Page 58 of The Wolf of Mayfair
“Wingrave is your title.” Hers was a gentle reminder that set his teeth to grinding. “Anthony is your name.” She paused. “Is it not?”
He could deny it.
On instinct, that declination sprang to his lips, begging to be spoken.
Helia’s eyes were all-knowing. Those captivating green irises called for—no, demanded—Wingrave’s focus.
Of their own volition, his legs moved, carrying him the remainder of the way.
The moment he stopped before Helia, unlike days prior, she did not retreat. This time, she tipped her head back and continued to boldly meet his stare.
He dusted a palm along the curve of her cheek, the same cheek he’d washed the sweat from, now like cool satin under his palm.
The lady’s eyes fluttered.
Wingrave fought himself; he battled a jeering voice that told him to yank his hand away—and lost.
Wingrave swallowed, his throat working spasmodically. “What manner of enchantress are you, Helia?” he demanded on an angry whisper.
“I’m nah enchantress,” she returned, her voice having given way to more of that delicate brogue.
Her lush mouth beckoned; her lips invited a man to explore them.
His fingers curled reflexively upon her cheek, and he made himself gentle his touch.
Nay, not any man. He’d sooner kill a bounder who dared to avail himself of that treasure before Wingrave. After he’d claimed Helia as his own, he wouldn’t care. But not until he himself plundered them. And after he’d kissed her, he could purge her from his blood.
He palmed her cheek.
Helia trustingly turned herself into his touch; her endlessly long auburn lashes fluttered.
Such guilelessness, he’d never before known. Maybe that accounted for his inexplicable fascination with this woman who’d invaded his household.
“If you were wise, you’d run now, little kitten,” he taunted in a bid to resurrect the previous fortress he’d made himself into.
Go. Leave. Flee. Run.
Though his muddled mind sought to sort out to whom he gave those silent orders. Himself ... or her?
A thread of fear and a greater husk of desire lent a warble to the lady’s voice. “Wh-why?”
Both her responses pleased Wingrave and pleased him mightily.
Wingrave curled his lips into a cold, hard grin. “Because if you don’t, little kitten, I’m going to kiss you.”
Chapter 12
Tremblingly alive to a sense of delight, and unchilled by disappointment, the young heart welcomes every feeling, not simply painful, with a romantic expectation that it will expand into bliss.
—Ann Radcliffe, A Sicilian Romance
Because if you don’t, little kitten, I’m going to kiss you ...
Helia’s heart, it pounded.
When Helia was a wee lass, her ma had told her the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, who befriended a wolf. In her trustingness, a deceived Red had allowed him to lead her into the bed, where he’d eaten her whole.
And in this instant, she understood all too well: How Red’s judgment had proven so weak. How that unsuspecting, trusting girl had found herself confronting the grisly fate she had. And that inexplicable draw possessed by the wolf, which had left the hapless Red unable to pluck herself from the danger awaiting her.
