Page 9 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Those long-ago murmurings of her mother flitted through her mind, and in this instant, that remembrance was a bittersweet one.
“My name is Helia Mairi Wallace,” she repeated thickly. “Daughter of the late Laird Kilmarnock and Earl of Buccleuch.”
“Irrelevant,” he muttered coolly under his breath. “The only bearing your name has on the matter is it indicates you are not in possession of any connection to the duke, who despises and detests the Scottish and all things associated with that land and their people.”
“What will ah do?” she asked, the question as much to herself as to him.
He flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “My dear, since you were so irksome as to invade my household, I’ve not given a thought to you or what you should, could, or would do—that is, aside from showing yourself out.”
Wingrave turned to go.
“B-but ... but ...” Helia lifted her palms up at his back. “It isn’tyerhousehold.”
As soon as it slipped out, she knew she’d said the wrong thing.
He wheeled around.
“The brazenness of you,” he snarled.
Good God. She was making a mess of all this. “I dinnae mean to—”
“You did not mean to what?” he whispered. “Insult me? Question my ownership of this place and everything I deem mine?”
Helia struggled to swallow. “I’d never insult ye.” At least, not to his face. Alone, she’d let spew every last hateful thought she had of him. “What ahm-meant—”
He took a slow, deliberate, predatory step toward her, and it briefly stalled the rest of her words.
“What ah meant,” she repeated, this time in a steadier tone, “is that the duchess is my godmother, and the residence belongs to the Duke and Duchess of Talbert—”
Wingrave narrowed his eyes upon her. “Finish it.”
She wavered.
“Say whatever it is you intended to say, wench.”
Even as saying nothing was wiser, his low, resonant baritone compelled her to speak. “Yer their son,” she finished weakly.
“I am the Marquess of Wingrave.” His gravelly, low-pitched words had the same effect as if he’d shouted.
“Ah dinnae mean any disrespect, my lo—”
“I am next in line to the dukedom of Talbert. All of this, everything around you”—he tossed his arms wide to display the powerful kingdom around them—“belongs to me. The current duke is merely holding on to it a short while more. He is a mere guardian of what is mine and what will belong to me and mine.”
For God’s sake, what had she done?
“I am set to inherit any number of great things from the duke and duchess,” he said, this time conversationally. “Vast land holdings. A fortune to rival Midas’s. Power to surpass the Savior and Satan combined.”
Lord Wingrave curled his lips in a jeering grin. “My parents’ goddaughters, however, are fortunately not bequeathed to me.”
“Goddaughters?” she repeated dumbly.
“Thought you were so very special, did you? My mother has any number of goddaughters. She is soft. Weak. Easy prey for one such as you. It is why countless gentlewomen seek to form advantageous connections with the duchess. They hope that such an association will pay dividends to their homely daughters. Let me spare you from wondering: itwon’t.”
Her stomach dropped. Something in knowing the duchess had served as godmother to any number of young ladies made Helia’s connection to Her Grace both less significant and special.
“Humphries?”
The butler immediately clamored out from behind the enormous hall clock, where he’d taken shelter from Wingrave’s ire.
