Page 102 of The Wolf of Mayfair
“If I said the things I’m thinking to you, kitten,” he said silkily, “you’d find yourself on your back, begging me as I pumped between your legs, this time until we both came.”
Her cheeks fired. “You are saying that to distract me. I won’t be distracted, Anthony.” She paused. “Not this time.” That latter part she uttered as though a reminder for herself.
Actually, he gave her only truths. Wingrave found himself consumed with a ferocious hungering to possess her, this mindless lust the likes of which he had never known with any woman. He’d be damned, however, if he admitted that craven yearning.
Like some Spartan-warrior princess, Helia tipped her chin up at an obdurate angle. “All this time, I’ve sworn my mother was a dear friend to yours, and all along, you insisted that couldnae be because I’m a Scot and yer ma would nah keep company with the likes of a Scot.”
“For accuracy’s sake,” he drawled, “I indicated my father would never condone such a fellowship, and that remains true.” Wingrave favored her with a mocking grin.
Helia stared at him with big, wide, hurt eyes. “Everythingis a game to you,” she whispered.
“Nothing is a game to me, sweet. I don’t have time for them.”
She remained planted there; she looked at Wingrave with a disbelieving glimmer in her gaze.
Then, giving her head a disgusted little shake, she sifted through the notes and quickly scanned them.
Methodically, Helia set aside some in favor of others.
Through her investigation, Wingrave stood there, forgotten.
It was a foreign position in which to find himself. This brazen hoyden was the only one who’d ever shown him anything less than the due regard his position, rank, and power merited.
And Anthony got a thrill out of her willful disobedience.
“Need I remind you those are not your private correspondences, Miss Wallace,” he coolly warned.
“Aye.” She didn’t so much as deign to glance up from her survey.
Another wave of lust flashed through him.
“One can argue that given these notes were written by my mother, I’m at least half their rightful owner.”
With that cheeky pronouncement, she tucked them in the pocket of her night wrapper.
“You cannot have rightful ownership of letters that were sent by another to another, my dear,” he said, more amused than annoyed at her audacious display.
Helia stopped in the middle of the floor and glared. “Try to take them from me.” She dared him with both her words and gaze.
More. He wanted to take even more from this sassy Scot.
Wingrave gave her a lecherous appraisal. He glanced pointedly at that piece of furniture where she’d lain sprawled and open to him. “I find myself positively titillated by that prospect.”
She eyed him with a chary expression.
Wise girl.
Then, it was as though the fight left her. “You lied to me,” she said, her gaze wounded.
Anthony balled his hands sharply. How bizarre he should prefer her insolence to this serene sadness.
“I didn’t get around to mentioning it because you took yourself off like some twit, and nearly got yourself raped by and married to your dastardly cousin,” he said between gritted teeth.
They remained at an impasse; each stared at the other.
Helia looked away first, breaking the deadlock. She gave her head a shake. With her shoulders drawn back, Helia took a wide berth around Wingrave.
His brow dipped, and he stared in absolute consternation as she continued sailing toward the doorway.
