He chuckled and then sobered. “I don’t think I’d be very good for you.” He looked worn and sad.
“And why is that?” she wondered, no doubt surprising him with her American directness.
“Your eyes are so blue, my Lazuli,” he said, looking into them, avoiding the question.
His were cold chips of ice. She thought of glaciers and how they carved through rock, and how ice had remade North America to its preferences. She considered the flat, barren plains that glaciers left behind, the fine till and the soft clay, and the wide emptiness of their absence.
I should like to be happy but I will settle for content, she concluded, wondering if this man with his cold eyes could give her either of those things. Wanting him anyway.
Around them, matrons watched and approved – another werewolf settled could only improve London’s reputation. Mothers watched and regretted that they had not tried harder to secure Major Channing for their daughters, for who knew he could be such a gentleman? The occasional vampire shook his head at the state the country was coming to – really, an American? The occasional werewolf bit his lip and wondered, seeming afraid. Faith wasn’t sure whether they were afraid for Channing or for her, the girl who clung to him and leaned back, so very trusting, feeling free in his arms.
He sent around a note the next morning, saying a scientist friend of his would provide her a letter of introduction to The Royal Geographic Society.
Was she interested?
Of course she was.
He added that there was a lecture next Thursday on local clay deposits and sedimentary formations.
Would she like to attend?
Of course she would.
She wrote back with evident delight in every stroke of her pen but added that her cousins would have to accompany her, as chaperone.
At the lecture that Thursday, they sat next to each other. Not touching but wanting to. She had no doubt that she confused him greatly with her obvious amusement when the lecturer referred to a paper written by a Mr Horner Carne.
I did not know my writing had made it across the pond.
“What amuses you so, Lazuli?” he whispered, away from Mrs Iftercast’s hearing. “Do you know this Mr Carne?”
“In a manner of speaking.” She was coy.
“You smell delicious,” he replied.
Two days later saw them, once again, attending the same informal gathering. The kind that involved a hundred individually designed teacakes and a small circus performance. Faith had learned to be wary when the invitation said informal gathering.
“And how are you this evening, Mr Horner Carne?” he asked, drawing her into a corner of the room, while everyone else was playing parlor games. (The circus performers were now swilling sherry and bantering with the host over cards. Channing waved at one of them but did not stop to chat once he saw Faith.)
“You’ve found out my greatest secret,” she teased. Not at all afraid he might expose her. He had nothing to gain from such a petty act.
“I must admit, I tried to read your papers and found them impossible to get through.”
“They are dry, aren’t they?”
“No! It was my ignorance, not your style. I could tell it was you from the tone of voice alone. I did not know geology could be so witty.”
“And I did not know you could flatter with such tact.”
“Only by accident,” he admitted ruefully.
She threw her head back and laughed then, charmed by his disgruntlement. She noticed his icy gaze spark against her exposed neck and gloried in the thrum of awareness.
Heads turned at the joyful sound. The expressions were, mostly, approving. A few gentlemen looked disappointed. The young circus performer, whom Faith assumed must be a claviger to Channing’s pack, stared at them with undisguised interest.
Faith stopped laughing and lowered her chin.
Channing’s blue eyes returned to her face. “How goes the hunt? I have heard nothing from my pack on the matter of an engagement. Have you found yourself a nice loner with whom to flirt? They are not as stable as the rest of us, you know.”
“Someone keeps interfering,” she said sharply, more hurt at his asking than annoyed by his behavior. “Others are interested, but they’re not werewolves. I’m set on this path and I’m not supposed to stray.”
“Yes.” His eyes were no longer on her but on the rest of the party, cautious, as though they were the enemy. “You want to please your mother.”
Faith flinched. “Werewolves, I begin to suspect, are territorial.” It was an accusation. You tell the world I’m yours, but you don’t make it so. No offer. No declaration.
“It is true that none of my fellows will approach while I am here with you. But neither would any mortal gentleman. This is not because I am a werewolf, but because I am a scoundrel who has called men out for less. And that is not tied to my immortal nature, either, I assure you.”
Faith was hurt by the implication of his indifference, so she was injudicious with her words. “Why must you ruin this for me? Your attention is too marked and my reputation will suffer.” Faith knew she sounded plaintive, but she was also frightened. She was afraid he would take this as his opportunity to run. For all she resented his reluctance to commit, she craved his company.
“You believed it would be easy?” he scoffed, and she thought maybe he didn’t even know himself why he felt compelled to pursue her. To seek her out.
He bent slowly, giving her time to flee. When she did not, he nuzzled her neck and tasted her there. Lightly and with only his lips, but she knew his teeth were eager and her pulse beat extra hard in an involuntary temptation.
“They keep sending me flowers,” she said to distract him and to remind him that there were others interested. That they were not, in fact, alone at this moment.
“Do they indeed?” He did not look pleased to know he had competition. Maybe this really was nothing more than a game to him. Maybe he didn’t think of her at all when they were apart.
