The Wolf of Mayfair

How short a period often reverses the character of our sentiments, rendering that which yesterday we despised, today desirable.

—Ann Radcliffe, A Sicilian Romance

Seated upon the gilded, throne-like chair his father had commissioned upon his ascension as the latest Duke of Talbert, Wingrave sifted through the old bastard’s mahogany desk. Wingrave searched for some sign, some hint, some word, or anything in the duke’s records, notes, or files about Miss Helia Wallace.

He’d committed himself to finding out whether the woman he’d taken for a charlatan was, in fact, just that, or whether, by some extraordinary, outrageously unlikely chance, she was actually a ward or goddaughter or something to his parents.

Thus far—unsurprisingly—Wingrave had discovered absolutely nothing.

Having already inspected the entire contents of the right-side pedestal of drawers, Wingrave turned his attention to the remaining ones.

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 about her. 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.

That should 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 about anything, 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 quite loudly.” 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—”

Wingrave shot a dark glare upon her, daring her to finish that sentence.

She didn’t, but that didn’t matter, just as it didn’t change anything.

He hadn’t heard her entry.

But then, why would you? You’d your bloody left ear to that goddamned panel. This, when he never left his unhearing ear vulnerable that way. He never kept his head anything but directly toward any and all doors.

Feeling left open, defenseless, he wanted to flee.

Flee? This was his damned household. In fact, this room she’d invaded would, in fact, belong to him after his bastard of a father kicked up his heels and went on to where all the other miserable souls went to rot.

He grunted. “You’re awake, then.” He’d known as much. He’d known the minute her fever broke days earlier, just as he’d learned from Mrs. Trowbridge of the lady’s improving health.

A wistful smile teased at her full crimson lips. “Never say you missed me while I slept.”

“I meant from your fever, Miss Wallace. You’ve awakened from your fever. Furthermore, you didn’t sleep,” he said flatly. “You were unconscious.”

Which begged the question . . . “What in hell are you doing here, Miss Wallace?” When she should not be here but resting or sleeping instead.

Meowww.

Wingrave narrowed his eyes. Nor had Helia entered this lair alone.

The lady made a familiar clearing sound with her throat, one he recognized as a telltale sign of her unease. “I—”

“You,” he seethed.

Helia faltered.

That fat cat, on the other hand, took Wingrave’s warning as a welcome and wandered into the room. In a display of feline challenge, it promptly collapsed at Helia’s feet.

Wingrave flared his nostrils. “Oh, no, you don’t.” He’d kept the goddamned beast away until Helia healed. He didn’t need the damned creature anywhere near her now that she’d begun to recover. “Go,” he barked.

Helia’s auburn eyebrows came together into a troubled little line, and she took an unsteady step to go. The bloody beastie matched the lady’s steps.

“Not you,” he snapped, freezing the pair of them in their tracks. “You!”

Helia glanced about the room, like there could possibly be someone else he spoke to.

Wingrave jabbed a finger in her direction. “Him. Her,” he snapped. “That thing?”

Helia followed his impatient gesture downward. “Thing?” She frowned. “This is a cat.”

“I know what a damned cat is,” he bellowed.

Her eyes went wide.

Or was that his own?

Perhaps it was the both of them.

He inwardly recoiled. Good God, in the whole of his thirty years, he’d never lost control more than he had with this woman.

Wingrave took in a slow, deep breath. “I know what a cat is,” he repeated frostily and with a greater calm. “I want it out of this room.”

“But—”

Wingrave slapped his palms together with such force that the mouser took off through the opening in the doorway, leaving Helia and Wingrave . . . alone.

The young lady shut the panel.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air.

“I understand,” she said softly.

He gritted his teeth. Here she went again with her fearlessness, speaking to Wingrave when the absolute last thing he wanted to do was talk to her or anyone.

“What exactly is it you think you understand, Helia?” he asked brusquely.

“You are afraid of cats.”

“I most certainly am not afraid of cats,” he exclaimed, exasperated. “I am not afraid of anything.”

A wise person would have demurred and said nothing further.

Only the most lionhearted one would continue to challenge Wingrave.

“Everyone is afraid of something,” she said in a gentle voice, clearly nonplussed by his explosion.

