The Wolf of Mayfair

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.

Wingrave scrubbed a palm over his face.

But . . . it’d been years. He’d been a mere boy at university. Nay, he’d come to detest those 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 a cat on 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.

She came 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.

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.

She wanted to get closer to it; she wanted to climb inside and borrow more of that strength and heat.

She turned and twisted in a bid to do so.

Then she heard it.

Faint and distant—a song.

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind?”

The strains so very familiar and soothing.

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and auld lang syne?”

That song of her childhood, and of her family.

“For auld lang syne, my jo,

for auld lang syne.”

Only, it wasn’t her father’s deep voice now singing. Rather, this deep, sonorous baritone belonged to another.

“We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.”

And then, her pain and heartache somehow . . . forgotten, replaced by that deep, distant, melodious voice, Helia slept.