Page 112 of The Wolf of Mayfair
“No.” She paused and wrinkled her brow. “Isthat something I should be worried about?” She found herself possessed of an all-potent, venomous jealousy for every woman who’d come before her, and for every one who’d seek a place in his bed even with him now married.
He made a tsking sound. “Oh, Helia, you still have not gathered that forevermore you are the only woman I will ever have in my life and bed.”
Anthony brushed a palm over her cheek, and she leaned into that intoxicating caress. “You are a fire in my blood. I willnevertire of you, wife. I will continue to discover new ways to worship your body and make love to you and will only run out of them when I either die or the earth folds into darkness.”
He gave her a sharp look. “Do you understand me, Helia?”
She trembled, liquefied by the devotion of this once great rake.For me.He swore his fealty and fidelity to her.
Helia nodded.
Anthony tweaked her nose playfully. “I still did not answer your question, though, did I?”
“No.” Some of the tension went out of her; inner coward that she was, they’d not have the discussion about her declaration—at least not now.
“Do you want me to?” he teased.
“Only if youwishto tell me.”
“Very well. If you aren’t curious ...” He started to rise, but Helia wrapped her arms about his neck and held firmly on to him.
“I may be mildly curious, husband,” she murmured.
“Only mildly curious?” Again, Anthony made to stand.
Laughing, Helia clung more tightly to him. “Very well. I amoutrageouslycurious. Are you satisfied?” she managed to get out through her mirth.
He covered her mouth with his, in a punishing kiss that robbed Helia of breath, and she kissed him back with a like fury and passion.
All her earlier questions and worries of where he’d been faded. Not a single cogent thought could exist in her head when he made love to her.
A commotion out in the hall suddenly reached them, and then rapidly approaching footsteps. “Where the hellishe?”
That austere, commanding tone could belong to only one man—the Duke of Talbert.
Bloody hell.
The office door exploded open, and Wingrave’s parents stood frozen at the threshold.
The duchess was regal as ever, her features largely untouched by age, but for a few slight creases at the corners of her eyes.
His ashen father, with a height similar to Wingrave’s and far greater bulk from too many spirits and candied fruits, had presence alone that would have roused a man to fear. That, however, coupled with a ducal title that went back to 1326 made the Duke of Talbert a chilling menace.
For anyone and everyone—everyone other than Wingrave.
The duchess gasped and promptly covered her eyes.
Her husband, on the other hand, took in the tableau of a pale Helia and Wingrave’s hold upon her. As he did, his eyes grew wider and wider until rage made them large circles.
Any other time Wingrave would have thrilled at having his father find him in the goddamned ducal office and claiming this space as his own.
Not this time, not with Helia’s legs dangling on either side of his lap, and him a handful of front falls from plunging himself up and in her.
Wingrave carefully helped Helia to her feet and made sure her skirts were drawn into place to provide deserved modesty, and then stood beside her.
“You have terrible timing, Duke,” he drawled. “You should have remained in the country. Your color is shite.”
The duke, previously never speechless, found his voice. “I would still be there if I hadn’t received word about what you’ve been up to!” he thundered.
