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Viola
One particularly mild day,a new neighbour of my aunt’s, the recently widowed Mrs Markham, arrived in such a havoc of omega pheromones that I nearly choked on the too sweet scent. Her beta daughter, Hero, trailed behind her. The girl was eighteen with blonde ringlets tied back with a blue ribbon and the largest blue eyes I’d ever seen. I’d never heard her talk above a whisper, but how could she, when her mother possessed such a dominating personality?
“Well, what is this?” my aunt asked, her wrinkled nose demonstrating her vexation at the other omega’s bad manners for flooding the drawing room with her scent. I crossed to the window and cracked it open to thin out the overwhelming mix of omega florals.
“You’ll never believe what I’ve become a part of!” the matron sighed dramatically full of news and busting to share it with us. But there was something tinny in her voice that made me uneasy. She’d not paid this morning call to innocently gossip. There was a method in her madness that I wanted no part of.
“Of course I won’t know whether to believe it or not until you tell me, my dear Mrs Markham!” my aunt put her embroidery hoop down in an exasperated manner, her good mood vanishing in the instant.
“La, my dear Mrs Florey, you might not even believe when I tell you. Come, for what I have to say… Oh, it is shocking. His Grace the Duke of Orley tasked me with finding him an omega bride.”
“But why?” I asked, surprised to hear that the reclusive duke would advertise his intentions so publicly. More shocking that she would share the information with us. Of course, he held the balance for the bill and strangely I wanted to hear more of him and his plans. Everything would help.
“The late Dowager Duchess was my godmother, for remember I used to be the very beautiful The Honourable Miss Constance Field! But the Duke! He sees it to be his duty to provide himself with an heir. Naturally, she must be an omega and of exceptionable beauty and breeding. And a woman to give him heirs,” her gaze turned to me. I did not like that look, as if she hoped to provoke me to utter some indiscreet remark.
“That surely is not so great a challenge. There are many such ladies and all happy to become a duchess.” My aunt had no interest in the to-ings and fro-ings of those outside of her immediate circle. In that, we had found a kinship. I had grown grateful for the discovery over the past half year, for she had no interest in dragging me to pay morning calls or introduce me to what eligible alphas resided in town when Parliament was in session. My mind might be bored, but I didn’t have to listen to aimless omega gossip or learn to flirt.
“Oh, that is not the half of it! He does not wish to mate his wife,” Mrs Markham threw another sly glance in my direction. She had some plot, and instinct told me to be alive to any schemes she might have. Why she might be interested inmyopinion on the matter bewildered me. Something strange passed over her face and she tilted her head to the side as if she was a bird considering a worm. “Miss Viola, what are your thoughts?”
Why did she stare so? Did she seek to put me out of countenance, so that I might utter some indiscretion?I mimicked her tilted head. I was as much a bird of prey as she. “The duke may do as he will—what alpha doesn’t?—, but I pity his future wife. She shall be denied the protection of a mate bond. And what if either of them finds a mate? Will it lead to divorce or will he take a mate on the side? Will she be left ‘Duchess’ in name only? For a mate will always take precedence over a mere spouse. She’ll be a womb to him.”
I bit my lip. I’d revealed far more than I’d intended. Dammit! If I wanted the duke’s votes then I’d best stamp down on my desire to flay him alive. Not mate his wife? Oh, it made my blood boil.
“Would you like to know who he chose?” she leant forward as she asked the question. Her eyes cunning and assessing.
“What? Like a pair of new boots?” I scoffed.
“He compared it to buying a horse. The widowed Countess of Kellingham shall be his bride.”
“Oh? I do not know her.” A bald-faced lie. Though I hadn’t the pleasure of her acquaintance, she had been the subject of Beatrice’s scandalous paintings. I knew her story as well as I knew my alphabet. Words had not formed but the basics were there.
“No, you would not,” she said not unkindly. It was not my fault that I had yet to suffer the indignity of being presented at Court. “But know this, the Earl’s line ended with him. The properties returned to the crown, and the widow friendless because she was a wife and not a mate.”
Nothing I did not already know, but hearing it spoken out loud ignited my anger on the widow’s behalf.
“The Earl had no alpha relatives?” I asked—oh, how I hated pretending an ignorance to the world around me! How I longed to just speak my mind, be unashamed of my knowledge.
“None, and no natural children either. I understand the duke will marry Lady Clare, breed her in her next heat then leave her to raise the children. What a life for her to live! Don’t you think, Miss Hartwell? An omega such as her? Truly blessed to go from Miss to Countess to Duchess so easily!”
Every instinct in me, every principle I held near to my heart, revolted at the thought of this poor omega subjected to the indignity of becoming a mere womb to a powerful alpha who had no care for her well-being or her future should he die, leaving her without the protection of either a mate bond or the guarantee of an alpha child. What would happen if she gave this duke omegas or betas? Would he mate-bond another woman, in hopes of finding heirs? It turned my stomach. I pressed my lips together in a valiant effort to keep my feelings in check. Was Mrs Markham taunting me? Daring me to say something indiscreet, more indiscreet than I had been earlier. No, I would not do it. “You will excuse me. I have a headache.”
