Page 7 of The Wolf of Mayfair
“My sister? Most days I forget I have one,” he said with a glib casualness that somehow made the horrifying admission all the uglier.
“Ye cannae throw me out,” she entreated.
Lord Wingrave frowned. “Of course I’d never do something so uncouth as to personally escort you outside. My butler will do that.”
Dismissing her like she was some street urchin he’d sullied himself by speaking to, the marquess lifted his hand and waved it in a circular motion.
The butler dashed over.
Helia blanched and moved beyond the servant’s reach.
The callow fellow cast a desperate look in his master’s direction.
“What is it?” the marquess demanded, and there was a steely warning layered into those three words. “I’m growing tired of this exchange.”
“My ma,” Helia begged. “My ma, she spoke often of ye.”
“Yer ma,” he said in a perfect rendition of a brogue that would have impressed her, were he not making a mockery of her speech. “You think I knowyourmother?”
She faltered. “Aye?” Unease tipped her response into a question. “She spoke often of yeandyer ma.”
The ghost of a grin iced his lips. “Your ma spoke of me?”
Hope stirred in her breast.
She nodded frantically. “Often. She regaled me with tales of ye.”
His smile became salacious. “Did she now?” he purred.
Helia gave another nod.
At last, she had managed to reach him. Relief swept through her, so profound it nearly brought her to her knees.
The marquess caught his obdurate chin between a thumb and forefinger and contemplated her with actual interest this time. “A Scot,”he murmured to himself. “I do not recall a Scot among my long list of former lovers.”
Helia strangled on her spit. “She was most certainly nah one of yer bed partners,” she whispered, filled with equal parts horror and indignation at the thought that her loving, beautiful ma would ever debase herself so.
“More’s unfortunate, that,” he said, with a trace of real regret. “I’ve never tupped a motheranda daughter, and I confess that prospect does holdsomeappeal.”
He’d have allowed her entry into his household if he’d been interested in bedding her.
All the horrid stories and whispers had not done proper justice to the marquess’s wicked ways. For Lord Wingrave proved even more dissolute than the world knew.
Helia’s fingers scrabbled with the sides of her skirt, until she caught the marquess’s knowing gaze on those movements.
She made herself stop and tried again, with slightly different words. “The storm has picked up and promises to be a mighty tempest, and I have nowhere to go.”
“Among those other ‘nowheres’ to go, you’d be wise to include this residence.”
Dread tightened her belly. She couldn’t have come this far only to find herself tossed out onto the London streets, in the middle of an unforgiving storm.
Helia, desperately yearning to see that kind soul her late ma had described, scoured the vast foyer and interconnecting halls.
Panic doubling in her breast, Helia looked past Lord Wingrave and raised her gaze some three stories.
Alas, there came no benevolent duchess sweeping forth to rescue Helia from both the storm and the lady’s son. No formidable duke and censorious father to chastise Lord Wingrave over his reprehensible behavior toward a lady.
“Yer certain Her Grace is not in?” she implored, directing that question at London’s most feared and revered gentleman.