If he were being honest with the minx, he’d admit he was fast approaching that sentiment for infuriatingly stubborn Scots. Scottish women, to be exact.

“What do you want, Helia?” he asked impatiently.

Despite his curt tone, Helia’s eyes revealed none of the unease they’d held before. Now she looked at Wingrave with wide, trusting, and tender eyes.

He resisted an unprecedented urge to squirm. It was as if Helia had sprung a dauntless comfort in Wingrave’s presence.

“Mrs. Trowbridge said you remained at my side, my l—”

He swiftly cut off the remainder of her words. “Mrs. Trowbridge said too much.”

“Too much, as in the truth, my lord?”

Yes, too much as in the truth.

He charged to his feet, knocking free the papers he’d previously searched; this time, they fell to the floor.

Unfazed, Helia continued to meet Wingrave’s gaze.

His frustration mounted and led to an increased swiftness of his steps, as he at last plucked forth the reason for his unrest. He forced himself to stop at the side of the desk and kept several paces between them.

“You are better,” he whispered in steely tones.

“Aye.” The lady ran her palms along her skirt, drawing his gaze to the light tremble of those long, freckled digits, and also the first indication of her disquiet.

Oddly, that did not make him feel better. It should have. Only, strangely, it didn’t.

Helia caught his focus and instantly stopped her nervous movement—that surprising pridefulness and strength gave him pause. Ladies were not so proud as this one. At least, none of the women he’d known or met. Maybe that was why he’d found himself spellbound by her.

“I am in good health,” she continued in her almost lyrical tones, which didn’t know whether they wished to be a crisp English accent or husky Scottish brogue. “Thanks to you . . . Anthony.”

Anthony . . .

Wingrave recoiled.

No one used his Christian name. Not even his parents—certainly not his parents. Certainly not anyone, and yet this woman, this insolent slip of baggage who’d invaded his household and his thoughts, took possession of a name he’d tendered as she’d tossed and turned, had somehow recalled it despite her fever, and now used it with all the familiarity of an old friend.

“My name is Wingrave,” he whispered, adding an additional layer of ice to his declaration of war.

“Wingrave is your title.” Hers was a gentle reminder that set his teeth to grinding. “Anthony is your name.” She paused. “Is it not?”

He could deny it.

On instinct, that declination sprang to his lips, begging to be spoken.

Helia’s eyes were all-knowing. Those captivating green irises called for—no, demanded—Wingrave’s focus.

Of their own volition, his legs moved, carrying him the remainder of the way.

The moment he stopped before Helia, unlike days prior, she did not retreat. This time, she tipped her head back and continued to boldly meet his stare.

He dusted a palm along the curve of her cheek, the same cheek he’d washed the sweat from, now like cool satin under his palm.

The lady’s eyes fluttered.

Wingrave fought himself; he battled a jeering voice that told him to yank his hand away—and lost.

Wingrave swallowed, his throat working spasmodically. “What manner of enchantress are you, Helia?” he demanded on an angry whisper.

“I’m nah enchantress,” she returned, her voice having given way to more of that delicate brogue.

Her lush mouth beckoned; her lips invited a man to explore them.

His fingers curled reflexively upon her cheek, and he made himself gentle his touch.

Nay, not any man. He’d sooner kill a bounder who dared to avail himself of that treasure before Wingrave. After he’d claimed Helia as his own, he wouldn’t care. But not until he himself plundered them. And after he’d kissed her, he could purge her from his blood.

He palmed her cheek.

Helia trustingly turned herself into his touch; her endlessly long auburn lashes fluttered.

Such guilelessness, he’d never before known. Maybe that accounted for his inexplicable fascination with this woman who’d invaded his household.

“If you were wise, you’d run now, little kitten,” he taunted in a bid to resurrect the previous fortress he’d made himself into.

Go. Leave. Flee. Run.

Though his muddled mind sought to sort out to whom he gave those silent orders. Himself . . . or her?

A thread of fear and a greater husk of desire lent a warble to the lady’s voice. “Wh-why?”

Both her responses pleased Wingrave and pleased him mightily.

Wingrave curled his lips into a cold, hard grin. “Because if you don’t, little kitten, I’m going to kiss you.”