Read on for a taste of more enchanting Regency shifter romance from Susanna Allen

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One

February: the Season, London

It was a veritable crush.

In the year 1817, with the Napoleonic Wars well and truly won and the American Colonies well and truly lost, nothing less than an utter squeeze would do, not when the hostess was the Countess of Livingston and well able to put the wealth of her husband’s earldom on display. The ballroom was spacious, framed by its gilded and frescoed ceiling; impressive with its shining wall of mirrors; fragrant from the banks of hothouse flowers set about the vast space; and yet… Nothing about it was unlike any other ballroom in London, where hopes and dreams were realized or dashed upon the rocks of ignominy. Packed to the walls with the great and good of the English haute ton, the society ball was as lively and bright as any before it and any that would follow.

Despite having traversed a well-trod path of lineage and reputation all their lives, the guests gave themselves to the event with an abandon that appeared newly coined. They came to the dance, and to the gossip, and to the planning of alliances and assignations with the energy of girls fresh out of the schoolroom and young lords newly decanted from Eton and Harrow. Those undertaking the lively reel threw themselves into it as though it were the first opportunity they had to perform it; the watchers congregated at the sides of the dance floor observed it as though they’d never seen such a display in all their lives. Though the room was lit by more than two thousand candles in crystal chandeliers, shadows lurked in the farthest corners; the gloom was not equal, however, to the beauty of the silks and satins of the ladies’ gowns or to the richness of their adornments. As the multitude of jewels and those eddying skirts caught the light, the setting looked like a dream.

Unless it had all the hallmarks of a personal nightmare. Alfred Blakesley, Seventh Duke of Lowell, Earl of Ulrich, Viscount Randolf, Baron Conrí, and a handful of lesser titles not worth their salt, found the Livingstons’ ball to be an unrelenting assault of bodies, sounds, and most of all, scents. This last was a civilized term covering a broad range of aromas that encompassed the pleasant—perfumes, unguents, and those hothouse arrangements—to the less so, among them the unlaundered linen of the less fussy young bucks and the outdated sachets used to freshen the gowns of the chaperones. If he wouldn’t look an utter macaroni, he’d carry a scented handkerchief or, in a nod to the Elizabethans, an orange studded with cloves. Whilst either would save his sensitive snout from the onslaught of odors, it would defeat the purpose of his presence this evening.

As usual, said presence, after an absence of five years, was causing a flurry of gossip and conjecture. With jaded amusement, the only amusement he was able to muster these days, and without appearing to do so, he eavesdropped on the far-ranging theories regarding his person that were swirling around the ballroom, much as the dancers spun around the floor itself. If the gossips only knew how acute his hearing was, they might hesitate to tittle-tattle…

“My Lord, he is divine,” last year’s premiere diamond of the first water sighed.

“That chiseled face, that muscular form.” Her friend, at best a ruby, fanned herself vigorously.

“If only my dear Herbert would grow his hair until it touched his collar,” Diamond said.

“If only my Charles would pad his jacket. And his thighs. And his bum!” Ruby laughed wickedly.

“I doubt very much that there is any padding on the duke’s person,” Diamond said.

Ruby peeked at him over her fan. “If only he would stand up with one of us so we could get a hand on those shoulders.”

Two bucks of vintages separated by at least twenty years waited out the current set. “He may be among us, but he will not stay as much as an hour. My valet would thrash me did I not pass at least three hours allowing the entire ton to remark upon his prowess,” the aging young buck opined.

“And yet, he is dressed to a turn, his linen pristine, his coat of the latest cut,” the actual young buck replied.

“His linen may be,” scoffed his elder, “but there is something queer in the lineage.”

“Lineage!” One old gent bleated to another as they made their way to the card room. “Hodgepodge more like. A ragbag of dependents of no known origin, a mishmash of retainers, a mélange of—”

“Yes, yes.” His companion flourished his cane. “My own family claims quite a healthy acreage near to Lowell’s shire, and ne’er the twain shall meet, I can tell you.”

“I do not take your meaning,” Gent the First said.

Gent the Second put his hand on his friend’s arm and leaned in. “My nephew’s housekeeper’s brother’s wife’s granddaughter is from the neighboring village and says there is never a house party, never a ball, and never a need for outside help. And we all know what that means.”

“Penury.”

“Not a groat to his name.”

Along the mirrored wall, an older matron rustled her organza. “He is rich as Croesus, although the origins of the fortune are suspect.”

Her bosom friend gasped. “Surely it does not come from trade?”

“He keeps no sheep, he tends no crops—well, he has no people to do such things. Even he is not so far gone to propriety to engage in animal husbandry firsthand.”

“Some say the entirety of his holding is a gold mine, a literal gold mine.” Bosom Friend looked ecstatic at the notion.

“Hardly,” Matron replied. “There’s not a nugget of gold on this island; the Scots mined it eons ago.”

A merry widow and her ardent admirer lingered near the drinks table. “No one I know has had him, and I know everyone who has had anyone of import,” Merry grumbled.

