Page 14 of The Wolf of Mayfair
As sure as the sun set in the west and rose in the east, Miss Wallace would follow the same path she’d taken to reach her rooms earlier this evening. For no other reason than the familiarity and predictability of that path would give her a false air of security and self-control, she’d continue on as unsuspecting as a witless bird for whom he’d dropped crumbs, all to lead her where he wanted.
Which was when he’d pounce.
He reached the end of the west hallway and took a step down the adjacent corridor, which led to the silver cabinet, when a flicker of light snagged his attention.
Wingrave tunneled all his focus on the pale glow coming from a nearby doorway and grinned coldly.
Caught.
He took a step—
“She is in the Portrait Room, my lord.”
The bewigged footman, John Thomas, stationed at the front of the hall, spoke quietly and as proudly as if he himself had saved the silver Wingrave had been so very certain she’d been making after.
Wingrave gnashed his teeth.
Goddamn it. “Not a word more,” he said on a lethal whisper.
The man’s ridiculously large Adam’s apple bobbed wildly. “As you wish, m—” He caught himself too late.
John Thomas promptly lowered his gaze to the floor, wisely made himself as small as possible, and said nothing more.
As you wish,Wingrave thought acidly. If wishes were a thing and he were granted them, he wouldn’t have a useless ear.
Gritting his teeth, he made for the Portrait Room.
Draped in a flowing, high-necked nightdress, the lady stood with her back to him, examining one of the familial portraits.
“Never tell me you are so stupid as to filch a framed portrait and not the silver,” he said coolly.
Miss Wallace’s gasp echoed through the empty room. She whipped around to face him.
From across the room, they studied one another.
Wingrave took advantage of the light cast by her candelabra to consider her with a rake’s gaze.
Those flames cast a glow that penetrated her modest white shift and wrapper and put on display the hint of pale-pink nipples; the tips of those small mounds puckered against the fabric of her garments.
She wasn’t his usual type ... nor would sheeverbe.
Titian hair he’d once considered garish. Though the flaming red and coppery hues burnished within Miss Wallace’s bright auburn curls suited the fiery minx’s temperament. Distinct brown freckles stood out, vivid specks upon her sharp, stark white cheeks.
Possessed of long legs, a sinfully narrow waist, and even narrower hips, she didn’t have a body to tempt a man, and yet ...
He was a man ofmanytastes.
Under his debauched study, fear radiated bright in her pathetically expressive eyes.
With an unbreakable courage, she continued to hold his stare.
His randy shaft stirred with renewed interest at this latest display of the lady’s strength.
Miss Wallace broke first.
As if there’d ever been a doubt.
The lady sank into a flawless curtsy no street thief could feign. “My lord,” she quietly greeted.
