How To Marry A Werewolf (Claw & Courtship Novella Book 1)

by Gail Carriger

  Mrs Wigglesworth persisted. “Where is this wayward maid, exactly? Give me the address of your modiste. I’ll go retrieve her immediately.”

  Faith blinked, surprised. Never had her mother taken much interest in Minnie. A daughter’s maid, once safely situated, was beneath Mrs Wigglesworth’s notice. They were not at odds, not even after Faith’s disgrace. Minnie had never been blamed. Faith supposed, if she thought on it at all, she would have said her mother utterly indifferent to Minnie’s very existence. Why the attention now?

  Before Faith could protest or make excuses or anything else in an effort to protect poor Minnie, Mrs Iftercast, in a desperate move at mollification, gave Faith’s mother Mrs Honeybun’s address.

  Faith could only hope Minnie was able to hold out.

  Faith had, truth be told, been anticipating a conversation regarding termination of services. Minnie seemed far better suited to Mrs Honeybun’s employ. The shop had grown popular amongst the more daring set of sporting young ladies. After the original Miss Wigglesworth, favored intimate of Lord Falmouth, was known to acquire all her dresses there, the orders fairly floated in.

  Minnie loved it. Faith was happy to see her so pleasantly situated. There were far more opportunities for a girl in such a skilled position than there were as a lady’s maid. It would be nice if one of them got what they wanted out of London.

  Mrs Wigglesworth, address in hand and apparently satisfied, returned her attention to the matter of Faith’s position. “So, this engagement?”

  Mrs Iftercast said in an effort at diversion, “There is a reception of some note at the National Gallery this evening. Would you like to attend? Many of London’s celebrated supernatural luminaries will be there. You know, vampires and werewolves. Art events are considered neutral ground.”

  Mrs Wigglesworth pursed her lips. “Sounds awful.”

  Mrs Iftercast blanched. “Oh, but if you wish to see Faith’s…”

  “I suppose, if we must.”

  “You go,” said Mr Wigglesworth. “I’ve business to conduct while we’re here.”

  His wife looked even more sour than usual at being thrown to the wolves. “Oh, but—”

  Faith braced herself, prepared for her mother’s temper to make an appearance.

  “Very important business, my dear. Remember?” Only that tone in her father’s voice could quell her mother’s wrath. Faith winced. What were her parents up to?

  She simpered. “Oh, yes, Hubert dear. I remember.”

  Accordingly, it was with a heavy heart for all concerned, even the Iftercasts, who were beginning to understand how lucky they were to have received Faith (and not one of the other Wigglesworths) into their happy home, that they set out for the gallery that evening. The party was composed of Mrs Iftercast and her daughter accompanying Mrs Wigglesworth and her daughter. The gentlemen, to a man, had bowed out.

  Channing had no good reason for being at the National Gallery that night, but he was grateful for it, in the end. He was not surprised when Faith entered the gathering along with the Iftercast ladies. If anything, he was delighted, although he did not let that show in word or deed.

  There was one other female with them – an older, sour-faced rabbity woman with beady eyes. Much to his shock, instead of playing any kind of game, Faith led this new female directly towards him.

  Ulric was standing next to him. “Who’s that with our little Faith?” He was already sounding protective. As if she were pack.

  “Another American,” snorted Channing.

  “How do you know? Have you met her before?”

  “No, but would you look at her? Americans always gesture the biggest and walk the slowest.”

  “Our little Faith is not like that.”

  “Stop calling her that.”

  “You would prefer I said your little Faith?”

  “Hush, Ulric, they’re approaching.”

  Faith had desperate eyes.

  Channing instantly wanted to do anything to make that look go away. He made a small bow to her and the strange female, as did Ulric.

  “Gentlemen, allow me to make my mother known to you? Mother, this is Major Channing and Mr Ditmarsh, of the London Werewolf Pack.”

  The female gave them both a highly offensive once-over. Her narrowed eyes seemed to judge them lower than dirt.

  My lovely, bright girl came from this creature?

