Syon
One morning Hartwellarrived earlier than usual, her face drawn and something like anger causing the muscles in her shoulders to tense before she took a steadying breath and released whatever plagued her. I cursed for noticing such details, but since her arrival, I’d caught myself hunting for hints of the omega she’d dressed as. Not just any omega but her sister Viola. The dress I’d stolen after that day was carefully wrapped in tissue and placed at the bottom of the closet in the duchess’s nest. I could somehow excuse holding on to it when I kept it in an omega’s quarters.
We’d been working in silence for some time when she stood abruptly and walked to the other window before spinning around to stare at me with those fierce eyes.
“Are you sure you want to marry her?” she asked. “The countess. Could there not be another omega in the world you could pick?”
“Why do you ask?” I felt my lips twitch. “Don’t tell me you’ve already seen her and decided to take her for yourself?”
I meant it to tease. After all, she was heir to her mother’s fortune which was respectful and certainly good enough to support the young countess. I considered that if she couldn’t afford the omega price, I would help her. However, even as I thought the words, I realised my mistake. I did not love the countess, but if Hartwell married her I would lose my secretary. “Surely you are too young to think of marriage?”
“Omegas are married at my age,” she snapped. “But no. I’ve no interest in omegas. She is a shell, Your Grace. I cannot… I have met her. I admit she is as pretty as a picture, the model upon which all omegas should be formed. But there is no life in her eyes. Her alpha guardian growled at me. And! An old crone is sneering down her nose at the countess. I did not like it. I do not like it. I urge you—“
“So you are saying her life is not happy?” I stood and crossed to where she had rested her forehead against the glass. She had a soft heart if she thought widowed omegas lived happy lives.
“More than that—“ she slammed a hand against the windowsill.
I purred for her on instinct. I wanted to soothe her. “Then surely becoming my wife would be a solution? It would offer her protection from the hell she is living in.”
“I know. Being your wife would be… It is her best hope.“
“You had not thought of that before? I thought we had agreed to that.”
“Your Grace! How could I? You’ve said that… You want a wife and mother to your heirs, not a mate. What would you be doing but put her in yet again the same situation.”
“She would give me alpha children who would care for her,” I touched her arm. “There is no reason to think she is barren. The Earl had no natural children. An alpha like him? He’d be rutting anything with a womb. Designation wouldn’t matter to him so long as they gave him an alpha heir. He was a nasty piece of work, you wild puss.”
I froze when I realised what I’d called her, but thankfully her mind was full of the countess and not my slip of the tongue.
“You can’t guarantee that!” She spun away and thrust hands through her hair bringing it loose from the black velvet ribbon that held it back. “Don’t you see—“
“Enough!” I barked. The sensitivities of youth had their place, but she took it too far. And in a conversation I believed us to have come to an agreement on. “Perhaps, having been surrounded by so many omegas, you think that there is some romantic notion to all of this. But amongst the aristocracy marriage is not as simple as it is for the lower classes. Mating is not so simple. The reason the countess is in this predicament is because she bore no alpha children. Not because she lacked a mating bite—would you really want her mated to one such as him? Do you think the world cares for your romantic notions about mate bites? They do not. I will allow you to have some emotions about this; you are young and raised amongst omegas. But I shall not tolerate this behaviour from my secretary. If you think to continue in this manner I shall send you on your way. Are we understood?”
There was a moment when I thought Hartwell, raised by omegas, would submit like an omega. How wrong I was. She straightened her spine and crossed to my desk where she picked up a bottle of ink and dashed it into the fire. A pretty display of temper to be sure. Those eyes flashed with anger, and it called to some primal need to dominate her. I wanted to put her in her place, on her knees cowed to my superior alpha. Another part of me was on edge, curious and excited for what she would do next. Another still wanted to comfort her in her distress.
“Your Grace… You are wrong if you think I am not aware of the place omegas hold in our society. Do not forget I went to meet the countess dressed as Viola, covered with her scent. I endured an alpha sneering at me and could do nothing but bow my head and retreat like a good omega. If you think for a moment that I am determined to let this go you are mistaken. If what I had to go through is the worst of what my sisters suffer… I will not let it stand. My father and mother taught me better than that. You and any other alpha would use that young woman, that frail beauty as a broodmare. And when I tell you, Your Grace, that she will be ripe for picking the moment she comes out of full mourning, I do not lie. A simple sign of kindness will have her in love. There is nothing I would not do to protect that innocence.”
By the end of her speech, she was panting, and if possible those eyes were even brighter than before. I wanted to smooth that furrowed brow. Instead, I lowered the pitch of my voice, spoke to her as I might a young filly just becoming comfortable with a saddle.
“Then give her to me. If I marry her, she will be protected. She can stay in the country or Town. She will want for nothing. I will allow her the life she wants. If she wishes to mate another alpha, she may. But she will have my blessing to find love where she can.”
“So long as she gives you alpha children,” she snapped, her face flushed.
“After she gives me an heir. Is that so bad?” I asked knowing better than to take the bait she offered. Why Hartwell was so desperate for a fight I could not fathom, but it seemed best to ignore it. Turn her thoughts in another direction. It was several moments before she spoke, and when she did the fight had drained from her. I took that stubborn chin in my hand and tilted her head back until she was forced to look at me.
“No,” she sounded so resigned. “If Iris hadn’t been born— Ha! Well, if my parents had no alpha children the others… You’ve no notion of my sisters. They are wild and determined to drive our Mama to an early grave.”
“Your older sister had something to do with the Summer Exhibition, I believe?” I prompted, glad her thoughts had turned to a more, shall I say, pleasant subject.
“You put it very nicely, Your Grace,” she chuckled, and the weight on my chest lifted. I did not believe she was completely satisfied with what we had been speaking of, but now at least her temper had cooled. “Beatrice paints. Hippolyta… She enjoys hunting.”
“And your twin?” I couldn’t help asking. That scent of violets and vanilla still haunted me.
“Oh? She is Viola. An idealist I suppose,” Hartwell worried her bottom lip between neat, white teeth. My eyes focused there, almost not hearing her. “She used to write letters to the cabinet when she was a child. They were beautifully written—she has the most beautiful handwriting according to the last three Prime Ministers—but until my uncle enquired at cabinet they were left unread.”
“And what did she think of that?” I smiled into the face I looked forward to seeing each morning.
She barked a laugh. “Your Grace? Viola couldn’t escape the praise that her handwriting was so fair until she parcelled out the fact the Prime Minister had only seen them at our uncle’s insistence. Then she determined to flood Parliament.”