Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4375469.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Other
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Lydia_Martin, Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Lydia_Martin, Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Jennifer_Blake,
      Marin_Morell, Scott_McCall, Allison_Argent, Heather_(Teen_Wolf), Danielle
      (Teen_Wolf), Vernon_Boyd
  Additional Tags:
      Gothic_Romance, bodice_ripper, Pydia, sterek, Alternate_Universe_-
      Historical, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alpha_Derek, Omega
      Stiles_Stilinski, Omega_Lydia_Martin, Alpha_Peter_Hale, Alternate
      Universe_-_Regency, Regency, Regency_Romance, Witchcraft, period_specific
      slurs, Mpreg, explicit_sexual_situtations, adult_scenes, Adult
      Situations, accusations_of_witch_craft, secondary_sterek, Wordcount:
      50.000-100.000
  Series:
      Part 3 of A/B/O_bodice_rippers
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-19 Completed: 2016-03-27 Chapters: 27/27 Words: 60817
****** The Seventh Bride ******
by DarkAthena_(seraphim_grace)
Summary
     Lydia Martin is sold into marriage to the shadowy Lord Peter Hale, a
     man who never leaves his room and whom reputation tells has murdered
     his previous six brides, but there is more than Lydia knows going on
     at Maunlilie Tor, there is a mysterious witch upon the property and
     the housekeeper might not be as friendly as she first appears.
     THIS IS A GOTHIC BODICE RIPPER AND SO WILL CONTAIN HORROR ELEMENTS
     AND SOME DETAILS READERS MIGHT FIND TRIGGERING
     TO PREVENT SPOILERS ALL WARNINGS ARE IN THE END NOTES NOT THE TAGS
     HOWEVER THERE IS NO CHARACTER DEATH, NON CON OR EXTREME VIOLENCE.
     THINK REBECCA BY DAPHNE DUMAURIER
     if you don't want to be spoiled don't read the end notes
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Prologue
London, 1546
Queen Catherine stood upon a small horsehair stool as the seamstress hemmed her
gown. Of her court only William Hale, a young omega, was beside her, singing
sweetly as the seamstress worked.
“Majesty," Lady Mary said, opening the door and dropping a quick curtsey, “you
must come at once, it is terrible, Lady Joanna has gone quite mad.”
Lady Joanna Belvoir was one of the more respected ladies of the court because
of her family, who held a lot of wealth and power in the court. She remained in
London because her husband was held by the crown on the Isle of Wight and she
petitioned constantly for his return. Lord Walsingham himself had reviewed the
case before it was placed before the king, and had decided that the
imprisonment was just. Her husband had been found guilty of hiding away a
Catholic abbot who had been accused of treason and was due for trial. Yet Lady
Joanna maintained the role of a devoted wife and petitioned again and again for
his release, even though she knew he would not be.
Catherine allowed the seamstress to make quick large looping stitches to hold
up the hem as she went down to the room where Lady Joanna was waiting.
Lady Joanna was waiting in a side chamber off the main hall and many had
gathered in an attempt to calm her, as she scratched at her face and breasts.
Her hair was loose and wild and she made a terrible keening sound. Sir Thomas
Seymour had his hands on the top of her arms as he tried to stop her from
scratching, as the woman wailed and lashed at him.
“What is going on here?” Catherine asked.
Everyone but Joanna dropped into a curtsey of bow as was due for the queen
consort. Lady Joanna did not stop, she launched herself at young William
shrieking like a baoin sidhe. “He's dead," she screamed, “you took him from me
and now he's dead.”
William could not be responsible for any such thing at barely twelve years old
and Thomas Seymour, who had once tried to court the queen before the king
himself decided on his suit, grabbed the lady and threw her backward away from
the boy, but not before she left four long gouges on his cheek. He fell away
from her, holding his face with the blood falling between his fingers, marring
his beauty.
“Restrain her!" The queen barked as people gathered around the young omega,
pressing a kerchief to his ruined face.
“Seven years you took from me.” Joanna screamed, “seven years to give me a son,
I’ll take that from you, omega whore, I curse you," her voice turned cold and
low, “I curse you and I curse your whole family, your line, what slides out of
that whore cunt of yours and all that come after. Seven years I was without my
man, seven brides I will take from you, seven times someone who marries into
your family will die.” With that she pulled back, with Sir Thomas trying to
prevent her from launching herself forward it was easy, and threw herself to
the open window. "I curse you, whore," she screamed, “seven brides I’ll take
one for every year that you denied me my husband," and laughing she threw
herself out of the window and to her bloody death on the cobbles below.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Mr. Jeremiah and Mrs. Natalie Martin are pleased to announce the marriage of
their daughter Vidama Lydia Martin to Lord Peter Hale.”
The marriage announcement was tucked away in small print, a small square at the
bottom of the page, surrounded by the cheaper options, some of which still had
more text. It was common for there to be a large furore for the marriage of an
omega, especially one who was in contest for the diamond of the ton. Instead,
she was surprised her parents had bothered to include her name. There was no
date for the marriage, no description of what the bride wore, in which church
they were married and who attended.
None of those things were included because none of those things had happened.
Lydia was called down for breakfast the night after the Duke of Altrincham’s
masque, when she was still on air from the night’s dancing with a charming
masked stranger, and told that they would be returning to Shropshire and that
she would not be accompanying them, and now she was of age, having just turned
eighteen years old, that she would be returning to her husband.
She had not even known she was married.
Her things were packed away in chests, with dried lilacs pressed against the
cloth, her bed was stripped and her little dog given to her younger brother,
“we don't know if Lord Peter even likes dogs” her mother had said.
The carriage was the Duke's own, black with his crest on the side, and every
day when she climbed in on her journey from London to North Wales, where Lord
Peter lived, she would see the crest and its legend, “ex Labore Sapienta”.
Through Suffering Wisdom.
She repeated it over and over as she cried those first two days.
Sold in marriage to a man she did not know, who lived half a world away as far
as she understood it, taken from everything and left with a chaperone, a Miss
Morell who worked for the Duke, but not his uncle. Her mother had simply
shrugged and said “his family offered us five hundred a year for your
education," she said, “we could not afford to say no.”
Lydia knew that her husband was older than her. She knew he might not like
dogs. She knew he lived in North Wales. And she knew that she was worth five
hundred pounds a year.
Miss Morell sat with her back to the driver and a small slim volume in her
hands, occasionally from her reticule she pulled out another book which she
made notations into with a black pencil. Miss Morell was a black alpha in a
sober dress and dark blue bonnet with clear even features and sparkling eyes
that gave the impression of not only a deep and abiding knowledge but one she
did not care to share. If she felt it was odd that she was serving as Lydia’s
chaperone she made no mention of it. She rarely spoke and when she did her tone
was so calm and even that Lydia found little in it to pique her interest.
Morell had told her that she worked for the duke in the role of factor, but
Lydia did not know what that meant and was angry enough, although not at
Morell-, instead she was angry at everything else, that she did not care to
ask. She vacillated between long bouts of weeping, with Morell’s kerchief wrung
out between her hands, anger, and periods of inanition and dreaming as they
traveled. The journey between London and the nearest town to Maunlilie was
three days, so that meant three days with just Morell and the inns in which
they stopped to either sleep or eat, or sometimes just stretch their legs
towards the pissoir. Some of the inns had elaborate pissoir, but for the most
part, it was just a hole in some muddy ground surrounded by a falling down
fence, where she not only had to be escorted to and from by Morell but hitch up
her skirts so she could relieve herself.
The inns treated her like a lady and not just a vidama to flirt with aimlessly,
in that they were curt and people turned their backs on her as if she was not
there rather than engage her in conversation. Older ladies, some wearing wigs
caught in place with pins, saw the carriage she rode in with its legend “ex
Labore Sapienta" under the wolf passant of the Hale family and suddenly invited
her to take tea with them on the breaks, with Miss Morell sitting beside her
like the specter of death.
So she sat on the velvet covered bench of the carriage, one that was slightly
deeper than most that she might pull her legs up underneath her and daydreamed
the journey away.
The last night of her season she had attended the Masque of the mysterious Duke
of Altrincham.
Her costume had been a gift from one of those alphas who had sought to court
her, wrapped in tissue paper was a white and silver mantua, with a sack back
and a raised collar of lace embroidered with silver lace. To accompany it was a
silver and plain ceramic diadem of flowers, that her sister, Lys, had
identified as amaranth and asphodel, to wear amongst her hair, with a wide band
of silver lace to serve as a mask for the ball.
The same suitor, she had not known who it was, for her father had forbidden any
men chasing her, and she knew why now but had not at the time, had presented
both of her sisters, Lys and Lynette, and even her brother Lysander, with
costumes, although all three were betas and her brother was only twelve years
old, and the costume he had received, a medieval styled tunic and leggings, was
more suited for play than a ball.
All three of the Martin sisters, beta, and omega alike, were dressed as Greek
goddesses and Lydia had been surprised to discover the costume she was given
was that of Persephone. No expense had been spared and she was surprised that
the only gems provided were the ceramic crown, because of the cost of the
costumes, but perhaps whoever the suitor was the act of giving jewelry might
have been seen as too intimate and enough to cause her father to reject the
gift.
Lydia was, as an omega, used to such gifts, although this was a touch more
generous than she had received before. There were currently four omega
available for marriage in the London season, of which she was one, and only one
was a male, her greatest competition in the role of diamond of the ton was Emma
Fairfax whose dowry was well known and whose father made sure they ate out at
least once a week that her callers might all gather without him having to feed
them. Lydia never ate out, and any caller who pressed their suit was cast out.
She had attended that ball knowing she looked every inch a goddess and that
Vidama Emma Fairfax could only hope to be so beautiful, and that without the
possibility of actually winning her, she would never have been able to compete
for the role of diamond.
She had danced all of the evening with a man in a golden jacket with a rococo
wig and a papier mache mask of the sun, whose manner was both intimidating and
flirty and she had never encountered before. He spoke to her about Galvani’s
cell and the natural sciences, about new books and mathematics, not the usual
prattle and he had left her breathless, taking more than half of her dances for
himself when he wrote Roi de Sol into her dance card. He had commented on
Vidama Fairfax’s costume as Caesar as fitting because of the size of her nose
and had not looked askance at her when she had dared laugh, and she liked him.
Even in the carriage ride home she could smell his scent and feel the heat of
him through her gloves as if he still held her hand. She intended to fight with
her father again that she would not wait until Lys was married to accept
suitors, for she had found one she liked, one who did not belittle her
intelligence or her desire for fashion, and the only problem with him was she
had not caught his name, instead she had, as she was leaving, pressed one of
her ear fobs, made of paste and wire with the illusion of platinum and diamond,
one did not wear all of their jewels to a masque after all, - the point was not
to be recognised - into his hand because she was more than a little foxed.
He had pressed champagne into her hand and told her how the glass was
apparently modelled upon the naked breast of Madame du Pompadour and wasn't it
lucky it wasn't based upon Lady Obermeyer, this had been accompanied with a
glance in the lady’s direction, long enough to reveal her almost comically
oversized breasts that Lydia knew gave her nothing but bother, because everyone
would be shot in the neck from a single glass and the only people left with any
blunt would be the champagne salesmen.
She hadn’t even noticed her dark alpha when she was with him, other than
locking eyes with a man who had to be him in a wolf mask leaning against the
wall the first time she danced with him. Almost as if the same man who had
spent the season staring at her.
Now she would never find out who either of them was, the charming man who had
danced with her and the dark haired man with the neatly trimmed beard who had
spent her entire season staring at her, and vanishing whenever she had gone to
point him out to someone else.
He had always been the height of fashion, standing in a narrow waisted white
vest with a dark coloured velvet frock coat, he had been handsome enough but
his intensity bothered her, enough that it had become something of a joke with
her circle of beta friends, all of which were also angling for husbands, that
her dark alpha would, of course, be there, he must have attended all the balls
for the opportunity to stare at her and vanish before she could point him out.
Perhaps if she had known it was to be her last ball she would have paid more
attention, she would have learned the names of the songs that were played, she
would have kissed her father upon the head at the Hazard table that she might
learn the faces of the players. But she had not known.
