Page 55 of The Wolf of Mayfair
The lady hadn’t died, after all.
Funny, that. Wingrave had been so very certain the good died young, and then the Lord took them by fever.
Only, she hadn’t.
She’d lived. Recovered. And ... remained here in his bloody residence for nearly a week. In all, she’d been here ten days, which was ten days longer than he’d ever wanted his saucy bit of company to remain.
Granted, since her fever had broken and he’d ceded his place at her bedside to Mrs. Trowbridge, he’d not had to see her. That, however, was neither here nor there.
She was here, sharing the same roof.
He knew it, and that was enough.
There was no escaping it.
And since she hadn’t died, that of course left him to ascertain for himself that he’d been right all along.
That woman was a witch of sorts, and he, who didn’t give a bloody hell about anyone, had found himself worried abouther. Wingrave cringed.
She’d wheedled her way into his household, and somehow left him ...weak.
Wingrave yanked out the very bottom drawer and delved a hand inside, extracting a pile of notes with a brownish-red, velvet ribbon about them; the shade of that neat tie nearly matched the shade of Helia’s freckles, a detail Wingrave only knew because of the length of time he’d remained at her side, staring at those tiniest, unpatterned specks dotting her cheeks and nose.
He gave that blasted fastening a tug and freed the notes for his search.
My god, what is wrong with me?Wingrave silently railed as he sifted through correspondence after correspondence belonging to others, and not any Wallace family, but rather the Bradburys. These letters had been written between his mother and the marchioness, the duke and duchess’s former friend, whose daughter had left Wingrave at the altar—and not even figuratively.
Thatshould have bothered him. Not because he’d had feelings for her, aside from those about his betrothed marrying another. He hadn’t and didn’t.
Rather, if he were to care about or worry aboutanything, it would be the abasement of his pride, in being thrown over and made a laughingstock by Lady Alexandra Bradbury, now McQuoid.
But it wasn’t. Instead, he sat here, preoccupied by thoughts of Helia Wallace, and how very close she’d come to death.
Sweat slicked his palms, and his gut clenched, those muscles tightening in an unwanted reminder that Wingrave was human.
He stared blankly down at the random notes he held in his hand.
It’d been the fever. That was why. That was the absolute only reason he’d behaved so uncharacteristically.
A shadow fell over the desk, startling Wingrave. He yanked his head up so quick, his neck muscles screamed their protest, and the papers slipped and rained down about his lap.
He stared at the serene and unapologetic woman standing before him.
His heart thumped strangely in his chest.
Helia.
Helia, with her freckled cheeks no longer flushed with fever and her pretty green eyes perfectly clear, gave no indication to the precarious battle she’d fought for her health and life.
“Hullo,” she said softly. Hers was the sweet voice of an angel, and something in her husky tones only further unnerved the hell out of him.
“Don’t you knock, Miss Wallace?” he snapped.
“I did and quiteloudly.” Helia glanced meaningfully at the double-door panels she’d opened and walked through, all while he’d remained oblivious.
A dull flush climbed his neck.
“You didn’t hear m—”
