and only that cruel reminder of a different threat Helia faced by simply being here, Lord Wingrave stalked off.
The quiet tread of his footfalls, measured enough to match a soldier’s precisive march, faded into nothing, so all that remained was the echo of his portentous words.
Helia stood there, shivering, long after he’d gone.
That previous sense of deliverance was no more.
For she’d done it; she’d managed to persuade a callous Lord Wingrave to grant her a place to stay.
And yet, this night, in putting forth her need to survive a storm, she’d imperiled her reputation—and in that, her very future.
Chapter 3
She immediately withdrew from the casement, and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the refreshment of a short oblivion.
—Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho
The mournful east winds wailed and drummed upon the crystal panes like Badb, the deathkeeper, knocking at the window to claim those slated for death.
