The Wolf of Mayfair
: Chapter 13

For those, who were charmed by her loveliness, spoke with enthusiasm of her talents; and others, who admired her playful imagination, declared, that her personal graces were unrivalled.

—Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho

Helia stared up at Wingrave with a dewy-eyed gaze that bore a tenderness no one had ever before directed upon him, and for good reason—he was the last person who either wanted or deserved such warmth.

He had never been in love, nor would he ever give himself over to that puling emotion.

For that matter, he didn’t even believe in its existence.

But with Helia still in his arms, and with that look in her expressive green eyes, he saw it plainly.

His mouth went dry. His heart thumped in a sickening beat against his ribs.

He didn’t want her falling in love with him. He didn’t need it. He wanted only to go back to living his uncomplicated, solitary life without a worry for another person’s well-being and safety and—

It was too much.

This situation with Helia . . . it had become untenable. He’d allowed her to share his residence, and in return, she’d also made him share himself with her. It’d been a mistake. All of this.

“I am not a kind man,” he said sharply.

“I disagree, Anthony.”

She wielded his name like a mawkish endearment.

“I am a man of logic and reason,” he continued as if she’d never spoken, wishing she hadn’t.

Wingrave’s words were a reminder for himself.

He hardened his already rock-hard heart and armed himself with the remembrance of his discovery before she’d swept into the duke’s office like she was a thousand rays of sunshine and warmth.

“I’ll not be taken with you, Helia Wallace,” he said grimly.

Confusion filled her guileless eyes. “I-I didn’t believe you w-would be.”

He took her lightly by the shoulders. “I am a man who takes what he wants.” And yet, I hunger for her and didn’t slake my lust.

“That may be,” she said softly, unnervingly reading his thoughts and sending his panic spiraling, “but you didn’t take pleasure for yourself, and only gave me . . .” Her cheeks went warm, and she remained unable to finish the rest of that thought.

“I decided I didn’t want you,” he lied through his cold, hard mouth. Wingrave ached for her still.

He may as well have slapped Helia for the hurt that fell across her features.

I will not let that forlorn little look bother me. I will not. Wingrave steeled himself against the signs of suffering he’d himself inflicted.

Helia moved her gaze over his face. “You’re trying to scare me,” she whispered. “You’re trying to convince me you’re an awful man.”

Did she speak those words to Wingrave? Or herself? He’d venture it was for the both of them.

He steeled his features, determined to disabuse her of all the illusions she’d erroneously developed about him. “I don’t try to scare people. I do frighten them.”

Helia rested her palm against his right cheek and, through her touch, conferred an embarrassingly welcome warmth. “I’m not afraid of you,” she insisted.

A short, scornful laugh left his stern lips.

“I’m not,” she insisted. “Though I suspect you’ve gone out of your way to do so, Anthony.”

He yanked his cheek from her hand, and silently regretted the loss of her delicate, butterfly-soft caress; all the while he hated himself for that weakness.

“Do not!” he growled. “Do not call me that.”

“What?” She merely moved her palms to the lapels of his jacket and smoothed her hands over them. Under her touch, his heart beat frantic and fast. “By your name?”

He glared at her.

Helia continued to pass that probing, searching stare over Wingrave, and he’d never felt more exposed and vulnerable.

“What has your life been, Anthony, that prevents you from sharing that still intimate, but most basic part of yourself? How very lonely. How very sad.”

His entire body recoiled. She pitied him.

“You cared for me when I was ill,” Helia said again.

“Would you stop saying that?” he barked. “I only did so because I did not want you dying in my household.”

“You could have allowed someone else to care for me,” she said softly, persistent as a dog with a bone. “But you didn’t. I know it was you who sat by my side.”

Fury sent his nostrils flaring. “My servants do not have loose lips. The ones that do, I sack—”

“Oh, hush.” She pinched him, and that press of her thumb and forefinger on his arm knocked him off-balance.

Wingrave stared incredulously. “Did you . . . just pinch me, madam?”

“That is what we common people call it.” Then, her lips, still swollen from his kiss, tipped up at their corners.

He sharpened his gaze on her mouth.

Unbidden, his mind and body recalled at once the sweet taste of her: apple blossoms and peach, a sweet combination which had made for an unexpected aphrodisiac. Just the memory of that kiss sent another wave of lust through him.

Under Wingrave’s scrutiny, Helia’s innocent smile remained unwavering.

For a woman who’d just come long and hard in his arms, she remained remarkably wholesome.

How, with the ire and wrath he’d turned on the minx following that very thorough climax he’d coaxed her to, did she still wear that wide, sunny, and disarming grin?

“I know what you’re thinking, Anthony,” she said with a lightness paradoxical to the turbulent nature of his own thoughts and feelings.

She had absolutely no idea the lustful thoughts centered on her. If she did, she’d flee—and fast.

