Arthur watched the Duke of Lowell pace the Blue Chamber in Carlton House, irritated by his fellow peer’s eagerness. He too was a groom on this day, for all that he was unburdened by nerves. Now that he thought of it, however, his belly churned and his throat felt tight, like it was caught in a vise. Perhaps he’d had a bad kipper at breakfast.
Lowell’s Beta, the Honorable Matthias Bates, once again assured his Alpha of his secure possession of the ring, cajoled him and teased him, and behaved as a good Second would: he was a friend and ally, the bulwark upon which the Alpha could rely.
If Arthur was admitting to anything, he envied the relationship between the two men. It was what he had assumed he would build with Ben before their lives fell apart, he as Alpha, Ben by his side. It was childish to wish things had transpired differently; there was little profit in imagining his brother as his Beta.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Osborn?” Alfred asked.
“His Highness’s decree.” Ought he have dressed with greater attention? He dismissed the notion out of hand as there was no outdoing Alfred when it came to matters of habiliment. He chose not to mention his own imminent wedding.
“You were never one to adhere to George’s directives too closely.” Fair enough, and Alfred would know. The young Alphas of their generation and their retinues were often called to meet in the Royal Presence, but once childhood was left behind, so was such enforced frivolity. He hadn’t been in the same room with the wolf until the Montague ball.
“Times change.” He could hear himself, his response little better than a snarl, and he threw back his shoulders as though preparatory to fisticuffs. This was why he did not truck with other Alphas; they brought out the worst in him.
Bates cleared his throat. “Perhaps His Highness wishes His Grace to see what joy is in store when it is his time to mate and bond.” Ha! No change there, then: Lowell’s Second was always spewing oblique observations to trick the listener into disputing or clarifying, thereby inadvertently revealing incriminating information. Arthur was meant to jump at that like a trout for a worm; he would not give the blond wolf the satisfaction.
“Perhaps the Lowell Second is behind the times as usual.” Arthur could not resist baiting the Beta. “Even as his Alpha looks to outshine the bride with his toilette.”
“One would accuse those of the ursine persuasion of being sartorially unsophisticated,” Matthias returned, “were it not for the example your cousin makes.”
“Ah, now, Matthias,” Lowell admonished, “diamonds do emerge from the rough.”
“‘Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head.’” Arthur wasn’t partial to As You Like It, but if the quote fit…
“Holy Venus, still at it with the Bard, are you?” Bates loathed the theatre to the exact degree Arthur adored it.
“Matthias, you risk maligning His Grace, for is not a ‘good name in man and woman the immediate jewel of their souls’?” Lowell only just got the phrase out before he barked with laughter.
Matthias muttered about boils and plague sores, betraying his Shakespearean knowledge, and Arthur smirked. “Not as nervous as you were, eh, Lowell?”
Calling attention to the levity had the opposite effect on both dukes: Arthur returned to glaring out the window, and Alfred recommenced pacing until a door flew open and a flurry of footmen attended the entrance of Georgie and the bride and—oh, little Jemima Coleman. Arthur hadn’t seen her in ages. She too had been one of Georgie’s set growing up and a nursery friend of his own. Word had it she was as thick as thieves with the soon-to-be Duchess of Lowell, and the on-dits were proven true by her presence. The flamboyant prelate Georgie laid on cleared his throat and began the human marriage service with a flourish of his little book. As he spoke his vows, Lowell’s dominatum flared to life but not with the accompanying force…ah. It was the pack’s sentio he called forth, the ineffable connection from heart to heart that bonded a clan. Wedding his vera amoris, even under human conditions, was a profound enough act to strengthen the ties between the Alpha and those in his care, even from this distance, despite the homo plenis nature of his mate.
Little wonder Georgie was concerned.
The closing words were spoken, and if Arthur wasn’t mistaken, Alfred visibly restrained himself from kissing his duchess. That fancy bishop would likely combust.