Ardent moved closer. “Is he…?” He gestured to a group of very good male friends clustered in the corner.

“Quelle tragedie, if so,” said Merry. “It is true that he is seen nowhere without his steward, Bates, by his side.”

“He, too, is a favorite amongst the ladies.”

“No one’s had him, either.”

And so the ton sups from the same old scandal broth, thought Alfred. He’d heard every word without having moved so much as an inch from his place near the entrance to the ballroom. No creature with hearing such as his would need to do so. The rumors and speculation built in strength the longer he did not take a wife, but it was not merely a wife for whom he searched.

Searched he had, far and wide, all across Europe, as far as the Far East, a duke of the realm wandering the earth like a common journeyman—but it had to be done, for no one could find his lady for him, identify her for him, take the place of her. He found himself back in England after five years of endless travel, thwarted yet somehow not disheartened despite being here again. Here, almost to the man and woman, were the same faces he’d seen upon entering society after coming up from Oxford, faces that were beginning to resemble one another; he feared they’d all been intermarrying rather too closely for comfort.

His own family line was a different breed, and to explain his clan’s uniqueness to most in this room would result in panic, fear, and an atavistic desire to obliterate any trace of him and those like him, for all time. To expose their distinction would put all under his care in the most perilous danger—a paradox, as that difference made him more powerful than any human being.

Yet, here he was among them, bracing himself for the possibility that the one sought by him and his inner creature, his essential self was of their number. His wolf stirred within him, impatient, vexed by the delay in finding their mate, held in check when all it wanted to do was hunt and hunt until they found the one whose heart and soul called to them, belonged to them, whose presence would set things right at Lowell Hall.

“Your Grace.” His steward, Matthias Bates, appeared at his shoulder.

“Animal husbandry…” Alfred murmured, and Matthias gave a low laugh. Alfred regarded his closest friend and right-hand man—the perfect second-in-command, aligned with him in thought, yet with enough independence of spirit to challenge Alfred as needed. Bates stood as tall as he, at several inches over six feet, although the steward was blond where he was dark, lean where he was excessively muscular. None of the gossips had gotten around to that criticism this evening: What well-bred male of his status sought to gain such brawny proportions?

“I believe the haute ton needs to stop marrying itself.” Alfred began to wander, Bates at his side.

“Indeed,” Bates replied. “And it is, of course, a discussion relevant to your own situation.”

A sigh soughed through Alfred’s entire being. “It is enough to make one wish to take a ship and sail far, far away—had I not already done so and visited every corner of the globe.”

“There are always the Colonies.”

“The United States of America,” Alfred corrected. “I am not well acquainted with any of our sort from out that way, despite their being one branch from whence we all came. My sister has not written to me of discovering such, in any case.”

“One imagines such outliers to be as poor a choice as one of these women.”

The air around the two men became oppressive, as though all the heat of the room had coalesced to envelop Bates. He struggled for his next breath, and his body trembled as he fought an outside force for control of it. It did not affect Alfred, as this elemental energy generated from him; known as the dominatum, it was the ultimate expression of his power as Alpha of the Shifters of Lowell Hall. This power was his and his alone, the essence of his authority, the manner in which he held sway over the beasts within his people, the way in which he protected them from outside aggressors, and if need be, from one another. To him, it was akin to the dynamism of the Change: held entirely within and called upon with a thought. Its use was judicious, never mindless, but in this instance, it was excessive; he blamed his wolf, who was surging under his skin, seeking release. Even the slightest insult to his future mate was enough to incense them both, and at this precise moment in time, when the search looked to be a failure, he did not need the reminder that his true mate was no longer likely to be one of his kind.

Bates was not the only one to experience the potency of the emanation. Though invisible to the naked eye, it had an intensity akin to a lightning strike; the ladies who had ventured closer, hoping to catch the eye of the duke, came over rather faint and repaired to the retiring room. Nor were the men unaffected: the more delicate youths swayed as though they had visited the punch bowl several times too many. Alfred’s face showed no effect or exertion but for the tightening of his jaw and an increased ferocity in his gaze.

“Your Grace.” Bates managed a stiff bow and turned his head, baring the side of his neck. “I misspoke. We will welcome any female you bring to us as your bride, regardless of her provenance.” He held his posture until the pressure receded but still did not meet Alfred’s gaze.

“What must be done, must be done,” Alfred said, and they continued their perambulations. “The issues that arise when lines too closely related produce offspring is, in the case of the ton, a weakness that expresses itself in illnesses of the body and of the mind. This is happening far too often amongst our own branches of society, and it must be addressed. The bloodlines of our…family must be strengthened, and our only hope may be found by my marrying one of ‘these.’”

“Which will endow permission to do so for those among us who also wish to marry and to be, er, fruitful,” Bates replied.

“Permission must be endowed sooner rather than later. Enough time has been wasted in my jaunts across the Continent. The continents, in fact. My wish to marry one of our own is not to be. I despair I have wasted time and endangered our people in trying to do so. I wanted my ma—my wife to be of our lineage.”

