STEP FOUR

Take Every Opportunity To Dance

“What are you about, Alpha?” asked Channing ten minutes later, after they’d taken the ascension chamber down from the hidden door at the back of the hat shop.

Biffy was all innocence as they walked the underground passage to their full-moon dungeon. “Oh, dear me, Channing, did you not want to go to the Papworth-Walmsley ball?”

“I never want to go to balls.”

“But you’ll go to this one.”

“You practically promised the chit that I would.”

“And that’s the only reason? I never knew you to have such a care for my good word. How very noble and pack-minded of you all of a sudden.”

Silence.

“She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” Biffy pressed his advantage.

“For an American.” Channing squinted at his Alpha, curious despite himself. “Why such marked attention? People will think you are interested in courting her.”

Biffy laughed. “They will not. The ton may be willfully ignorant, but its rumor mill is neither stupid nor ill informed. I do not pretend to an interest in women and never have. Romantically, of course.”

“So, why single her out?”

Biffy shrugged. “I like her. Such charming forthright ways. She knows her own mind, I think. Rare in one so young.”

“She collects rocks.”

“Hence the name Lazuli.” Biffy’s tone implied he already knew of this quirk in Miss Wigglesworth’s character.

Biffy said nothing for a long moment, only shuffled some paperwork on the desk he’d set up to one side of the dungeon. The rest of the cavernous space was fitted with massive, heavy cages, for full moon security and safety. London’s safety, mind you, not the pack’s.

A small, smug smile was on the Alpha’s handsome face when he next looked up.

Channing swallowed nervously and tensed.

“You call her Lazuli as if it means something to you. That alone would be enough to warrant my interest and favor. But there is something in her, something strong and resilient, like those rocks of hers, I suppose. I should like to see you break yourself against it.”

Channing snorted.

“You are ice, Channing. You only think you are strong.”

Foolish Alpha, I know I am not. I am weak and afraid. But I also cannot bear the idea of her dancing with all those other men without me there to keep her safe. She might be strong, but I think, perhaps, she has already burdened herself with too much, to be so tough so young.

An official invitation to Lady Papworth-Walmsley’s ball was waiting for the Iftercasts at breakfast. Mrs Iftercast was in ecstasies to be so singled out. She totally disturbed Mr Iftercast’s newspaper perusal with her enthusiastic squawking.

“Oh, my dears, this is such an honor! I cannot believe it of you, Faith, to have attracted Lord Falmouth’s notice. I mean, I can believe it, because you are such a lovely girl, but still. Of all the werewolves in London. He was not even on my list of possibilities. I thought he was firmly off the market.”

Faith tried to rein in this supposition. “I don’t really think that’s his reason for orchestrating our invitation.”

“Mums, we believe he is using our Faith here for a social coup.” Teddy spoke around a mouthful of eggs.

Mrs Iftercast glared at her daughter. “Swallow, then speak, Theodora! I declare, sometimes I wonder what we paid that school for.”

“Sorry, Mums.” Teddy looked unrepentant.

Faith was amazed. Mrs Iftercast was so wonderfully even-tempered. Had Faith done such a thing at dinner, Mrs Wigglesworth would have yelled and then slapped her, hard.

Mrs Iftercast only rolled her eyes at her daughter. “You’re hopeless.”

Faith automatically tried to smooth things over, just in case there was a temper hiding in there somewhere. “Lord Falmouth wishes to see me do well in society. I believe he wishes to set me up as an original.”

“And what is that, if not his singling you out?” Mrs Iftercast looked satisfied and mercenary.

Teddy came to Faith’s defence. “It is not courting behavior, Mums. Especially not for a werewolf. He is making her attractive to others – that’s not the normal way of things. He has given her no gifts, nor does he seem particularly protective towards her.”

“And how would you know the details of homo lupine courtship behaviors, Theodora?”

Teddy grinned. “That, Mums darling, is exactly what you paid that school for.”

Mr Iftercast snapped his paper. “Good. Got my money’s worth.”

Mrs Iftercast considered. “You may be right, dears. Still, even the friendship of Lord Falmouth is no small thing, cousin. I believe the hats may be a bit too much, but if he recommends them, you cannot but wear them. And if invitations such as these are the result… Well, you will be set. You both will be set. Not only will you have first dibs on the London Pack, Faith dear – the Alpha’s approval bears great weight with his pack, you know? – but you will have entree into the highest echelons of progressive society.”