Now her life would be in the remote house Maunlilie Tor and its nearby village
in the Marches of Wales, far away from the bustle, and even the scientific
meetings she had attempted with her ears covered wearing her maid's beta
fashions so no one would wonder why an omega might attend them. She wouldn't be
able to have Sarah go to the bookstore with the pin money her mother gave her
for ribbons to buy books on mathematics, and the lump in her throat swelled up
again until it was almost impossible to breathe and her eyes stung. Miss Morell
reached into her reticule and pulled out another of her kerchiefs from a
seemingly endless supply and a tin of peppermints that was her reaction to her
charge crying.
In London, Lydia was one of the most sought out of all the people there for the
season. She had had alphas waiting on her every word, they had vied for her
attentions and affections and had even, in the brisk cold of very early March,
run in their shirts to please her and her little knot of beta girls in the
Harlowe’s estate just outside London.
There had been at least nine who were sure in their suit and five that she had
encouraged with smiles or laughing at their jokes, there was Scott McCall whose
father owned land in Scotland, who occasionally said things that she found
distasteful about how omegas had nothing between their ears but lace and
ribbons but were so earnest that she found herself agreeing to what he said
rather than disappoint him. Miss Harlowe, Rebecca, had commented that Lydia
might find herself agreeing to an unpleasant marriage simply because she could
not tell him no. He always looked cut to the quick even if all she had done was
refuse champagne because she had wanted cordial more.
He wanted a sweet docile omega, and Lydia was pretty sure that such a thing did
not exist, who would be content to be adored and provide him with a bushel of
bright eyed red cheeked babies. Betas were sweet and docile, omegas were
coddled and spoiled.
Lydia didn't even know what Lord Peter wanted.
Did he want children, a trophy wife, a society dame who lived in London
separate from her husband and no children to her name? Did he want a pretty
nothing with lace and ribbons between her ears? Or did he want a hundred
children? Perhaps a mother he could use to legitimize an army of bastards?
Lydia didn't know. All she knew was that for five hundred pounds a year her
parents had sold her to him.
She knew, academically, it was a large amount of money, she knew it paid for
her education and that of her sisters and for her brother to attend Repton. It
paid for their staff and the upkeep of their house and kept all of them well
clothed and fed and gave them pin money and no one ever complained that it was
too expensive or not something they could have. Both of her sisters had a
comfortable dower of five thousand pounds which was large for betas, but they
were the beta sisters of an omega which made them more favorable as they
themselves might have omega children. Even through the tears, Lydia was making
connections she had never before, that Lord Peter had clearly paid for that
too.
She had been sacrificed for her families happiness. She would make sure she
earned it.
“We are coming up on the main house," Morell said, “would you like a nip of
brandy to fortify your nerves, my lady." Morell had always called her my lady.
Lydia realized that as the wife of Lord Peter she was Lady Lydia Hale now, no
longer Vidama Lydia Martin. As the shadow of the house approached Lydia gave a
hiccupping sob.
"I think I'd like that nip of brandy now." She said.
Miss Morell just offered her the flask.
Chapter End Notes
     some of the names are British and therefore are said completely
     different to how they are spelt, so if they appear here it's because
     they're spent smith and pronounced broom
     Belvoir = Beaver, yes really
     Altrincham = Awl-tring-ham
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Maunlilie Tor had, when it was first built in the ninth century, been a tower
for defending the Welsh coast against raiders. In the following centuries it
had been added onto in a hodge podge fashion until the Tudor period where the
mismatched parts had been bound together into a fashionable, for the time,
villa. The medieval long halls had been brought into the main Tudor mansion
like wings, and windows covered every surface in a show of wealth. To the west
she could see the managed gardens with their flower bed labyrinths and gravel
paths, and to the east, a slope with the original castle wall.
This would be her home, she thought, as she raised her head and faced it, these
trees would frame her life, with oak and cypress and old managed spruce, those
walls would keep her here, and that church would announce the birth of her
children, and eventually her death.
The servants had not come out to meet her. She wasn't surprised. In London they
would have, she was nobility now, not just Vidama but Lady Hale, surely the
entire staff, with the possible exception of the cook, should appear so they
knew who she was, but perhaps they did things differently in Wales. Miss Morell
made an unflattering noise as she rapped the door with the knocker.
The woman who answered the door was pretty in a beta way, with a long thin face
and brown curls loose about her shoulders. She wore a brown dress with a green
floral pattern over her bodice, and her busk was not quite large enough so it
gave a view of her bosom. Lydia was not impressed, the woman’s fichu was mostly
untucked as if she had been disturbed in flagrante delicto and she kept
smoothing down her skirt.
“Miss Morell" she said with a sunny smile, “how lovely to see you," Jennifer
was a beta with her curved ears on display amidst her brown curls, and she was
clearly flirting with Miss Morell. “And who is this?”
“This," Miss Morell said in that wonderfully eqanimous tone of hers that
brooked no complaint and managed to convey her disdain, "Jennifer, is Lady
Lydia Hale, Lord Peter’s bride. Everything should be in place for her arrival.”
Jennifer screwed up her mouth, “this is the first I’m hearing of it," she said,
then she offered another of her sunny smiles, “but I’m sure we can get this
sorted straight out, and we’ll be the best of friends.”
“She is your lady," Morell corrected, “you would do well to remember that, I
will be staying in town,” she continued, “for I have business there, I will
call on you both in the morning, my lady, Jennifer.” She bowed her head to
them, before she turned to walk to the gate.
“Welcome to Maunlilie," Jennifer said, looping her arm through Lydia’s, she
herself was so shocked that she did not immediately jerk away as she ought to.
“We’ll get someone to move your luggage, do you want me to take your reticule?”
She near snatched it from Lydia’s hand. “I’m sure you’ll love it here. Of
course we keep the house shut up when the duke and his bride aren't in
residence, I’m sure you understand, Lord Peter is practically a recluse, he
never leaves his room except to go to the library, and send letters to the
foreign office," Lydia didn't really pay attention to the woman. “We’ve only
got a small staff, we usually send to the agency in Chester when his Lordship
lets us know he will be coming, but even when he does he doesn't like to stay
in the big house, his bride says it has vapours and of course is coddled.”
Jennifer continued on in that vein as Lydia drowned her out.
Maunlilie Tor was beautiful, the walls were lined with original oak panelling
and here and there along the corridors, lined with lush carpets, were beautiful
old tapestries and paintings of sour faced ancestors. The windows were large
and full of diamong shaped panes of glass, warped in some of the corners and
set in place when the house was built. The Civil War had not, as it had in many
places, threatened this house. The staircases still had the remnants of the
paint that made the bannisters look like stone, often scraped away or even
replaced with marble, for there was no shortage of wealth in this house. Every
sconce had beeswax candles, and even shut up, it was clear that this was the
house of a duke, and she was unwanted.
The room Jennifer led her to was small with an easterly aspect. The housekeeper
had to unlock the door for her to enter, the bed was posted and the mattress
clean, rolled up at the top of the bed to prevent it being a nest for wildlife,
there was a small sachet of white muslin hanging from a piece of twine over the
fire place, “damn witch,” Jennifer muttered, taking it and throwing it into the
grate. “You must be careful, Lydia," she said ignoring any attempt at
propriety. “There is a witch on the property and Heaven alone knows what they
attend, we often find these fetches all over the property, of course as good
Christian folk we burn them when we do, but..." she shook her head, “let’s get
you set up, I trust you're okay with making your own bed.”
Lydia was so shocked and tired and emotionally drawn, she just accepted the
sheets, she would deal with Jennifer in the morning once she had had a bath and
some sleep in a proper bed - assuming her husband did not come calling.
Jennifer was still talking as she opened the windows to air out the room, which
sweetly smelled of lavender and sandal wood if a little stuffy. It was a nice
room but she had expected more as a Lady. Lydia had, of course, had a few
dreams of what it would be like, and one of them involved a much nicer room
than this, perhaps the carpets wouldn't have looked so mouseworn, and the walls
would have been papered rather than simply washed white.
“Breakfast is served at six," Jennifer said, “if you can't make it, there won't
be more, and most of the staff don't live here when the house is shut up like
this and so we keep a really tight schedule. Lunch is at noon, then a light
meal at four and supper at eight, after that most of the staff go for the night
and so you’ll be alone in the house with Matt, the footman, Lord Peter, Lady
Amabel and myself.
“Lady Amabel is very old and doesn't leave her room, and Lord Peter is mostly
self sufficient, now I’ll go and get Heather to get you some water so you can
wash, after all, I imagine you’ll want to be fresh for your wedding night.”
From her reticule Lydia pulled her watch and the case she had for it that could
stand on her nightstand, if she had one, which she did not, and saw that it was
gone eight. With the summer in full swing, even this early in May, she had been
misled to think it was much earlier in the day.
“Will I eat with my husband?” Lydia asked, finding a fraction of her self
assurance as she centred herself.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Jennifer said, “he eats alone in the library and
doesn't like anyone else in there, he keeps it locked up. But Maunlilie is such
a lovely place to walk I can't imagine you’ll spend much time locked up in
here.”
“I haven't eaten since lunch," Lydia said, “when you have arranged for me to
wash, I would like something to eat, it does not have to be a full meal.”
“I can't do that," Jennifer said with a conciliatory smile, “Miss Danielle, the
cook, has gone home for the night and she doesn’t like anyone else in her
kitchen. I suppose I could see if she’s left out something, Lord Peter
sometimes likes something in the middle of the night, but I wouldn't get my
hopes up. Besides,” she offered Lydia a dazzling grin, “it's not that long till
breakfast,” she looked her up and down, “and it's not like you couldn't stand
to go without a meal or two, I’m sure you understand, we can't stay on London
manners, not with the Duke himself in London. I might be able to scramble
together a crust or two, but surely bathing and goin to bed is more important,
after all, you are here for Lord Peter, I’m sure you’ll want to look your best
for him, this is your wedding night after all.”
Lydia had thought that she might start to weep again, but she found the image
of the girl who had been so happy in London, the one with the pretty gowns and
the ceramic crown. “That would be wonderful, thank you, Jennifer, and if you
could find someone to help me with my stays. I have a bed to make after all.”
There was an irony there that Miss Austen would have been delighted with.
“By your will.” Jennifer said with something that looked like a mocking bow.
Lydia decided that she despised her and as soon as she found her feet, as soon
as she had bowed her husband to her will, as she certainly would, that she
would get her fired.
 
After making the bed Lydia sat down heavily on the counterpane, which was a
finely woven wool, and undid the complicated chignon that she had worn all day,
brushing out her hair and catching it in a loose braid over her shoulder that
she tied with a length of golden ribbon. Then pulling a stevenson over her
dress she decided to talk a short walk amongst the Tudor gardens. After all
this house was to be her home now and she would not let one over familiar beta
put her off.
The house was beautiful, and as she opened the door she could see a pair of
gardeners trimming back the hedges, one using the shears and the other scraping
together the cut off branches, they appeared to be a set of twins, and when she
walked past them they looked at her askance as if they had no idea who she was
or why she would be there. She gave them a little bow of the head under her
bonnet before raising her head. One of them said something crude, and then the
other laughed.
There was a wood of spruces, interspersed with beech trees and a few patches of
well maintained grass, but never quite enough that she could consider them a
lawn. If there was an ornamental lake or pond she had not seen it. There were a
few places where stone houses had stood but the woods, over the years, had
reclaimed then until only a piece of wall, or part of a foundation remained.
Squirrels dashed out of her way as she left the worn path and moved towards one
of the larger ruins, covered as it was with Lily of the Valley and ivy it
looked that it might have been, at some point in its life, something important,
perhaps only two miles from the main house. She wondered what it was with its
large open windows, the glass from which was long gone, but the arches
remained, and tiled floor.
“Colonel!” A female voice shouted out, “come back here," and that was all the
warning before a small mud covered creature pelted through the undergrowth and
jumped on Lydia. It was possible, that under the mud and bracken that the thing
was covered in it was a dog. It was a small one, and there were definitely eyes
in what could have been a face, alternately it could have been a bog creature
with teeth.