  “You’re a werewolf?” Her voice could strip wallpaper.

  Channing was too old to bandy insults, but he did enjoy it so. “You are a human female?”

  The lady bristled. “I bleed red, sir!”

  “It was not the human part I questioned.”

  The woman did an interpretive fish expression before going red about the ears and whirling to her daughter. Her voice was now cold and vicious. “He’s not what I expected, daughter. Not at all what I wanted. I don’t know about this.”

  Channing went to say something even worse, to bring her attention and anger back to him and shield Faith, but Ulric beat him to it.

  Ulric might enjoy abusing Channing as much as possible amongst pack-mates, but he would never stand idly by and permit anyone non-pack to abuse him. Ulric glared at the repugnant female. “Major Channing is a decorated soldier, the head of a powerful government body, reasonably tall, and passably good-looking. He has all his teeth, all his hair, and all his limbs. What more could you possibly wish for in a son-in-law?”

  “Oh, but Mr Dickswamp—”

  “Ditmarsh.”

  “Mr Dickmark. I meant no offense to your – how do you say it? – pack-bud.”

  “Pack-mate,” Ulric gritted out through clenched teeth.

  “Whatever. I meant to say that I expected something less. Even with that attitude, he is probably too good for my worthless daughter.” Faith’s mother whirled back to face Channing, looking up at him, her face contorted with disgust. He was not sure if that was for him or Faith.

  “You don’t know my daughter very well, do you, sir, to be actually interested in marrying her?”

  Nothing upset Channing more than a mother abusing her own child. This woman was beyond repulsive. They were in public! To say such a thing about her daughter when others could overhear? Is her intent to humiliate me or Faith or both? “I know her as well as can be expected, given the restrictions of polite society.” He would not defame Faith’s character, no matter what had been done to her in the past.

  “He’s a good man, Mother. Please don’t make a scene. Please, your temper.”

  Mrs Wigglesworth wrinkled her lip. “He is not a man at all. I’m shocked you caught him, girl. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Channing blinked a moment. She sent Faith here believing she would fail? Why?

  Faith was looking ever more desperate. As though she was trying to hold her mother back, hold her silent through sheer force of will. Channing hurt with the need to fix this. But he did not know how. Mrs Wigglesworth would not shut up, and she was Faith’s mother, after all.

  People were listening in now. Mrs Wigglesworth’s voice was strident and nasal, carrying throughout the gallery. Channing had grown accustomed to Faith’s accent, but Faith’s voice was calm and smooth, nothing like that of this woman.

  He looked down his nose at the female in front of him. She didn’t smell right, either, drenched in perfume – chemical flowers and some dead animal’s musk. That kind of thing was banned at parties in London. This whole situation was, well, appalling. Channing should know; he had done a number of appalling things in his day.

  “My daughter won’t make you a good wife, sir.”

  She continues to sabotage her own daughter? What is going on here?

  His Lazuli looked down at her feet and whispered. “But, Mother, I thought you wanted me to marry a werewolf.” Clearly, she was confused, too.

  Channing growled at Mrs Wigglesworth. “She is perfect. Do hush yourself, woman. No one here cares for your good opinion.�
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  “You’re making a mistake,” warned the lady. Although Channing hesitated to use the word lady. Creature suited her better. Or was that an insult to other creatures?

  Faith obviously did not know what to do. Admit to an attachment, which her mother had once wanted, and prove she had succeeded as instructed, yet be totally undermined? Or admit to no attachment, which her mother now wanted, and be told off for failure? Mrs Wigglesworth had put her daughter in an untenable position. No matter what Faith said, her mother would have an excuse to attack. Which Channing suspected was the woman’s real objective.

  Finally, Faith admitted, to her slippers, “We are not engaged.”

  “Well, fine, he’s safe from you and your corruption, isn’t he? Good thing I arrived in time to warn him, isn’t it? Did he have his way with you, too? Did you let him, you whore?”

  “Mother!” Faith’s voice was cracked and quiet.