Mr Iftercast looked up from his paper at that.

Mrs Iftercast gave him a telling arch look. “Yes, dear, this could have a positive impact on your political career. Of course, I have already sent our acceptance of this invitation. But now we have much to do and little time to do it in. There are gowns to consider. Theodora, your Worth will have to do.”

Teddy said by way of explanation to Faith, “I have this one Worth gown in cream silk with roses strewn about and such intricate lace you wouldn’t believe. It’s divine. I want to live in it.”

“Worth?”

Teddy’s eyes went very wide. “Oh, darling cousin, you have a great deal to learn. And I have much to teach you. Worth is—”

“Not now, Theodora.” Mrs Iftercast interrupted what looked to be a long ode to some designer or another. She turned her attention back to her guest. “Faith, darling, Theodora tells me you have nothing that will do. We must find you a dressmaker immediately.”

“More shopping?” said Faith, worried. The hats had been delivered, but she’d yet to devise any form of remuneration. Biffy had asked for nothing when he took her order. She understood London shops to run on account, but she dearly hoped her hosts were not paying for her purchases themselves. The Iftercasts were already being far too generous.

Unfortunately, more shopping was indeed called for.

Ball gowns, it turned out, were rather anticlimactic after hats. The Iftercasts had a modiste they used regularly, but when Faith relayed Biffy’s strict instructions as to her style of dress, her cousins agreed their seamstress would not do.

“We must find you someone willing to take risks. A newer shop with a younger proprietress. A woman with a reputation to build rather than to maintain.” Mrs Iftercast looked worried.

Fortunately, they found success at the third shop they tried. The modiste, a Miss Cordelia Honeybun, was quietly intrigued when told the parameters of Faith’s new wardrobe, where previous seamstresses had been shocked or disgusted.

Because Miss Honeybun had no established name, her costs were also reasonable (to Faith’s profound relief). She was even more interested in the challenge, once she learned that Faith’s style had been recommended by Lord Falmouth.

“They say he has his jaws around the pulse of fashion. The first werewolf ever to take an interest.” Miss Honeybun’s voice was as sweet as her name. “He is very forward-thinking, I believe. The ton has been abuzz since he took power.”

Miss Honeybun clearly knew that her role as modiste carried with it a requirement for not inconsiderable gossip.

Faith nodded, while the woman pinned swathes of fabric about her. “I like him a lot.”

“And have you met the rest of the London Pack?”

“Only Major Channing.”

“His Gamma,” explained Teddy, who was sitting nearby and watching the fitting with interest. “You’re so lucky to be tall, Faith. I could never carry off such a severe style.”

The ball gown Miss Honeybun was draping was based only loosely on a Parisian fashion plate Faith picked out. Faith had pointed and explained, “Like this, only without all the frills. Very simple, Grecian almost, shows the fabric to advantage.” She’d fallen in love with a bolt of sea-green velvet, a mermaid color. Biffy had instructed her to stick with spring shades only. No pastels and nothing too dark. “Spring will do you proud, especially as it is spring.”

Faith thought the color looked well with her fair skin and hair. Her eyes were always a little difficult, slightly too dark a blue for the rest of her – better suited to a brunette, her mother was prone to lamenting.

If Miss Honeybun had time, she would appliqué silver and white flowers about the neck and the hem of Faith’s gown. But the ball was only a few days away, and she would be rushed to even finish the basic dress in time.

“I could loan you Minnie,” suggested Faith, hoping she did not offend either woman with the offer. Minnie had a keen eye for fashion, and Faith thought she might enjoy spending time in a seamstress’s shop, as opposed to enduring her normal maid duties.

“Oh, what a good idea,” said Teddy.

Minnie perked up from where she had been watching the fitting avidly. “I’d love it, miss!”

Miss Honeybun looked cautiously relieved. “Are you adept with a needle, girl?”

Minnie nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Miss Honeybun’s smile was tight-lipped, but not mean. “I cannot ask for more. Are you willing to leave her with me immediately, miss?”

“Minnie?” asked Faith.

“Yes, please, miss.”

“Teddy, will I do without a maid for tonight?”

“I’ll loan you Emeline for your hair if necessary.”