“And thus falls another fine lord.” George sighed. “It is almost too, too much to be borne. Is it not, Jemmikins? Unbearable?”
“Stuff it, Georgie.” Jemima looked piqued beyond measure. The prince reached out and pinched her side, causing her to flap about like a mad thing. She’d always been ticklish. Arthur noted Bates’s absorption with the lady’s reaction, and with the lady in general, and wondered what lay in that direction. And why Georgie was making terrible ursine puns. Had he not revealed his true nature to the new Duchess of Lowell? He wondered at the royal reticence given Georgie’s looseness of tongue before Lady Frost.
“Shall we, my dear?” Lowell could not appear more besotted if he tried. “I thought to forego a wedding breakfast and make for the Hall. I intend we arrive in Sussex well before moonrise.”
“I would prefer to celebrate there.” The duchess cuddled into her husband’s side and outshone the Lowell tiara for radiance. Holy Odin. Arthur had never thought such a mawkish thing in his life.
“I do hope you have a bottle of something nice in the coach, Lowell,” said Georgie. “How very beastly of you, should you have nothing at hand to while away the miles to Sussex. Whatever shall you do otherwise?” And with that cheeky bon mot, the prince turned to leave and then paused. “Bates, Osborn, if you would.” Arthur noted Bates’s curious look, but he followed without a word, as Georgie bellowed for his secretaries and his valet, with the wedding party bowing and curtsying in his wake.
The anteroom they entered was little more than a cupboard in comparison to the extravagance of the lion’s share of Carlton House. Speaking of lions: bereft though it was of the brooms and buckets it may have previously held, it contained yet another duke. Alwyn, Duke of Llewelyn, lurked in a corner as best he could in a space not conducive to concealment. His uncivilized behavior was forgivable, Arthur supposed, given Llewelyn had been held captive in an exotic animal menagerie for Odin only knew how long. The Welshman barely spoke and never Changed, which boded ill for his health. The lion Shifter was eccentrically bedecked in garments collected from a variety of centuries and color palettes, and if nothing else it made Arthur’s ensemble look positively à la mode. He nodded to his peer and received a glare in return.
“Your Highness,” intoned the bishop, who was now ignominiously squashed against the far wall, “I hardly think this the appropriate setting for a covenant of consequence to be undertaken.”
“Do you desire a new roof or do you not, Cornelius?” George examined one of his frothy cuffs. As ever, the prince was dressed as if expecting his portrait to be painted. He appeared unsurprised by the lack of response to his query. “Everyone has his price, cousin,” he said to Arthur. “What shall be yours?”
“Is yours a sentio as formidable as that of Lowell? Cousin?” Arthur, in turn, examined his less-than-elaborate cuff.
A favorite youthful pastime of Arthur’s had been goading his hotheaded relation into his Change. Vain from birth and full of his own consequence due to his royal lineage, it was pure pleasure for Arthur to inspire such rage in Georgie he would forget himself enough to destroy one of his meticulous outfits. With age came greater control, and yet the bishop backed away as best he could, and Llewelyn snarled deep in his throat. George fought his reaction admirably, but even his impeccable control could not prevent a wave of choler rushing around the snug chamber.
What a contrast to Lowell’s joyful service. A feral duke, a blackmailed bishop, an irate prince, and an ambivalent groom. His chest contracted; no more kippers for breakfast, so.
The door opened, and the bride—the frosty, unwilling bride—entered.
***
Do you wish to die, ma’am?
No, she did not.
Beatrice had spent the last night into the early morning considering her options and come to the natural conclusion she had none. Or one: marry the excessively robust Duke of Osborn, retire to wherever they were being sent, and count herself lucky she was allowed to keep control of the Castleton coffers. Not that there was anyone to dispute her claim. She had famously failed to produce an heir; he must have been the last of his line, else there would have been petitioners for the title. How little she had known of her first husband. How little she knew of her second.
