How to Marry a Werewolf, Page 3

  The two ladies perked up at that.

  “Oh, really? I didn’t think any of them could stretch their tether so far into Hyde Park.” Teddy sucked her teeth in thought. “Unless it was a rove, of course. And they usually go to Rotten Row. Which one was it?”

  Faith hadn’t realized there were so few vampires in London that each would be known by name. Like the nobility. How extraordinary!

  “Well, he was tall and blond and handsome, with pale blue eyes.”

  Teddy pounced. “Do I detect a tendre?”

  Faith held up a horrified hand. “I describe with artistic objectivity, not interest. He was rude, and probably a rake, or something like.”

  “My dear girl,” said Mrs Iftercast, “all vampires are rakes. That’s what makes them so interesting. But I think you must be mistaken. There aren’t many blonds amongst the old-blooded these days. Lord Akeldama, of course, but you would have a great deal more to say if it were him. Everybody does. Are you convinced he was a vampire?”

  Faith frowned. “Well, I assumed. It was something one of his men did, sort of indicated he was a supernatural creature. He was so pale, and aware of his own importance, I figured that indicated vampire. I’ve never met one before, so I’ve no basis for comparison.”

  The Iftercasts looked at one another.

  Teddy said to her mother, “Perhaps… do you think?”

  “He is head of BUR these days. But if he were down at the green, supervising things himself, it must be a very important object they were looking for. Very important.” Mrs Iftercast sounded serious and interested.

  “You know the gentleman?” Faith probed.

  Teddy grinned at her. “When you said handsome, did you mean so good-looking you slightly wished to die right then and there, or offer yourself in sacrifice, but also not at all, because he likely would kill you without flinching and he certainly, without a doubt, would ruin your reputation?”

  Faith nodded. “Yes, that’s about right.”

  “Eyes so cold, you suspect they may cause frostbite?”

  “You do know him.”

  Mrs Iftercast rolled her own eyes. “Theodora dear, so poetic. Do I detect a new hobby? You should take up verse. It would be so much less trouble than riding.”

  “No, Mums. Horses forever! But even you must acknowledge his beauty.”

  “Everyone acknowledges it. That is partly what is wrong with the man.” Mrs Iftercast waggled her head in exasperation.

  “What’s the rest of what’s wrong with him?” asked Faith.

  “He is a werewolf, dear, not a vampire.”

  “A werewolf? But he looked so…” Faith stuttered. “…so civilized.”

  “Civilized? Major Channing? My darling girl, he’s more than civilized, he’s practically a politician. But not for you, I’m afraid. Your mother mentioned she thought you might do for a werewolf, but that particular one is unacceptable. I don’t see why you must set your cap at any of them, mind you, but if you insist, I will see what I can do for you. Ordinarily, werewolves prefer widows or spinsters, but you’re so pretty, we might find a way around that inclination. But, dear, don’t you want a family of your own?”

  Faith felt a slight roaring in her ears. I did. I did want one. Once.

  Mrs Iftercast was sensitive to her discomfort. She reached across and patted her knee. “Not to worry, cousin. I am certain you will do very well. London is lousy with werewolves these days. Several members of our London Pack are eminently eligible and quite stable. Although not Major Channing, dear. He is far too much of a bother.”

  “Major Channing.” Faith rolled the name about her tongue. “I figured he might’ve been in the military once.”

  “All werewolves serve, my dear, did you not know? But the major served longer than most and likes his officer’s rank. He is not active at the moment. The London Pack is remaindered out of the Guards right now because of their new Alpha. They gave Major Channing BUR to keep him occupied. He’s a restless sort. There are different kinds of werewolves. Major Channing is not the marrying kind.”

  Faith didn’t know if she was relieved by this fact or perturbed. She resolved to put the exasperating man out of her mind and enjoy her new situation. The Iftercasts seemed friendly and chatty and nice. The fact that she was in London to net herself a werewolf husband seemed to be accepted as perfectly appropriate. She herself seemed to be accepted as such.

  Faith felt, for the first time in years, almost happy.

