visit Woolsey Castle for luncheon once Alexia took over supervision of its kitchens.
Miss Hisselpenny took the entire event as an excuse to flirt with anything male and on two legs, and a few on four. This seemed perfectly acceptable, until Alexia spotted her going goggle-eyed over the repulsive Lord Ambrose. The new Lady Maccon crooked an imperious finger at Professor Lyall and sent him to salvage the situation.
Professor Lyall, muttering something about “new brides having more to concern themselves with than meddling,” did as ordered. He insinuated himself seamlessly into the conversation between Lord Ambrose and Miss Hisselpenny, and hustled Ivy away for a waltz without anyone the wiser to his militarylike intervention tactics. He then carried Ivy off to the other side of the lawn, which was serving as the dance floor, and introduced her to Lord Maccon's redheaded claviger, Tunstell.
Tunstell looked at Ivy.
Ivy looked at Tunstell.
Professor Lyall noted with satisfaction that they wore identical expressions of the stunned-donkey variety.
“Tunstell,” instructed the Beta, “ask Miss Hisselpenny if she would like to dance.”
“Would you, um, like to, um, dance, Miss Hisselpenny?” stuttered the normally loquacious young man.
“Oh,” said Ivy. “Oh yes, please.”
Professor Lyall, all forgotten, nodded to himself. Then he dashed off to deal with Lord Akeldama and Lord Ambrose who seemed to be getting into some sort of heated argument on the subject of waistcoats.
“Well, wife?” asked Alexia's new husband, whisking her about the lawn.
“Yes, husband?”
“Think we can officially escape yet?”
Alexia looked about nervously. Everyone seemed to be suddenly fleeing the dance floor, and the music was changing. “Um, I think, perhaps, not just yet.” They both stopped and looked about.
“This was not part of the wedding plan,” she said in annoyance. “Biffy, what is happening here?” she yelled.
From the sidelines, Biffy shrugged and shook his head.
The clavigers were causing the disturbance. They had arranged themselves in a large circle about Lord Maccon and Alexia and were slowly pushing everyone else away. Alexia noticed that Ivy, little traitor, was helping them.
Lord Maccon slapped his forehead with his hand. “God's truth, they aren't really? That old tradition?” He trailed off as the howling began. “Aye, they are. Well, my dear, best get used to this kind of thing.”
The wolves burst into the open circle like a river of fur. Under the quarter moon, there was no anger or bloodlust in their movements. Instead it was like a dance, liquid and beautiful. The fuzzy throng was comprised of not just the Woolsey Pack but also all the visiting werewolves. Almost thirty of them jumped and pranced and yipped as they coiled around the newly married couple.
Alexia held very still and relaxed into the dizzying movement. The wolves circled closer and closer until they pressed against her skirts, all hot predator breath and soft fur. Then one wolf stopped directly next to Lord Maccon—a thin, sandy, vulpinelike creature—Professor Lyall.
With a wink at Alexia, the Beta threw his head back and barked, once, sharply.
The wolves stopped stock-still and then did the most organized, politely amusing thing. They lined up in a neat circle all about and one by one came forward. As each wolf stood before the newly married pair, he lowered his head between his forelegs, showing the back of his neck in a funny little bow.
“Are they paying homage to you?” Alexia asked her husband.
He laughed. “Lord, no. Why would they bother with me?”
“Oh,” replied Alexia, realizing it was meant to honor her. “Should I do something?”
Conall kissed her cheek. “You are wonderful as you are.”
The last to come forward was Lyall. His bow was somehow more elegant and more restrained than anyone else's.
Once completed, he barked again, and they all leaped into action: running three times around the couple and dashing off into the night.
After that, everything else was anticlimactic, and as soon as civility allowed, Alexia's new husband hustled her into the waiting carriage and on the road out of London toward Woolsey Castle.
A few of the werewolves returned then, still in wolf form, to run alongside the carriage.
Just outside of town, Lord Maccon stuck his head out the coach window and told them unceremoniously to “shove off.”
“I gave the pack the evening out,” he informed Alexia, retracting his head and closing the window. His wife issued him an arch look.
“Oh, very well. I told them if they showed their furry faces round Woolsey Castle for the next three days, I would personally eviscerate them.”
Alexia smiled. “Good gracious, where will they all stay?”
“Lyall muttered something about invading Lord Akeldama's town house.” Conall looked smugly amused.
Alexia laughed. “Would I were a fly on that wall!”
Her husband turned about and without further ado began unclasping the brooch that held the neck of her beautiful gown together.
“Intriguing design, this dress,” he commented without real interest.
“Rather say, necessary design,” replied his lady as the neck fell away to show a neat pattern of tiny love bites all about her throat. Lord Maccon traced them with proprietary pride.
“What are you up to?” Alexia asked as he gently kissed the tiny bruises. She was distracted by the delicious tingly sensation this caused, but not enough to forgo noticing his hands were round the back of the bodice of her dress, sliding open the row of buttons there.
“I should think that would be obvious by now,” he replied with a grin. He pushed back the top of her dress and became intent on undoing her corset. His lips moved down from her neck to delve into the region of her décolletage.
“Conall,” Alexia murmured hazily, almost losing her objections as new and delicious sensation extended from nipples turned strangely tight and hard. “We are in a moving carriage. Why this constant preference for inappropriate locations for amorous activities?”
“Mmm, not to worry,” he purposefully misconstrued her protestations. “I gave the coachman instructions to take the long way round.” He helped her to stand and shucked her out of her dress, skirts, and corset with consummate rapidity.
Alexia, in only a shift, stockings, and shoes, crossed her arms over her breasts self-consciously.
Her new husband ran large calloused hands around the hem of her chemise, stroking at the soft skin of her upper thighs. Then he lifted the material up to cup her buttocks before raising that last bastion of her admittedly deteriorated dignity over her head and discarding it.
Until that moment, Alexia realized she had never before seen real hunger in his eyes. They were in physical contact, supernatural and preternatural, but nevertheless, his eyes had turned to pure wolf yellow. He looked at her, clad in nothing but stockings and ivory button boots, as though he wanted to eat her alive.
“You are trying to get back at me, are you?” she said accusingly, trying to calm him a little. The intensity was scaring her. She was, after all, relatively new to this kind of activity.
He paused and looked at her, yellow fading in genuine surprise. “For what?”
“Back at the Hypocras Club, when you were naked and I was not.”
He pulled her toward him. She had no idea how he managed to attend to himself as well as her, but somehow he had opened the flap at the front of his breeches. Everything else remained covered. “I'll admit the thought had crossed my mind. Now sit.”
“What, there?”
“Aye, there.”
Alexia looked dubious. However, there were destined to be some arguments in their relationship she could not hope to win. This was one of them. The carriage, rather too conveniently, pitched slightly to one side, and she stumbled forward. Conall caught her and guided her into his lap in one smooth movement.
He did not do anything else with that particular proximity for a moment; instead he turned his attention to