The girl that pushed her way through the undergrowth after the dog was flanked
by two large spaniels, that were almost as covered in mud as the small creature
before her. “I am so sorry," the blonde beta girl said, “Colonel has a mind of
her own and I don't think it’s planning good things for the world.”
The dog let her tongue loll out before her entire body bristled, “don’t you,"
the beta started but by the time she had said that much the dog was shaking
most of the mud she wore over the two of them, “shake.” The beta looked
entirely crestfallen, “I am so sorry, these are Lord Peter’s dogs, not that he
gives them any attention, his nephew the Duke gave them to him in the hope it
might bring him from his melancholia and Colonel was a gift. The Duke bought
the two springer spaniels, Goblin and Gunther, in the hope that it might arouse
his uncle from the melancholia because he had always favoured duck hunting, and
hearing that Lord Peter was a fan of spaniels he was given this little monkey,
who is of course useless for hunting, I don't think there’s a brain in her head
although she’s very pretty.”
“Why is she called Colonel?” Lydia asked, almost regretting the question as
soon as it escaped her mouth.
“Her name is Colonel John Sheppard," the beta said, “she was named after the
gentleman in question who gave her to him, when the Duke questioned the
appearance of her when she was a pup he pointed at her and said “and that is
Colonel John Sheppard” and it was as good a name as any. I am so sorry, I
haven't introduced myself and I’m prattling on like I have less brain in my
head than Colonel herself, I’m Heather, I work up at the big house.”
“Lydia," Lydia said.
“I guessed, Jennifer said you were coming up from London soon, so you must be
her. I’m going back to the house if you’re coming. Someone needs a bath that is
not mostly muck and weeds.” She looked at the dog who clearly didn't care.
“Gunther and Goblin are good dogs, it's just this little devil," it was said
fondly, “who thinks she rules the world and that muck and mud don't apply to
her.” The spaniel just let her tongue loll out in an expression of canine glee.
 
Heather turned out to be everything Jennifer was not, she took her into the
kitchen, both of them soaked from bathing the dog and laughing, and had the
cook, who had not gone home so early, throw them together a pan of eggs and
cheese and they had eaten until Lydia had thought she was gone to burst, and
Colonel at her feet yipping and begging for scraps. “you’ve made a friend," the
cook, Danielle, a black woman with a mark on her face near her eye that Lydia
couldn't quite make out, but capable hands and a manner that brooked no
complaint about what she erved up, even if it hadn't been wonderful - and it
was, said, and Lydia, looking across at Heather, knew she was right.
 
Colonel was the only one to join Lydia in her bed that night in her husband’s
house. The other two found themselves a bed on the rug by the fire which
Heather had lit, the smoke smelling sweetly of lavender and sandal wood as it
filled the room, the two dogs standing sentinel in front of it, and the smaller
one lying on her back on the blanket with her leg in the air, her tongue
hanging out of her mouth and her ears against Lydia’s mouth no matter how she
twisted and turned to avoid them.
The dogs closed in when the screaming started, a long wailing that had Lydia
scrabbling for a match to light the lamp, but with two dogs staring at the
door, as if daring anyone to enter, and the third draped along her back like a
furry bolster she felt safe.
Chapter End Notes
     pronunciation notes
     Maunlilie is pronounced Moon-lily
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Lydia tries to put her foot down, it is not well recieved
Lydia awoke feeling rested and firmer in herself than she had since she had
heard that she was married. She washed with the water left in the bowl and
pulled on a chemise a’la reine as she did not need a maid to help her with it,
and it did not require stays, and with a pair of slippers found in the bottom
of her chest she was almost ready for the day. She didn't bother with an
elaborate hair style, merely brushed it out and braided it as if for sleep,
before tying it in a white ribbon.
Sitting on the dresser by the small peer glass, one certainly smaller than she
was used to although she had shared that with her sisters, was a small velvet
bag. She had no memory of it but she must have put it out with her toilette
when she had unpacked the previous night with the spaniel jumping at her feet
for scritches. It was easy enough for such a small thing to not catch her
attention, although the velvet was rich and tied with a silk ribbon. When she
tipped it out into her hand she found a small cross in which five small round
moonstones were placed around a central stone that might have been topaz as it
had a yellowish hue. There was a slim golden chain that accompanied it, and
more bizarrely a small brass key, such as for a casket, but she hadn't, to her
knowledge brought one with her.
Fastening the chain around her throat she placed the key into her powder box to
worry over another time, it was clear that this was something her brother had
given her, for it was cheap and simple, and if her husband was a lord he would
have announced himself upon entering her room, wouldn't he?
Or had he crept in to watch her sleep.
Lydia dismissed the thought, the dogs would have roused if anyone had tried to
enter, and apart from the unearthly wailing that had started nothing had broken
her slumber at all. The wailing she assumed to be perhaps the wind, coming off
the sea and catching in the tight curves of the building. She had heard that
such buildings had strange noises and perhaps what sounded like someone being
murdered was one of them. Her fingers found the cross at her neck almost as an
after thought, twisting it for a moment before she regained her composure.
She was Lady Hale, she reminded herself, she would damn well act like it.
The dogs accompanied her on her trek to the kitchen, she was quite convinced
she had been put so far away from the lived in parts of the house on purpose,
but she had no idea what purpose her husband might have, although she did
determine to find him today and ask him.
Jennifer met her in the corridor. “There you are, Lydia," she said with a
beaming smile that looked a little cruel on her face, patronizing and Lydia
disliked it.
“Lady Hale," Lydia corrected her.
"I’m sorry,” Jennifer said, taking a step back in her confusion. Her dress was
a pale pink that day and vastly unsuitable for a housekeeper.
“You will address me as Lady Hale," Lydia said firmly with a smile as
condescending as Jennifer’s own, “or your ladyship as befits my rank, I will
meet with you once a day to oversee the running of the house.”
Jennifer might have been startled but she recovered quickly, “That is not your
role, my lady," she sneered the words out, “this is the home of the Duke of
Altrincham, you are merely the wife of his uncle the recluse, I can certainly
pass your messages onto his grace but he is in London for most of the year and
there might be some delay.” Jennifer had the most awful ability to patronise no
matter what said said, and Lydia immediately despised her. She had loathed her
when she was friendly, and now she was fractious Lydia cared for her less.
“Then you may pass on this message, I wish to appoint my own household, as is
my right, if that means leaving Maunlilie then I will, and I wish Heather to
serve as my maid.”
“She can't,” Jennifer said matching Lydia's gaze like they were equals and
Lydia had not just requested that Jennifer's employment be ended. “She is to be
married by the end of summer and will no longer work here.”
“That will suffice allowing another maid to be brought either from the village
or an agency, I shall put together an advert myself.” Lydia was a vidama, her
parents were betas which meant she had, for her entire life, been considered as
slightly less than her rank allowed, and she would not let some uppity
housekeeper bring it down. She had allowed her the familiarity the day before
only because she had been tired and worn out from the journey. She would not
allow that laxness to continue. “Now I will take my breakfast, with my new
maid, in the solar.” And clenching her teeth and maintaining her posture she
walked towards where she guessed where the solar was.
The room she eventually chose had lots of bright sunlight when she opened the
shutters, the walls were painted a pale duck egg blue but covered in family
portraits and the furniture was not covered. There was a large mantel clock
over the fire, which lay cold, and apart from needing a good sweep and dust the
room was perfectly livable, the cushions on the chair did not yield too much
dust when she beat them with her hand before she sat down.
She looked at the clock, taking note of the time, before she started to look at
the portraits that adorned the walls, Colonel had taken advantage of a pool of
sunlight on one of the Aubusson rugs and had sprawled herself out to soak up
the heat. Lydia smiled at her, it had been less than a day and she already
adored the dog and wished that she could also be so easy to please.
She took her book from her reticule, like her mother she favoured larger
reticules than fashion demanded because she could carry so much in them, a
pocket sized novel, a kerchief, some powder, a vinaigrette and the cards of any
of the young men who had sought to court her.
She looked at the cards before she snapped the reticule shut, she would pass
the time until breakfast with her novel, she supposed, but once she opened it
she found she had no interest in the works of Mrs. Radcliffe. So instead she
started to look at the paintings that covered the walls.
There was a picture of a stentorian alpha lady in an peachy orange gown and a
scowl that could curdle milk. Like most of the people in the portraits she had
dark hair and fair skin, there were a few here and there who had more of an
olive complexion, and her hair was gathered in the side ringlets that had been
so popular at the time. A few peach-orange ribbons were threaded through her
dark hair and she had a string of pearls around her throat, with her gown
gathered in swags with pearl encrusted brooches. this was not a woman who
lacked for wealth.
Beneath her and slightly to the left was an omega beauty with grey blonde
curls, as were popular then, her expression was sweetly sad and she wore the
same string of pearls as the alpha woman, in a pale blue gown that was detailed
with shimmering silver. The picture, unlike that of the woman in orange, was
full length to show off her spectacular gown with it's rouched sleeves, covered
in the silver voile, that, went in strips down the front of her gown, around
her waist to better shown the cartridge pleating and down the front of her
skirt. She wore pearls around her wrists and held a feather, and although she
wore a brooch under her ribs on the right, over her breasts was a silk rosette.
Her ash blonde curls were gathered in a mess of ringlets over her ears but
still showed her impressive earrings. She was beautiful, round faced with a
clear forehead and large brown eyes, and she stared out of the portrait as if
asking for help. Lydia wondered who she was as she was in none of the other
paintings, unlike the woman in orange who was pictured with a pair of children.
A pair of alpha sisters, in matching gowns of red and blue trimmed in gold,
with soft voile gathers spilling down their arms were the only feature in a
ball of shadowy figures, and the two stood hand in hand.
The last duchess had pride of place in a dark navy gown with silky white fichu,
her hair was powdered to sit prettily around her face, and was gathered at her
nape with a ribbon, under her gainsborough hat. The ribbon was the same salmon
red as the lacing on her gown and the ribbons on her sleeves. She was a
handsome woman with narrow dark eyes and a thin mouth but a perfect oval of a
face, and sitting in her cleavage was a small moonstone cross, noticing it
Lydia’s hand went to her own bosom and the cross she was wearing as if they
were the same, but she knew they were not, after all the cross had come from
her brother - hadn't it.
There were other pictures, some more modern, of pretty alpha girls in white
muslin gowns carefully sat for their portraits, there was young alpha boys
running amok in sculptured gardens entirely unlike those of Maunlilie. They
were all dark haired and almost all dark eyed like their alpha parent, the Lady
Talia. Lydia had not been so sheltered that she had not heard of the Lady
Talia, who was always spoken of with reverence and a little fear.
One of the few things that Lydia knew about her husband was that he was Lady
Talia’s brother.
She scanned the portraits to look for a likely candidate. On the south wall,
near the door, was a portrait of a young man with brilliant blue eyes and dark
hair. His expression, unlike most of those with their bland indifference, was
challenging, and cocky. He had a straight jaw, high pointed alpha ears he made
no attempt to hide, and thin smooth brows, his forehead was neat under the
black hair that fell across it, and his nose was perhaps a little pointed, but
his mouth was soft and lush. He wore a high collared military style jacket, but
it was for no regiment that she knew.
The jacket was black but trimmed in gold, with detailed frogging over brass
buttons that ran in three lines, one at the wing of each collarbone and the
central one which served to fasten the jacket, with thick gold braid trimming
the jacket and collar, but what made the jacket stand out was that the collar
and the cuffs were both brilliant red.
Lydia wondered who the man was, and then shrugged, opening her book, it was
clear that was the Duke of Altrincham.
There had been plenty of rumours about the duke when she had been in London:
that he was young, that he had murdered his sister for the title; that his
sister had eloped to Europe, that his sister had run off with a married man to
the Canadian colonies. He had been forced to leave Cambridge under
circumstances that he had had to pay to keep quiet. He had run away to Europe.
The foreign office had sent him to Europe. He had taken a child bride. He had
married one of the Grand Duchess omega of Russia. He had married a penniless
beta. He had married an alpha.
