Page 71 of The Wolf of Mayfair
And what had he done after she’d come undone in his arms? He’d uttered vile, unconscionable things.
Wingrave’s gut clenched. The memory of Helia’s wounded expression twisted a knife in his chest. The memory of the hurt bleedingfrom her expressive green eyes would haunt him until he drew his last miserable breath.
Since she’d left the duke’s office, Wingrave had found himself confronting the staggering, sobering, and very unwelcome realization that he felt ...shame.
Him!
Wingrave gave his head a firm shake.Shame. Regret.
“What is next, Wingrave?” he snarled. His lips curled in a disgusted sneer.“Love?”
The moon would sooner fall and the stars rain down upon a darkened earth beforethathappened. Which was not only for the best, but very welcome.
Nay, he’d never love anyone or anything, but Wingrave apparently possessed the ability to know shame. And after everything he’d said to Helia, he found himself drowning in heaps of it.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Thisfeelingof any emotion was deuced unpleasant business.
“Mad,” he muttered into the ring of silence when he’d dropped his palms back to the armrests. “I’m going mad.”
As if that truth were in doubt, since cheer-filled Helia Wallace’s arrival, Wingrave had begun talking to himself.
Bound for Bedlam, he was.
As he’d told himself many times before, the sooner she went, the better off he’d be. Except, that merely served to remind Wingrave of the lady’s circumstances.
She’d be all alone.
Furthermore, what did he really know about hercircumstances? She’d been disingenuous about herconnectionto the Blofield family. If she’d invented those ties between their mothers, it stood to reason she could be lying about every last thing she’d shared with Wingrave.
He steepled his fingers together, and while he drummed the tips, Wingrave stared distractedly over to that place where he’d forever see her trembling, begging, and climaxing.
Only, the stunned little glimmer in her eyes, the shock stamped on her features, and the indignation at his having called her mother a liar couldn’t be feigned.
Which meant ... what, exactly? It didn’t matter there existed no evidence of her family’s ties to his own;Heliahad clearly believed it to be true. That notion had come from ...somewhere.
Certainly, prejudiced as the duke was to anyone and everyone who was not the highest, most respected members of the ton, he wouldn’t countenance any association with a Scottish family.
As for Wingrave’s mother ... The duchess may be cut of a different, kinder, softhearted cloth than the duke, but ultimately, she fell in line with whatever her husband demanded. After Wingrave’d become the heir, she’d ceased visiting with and talking to him, and turned him over completely to his miserable bastard of a sire. Recently, she’d been a willing partner in the duke’s plans to see him wed Lady Alexandra Bradbury.
No, she’d never be brave enough to form a friendship her husband disapproved of.
I trust, given the man you’ve described the duke to be, the duchess carries secrets of her own.
Helia’s avowal whispered around Wingrave’s mind.
He drummed his fingertips together.
Her words were so unlikely as to be anything but impossible. After all, where would his mother even begin to hide such information from her ...?
Of their own volition, his fingers ceased their tapping.
Wingrave sat for a long moment and then exploded to his feet.
Without breaking stride, he strode through His Grace’s office, yanked the door open, and sailed into the hall.
Wingrave moved with determined, purposeful steps down the length of the wide, crimson-carpeted corridors, and then stopped.
He stared at the door, with its carvings of delicate white roses and pink peonies, a moment and then looked down at the brass princess handle.
