How to Marry a Werewolf Read online

  Lastly, there were three members of the London Pack – its Alpha, its Beta, and, much to everyone’s shock, its Gamma. Major Channing caused quite the stir, as he never attended social events and eschewed balls as if they conferred alongside the punch some plague only werewolves could catch. And he was not wearing gloves. At a ball!

  Lady Papworth-Walmsley was in ecstasies. Teddy explained that hers would be the assembly to beat for the remainder of the season. So long as the evening went smoothly, of course.

  “No doubt she is a little nervous to have werewolves and a vampire. It’s known they rarely mingle well. But I suspect even an altercation could only add to her standing.”

  “Teddy! You are wicked. Do you think it likely?” Faith’s eyes flicked between the vampire to one side of the room, and Biffy and his Beta (a nondescript sandy-haired gentleman) on the other.

  Teddy scoffed. “With Lord Falmouth present? I think it highly unlikely. He is so civilized, especially with his Beta nearby. But Lord Ambrose is an unknown entity. Just look at him. There is a gentleman who could tempt any young lady into sin.”

  Faith could only agree. On an aesthetic level, Lord Ambrose formulated anyone’s ideal of what a vampire ought to look like. He was tall, dark, and handsome with a pale, sardonic brow and sculpted lips. Even as she stared, he seemed to sense her regard, and his eyes, predatory and sharp, homed in upon her. He took in her dress and hair and then focused on her neck, white and exposed with only the narrow velvet ribbon to indicate she was not available for feeding. He looked like he wanted to lick his lips.

  Faith only barely kept herself from flinching.

  His eyes caught on something behind her, and he sneered and turned back to his conversation, expression just this side of insultingly bored.

  “Lazuli,” said a voice with which Faith was now unfortunately familiar.

  Faith prepared for battle and turned to face a man equally as tall, with lips equally as shapely as those of Lord Ambrose, but with maybe too many teeth and eyes the opposite of dark and brooding. “Major Channing. How are you this evening?”

  “Very well.” He looked it too, his lanky form in perfectly executed evening wear. His blond hair was queued neatly back.

  “I understand this is not your typical haunt, sir.”

  “Haunting? No. Hunting, yes. Would you like to dance?”

  Faith fumbled with her chatelaine, searching for her card.

  “Now.”

  Faith offered up her hand, feeling, it must be admitted, a little overwhelmed by his presence and by his insistence. She shivered, thrilled.

  This was what she’d always hoped for in a werewolf.

  They had a simple waltz. His hand on her back was sure and cool and very strong. She could feel power in those fingers, that supernatural strength, not that he muscled her about the floor, but it colored all his actions with caution. He did not wish to hurt her.

  “How goes your hunting, Miss Wigglesworth?”

  “I’ve not gone hiking for rocks yet. Although I seem to have caught myself some hats.”

  He seemed to be trying not to smile. “That was not the hunting to which I referred.”

  “Isn’t it gauche to talk of such things?”

  “Look around you, my Lazuli, see all the matrons with their precious daughters? See how they bend and flutter. See how they circle in on prospects and targets. Hunting is Britain’s favorite sport, especially amongst the ladies of the ton.”

  “And what are you hunting, Major?”

  “Information.”

  “And you think you’ll be successful at this particular assembly?”

  “There are some interesting players in place.”

  “You refer, perhaps, to Lord Ambrose?”

  “Things are always more interesting when a vampire is involved.”

  “There are probably many who say the same thing about werewolves.”

  “They are not quite the same thing.” It was clearly important to him that she understand this.

  “So I’ve been told. Funny, but I originally thought you belonged to the fanged set when we first met, and yet I find you belong to the furballs instead.”

  “They thought so too, once. Werewolf suits me better.”

  “Does it? You don’t seem the type to play well inside a pack.”

  “It is not often a choice.” He gave a faint smile. “All this you have gathered on my character in the space of one conversation about rocks and another about hats? Or have you made enquiries about me in particular?”