About the only thing that the rumours agreed on was that he was a bluestocking
like his mother and attended parliament to fight for the right of everyone,
omega included, to vote, that he was handsome, and that he had married before
he had come to court thus depriving the society omega the chance to win him and
his large fortune. Lydia had never really cared for such things, she had her
five or so determined suitors and she had thought that she would choose from
them after her second season.
She had been almost certain that she would marry Scott McCall and become lady
of his house in Scotland. She had once, and immediately destroying the
evidence, signed her name Mrs McCall. It wasn't that she loved McCall it was
more that she could not bear to disappoint him. She supposed it wasn't a good
foundation for a marriage but he had been so very wealthy and when he looked at
her it was like she was the only person in the world, because for him she was.
Her other suitors were all suitable, handsome and well groomed, respectably
rich. There was Baronet Lahey’s younger brother, Isaac, who was tall with
blonde curly hair but could be cruel when he was slighted. He gifted her with
ribbons and trinkets, but like McCall had a tendency to not listen to what she
was saying replacing it with things he found more pleasing, like fashion, their
future children, and how to get more money from his brother without having to
join the army, although his brother had offered to buy him a commission.
Major Merrick was determined and had a wicked sense of humour that cut others
to the quick, he had persisted even after her father had threatened him with
the constabulary. Of all of her suitors Lydia liked him least, but he had a
commission in the army and a duty to serve the crown in the peninsula which
gave the option of him dying and leaving her his considerable fortune.
Dr Haberland was the least alpha like alpha that Lydia had ever met, he was
shy, effacing and smoked from a pipe, the smell of which lingered on his
clothes, but he was interested in her intelligence. He spoke to her about maths
and insects and the human body and appreciated that she was clever. He had
bought her books of mathematics and volumes about the human body, telling her
how in Europe most omega trained as midwives so they were considered even more
valuable. The major impediment to his suit was that he was so colossally
boring.
The fourth, because male alphas outnumbered female nearly three to one, and the
female alphas were charming but uninterested in her for marriage, or at least
the ones that approached her were, more interested in gossip or felt themselves
too young for marriage. Miss Argent was a wonderful conversationalist who did
not mind being surrounded by the flock of beta girls using Lydia’s celebrity to
catch themselves rich husbands. She was one of Lydia's closest friends, despite
her alpha status. Then there was Sydney who was a rich beta who need a firm
hand and been willing to let Lydia guide her through the pit of vipers that was
the London season. Tracy was sweet and innocent and liked to smile at Lydia’s
most likely suitor, Sir Theodore Raeken, who was charming and could be as cruel
as Lydia and seemed interested in letting her talk about mathematics although
he admitted he did not understand them.
She looked at the portrait of the cocky blue eyed man again and wondered if
that was the duke or maybe her husband and whether or not he would be willing
to talk to her about mathematics and the natural sciences, or if she was, as so
many of the alphas of London society wanted her to be, a trophy.
 
When she looked at the clock again she was surprised that she had spent an hour
in her ruminations, wondering where the time had gone, and there was no sign of
her breakfast. She stood up, smoothing out the lines of her chemise and beating
the last of the dust from the muslin before she made her way to the kitchens.
“There you are,” Danielle said, without looking around, “bring that tray up to
Lady Amabel, quick quick.” The cook seemed incredibly busy, stirring a pot with
one hand whilst she worked the bellows with one foot and poured something into
a bowl with the other.
"I," Lydia started.
“The back steps, girl, then the stairs on the left, the room is on the right,
you can't miss it, you don't want to be responsible for the Lady missing her
breakfast.” Although Lydia’s instinct was to answer that she was the lady and
she wanted her breakfast she decided that with the cook so busy it was probably
best to just bring the tray up the stairs.
 
Lady Amabel was very old and bed bound. She had had in youth a patrician nose
that time had turned into something resembling a hawk's beak, with small eyes
that were like cave sitters in her face. Her hair was iron grey and a crow's
nest on her head and she wore a chemise and quilted bed jacket, but she was
covered in layers of blankets. Like she was a puppet propped up against the
pillows. "I know you, girl," she said in a voice like sheets of metal grating
together. “Omega whore" the old lady had only a few teeth but it didn't stop
her spitting out the vitriol.
“You’ll have to do better than that," Lydia said putting the tray on her bed.
The bowls and cups were made of polished wood, the sort that not even peasants
used any more. The servants in the house ate off ceramic so Lydia did not know
why the old woman was fed from wood like an animal. There was warm porridge in
the bowl, with a wooden spoon for her to eat from, and what looked to be milk
tea. "I grew up an omega to a family of betas, I’ve heard worse than whore.”
“Filthy breeder," the woman hissed, “not have your like in my house.”
“It's a good thing it’s not your house, is it," Lydia said, arranging the
blankets about the old woman's lap, but Amabel seemed disinterested in the
sweet porridge. As it wasn't particularly hot Lydia didn't think it mattered if
she left it to be eaten when she was ready. “You were the one that was up half
the night screaming, weren’t you?”
“Houri, bitch, succubus, I know your kind, I know what you do, I know what
you’re going to do, my poor boy.”
"Oh be still, you old harridan,” Lydia said bluntly. “I’ll be out of your
domain soon enough.”
"Not out of my house, it’s your kind that set the fire, but soon, pretty little
hussy, you’ll bring us down, silver bitch." She reached for Lydia putting her
old hand on her arm and then Lydia cried out for the old woman had something in
her hand, something sharp that felt like fire on her skin, and she jerked away,
with blood dripping down between her fingers.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     in which Lydia deals with the consequences of Lady Amabel's actions,
     and Peter is introduced
Heather had put her hand to her mouth when Lydia came back down the stairs with
her hand pressed to her upper arm where Amabel had cut her. "I think I need a
doctor," she said, “and a tailor, my dress is quite ruined.” She would, later,
wonder why she was so calm and detached, but Danielle seemed to know what to do
for which she was grateful.
From a high cupboard, one she had to use a stepstool to reach, she pulled two
bottles, one thin and green, and the other one a fat stone ware jug, then a jar
which she put on the counter. “Oh I don't need laudanum,” Lydia said gaily, “it
doesn't hurt at all, “I’m sure a mustard poultice will do the job.”
“It doesn't hurt because of the shock of it,” Danielle said, “how did that old
crone get something sharp enough to hurt you with? She gets wooden bowls for a
reason.” She made a displeased noise before she carried her collection over to
the table and bullied Lydia into a chair. “Let me see how bad it is.”
She pulled Lydia’s hand away to show the mark on her arm. “I might be able to
save the dress," she said, “but the sleeve is done for.” She yanked the fabric
away, tearing it at the slash that had been made, before balling it up. “Hold
this to the cut," she said, “I’m going to shout for Heather and bring you
something to drink.”
Lydia nodded, she felt light headed and a little silly as long as she didn't
look at her arm, which she knew was slick with blood. She had hurt herself
before, but never like this. Her mama had always just applied a poultice,
kissed her on the forehead and reassured her she was well. But her mama wasn't
here now and she was angry with her for making her come to this awful place
without her and Lydia could not stop the tears that welled up. “She called me
terrible things," she said as Danielle poured something clear from the
stonewear jug into a metal beaker and then a very small splash from the green
glass bottle.
“Lady Amabel does that," Danielle said and handed Lydia the cup, and dutifully
she swallowed it down. “She's got a mean mouth on her, you should have known
that.”
“Didn't even know she existed." Lydia said, the world going fuzzier as the
laudanum and gin started to hit. “I don't feel so well," she added, "I need to
sit down.”
“You are sitting down." Danielle said, placing her hand on the bandage, “you
need to go to sleep, just until the doctor comes."
“Alright, mama," Lydia slurred, her eyes getting very heavy and then slowly
closing.
Danielle couldn’t find Heather after she tied the bandage off, and so instead
sent Matt, one of the footmen, and possibly the laziest of them in a house of
lazy footmen, to town to fetch the Doctor, Parrish, and the twins, who managed
the garden, to carry Lydia up to her bedroom, although Danielle herself was the
one to undress her, even if Aidan had offered, and into a suitable night rail
and banyan that left her arm bare.
Dr Parrish was a good man, Danielle knew, selected personally by the Duke to
work in the village because Lady Amabel was so old and bedbound. It was one of
Danielle’s reliefs that the old crow was stuck in her bed or her chair because
she had foul mouth and liked to throw things, but they were so careful, so she
had no answer for Dr Parrish when he asked how it had happened as he put
careful stitches into her arm and applied some of Baba’s miracle poultice
before binding it tightly.
“She’s supposed to be Lady Amabel’s companion," he said, “she should know about
the Lady’s eccentricities." Danielle didn’t want to comment on how the rich had
eccentricities when everyone else would have been carted off to bedlam.
“She said she didn't know who Amabel was, this doesn't add up, Doctor, I think
someone is playing games.”
Parrish frowned. He was a handsome man with close cropped fair hair and a high
forehead, he was promised to Heather and so Danielle found herself biting her
tongue around him, which she was not loathe to do because Heather was her
dearest friend in the world and the doctor clearly made her happy. “Of course
the Duke will have to be told. He was adamant that they keep her ladyship from
the Sanitarium, but if she is attacking her companions and secreting what
appears to be broken glass to do so..." he left it open, “for her safety as
much as that of her household.”
“I shall include it in the next letter that I write him," Danielle said, “and
also that Jennifer has been lax in her duties if Lady Amabel acquired something
sharp enough to wound.” She made a moue of disgust, “something Miss Lydia said,
she said she called her names, that’s not typical, although Lady Amabel is foul
mouthed it is usually about the food, not who delivers it. This bears some
investigation.”
“I agree," Parrish said, nodding sagely. “I would advise keeping her asleep
until tomorrow at the earliest, omegas react badly to injury.”
“She’s an omega?” Danielle asked, “what was the agency thinking sending her as
a companion? she should be trying to find a husband to keep her.”
“I would advise writing to agency as well, and make sure that you keep me
included, I shall call on the gatehouse on my way out, perhaps they know more.”
Danielle nodded. “Thank you, Doctor, for coming so promptly.”
"It is of no concern," he answered, “is Heather about? I wish to speak to her
before I leave.”
“Will you need a chaperone?” Danielle asked, gathering up the ruins of the
dress that Lydia had been wearing, “because I’m going to have to work wonders
to save the majority of this dress from the blood.”
“Working miracles is why Lady Laura hired you, I have faith that you’ll be able
to salvage most of it.”
Danielle gathered the dress in her arms, “and if you’ll be leaving, Doctor,
I’ll arrange our Vidama to continue sleeping.”
—-
Lydia woke in the night with her mouth dry and her arm on fire, she did not
remember going to bed and there was a glass of water, whcih she gulped down
greedily, noticing the strange taste a little too late. “My beautiful one," the
voice said, it seemed almost familar but her head felt stuffed with wool and
she could not place from where she knew it.
“You dare too much familiarity, sir, but I am married.” She knew the words but
she was surprised that she was able to speak them so easily.
“I know, love," he answered calmly, “for it is me to whom you are married.”
“Sir, I do not know you from the first man, Adam, and what proof do I have of
your claims, and if you do not give me answer then I shall scream and bring the
whole household upon you.”
“And that, dear one, is what I married you, for that spark within you, although
you were only a child when we were wed, it is not unthinkable that you could
not remember.” Lydia wanted more than anything to turn over but her arm hurt
and it would have meant moving it from where it lay on a pillow. Someone had
undressed her and dressed her for bed in a sombre green banyan coat, the sort
that was not intended for sleeping but instead for wandering around the house.
“Pretty words will not sway me, sir," despite the pain she went to turn over.
“please, don’t," he said., and he seemed a little pained as he said it. “I
could not bear to have you look on me yet.”
“Are you a monster then, sir, like in Mrs Shelley’s book?” Lydia asked archly.
She had lost a day to this awful place and this stranger was now both claiming
to be her husband and to deny her even a look upon him.