“You’re thinking you don’t tolerate servants with loose lips or allow people to put their hands on you,” she said, completely off the mark, as he’d predicted.

Her lips took a mischievous tilt, revealing a pair of adorable dimples. “Especially as you’re a future duke. But I know you will not sack your servants.”

Wingrave folded his arms. “And just how did you arrive at that conclusion, Helia?” This he had to hear.

“Because you care about them.”

He laughed, and damned if that wasn’t a real explosion of mirth.

“Just as they care about you,” Helia said, undeviating from her course. “They do. They wouldn’t speak so highly of you if you were, in fact, cruel and heartless.”

God, had he ever been that innocent?

His laughter faded. “You’re an unworldly thing if you believe that drivel you now speak.”

“So what if I am unworldly?” she challenged. “I’d rather be unworldly and optimistic than so jaded by the world that I can’t see there are people who care about me.”

Why must she persist in seeing things that were not there? To make herself feel better. That was the only reason for her gullibility where Wingrave was concerned.

“I am heartless,” he gritted out.

Helia shook her head. “I don’t believe—”

Anthony took her by the hips and dragged her closer, pulling a gasp from her.

Her chest heaved, with a modicum of fear . . . and desire.

Good. Both of those emotions were safe. He knew how to handle those sentiments.

Burned by the feel of her, Wingrave released her swiftly and flexed his fingers to forget the feel of Helia Wallace.

“You think I care about you,” he said flatly. “Why? Because I had my hand up your skirts and your hot quim in my hand?”

Helia flinched. Her perpetually rosy cheeks went ashen.

Until now, Wingrave had never given thought to the words he’d spoken after they left his lips. In this instant, for the first time in the whole of his miserable life, he found himself filled with a profound . . . regret.

He’d let her too close.

“Why are you saying these things, Anthony?” she whispered, edging away from him.

Good, let her go. That was precisely what he wished for. What accounted then for this disconsolation?

Her. Besieged by a wave of self-loathing for having become spellbound by the woman before him, he ran an angry stare over her. She was the root of all these new, unfamiliar, and more, unwanted feelings.

“Why am I speaking the truth?” he asked, deliberately dispassionate.

Needing some space and distance between them, Wingrave headed over to his father’s desk. All along that deliberate, measured march, he felt her gaze on his back like a physical touch that followed his every moment.

Only after he’d settled himself back into the duke’s throne-like chair did he speak.

“The thing about you, Helia Mairi Wallace, with your cheery outlook, despite the supposed death of your parents and a villainous cousin on your trail, and your always smiling face, is that in your naivete, you see good where it doesn’t exist. You expect there will be someone there to help and that things will get better. But they won’t. Do you know why?” he asked detachedly. “Because the world is a shite place, full of shite things and shite people, Helia. People that lie.”

Wingrave placed his hands upon the last folders he’d searched through and leaned forward. “Just as you’ve done, Miss Wallace.” Ultimately, all people lived to serve themselves—even lying about having connections to a family she’d never before met.

The sadness in Helia’s eyes gave way to confusion. She shook her head and ventured over. “I don’t—”

“Understand?”

Wingrave waited until she’d reached him. “Let me speak more plainly, shall I? I’ve searched every corner of the duke’s office.” He spread his arms wide over the piles and piles of papers before him. “Each and every single file, paper, parchment, envelope, journal—anything and everything.”

Helia followed his gesture to those stacks.

“Do you know what I discovered, Helia?” he asked, coming slowly to his feet.

She shook her head dumbly.

“As I’d expected, you don’t have any connection to this family.”

He may as well have delivered a mundane remark about the unseasonably cold winter London enjoyed.

“What?” she whispered.

He nodded. “Not a mention.”

“But—”

“The only mention of anything remotely Scottish pertains to the lands my family holds there and—” He stopped abruptly.

Helia stared at him, silently urging him to continue. “And?” she prodded, as if holding out hope that he’d uncovered something linking them and their families.

And in a small part of him, buried deep inside, in a place he’d never before known existed, he admitted . . . he had, too. It would’ve meant she had grounds to stay and—

“Those matters, Miss Wallace, do not involve you or your family in any way, but rather another family of Scottish descent.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered. Helia faltered.

Cursing, Wingrave reflexively stood and rushed around to catch her but caught himself at the edge of the desk.

Of course, the spirited Scottish beauty righted herself, no help from Wingrave necessary.

He curled his fingers into tight, hard fists.

“That’s what 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 her body 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.

Helia dipped a curtsy and let herself from the office; she closed the ornate oak panel behind her with the faintest click.

Meowww.

Blankly, Wingrave looked down at Black Bothersome Cat, who’d sneaked himself back inside the office.

The beastie stared up with angry, accusatory eyes, and damned if Wingrave didn’t replace himself deserving of that feline censure.