Page 36 of The Wolf of Mayfair
She—a temerarious woman with her courage, pluck, and mettle—had begged him.
The wind sent the hem of his greatcoat snapping in an angry consensus.
All the while, he glowered at that very still, unsuspecting figure at the vibrant tree.
Why, it was as if she’d been determined to find the farthest place to venture and now sat under the tree as though it were a summer day, and she a fine lady partaking in a picnic under those colorful branches.
He’d let her stay.
“What in blazes are you doing?” he lashed.
With all the grace, calm, and aplomb of two people meeting in a London drawing room, Helia stood and turned about, slowly.
The chill of the winter’s day had left an entrancing crimson hue upon her cheeks, a shade so bright it’d engulfed those tiny specks of freckles.
“You!”She smiled as she greeted Wingrave, briefly taking him aback.
Had anyone smiled at him? Or for that matter, even near him? Certainly, neverbecauseof him.
And yet, this woman’s green eyes ... glowed.
Unnerved, Wingrave dusted his palms together. “You know, if you’d been determined to get yourself killed from the cold, we could have avoided all previous arguments and exchanges we had prior about your seeking out shelter.”
“W-we haven’t argued.”
“Haven’t we?” he drawled.
The lady gave a wave of her spare hand. “Mere differences of opinions. And you n-needn’t worry about me—”
“I’m not worried.”
“I’m not afraid of a little c-cold. I’m—”
“Scottish. Yes, I believe we’ve ascertained as much.”
A little laugh bubbled from her trembling lips.
Frowning, Wingrave drew back. Any and all previous fear she’d shown in his presence was no more. What accounted for this absolute cheer?
“I wasgoingto say,” she stammered through her shivering, “I’m not at all cold. In fact, I’m feeling quite w-warmish.”
Warmish?
Wingrave eyed her dubiously.
“Yes,” he drawled, giving her bundled and shivering frame an up-and-down look. “You look like theepitomeof summery.”
“Aye, well, you were the one to point out that I a-am S-Scottish.” Her eyes glittered with more of her mirth, a sparkling in her irises that proved as captivating as it was unnerving.
He wasn’t a man to be taken in by a pretty pair of eyes. With that reminder fresh in his head, he sharpened his gaze on the shivering woman before him.
“First, claiming a connection to the duchess,” he jeered. “Now, professing to be warm in the midst of this storm? With those two yarns you’ve spun, I’m led to wonder what else you may have lied about. Certainly, the invented Gothic-romance tale of a nasty guardian determined to steal your virtue and your dowry.”
A frown chased away her smile, and damned if in her doing so, the air around them didn’t go several shades colder. “Cousin.”
Wingrave just stared at her.
“H-he is not a guardian. He is my cousin, and h-he inherited after my da passed.”