Mrs Iftercast stood at that. “If that’s settled? I think we had best get on, my dears. You’ll need white gloves for that dress, Faith. Do you have opera-length?”

Faith nodded.

“Oh, good. I’m assuming you have dancing slippers? Yes? Good. Then we only require something for your hair and a ribbon for your neck. Miss Honeybun, can you whip up something to match or should we shop further?”

“I am a full-service concern, Madame, and with this one’s help, all should be ready in time for your ball.”

“You’re terrific,” praised Faith, because she was. Also, Miss Honeybun seemed to be bristling slightly at an assumed insult to her skills, and one did not want one’s dressmaker in a snit.

It worked. Miss Honeybun blushed. “You haven’t seen the finished product yet, miss.”

“I have faith in you,” said Faith, because she felt the woman needed it. And then: “Have fun, Minnie. Let me know how it goes and if you require anything, please.”

“Yes, miss.”

The big night had arrived and Mrs Iftercast was patently nervous on the way to the ball. With Faith’s mother, this would have meant tiptoeing around her for fear of a slap or a cruel rebuke. But with Mrs Iftercast, it only manifested in the form of her talking nonstop in the Isopod. She issued instructions to her three children without pause for the entire quarter hour’s drive. Faith imagined her as a small, round brigadier hell-bent on strategic attacks of virulent politeness.

“Theodora, do not talk overmuch of horses. You know horses and werewolves are not compatible. It might offend the supernatural guests.”

“Yes, Mums.”

“Cyril, please don’t disappear immediately into the card room. You must dance at least once with your sister and once with Miss Wigglesworth. And check back as the evening progresses. I expect both my girls to have full dance cards, but you must do your duty to the family first, before you go gambling away the family’s money.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Colin, try not to bumble. You will keep bumbling your Viennese waltz. Better not to undertake it at all than be a bumbler. And do not pay too frequent address to that young Miss Fernhough. She’s too young. You both are.”

“But Mother! Miss Fernhough is a pip.”

“Such vulgar language! One dance and one dance only. Now, Faith dear…”

“Yes, cousin?”

“Of course, you look absolutely ravishing, but perhaps no mention of rocks right away?”

“Not a single sedimentary sequence shall pass my lips, I promise.” Faith attempted to look grave.

“I don’t know what that means, dear, but thank you. Now, are we ready?”

The Isopod hissed to a stop.

Papworth House was a large concern with a most excellent aspect and desirable address. Faith would have known all this as they trod up the stairs even if Mrs Iftercast hadn’t seen fit to tell her of it at length.

They arrived fashionably late, although not so late as to have missed the receiving line.

It was one of the first prestigious events of the season, so everyone who was anyone was in attendance. Either Mrs Iftercast or Teddy constantly explained precedence in Faith’s ear as they waited. Before they even gave over their wraps, Faith counted nearly a dozen explanations as to who else important was arriving alongside and who was who in the receiving line. Once through that hubbub and into the ballroom itself, it became a constant barrage of who was everyone and anyone of note.

There were major politicians, minor royalty, aristocrats of every ilk, acceptable gentry, leading members of the ton, the very wealthy (which included a few fellow Americans), and, of course, noted members of the supernatural set. Because the hosts were progressive, the bevy of musicians set to entertain were drones belonging to the Wimbledon Hive. There were some clearly theatrical young men sent to fill the numbers and dance with all the ladies, but whom Faith took note to avoid, because they were clavigers. Faith had mingled with clavigers before, much to her shame. She would not ruin her chances in London.

There was one solitary vampire, the stunning Lord Ambrose, about whom all in attendance were curious. The last few decades, he’d rarely left his hive, and to have stretched his tether so far as Papworth House was an honor for all concerned (and a sublime coup for the hostess).

Lastly, there were three members of the London Pack – its Alpha, its Beta, and, much to everyone’s shock, its Gamma. Major Channing caused quite the stir, as he never attended social events and eschewed balls as if they conferred alongside the punch some plague only werewolves could catch. And he was not wearing gloves. At a ball!

Lady Papworth-Walmsley was in ecstasies. Teddy explained that hers would be the assembly to beat for the remainder of the season. So long as the evening went smoothly, of course.

“No doubt she is a little nervous to have werewolves and a vampire. It’s known they rarely mingle well. But I suspect even an altercation could only add to her standing.”

