Page 46 of The Wolf of Mayfair
A friend.
God, he’d never believed there existed a guileless, optimistic innocent such as this one.
Wingrave contemplated her still form.
Perhaps that naivete accounted for why she’d defied his orders and why, when no other man would dare to, Helia, despite the fact he clearly intimidated her, met Wingrave’s gaze and did not back down in speaking her mind.
And in the end, no matter how mighty of spirit, it didn’t matter.
His smile withered.
For the inevitable outcome remained the same.
Nor, for that matter, are your musings altogether accurate. Didn’t the lady flee your presence ...?
An emotion dangerously close to guilt slithered around, unwelcome and unpleasant, inside him.
Snarling, Wingrave tossed the lukewarm fabric into the brass bowl. Water pinged over the edges and dotted the floor like tears the washbasin shed for the impending fate of its temporary mistress.
Like tears the washbasin shed?
He recoiled.
Good God. Insane. I am going utterly insane.
The lady’s madness had proven contagious; she was turning him into a demmed bedlamite.
Angrily squeezing out the cloth, he wrapped the fabric about one of her wrists and then, fetching another, repeated the same for her other hand.
Determined to remain with her until the end, Wingrave dragged the chair he’d stationed at her side closer and dropped his tired frame into the thick upholstered folds.
Slouching into the chair, he sank his palms upon the mahogany arms of the throne-like seat and stared from veiled lashes at the lifeless miss.
“What manner of witch are you, Helia?” he murmured. First, she’d managed to wheedle her way past the butler, and then him. She’d convinced Wingrave to let her remain the night, and now, having fallen sick, he couldn’t make himself leave her side.
Now he’d taken on the role of damned nursemaid.
Granted, he’d done so out of the absolute incompetence of everyone else. But that was neither here nor there.
Either way, he wished that she’d get on with it ... live or die. That way, Wingrave could get back to living as he’d been since his brother’s death—alone and unbothered by anyone.
Chapter 9
It is wrong to give way to grief.
—Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho
A faint grizzling made by an unidentifiable beast split across the quiet.
The creature called out. Its disconsolate mewls came and then went. Over and over.
Wingrave struggled to open uncharacteristically heavy lashes and look about for the fretful creature responsible for that forlorn sound.
When he did, only silence met him. That and inky-black darkness left by the night’s hold.
Somewhere behind him, a soft fire crackled quietly in the hearth.
Groggy, he fought to clear his thoughts. All his muscles ached. Only when he overindulged in spirits did he awaken in this nebulous state.
