Page 48 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Wingrave swallowed hard as he stared, briefly transfixed by muscular calves that bespoke a woman who took well to the saddle. Her legs were the manner of which a man dreamed. Ones that had been so fashioned to wrap about a man’s—
A sardonic laugh, rusty from ill use, exploded from his chest.
Had he entertained any delusions that he was anything other than the bastard he was, ogling deathly ill Helia Wallace put to bed any worries there.
She shivered; a little tremor racked her frame.
Wingrave carefully drew Helia’s garments back into their place, preserving her dignity ... and his honor.
He gave his head a wry shake. And here he possessed more principle than he’d previously jeered, after all.
She was dying.
And she fought herself, both wanting to get on with it, so she could end this suffering, and wanting to fight forever, if need be, so that she might live.
“Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded.
“I won’t hurt you,” he gruffly promised.
“You must have a name ...”
“Anthony . . .”
“Who are you?”
“A friend . . .”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“You have many friends. The servants. Their children.”
He was right. This Anthony. This stranger.
She had friends. But what of her family?
And then she remembered, and wished she hadn’t.
For this anguish ... hurt far more than that wrought by the heat burning her up from the inside out. This was the pain of loss and heartbreak that couldn’t go away. That would never go away.
Helia proceeded to weep. She wept for the loss of her beloved parents. She wept for knowing she’d never again be held in the secure, loving folds of their embrace and for knowing that they’d never join their laughs together.
They’d never dangle their grandbabes upon their knees as they’d always longingly spoken of.
And for the fever tearing her apart, she felt herself racked by a chill that would not quit.
Sobbing, Helia flipped onto her side, drew her knees close to her chest, and hugged herself in a forlorn, lonely hold, which was all she’d ever again know.
Because there was no one.
There was no mother or father.
She—
Suddenly, Helia found herself scooped up and drawn into the fiercest, most protective embrace. Strong arms clasped about her, and she instantly ceased her flailing as those limbs wrapped around her. They conferred a welcome and wondrous heat and ... strength. They slipped about her being, chasing away the sorrow, and left her warm where she’d previously been only cold.
She didn’t want this moment to ever end. She didn’t want whatever this was, whoever this was who held her, to draw away.
Helia burrowed her cheek against a soft, warm linen shirt, the softness of that fabric a sharp juxtaposition to the hard muscle that provided stability and strength. It wasn’t enough.