“Teddy! You are wicked. Do you think it likely?” Faith’s eyes flicked between the vampire to one side of the room, and Biffy and his Beta (a nondescript sandy-haired gentleman) on the other.

Teddy scoffed. “With Lord Falmouth present? I think it highly unlikely. He is so civilized, especially with his Beta nearby. But Lord Ambrose is an unknown entity. Just look at him. There is a gentleman who could tempt any young lady into sin.”

Faith could only agree. On an aesthetic level, Lord Ambrose formulated anyone’s ideal of what a vampire ought to look like. He was tall, dark, and handsome with a pale, sardonic brow and sculpted lips. Even as she stared, he seemed to sense her regard, and his eyes, predatory and sharp, homed in upon her. He took in her dress and hair and then focused on her neck, white and exposed with only the narrow velvet ribbon to indicate she was not available for feeding. He looked like he wanted to lick his lips.

Faith only barely kept herself from flinching.

His eyes caught on something behind her, and he sneered and turned back to his conversation, expression just this side of insultingly bored.

“Lazuli,” said a voice with which Faith was now unfortunately familiar.

Faith prepared for battle and turned to face a man equally as tall, with lips equally as shapely as those of Lord Ambrose, but with maybe too many teeth and eyes the opposite of dark and brooding. “Major Channing. How are you this evening?”

“Very well.” He looked it too, his lanky form in perfectly executed evening wear. His blond hair was queued neatly back.

“I understand this is not your typical haunt, sir.”

“Haunting? No. Hunting, yes. Would you like to dance?”

Faith fumbled with her chatelaine, searching for her card.

“Now.”

Faith offered up her hand, feeling, it must be admitted, a little overwhelmed by his presence and by his insistence. She shivered, thrilled.

This was what she’d always hoped for in a werewolf.

They had a simple waltz. His hand on her back was sure and cool and very strong. She could feel power in those fingers, that supernatural strength, not that he muscled her about the floor, but it colored all his actions with caution. He did not wish to hurt her.

“How goes your hunting, Miss Wigglesworth?”

“I’ve not gone hiking for rocks yet. Although I seem to have caught myself some hats.”

He seemed to be trying not to smile. “That was not the hunting to which I referred.”

“Isn’t it gauche to talk of such things?”

“Look around you, my Lazuli, see all the matrons with their precious daughters? See how they bend and flutter. See how they circle in on prospects and targets. Hunting is Britain’s favorite sport, especially amongst the ladies of the ton.”

“And what are you hunting, Major?”

“Information.”

“And you think you’ll be successful at this particular assembly?”

“There are some interesting players in place.”

“You refer, perhaps, to Lord Ambrose?”

“Things are always more interesting when a vampire is involved.”

“There are probably many who say the same thing about werewolves.”

“They are not quite the same thing.” It was clearly important to him that she understand this.

“So I’ve been told. Funny, but I originally thought you belonged to the fanged set when we first met, and yet I find you belong to the furballs instead.”

“They thought so too, once. Werewolf suits me better.”

“Does it? You don’t seem the type to play well inside a pack.”

“It is not often a choice.” He gave a faint smile. “All this you have gathered on my character in the space of one conversation about rocks and another about hats? Or have you made enquiries about me in particular?”

Channing could not help but feel smug. Faith had looked into his character. She had asked about him. She was intrigued.

He preened.

She smelled wonderful.

Of course, he too had made enquiries. He could hardly help himself. Five days since he had seen her last. Five days was enough time to determine what London knew of Miss Wigglesworth, if not quite enough time to get word back from his American contacts.

What am I doing? Channing wondered, not for the first time, as he whirled the young American girl about the floor.

She was sweet and pliant in his arms, as if she did not mind being kept there, as if she did not mind there was violence underneath. Or perhaps she did not think of herself as prey. Or perhaps she was unaware of the sound her pulse made in his head and the delicious scent of her – raisins soaked in brandy, Madeira cake and custard.

“I enquired about you, too.” He allowed his thumb to stroke against her back and soothe away the threat in his words.

Nevertheless, she jerked a fraction, although her steps remained sure and steady. She knew well how to dance, this one. She has danced with dangerous men before.

“And what have you discovered, Major?” Her brows arched, finely formed and a shade darker than her hair. He was beginning to find her accent charming, which worried him.

