Page 66 of The Wolf of Mayfair
He curled his fingers into tight, hard fists.
“That’swhat this was about.” She looked at him with distraught eyes.“I’m going to be ill.”
The anger went out of him, replaced by the same panicky dread that dodged him at the mention of anyone being sickly.
Nay, not “anyone.”Her.For some reason, this cheer-filled sprite elicited a numbing fear he’d never before felt on account of anyone.
A healthy color returned to her cheeks. Nay, the red filling her face was an angry flush.
Steadied by that reminder and realization, Wingrave found himself breathing more easily.
Helia tipped her chin at a gumptious little angle. “You were testing to see if I would make you a suitable mistress,” she whispered, her voice cracking with despair.
He started. That was the conclusion she’d come to? But then, why shouldn’t she? He’d availed himself of her mouth and the feel of herbody and then, after all that, lied through his teeth and told her he didn’t want her.
Good, it was better this way. She’d be gone soon. Tomorrow. Maybe the next day. When she was fully recovered, as he’d not have her death on his conscience.
And Wingrave, to whom antipathy had always come so easily, now found himself presenting only a facade of that emotion.
He flicked a mocking gaze over her diminutive frame. “I’m not a man to take an innocent woman as my lover.”
She searched his face. “Are you saying ...?”
Wingrave looked at her, silently encouraging her to complete whatever inane idea had popped into her head this time.
As shy as she’d grown after climaxing in his arms, Helia bowed her head a tiny fraction. “You are not saying ... You are not thinking ...”
He continued to follow along as she fumbled about.
“You’re not . . . offering marria—”
Wingrave balked. “Good God, no!” A short, nervous laugh escaped him.
If blushes could burn, the lady would have set a fire to rival the hottest, brightest Guy Fawkes bonfire.
“My mother was many things,” she said, her voice unwavering. “Good, honorable, resilient, fearless. Funny. Loving. But she, my lord, was no liar. Every woman has her secrets. I trust, given the man you’ve described the duke to be, the duchess carries secrets of her own.” Helia ran her steady palms over the front of her skirts, rumpled from their embrace. She inclined her head. “I thank you for your generosity and the kindness you and your staff extended me, my lord.”
Finally.“My lord” and not “Anthony.”
Weird, how hollow a victory that proved to be.
“I will be sure to have my belongings packed.”
His heart hammered.
Wingrave jumped to his feet. “You are not well enough to leave,” he said gruffly. “You may remain for your convalescence.”
Indecision glimmered in her revealing eyes.
The lady warred with herself. Even having known her a short while, he’d discovered her to be as proud as headstrong.
“I ... thank you, my lord,” she said, and once again, perverse bastard that he was, Wingrave found himself missing the sound of his given name on her lips. “I will not overstay my welcome.”
He released a breath he’d not even realized he’d been holding.
That relief proved short-lived.
His thoughts raced. What would she do? Where would she go? She’d already maintained she’d no one, aside from, supposedly, a gothic-novel-inspired cousin ... who, given she’d already told one lie, might very well be another. But ... there had to be some truth to her being a young, innocent lady on her own.