Beatrice dressed in marked contrast to that long-ago farce in St. George’s, pews overflowing with the spitefully curious, the heavy scent of lilies in the air more suited to a funeral. She had been supplied with a heavy veil, masking the truth of her soon-to-be spouse whom she had not met until she joined him at the altar. At the very least, this go-round she had clapped eyes on her husband-to-be, all twenty feet tall of him, with his immoderate hair and a voice that seemed to originate in the soles of his feet and reverberate through his chest.
Her carriage dress was of sober hue and two years out of fashion. The dark-blue cloth was high quality but serviceable, suitable for a journey of long duration; it buttoned up to her throat and ended in a deep, frilly collar. The skirt’s voluminous ruffle, trimmed with a darker-blue satin, was a frippery the modiste insisted upon and Beatrice had not argued, as she had won the battle for a plain straight sleeve and a modest cuff.
Her one indulgence, on this day and in her life, was her hat. Anything that added to her meager height was to be embraced, and today’s high-crowned Imperial bonnet answered. Of dove-gray satin embellished with ivory-colored French trim, three rows of ribbon each tied in an enormous flat bow, one atop the other. Its ribbons were wide and exceedingly long, fluttering all the way down to her knees, and edged with the same ivory; the entire confection was lined with an unexpected splash of violet.
Eschewing a reticule, she clutched a miser purse in her right hand.
She would begin as she intended to go on.
There was residual cheer in the corridor from Felicity’s wedding, which she had been barred from attending. By contrast, there was an atmosphere of aggression in the antechamber in which her second round of vows were to be made, and it had all the hallmarks that often preceded Castleton’s giving way to his beast. She stiffened her spine and stood as still as a held breath in the doorway until the tension dissipated. Georgie—she vowed to call him Georgie from now on; he deserved nothing less—looked at her with regret.
That would not do.
She began her curtsy, as fluid as water off a duck’s back—
“No, ma’am, I forbid it.” Georgie tugged on the hem of his riotously embroidered waistcoat. He had dressed with more ceremony than the bride. “By royal decree, the Duchess of Osborn is not to show such obeisance to any.” He offered her his arm, which she could not refuse, and walked her the three steps to the groom’s side. Standing next to Osborn was like standing beside a cliff face or a venerable oak. Was he as great in age as Castleton had been? He looked to be no more than thirty, but one could not tell with those of his kind. Would he remain youthful and imposing even as she aged and withered?
The prelate had taken his place and opened his little book, the prince looked at her beneath lowered lids, and the duke stared straight ahead. In addition to the famous Lord Brody, Lowell’s steward, an eccentrically dressed person stood at her back. Something about his placement gave her a frisson of unease she smothered. “Do carry on,” she prompted. There was no profit in drawing this out.
“Yes, Cornelius, do,” Georgie said. And Cornelius did.
The ceremony did not earn the name; it was a transaction much as she used to have with the butler and cook in her childhood home. Near the end of the ordeal, His Highness handed a ring to the duke, who scowled at the prince and looked to rebel, but quickly gave in and slid it onto her finger. She received it with surprise, not having expected such a tribute. A golden stone set in silver glowed brightly; how it did so when there was no window to shed light upon it she did not know.
And then it was done.
“Alfred nearly bussed his new duchess in front of Cornelius,” Georgie remarked, his playful salaciousness reasserting itself after having successfully seen to the ruination of the lives of two of his subjects.
The duke looked at Beatrice, and she turned away, pulling on her gloves. Bates bowed, as did the strange person; now that she got a good look at him, it was clear he was one of the animal-people. He scowled at all assembled and left without a word.
“As promised, here is Mr. Todd,” the prince said, a small, gingery person at his side, yet another creature if his canny, bright gaze was anything to go by. He was little over a head taller than she, and the best term she could furnish to describe him was “pointy.” Georgie went on: “You will be pleased to know he is at your disposal and well able for whatever he is called upon to do.”
