Page 47 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Wingrave scrubbed a palm over his face.
But ... it’d been years. He’d been a mere boy at university. Nay, he’d come todetestthose puling, weak men who imbibed on spirits.
He blinked slowly as he registered his palms resting on the arms ... of a chair. Not even a comfortable chair, at that. What in blazes ...? Why, he had fallen asleep ... in a chair.
Meowwwwww.
Wingrave went absolutely still, and his suddenly alert gaze went to the big black cat burrowing contentedly upon his lap.
And why in hell did he have acaton his lap?
The big creature stared at Wingrave through direful yellow eyes.
His brain was still clogged by sleep and confusion, but then recently spoken words whispered forward.
A bad omen, it is ... If a black cat walks into the room of an ill person and the miss dies, it will be because of the cat’s powers.
Then it came back to him.
Shecame back to him.
Helia Wallace.
A feverish Helia Wallace.
At some point, Wingrave had fallen asleep.
An eerie silence hung over the room.
With a hiss to rival the black beast who’d appropriated Wingrave’s lap for his nap, he scooped up the cat and stalked across the room. He held the squirming fellow in one arm and opened the door.
The servants on sentry all jumped.
Wingrave tossed the mouser down. “I said to keep this goddamned cat away,” he thundered.
The beastie bolted.
“Yes, my lord,” one of the footmen said. “We’ll see to it immediately.” Two servants set off in quick pursuit.
Cursing, Wingrave returned to Helia’s sickroom and pushed the door shut.
Wingrave clasped his hands behind him, leaned back against the oak panel, and glared at the quiescent woman, so still, so silent.
“A cat that has the same nerve as you, Helia Wallace,” he muttered. “It is only fitting he try to keep you company.”
Try.Wingrave’s jaw worked. The hell he’d let that beast anywhere near this room.
His fury and determination had nothing to do with any ridiculous superstition imparted by some maid.
Absolutely nothing.
Wingrave pushed himself from the door and rejoined Helia’s bedside.
And staring down at her, his ever-present anger, so twined with the fabric of his soul he believed it could not be separate, drained out of him.
He worked his gaze over her.
She lay motionless, her chest barely moving. At some point, she’d shed her blanket and her modest nightskirts had climbed above her knees to reveal a pair of well-turned limbs.
