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“It is the lupine celebration in observance of spring,” Lowell explained. “It aligns with thehomo plenuscelebration of Easter.”
“There is to be a bonfire, and then allversipelleswill Shift and run through the park.” Felicity peeked at her husband through her lashes. “It is a common aspect of our practices, but it was not observed at Lupercalia.”
“Due to the ducal wedding taking precedence.” Lowell’s husky tones brought a blush to his bride’s cheeks.
“Are outsiders permitted to witness this event?” Timothy asked.
“Thecursiois…rather daunting for those who are not Shifters,” O’Mara said.
“I will only be present for the lighting of the fire,” Felicity admitted, “and then must wait for my husband in one of the cottages in the park.”
“Is it important to the health of the pack?” Tabitha asked. “To Change as one?”
“It is a practice we wolves have bequeathed upon all in our care,” Lowell replied. “Our smaller species do not feel the need to Shift as often as, er, the rest of us.” Another frisson of unease shuddered through the assembly.
“This sherry is lovely,” Tabitha all but bellowed; she saw Llewellyn hesitate in his pacing and blink at her.
Felicity gestured to Tabitha’s glass, and Mr. Coburn refilled it with alacrity. Oh dear, perhaps Tabitha ought to refuse, but the rooster—yes, he was a rooster, look at that comb of hair on his head—was so eager to serve, she hated to thwart him. “It reminds me of Córdoba,” she continued. “We had arrived there after a journey made arduous by garrulous company and more than one broken axle, and our landlady greeted us with glasses of the most exquisiteamontillado. Its making is far more complex than that of the sort found in Jerez and, well, it was delicious.” She cut herself off—why would those who did not drink the stuff be interested in its making?
“And the brother of her husband’s cousin-in-law provided us with casks for our entire stay,” Timothy said, “due to the fact the distiller became enamored of—” Tabitha tilted her chin to her shoulder and shot him a look from beneath her lashes. “Oh, never mind. I shall refrain from sharing the anecdote. My sister has spoken—or grimaced.”
The last thing Tabitha wanted recounted was the story of Senor Garcia’s ardent pursuit of her. “Do forgive us, we have spent so much time in each other’s company—” Tabitha began.
“We have an entire lexicon of facial expressions,” Timothy finished.
“How I longed for a brother or sister,” Felicity said. She turned to Llewellyn, and a threatening rumble emitted from the Welsh duke, whose pacing increased in speed. The air in the room compressed in the way it had in the prince’s presence, and Timothy trembled as it peaked then faded.
Tabitha guessed Lowell was the origin of the disturbance, likely in protection of his wife. “I understand you have a sister?” she asked him.
“I do.” Lowell nodded his gratitude at the diversion of the subject. “Lady Phoebe Blakesley. She has been away from us for some time.”
“Abroad, in the United States of America.” Felicity reached out and took her husband’s hand. “I have yet to meet her.”
The duke smiled at his duchess. “We are striving to bring her back.”
“I am sure she is eager to be brought.” Timothy sighed. “We ever yearned for home.”
Speak for yourself, Tabitha thought. She was saved from uttering an anodyne sentiment by the strike of the gong, the sudden sound of which nearly sent Llewellyn out of his skin.
***
The typically excruciating Sunday Meal was made somewhat bearable by the presence of the lady apothecary and her brother; the addition of both created a distraction from his presence, and Miss Barrington was fulfilling her end of their bargain admirably. It was the least attention he’d suffered under this roof, and he hoped she wasn’t as squiffy as she appeared, if only so she could continue to do her part. He couldn’t say the flush on her cheeks and her general air of abandon weren’t rather appealing. It was quite the contrast to her usual manner. In any case, it did the job; he wondered what she would charge him with in recompense.
He would find out, if the meal would ever, ever end. Every course seemed as if it should be the last but was inevitably followed by another. It was more food than he’d seen in all his years combined, certainly at Drake’s and even at Georgie’s. His memories of childhood meals were indistinct; his family had not had much call to entertain in the wilds of Wales, and if he recalled correctly, it was not his father who disliked society but his mum, unlike most females of their kind.
The lady apothecary seemed of that ilk. She hid behind her little glass of liquor during the farce that was the gathering in the drawing room. Shifters did not imbibe, although he couldn’t recall why. Perhaps it made no difference to them, as they were unable to get foxed? In a manner of speaking. Or it was too dangerous for them to do so? Under the unflinching attention of the butler, the lady had become tipsy and nearly got into a squabble with her brother. Anything to keep them all from staring at him.
Although it was worse when they looked at him out of the corners of their eyes.
As they were doing now. It was impossible to ignore since they were sitting cheek by jowl at an intimate table rather than dining in state. Every move he made was observed, increasing his self-consciousness about his ability to feed himself in front of them.
The soup course had been manageable, and the cheese soufflé he addressed with a spoon, a spoon out of the correct order of utensils, which had sent a flutter of dismay through the footmen. Then another something or other, a casserole of vegetables which made the wolves groan good-naturedly and Her Grace ask for another serving of it to be doled out to those who complained. This was also to his advantage, and he dug in. A predator he may be, but greens were now a staple in his diet, and he’d become partial to them. It was nice to have them cooked and hot rather than foraged straight out of the ground.
The current dish contained delicately seasoned slices of lamb. The aroma hinted of rosemary and a touch of thyme, a heady scent that almost brought him to tears. In his mind’s eye, he saw a flash of apron, a spit turning over a hearth; in the ear of memory, he heard a voice teasing him about robbing the spit-boy’s job of tending to the meat. He breathed to calm himself, which only served to draw in the scent again and again. He grabbed for his glass, even though he had no use for wine. The tartness of the elderberry brought him back to his sour mood.
Alwyn wished to eat the meat.
He did not trust himself with the fork.