Beatrice nodded and accepted the aid of the footman who had taken charge of her pelisse. She buttoned its frogs and hoped the sharp eyes of those in attendance would not see her fingers tremble.
Georgie took his leave of them in a great rush of words and footmen and tailoring. She accepted the duke’s elbow, duly offered, and called upon every year, every day, every hour of her hard-won composure as they followed Mr. Todd through Carlton House.
It was done. She was married again.
To a wild creature, again.
***
Unlike Lowell, who no doubt departed with pomp out the North Front Gate and onto Pall Mall, Arthur and his bride were escorted to a nondescript portal and into a side yard.
“Why are you at my, er, our disposal, Todd?” Arthur inquired.
He received a small smile that betrayed sharp little teeth. “I am a general factotum and well able to supply any aid required,” he said, without truly answering, and led them to a large carriage. Six heavy horses stood in the traces in front of a traveling chariot of unusual size, a nod to Arthur’s comfort and the lady’s by extension.
“Mr. Todd, I do not recognize the escutcheon,” Lady Castleton—Her Grace—said.
“I leave that to your husband to relate,” he murmured as a footman let down the steps.
“What’s this, now?” Arthur pulled back the door and nearly tore it from its hinges. “Remove it,” he growled at the sly creature.
“I cannot be seen to deface the property of the peerage.” Bloody foxes. Always had a slippery way with a phrase.
“Are you not our factotum, Mr. Todd?” the duchess—would he truly call her “the duchess”?—inquired. Regardless of what Arthur called her, she was Lady Frost through and through. “Is His Grace’s order not to be obeyed?”
“I walk a fine line,” Todd replied, deferential. “As we are still on royal ground, I fear my fealty is spoken for, Madam.” He smiled in apology, hazel eyes glittering, and joined the baggage carts that Arthur assumed, in his general factotum-ness, Todd had organized.
Madam. Hmm.
A footman handed her into the vehicle, and she settled on the bench facing the horses, as was only correct. Arthur sighed and heaved his great bulk into what had been a spacious interior until he put himself into it. There was nowhere to set his feet but to each side of—of Madam, a posture implying an intimacy they did not enjoy.
Nor would ever enjoy. How did one go about proposing a white marriage so soon after the legal fact? Small wonder the humans employed solicitors to negotiate contracts and such in advance of the ceremonies. Although…he recalled the Countess of Liverford had taken out notices in the broadsheets declaring her agreements null and void after ten years of marriage and due to the earl’s profligacy and suspected pox. She had retired to the Continent in high spirits and with full pockets, a cicisbeo on each arm.
That juicy scrap of gossip did not elevate his spirits as it ought. Would Arthur live out his days in company with a stranger? He suspected there was a marked contrast between the chosen solitude of his last several decades and the purposeful evasion of another who lived in close proximity. It did not bode well for a comfortable existence.
He hoped Arcadia’s wood had not been razed. He would take it for his sanctuary.
Hiding place, scoffed his bear.
Ah, it’s you, is it? His bear had been oddly quiet throughout the morning. Done with your brown study?
The bear ignored his query. Why has she no scent?
Arthur’s nostrils flared. Nothing. She is not our mate; there is nothing to scent.
There is nothing to scent, and thus we do not know if she is our mate. With that, his bear retreated once more.
“Thus,” was it? Arthur sniffed again. It was odd, now that he was alerted to it. From flowers in a hedgerow to clothes in a press, everything had a fragrance signature, and Madam had none, or at least nothing that betrayed her true essence. He remembered Ben’s being astringent and healthful and Charlotte’s heavily influenced by sealing wax and ink.
Madam’s clothes smelled of lavender, likely due to the sachets ladies used in their wardrobes, but there was nothing he found common with a human of her age and station, nothing that spoke to pursuits with paints or embroidery (yes, even thread had a signature), nothing of a lapdog or a house cat or a—
“You may have ridden if you wished.” The coach turned out of the city gate and headed south.