“Alpha—” Bates dropped into another bow. “Alfred, that is to say, Duke, Your Gr—”

“Matthias.” Alfred reached out and touched his steward on the arm, bringing him back up to full height. “If a secure future for our people is achieved through marriage to a society lady, then any sacrifice will be worth the cost.” He swept his glance around the room and met a domino-effect of lowering glances. How difficult this undertaking will be, he thought, if she won’t look me in the eye… But surely the one meant for me is as strong as I, no matter her genus? “My entire existence walks this fine line between our ways and the ways of society. The paradox is that in choosing my bride from the ton, I will have to hide my true self from her, regardless of our customs.”

“Impossible,” said Bates. “You will no more be able to hide your true self from your wife than the moon could fail to draw the tide.”

“That sounds almost romantic, my friend,” Alfred teased.

“Certainly not.” Bates’s offended expression inspired Alfred to indulge in a short bark of laughter. “It does not fall to me, thank all the Gods, to subscribe to this fated-mate nonsense.” He coughed and lowered his voice. “But the notion you could spend a lifetime pretending to be something you are not? The expense of energy this would require?”

“I have neither the time nor the energy for romance.”

Which he would feign, like it or not. His interactions with the ladies of the ton had always been marked by a social duplicity that was anathema to him: the little white lies, the sham emotions, the manners that in fact betrayed a lack of gentility and integrity. But there were far too many in his care, and they had gone too long without a strong sense of cohesion and community for him to indulge in stubbornness. He must lead the way, though it seemed unlikely he was to find happiness on his path.

Happiness! Had he ever thought happiness was in his future or was his birthright? In every clan he met, of every breed, he saw what a world of difference it made when they honored the ways of their kind. When a pack or a clowder or a flock were led by an Alpha pair who were vera amorum, they thrived, and it pierced his heart with regret, even as it strengthened his resolve. His mother and father had lied about their status, claiming one another as true mates, and the reverberations of that falsehood were still serving to hurt his people and endanger their future.

“I will do what is needed, whatever that may be.” He took the glass of champagne that Bates offered, and both pretended to drink. “I will find a lady before the Feast of Lupercalia, and we shall go forward from there.”

“Your Grace, I must remind you of what O’Mara made plain upon our return to England. Nothing less than a love match will satisfy your people.” He sounded dubious; since puphood, Matthias had scorned the tendency of their breed to mate for life. “As well, you will have to proceed as a male of the ton and observe the customary formalities.”

Alfred half listened to Bates prose on as regarded the necessity of billets-doux and floral tributes and wooing and instead assessed the women who came close, but not too close, to him. They treated him as though he were unapproachable when all he wanted was to be approached; unlike the majority of the young aristocratic males in the room, he yearned to marry. A failed pairing could destroy the morale and robustness of a pack—he had only to look at his parents: the disaster that was their reign had all to do with disrespecting Fate and allowing their ambitions precedence. And yet, he dreaded the notion that he might not find her by the Feast day and would thus be consigned to searching one ballroom, one garden party, one Venetian breakfast after another, for another year, all in the hopes of discovering—

He thrust his glass into Bates’s hand and froze, nostrils flaring. There. Where? He let his instinctual self scan the ballroom, his vision heightening to an almost painful degree even in the soft candlelight, his focus sharp as a blade. He fought to turn without the preternatural speed with which he was endowed and struggled to align the rest of his senses. His ears pricked, such as they could in this form: he heard laughter, a note of feminine gaiety that made his skin come out all over in gooseflesh, a sound that landed into the center of his heart as would Cupid’s dart. His inner self rolled through his consciousness, eager to explode into life, and he held it at bay.

The set concluded; the next was to be a waltz, and the usual flutter of partnering unfolded around him. That laugh rang out again, and he turned once more in a circle, uncaring if anyone noted the oddness of his behavior. It was as if every one of his nerve endings had been plucked at once, as if a bolt of lightning were gathering its power to explode down his spine. He scented the air again, and between the candle wax and the overbearing scent of lilacs, he divined a hint of vanilla, an unexpected hint of rosemary, a waft of sweet william…

“We are very near the wallflower conservatory,” joked Bates as he set their untouched glasses aside. “Shall you pluck a bloom from there?”

Alfred held up a hand and focused on the wall of palms screening the corner in which the undesirables mingled and hid, homing in on a bouquet of fragrance he’d despaired of scenting, a combination of familiar elements he may have experienced singly but never before as one, not with such rapturous force. He turned to face the greenery; Bates moved to protect his back. He inhaled, and yes, there it was, a collection of mundane notes that combined to create a glorious symphony of attraction, desire, lust, yearning, and possibility; a concoction of lush skin, that hint of sweet william, fresh air, horses—and an excessive amount of lemon? His heart beat like thunder, and as the violins tuned for the upcoming dance and the crowd’s murmur built into a roar, he swept, heedless, through them to reach the source.