Except that the next day he sent her rocks by special courier – a geode of purple to rival Teddy’s now wilted alfalfa, and a growth of rose quartz, palm-sized and lustrous. She set the geode next to her bed and stroked it before falling asleep, as if it were a pet, or the head of a great white wolf.
She learned that night, when he never showed up at the theater, that Major Channing had left London on urgent business and no one knew when he would return.
London hostesses understood werewolf business obligations. And while they were not pleased at being denied the pleasure of a declaration, they still invited Faith and, by default, the Iftercasts to their gatherings. And Faith still went.
It was, oddly, lonely without him. She was surrounded by eager swains, fashionable gentlemen who wished to bask in the glow of London’s favorite American, Lord Falmouth’s original. Many a young man was eager to take advantage of Major Channing’s absence. They were curious, too; what had such a werewolf seen in her? What about this girl had captured the attention of such a confirmed recalcitrant reprobate?
Faith did her best to meet social expectations. To be vivacious and sparkling even though she felt lackluster. Conversations with other men were so much more stilted, so much less intimate. She missed the way Channing held her when they danced together, slightly too close, slightly too hard – as if he could not stand to let her go. As if she could lean back in his embrace and they might spin and spin until they untethered from the earth and flew.
There was some speculation when he abandoned her without solidifying the deal. Had she lost him? Had he been toying with her and deluding them all? The ton did not like that possibility at all. So, naturally, it was much discussed.
Faith suspected that they would side with her if it came to light that he had played her false. It made her a little sick to even think of it. But London had adopted Miss Wigglesworth, and they would not take kindly to Major Channing mistreating her. It was so much t
he opposite of Boston, it almost made her cry. That these strangers would give her the chance that had been withheld by her own people, by her own family.
Oddly, she felt a strange sympathy for Channing. Even as one week stretched to two and he remained away from her. Even as she doubted him. London was so very eager to blame him. To see Faith as the wronged party. They had probably doubted him from the start. They would not be surprised if he abandoned her, but they would not forgive him for it.
And yet, this is his home.
He is as mistrusted and as unwelcome here as I was in my mother’s house.
It made Faith terribly sad for him, and angry at herself that she could not stifle her own compassion. Even as he stayed away from her. Even as it became evident that he would repeat the past. Another werewolf betrayal.
“Where have you been?” she asked, after three whole weeks without seeing him. Not even at the hat shop, and she had visited four times. I missed you, she felt, behind the words, and tried not to let that show. And I own far too many hats now. Thank goodness Biffy had taken to simply gifting them to her.
“Hunting deadly little creatures of American make.”
“I’m not deadly.”
“I was not hunting you.”
“Did you catch them?”
“They are still at large.”
Faith nodded, wondering if there was some connection to the embarrassing scene on the embarkation green when she’d first met him. Wondering that he could cut her off so completely. Wondering if this thing that was nothing between them had ended.
“Will I see you at the Brophys’ ball?” she asked. But what she meant was Are you letting me go?
“I returned to town with nothing but that in mind.” He was, as ever, all sarcasm and indifference, but his eyes were hot, as though he wanted to eat her up; she knew the truth in that moment. He wanted her very badly indeed. He had tried to stay away and failed.
I could have you, she thought. If I wanted to try a real werewolf.
“Will you save me a waltz?” There was something in his tone that suggested what he really meant was Are you letting me go? His eyes begged, even as they watched the pulse in her neck.
“You may have the dinner dance,” she replied, and meant it this time. She knew exactly what was offering.
STEP SIX
Take Your Werewolf into The Garden for an Airing
They Must Be Exercised Regularly
Channing ruminated for a long time over the letter he’d just received from his contact in Boston. There was nothing new on the Sundowner bullets. He was beginning to think they had never existed at all. Except that his contact also said there was evidence of the manufacturer frantically searching for them.
So, they must never have arrived at their intended destination. Which meant they were somewhere loose in London, or somewhere loose in Boston. They really did exist – or why would anyone else be looking for them?
It was the second half of the letter that had him frowning, troubled over the contents.
He had asked, quite casually he thought, for his agent to look into the Wigglesworths.
The man was a consummate professional and, as such, assumed that this was BUR business. BUR meant supernatural and thus his information concerned the intersection between Faith’s family and the supernatural set in Boston.
In New England, werewolves and vampires were barely tolerated and mostly ignored. They lived on the outskirts of society and did not influence or govern it as they did in England. After the American Civil War brought them out of the shadows to fight for the North, werewolves were granted citizenship and considered modestly acceptable in Yankee states, but remained utterly unwelcome south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Still, religious institutions throughout the states stood firm and rallied against them, and preachers held considerable sway over the American psyche.
The Wigglesworths, as it turned out, had had nothing to do with the local population of supernaturals. They’d also had very little to do with those who objected to their existence. At least until recently.
Staunch conservatives, the letter stated. But not Sundowners and only active politically in the matter of anti-supernatural legislation. Faith’s father was instrumental in passing a segregative act that prevents werewolves from entering the city of Boston except under escort. Ironic, considering they fought for the Union. His was the deciding vote.
