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The Blue Velvet Room had been cleared of all unnecessary furniture; Alfred gazed with some dismay upon the massive chandelier that hung, in his estimation, far too close to the floor. Otherwise, it was a fine place to get married and private without looking as though they were ashamed of the event. They had the royal imprimatur and would receive a joyous sendoff from a partisan crowd, assembled by his Second, as they drove away.
He paced around the edges of the room, his wolf very near the surface, delirious with the knowledge that soon, soon, this would be done. Alfred sensed, through his beast, and even from the great distance, that the entire pack was gathered at the Hall, their love and support ready to flow without reservation through the bond.
“I have the ring,” Bates said, before he asked again. “The etiquette book said only the lady receives one.”
“It is the human custom.”
“Just as well, you would find such ornamentation awkward during a Change,” Bates said.
“Just as well,” Alfred agreed and turned to pace in the opposite direction to keep—Goddess help him—Alfie distracted.
“It does present an interesting problem,” Bates mused. “You might start a fashion for wearing one on a chain ’round your neck, perhaps.” He laughed as Alfred turned on him and bared teeth that had transformed into Alfie’s.
“You are playful of late, my friend.” Alfred shot his cuffs, and speaking of rings—but then he remembered he kept asking Matthias did he have it.
“I am, of late, remembering you are my friend,” Bates said. “These last years of waiting and worrying…”
“…have robbed us of our ease with one another,” Alfred continued. “That it has returned is yet one more boon that has been visited upon us.”
Were they in their wolfskins, they would rush and play, tumble and roll; as men, the best they could do was embrace, thumping one another on the shoulders, and back away, mumbling sheepishly. It did not aid their expression of emotion that an observer was present.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Osborn?” Alfred asked.
“His Highness’s decree.” Arthur Humphries, Duke of Osborn, stood near the window like a mighty oak planted there for a thousand years, and despite the royal invitation, was dressed to his usual commonplace standard. Known to be asocial at best, in a state of hibernation at worst, his presence in London was enough to raise eyebrows, much more his attendance at Alfred’s wedding.
“You were never one to adhere to George’s directives too closely.” As a royal cousin, Arthur had taken the relentless piss out of Georgie during their childhood in Court. All the young Alphas and their retinue were called into the royal presence to meet often, but once childhood was left behind, so was such enforced frivolity. Alfred doubted George’s impulse was a nursery reunion.
“Times change.” If so, Osborn did not look well pleased by this fact. His response was little better than a snarl, and he threw back his shoulders as though preparatory to a brawl, which was antithetical to his nature; he famously refused to engage in the violence of their kind.
Matthias cleared his throat. “Perhaps His Highness wishes His Grace to see what joy is in store when it is his time to mate and bond.” Alfred turned away to hide a smile; Matthias and Osborn had ever been in competition regarding who knew what and who had known it first. That notion was worth considering if it was indeed George’s intent: Osborn’s looks and lineage attracted the attention of the Marriage Mart, but for so large a creature, he evaded their machinations with all the slipperiness of an eel.
“Perhaps the Lowell second is behind the times, as usual.” Osborn relaxed his posture and glared at them both. “Even as his Alpha looks to outshine the bride with his toilette.”
“One would accuse those of the ursine persuasion of being sartorially unsophisticated,” Matthias returned, “were it not for the example your cousin makes.”
“Ah, now, Matthias,” Alfred admonished, “diamonds do emerge from the rough.”
“‘Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head,’” quoted Osborn to the ringing groans of both men.
“Holy Venus, still at it with the Bard, are you?” Matthias loathed the theatre to the same degree as Osborn adored it, and the latter knew a well-placed quote was enough to send Alfred’s Beta round the bend.
“Matthias, you risk maligning His Grace, for a ‘good name in man and woman is the immediate jewel of their souls,’ is it not?” Alfred only just got that phrase out before he dissolved in laughter.
Matthias muttered about boils and plague sores, betraying his own Shakespearean knowledge, and Osborn smirked. “Not as nervy as you were, eh, Lowell?”
Calling attention to the levity had the opposite effect on both dukes: Osborn went back to brooding out the window, and Alfred recommenced pacing. He completed another circuit of the room, then paused. His wolf heard the footsteps, the laughter, the heartbeats well before the wedding party appeared. He nodded to the prelate Georgie had laid on, some bishop or other, and turned to face the doors.
They opened, and despite the royal presence, he had eyes only for his bride, his mate. She sparkled, and not due to the jewels that adorned her, nor the dress that shimmered like the dawn. Her hair, ah, Goddess how he wanted his hands on that hair again, on her lush figure so gloriously displayed in Lady Coleman’s creation. All of her was his. He had succeeded, he had found hisvera amoris, and all would thrive, all were safe. And yet, he had achieved something greater, something he had not expected: he had gained a true partner, a woman whose open heart and mind had given him and his pack far more than he had ever thought possible. Beyond hope, beyond peace, beyond the satisfaction of a responsibility met, he found joy, such joy.
“Off we go,” said George, ruining his flights of fancy. “Come along, Cornelius, we’ve a man in need of a wife.”
He brought Felicity to Alfred’s side, and before he released her, he said, “Know that I am less than a mother and father to you, my dear soon-to-be Duchess of Lowell, but I will be all they would be, should you need to call on me for aught.” He waggled a finger at Alfred, kissed her cheek, and stepped back.
Cornelius, the resplendent prelate, cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved,” he intoned thunderously, as if reaching for the gallery in St. Paul’s. He cleared his throat again and adjusted his volume. “We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”
Full names were spoken, hands were taken and released, exhortations were delivered, vows were exchanged, the ring was placed on Felicity’s finger, more blessings were said, Prinny sighed loudly and theatrically, and—“I pronounce that they be man and wife together, for as long as they both shall live.” A cross was drawn over their heads, and it was almost done.
Alfred turned to Bates, who was holding a weathered, wooden case chased with fading silver and gold. The duke opened it and removed a glorious tiara, as delicate as her parure, studded with diamonds and pearls, and wrought of pale gold. “It’s almost as though it were meant to be,” he whispered to her as he set it on her head. “Ah, see? It fits,” he growled.