Madam opened the slats covering one of the windows and fixed her gaze outward as they tooled past the first instance of pastoral terrain to be found so close to Town. “Horseback does not appeal,” she said, every sinew of her body conveying dismissiveness.
“Ladies of your station are known to be avid equestriennes.”
She glanced at him the way she might at a cushion. “There is no love lost between myself and such beasts.”
“All” beasts, implied. He experienced reluctant admiration for her gift in making statements imbued with layers of meaning. Whereas he—
“I prefer plain speaking, Madam.” Yes, Madam would do very well.
“Shall we speak plainly?” Her cool tone dared him to do so; her composure was combative, in the same way her curtsy to Georgie was the height of defiance. In contrast to this fierce control, she was so small and so delicately blond she looked like a confection, like a little cake. A confection soberly iced, it was true, and full of salt, it had to be said, but her severe traveling costume only served to set off her youthful looks—
What age was she? When had she wed that mephitic wolf? Had she done so directly after she came out, she could not be more than two and twenty. He discerned from her presence and dress at that infernal ball she was no longer in mourning. Had she mourned Castleton? Thoughts of her come-out led to those of the sister Georgie had promised to destroy. Had she other siblings?
“I am one of only two,” he said.
“Two?” The eyebrow facing him arched like a swallow on the wing.
“I have one. Sibling.” She turned and blinked at him once. The judgment rendered in that gesture! It was her version of claws or a swat with a paw. She was a salty little cake with claws. His bear threw off his sulk to howl with laughter. “I was merely… We know nothing about one another. I thought to myself, has Mada—have you any siblings.”
“I am the middle child of nine.”
“Brothers? Or sisters?”
“Four elder boys, myself, three more boys, and the youngest, my sister.”
“The one about to make her debut.” Arthur was pleased to demonstrate he remembered that.
Madam was not pleased to hear it. “The one Georgie threatened me with to secure my compliance, yes.”
“Georgie?” He laughed. “When did he give you permission to make free with his childhood name?”
“I took it myself.” Little clawed spitfire cake. “Do you know where we are going?”
“Yes.” Two could play this game. He did not elaborate. She blinked again and resumed her avid attention to the passing scenery. His bear rolled about with glee, presumably at Madam’s audacity. Whose side was he on? “Arcadia is in the Borough of Waverley,” Arthur said, his voice launching into the enclosed space like a cannonball.
“That is near to Lowell Hall.” Madam betrayed herself by tightening her hand on her tiny purse.
“Are you acquainted with the duke?” His bear sat up, suspicious.
“I am acquainted with the duchess,” she corrected. “I count her as a friend, such as one may be on the fringes of society.” She looked down at her lap. “They are a love match.”
“My younger brother married for love.”
“How unusual.” Madam’s tone betrayed an utter lack of curiosity.
“Indeed,” Arthur agreed, unwilling to surrender. “They were promised from the cradle as children often are, but it transpired they were fated mates.”
“Such as your kind are.”
“As we can be. As humans can be.” He wasn’t entirely sure about that last.
“Barring the claws and teeth.”
“I would not dispute that so readily, my lady.” Arthur sat forward with relish. “Surely you have heard the on-dits regarding Viscount Wallace and his lady? She has taken to wearing unfashionably high-necked gowns to hide his love bites—”
“I do not care for tittle-tattle, Your Grace.” Her tone called to mind moors in the depths of December.
Arthur sat back, daunted at last. “It is fortunate then you will not meet your sister-in-law, for she sups of scandal broth the very moment it has been spooned out.” He took a page from her book and looked out the opposite window.
***
Why would they not meet? Beatrice wondered. Was he ashamed of her? He would not be the first of her husbands to feel so, despite this new specimen being as far from the previous as it was possible to be. Castleton had been wiry and graying and slightly stooped; by contrast the duke exuded rude good health. His robust form was as diffidently adorned as the night they met, and yet even the least tutored eye would discern the faultless quality of his attire. Nor could she cast aspersions on his grooming; his hair betrayed profound attention paid to it. It was thick and carefully coiffed with pomade, likely the source of the scent of bitter orange pervading the carriage. It rivaled the tresses of any debutante who had been told it was her finest feature.