“Sometimes, love, I think that I am.” His answer was smooth, as if he had
practised it over and over. “I have not been myself these past few years, and I
would prefer that I was myself again before I had you look upon me. Your eyes
are too lovely to sour with my countenance.”
Lydia gave an exaggerated sigh. “Do what you will, sir, but I continue to need
evidence of who you are, if you make a single move towards the bed I shall
scream and I am sure at least one of the footmen will come running.”
Peter, if he was who he claimed to be, laughed. “That would confirm my
identity, certainly, when they leave, blushing and closing the door behind
them.”
“Are you going to ravish me then?” Lydia asked, “for I am injured.”
“I know, my aunt is very old and has long since lost her mind. I cannot imagine
what her nurse was thinking that she asked you to bring up her tray and I can
only apologise.”
“She called me a slattern, a trollope and a houri." Lydia said, “will you also
apologise for that?”
"I can do no more than apologise, no i have no intent to harm you or see you
hurt.”
Lydia yawned, it was probable that there was more laudanum in the water but not
as much as had been in the gin that Danielle had given her in the kitchen. “You
talk sweetly, sir, but I still do not have proof that you are who you claim to
be, and not some opportunistic alpha who is now aware of an omega maiden.”
“And how can I prove my identity to you, you were a child the last we met, your
parents had approached my sister about sponsoring you in society, you were
perhaps five. My sister harboured hopes that you might marry Alex as you were
of an age.”
Lydia asked. “Is that the duke?”
“No, the duke is Roderick,” he answered, “Alex died.” He took a deep breath
before he continued, his voice soft and calm, and she could feel herself
falling asleep no matter how hard she tried not to. The wool that had fogged
her brain, and lodged in her mouth when she had woken, was descending again.
“He was a sweet boy, an alpha by birth but an omega by temperament, he never
wanted to leave his Mama’s leading strings. You, of course, hated him on
sight.” It was easy to lie there and listen to him, he was clearly making no
attempt at all to move towards her, sat in the easy chair with its back against
the window that she had questioned but ignored when she had moved into the
room.
“He followed you around like a puppy and you wanted nothing to do with him, you
even pushed him over at one point which earned you a scolding.”
“I don't remember,” Lydia said.
“The only person you would even talk to was me, you brought me your favourite
book, Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont, I remember it very clearly, you sat
beside me on the couch, handed me the book and demanded that I read it to you.
When I saw the title I had assumed that it was French, but it had been
translated, or it was in English anyway, but they were folk tales, about a
terrible beast who stole a beautiful girl away. I teased you that I would steal
you away and take you to a palace far from everyone.”
“You did," she drawled, sleep heavy upon her, she was fighting it off.
“You told me to," but she didn't hear the rest of what he said as sleep claimed
her.
The next morning when she woke there was a ring on her finger, but no other
sign that he had touched her at all.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Heather woke Lydia with breakfast on a tray and a large pot of coffee. Whilst
Lydia ate Heather fussed through her chest of clothes, hanging most of the
gowns in the wardrobe as she did, gushing over the fine work and how they must
have come from Paris to be so beautiful, but weren't they a little
inappropriate. Around a mouthful of sausage Lydia explained that she had not
known that she would come to Maunlilie so quickly and so although she was sure
a more appropriate wardrobe was being made and would be sent on, she still had
her society gowns.
On the sideboard, where it had not been before, was a jewelry chest. Lydia
noticed it in passing but made the assumption that someone had delivered it the
day before perhaps, or she had just missed it. It was only then that she
remembered that her husband had called on her, as Heather laid out a cotton
dress that buttoned up the front so he must have been responsible for its
delivery.
He had sat in the chair that Heather draped the dress over. He told her he had
known her as a child. He had tried to answer her questions but she still wasn't
sure that he was her husband. When she looked at her hand a ring was there,
where there had not been.
It was gold, with an emerald set in the center, surrounded by pearls, and then
in a frame a few smaller pearls, but the band itself had been carved, or set,
to resemble roses. It was a beautiful ring but not something she would choose
for herself. So this is my wedding ring, she thought, at least it's not
hideous.
She let Heather dress her, although the dress was perhaps too fine, and allowed
her to tie on the leather boots that did not match but were so much more
suitable. Heather didn't notice the ring. “Will it be fine if I walk the dogs?"
Lydia asked, the house, as huge as it was, suddenly felt claustrophobic.
"I’m sure Lord Peter won't mind,” Heather said as she finished tying back
Lydia’s hair. “I normally just take them out to the Herbarium behind the
church, it’s not too far, and it stops Aidan complaining when they relieve
themselves on the lawn. Gremlin's a digger, you have to watch her for that.
Gunther wants to bring half the woods in, and given the opportunity, Colonel
will bury herself in the compost.”
“You have a herbarium?” Lydia asked, waiting as Heather opened the door for
her.
"Oh yes, it was a folly but his lordship converted it when he married,” she was
chattering along, “of course that was years ago so most of the herbs are all
grown in, but the poisonous ones are locked away in glass cases, but all the
kitchen scraps and the garden cuttings go into the compost and the dogs love
it, it's not far to walk, but there’s been more than once I’ve gone to see my
Jordan, I mean, Mr Parrish, trailing cabbage leaves from my hems.” She laughed
to herself.
“So, that’s the man you're to marry?” Lydia asked, “Jennifer said you would be
leaving us at summer's end.”
“He’s a doctor," Heather said, suddenly shy, “and he's a good man, but I don't
know that I want to leave Maunlilie, Danielle is my dearest friend and I love
looking after the dogs, and the work’s hard, yes, but I do love it, and the
Duke only seems stern, but I love him, and it's what I should want, isn't it.”
"I think you should want what you want," Lydia answered. “You don't have to end
your life because you’re married, it's not like other people are making those
decisions for you." She sounded a little bitter to herself as she said it.
“That’s easy for you to say," Heather answered, “you’re an omega.” They
continued in silence until they reached the kitchen.
 
The kitchen was a large room, whitewashed with a window that overlooked a small
herb garden, Lydia wondered why there was one if there was a herbarium, but she
didn't ask, and the dogs were at the door to the brew house, through the
laundry where her chemise was hanging, with one sleeve missing, to dry. “You
got the blood out.” She exclaimed.
Heather rolled her eyes. “Our Danielle is a miracle worker.” It was said as if
it was a self-evident truth.
“After tasting her coffee,” Lydia said, “and the wonderful breakfast she put
together for me I’m inclined to agree, but surely a place as big as this has
its own washer woman. I mean it has its own laundry.”
“The house is shut up,” Heather shrugged, “We don't have half the staff we
should, they all leave.”
Danielle snorted something into the pot she was stirring that sounded
suspiciously like “Jenny of the woods.” Lydia delicately ignored it because she
didn't know what it meant.
“I am going to take the dogs for a walk to the Herbarium, is there anything I
should know?” Lydia asked, double tapping her hand against her thigh to get the
dog’s attention. She wasn't sure if the dogs were trained to react to it but
they got up from where they were sprawled and moved across to her, Colonel in a
strange twisting run that almost saw her fall over her own ass.
“There’s sticky weed along the path,” Danielle said, “be careful not to get it
on your skirt, make sure you turn left at the sign, or you’ll end up in the
village, unless that’s where you’re heading, and don't let the dogs shit on the
lawn, Aidan will never let you hear the end of it. Now shoo, before someone,"
she eyeballed Colonel who was yipping and asking to be lifted as Lydia squatted
and tried to fuss the three dogs equally, “pisses over my floor.”
—
It was a fine May morning and Lydia had to admit that this part of Wales was
beautiful in such weather. Gunther and Gremlin matched her pace, loping along
at her heels, Colonel showed no such compunction, running a few paces ahead
then remembering that she was being walked and doubling back, which usually
involved her losing her balance like she was a much younger puppy. There was a
soft breeze that rolled off the hills, she could not see the sea from here
although she knew it was not far, as she walked through the estate.
She found the signpost easily enough, one side leading to the estate farm and
the other in the village. To the north was the wilderness that had been left in
the estate, where the gardeners didn't go but there were a few tracks here and
there if people cared to walk through the mud. The smell of the sea was
stronger here suggesting that there might be a cove somewhere near about, but
she continued on the path to the estate farm, and instead of lawns to her left,
there were fields of sheep and a haha to stop the animals escaping, but she
could see the herbarium now. It was a walled and gated garden built into a
natural dip in the hills, the walls were thick and there was a building inside
the walls. As she walked closer she could hear voices.
“It doesn't matter if she doesn't like it," the woman said.
“She's still Vidama." A male voice answered, Lydia had not been in the house
long enough to recognize it, it could have been one of the farmers who lived in
the area.
“She’s not long for this world anyway," the woman said with a smile in her
voice, “she’s the seventh bride after all," they went quiet after that apart
from a few groans that suggested more than overhearing their conversation she
had stumbled upon a tryst and had no interest in discovering what it was that
they were up to, just walked a bit quicker down the path even as she flushed
red with embarrassment.
—-
The air around the herbarium was sweet with early growth lavender and other
herbs she knew and some she did not, very few of them in season, as she walked
around, past the gate, to the compost where the dogs pelted forward eager to
relieve themselves. They were clearly well trained, and Lydia had wondered who
had done it if Lord Peter was a recluse. Well, Gunther and Gremlin were well
trained, Colonel was a furry lunatic.
Whilst the dogs were attending to their business she pushed open the gate to
take a look inside, reassuring herself when she saw the ring on her finger that
she was Lady Hale, all of this belonged to her husband’s family and there was
nothing to stop her doing this.
There was a figure kneeling beside one of the herb beds, wearing a beaten up
old straw hat and a black split skirt, such as an omega would wear for riding,
and a blue felt smock that was embellished with red and white embroidery. Lydia
wondered if this was the witch she had heard talked about, the one Jennifer was
convinced was leaving fetches around the house.
“Hello, there," she called out and the figure turned, standing up and brushing
his gloves down on the fabric of his skirt. It was a man, she noticed, well, a
vidame, judging by the proud points of his ears on display under the sun hat.
The smock he wore looked well worn, with the square collar and short sleeves
fraying now that she looked at it, it was clear that he was dressed for work in
the garden, and had a beaming grin. He had brown eyes that the light caught in
such a way that they were remarkable, and a soft looking mouth under a button
nose. He was a very attractive male omega, tall and lithe as they often were,
but not to her taste.
“You must be Lydia," he said, pulling off his glove and offering her his hand
to her to shake. “I’m Stiles, are you walking the dogs?”
“Yes,” she answered, and then smiled, this was the kindest anyone had been to
her. “I’m Lydia, how do you know who I am?”
“Do you think it’s every day an omega of your caliber comes to Maunlilie, I
didn't think you’d come until the end of the season, I thought Himself would
bring you back, but if you’re full of personality you’ll suit Peter better.
Don't let him walk over you.”
"I am yet to meet him." Lydia couldn't help that words fell from her mouth.
“Apart from Heather and Danielle, I do not feel welcome in the house at all.
Lady Amabel attacked me.” Her hand went to her arm.
“I am to go into town later, would you like to accompany me?” He asked,
“Maunlilie is such a dour place, and if I get the chance later I shall speak to
Peter on your behalf.”
“Why would he listen to you?” She asked.
“Because I won’t take no for an answer.” He said blithely, he put his fingers
to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle and the dogs came bounding through the
gates to him, and if Colonel had been delighted to see Lydia she was in
paroxysms of glee over Stiles, he picked her up with a grunt, “you’re getting
fat little girl," he said scratching her chin, “I won't be able to lift you
soon, but that means we have to get all the cuddles in now.” Colonel responded
to this by trying her best to wriggle closer to him and licking his face. "I
give her bacon." Stiles said, with a smile, “because she’s my best little girl,
aren’t you?”
“Are you married?” Lydia asked because Stiles seemed to have a lot of autonomy
which was unheard of for society omegas.
