Page 113 of The Wolf of Mayfair
This meeting had been inevitable. It’d been clear that eventually word of Helia’s presence here would slip out, carried by some servant’s loose lips, or as witnessed by someone during the lady’s many ventures outdoors.
“Is something wrong withbothof your goddamned ears?” the duke hissed.
There’d been a time that insult would have hit the very mark his sire intended. Now, Wingrave flashed a cold, mocking smile.
Bright-red, angry splotches formed on the duke’s cheeks. “You dare to insult me?”
“I wouldn’t give it a second thought.” Wingrave arced an eyebrow. “In this particular instance, however, I’m merely speaking the truth.”
His father’s eyes bulged, and it was a wonder they didn’t pop out of the old bastard’s head.
Wingrave’s bold and brave wife cleared her throat, and as the duke swung his gaze her way, Helia made herself the target of his wrath.
She dropped into a flawless curtsy. “Yer Grace. It is verra lovely to meet—”
“What have you done, Wingrave?” the duke thundered over the rest of her greeting.
Helia drifted nearer to Wingrave.
Wingrave gritted his teeth. He wanted her in his rooms and away from this ugly—about to get uglier—exchange.
With that goal in mind, Wingrave collected Helia’s palm in his and headed for the door. “Step aside, old man.”
“The hell I will,” the duke barked. With an impressive speed for a man his age and size, Wingrave’s father stormed inside. The duchess only just made it into the office before her husband slammed the door and planted his bulky frame between Wingrave and Helia’s escape.
Wingrave’s mother hurried to the corner of the room.
“Anthony. Are ye all right?” Helia whispered, hesitant and made timid by his goddamned father.
But she did not run.
“I am more than fine, love,” he murmured. “Just a blustery old man.”
“Love? Anthony?”the duke roared. And it was a testament to his rage that the duke ignored the slight on his character. “Why the hell is thisScotcalling you ‘Anthony’?”
From the corner of his eye, Anthony caught his mother hurrying to hide behind the long velvet curtains. “Goddamn it, answer me this instant, Wingrave.”
To protect her from the old bastard’s wrath, Wingrave positioned himself between Helia and the duke. He locked stares with the man who’d sired him but had never really been a father. Not in the ways Helia had described her own.
“This proud, beautiful Scot?” Wingrave asked in suitably solemn tones. “She is my wife.”
His Grace’s cheeks grew mottled; his eyes flared so big all the whites were exposed.
In anticipation of the impending storm, Wingrave reached a hand behind him and found Helia’s fingers; they were steady and warm, as they would be, his magnificent, undauntable goddess.
The duke boiled with rage. “You stupid, stupid man,” he whispered. “You did this to best me.”
“Actually, I didn’t.” Wingrave flicked a cool, bored gaze over his sire. “I’d have to care one way or another about you or your opinion and I don’t.” He steeled his jaw.
Before Wingrave knew what Helia intended, she stepped out from behind him and took her place at his side.
Wingrave glanced briefly down at his wife; Helia looked up and gave his fingers a squeeze in support.
“I married her because she is a bold, courageous, strong, honorable woman who I am proud to have as my wife and the next duchess.”
“She is a goddamned Scot,” the duke hissed.
“Indeed.” He inclined his head. “Also, that is likely what makes her all those things I so admire her for. She’s not some vapid, puny English miss who’ll cower in the shadows.”