She was conscious of his legs bracketing her skirts, aware that his posture made her heart flutter. She knew better than to give in to that fluttering as she knew his kind could detect it, marking her as prey. The deep breathing she undertook to slow its pace only served to draw the delicious citrus scent deeper into her lungs, causing havoc in her petticoats, which was not acceptable. Or expected. The very notion she would find this stranger pleasing in any way was surely the first step on the road to misfortune.
Beatrice turned her attention to his hands, an even graver error. Her brothers cultivated themselves as Pinks of the ton, and their hands exhibited their utter unfamiliarity with work of any kind. The same could not be said of the duke’s, although what he turned them to she could not fathom.
Would she address him as “Duke”? “His Grace”? “Osborn”? She knew one thing she could not name him. “Vera amoris,” she murmured.
“Who, now? Oh, my brother.” The duke flexed a thigh so powerfully it rustled her skirt. “You know our ways.” He flexed his other thigh; both were the approximate size of a tree in its middle years. “How was it that you came to Castleton’s attention?” he asked.
“Myself specifically or a human in general?” She played with the ring beneath her glove. “I imagine my father and he were known to one another, as men of our class can be. After Lady Phoebe…departed on her travels, my father offered me in her place.”
“Had he not thought to discover why the lady…departed on her travels?” His tone was gentle but incredulous. “Castleton was widely known to be unstable at best.”
“Indeed? Who amongst your kind would have thought to inform my father without explaining who Castleton was, in essence?” She had stopped asking herself this years ago. “It would have made no odds. The bride price was high and Castleton able to pay it.”
“And your marriage, what was its duration?” Both thighs flexed. Honestly, there was no call for it.
“Near to five years.” Given his professed love of gossip, she was shocked he did not know this.
“And you were not blessed with offspring.”
“I was not.” Her flat tone did not reflect the familiar tightening in her chest.
The duke’s oversized arms crossed over his massive chest. “One does wonder was he able.”
“One does wonder you dare allude to such.” What an uncouth observation. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him think, his jaw tensing and relaxing, his brows drawing together and apart. Was he conversing with himself? Or was he consulting with his creature? He then exclaimed: “We will, of course, undertake a white marriage.”
“Naturally, Your Grace.” She infused as much frost as she was able into her reply.
Naturally. For she was an unnatural female, barren and of no use. Particularly to a creature that presumably expected great swathes of offspring, like the animals they were.
Very well. She would be a figurehead rather than a failed broodmare. She would take on the mantle of duchess and use her position to help her sister find a true love of her own. She would live in Town during the season and retreat to the country for the rest of the year. It was an arrangement many had made before her and many would make after. She would not expect any differently. She was not unique.
She was not special.
***
Arthur’s bear growled at his ham-handedness. That was not the most propitiously timed demand, on the heels of his poorly worded reflection on Castleton’s ability to bring forth young. For that lack could be laid entirely at his door. He did not know if Madam had sought a child of that creature or if any offspring was better than none. He had no way of knowing and certainly no skill in divining the truth. Had Madam any female companionship? A confidante at least? Freya only knew what class of society was to be found wherever Castleton’s lands lay. Was it Yorkshire or even further north—
“Northumberland, was it?”
“Castleton’s holding?” She navigated his conversational shoals with aplomb. “Adolphus Place is in North Sunderland and quite remote. We did not enjoy acquaintance with anyone of any species, and the servants were all of your kind.”
“He had no pack? No Beta, no Gamma?”
“I do not understand these terms.”