“Yes," he answered, “but Himself is in London, so there’s just me and Boyd in
the Gatehouse, Boyd is my,” he stopped, clearing looking for a word, his
magnificent eyes looking up and to the left as he screwed up his mouth. “Boyd
is Boyd, he looks after me and makes sure I don't do something like burn down
the house or run off with a wandering minstrel. I swear my husband thinks that
I would go for a walk and end up in Lincoln when he was the one who left me in
the coach house.” He continued in this vein as he put Colonel down, giving both
Gunter and Gremlin a pat on their heads for sitting so beautifully, picked up
his basket and linking his arm through Lydia's much as Jennifer had done when
they first met. “We should go back to the Gatehouse and get some tea, I don't
know about you but I’m parched and my back is aching, also Boyd will have
conniptions if I go into town dressed like this," he looked down, “but it's so
comfortable. I’m considering getting someone to make me more of these, I mean I
stole this one from Baba, not that she wears it anymore, but she just makes
this noise, this hmmm noise whenever she sees me wearing it, did I mention I
live with my grandmother, she’s an omega too, she’s a midwife," and as they
walked out of the Herbarium Lydia found that Stiles didn't stop to breathe, and
she liked that about him.
It had taken a lot, but she got the impression she had made a friend, one who
did not mistake her for someone else, or have rude intentions upon her, or
deferred to her title, and she liked it.
Chapter End Notes
     if any terms come up you don't understand or names you see and go -
     that's not pronounced like it looks (as a rule if it's british
     probably not) just drop me a line in the comments, I can add it to
     the next chapter notes no problem
     and the book Peter said he read to Lydia last chapter - it does exist
     - it's the original novel form of Beauty and the Beast
     Baba is eastern european for grandmother
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The Gatehouse that Stiles lived in was a large house that looked to have been a
farmhouse at some point in its life, before being repurposed. There was nothing
resembling a gate but there was a road that ran outside it. He had a small
vegetable garden and rose bushes that grew up the side of the house, which
appeared to have been built at the same time most of the extensions had been
put on Maunlilie. It was the sort of house a reasonably wealthy alpha owned,
and the sort Lydia herself had grown up in. It was the sort of house she had
expected to marry out of, but Maunlilie was so vast, and so unwelcoming she
immediately wanted a house like Stiles had. It was surrounded by spruce trees
that offered it a soft shade and cool. In the garden was a goat that Stiles
called "princess" that tried to eat his smock when he got too close.
“This is home," Stiles said as the dogs ran to the open back door, “Baba will
be inside, she is supposed to live in the village but with Himself in London
she’s staying with me, she’s a little...” He shrugged, “Jenny of the woods
calls her a witch, you’ll get used to her.” He paused on the threshold, “she
might want to see that cut on your arm though, she thinks Dr Parrish is useless
and always wants to check his work.”
Boyd, who was a large black man with expressive eyes who didn't speak, just
shrugged as if to say “see what I put up with," or possible “I’m not paid
enough to live in this open air asylum.” Lydia was willing to admit that both
were an option.
Stiles’ kitchen was not much smaller than the one that they used in Maunlilie
which surprised her. There were white washed cabinets stacked with plates and
cups, dried herbs for cooking hung in one corner, and live ones in pots were
against the window. A kettle hung over a trivet in the fire although there was
a range, much like the one that Danielle used, and a bread oven built against
the back wall.
Like Danielle's kitchen in Maunlilie it had the aura of being the heart of the
home, and sat at the wooden table, which appeared to be freshly washed with
salt, and creating something with yarn and a hook was the woman that Stiles
called “Baba.” She was an elderly omega wearing a delicate lace cap, one that
was more for decoration than modesty and a sensible grey gown with an apron
pulled up over the bodice as she worked. “Don't you dare put that dog on the
table." She said without looking up from her work, "I’m not getting dog hairs
all over this.” It was said so nonchalantly that it was clear that given the
chance Colonel was going to be on the table and it was something so normal that
she did not bother looking up.
“Baba,” Stiles said, as Boyd busied himself with making three cups of tea,
using different cannisters for each of them, “this is Lady Lydia. Peter’s
wife.”
At that Baba looked up, she had the same golden eyes as Stiles, and there was a
look of him about her mouth but the years had been unkind to her. There were
wrinkles born of worry about her eyes and mouth, and she maintained a sourer
expression than he did. She was too old to be his mother, so Lydia made the
guess that she was his grandmother, her hands kept up their deft work as she
talked. “You poor child,” her voice suddenly fond. “Are you the one that old
crow slashed up, and having to share a house with the ghost of Maunlilie and
that Jenny of the woods.” She patted the table indicating that Lydia sit. She
spoke with a rich accent and her voice was like Stiles, although his accent was
harder to pin down. It certainly wasn't the sing-song of the Welsh and neither
was her’s. “Did that Dr Jordan treat you well, do you want me to send Boyd out
of the room so I can take a look?”
Boyd clattered the cups as he made the tea, using small rags of muslin to
strain it into the cup.
“Boyd," the way she said it it sounded more like voyt, “for someone who cannot
talk you certainly have no problem expressing yourself.” Boyd reacted by giving
her her tea with a mocking smile. “We have guests, kochanie," the word rolled
from her mouth, and Lydia got the impression that this was an ongoing battle
between the two that was more playful than hateful. “Show us those wonderful
manners that Lady Laura prized you for.”
Boyd pulled a face and did not take one of the cups for himself as he put them
in front of both Stiles and Lydia. “Baba," Stiles corrected, “stop picking on
Boyd, he has enough woe in his life, he lives with us.” Boyd gave another
gallic shrug. “Boyd, go get the barouche so we can go into town, after I run,"
both Boyd and Baba gave Stiles a dark look, “it’s a turn of phrase," he
protested, “after I pop upstairs and change.” He looked down at his tea and
made a face, “again, I had two cups of this barely an hour ago." He protested.
“it is good for you.” Baba said calmly. Lydia’s own tea was what was probably
orange pekoe, flavoured with dried rose petals, a few of which had made it
through the muslin. It was likely that Baba was drinking the same thing.
“It tastes nasty." Stiles protested.
“And that, kochanie, is how you know it is good for you.” His grandmother
answered calmly, Lydia just smiled into her tea.
“What are you making?” Lydia asked, they had eschewed titles as she had read
was common amongst groups of omega, everyone here was vidama or vidame so the
rules of propriety did not apply.
“Arianrhod in the village, she is close to pupping, she has the accomplishments
of a horse," that was said with a glance at Stiles who grinned at her, that
clearly was something they argued over a lot, “she is a sweet child but has the
sense that god gave a mouse, I promised to help her with her layette.”
“Baba is a midwife." Stiles said.
“Midwife," the old woman rolled her eyes, “I am an omega, from a long line of
omega, of course I can deliver a child.”
“You’re the one that Jenifer calls a witch." Lydia said, the words slipping out
of her before she realised that they might be very inappropriate.
“Talk about a pot calling the kettle black." Stiles muttered.
“Witch, it is the nicest thing she calls me," Baba said bluntly, “what spell
she weaves over that house I do not know, but given the chance I would run her
out.” She took an angry mouthful of her tea, regardless that it was still too
hot to drink. “Now, tell me, laska, have you met that husband of yours.”
“He came to my bedroom last night." Lydia said with a wry twist of her mouth.
“That is so like him, he will not bother to say hello but will take his alpha
rights.”
"Oh no," Lydia corrected, “he didn't touch me at all, he just talked." Both
Lydia and Stiles raised an eyebrow. “I think he’s shy.”
Stiles spat tea over himself as he burst out laughing. “Peter Hale is as shy as
Colonel,” he said. “I've never known a man who loved himself more.”
“I do not know, there was that priest in Shropshire." Baba corrected.
“Yes, he might give him a race for his money.” Stiles agreed. “Now I am going
to change and we can go into town and you can tell me all about London.”
“If your husband is in London,” Lydia said, “why did you not travel with him?”
“Circumstances changed." Stiles said, “Baba, don't scare her too much, she’s
new.” Baba made a dismissive noise before she went back to her work.
 
—
The barouche obviously belonged to the estate, as it had the Hale crest on the
side, but no one seemed bothered that Boyd had taken it and two of the horses.
Stiles had come down the stairs wearing a corduroy frock coat over a white
omega vest, one that reached to his mid thighs. "I need to get new clothes." He
said as he pulled himself up into the barouche. The coffee brown coat was
embroidered with sprays of silver ferns and pink roses. “I don't know why I
can't just go to town in my smock. It's comfortable." Boyd just looked at him.
"I think you look very fine," Lydia said, stretching out to fix his hair.
"I shall have to learn how to tell when you are being sarcastic.” Stiles said
settling himself into the seat of the barouche, “because right now, I can't
tell, I hate this coat, I should have taken one of his,” he was grousing, “or
maybe one of Boyd's. Boyd looked over his shoulder at him with his eyebrow
raised, “so maybe not one of Boyd’s, or I could go into town in my smock.”
“I’m sure it’s very comfortable." Lydia said, “which almost makes up for it
being ugly and completely threadbare. Why don't you bring it into town and have
a set of new ones made for wearing around the house and grounds.” It sounded
reasonable.
“Because then I’d have to go without whilst they cut up my old one to make a
new one.” And clearly reasonable only went so far.
“You look very fine," Lydia told him.
"Peter bought me this coat.” Stiles said, “he sent to London for it, so I would
have something to wear during the season. I have a matching vest but it's silk
and best suited to a ballroom than...”
“You know my husband better than I.” Lydia said and there was no regret in her
voice as Boyd pulled the barouche onto the road.
“I've known him since I was a child.” Stiles told him, “I don't remember not
knowing him.” He took a deep breath, fussing with his hands on his lap.
“Peter’s,” he stopped, “Peter’s vain, narcissistic, and manipulative, he’s also
loyal, fierce, brilliant, and in the depths of a terrible melancholia, he has
good days and bad, you must be patient with him, and if he hurts you, strike
him with a parasol. It's always worked for me.”
He offered Lydia a smile as she opened her parasol to shade her from the
morning light which was becoming strong. "I would like to know him.” She said,
“he is a stranger to me that keeps coming into my room to watch me sleep. It is
not a mark in his favour.”
“Peter worked for the Foreign Office in Vienna for a long time.” He said, “then
there was the fire, and he never got over that, even though he healed. He's
scarred, and I wonder if he doesn't think that you will reject him if you saw
him.”
"I am his wife," Lydia protested, “I cannot reject him by law. I did not choose
this marriage but yet I am here, in a house where the servants despise me, my
husband ignores me, and most of the doors are locked to my way. The only thing
that has accepted me are the dogs. His aunt slashed my arm with a piece of
broken glass, things appear and disappear in my room, and...”
Stiles reached across and took her hand. "I can tell you what I know but for a
lot of things you will have to ask Peter, and no one hates you in the house,
except Matt and Jennifer, but they hate everyone. It's a new place and it seems
much worse than it is, but if you need to, you can always come stay at the
Gatehouse, Peter will understand, and I tell you this, if you wanted to leave
Peter would find you a house where you could live comfortably, with his
melancholia he might even believe it is the best option.”
Stiles rolled his shoulders, letting his hips slip forward on the bench of the
barouche. “I know Peter was worried about you coming here,” he said, “Peter’s
not all bad, give him a month, and if, at the end of June, you are still
unhappy here, I’ll work with Himself to get you somewhere else to live, there
are plenty of properties on the estate, if you want to live in Wales, a few in
Shropshire, even one in London.” She calmed, as he reached into his pocket and
pulled out a bag of peppermints, offering her one. “Enough of these dark
topics, tell me all about London, I hope to go for the season next year.”
“You are an omega that is allied to the duchy, why have you not had a season?”
Lydia asked.
"I married young." Stiles answered with a shrug, “Himself knew the first time
that he saw me that I would be his, it's strange, when an omega imprints
themselves on an older alpha it is considered romantic, but when the alpha is
older, too young to understand truly although we grew into it well enough,"
Stiles smiled to himself, “well then it's considered possessive. Baba was
against the union, said that we were too young, he was barely twenty, but he
had to go to the peninsula and could not decide if he was more scared that he
would die and I would marry another, or another would swoop in and steal me
away, so he petitioned Baba until she agreed to let us wed, by special license.
I do not remember a time when I did not know I was to be his.”