  Major Channing returned home to his pack shortly before dawn. Falmouth House was comparatively quiet, the children were abed (yes, there were children now, much to Channing’s continued annoyance). The rest of the pack were not yet returned from their various errands of business or pleasure. The clavigers were all gone to sleep. He’d missed the final meal of the evening, but he thought he might rustle up something out of the pantry if he were lucky and Cook was feeling generous.

  He followed his nose and found a pork pie. On it was pinned a note that read, For tomorrow’s supper, absolutely not to be eaten. This means you, Major! He cut himself a generous slice and sneered at the note.

  He smeared his helping with hot mustard and quite enjoyed his feed, huddled in the dark kitchen like a beggar in his own home.

  The gloom suited his mood. He was disappointed that the search had proved fruitless. He was also discomfited by the young American and her blue eyes and direct address. The two had combined to make him rather grumpy. Not that this was particularly abnormal for him.

  No one disturbed his wallowing. He thought he might even make it to his chambers without having to actually speak with anyone – pack, claviger, or staff. I should return home at this hour more often.

  Unfortunately, his Alpha found him, heralded by the comforting scent of sandalwood and pomade.

  “Channing, how are you this evening?”

  Biffy was an odd kind of Alpha. Slender, with a fencer’s physique and lacking the bulk and height endemic to most werewolves, let alone Alphas. He was impossibly stylish, or perhaps one might say practically impossibly stylish. Werewolves were not known for their elegance of attire, for obvious reasons. When one was prone to stripping and turning into a slavering beast, one did not, as rule, care to invest too much in one’s clothing. Channing cared so little, for example, that he missed his days as a soldier, when his attire had been chosen for him.

  Biffy was not like this at all. He cherished deeply held feelings on his outward presentation. He’d spent years creating a pomade strong enough to keep his unruly werewolf mop under control. Then he’d made a mint selling it on Bond Street with his face sketched on the jar labels. He was young; perhaps that accounted for a certain foppishness. Some might say too young. He was, after all, only twenty years or so a werewolf, and barely half a year as London Pack Alpha.

  But Biffy was a strong Alpha; every wolf could feel that. The tug on Channing’s tether was sure and steady. It grounded him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He was embarrassingly grateful for the relief and the surety of that connection. He was gruff with his Alpha because he was gruff with everyone, but also because he felt safe.

  Biffy didn’t seem to mind.

  Channing had challenged Biffy, of course, when Biffy first seized control of the London Pack. It was Channing’s right and his duty as pack Gamma to cry challenge. Biffy had neatly defeated him, without fuss or too much bloodshed, and taking long enough for it not to appear embarrassingly easy. Stylish even in battle. They were both content with the outcome.

  Sandalio de Rabiffano might look like an unthreatening popinjay, dandified and inconsequential, but as a wolf, he was unbearably fast and freakishly strong. He’d struggled initially, of course. Too young to control such a large and powerful pack. There had been a time there when they’d all felt unmoored and lost. Their Alpha had doubted himself, and so he doubted them, and so the pack doubted themselves. But then their pack Beta, Professor Lyall, had returned home. And now all was
peaceful and safe, even with two human toddlers roaming about the den. (Channing still wasn’t sure how that had happened.)

  It wasn’t that Channing necessarily disliked children. He simply didn’t like the memories they incurred. Another life. Another time. He’d rather his past stayed where it belonged, drowned by the weight of decades.

  Biffy sat down across the kitchen table from him and watched him eat his pie.

  Channing did not offer him any.

  “How’d the Sundowner investigation go?” Biffy was careful not to touch the tabletop for fear of flour smudges on his lovely grey suit.

  “How do you always know BUR business, Alpha? Sometimes I think you know it before I do, and I’m the head of the division.”

  “You know my training. I maintain many of my connections… from before. You know I don’t like things messy. I don’t like to be confused or uninformed.” Strumming under Biffy’s confession was Alpha possession and Alpha control. My city, the tether said to Channing. My people. My responsibility.

