The Wolf's Pursuit (London Fairy Tales #3)(32)

Hunter opened his mouth to speak but Montmouth interrupted him. "And dancing with Gwen. Oh, please tell me you haven't made advances toward her. A spy? I'm to protect them. I'm to—"

"Stop." Hunter groaned, suddenly feeling a headache coming on. "I don't have time to speak of it. Just know I would do nothing to harm your sisters, any of them."

"Fine," Montmouth bit out. "Be sure that you don't."

Hunter placed his glass on the table and shrugged. "Not to worry. I'm retired. I have only the purest intentions."

"Says the wolf to the sheep."

"Only the stupid ones."

Montmouth cursed. "Promise to leave the innocent ones alone? Pick off the weak, the feeble-minded, the ones who have it coming, but leave Gwen alone."

Hunter knew he couldn't promise anything of the sort, so he nodded his head and looked away. "On that note." Hunter rose. "It's been a trying day."

Montmouth nodded to Hunter as he left.

Trying day indeed. He did not even feel himself fall asleep that night as he lay in bed at Dominique's house, but he did remember the woman he saw before he closed his eyes. A lady in red.





Chapter Thirteen





Wolf—

I know you may find this hard to bite, but considering you're a wolf, I'll just encourage you to act on instinct. I can very well take care of myself. And if you need proof, by all means examine your nose in the mirror. If the purple and yellow stains across your features aren't enough evidence to my case, then allow me to once again show you how worthy of an opponent I truly am.

—Red





"Your eyes are like flowers."

Gwen blinked rapidly; perhaps she could cause herself to faint if she did so?

"Your hair like spun…" Oh, this should be good. The man coughed. "Spun wool."

Gwen smiled. "Like a sheep?"

"A black sheep," he confirmed. Baah. The man turned red.

She could only refer to him as man because he had been the fifteenth man to come calling and by then she had come up with nicknames for every male present. She'd quit listening to their names after the third caller. This one she called man, because truly there was nothing identifying about him. He was average height, average weight, and most likely average intelligence, at least so she'd thought.

And then he compared her hair to wool.

"Yes, well, I do love farm animals." Gwen truly didn't know what else to say. Rosalind had quit the room hours ago while Isabelle still sat poised at Gwen's side. Poor dear. If Gwen was tempted to jump out the window or slip and fall on a table so she'd have a blunt head wound, she could not even begin to imagine her sister's trauma at having to live through this with her.

"You do!" the man shouted and clapped his hands. Clapped. As if he had just witnessed a play. "I always say that the best wife is one who appreciates God's creatures."

"Yes, well—"

"Do you cook?" He leaned forward and licked his lips.

Gwen eyed the cane behind him and wondered how fast the man could move if she were to strike him with it. "No, I'm a gently bred lady."

"Oh, of course." He tugged at the sleeve of his too-tight jacket and winced. "I was merely making conversation, and my house, well, it is in the country and I do not exactly have the funds to keep a cook full time, so when we marry—"

Presumptuous squatty little man! "I'm going to have to bid you good afternoon. The light grows dark, and I promised my sister I would attend her house for dinner this evening."

The man looked to Isabelle and grinned. He couldn't be waiting for an invitation, could he? Of all the fool-hearted notions!

"Y-yes." Isabelle smiled sweetly. "We are to meet with my husband, the Beast of Russia. I'm sure you've heard of him."

"The Beast." Merciful heavens, why the devil were the man's hands trembling? Was he going to wet himself as well?

"Yes." Gwen nodded urgently. "And he is ever so cross when we are late."

"Oh, well then, I'll just…" The man jerked out of his seat and walked briskly out the door.

"Well." Isabelle huffed.

Gwen felt a headache push through her temples. "Listen to me very carefully, Isabelle."

"Sister, if I have to listen to anyone talk for another minute, including you, my head shall explode on the spot."

Gwen ignored her. "It is imperative that you convince your husband to attend afternoon calls, or at least make an appearance toward the end. Let us hope that all irritating men will run with their tails between their legs when they set eyes upon him."

Isabelle threw her head back and laughed. "Clearly, you're delusional, not that I blame you. If I had to listen to one more man wax poetic about your hair, I was going to grab the scissors and cut it all off."

"I would have allowed it."

"I know."

"Please?" Gwen was not against begging.

Isabelle sighed. "How do you imagine I could convince Dominique to do such a thing? He's still quite reclusive in society, and he despises socializing."

Gwen tilted her head to the side and patted her sister's hand. "Oh, I'm sure you can find a way to… convince him."