Page 9 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Someone near her growled. The air charged despite the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling of fine silk. Sorcha could see that something was happening but had no idea what it was.

“For my protection, you understand,” she hastened to add in her snobbiest of tones. It was not unusual for wolves to take on protective work, even the children of the aristocracy, especially the younger ones. “As a duke’s granddaughter, one cannot be too careful.”

“Hmmm. Indeed.”

Simon looked a little less like he might throw up on his mother’s silk slippers. Sorcha could only imagine how that would go over.

“Are you speaking for him?” Lord Winterwell demanded.

“Well, I’m not going to marry him,” Sorcha clarified hastily. “But yes, he is part of my household. If that’s what you mean.”

Lord Winterwell sighed. “I suppose it’s the best we can expect, given the son in question.” He waved his hand, no longer interested. “Very well.”

“Thank you, Father.” Simon bowed and backed away. He might have broken into a run if his ankle allowed it. Sorcha inclined her head, smiling.

They did not know her. They did not know what that smile meant.

As she took a turn throughout the gallery, she kept her steps light, her expression interested but not too interested. She slipped between two tall gentlemen with impressive whiskers.

And then she slipped a silver-capped wolf tooth from the fifteenth century into her beaded reticule.

Take that, Winterwells.

Take that, Aidan Carnahan.