That was all he had to say except at the very last, where he had appended a note.
There is good evidence to suggest the youngest Wigglesworth, a daughter, was the victim of a calculated act of revenge on the part of a local werewolf pack. In response to her father’s support of the above-mentioned act, the pack set a claviger to ruin her. He courted, bedded, and then declined to marry her – publicly.
Channing put down the missive, feeling sick. Oh, my poor Lazuli, to be so humiliated. Being unmarriageable in her own country, they send her here to net a werewolf. Why? As an act of revenge? Her family thinks to punish us with her? What could possibly…
Marshaling his courage, Channing returned to the letter. His agent was blunt and to the point. The young lady refused to cry rape, admitting to having been a willing partner.
Channing felt a little like he might cry, for his brave girl had taken the blame, knowing it would destroy her. Probably, she also knew she had been set up from the start. How she must hate werewolves.
“Channing.” His Alpha came into the library. “I must talk with you.” Biffy caught Channing’s expression then. “What’s wrong? What has happened?”
“Another dead end,” Channing answered, folding up the missive. “What did you need, Alpha?”
“You’re being curt with the servants again. I know you won’t do them actual violence, but—”
“I won’t?”
“But they don’t know that. And the clavigers are skittering about you on tiptoes, some of them literally since we secured that handsome ballet dancer to our den. You know we are short on clavigers. I can’t have you being grumpy and running them off. I know navigating the social melee has you twitchy and upset, but could you please not take it out on them?”
Channing grunted.
Lyall gave a tiny cough at that juncture. How did I miss him coming into the room as well? I must be distracted. What is this girl doing to me?
“Sometimes, Professor, I doubt my own werewolf nature, for I did not see you there.”
Lyall ignored this. “You are not usually this bad except when you’re recently home from war.”
“You’ve made a study of my temper over the decades?”
“Someone had to,” muttered Biffy.
Lyall continued, a slight smile on his plain face. “You are one of those who struggle to leave battle behind and return to civilized life. Why do you think I have always tried, over the years, to be with you or to be there to welcome you home?”
Channing frowned. Thinking back to all his battles and wars – France, Spain, India, Africa, so many over the years. Lyall had indeed been there, mostly to step in and take a blow intended for another, or to divert his attention into a shift and fight, so he did not destroy those around him.
Channing winced – another flaw to add to his ever-growing list. “I was made in battle. It’s difficult to abandon sometimes. That violence is part of me. I’m not certain how much of it is natural or supernatural anymore – wolf nature, Gamma position.”
“And yet you miss fighting when you are home, do you not?” Biffy moved closer to him.
“Dealing out death is the only thing at which I am truly accomplished anymore.” Channing thought the Alpha might touch him then. Channing wasn’t certain if he wanted it or feared it, so he stood up from the desk and moved away from all possible sympathy.
He said, “BUR is keeping me occupied, and there is the occasional fight for honor or for pack. I visit the old regiment sometimes. But only a werewolf can really give me a challenge. In a good way, I mea
n.”
Biffy and Lyall exchanged a look.
“There is another outlet,” said Lyall at long last, with great circumspection.
“Some of the ladies down Albany Street are very accommodating to a wide range of tastes.” Biffy was a great deal less circumspect.
Curse the pack for being a bunch of meddling gossips.
Channing curled a lip at him, which, with another Alpha or another topic of conversation, might be considered a challenge and grounds for discipline.
“And how, Alpha, would you ever know such a thing?”
Instead of taking offense, Biffy laughed. “I listen to the others talk about their light-skirts, for all I do not understand the inclination.”
“Then perhaps you should have sent one of them to me with this well-meaning advice.”
Biffy’s eyes went hard. His voice turned ruthless. “Stop terrorizing the servants, Channing. I don’t care how you get yourself out of this twitchy, angry mood you are in, but do it now. I believe I preferred you as a cold, elusive pollock.”
Channing grinned. “Now you see why I work so hard for that state. Anything else is worse.”
Biffy rolled his eyes. “You could try being happy. Or would that strain something?”
“He doesn’t know how.” Lyall’s voice was sad.
Biffy glared at them both. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, he’s a werewolf, and he likes to fight. Is it so wrong to suggest he might, oh I don’t know, fight for her?”
Then he stormed from the room.
Channing’s jaw clenched as he watched his small Alpha march out.
“It hurts when he is disappointed in you, doesn’t it?”
Channing’s eyes flicked to his Beta. “This is no unusual occurrence. My Alphas over the decades are chronically disappointed in me. I have dealt with it before. He will get over it. They always do.”
“It’s not him I worry about.”
“Never say you worry about me, Professor.”
Lyall sighed and, instead of leaving, moved forwards to cock a hip against the desk. He fiddled for a moment with the letter that Channing had left folded there.
How To Marry A Werewolf (Claw & Courtship Novella Book 1) Page 8
