Page 40 of The Wolf of Mayfair
“Y-you had to go out so b-bloody far,” he said into the quiet, his breath coming quick.
Only more of that unnatural silence met his livid assessment.
Cold little puffs of white gusted forth from his swift exhalations and inhalations, those little breaths having absolutely nothing to do with fear.
He’d have to care to be afraid.
He didn’t.
“I-I don’t. I-I don’t.” That mantra came from his lips over and over, until, at long last, he arrived at the snow-covered limestone steps leading to the terrace above.
Wingrave readjusted his hold on Helia and took the steps quickly.
The moment his feet touched the patio, the double doors were thrown open and two servants rushed out.
One of the strapping footmen reached for her.
Wingrave reflexively drew her closer. “Now you’d come,” he taunted. He’d not hand her over to either of the inept pair who’d allowed her to go out and not immediately reported the lady’s whereabouts to Wingrave. For if she died, Wingrave would be the one she haunted—not them. “Fetch me a damned physician!”
One of the men immediately dropped a bow and bolted in the opposite direction, while the other servant kept pace at Wingrave’s side.
“And you—see that a hot bath is readied this moment,” Wingrave ordered.
“Yes, my lord. Immediately, my lord.”
Wingrave shifted the woman in his arms. “It’s not ‘immediate’ if you are still walking with me and talking.”
“Yes—”
Wingrave’s low growl ended the remainder of the footman’s affirmation.
The tall fellow with an enormous Adam’s apple nodded, then took off racing.
Spared of that unwanted company, Wingrave shifted his focus back to the sickly woman in his arms.
“You couldn’t have fallen ill before you came from wherever it is you hail,” he said tersely. He glanced down and then promptly regretted it.
Beads of sweat dotted Helia’s brow. She whimpered and shivered, burrowing against him like a cat who’d escaped a drowning and now sought warmth.
This marked a first: the first time anyone had looked to Wingrave for comfort.
“You’d be best to find a different heat source, madam,” he warned. “I’ve not a hint of warmth in my body, and my soul is even colder.”
Except, despite his own warning, Wingrave tightened his hold upon Helia, drawing her even more snugly against him. His legs ached, as did his lungs and arms, from the onerous task he’d put to them.
Out of breath, he reached the massive staircase that led to the guest suites and stopped at the bottom. Wingrave slumped against the hand-carved oak stair rail with a wide-mouthed ogre fashioned into the wood.
As a boy, after his mother had commissioned a new staircase, Wingrave had avoided it because of that menacing rendering. Now he borrowed support from the railing; he sucked in a breath, and another, and attempted to get his lungs back to proper working order.
And then he felt it—the quaking tremor that racked Helia’s slender form.
You foolish, foolish chit . . .
A young servant stepped forward and reached for Helia.
Wingrave quelled the liveried footman with a single black look, and then forcing his tired legs to resume their forward movement, he proceeded to take the marble steps two at a time.
As soon as he reached the guest quarters, he found the head housekeeper, Mrs. Trowbridge; a trio of maids; and a pair of footmen stationed outside one of the rooms.
