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“That might be, but it don’t mean I don’t keep a cellar for recalcitrant secretaries,” I poured her a glass. “Drink.”
“Tell me. If I were to offer the countess in exchange for the votes, would you accept?”
“Votes?” Her proposition blindsided me.
“For the Omega Property Rights Act. I want to see it passed more than anything.”
“No.”
She gave a stiff nod and returned to her desk, keeping her head down for the rest of the day.
* * *
By the middle of February, the weather had become unseasonably mild. On the chance the roads were passable, I dreamt of escaping back to Ayleigh. I could bring Hartwell with me since I still needed her services. We could gallop across the fields, or I could take her shooting. As I lay in bed, the wicked part of me fantasised about giving up my quest to find a wife. There were plenty of omegas in the world. I was not so ancient that I needed a wife now. It could wait a year or two. No, better get it over with—like a tooth being pulled. The immediate pain would be worth it in the end rather than risk infection.
So instead of my carriage, I ordered one of my stallions, Orsino, to be saddled. The poor beast wasn’t used to life in the city and probably craved a morning gallop as much as I.
At this dawn hour, Rotten Row could be found empty of casual riders. Only those who wished for an undisturbed gallop exercised their horses. I took the moment to enjoy the silence of a winter morning. Despite the lack of bite in the air, there was a fine mist creeping within Hyde Park and drifting across the path. The sharp look of a frost on the ground and cold light shining in a cloudless sky. Freedom rang through me for the first time since my grandmother’s death.
I watched a pair go by and recognised Hartwell. I nearly called out to her, but seeing her companion gave me pause. A dark-haired woman in a well-fitting riding jacket who on sight could only be Hartwell’s sister. I pulled to the side, jumping down to fiddle with Orsino’s bridle so that I might better observe them. The most obvious being their similar build and dark hair. I wondered how often they’d been mistaken for identical before Hartwell had presented as an alpha. Interestingly, Viola Hartwell’s posture displayed none of the natural shyness one expected of her dynamic. I could not catch their conversation, but there was a directness to her body language that gave the impression of a strong will and purpose I’d never once seen in an omega. Even my grandmother had kept a veneer of subservience when dealing with alphas. Not so Miss Hartwell, who carried herself more like an alpha than omega or even beta. As to her seat, it was better than my secretary’s. Though Hartwell did not seem uncomfortable, her twin appeared to be born to sit in a saddle. Even when her filly danced, she laughed at its antics and chided her alpha sister for trying to catch her bridle. Her mount spun, eager to run and across the stretch our eyes met. At this distance, I could not tell if the omega Viola shared Hartwell’s fine violet eyes, but on seeing me, she instantly took control of her mischievous mount and took off in the other direction. Hartwell shook her head and galloped after her.
I found my mouth twitching into a smile.NowI understood her passing comment that she desired to watch over her twin. Viola Hartwell was wild. Nothing like the kind of omega I could imagine as my duchess.