  In his other life, Biffy had trained as a spy under the greatest vampire intelligencer of them all. But that was before his metamorphosis. He didn’t work for the vampires anymore but he still craved information. The blood-suckers had instilled in him a desire that his mortal death had not cured. Biffy liked knowing what was going on in London. And in the world. He needed to know things. Recently, he’d begun training the pack to gather such knowledge for him. Of course, he already had Riehard, who was one of the best. But Biffy also had other contacts. No doubt one of them was at BUR.

  “I should clean up my offices,” said Channing.

  “You know it wouldn’t be effective.”

  It annoyed Channing to no end when Biffy did that. Channing would tell his Alpha about his job, if asked. But Biffy never asked for details on BUR operations. He searched things out using more secretive means. He also never asked Channing for his loyalty. It’s almost as if he thinks I’ve none left to give. Perhaps he is right.

  Channing gave his Alpha the information anyway; it was all he had to offer. “Trail turned cold in Hyde Park earlier this evening. I suspect the contraband never left Boston.”

  “Pity. You could have used a fresh supply.”

  Channing inclined his head but didn’t answer, because he was chewing.

  Biffy leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes slightly. “Something else happened, didn’t it? In the park tonight.”

  “Did it?”

  “I felt you waver.”

  “Did you? I didn’t think we were so intimate that you could sniff out my feelings at a distance like that.”

  “A tether is a tether, Channing. You cannot fool me with that icy facade. You hurt deeper and harder than any of the others, so I feel you pulling at me the most.”

  “Do I? Do you? I shall try to control myself better.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  Channing laughed, cold and sharp, a burst of pain bleeding out of his mouth. “You’ve no idea what you’re asking for, Alpha.”

  “No, I don’t. But you keep it all so close, tight to yourself. That’s not pack. That’s loner behavior. It pulls and frays and aches. You’re hurting yourself and you’re hurting us. I don’t want to lose you, Channing. You’re a prat but you’re my prat.”

  “Have you asked Lyall or the others? Do you know why?”

  “I do. But it’s not worth shutting yourself off from us because of what she did.”

  “Pack may not be enough to hold me? Is that what you’re saying?” Channing’s greatest fear tore at his throat, making his voice ragged.

  “No, but I think it’s what you believe. You could let it go, you know? I’m strong enough now, even for you.”

  Channing finished his slice of pie and cocked his head at his pretty young Alpha. “You’re a child.”

  Biffy cocked his head back. Wolflike, mirroring his movement – sympathetic, strong, and present. He did not rise to the bait.

  Finally, the Alpha said, “It won’t break me, Channing. If you let me take on some of it. If you let her go, just a little.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

  “No, it isn’t, is it? People think because you are cold that you feel nothing. When in fact, it’s quite the opposite.”

  “Don’t accuse me of being deep, Alpha. And stop meddling – you’re like a gossipy grandmother. Now that you’ve established yourself, you want to see the rest of us tied down and subdued.”

  Biffy flashed his sweet smile. “I’d settle for seeing you happy.”

  “You are a confounded romantic.”

  “Guilty as charged. So, what happened to twinge our tether?”

  “There was this irritating American.” Channing had no idea why he confessed even that much. Sometimes, it was hard to hide from an Alpha.

  “An American, was it? Pretty?”

  Channing glowered at him and refused to elucidate further.

  Biffy only nodded to himself in that irritating way he had. “Very pretty, I take it. Was she—” Suddenly, the Alpha’s head went up, nostrils flaring.

  Channing instantly tensed. What was it? Loner in their territory? Break in one of the others’ tether? Attack? Battle?

  The expression on his Alpha’s face went from concerned sympathy to incandescent joy. “Lyall’s home.”

  Channing snorted at him.

  Moments later, Professor Lyall slid quietly into the room. One eyebrow rose in inquiry at the sight of Channing and his pork pie remnants chatting alone with the Alpha in an unlit kitchen.

  “Channing, how are you this evening?” The Beta’s nondescript face was carefully neutral, although there was something to his eyes that suggested he was actually amused to find them thus situated.