“There is some scandal to your presence here. Some reason you left Boston for London. Some purpose to your placing your pretty face and golden hair on our marriage mart instead of yours.”

“I’m sent to catch a werewolf husband, Major Channing, that’s it. Aren’t you afraid of me?”

He couldn’t stop a small chuckle at that. “Shouldn’t you be afraid of me? I have ruined women for lesser reasons then a mercenary agenda.”

“Have you really? You aren’t hungry for a wife, then, Major?”

“That ship has sailed.” Way back, too far. He felt the old ache then, and wondered if he had nursed it so much into a bitter memory that the few pleasant moments of that time were now entirely lost to him.

Miss Wigglesworth gave him an assessing look out of her remarkable blue eyes. “You’re a libertine? How very unique.” She gave a small fake yawn.

She was, in that heartbeat, so perfect and so pure and so very dangerous indeed that all he could do was frighten her away. “Have you been listening at keyholes, Lazuli? I assure you, they have always been willing, even when I ask that they pretend otherwise.”

She blushed deep pink at that – an appealing thing, the blood high under her cheeks, warm and subtle and alive. He wanted to delve into her, with teeth and body until she was ravaged and supine and wrecked and bleeding and his.

She did not, as he had expected, break away from him mid-step. The blush was there, to be sure, but she was made of sterner stuff. Any true innocent would be repulsed by the intent in his tone. A woman without experience would fear the implication of his preferences – the certain acknowledgment that there was wolf, nothing but wolf, underneath all his icy indifference. Faith was intrigued.

She tilted her head and looked hard at him, her lovely eyes flinty. “So, you’re just a beast who enjoys the chase, nothing else?”

“Exactly so.”

She threw it all at him. Like a piece of warm fresh meat, cut and dripping temptation, enough to make him salivate, to bait her trap. “You can’t catch me.”

The waltz ended.

Channing returned to his pack-mates wearing a faintly bemused expression. Only they would notice, however, as his customary veneer was firmly in place.

“That lovely little American just gave you the dirtiest look I have ever seen you receive. Bravo, Channing,” said his Alpha.

“Oh, come now, Biffy. Surely I’ve had worse.”

Professor Lyall looked quietly amused. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing but the truth.”

“Now, that I do not believe at all.” Biffy sipped a small glass of port. “What advantage could the truth possibly serve?”

The Beta looked equally unimpressed. “Your truths are clearly upsetting to a lady of quality, Channing.”

“What makes you think she is upset? I merely intimated that I know there is some scandal to her being here in our city.”

Biffy looked at him full and sharp, the Alpha in his eyes, the pull strong on Channing’s tether. “Don’t do it, Gamma.” A direct command.

Channing looked away, taking in the ball with all its undercurrents of need and hope and fear. It made him want to sneeze. He curled his lip instead; it was all so sad and tawdry, and had been done so very many times before.

His Alpha clarified the order. “Don’t toy with her and ruin her simply for your own amusement.”

“I assure you, Alpha, I am not amused.” Channing allowed himself to drift away.

Behind him, he heard Biffy say to Lyall, “Should we warn her?”

“It might have a deleterious effect. You saw the way she looked at him.”

“You’re inclined to suspect she may take it as a challenge?”

“Or wish to save him from himself. It has happened before.”

Biffy sighed. He must know that Channing was still within hearing. Perhaps he wanted his opinion known. The opinion of my Alpha. Does it matter so much? Probably.

What Biffy said next, then, must be taken as criticism. “How many times has he taken revenge on a woman for the sins of a wife decades dead?”

Channing ached, knowing that he disappointed his Alpha.

Professor Lyall’s voice was low. “I have lost count, but you can understand why.”

“He must be exhausted by it.”

“I have never known him to be otherwise.”

Channing gave a sardonic chuckle. Lyall knew most of the particulars, and in his quiet way, the Beta understood more than many could. But Betas were not the type to nurse resentment and pain – quite the opposite – so Lyall utterly failed to understand Channing’s behavior.

Channing’s attention was caught then by Miss Wigglesworth’s laugh. Something a young gentleman had said. A young gentleman who stood too close and was now leading her out onto the floor for a polka.

Channing glared at them both. Come to London to trap a werewolf, had she? Thought that she was the hunter, did she? Well, he would show her what it meant to be hunted.