I crossed to the door but had not left before hearing my aunt, her omega sweet voice carrying easily to my ears. “I thought the Countess was refusing to entertain another marriage or to spend time with any alphas?”
I snorted. Her tune would change once she discovered herself the object of a duke’s interest. Perhaps that was uncharitable, but omegas could no more resist the pull of a virile alpha as a virile alpha could resist us. Our natures worked against us with every breath we took. My jaw ached with how tight I clenched it. I needed Orley’s support for the bill. I loathed the thought of interacting with an alpha who would not see past his own needs for an heir.
* * *
Omegas—oh, very well, to be specific, as my Papa would wish, that great omega poetess Shakespearia (for Charles Hartwell subscribed to the belief that such a way with words could only come from an omega)—say that “the apparel oft proclaims the alpha.” Those words, from her play Hamlet, are said with uncomfortable honesty by the beta Polonius to his alpha son, who is about to return to the French Court. For while the speech is full of ridiculous maxims that set one and another off, at the heart of the plea there is some truth that cannot be denied. While betas must keep themselves muted in the world, alphas have quite the opposite pull. They are a dynamic that must wear their strength and position in society openly. They must posture and parade around to maintain their standing. Were I to be asked in a more serious moment I should say I pity them for that. Peacocking to prove yourself seems like an exhausting way to spend one’s time, and as I looked down on the clothes Iris had left me, I considered how lonely the lives of alphas might be. I knew she wore men’s fashions to assert herself as a female alpha. She struggled more than our mother because she was slight, small compared to other female alphas. Dominance was the game they sought to play. It sparked a feeling of sympathy for this unknown duke I was determined to influence. In offering marriage to the countess he only did what he thought necessary, what his dynamic and position in society demanded of him. No different from an omega’s assumed desire to raise children and nurture those around them. I brushed the feelings aside. What point to project any of those concerns onto someone I’d never met? One who seemed to lack any natural passions or desires.
Once again steeled by unwavering purpose, I removed the simple gown I wore and thanked my dear Mama for having no interest or time for fashion. I could not think of a single garment I wore—including the front lacing stays—that I could not dress myself in. My trick would be better protected without the need for a maidservant to lace me in or help fit into the fashionable gowns the way my aunt required. Much less dress me in the masculine fashions. My women’s weeds might be out of date, but what did that matter? I could not see the need to create such a vision when my work was that much more important. Best keep it simple.
I stood in my room, skin covered with goose pimples, and looked at myself in the long mirror. They were a popular necessity in the rooms of every fashionable omega and revealed every imperfection I suffered—at least according to the current standards of beauty. My hair was nearly black, and I stood almost tall in my stockinged feet. The height of a beta woman, certainly, and not the petite diminutive omegas that the portraitists of the day sought for their models. But such was the lot of omegas and alphas born to the unusual pairing of omega men to alpha women. I could better get away with my ruse as a smaller alpha—especially when it was known who my parents were. Still, Iris’s clothes were a smidge too big for me, and I had laboured over altering them to better fit my smaller frame. I could not thank the fashions of the day for they were no help in concealing my hips, which flared in the way every woman would wish. I hoped that it would not be remarked on for my height and build were of greater import. The final touches were to hide my scent by using all the products alphas preferred. I had even purchased a box of perfumed snuff, which I could pretend to take and would help in my goal to disguise my own scent. Most importantly, I must refrain from too strenuous exercise and bathe in lemon water. For this first attempt at pretending to be an alpha, I decided to forgo wearing Iris’s unwashed shirts that would do the most to mask my scent. As her twin, I could not even notice the smell the way another alpha or omega could. To my nose, they smelt unpleasantly unwashed, but a necessary evil. Pulling my hair back into a club tied with velvet ribbon, I descended to the drawing room where my uncle waited for me along with his beta valet and butler who had both been brought in to my charade—though the reason they were given for it in no way touched on my true motives.
I entered, as my uncle had instructed, without the usual knock gently bred omegas were trained to give whenever they entered a room. Pushing the door open and allowing it to bounce on its hinges, I strode in.
“Good, you are dressed for riding,” was the first thing my uncle said. He stood by the fire also dressed for riding, one booted foot resting on the grate. “Your aunt feels unwell, so you’ll be with me tonight. Wear your sister’s puce satin. I will introduce you to some friends of mine. They were also friends of your parents and will keep your secret. And think it a good joke if you are discovered.”
“Sir, that is too much of a risk!” I exclaimed. What I planned was dangerous. A fact I was increasingly aware of now that I stood dressed like this in front of an alpha and two betas.
