Syon
She had saidshe wanted to be an omega. It made no sense, yet was so right that I could not keep any thought in my head that did not turn naturally towards the way the words had tumbled from her lips, and then to how I had kissed her for fear of hearing more. Kissed her and then voiced the feeling buried so deep I could still deny it. Yet her secret deserved an equally weighty confession. More words that might drive me down a path from which, once I stepped on, I would not be able to return. There would be no retreat if I followed down the road Hartwell seemed to want to tread. When she’d woken with a splitting headache that made her surly and incapable of doing her work, I sent her home with instructions to stay at home tomorrow as well. Grateful for the distance between us. She clearly did not remember what she’d said (what I’d said), let alone the kiss, or how I’d carried her to the duchess’ bedroom, loosened her gown, and forced myself away lest I strip her naked to see exactly the shape of her breasts and colour of her nipples.
* * *
Two nights later, my table was filled with the brightest political minds—including, I flattered myself, my secretary. Florey and his cronies puffed with pride as they introduced Hartwell to their political rivals. And, despite her obvious youth, she was welcomed with open arms. It was not often that one so young was so knowledgeable or so ready to speak her mind.
“I’ve not much of a head for wine,” Hartwell confided. Her face already flushed and her words more deliberate. I kept an eye on her for fear she’d confess her desire to be an omega. That admission was for my ears alone.
“Well, there is no harm in that amongst the omegas, but alphas must know how to hold their drink,” someone chided.
“A greenhorn can be foxed on a sip of good canary, there is no shame in that,” the Prime Minister, William Pitt the Younger, chuckled, looking far more lively than I had ever seen him. I’d placed him at the far end of the table for fear that some political arguments with my secretary would not end well for my young friend. But, despite the difference in their politics, Hartwell and Pitt were chatting amiably about rhetoric. I indicated for Florey to get in between his niece and the Prime Minister. I disliked the way they were looking at each other. As if they were sharing secrets. Her secrets belonged to me.
“Your protegé will cut us out at the next election,” James Lowther observed through his looking glass. “We must ensure Pitt secures a decent majority in the next by-election.”
“What? Must you always be bringing your people in through those boroughs you keep in your pocket?” Paxton sneered. “She will best any you pick…”
“Why my dear Paxton. I thought you and the pup were not friends?” the slippery toad’s smile had Paxton’s upper lip curling.
“Lowther, watch your tongue or that one will demonstrate her bloodthirsty side. I do not think she has plans to run anytime soon. Far too young,” Paxton smirked. “Ah, you do not believe me? She has been near to challenging half the town for even allowing one of the fair Hartwell omegas’ names to be mentioned.”
“Makes the blood heat to think of them,” a bluff beta chuckled. I managed to hold a growl back and a glance at Paxton showed the same. He bared his neck in submission. “Not like that, my lords! I meant if they were alphas, or even betas, they would set the world alight. Ain’t that so, Florey?”
The uncle to the omegas in question merely smiled. “I believe they will, but because of their dynamic—not despite it.”
Lowther snorted and made some excuse to leave our little group, but it was with some consternation that I watched him cross to where Pitt and Hartwell sat.
“Leave her, Your Grace,” Florey chuckled. “She throws her heart over the fence no matter.”
Paxton’s frown deepened as he watched the tete-a-tete that had just been interrupted by the slippery Lowther.
“Excuse me, but I will go and prevent a duel,” Paxton gave a stiff bow and broke away. He strode towards the group with a purpose I had yet to see from him. Paxton bent closer to Hartwell, whispering something into her ear that caused my secretary to blanch. At Paxton’s insistence, Hartwell trotted after him like a dutiful puppy. I found myself circling through my guests until I was close enough to the open door to catch something of their conversation.
“… Beatrice would…” Hartwell’s voice was stiff but hushed such that I missed what she had to say about her sister.
“Viola is the one I wish to speak to,” Paxton said. He sounded on edge. “Or will I have to go to Weymouth Street to meet her?”
“Viola…”
I held my breath. Was Paxton interested in Viola? And why? Beatrice seemed to fill his every thought, no matter the circumstances. “I do not think that Beatrice—“
“A word more about any one of my sisters and I shall call you out,” Hartwell snapped. “Their names should not cross your lips. If you must speak of them, Miss Hartwell shall be the only thing I shall find acceptable. Do you hear me,LordPaxton?”
I grinned at how the scamp had sneered Paxton’s title as if it were a slur.
“Why, you brat!” Paxton snapped.
That was my cue. I pushed open the door and stared both down. Neither seemed embarrassed, but I could not hold back a soft growl when I saw how close they were. “I think this tete a tete is finished,” I told them. “Paxton, stop crowding my secretary. Hartwell, stop challenging your betters.”
Both alphas bristled at my words, but this was my house and my word was law. I might not have Paxton’s height, but I had strength on my side.
My firecracker secretary gave me a stiff nod and strode back into the bright room, the picture of offended dignity. Any other time, I might have smiled at the ruffled feathers. Perhaps even sought to ruffle them further before soothing the bruised ego. But I was in no humour for levity.
“Paxton, what are you doing? Harassing my secretary? She is a whelp not worth...”
“You’re a fool, Orley. You really have no idea what you’ve done? Gotten yourself entangled with that family. Madness. Bad enough that Beatrice is in Paris when we are at war with France. Now Viola must run mad. If you had any sense of propriety—“
“Propriety? Rich, coming from you!” I snapped. “She’s a child. Leave her be.”