Page 25 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Her lilting musings proved as hypnotic as her physical metamorphosis.
As from the far fringes of the furthest corner of his mind, a long-ago memory whispered forward.
Wingrave, racing across the paved stone between the neatly trimmed boxwoods, heading for the three brick steps that led to a grass terrace above and the wrought iron bench that sat there.
Then, tripping on those same steps, coming down so hard on his knees that he wore the faint scars of that innocuous tumble all these years later.
And then, his mother, swiftly scooping him up and holding him close to her chest, softly singing. Those strains of a forgotten-until-now lullaby echoed in his head.
“Lullay, mine Liking, my dear Son, mine Sweeting,
Lullay, my dear heart, mine own dear darling.”
Miss Wallace gave her head a shake, and it was as though that slight twitch of her head cleared his own and freed his words.
“My father would never allow my mother any connection to a woman with spirit,” he finally said.
“Och, but don’t you ken, women are possessed of all manner of secretsandcourage.”
Not all women. This stalwart minx, yes.
His mother, absolutely not.
“Not my mother,” he said with absolutely certainty. “The duchess does what the duke wishes and orders her to do.”
A twinkle set her eyes aglow. “I trusthebelieves that and you think it.”
“Trust, I know that,” he said flatly. The duchess hadn’t fought the duke when he’d at last had need of Wingrave, and demanded his new heir’s every hour be spent with him and devoted to learning the workings of the dukedom.
Wingrave thumped a hand against his leg. “We are at an impasse, Miss Wallace.”
“Aye.” That deservedly worried glint returned to her eyes. “But if you agree to allow me to stay, at least until the snaw relents, then the impasse would cease.”
He could.
Just as he could easily throw her out.
And itshouldbe easy.
“Lord Wingrave?” she ventured.
“Quiet,” he said inattentively. “I’m thinking.”
He was heartless and hardened and unmoved byanyone.
So why didn’t he toss her on her pear-shaped buttocks?
Could it be, she’d been correct earlier? Could it be that all men—even soulless ones, such as him—possessed ... aconscience?
Wingrave shrank. Impossible.
The remorseless wind howled and battered against the windowpanes.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Miss Wallace as she slipped away from him, and for a moment, he thought she’d at last come to her senses and left of her own volition.
Instead, she wandered over to the winterscape on full display in the wide french windows.
Presenting Wingrave with her back, she gripped the edge of the mahogany and stared at the storm raging outside.
