Page 23 of The Wolf of Mayfair
He may as well have hit her for the pain that contorted her features. “Impossible! The beneficent, warmhearted woman my mother spoke of would never—” Miss Wallace stopped.
Understanding sparkled in her big eyes. “I see what you’re doing,” she whispered.
What he was doing?
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t—
“What is it youthinkI’m doing?” A combined annoyance with her as much as himself brought that sharp question past his reluctant lips.
She looked at him like he’d lassoed a star for her. “You seek to protect her.”
Protect her?“Who?”
As if energized by the prospect of Wingrave being some sort of protective, devoted son and not the heartless bastard he in fact was, Miss Wallace continued prattling on.
“You said your mother is soft. Tenderhearted, and you wished to protect her from people preying on her.”
He snorted. Madness. It was madness that afflicted the lady, after all.
“Isaidshe is soft,” he snapped. “Weak. Easy prey for one such as you.”
“You and I? We are saying the same things.”
His mouth moved ... but no words came out. He found himself ... thunderstruck.
Thatwas the conclusion she’d come to?
With perfect aplomb, his Scottish visitor resumed eating.
He’d stepped onto the stage of a farce. That was all there was to explain any of this.
Dumbstruck, he glanced around for the other players. His gaze landed on the two footmen stationed near the sideboard; both servants’ eyes were wide with wonder and shock.
Good God, she’d even managed to crack the implacable facades of the cheerless staff here at Horace House.
At catching their master’s glare, their demonstrative expressions died a swift death. Both servants went instantly stone-faced.
“Get out,” he whispered.
The servants scattered at various points throughout the breakfast room all made a hasty retreat, leaving him and Miss Wallace alone.
Wingrave turned his ire back to the one deserving of his wrath.
As the last footman drew the door shut with a soft click, the imp of a lady stared frantically at the panel. She paled to the point that the freckles marked the only bit of color in her face.
He expected tears. He waited for her to flee.
He did not, however, anticipate the way she turned her attention back to him. Then, after looking perfectly unbothered as she slathered her roll with strawberry preserves, she took a big, healthy bite better befitting a man Wingrave’s size.
“I’ll ask you one more time, Miss Wallace,” he whispered. “What are you doing at my breakfast table?”
The minx paused mid-chew, and craning her head back, she met his gaze with an unflinching and astonishing directness.
She didn’t quaver. She didn’t look away. And she, the first person to do so, unnerved the hell out of him.
Mayhap she was a sorceress, for the otherworldly shade of her green eyes knocked the thoughts from his head.
The lady finished her bite, dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, and lowered that crisp white linen back to her lap. “I think it should be clear,” she said.
