Page 57 of The Wolf of Mayfair
The young lady shut the panel.
An uncomfortable silence filled the air.
“I understand,” she said softly.
He gritted his teeth. Here she went again with her fearlessness, speaking to Wingrave when the absolutelastthing he wanted to do was talk to her or anyone.
“What exactly is it you think you understand, Helia?” he asked brusquely.
“You are afraid of cats.”
“I most certainly amnotafraid of cats,” he exclaimed, exasperated. “I am not afraid of anything.”
A wise person would have demurred and said nothing further.
Only the most lionhearted one would continue to challenge Wingrave.
“Everyone is afraid of something,” she said in a gentle voice,clearlynonplussed by his explosion.
If he were being honest with the minx, he’d admit he was fast approaching that sentiment for infuriatingly stubborn Scots. Scottish women, to be exact.
“What do you want, Helia?” he asked impatiently.
Despite his curt tone, Helia’s eyes revealed none of the unease they’d held before. Now she looked at Wingrave with wide, trusting, and tender eyes.
He resisted an unprecedented urge to squirm. It was as if Helia had sprung a dauntless comfort in Wingrave’s presence.
“Mrs. Trowbridge said you remained at my side, my l—”
He swiftly cut off the remainder of her words. “Mrs. Trowbridge said too much.”
“Too much, as in the truth, my lord?”
Yes, too much as in the truth.
He charged to his feet, knocking free the papers he’d previously searched; this time, they fell to the floor.
Unfazed, Helia continued to meet Wingrave’s gaze.
His frustration mounted and led to an increased swiftness of his steps, as he at last plucked forth the reason for his unrest. He forced himself to stop at the side of the desk and kept several paces between them.
“You are better,” he whispered in steely tones.
“Aye.” The lady ran her palms along her skirt, drawing his gaze to the light tremble of those long, freckled digits, and also the first indication of her disquiet.
Oddly, that did not make him feel better. It should have. Only, strangely, it didn’t.
Helia caught his focus and instantly stopped her nervous movement—that surprising pridefulness and strength gave him pause. Ladies were not soproud as this one. At least, none of the women he’d known or met. Maybe that was why he’d found himself spellbound by her.
“I am in good health,” she continued in her almost lyrical tones, which didn’t know whether they wished to be a crisp English accent or husky Scottish brogue. “Thanks to you ...Anthony.”
Anthony . . .
Wingrave recoiled.
No one used his Christian name. Not even his parents—certainly not his parents. Certainly not anyone, and yet this woman, this insolent slip of baggage who’d invaded his household and his thoughts, took possession of a name he’d tendered as she’d tossed and turned, had somehow recalled it despite her fever, and now used it with all the familiarity of an old friend.
“My name is Wingrave,” he whispered, adding an additional layer of ice to his declaration of war.