“Did you choose it?” Lydia asked.
“IF you mean would he have accepted my refusal if I had offered it?” Stiles
asked, “yes, I truly believe that he would have, oh he would have moped, there
would have been tears, perhaps singing outside my window," he smiled, “more
singing under my window, Baba did not throw a bucket of water upon him, but the
whole bucket, but there is a comfort in knowing that he loves me that dearly.”
The smile was a charming private thing, “Every day I thank God that he was not
present for the fire, I think if I had lost him I would have died that day
too.”
Lydia took a moment before she spoke because she had always wanted that kind of
love and had resigned herself to marrying McCall simply because she could not
bear to disappoint him by saying no. “You spoke of a fire, twice now you have
mentioned it.”
Stiles sighed, and even Boyd's shoulders, where he was driving the Barouche,
dropped a little, “it was nearly ten years ago now, the Hale family have, or
should I say had, a long standing feud with the Argent family. In the civil war
the Argent family lost most of their wealth, and when they approached Lady
Talia, the Duchess at the time, about mending bridges she was wary but she
spoke of forgiveness in parliament and so she could offer no less. Just after
Christmas she invited her family to the Shropshire estate, The Grange, for a
feast, Laura, I mean Lady Eustacia-Lorelei, Lord Roderick and Lady Persephone
were absent, Persephone, Cora, was staying in the cottage that the Duchess had
given to Baba and I, nearer the village, Baba is very well respected midwife,
was even before she came to England.” He took another deep breath as if the
very telling pained him. “It was a cold night, I remember that, and it had been
raining all day, but Vidama Argent was invited as she was courting Thomas, he
was so shy and nervous he would have done anything to please her just because
she was paying attention to him. She drugged their wine, locked all the doors
and the shutters, then set the house on fire for a slight only the Argent
family understood.”
He saw silent for a few long moments. “Peter was the only one to get out alive,
he had little Henry in his arms, and his shirt caught fire, he landed in the
mud when he jumped out of the window. Henry was already dead, Peter not far
behind him. Baba spent months bringing him back from the brink of death but she
couldn't cure his melancholia.”
“And Vidama Argent?” Lydia wondered if she was any relation to Miss Argent, the
charming alpha girl she knew in London. Then decided that she could not be,
afterall Miss Argent was charming and sweet, more a beta in her demeanour than
a vile omega who might do such a thing.
“She had arranged to run off to Gretna with a Scottish alpha, I think she
intended to set him as an alibi, but the court found her guilty. She pled the
belly and being a lady was given house arrest.” There was another pause, “once
the child was born her husband had her committed to Bedlam and she’s still
there. If she leaves, or even tries to, she’ll hang for what she did. Her
alpha, Harris, just wanted an heir, he used her as much as she used him, and
her family disowned her, but still, the fire is an open wound, and Peter, vain,
beautiful Peter was burned badly. You must be patient with him.”
Lydia had no answer for that so she sat silent as Boyd as the barouche
continued on it's way into the town of Llandudno.
Chapter End Notes
     kochanie is pronounced Koh-HAN-ya, and is a petname meaning darling
     laska is a petname meaning chick, it literally is a baby chicken
     Arianrhod - is pronounced ar-ee-ANN-roht, so you sublimate the d at
     the end, it's not a hard sound at all, it's almost swallowed
***** Chapter 8 *****
The town of Llandudno was clearly built around the annual influx of the rich
travelling to the coast, there were hotels along the seafront, raised behind a
wall and a road from the sandy beach. It was framed on either side by the large
hills, although she would not have thought that the population was more than
six hundred people. After London it felt positively tiny and quiet, although
Stiles told her, as he prattled on about one thing or another, sometimes his
husband whom he only ever called “himself”, that there was a rousing social
scene in the summer, as many families would come and had large houses in the
town, so there were balls, and routs, and one family, who Stiles named but
Lydia immediately forgot the name of, ran a fabulous game of hazard.
Boyd didn't say anything, but during the drive Stiles did inform her, amidst a
great deal of mindless gossip, that Lady Eustacia-Lorelei, who everyone called
Laura and she might as well, had been the heir to the duchy as the eldest alpha
left alive after the fire, Horatio had been but he had died, but Laura had
rejected the duchy, and ran off with another alpha to the Americas and now
lived in Chesapeake where she was a ferocious abolitionist, and although the
duke had been urged to cut her off to avoid scandal he had funded her as much
as she wished in her work, and both Boyd and Danielle had come to work in the
house due to her employment.
Lydia had just assumed that Boyd was shy, and had not decided to ask any other
questions.
She learned quickly that for as much as Stiles talked, and it was a lot, he
rarely gave away any private information about himself, and she was not
comfortable enough to push. She did, however, tell him all about London and her
suitors. She told him about that last masquerade and the dress she had worn,
stitched with beads of facetted Bohemian glass and embroidered with silver
thread, with a stiffened lace collar and a fichu of finest cotton batiste, and
a ceramic crown of flowers that she valued for far more than it's cost.
She told him about the dark alpha who had attended the same balls that she had,
and who stared at her as if he was going to tell her something unpleasant but
never approached her. She told him about Scott McCall whom she had thought that
she would marry simply because she could not bear to disappoint him, and when
she was the focus of his attention it was like the world stopped and there was
only the two of them and how it felt like being shot in the neck when it
happened.
She told him about her other suitors, Mr. Raeken who made her feel
uncomfortable but would have burned the world to please her, and Dr. Haberland
who appreciated her intelligence but she always felt like she left him behind.
And she told him about her Sun king who had teased her and challenged her and
she didn't even know his name.
He told her about his husband who often seemed surly but was as soft as unspun
cotton underneath, and about how as a child, for Stiles was very close to Lydia
in age, that Peter had run races with several of the staff with Stiles upon his
shoulders, and the others with children similarly placed.
Stiles wanted Lydia to think well of Peter, and maybe she would but the truth
was that she did not know him.
—-
After Stiles had abandoned them outside the modistes, although he insisted on
calling it a dressmaker, and sent them for tea Lydia took the opportunity to
walk through the town, appreciating the sea breeze upon her face, although Boyd
was not too keen on her walking along the beach in the shoes that she was
wearing, steering her instead away from the steps down to the water and along
the sea wall.
Stiles had been right, for someone who didn't talk he had no trouble expressing
himself and could say more with a displeased eyebrow than Stiles had managed
all morning, and eventually directed her to a pie shop, walking straight past
the tea shop that faced it with a nod that suggested that he knew things.
He managed, without saying a word, to order a pair of slices of eel pie in a
pile of pease pudding and two large cups of gin. He just gave her a tired sigh
that suggested that he needed it even if she didn’t.
Sitting with him was calming, he expected no conversation and offered no
judgement about her, sometimes about the people around them, in particular, one
beta woman in a truly awful dress that appeared to be made of the worst shade
of yellow orange in the world and clashed terribly with her olive skin and ash
blonde hair, and scarlet hat. The face he pulled had Lydia laughing into her
cup.
“I have heard," a voice said from another booth, Lydia could not see who it was
that had spoken, “that Lord Peter has married.”
“It seems his melancholia does not impede him, certainly." Another man
answered, “isn't that the seventh bride?”
At that Lydia started to listen more intently, for she had expected the sort of
bawdy conversation that men shared when they believed they were alone.
"I’ve heard that this one is a diamond, and it says what money can buy if she
is the seventh wife he’s had." The first man's voice was rougher, “I mean it's
not like it isn't well known that he murdered his first six wives.”
“They’re buried out on the estate," his companion answered, “I’m told the six
of them were lookers, each richer than the last, it's why the Hales have so
much blunt.”
“It’s why the duke and his bride don't live up at the big house.” Lydia gritted
her teeth and her knuckles whitened around the glass of gin, as she raised her
hand for the girl to bring her more. “They're scared Peter will have his way
and bury the body of the duke's bride on the estate with his own”
“How long do you think she’ll last?”
There was a scuffling, “I'll put a guinea on it, no more than six months.”
Lydia downed the glass of gin completely with a cough, and let the girl fill
the glass again. She had heard the term before, someone had only this morning
called her the seventh bride. This was clearly why Stiles wanted her to like
Peter, so she might be happy before he murdered her. No wonder her parents had
been bought off, it ensured their silence. No wonder everyone at the estate
treated her like a servant, she wasn't to stay, no, she thought, she was to
stay, buried in the estate.
Curse Peter Hale and all his family. She would not stay to be murdered, she
would take the opportunity to run, she would, she would not be weak any more.
Boyd reached across the table and put his hand on hers, nodding before he moved
across to the booth and there was some commotion, before he came back and
offered his arm to Lydia. She looked back at the two men who were sitting
dumbstruck and scared in their booth, the guinea was gone from the table.
Later she found it in her reticule where Boyd had placed it, and put it into
her jewellery chest like it was a diamond the size of her fist.
—-
When she returned to Maunlilie she hunted down Jennifer and demanded that she
take her to her husband’s chamber for she wished to confront him about the
troubling rumours. There was no way that they could be true she decided. A
nobleman might get away with the murder of a prostitute but not six women of
society, even in a place like Wales, and Lydia had no real dower to speak of,
so she had not been married for her money. In fact, the opposite was true, she
had been purchased from her parents for five hundred pounds a year, which was a
fine living for a gentleman, or even minor noble. It was, after all, the yearly
wage of fifty menials.
It was not unheard of for families like the Hales to give minor families that
produced Omega children a small allowance, usually fifty or so pounds a year
for their education with the expectation that when they were grown they would
marry into the family. The children would be raised together knowing that they
would be married. That was not what had happened to Lydia.
“His Lordship does not like to be disturbed.” Jennifer said and went to bristle
past, “I have duties, Vidama, I cannot stand about all day gossiping.” The
woman did have a bundle of laundry in her arms, however she also had an
expression that looked like it might curdle milk.
“I did not ask for your opinion on what his lordship does or does not like."
Lydia said, finding her backbone against the woman, she remembered how almost
everyone called her “Jenny of the woods” and did not like her, she must have
been excellent at her job that she had not been fired simply for her attitude.
Although Lydia would have words with her husband about it. “I told you I wished
to visit his chambers. You are paid to serve the wishes of the Hale family of
which I am a member, you will tell me which of these rooms are his and can
continue with your work.”
“Of course, my lady." The gesture might have been more honest if she had not
simpered so, and gave Lydia directions to the room which was, of course, on the
opposite side of the house, but would have had a wonderful view of the forest
and the sea beyond it.
—-
Peter’s room was in a finer part of the house than Lydia’s, the door made of
what appeared to be solid oak and both painted and with cushions against the
wood covered in fine silk. She had seen this done before, in fine houses in
London but her own door was simply painted oak so she had assumed all of the
doors would match because all of the ones that she had seen had. She knew there
were finely stained doors to some of the locked main rooms but those were for
guests.
She rapped politely on the door and waited, but there was no response
So she rapped harder.
There was no response.
“I know you’re in there." She called out, “Peter, open the damn door.” There
was no sign of movement inside the room. “You owe me an explanation, damn you.”
She kicked the door hard enough that she hurt her foot, “open the fucking
door.” She was not the sort of lady who was often given to displays of anger or
worse, uncouth language, but she felt like she was wrung out, and none was more
surprised than she when she collapsed into herself weeping again, secure none
could see her as she rested her face against the cushion on the base of the
door.
When the weeping storm had passed she stood up and wiped her face with her
fichu before stuffing the fabric into the pocket of her skirt. She was Lady
Lydia Martin, no, Lady Lydia Hale and she was an omega of the first order, and
the season's Incomparable, she did not weep at doors like a common scullery
maid.
That night when Peter came to her in her room, Lydia made a point of adjusting
the blankets and going to sleep, not letting him speak at all.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     so sorry about the delay, I really wasn't very well and this chapter
     didn't want to grow because of it
     so better late than never.
