Page 22 of The Wolf of Mayfair
It was as though the slight click of her plate touching the table freed him of the words he’d already shown himself to closely guard.
“You’rehere.” He bit out those two words.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not realize you’d break your fast so early. Given the late night we—you,” she swiftly corrected, “probably had.” She stole a discreet glance at the servant, whose impassive gaze remained impressively forward in his apparent attempt to make himself invisible. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
Another footman hurried over to draw her high-backed chair out.
With a single icy look, the marquess quelled the young man’s efforts.
Helia scrunched her nose up. Very well. She could see to her own seat.
With that, Helia tugged out the chair and sat. Desperately trying to avoid the sinister lord towering over her, she snapped a white linen napkin open, placed it on her lap, and then, collecting her fork and knife, began to eat.
While she chewed, she felt his formidable presence hovering over her. Unmoving.
The scrambled eggs on her tongue turned to dust, and she made herself find the courage to look up.
Lord Wingrave snarled: “What do you think you are doing?”
Oh, hell. She’d displeased him again.
Chapter 5
One act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the world.
—Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho
A madwoman had invaded Wingrave’s residence.
Nay, worse. He’dalloweda madwoman into his midst.
There was no other accounting for the chit’s gumption.
And he, a master of self-control, found the threads of his restraint frayed. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”
Miss Wallace looked up at him with enormous, plate-size green eyes. “Eating?” she whispered.
He narrowed his eyes into thin slits. “What was that?” He added a note of warning to that query, one that, in frosty tones, spelled out clearly that his was a hypothetical and her silence was expected here.
The minx pressed three fingers near the right corner of her mouth and spoke, this time more loudly. “I ... Eating,” she repeated. “I am eating. Or ... attempting to. Unless you make it a habit of not allowing guests to dine?” she ventured, with a sheepish smile.
Wingrave’s brows shot up, and for the first time in his life, he found himself taken aback.
Why, was she actually attempting to jest with him?
He flared his nostrils. My god, the brashness. The insolence. People didn’t joke in his presence and certainly not over anything he said.
He swiftly found his footing, and latched on to the last foolish thing she’d uttered.
“If you harbor any kind of illusion you’remyguest—”
“Your mother’s guest,” she said softly, all seriousness once more.
Hismother’sguest? And wonder of wonders, he found himself capable of humor, after all. No doubt she referred to herself so only because the alternative terrified her—and rightly so—out of her virginal mind. That she kept company with him, London’s most notorious rake and womanizer.
“You find that amusing, Lord Wingrave?” she asked, stupidity making her bold as brass.
“If you think that my mother would give so much as a single thought to one such as you, then you clearly don’t possess any actual knowledge of or connection to the Duchess of Talbert, or for that matter, anyone in this family.”
