Page 78 of The Wolf of Mayfair
She may as well have been a child for the effortless way in which he deflected her attempts.
Until, drained of energy and out of breath, the fight went out of her.
Helia sagged.
“Amusing as I find your efforts,” he drawled, “I’ve grown tired of your unruliness.”
The earl collected her arm once more.
Helia glared. “You can drag me off to the ends of planet Earth, and your efforts will be in vain. I willnae marry ye.”
“We shall see which of us wins this battle of the wills, Miss Wallace.” He considered her a long moment. “And I must confess, I’ve found myself beginning to enjoy your feistiness.”
There could be no mistaking the explicitness of the hard gaze he passed over Helia.
The taste of bile filled her mouth, and she choked back that acrid sting.
This time, as he pulled her along, Helia couldn’t muster the sufficient strength to fight.
From astride his mount, Erebus, Wingrave spotted Helia in an instant.
Even several furlongs away and with her back to him, the staggeringly bright crown of Helia’s auburn curls stood out, a spot of radiance within the vapid, colorless revelers who dotted the horizon.
Wingrave released a huge exhalation of pent-up breath he’d not even realized he’d been holding.
She was . . .
She was ... speaking with someone.
He frowned.
Nay, more specifically, she stood conversing with aman.
Every muscle tightened in Wingrave’s frame.
Under him, his mount danced around nervously.
He eased the tension in his legs, and as he set Erebus toward the pair, Wingrave stroked the horse’s withers.
The man’s finely cut garments marked him a gentleman of some means, but his powerful, compact body more closely resembled those of the longshoremen on these very wharves.
Wingrave kept his gaze intently on the exchange between Helia and the smartly dressed stranger.
She’d insisted she’d nowhere else to go and no one else to whom she could turn, and yet, at this moment, that didn’t appear to be the case. The pair spoke with an air of familiarity.
A burning sensation started in Wingrave’s stomach, and his fingers tightened reflexively on the reins.
Maybe that was why she’d sought him out this morning? But then he’d taken her in his arms and come at her with accusations and charges, all of which had proven to be wrong.
He didn’t know who the hell the man was, but Wingrave hated him on sight. He had a savage need to take the bastard apart at the limbs.
Just then, the man shot out a hand and grabbed Helia by the upper arm. She twisted and wrenched against his hold—to no avail.
A low, instinctual, primitive rumbling reverberated in Wingrave’s chest.
Dead. He’d kill him, resurrect him, and then murder him all over again.
Consumed with a vicious bloodlust, Wingrave set Erebus into an all-out gallop. “Go,” he growled.