“Versipellis,” and it was the first time Arthur used the term plainly, “require a hierarchy to survive and thrive. Castleton, as an Alpha, ought to have had a Beta, or Second, and a Gamma, or Third. These would allow him the vital work of holding his pack together, to reserve his strength for necessities of protection. A Beta is charged with being the Alpha’s go-between in matters of pack business, and a Gamma is in charge of the direct grievances of the rest.”
“There were no such things.” Madam gave him her full attention. “Where does one find such people, the Beta and the Gamma?”
“Often from within the foundation family. Unlike humans, a spare is not a total loss as a creature. He often takes on the role of Second.” If only his father had had a brother. If only the bears of his father’s time had reproduced more prolifically.
“And if the second child was a daughter?”
“It is not a role for females.”
“Is it not, Your Grace?” Madam took this less calmly than the “white marriage” remark. Her little hands clenched. “And yet Lowell has a woman who is quite close to hand—”
“Lowell is not the pattern card for Shifter behavior.” Bloody wolf!
“Is he not? A pity. Although I suspected it was not the general way of your kind.”
“Our kind?”
“Wolves.”
We are not a wolf! his bear screeched like a fishwife. Does she think all versipelles are wolves? Tell her I am no canine!
I will tell her what I deem fit. “I see Castleton did not attend to your education.”
“Oh, I learned,” she said, the words bitter. Arthur found he did not like to see her plush, pink little mouth misshapen by resentment. “As dearly as the marquess sought to prevent it, I learned.”
How had she discovered the secret? Arthur doubted she had been enlightened in a calm, pleasant manner. “Allow me, then. Versipellian hierarchy is not unlike that of human society, in that the strongest creatures are found at the apex and their charge is to devote themselves to the care and comfort of the majority.”
“That is as unlike human society as I can imagine, Duke.”
“Duke”? His bear snorted; it was somewhat preferable to “Your Grace,” but not by much. “I take your point, Madam,” he conceded.
“Is it better to compare it to class, then?”
Arthur suspected it took quite a lot for her to evince interest. “It is, in that the highest are those who have much in material terms, but unlike upper human classes, versipellian leaders have no function, no purpose, without having any in their care.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and her heartbeat increased measurably. Madam sat up straighter, if it was possible, and focused her attention on the stray lock of hair that was wont to fall on his brow. He tucked it back, and her heartbeat stuttered. Hmmm. “A true Alpha is but the servant of the greater good.”
Madam looked out the window. Arthur shook his head so the lock fell again, and she slowly but surely plastered herself against the back of the bench. She cleared her throat. “And who are your Beta and Gamma?”
“I have neither.” Arthur sat back. “I have no clan.”
“Whyever not?” She turned back to him, genuine interest on her face. “You speak with passion regarding the hierarchy and the responsibilities of the Alpha and do not preside over a clan?”
Arthur took it in turn to sit back. “Did Georgie put you up to this?”
“Up to what?”
“To this, this insistence I take my responsibilities?”
“He did not. Nor have I done any such thing. Is this not a conversation?”
“It is an interrogation.” His bear muttered and scolded him. “I will speak no more on this topic.”
“As you please.” Madam turned her face from him, her profile so impassive as to have been carved like one of Gunter’s ice sculptures set as a centerpiece on a buffet at a levee. She tilted her head in a gesture very like her sardonic curtsying to princes. “Shall we discuss our favorite meals? Or colors?” He huffed. “No? Another time, perhaps.”
The rest of the drive was undertaken in silence. They stopped twice for refreshment; the sun began its descent in midafternoon, as it did at the time of year, and though the journey would end in a matter of moments, it would yet stretch before them for decades. Versipelles lived far longer than the average human; Madam would be released from this unwanted alliance well before Arthur shuffled off his mortal coil—ah, Hamlet—and then he…
Would be free. To return to his hibernation and his exile.
In less time than it took him to sink into a dolorous mood, the carriage turned between two ivy-covered pillars lacking a gate, and in an uncharacteristic fit of expression, Madam gasped.