immortality a curse, she supposed it was an odd kind of accolade, praise that she could stave off the bestiality of full moon. To be called curse-breaker was certainly more complimentary than
Alexia found her parasol and stood. “I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Major Channing, but I would not wish to perjure myself so early in the evening.”
“Well, confound it,” said Major Channing, glaring first at Lyall and then at everyone else around him, “why didn’t any of you
Alexia did feel a little guilty at that. She had let her temper get the better of her. But really, he hadn’t given her time to introduce herself.
“I take it you were not informed of my appearance, then?” Alexia asked, prepared to chalk another thing up onto the board of her husband’s mistakes for the night. He was going to get a ruddy earful when he got home.
Major Channing said, “Well, no, not precisely. I mean, yes, we had a short missive a couple months back, but the description was not… you understand… and I thought you would be…”
Alexia hefted her parasol thoughtfully.
Channing backpedaled rapidly. “… less Italian,” he said finally.
“And my dear husband did not warn you of the truth of it when you arrived?” Alexia was looking more thoughtful than angry. Perhaps Major Channing was not so bad. After all, she, too, had been surprised at Lord Maccon’s choosing
Major Channing looked irritated at that. “We have not yet seen him, my lady. Or this faux pas might have been avoided.”
“I do not know about that.” Lady Maccon shrugged. “He is prone to exaggerating my virtues. His descriptions of me are generally a tad unrealistic.”
Major Channing dialed his charm back up to the highest setting—Lady Maccon could practically see the gears crunching and the steam spiraling off his body. “Oh, I doubt that, my lady.” Unfortunately for the Gamma, who did genuinely recognize Alexia’s appeal, Alexia chose to take offense.
She went cold, her brown eyes hard and her generous mouth compressed into a straight line.
He hurriedly switched the subject, turning to Professor Lyall. “Why was our venerated leader not at the station to meet us? I had some fairly urgent business to discuss with him.”
Lyall shrugged. There was an air about him that suggested the major not push this particular subject. It was the nature of a Gamma to criticize, but equally common was a Beta’s support, no matter how rude the Alpha’s actions. “Urgent BUR matters,” was all he answered.
“Yes, well, my business might also be urgent,” snapped Major Channing. “Hard to know, especially when he is unavailable to see to the needs of the pack.”
“What exactly happened?” Professor Lyall’s tone implied that whatever this urgent business, it was probably Major Channing’s fault.
“The pack and I experienced something unusual on board ship.” Major Channing clearly felt that if the Beta could be cagey, so could he. He turned pointedly to Alexia. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Maccon. I apologize for the dust-up. Ignorance is no excuse; I assure you I am well aware of that. Nevertheless, I shall endeavor to make it up to you to the best of my poor abilities.”
“Apologize to Tunstell,” replied Lady Maccon.
That was a blow: the pack Gamma, third in command, apologizing to a lowly claviger. Major Channing sucked in his breath but did exactly as he was told. He made a pretty speech to the redhead, who looked progressively more and more embarrassed as it rattled on, terribly conscious of his Gamma’s humiliation. By the end, Tunstell was so flushed his freckles had disappeared entirely behind the red. After which Major Channing disappeared in a huff.
“Where is he going?” wondered Lady Maccon.
“Most likely to move the regiment’s camping arrangements to the back of the house. It will have to wait a short while, my lady, for the tent poles to cool.”
“Ah.” Alexia grinned. “I win.”
Professor Lyall sighed, looked briefly up toward the moon, and said as though appealing to a higher deity, “Alphas.”
“So”—Alexia gave him an inquiring look—“would you mind explaining Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings to me? He does not seem like a man my husband would choose to run with his pack.”
Professor Lyall tilted his head to one side. “I am not privy to his lordship’s feelings on the gentleman, but regardless of Lord Maccon’s preferences, Channing was inherited along with Woolsey. As was I. Conall had no choice. And, quite frankly, the major is not so bad. A good soldier to have guarding one’s back in a battle, and that is the honest truth. Try not to be too put off by his manner. He has always behaved himself in the capacity of Gamma, a decent third in command, despite disliking both Lord Maccon and myself.”
“Why? I mean, why you? I can perfectly comprehend not liking my husband.
Professor Lyall stifled a chuckle. “I am given to understand that he does not approve of spelling one’s name with two
Alexia twirled her parasol, embarrassed. “Pity’s sake, was he being honest under all that syrupy charm?” She wondered what it was about her physique or personality that only large werewolves seemed to find her alluring. And would it be possible to change that quality?
Professor Lyall shrugged. “I should steer well clear of him in that arena, if I were you.”
“Why?”
Lyall struggled for the polite way of putting it and then finally settled on the indelicate truth. “Major Channing likes his woman feisty, to be sure, but that is because he likes”—a delicate pause—“refining them.”
Alexia wrinkled her nose. She sensed the indelicate underpinning to Professor Lyall’s comment. She would have to research it later, confident that her father’s library would provide. Alessandro Tarabotti, preternatural, had lived a racy life and passed on to his daughter a collection of books, some of them with terribly wicked sketches, which attested to his raciness. Alexia had those books to thank for the fact that some of her husband’s more innovative desires did not provoke her into fainting fits on a regular basis.
Professor Lyall merely shrugged. “Some women like that kind of thing.”
“And some women like needlepoint,” replied Alexia, resolving to think no more on her husband’s problematic Gamma. “And some women like extraordinarily ugly hats.” This comment was sparked by the fact that she had just caught sight of her dear friend, Miss Ivy Hisselpenny, disembarking from a hackney at the end of Woolsey’s long entranceway.
Miss Hisselpenny was a long way away, but there was no doubt it was her—no one else would dare sport such a hat. It was a mind-numbing purple, trimmed in bright green, with three high feathers emerging from what looked to be an entire fruit basket arranged about the crown. Fake grapes spilled down and over one side, dangling almost to Ivy’s pert little chin.
“Fiddlesticks,” said Lady Maccon to Professor Lyall. “Am I ever going to make it to my meeting?”
Lyall took that as a hint and turned to go. Unless, of course, he was fleeing from the hat. His mistress stopped him.
“I truly do appreciate your unexpected intervention just now. I did not think he would actually attack.”
Professor Lyall looked at his Alpha’s mate thoughtfully. It was a rare unguarded look, his face free of its customary glassicals, his mild hazel eyes puzzled. “Why unexpected? Didn’t you think I was capable of defending you in Conall’s place?”
Lady Maccon shook her head. It was true she had never had much confidence in the physical abilities of her husband’s Beta, with his slight frame and professorial ways. Lord Maccon was massive and treelike; Professor Lyall was built more on the shrub scale. But that wasn’t what she had meant. “Oh no, unexpected because I had assumed you would be with my husband tonight, if this BUR problem is so very bad.”
Professor Lyall nodded.
Lady Maccon tried one last time. “I don’t suppose it was the arrival of the regiment that had my husband in a dither?”
