Page 35 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Wingrave’s frown deepened.
Nay, she’d likely meet his challenge, and then she’d definitely get herself killed of the cold and would absolutely delight in haunting him. He’d never have a moment’s peace again—a moment’s peace, which was beginning to look like an unattainable fate.
He reached the south hallway that led out to the terrace and his mother’s prized gardens.
Lined with floor-to-ceiling windows and two crystal doors at their center, this portion of the residence emitted more light than this family deserved.
Even with the grey storm clouds that hung over the household, the snow which had piled up high outside added a blindingly bright whiteness Wingrave had to squint against in order to see.
He blinked furiously to accustom his eyes to that vision, adding yet another thing to be annoyed with, which only reminded him that he now waited for his belongings.
Wingrave turned and bellowed, “Where—”
He nearly collided with a pair of out-of-breath, bewigged footmen, who’d just reached him.
Letting out another curse, Wingrave grabbed his greatcoat first. He drew the garment on and then, with furious movements, promptly fastened himself up. “And my—”
The other servant proffered Wingrave’s beaver hat.
He snatched it from the younger fellow and jammed the high, straight-sided, flat-topped article on his head.
This time, before Wingrave could open his mouth and utter an impatient query, the same footman who’d given him his cloak extended Wingrave’s leather gloves.
Wingrave took the set and made to tug them on.
Furious energy, however, made the ordinary task a sloppy chore.
“Damn it all,” he muttered, continuing to fight his fingers inside their respective slots.
The demure pair of servants each drew open a door.
Straightaway, wind gusted inside; at the same time the bitter east breeze sucked the breath from Wingrave’s lungs, a mixture of ice, snow, and rain slapped him square in the face.
“Dead,” he growled. “I’m going to kill her.”
That was, if the minx didn’t perish before the upbraiding he intended to rain on her ears.
Ignoring the nervous looks exchanged by his servants, Wingrave gritted his teeth against the sting of cold and stomped outside.
The petrified pair instantly brought the doors closed behind him.
At least someone feared him. Albeit thewrongsomeone.
He looked off to see whether therightsomeone had at some point sprouted a brain and begun her return to the damned residence.
Alas ... in addition to family, friends, resources, and funds, the lady appeared to be equally lacking in common sense.
Wingrave glanced down at the blanket of snow, but for the sprite-like footprints made upon the thick, otherwise untouched, white path.
He set off in pursuit. As he walked, in an attempt to bring warmth to his already cold digits, Wingrave rubbed his gloved hands together vigorously.
With every heavy step he took through the snow-covered gardens, Wingrave’s ire spiraled with a ferocity to match the storm that held London in its grip.
When she’d arrived last night, he’d been determined to throw her out on her delectable buttocks.
He took another furious step, grinding up thick, wet snow as he went.
But she’d pleaded to stay.