  Channing could not help but feel smug. Faith had looked into his character. She had asked about him. She was intrigued.

  He preened.

  She smelled wonderful.

  Of course, he too had made enquiries. He could hardly help himself. Five days since he had seen her last. Five days was enough time to determine what London knew of Miss Wigglesworth, if not quite enough time to get word back from his American contacts.

  What am I doing? Channing wondered, not for the first time, as he whirled the young American girl about the floor.

  She was sweet and pliant in his arms, as if she did not mind being kept there, as if she did not mind there was violence underneath. Or perhaps she did not think of herself as prey. Or perhaps she was unaware of the sound her pulse made in his head and the delicious scent of her – raisins soaked in brandy, Madeira cake and custard.

  “I enquired about you, too.” He allowed his thumb to stroke against her back and soothe away the threat in his words.

  Nevertheless, she jerked a fraction, although her steps remained sure and steady. She knew well how to dance, this one. She has danced with dangerous men before.

  “And what have you discovered, Major?” Her brows arched, finely formed and a shade darker than her hair. He was beginning to find her accent charming, which worried him.

  “There is some scandal to your presence here. Some reason you left Boston for London. Some purpose to your placing your pretty face and golden hair on our marriage mart instead of yours.”

  “I’m sent to catch a werewolf husband, Major Channing, that’s it. Aren’t you afraid of me?”

  He couldn’t stop a small chuckle at that. “Shouldn’t you be afraid of me? I have ruined women for lesser reasons then a mercenary agenda.”

  “Have you really? You aren’t hungry for a wife, then, Major?”

  “That ship has sailed.” Way back, too far. He felt the old ache then, and wondered if he had nursed it so much into a bitter memory that the few pleasant moments of that time were now entirely lost to him.

  Miss Wigglesworth gave him an assessing look out of her remarkable blue eyes. “You’re a libertine? How very unique.” She gave a small fake yawn.

  She was, in that heartbeat, so perfect and so pure and so very dangerous indeed that all he could do was frighten her away. “Have you been listening at keyholes, Lazuli? I assure you, they have always been willing, even when I ask that they pretend otherwise.”

  She blushed deep pink at that – an appealing thing, the blood high under her cheeks, warm and subtle and alive. He wanted to delve into her, with teeth and body until she was ravaged and supine and wrecked and bleeding and his.

  She did not, as he had expected, break away from him mid-step. The blush was there, to be sure, but she was made of sterner stuff. Any true innocent would be repulsed by the intent in his tone. A woman without experience would fear the implication of his preferences – the certain acknowledgment that there was wolf, nothing but wolf, underneath all his icy indifference. Faith was intrigued.

  She tilted her head and looked hard at him, her lovely eyes flinty. “So, you’re just a beast who enjoys the chase, nothing else?”

  “Exactly so.”

  She threw it all at him. Like a piece of warm fresh meat, cut and dripping temptation, enough to make him salivate, to bait her trap. “You can’t catch me.”

  The waltz ended.

  C
hanning returned to his pack-mates wearing a faintly bemused expression. Only they would notice, however, as his customary veneer was firmly in place.

  “That lovely little American just gave you the dirtiest look I have ever seen you receive. Bravo, Channing,” said his Alpha.

  “Oh, come now, Biffy. Surely I’ve had worse.”

  Professor Lyall looked quietly amused. “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing but the truth.”

  “Now, that I do not believe at all.” Biffy sipped a small glass of port. “What advantage could the truth possibly serve?”

  The Beta looked equally unimpressed. “Your truths are clearly upsetting to a lady of quality, Channing.”

  “What makes you think she is upset? I merely intimated that I know there is some scandal to her being here in our city.”

  Biffy looked at him full and sharp, the Alpha in his eyes, the pull strong on Channing’s tether. “Don’t do it, Gamma.” A direct command.

