The Wolf of Mayfair
: Chapter 6

But a terror of this nature, as it occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high expectation, is purely sublime, and leads us, by a kind of fascination, to seek even the object, from which we appear to shrink.

—Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho

Run. Flee. Hide.

Though she’d ignored the warnings her subconscious gave before, this time Helia heeded them well.

She ran from Lord Wingrave’s suggestive stare.

She ran and didn’t look back.

Except, no matter how fast she flew, and how much distance she put between herself and Lord Wingrave’s dangerously seductive offerings, they remained, ringing as loud and clear as the carillon of bells struck at the Collegiate Church of St. Giles.

Do you feel that, Helia?

Helia bit her lower lip. The pain didn’t help; it offered no distraction.

Feel how hard I am for you, sweet? Does this put you in mind of friendship?

Nay, it certainly hadn’t. What was worse and most shameful was that the furthest thought in her head that moment had been of friendship with him; instead, she’d felt a yearning to know his embrace.

Helia took a turn too quick at the end of the hall; her boots slipped along the marble floor, but she managed to right herself and kept on running.

The place between her legs ached still, in a way she’d known only on occasion when she ran a washing cloth over herself.

But that frustrated sensation dissipated quickly the moment she ceased touching herself so.

Lord Wingrave’s seductive words, however, had an even more powerful effect than any caress. They remained in her mind, on repeat.

You are now on your second day alone with me, Helia, and as such, ruined. You may as well allow yourself the rapture that comes with your ruination.

And God forgive her, she’d wanted that.

She’d wanted a taste of what he’d tempted her with—nay, taunted her with.

And most shamefully, she hadn’t cared that he’d mocked her with his desire and, worse, her desire for him.

Helia reached the back northernmost point of Horace House, and a row of windows, thirty feet from floor to ceiling, marked a crystal end to her flight.

She stumbled to a stop. Gasping and fighting for breath, Helia bent over her knees and struggled to fill her lungs with blessed air.

In the light of a new day, Lord Wingrave had proven no less horrid, no less vulgar.

What was wrong with her that she should want him so?

You are now on your second day alone with me, Helia, and as such, ruined . . .

Ruined . . . ruined . . . ruined.

Ruined.

Helia’s head pounded as that one word drummed into it, again and again. Over and over.

She’d managed to escape and evade Mr. Draxton, but in the end, Helia had failed in a different—but no less damaging—way.

With a sob that echoed mockingly around the cavernous corridor, she took off for the ornate gold handle of a glass doorway out of this place and set herself free.

The sudden blast of winter air slapped her face and stole the breath from her lungs so quickly she dissolved into a choking fit.

And yet, she welcomed the ice-flecked snowflakes that hit her face and the exposed skin on her body. They proved sobering and cooling on her heated flesh, freeing her of the shameful lust Lord Wingrave had roused her to.

She raced forward, stopping only when she collided with the limestone railing. Six inches or more of snow had formed a drift upon the top.

Restless, Helia shoved the small mound over the side, where it silently tumbled onto the untouched blanket of snow below.

What if the friendship between their mothers hadn’t been as true and two-sided as Helia’s ma had thought? What would happen to Helia, especially now that her reputation would be in tatters?

What if it’d been a brief camaraderie between two lasses who’d made their Come Out and who’d gone on to have their own lives, and in that whole lifetime that separated the women, those remembrances had shifted and changed for Wingrave’s mother?

Helia stared desolately.

Surely any magnanimity on the duchess’s part would be severely limited now that Helia had spent a night in the same house as the lady’s rakish son.

What woman as powerful as the duchess would align her reputation with Helia’s sullied one?

And despite the cold wind whipping at her skirts and cutting across the fabric of her garments, perspiration slicked her palms and beaded at her brow. Her fear proved greater than the cold, as her teeth chattered.

If—when—the duchess turned her away, there’d be nowhere to go. No one to whom she might turn.

She’d be forced to return to Mr. Draxton, and—

Her stomach roiled, and a pressure developed at the back of her skull, in remembered pain of the grip he’d had on both her arms. As brawny as any pugilist, he possessed such might there could be no doubting that if he decided—when he decided—to force himself upon her, she’d be powerless against him.

The memory alone of his punishing hold sent pressure building at her temples and the back of her skull.

Helia reached a hand up to rub that ache away. Her efforts proved as hopeless as her circumstances.

Unwittingly, she angled another look back at the soaring stone residence where Lord Wingrave remained shut away.

Helia continued to assess that handsome, three-story townhouse. She touched her gaze upon each frosted windowpane, wondering which room now held the occupant of her thoughts.

He struck her as a man in desperate need of a friend. Och, she kenned all too well, the marquess didn’t want one and thought he didn’t need one, but he did. And in Helia? He saw only a potential mistress.

What would it be like to be possessed by a man such as he?

