Page 39 of The Wolf of Mayfair
And then, with that tangiblethirdlie she’d given him, Helia pitched forward.
Wingrave caught her about the waist once more and drew her against him. Were it any woman other than this tart-mouthed minx,he’d have believed her actions deliberate, and her intention to snag his notice.
“Yes,” he said ironically. He knew Helia Wallace hardly at all, but he knew enough to gather she wasn’t the swooning-and-fake-fainting sort. “You appear most hale and ...”
His words trailed off.
Even through the layers of their garments, a spectacular heat poured from her trembling frame. A heat as unnatural as the captivating chit herself. A heat that defied the logic of a bitter winter’s day. A heat that could only come from ...
Wingrave reeled as it hit him.
“You’re feverish,” he barked.
There was no quick retort or witty rejoinder, only a stark silence, made all the grimmer by its rarity from the lady, who challenged him at every turn.
He glanced at the woman tucked against his side.
Sure enough, her eyes remained closed, as if she’d fallen asleep standing up and been frozen that way by the unforgiving northern wind.
A dangerously childlike panic settled in his bones.
For he, who prided himself on fearing nothing and no one, had one Achilles’ heel. It was one that he never readily acknowledged, even to himself, but that had lingered in the far corners of his mind since his brother had died all those years ago.
“You would be the one to bedevil me by acknowledging my own aversions,” he muttered into the unnatural quiet. “You are a witch, madam. An infuriating, extraordinary, titian-haired witch.”
In one fluid motion, Wingrave swept her up into his arms. For one who snacked and feasted with the gusto he’d observed, she was remarkably as insubstantial as the flakes.
Still, even with her slight form and following the same path he and she had traveled separately in the garden, the heavy, wet snow made Wingrave’s journey back inside agonizingly slow.
His breath came fast and hard as he stomped through the gardens, those quick inhalations and exhalations a product of his exertions and certainly not any fear on his part.
Absolutely it wasn’t fear.
As he’d told her, he feared nothing and no one.
He certainly wasn’t going to worry about an insolent visitor who didn’t have a brain in her—
“What possessed you to go outside in the middle of a bloody snowstorm,” he railed.
Her head wobbled against his arm, bouncing about like that of a child’s doll, and Wingrave quickened his pace.
She was burning up.
“Quite fine, are you,” he bit out. “Oh, yes, as I said, you are the epitome of hearty and hale.”
Once more, no cheeky response or dauntless reply met his jeering. The always loquacious chit remained unnaturally still and silent.
An odd sensation, something that felt very nearly like panic, beat away in his chest.
Not because he cared about her either way. Nay, the only fear he did possess was that she’d perish here and her ghost would remain to haunt him. He merely sought to send her on her merry way.
In the greatest hint of irony, the snow at some point had stopped, and only the occasional whisper of wind filled the landscape. That and the crunch of snow under his lone pair of boots.
Helia whimpered, and he glanced down.
Her auburn lashes lay vividly bright against her stark-white cheeks.
Wingrave quickened the already fast pace he’d set, breaking into a near run.