  Channing looked away, taking in the ball with all its undercurrents of need and hope and fear. It made him want to sneeze. He curled his lip instead; it was all so sad and tawdry, and had been done so very many times before.

  His Alpha clarified the order. “Don’t toy with her and ruin her simply for your own amusement.”

  “I assure you, Alpha, I am not amused.” Channing allowed himself to drift away.

  Behind him, he heard Biffy say to Lyall, “Should we warn her?”

  “It might have a deleterious effect. You saw the way she looked at him.”

  “You’re inclined to suspect she may take it as a challenge?”

  “Or wish to save him from himself. It has happened before.”

  Biffy sighed. He must know that Channing was still within hearing. Perhaps he wanted his opinion known. The opinion of my Alpha. Does it matter so much? Probably.

  What Biffy said next, then, must be taken as criticism. “How many times has he taken revenge on a woman for the sins of a wife decades dead?”

  Channing ached, knowing that he disappointed his Alpha.

  Professor Lyall’s voice was low. “I have lost count, but you can understand why.”

  “He must be exhausted by it.”

  “I have never known him to be otherwise.”

  Channing gave a sardonic chuckle. Lyall knew most of the particulars, and in his quiet way, the Beta understood more than many could. But Betas were not the type to nurse resentment and pain – quite the opposite – so Lyall utterly failed to understand Channing’s behavior.

  Channing’s attention was caught then by Miss Wigglesworth’s laugh. Something a young gentleman had said. A young gentleman who stood too close and was now leading her out onto the floor for a polka.

  Channing glared at them both. Come to London to trap a werewolf, had she? Thought that she was the hunter, did she? Well, he would show her what it meant to be hunted.

  STEP FIVE

  Become the Social Butterfly He Wants to Catch

  Faith was enjoying her evening, the looming presence of Major Channing notwithstanding. He seemed to swoop in at odd times, presenting her with a glass of punch or distracting her from her conversation by glowering fiercely. She noticed that if she paid any one gentlemen too much attention for too long a time, the major would make himself known. Then he would disappear and ignore her once more.

  It was sublimely aggravating. Like being desired by a very large mosquito.

  He did not ask her to dance a second time.

  After several hours of this sporadically irritating attention, she realized that he was worrying at her, trying to flush her out of her den, as hounds would a fox. She would have none of it and put a concerted effort into enjoying herself and avoiding him.

  “What is he about?” said Teddy, annoyed on Faith’s behalf. “Mr Nightingale was going to ask you to dance, I know he was. And he has four thousand a year and an estate in Devonshire. He’s a most advantageous match. His family might not countenance an American, but if you continue to curry Lord Falmouth’s favor, they might make an exception in your case for the supernatural alliance afforded by the association. The major cannot be genuine in his interest, can he? He never pays court. Why does he keep running them off like that?”

  Faith found herself smiling. “Well, I’m fine with it. I don’t think I’d make Mr Nightingale a very good wife.”

  Teddy was shocked enough to snap her fan closed and lean forward. “Cousin, you grossly undervalue yourself!”

  No, I don’t, thought Faith. For while Mr Nightingale’s family may rise above my lowly American state, they could never rise above my other deficiencies of womanhood.

  She dared not say it, but in his way, Major Channing was doing her a service. She had no desire to secure any mortal gentleman’s full attention. She did not consider herself available to a wholesome, proper husband, no matter how kind his words or genuine his interest. She was, after all, soiled goods. No decent man should want her and she was not about to ruin any man’s life with her affection. Werewolves were another matter.

  But there were only the three werewolves present at the ball. Lord Falmouth was unavailable, and Major Channing was impossible, and Professor Lyall… well, Professor Lyall was interesting.

  Faith danced one dance with the London Pack Beta. She found Professor Lyall relaxed and, if not overly scintillating like the Alpha, at least not cold and fierce, like the Gamma. In fact, the good professor was oddly restful and accommodating – for a predator.

