Page 17 of The Wolf of Mayfair
What wasmorelikely? That Lord Wingrave had been trying to scare her or that he’d known exactly what would happen were Helia to spend the night alone in his household?
Nay, a man of his prowess and reputation knew all too well, she’d been ruined the night she’d stepped through the foyer doors.
He’d taunted her with the idea of making her his mistress.
That offer he’d made had come because he knew she’d wake up with no other choice.
The whole world believing I’ve had you in my bed? And with no choices available to you, that would be your only course—becoming my mistress.
Helia’s breath came in raspy, noisy spurts, matched by the driving winter winds.
I believe you’d love that, Helia ... Nay, I know you would. And not for the diamonds I’d drape you in but for the endless pleasure you’d find in my arms ...
She’d be no man’s mistress. If she didn’t mind whoring herself, she’d have agreed to marry Mr. Damian Draxton and had the certainty which came from being a countess.
What was so very wrong with Helia that thoughts of being bedded by Lord Wingrave didn’t repulse her the same way thoughts of lying with Mr. Draxton did?
They were both horrid men.
Why then should so many women throw themselves at Lord Wingrave’s feet and, according to everything she’d heard whispered or read, beg to be his lover?
Only, you ken, Helia. You ken.
Shame brought her eyes sliding shut once more.
For fear alone had not kept Helia awake last night, into the wee morning hours, but instead, thoughts of Lord Wingrave.
There was no accounting for it—she found herself equal parts repelled by Lord Wingrave andfascinatedby him.
The moment young girls stopped being repulsed by boys and became fascinated by romantic thoughts of a sweetheart, they imagined the one who’d be the first to kiss them. Helia was no different. In the dreams she’d carried, she’d share that magical moment with a man who was powerful, bold, confident—one such as the Marquess of Wingrave.
Tall and well muscled, and with an obsidian jaw as hard as his nearly black eyes, Lord Wingrave was more beautiful than any mere mortal man had a right to be. Helia, however, had always prided herself on being able to resist the allure of a rake with raven-black hair and a haughty stare.
Instead, there’d been the whisper of a moment where she’d thought he would kiss her, and God rot her wicked soul, she’d yearned to lose herself in Lord Wingrave’s embrace—just so she could be free for a moment of the threat breathing down on her.
Helia, revolted to the core at even contemplating such a thing with such a man, slapped her hands over her face and pressed hard.
Her reputation was ruined, and now she faced another threat—one just as great in its own right, and no less terrifying: staying here until the storm let up and being unable to resist any efforts on the marquess’s part to seduce her; that was, should he decide hewantedto.
Helia’s breathing grew shallow in her ears, and she took in and exhaled breath after shuddery breath.
The wind howled, and that mighty gust sent the thin branch of a nearby silvery birch colliding with the window.
KnockKnockKnock.
That branch continued its incessant beating, as if to drum sense into her clouded head.
Helia shivered; however, that slight tremble had nothing to do with the cold penetrating the thick crystal panes.
She folded her arms at her shoulders and rubbed the chilled flesh.
And yet, if you don’t fear him and your body’s shameful response to him,a voice taunted,then why do you remain shut away in your rooms?
From within the windowpane, she caught sight of her own reflection staring back—with both knowing and disappointment.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said to her likeness. “I am not hiding.”
She stared intently back, willing herself to believe that.
