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Arthur watched the Duke of Lowell pace the Blue Chamber in Carlton House, irritated by his fellow peer’s eagerness. He too was a groom on this day, for all that he was unburdened by nerves. Now that he thought of it, however, his belly churned and his throat felt tight, like it was caught in a vise. Perhaps he’d had a bad kipper at breakfast.
Lowell’s Beta, the Honorable Matthias Bates, once again assured his Alpha of his secure possession of the ring, cajoled him and teased him, and behaved as a good Second would: he was a friend and ally, the bulwark upon which the Alpha could rely.
If Arthur was admitting to anything, he envied the relationship between the two men. It was what he had assumed he would build with Ben before their lives fell apart, he as Alpha, Ben by his side. It was childish to wish things had transpired differently; there was little profit in imagining his brother as his Beta.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Osborn?” Alfred asked.
“His Highness’s decree.” Ought he have dressed with greater attention? He dismissed the notion out of hand as there was no outdoing Alfred when it came to matters ofhabiliment. He chose not to mention his own imminent wedding.
“You were never one to adhere to George’s directives too closely.” Fair enough, and Alfred would know. The young Alphas of their generation and their retinues were often called to meet in the Royal Presence, but once childhood was left behind, so was such enforced frivolity. He hadn’t been in the same room with the wolf until the Montague ball.
“Times change.” He could hear himself, his response little better than a snarl, and he threw back his shoulders as though preparatory to fisticuffs. This was why he did not truck with other Alphas; they brought out the worst in him.
Bates 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.” Ha! No change there, then: Lowell’s Second was always spewing oblique observations to trick the listener into disputing or clarifying, thereby inadvertently revealing incriminating information. Arthur was meant to jump at that like a trout for a worm; he would not give the blond wolf the satisfaction.
“Perhaps the Lowell Second is behind the times as usual.” Arthur could not resist baiting the Beta. “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,” Lowell 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.’” Arthur wasn’t partial toAs You Like It, but if the quote fit…
“Holy Venus, still at it with the Bard, are you?” Bates loathed the theatre to the exact degree Arthur adored it.
“Matthias, you risk maligning His Grace, for is not a ‘good name in man and woman the immediate jewel of their souls’?” Lowell only just got the phrase out before he barked with laughter.
Matthias muttered about boils and plague sores, betraying his Shakespearean knowledge, and Arthur smirked. “Not as nervous as you were, eh, Lowell?”
Calling attention to the levity had the opposite effect on both dukes: Arthur returned to glaring out the window, and Alfred recommenced pacing until a door flew open and a flurry of footmen attended the entrance of Georgie and the bride and—oh, little Jemima Coleman. Arthur hadn’t seen her in ages. She too had been one of Georgie’s set growing up and a nursery friend of his own. Word had it she was as thick as thieves with the soon-to-be Duchess of Lowell, and theon-ditswere proven true by her presence. The flamboyant prelate Georgie laid on cleared his throat and began the human marriage service with a flourish of his little book. As he spoke his vows, Lowell’sdominatumflared to life but not with the accompanying force…ah. It was the pack’ssentiohe called forth, the ineffable connection from heart to heart that bonded a clan. Wedding hisvera amoris, even under human conditions, was a profound enough act to strengthen the ties between the Alpha and those in his care, even from this distance, despite thehomo plenisnature of his mate.
Little wonder Georgie was concerned.
The closing words were spoken, and if Arthur wasn’t mistaken, Alfred visibly restrained himself from kissing his duchess. That fancy bishop would likely combust.
“And thus falls another fine lord.” George sighed. “It is almost too, too much to be borne. Is it not, Jemmikins? Unbearable?”
“Stuff it, Georgie.” Jemima looked piqued beyond measure. The prince reached out and pinched her side, causing her to flap about like a mad thing. She’d always been ticklish. Arthur noted Bates’s absorption with the lady’s reaction, and with the lady in general, and wondered what lay in that direction. And why Georgie was making terrible ursine puns. Had he not revealed his true nature to the new Duchess of Lowell? He wondered at the royal reticence given Georgie’s looseness of tongue before Lady Frost.
“Shall we, my dear?” Lowell could not appear more besotted if he tried. “I thought to forego a wedding breakfast and make for the Hall. I intend we arrive in Sussex well before moonrise.”
“I would prefer to celebrate there.” The duchess cuddled into her husband’s side and outshone the Lowell tiara for radiance. Holy Odin. Arthur had never thought such a mawkish thing in his life.
“I do hope you have a bottle of something nice in the coach, Lowell,” said Georgie. “How very beastly of you, should you have nothing at hand to while away the miles to Sussex. Whatever shall you do otherwise?” And with that cheeky bon mot, the prince turned to leave and then paused. “Bates, Osborn, if you would.” Arthur noted Bates’s curious look, but he followed without a word, as Georgie bellowed for his secretaries and his valet, with the wedding party bowing and curtsying in his wake.
The anteroom they entered was little more than a cupboard in comparison to the extravagance of the lion’s share of Carlton House. Speaking of lions: bereft though it was of the brooms and buckets it may have previously held, it contained yet another duke. Alwyn, Duke of Llewelyn, lurked in a corner as best he could in a space not conducive to concealment. His uncivilized behavior was forgivable, Arthur supposed, given Llewelyn had been held captive in an exotic animal menagerie for Odin only knew how long. The Welshman barely spoke and never Changed, which boded ill for his health. The lion Shifter was eccentrically bedecked in garments collected from a variety of centuries and color palettes, and if nothing else it made Arthur’s ensemble look positivelyà la mode. He nodded to his peer and received a glare in return.
“Your Highness,” intoned the bishop, who was now ignominiously squashed against the far wall, “I hardly think this the appropriate setting for a covenant of consequence to be undertaken.”
“Do you desire a new roof or do you not, Cornelius?” George examined one of his frothy cuffs. As ever, the prince was dressed as if expecting his portrait to be painted. He appeared unsurprised by the lack of response to his query. “Everyone has his price, cousin,” he said to Arthur. “What shall be yours?”
“Is yours asentioas formidable as that of Lowell? Cousin?” Arthur, in turn, examined his less-than-elaborate cuff.
A favorite youthful pastime of Arthur’s had been goading his hotheaded relation into his Change. Vain from birth and full of his own consequence due to his royal lineage, it was pure pleasure for Arthur to inspire such rage in Georgie he would forget himself enough to destroy one of his meticulous outfits. With age came greater control, and yet the bishop backed away as best he could, and Llewelyn snarled deep in his throat. George fought his reaction admirably, but even his impeccable control could not prevent a wave of choler rushing around the snug chamber.
What a contrast to Lowell’s joyful service. A feral duke, a blackmailed bishop, an irate prince, and an ambivalent groom. His chest contracted; no more kippers for breakfast, so.
The door opened, and the bride—the frosty, unwilling bride—entered.