  He mentioned the major, but only insofar as to say, “I should warn you of his nature, Miss Wigglesworth, but I suspect that is part of the appeal.”

  “I haven’t any designs on Major Channing, I promise. Despite whatever he’s said to you.”

  “That may not matter.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “That may not matter either.”

  Faith wondered if she could make delicate enquiries after other members of his pack. After all, he should know of any suitable, well, suitors amongst the ranks. But she was frightened to be on the receiving end of one of his sardonically raised eyebrows.

  Professor Lyall was overly enigmatic, but she ended up liking him. They talked of rocks (despite Mrs Iftercast’s warning) and he had a scientist’s appreciation for her enthusiasm. He himself was more interested in animal husbandry, although the moniker of professor was honorific rather than descriptive. While their particular intellectual pursuits did not intersect, their spirits of inquiry were well matched.

  He left her, after their dance, feeling enriched for the brief encounter and somewhat saddened that it was not he who set her pulse racing. For if any werewolf were to make a fine husband, it would be Professor Lyall.

  But while Faith had been given a task by her family, a match to make and future to secure, she had her own agenda. She would marry a werewolf if she must, but she knew enough to wish for something more than complacency in a match. There would be no children, no growing old together. Knowing this, Faith wanted what she was not supposed to want at all and should know even less about. She wanted what had nearly destroyed her.

  She wanted passion.

  Faith danced twice with Alpha Biffy, Lord Falmouth. He was a most excellent dancer, to the precise step and not beyond. Not very imaginative, but then, he couldn’t be anymore. The last of his mortality had taken with it most of his creativity, or so most physicians believed. Only his lovely hats now remained. Nevertheless, she enjoyed his dancing. Biffy made her laugh with his pithy commentary on the gathering and did not mention Major Channing at all.

  When their second dance was over, Major Channing came once more to loom next to her, saying nothing. Biffy bowed himself away with a knowing smile.

  “Your Alpha doesn’t seem very fierce,” Faith commented at last, genuinely interested but also desperate for something to say. Of course, what she was really saying was, I understand that he isn’t for me. And I’m not for him. He’s too
much a dandy and not enough a danger.

  She tried not to sound at all disappointed.

  “Fierce? No. He does not need to be. That is what I am for.” Major Channing left her again, looking reassured by their brief exchange and a little smug.

  Only one incident marred Faith’s enjoyment of the festivities. It was heralded by a slight hush about the room. Faith raised her head to find her card seized without ceremony and signed by the vampire, Lord Ambrose. He gave her a nod and then drifted away, only for her to discover that he had demanded the dinner dance.

  During the course of their subsequent reel, she was given cause to suspect he looked upon her as the dinner.

  “You are quite the excitement of the evening, Miss Wigglesworth.” The vampire spoke gallantly as he led her into the pattern. He was very stiff in his movements.

  “I assure you, sir, it’s a big surprise to me, too.”

  “Is it indeed? I suspected it to be, in fact, by carefully crafted design. Lord Falmouth has taken an interest. Your attire reflects his taste and not inconsiderable influence. Do you deny it?”

  “I’m honored by the smallest scrap of his attention.”

  “Yes, he has that effect. You know he could have been one of ours had Lord Akeldama not bungled his household management? Such a tragedy.”

  Faith thought of Biffy and the way he looked at his Beta with eyes that shone. “I think he’s good where he is. And your comments to a stranger on the matter might be considered impertinent.”

  “You dare to reprimand me over a breach in etiquette, as though I were a schoolgirl?”

  “You are gossiping like one,” Faith snapped back, daring a cheeky smile.

  Lord Ambrose started at that. A spider who thought he had caught her in his web, only to find the web itself shaken and disrupted.

  He leaned in, too close but still the correct distance to whirl her around the floor. “You are a ripe and ready young thing. Bold. Is it the American upbringing?”

  “Maybe.” Faith thought it probably paid to be cautious with vampires.

  His smile was both pointed and pointy.