Page 38 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Wingrave stared in befuddlement at the snow-dusted branch against the vivid blackness of his overcoat.
“’Tis for you,” she said softly.
“For . . . me.”
Helia nodded. “For you,” she repeated, in a confirmation he’d humiliatingly spoken those two halting words aloud.
And yet . . .
“I’ve never received a gift,” he said gruffly. He didn’t even know why he’d made the reluctant acknowledgment.
Helia looked up at him with sad eyes. “Surely you’ve received something, through the years?”
“Don’t you know, madam, it is improper for lords and ladies to exchange gifts.” He strove for aloofness but remained strangely unable to pull his gaze from the branch of red berries she still held against his chest.
“Och,” she scoffed. “I’m well aware of the rules of decorum. Friends and family are permitted to bestow a g-gift upon one another.”
Yes, she was right in that regard. Decorum and social rules dictated that social equals such as friends and family may exchange or accept gifts. The Blofields, however, were a power cut above the rest. Though Wingrave’s tenderhearted mother would have likely been all too happy to give gifts, her husband didn’t allow it. For the current duke considered no one his friend. And as for family? They may as well be strangers who happened to share a name and the same dwelling.
“I’ve already told you,” he finally brought himself to say. “I do not have friends.” And he preferred it that—
“You do now,” Helia said softly, and unlike every other word she’d uttered thus far, which had been lent a quaver by the cold, these three emerged strong and unwavering.
Wingrave stood there dumbly, uncertain for the first time in his life, his mind addled at her lack of nervosity about him.
He’d become so accustomed to people being daunted by him that he didn’t know what to do with this intrepid, tiny slip of a woman who smiled at him and absurdly declared herself to be ... a friend.
To him.
When still he made no move to take the slender twig, Helia folded the right lapel of his jacket back a fraction, and with an unflinching boldness, she reached inside and tucked her present to Wingrave within his pocket.
And strangely, as she edged away from his arms, and with the wind and sleet battering at him, Wingrave felt the most peculiar ... warmth.
A muscle twitched irritatingly at the corner of his right eye.
Warmth?It had absolutely nothing to do with a ridiculous and inconsequential offering.
“You’re w-welcome,” she said.
“I did not say thank you,” he snapped. To do so would have to mean he appreciated or even wanted hergift. Which he didn’t. He didn’t needanything, and most certainly he neither wanted, nor needed, Helia Wallace’s friendship.
“What should I be thankful for or about?” He gave her a frosty look. “That you’re out here risking your foolish neck to bequeath me some rowan bra—”
Her eyes twinkled brighter than the North Star, momentarily distracting him from his error.
“Stick,”he gritted out through his teeth.“Some stick.”
“Y-you needn’t worry about me. Remember, I’m a Scot.”
“How can I forget? You keep reminding me,” he muttered. “As if I needed any reminders.”
“I’m h-hale and hearty.”
Another sharp wind gusted, making a liar of her, as she swayed slightly on her feet.
This time he caught her at the elbow to keep her from falling. “Oh, yes,” he said drolly, giving his gloved palms another vigorous rub. “You look like theepitomeof stalwartness.”
The tiniest of snowflakes peppered the lady’s eyes, and her coppery lashes fluttered. “I-I’m really quite ...” Her voice faded. “F-fine.”