  Channing pointed at Biffy. “Take him away, Randolph, do. He’s getting nosy again.”

  Professor Lyall came up behind their Alpha and ran his fingers through the young man’s dark brown hair. Biffy leaned into the caress, closing his eyes briefly like a contented cat.

  Channing groaned. “Stop it. I just ate.”

  Biffy grinned. “You’re only jealous.”

  Channing rolled his eyes, stood up in a huff that was only partly simulated, and stormed out of the room. Jealous. Of course I’m jealous. And it wasn’t even the love, or the contentment, or the easy affection that drove a spike into what was left of Channing’s heart. It was that he’d set himself on this path and had walked it with confidence for decades, chosen to be solitary, because it seemed easier and he was lazy and afraid. And now he was trapped.

  A pair of blue eyes, like lapis, had shaken him out of it for one sharp moment. His Alpha had felt it, that tiny shift. That opening of the trap. And Channing wanted to escape – he desperately wanted escape. Except that the pain of the iron teeth holding him back was all he knew now, and he was a coward.

  Get yourself together, Channing, old man, she’s a bloody American. She is not for you. And you most certainly are not for her.

  STEP THREE

  If You Must Be Bait, Be Very Stylish Bait

  Faith found the Iftercast household to be much like its mistress – comfortable, casually opulent, cheerful, and mildly forgetful. The town house was situated in a desirable location just off Grosvenor Square, substantial without being too showy. This, too, was like its mistress.

  They kept fashionable hours, with breakfast at noon, morning calls paid in the early afternoon (confusingly), and other business conducted at night. Faith supposed it made sense for a society built around the presence of supernatural creatures. Vampires and werewolves, after all, only came out after sunset.

  So it was that when Faith came down at an hour she thought unpardonably late, in a bicycling outfit she was certain would be met with disapproval, it was to find the family still at table. And her outfit entirely ignored.

  Mr Iftercast was as dour and reserved as his wife was convivial. His most prevalent charac
teristics, so far as Faith could tell, being limited tolerance for the eccentricities of his female family members and a predilection for reading the newspaper at table.

  He mostly grunted when asked a direct question, although he was perfectly civil to Faith. He flipped the corner of his paper down when his wife introduced them, and gave her a curt nod and an abrupt, “Miss Wigglesworth. Welcome.”

  Faith now understood how this man was related to her father.

  The two younger sons, like Teddy, took after their mother in appearance and temperament. Faith wondered idly about the eldest, who was away touring Europe. The younger Iftercasts were both home from university for the season and would thus be acting as primary escorts around town for Faith and Teddy. This fact cheered Faith immensely, as the young gentlemen were jolly, amiable sorts and it would be no pain to dance with either of them on a regular basis.

  While Mr Iftercast ignored them, the ladies of his household commenced scheming.

  It was decided that the first order of business should be shopping. There were no significant balls of note for several days. Teddy insisted she must peruse Faith’s wardrobe so they could make a list of necessities, and so she might ascertain if Faith’s dresses were of a high enough caliber for London.

  Dutifully, after the eggs (which were fried and a little runny) and the bacon (which was more like ham) and the tea (which was delicious), Faith took Teddy back to her room for a wardrobe assessment and exorcism.

  With Minnie’s assistance, they perused all Faith’s gowns and accessories. She had packed only her very best options, but they were several seasons old and those were Boston seasons.

  Faith started off on the defensive. “When it’s possible, as you can probably tell, Teddy, I like to wear bicycle outfits. I find them less restrictive.”

  “A latent adoption of dress reform?”

  “Will it cause offense here in England?”

  “Not so much in this day and age, but you cannot wear such a thing to a ball. Surely you accept that truth? I mean for travel, and sporting activities, even for walking, and certainly in the daylight. I think you’ll find London is adapting, although such attire is more a matter for the middle classes. You may detrimentally impact your chances with the real toffs. I think a bicycle suit is generally accepted about town. But for dinners? Or balls? It won’t do.”