“You’re a d-damned numpty, H-Helia Mairi Wallace,” she spat, hating herself for that wicked wondering.

With her previous efforts to escape Lord Wingrave futile, Helia resumed her flight. She stomped along the terrace. The hems of her skirts grew damp and heavy, and at the top of the stairs, she hiked her dress up and took the stairs as quickly as the elements permitted.

Her raspy breath stirred clouds of white upon the air, while whorls of flakes swirled around her face.

The moment she reached the base, Helia resumed her trudge through deep snow. As she went, she looked past the small shrubs and bushes whose leaves and limbs bent under the remorseless wind, those poor, already burdened branches heavy with snow.

Once again, Helia continued her march, until she reached a row of tall, proud oaks that ended her flight.

The arborist who’d planted these trees had been strategic in his design. He’d staggered a variety of them, offsetting them in a way that they appeared natural in their placement; all the while they provided cover nearer the back of the grounds for the tall brick wall—unnoticed until now—that framed the immense gardens.

Tears filled her eyes, and yet even the cruel winter cold refused to allow Helia any control of her body and decisions; the wind erased those drops before they might fall.

She blinked and blinked until a warm tear slipped down her cheek, and she welcomed the winding path it wove.

It was the faintest and yet most profound victory.

And yet, it was a victory.

With the smallest of smiles, she opened her eyes.

Helia trembled. She wrapped her arms close around her middle and vigorously rubbed through the fabric at her shaking limbs.

Even so, a bead of moisture slipped from her forehead, and she wiped back the drop of perspiration her efforts had wrought.

And then she saw it.

Helia stilled.

Her gaze locked on a flowering tree, with crimson berries. That graceful, narrow deciduous one stood shorter than the others, making it one she couldn’t look away from.

Smaller than the birch or planes or sycamores and tucked in the far left corner of the gardens, this tree managed to prove still more vibrant for the vast swell of red that adorned its branches. Each cluster of berries sported the newly fallen snow, wearing it like a crown upon its mass.

A sob ripped from her throat, and enlivened for the first time in too long, Helia dashed as quickly as the snowfall allowed toward the solitary little tree.

Her heavy hems slowed her down, and then the weight of them pulled her forward.

She landed hard in the snow, and alternately laughing and crying, Helia struggled back onto her feet and resumed her unsteady tromp.

At last, she reached it.

Breathless and dizzy from the importance of this very moment, of this very replace, she stopped and tipped her head back.

A rowan tree. Amongst the Scottish, it’d long been a sacred symbol of wisdom, courage, and protection. Each year, Helia and her mother would plant another so that those gifts continued to flourish for all.

Here in the duchess’s gardens, in this flawless, English-plant-packed Eden, there existed but one.

But it was a rowan tree.

A stirring so very soft and small and faint, but profound enough that everything inside tunneled into that slow-building sensation—hope. That realest, pervading, intoxicating emotion where the impossible seemed possible, and the darkness which had gripped her these past months gave way, ceding its previously tenacious hold to a fervent, all-powerful light.

Helia moved closer, then rested her weary head against the thick, cold bark, replaceing only warmth.

Home.

This tree and its branches filled with berries harkened to the wild, untamed, majestic Highlands. That this glorious mountain ash, steeped in folklore and tradition, had been planted here was surely a sign that all would be well.

Then, placing a kiss upon the smooth, grey-brown trunk, Helia reached for the tree.

Her hand trembled and shook from the fervency of this moment, and she wrapped her gloved fingers lovingly around the nearest narrow branch.

Ever so gently, Helia bent it sideways. Back and forth.

As she worked, little puffs of white escaped her lips and joined in the cold of the winter air.

Snap.

Reverently, Helia looked upon the twig of berries she’d separated from the rowan tree, and with a murmur of gratitude for its offering, she carefully tucked the twig inside the pocket of her dress.

Helia reached for one more bundle of berries.

After she’d availed herself to one final twig, she examined this last crimson cluster she’d take.

The bright pomes, vibrant harbingers of good, appeared even brighter upon Helia’s white leather gloves.

For the first time since her parents had gone on to heaven and she’d been left behind with a grasping relation to contend with, and an uncertain future, Helia laughed. That joyous resonance spilled from her lips and filtered into the Duke and Duchess of Talbert’s gardens, filling the previously barren grounds with gaiety.

It felt so very glorious . . . to have hope. To laugh. To not live with fear.

I am alive. In this moment, I am safe.

She’d let fear become her constant companion, but maybe, just maybe, instead of bemoaning and lamenting her fate as a ruined woman, Helia should accept that it had happened and live her life to the fullest.

An indescribable emotion swept over her, so profound and great it left her lightheaded, and Helia swayed once more, nearly overwhelmed by the mightiness of that feeling.

She caught herself against the rugged, steadfast trunk of the rowan tree, and found the solace and support it provided.

For she knew in that instant, it was going to be all right.

She was going to be all right.