Page 34 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Shewas the reason for the remembrances now plaguing him. He, who didn’t think about the past, and who’d long ago ceased to care about anyone or call a person a friend, since his brother’s death.
Wingrave growled.
Why, she was the reason the word “friend” had reentered his consciousness.
She who’d come in here like a whirlwind, with all her bold defiance and innocent eyes.
Well, it wouldn’t be for much longer. Soon enough, she’d be on her way, and he’d be free of her and the lustforher that consumed him.
After propelling himself to his feet, Wingrave stomped over to the window and, planting his feet wide, clasped his hands behind him and glared out.
Nay, the lady was nothing but a blasted bother. A titian-haired nuisance with as bountiful a number of freckles on her face as there were illimitable words on her big, bow-shaped lips.
She was . . .
Outside.
Wingrave frowned.
Impossible. The chit was driving him to madness, or ... she’d already done so, because he was seeing her everywhere.
Nothing else accounted for why, after she’d persuaded Wingrave to offer her shelter from the elements, in the midst of this raging storm, she’d chosen to go traipsing about his family’s snow-covered, wind-battered gardens.
Wingrave jammed the heels of his palms against his eyes and pressed hard.
Only, when he let his arms fall to his sides, the sight of her remained.
A mere speck on the horizon, distant and faint but decidedly there.
“What in blazes are you doing?” he lashed out, amidst the quiet ... as if she could answer him, as if she could even hear him.
It appeared she’d gone out into the storm, all so she could—Wingrave pressed his forehead against the cool windowpane so quickly, and so hard, it was a wonder he didn’t shatter the glass—hug a tree.
Aye, she’d gone mad. There was nothing else for it.
Another growl built deep in his chest. It climbed and climbed until it emerged from his lips, a low and feral sound.
And it appeared madness was contagious, because he’d descended into delirium right with her.
For Wingrave shouldn’t care either way what the hell happened to her. If she wished to venture out into a storm and catch the ague, then so be it.
“All the better for me,” he muttered.
With that reminder, he marched back over to his leather chair and fell into its comfortable folds.
He steepled his fingers once more and drummed them together, the pads of those digits colliding and then separating. Over and over again.
I do not care . . . I do not . . .
With a black curse, he jumped up once more and strode for the door.
He was going to wring her neck.
As he pounded along the corridors, he thundered for his cloak and hat.
Two footmen were stationed nearby. Each took off running; theclick-click-clickmade by their slightly heeled shoes echoed as they went.
He still didn’t care whether she went and got herself ill. The absolute only reason he even went to find her now was so that he could rail at her for being a daft ninny and remind the lady that if she wasn’t at all fearful of the elements, perhaps she could take herself elsewhere sooner rather than later.
