Page 32 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Reverently, Helia looked upon the twig of berries she’d separated from the rowan tree, and with a murmur of gratitude for its offering, she carefully tucked the twig inside the pocket of her dress.
Helia reached for one more bundle of berries.
After she’d availed herself to one final twig, she examined this last crimson cluster she’d take.
The bright pomes, vibrant harbingers of good, appeared even brighter upon Helia’s white leather gloves.
For the first time since her parents had gone on to heaven and she’d been left behind with a grasping relation to contend with, and an uncertain future, Helia laughed. That joyous resonance spilled from her lips and filtered into the Duke and Duchess of Talbert’s gardens, filling the previously barren grounds with gaiety.
It felt so very glorious ... to have hope. To laugh. To not live with fear.
I am alive. In this moment, I am safe.
She’d let fear become her constant companion, but maybe, just maybe, instead of bemoaning and lamenting her fate as a ruined woman, Helia should accept that it had happened and live her life to the fullest.
An indescribable emotion swept over her, so profound and great it left her lightheaded, and Helia swayed once more, nearly overwhelmed by the mightiness of that feeling.
She caught herself against the rugged, steadfast trunk of the rowan tree, and found the solace and support it provided.
For she knew in that instant, it was going to be all right.
Shewas going to be all right.
Chapter 7
How then are we to look for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?
—Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho
Seated on one of the leather wingback chairs, with his elbows on the arms of his seat and his fingers steepled, Wingrave stared absently out the center panel of the wide bow window to the pristine white snow blanketing the vast gardens below.
Wingrave had always possessed an affinity for the library.
As a small boy, Wingrave had considered the immense, coffered-ceilinged room, lined with wall-to-wall bookshelves, each shelf filled with an endless number of leather tomes, a place of magic and wonder.
Then, as the forgotten spare to the duke’s ever-precious heir, Wingrave had been unencumbered by the same constraints placed on his late brother.
In time, he’d realized the inherent silliness in the stories he’d once eagerly read in the early hours of the morn. The ridiculousness of the Greek legends and Roman ones, which he’d believed wholeheartedly to be real.
For it hadn’t been long into his rigorous edification of his role as future duke that Wingrave realized his father avoided books the way a sinner steered clear of church.
The only reason Wingrave’d come and read here, and the only reason he continued to do so, was because it had become a habit.
Notbecause he was in search of a distraction following his caddish behavior, which had sent intrepid-until-now Helia fleeing.
He’d have to possess a heart and conscience. Fortunately for him, he had neither.
What he’d not, however, anticipated, was how intolerably retentive past memories were, sitting in the library, while a storm brewed outside.
... but it is snowing, Evander! Snowing!
Wingrave drew back in his seat.
When was the last time he’d thought of that day? In fact, when had thoughts of his late brother last slipped in?
Not because it hurt to do so. Wingrave was no longer a man capable of puling emotions.
In short, he couldn’t be hurt.