  “She is broken, Major Channing. If your intent is honorable and decent, you should know that she is neither.”

  Faith had begun to cry now. Silent tears rolling down out of those blue eyes. Her fists were clenched as well. The tears were humiliation; the fists were fury.

  Channing felt sick. This, then, was Mrs Wigglesworth’s objective. To humiliate her daughter on two continents. Revenge for some perceived slight to family name or her own petty vanity. Channing would not have it!

  Mrs Iftercast made herself known at this juncture. She put an arm about Faith’s waist. “I thought you came to see her settled, cousin. To give your blessing. We all thought you had come to London so the correct forms could be observed.” Mrs Iftercast’s voice was trembling. Her round face and cubby form fairly vibrated with offence.

  Channing said, wishing it was his arm offering comfort, “I begin to think this female crossed the Atlantic merely to shame her daughter in my eyes.”

  He leaned forward so his mouth almost touched Mrs Wigglesworth’s ear. He wrapped one large hand about her upper arm, holding her in place.

  “Don’t touch me,” she spat, “you beast!”

  He spoke so quietly, only she could hear him. Well, maybe Ulric could, too, with his supernatural senses, but he was pack, so that was fine. Although with all the murmuring and shocked exclamations at the public scene, his words were masked.

  “Madam, you are the mother of the woman I love, and all the things you think I do not know about her, I know. This act of sabotage of yours is petty and foolish, for it will no more dissuade me from anything I chose to do than your piss could divert a river.”

  She gasped at his crassness and struggled against his grip.

  “Stay still, or you will see what kind of monster I am.”

  She froze.

  He continued to hiss in her ear. “Faith is ours now. You will leave this country and never return. You will not speak to her. You will not write to her. You will not even look at her again. You think what you have done here, now, ruins her in the eyes of London society? We control society.” He tilted his head towards Ulric’s imposing form, hovering protectively near Faith. “I will drag your name through the gutter as a liar and a mad zealot who comes to destroy her own daughter’s relationship out of hatred for the supernatural. Do you think they will side with an American over me? Over us?” He flicked the fingers of his free hand once more towards Ulric, who was at his most gorgeous and pompous. “We are the London Pack. You are nothing. And if you think we will try to preserve your reputation because it is tied to Miss Wigglesworth’s, well, then even as I dirty your name, you can be certain I will change hers. I will give her mine. And I am one of the Chesterfield Channings.”

  He let Mrs Wigglesworth go and stepped back.

  “Faith,” he said, turning to the trembling girl.

  She was not afraid; she was humiliated and furious. She was holding it all in, though, and looked only sad. He applauded her for this. Because while he knew her true feelings, others saw only her pretty face, her apparent fragility, and an unwarranted attack.

  “Faith, come to me now,” he commanded.

  She would not look at him, her head resting on Mrs Iftercast’s shoulder. Her little round cousin stood at her other side, patting her back and glaring.

  “Lazuli.”

  She raised watery blue eyes to him.

  He held out a hand.

  She took a step across the divide that separated them within a circle of gawking onlookers. She brushed past her frozen, vibrating harridan of a mother.

  He tugged her to him, against his chest, in front of all the assembled.

  She gave a little sigh and relaxed infinitesimally. Her smell, sweet cake and candied fruit and intoxicating spirits, flooded his senses.

  Ulrich stepped after her, bracketing and shielding her figure with his bulk, hiding her vulnerability from the eyes of others. His brother warrior, protecting his love’s unprotected back. As it should be.

  Channing said, “Mrs Iftercast, take your cousin away from here.”

  Mrs Iftercast nodded, still disgusted with Mrs Wigglesworth, but they had all come in the Isopod together. They must leave that way.

  Mrs Iftercast was made of solid stock. “Come with me, Mrs Wigglesworth, and I will return you to your hotel. Theodora, stay with Faith. You, sir, Major Channing, I expect a formal announcement in the Times for tomorrow.”

  Channing grinned. He had thought Mrs Iftercast quite silly, but there was iron in her.

  “Of course.” He nodded, arrogant and regal. She is mine now. Curious that his reluctance to remarry was so easily put aside when his Faith needed him. Needed rescuing from her own family. He had realized it must be bad. Not only her childhood growing up amongst such people, but the way they treated her after she fell from grace. The apparently unpardonable sin of exploring her own passion.

  Even if I fail her in marriage as I failed my first wife. Even if I am not strong enough for this. She will have the pack. She will have my pack. I can give her that. They will take care of her if I cannot. He looked at Ulric; his pack-mate’s face, so impossibly handsome, was furrowed in concern even as he scanned the crowd. On guard for further attack.

  But the crowd was with them. They either did not care or, more likely, did not believe the strange older American woman who had hurled abuses at Miss Wigglesworth.

  Miss Wigglesworth was the toast of the town. London had adopted her. She was their American! How dare another American threaten her? She had taken it upon herself to tame one of the most untamed werewolves in all the ton. It wasn’t as if Channing had ever been considered eligible. She was welcome to him, no one else wanted him, and they were happy to have her. A Channing tamed by an American was better than an untamed Channing.

  Besides, while it made for an embarrassing scene to witness, it was also particularly juicy gossip. Not the least of which being that everyone who was present at the National Gallery that evening knew now that the one werewolf who’d sworn never to marry (well, never to marry a second time, for those whose memories were long enough) was actually engaged.

  Faith had never suffered through anything more mortifying in her life. After Kit and the discovery of the full repercussions of her indiscretion, things had been very, very mortifying. Her mother had been privately cruel, her temper had flared even more than was normal, but she had never publicly shamed Faith before. Faith supposed that in Boston, her mother cared, while in London she did not.

  Then to have Mrs Iftercast and Teddy come to her defence, and Channing come to her rescue. Now to find herself engaged! Why, it was as if successive waves of different emotions crashed over her, buffeting her, until all she felt was saturated, shipwrecked, and gasping.

  She awoke from the deluge to find herself still curled against her werewolf. His arm, strong and sure, was around her. His scent, wild and masculine, was all she could smell.

  “Ulric,” said Channing, “clear us a path. Let’s get our girl out of here.”

  Faith found herself m
oved carefully through a hushed crowd, out of the gallery, and through other showrooms until they were in some small forgotten part of the museum.

  “Shut the door, Miss Iftercast.”

  “But, sir!”

  “A moment alone with my betrothed is all I ask. It will not be long enough for me to ravish her, I promise.”

  The door closed.

  Faith said, with confidence learned from her own mistake, “It doesn’t take all that long.”

  Channing snorted. “It does if you do it properly.” Cool fingers pressed her chin up. “Lazuli, look at me.”

  “My eyes are all red.”

  “Your eyes are beautiful and you know it. Here, blow.” He pulled out a handkerchief, and Faith made it soggy and tried to repair herself a little.

  “So, you won,” he said.

  “This isn’t exactly how I wanted it to go.” Faith trembled. They had had such a game going between them, and now it was all over and she had trapped him into marriage, because he had a kind heart and he pitied her.

  She took a deep, shaky breath. “I owe you an explanation, Major.”

  “I think you may call me Channing now that we are engaged.”

  She was arrested. “What’s your first name?”

  “That is.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Channing is both my first and last name, because my parents thought they were being particularly cheeky or because they were idiots. I don’t know, I never asked them. They died in an experimental yeast fermentation accident when I was three.”

  She blinked. “There’s so much I don’t know about you. And there’s so much you don’t know about me. I should tell you. I must tell you, now, before this engagement is made public.”

  He quirked an eyebrow.

  “Fine, before it’s made any more public.”

  “I know the worst of your sins, my Lazuli.”

  “No.” She marshaled her courage. “You don’t. That wasn’t the whole of it. Otherwise, I would have contradicted Kit’s boasting. I could’ve lied. Werewolves have so little standing in Boston, and Kit was only a claviger. He could’ve said I flipped my skirts for him, and I could’ve denied it, truth or not.”