The morning after she snubbed her husband, for which Lydia still felt entirely
justified she found a book on her counterpane, one which was much finer than
the one that had been in the room when she had first moved into Maunlilie. She
had decided to ignore the way the furniture kept getting finer and more
expensive. The old wooden chair had been replaced by a quilted velvet knotting
chair. The linens had been replaced and heavy curtains had been hung over the
window. Heather had claimed she knew nothing of it, and it might have been the
twins, who mostly managed the garden, who had done it, but day by day something
new and expensive showed up in the room.
One of the treasures was a large bound vellum book labelled Ars Mathematica and
she nearly wavered when she saw it, when she opened the cover it read “Ex
Libris Johannes Dee" and if she had not been so angry at Peter she would have
rushed to his room to thank him. Although the book was mostly in Latin, there
were a few notes scribbled in the margin in Greek, and at least one in English,
it was a treatise trying to work out the distance of the planets
mathematically. It was truly named, it was a work of mathematical art.
It was the sort of gift that left her speechless as it suggested more about her
than the jewellery.
It continued in that fashion for the next few days, for Lydia would merely huff
when she found him in her room, refusing to acknowledge him and once pretending
to be asleep with fake snores that made him laugh. But every morning there was
a gift, a book of mathematics that made her waver.
On the sixth day on top of the book, a copy of Isaac Newton's calculations, she
found a blind fold. “Would you do me the honour,” the note said, “of wearing
this that we might talk, I do not know what it is that I have angered you with
but I would apologise," floridly signed Peter.
She had spent her days with Peter and Baba, Boyd hovering in the background
occasionally giving them cups of tea and making strange noises when Stiles
tried something that Boyd did not like. Stiles was making a layette, hampered
by the fact he seemed completely incapable of stitching a straight line, let
alone the tiny delicate work needed for a baby’s cap. Lydia assumed the layette
was for Rhiannon in the village who had, apparently, according to Heather,
given birth to a 12 pound child and was giving her husband the stink eye and
throwing things at him. She had heard it from Dr Parrish, although she often
slipped and called him Jordan.
Every now and again Lydia tried to explore the house but most of the doors were
locked and when they were not the furniture was covered in dust sheets. Along
one of the corridors that led to the open ball room were six small oval
portraits, each about the size of a dinner plate that Lydia knew to be the six
brides who had preceded her. Each had clearly been painted by the same artist,
three facing right over their shoulder, and three facing left, each of them
wore a similar dress with barely anything but the edge of their fichu showing,
and had their hair prettily arraigned and delicately covering the points of
their ears. Four of them, two facing left and two facing right, had thick dark
hair, although one had mousy blonde hair and one was a fair blonde.
In the first portrait was a handsome woman with an oval face, a hard mouth,
dark skin and black eyes. She wore a chain that was visible over her shoulder
and a drop pearl earring. There was a suggestion that she was wearing red, and
had better things to do with her time than bother with sitting for a portrait.
She was a little frightening, Lydia thought.
She faced left but the next two faced right.
The next woman was dark haired as well, but was finer featured, and her hair
and skin were lighter, her mouth was softer and her eyes more almond shaped
than the narrow eyes of the first woman, who looked a little bored and
disapproving. There was a softness and calm to this woman that the first had
lacked. She was beautiful but had a similar oval face.
The next woman was fair haired, her features more pointed with green eyes and a
large expressive mouth, fairer features had been highlighted with rosy cheeks,
and although her hair was mostly dressed up a fall of it fell over her
shoulders. She looked to be the oldest of the women in the portraits.
The next two portraits faced left.
They were two dark haired girls who looked similar, although one had a softer
mouth the other had larger almond eyes, and both were beautiful. The first, who
had a handful of years upon the second, wore a choker of wire flowers that
seemed very like one that Lydia had in her casket. The other had a ribbon.
The last portrait faced right and showed the beautiful pale blonde. Her eyes
were a pale grey and her expression was sulky, her dress a dark gold and her
hair a mass of soft curls. Lydia wondered what this girl had done, why she had
been chosen when Peter clearly favoured brunettes. Perhaps she had been rich,
but there were hints of colour in her hair.
Lydia wanted to tear the six portraits down, to throw them into the fire.
How dare he, she thought, every time she thought she might forgive him, she
came to the wall and stared at them, the six who went before her, the six women
who were almost certainly in the six cairns she had found in the woods. Had
these women also stroked Colonel and thrown sticks for Gremlin and Gunther. Had
they walked these halls and slept in the same bed she had. She would not be
soon forgiving him.
“Beautiful, weren't they?” Jennifer said coming up behind Lydia, she never
seemed to make any noise when she walked, even the Chatelaine on her belt was
smothered by the fabric of her skirts. “The Ladies Hale.”
Lydia said nothing, she didn't comment on how Jennifer looked like she belonged
among them with her soft doll like features, her dark hair and eyes, more than
Lydia did. Perhaps Jennifer should have been the seventh bride, the seventh of
these beautiful paintings.
"Of course,” Jennifer continued, “you know what happened, the way gossip
lingers in this place it would be more surprising if you did not know.” Lydia
remained silent. She bent down and lifted Colonel into her arms, lavishing
attention on the dog so she wouldn’t look at Jennifer. “This house keeps
secrets, perhaps it’s because it’s so old, William Hale, who built it, made
sure of it. It’s where the Hales come to hide, to grow old and to die and bury
their secrets.” In Lydia’s arms Colonel was a reassuring bundle, but she wanted
to push past Jennifer but she was blocking the corridor. “Sometimes with so
much death I go to the roof and think how easy it would be to just jump.”
Something shifted within Lydia. She had this memory of sitting with her brother
and having hurt herself, she had burned herself on the fireplace poker, and she
was crying and her brother, who at the time couldn’t have been more than five
said, “you are not weak, you’re Lydia Martin and Lydia Martin doesn’t cry.”
In London she had made the decision that she would not be a victim, she would
be the diamond of the ton. She was Lydia Martin and she made other people bow
to her will, and she would not be cowed by a beta housekeeper. she was a peer
of the realm and this house was hers, she would not give in to the petty
bullying of this shrew. “Why don’t you then?” She said turning. “If you fixate
on jumping, why not just jump, clearly you hate this house, you could of course
just leave, but I think you enjoy being hated, I think you like being Jenny of
the Woods or whatever it is that they call you. If you don’t mind, Jennifer,”
she said pushing past her, “I have better amusements for my time.”
“I was simply making conversation, Vidama,” Jennifer replied briskly, “and to
carry the message that your husband has requested your presence tonight at
supper, promptly at ten.”
Lydia buried her fingers into Colonel’s silky hair, “if you are carrying
messages for my husband,” she said although she did wonder why it was that
Peter had not mentioned it in his note, “Tell him I shall be glad to attend,
and make sure that around eightish that Heather has brought hot water to my
chamber for a bath. Now I am sure that you have things that you should be
attending to, good day.” And with that she brushed past Jennifer - Lydia would
not give Jennifer the joy of seeing her waver.
--
The day was unseasonably warm so after her usual walk through the grounds,
which she usually found soothing, Lydia decided that she would go swimming in
the private cove that she had discovered in her wandering. She changed her gown
for a simpler dress, one that she had worn before she had gone to London
because it buttoned up the front and allowed her to quickly shed it when she
went swimming, although that had been with her sisters. She fetched herself a
flax towel and a clean chemise, for she did not want to pull her dress back on
over wet muslin. She gathered her hair into a braid at the nape of her neck,
and rather than pin it into a knot, gathered it under a knit lace snood.
With her things in a basket that she had liberated from Stiles she went to the
quiet cove, noticing the folly on the hill but not with enough interest to
actually investigate it. The dogs accompanied her. They liked swimming more
than she did. Even Colonel who was already frolicking in the waves, barking and
dancing backwards with canine glee.
Lydia was smiling as she stripped down to her chemise, rolling up her stocking
and shoving them into her boots before she walked into the water.
It was biting cold but it was exactly what she needed, the cold feeling like
needles scouring her skin around her legs before she reached thigh depth and
dove in.
The water felt like bliss against her skin, cold as it was so she swam until
her muscles ached and even the dogs returned to laze on the sand watching her.
When she emerged from the water her basket was gone.
She searched for it for long moments before she was sure it had been taken and
said some words that were not lady like, before she decided that she did not
care. She was Lady Hale and she would act like it. Perhaps Queen Charlotte
might not walk through the woods in a wet chemise because someone had taken her
dress, but Lydia would walk like she was.
Matt, whom she thought was a footman although he never seemed to do any work,
was in the conservatory when she entered, apparently picking through the orange
trees. She had chosen the conservatory because she had hoped it would be empty.
“Well, isn’t that a sight.” Matt leered, looking her up and down. The muslin
was expensive so was mostly sheer, even without being damp and clinging to her
frame.
“I beg your pardon,” Lydia snarled at him, “do you address all of the people in
the the house with that manner or have you decided that I am somehow especially
deserving of your attentions.” He was still staring at her breasts and not her
face. “I am suddenly aware of why a man with such prospects and standing cannot
find a maiden interested in his suit, for if he will look upon a vidama with
such disrespect how must he treat a beta girl.” She lifted her chin, “and it is
not like there is much there to please one,” she flicked her eyes to his
crotch. “You should speak to Lord Peter about a pay rise, for you might be able
to appease a potential wife with money, you certainly won’t with what nature
gave you.”
“How dare you?” he hissed, his face was red with rage.
“How dare I? I am a vidama and Lady of this household, I dare all I damn well
please, now if you don’t mind, Matthew, I am going to change, it seems
someone,” she looked at him askance suspecting he was responsible, “took my
clothes from the bay, perhaps they thought that they were doing me a favour, or
were so hard pressed to see a woman naked that they had to engineer it.” Her
smile was cruel when she graced him with it, “I hope the memory lingers,
Matthew, because it will be a long time before you see another.”
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Angry as she was, as soon as Lydia dressed, perfunctorily in the dress she had
left in the cove over a fresh chemise. She brushed out her hair but did not
braid it to let it dry after a quick rinse to get the worst of the salt from
it. Then her decision made she decided she would not spend another minute in
this house until she had to return.
Without the dogs, for they had decided to abandon her to accompany Heather on
her cleaning, which mostly meant lying on rugs and being adored, she crossed
through the woods past the six cairns to the herbarium. Stiles was her friend
and he would listen politely as she complained about her awful day. She had no
problems with helping him with his work in the herbarium which he had said that
the Duke had built for him when he was a child before he had married.
The herbarium was a large brick garden built on several levels, so some areas
were naturally shaded and others exposed to the sun. Some plants grew on the
walls, of which Lydia only recognized wisteria which completely covered one
wall in sweet smelling purple blossoms. There was a lawn of chamomile and other
herbs she did not recognize, lavender slowly coming into bloom and a fountain
that pattered in the center, providing a soft spray of water to the plants
there.
To the rear of the property was a potting shed with a wall of glass and as
Stiles was not among the herb beds she made the guess that that was where he
was. She could not see Boyd but it was not unusual for them both to be busy in
the potting or drying sheds.
She quickly crossed through the gravel paths to the potting shed, marveling at
how Stiles and Boyd kept the place so tidy and opened the door without
knocking.
Stiles was in the potting shed, but he was not alone. He was perched on one of
the work surfaces with his pants missing, and an alpha that Lydia did not know
was between his legs and thrusting. Stiles had both arms around the alpha’s
back as the alpha kissed at his neck, and both feet were bouncing at the force
of the thrusts as they made grunting noises, the air knocked out of him with
each motion of their hips.
Lydia was so surprised she barely took note of the alpha's dark hair before she
blushed clear to the roots of her hair and turned closing the door behind her.
Her breath felt a little tight in her chest and she felt warm which she
attributed to the blood currently flooding her cheeks. Stiles had a lover.
He was a dark haired man and now she thought of it she recognized him as the
dark alpha, her dark alpha, who had stared at her so intently when she had been
in London. She was speechless for she had thought that Stiles had seemed at
least fond of his husband. Was that why Boyd had been asked to watch over him,
Lydia thought, and if so, where was he, that Stiles could have such an
assignation, and in the day time as well.
Unsure what else to do she went to the gatehouse that Stiles shared with his
grandmother in the hope someone was present.
Baba was sat at the kitchen work table picking out stitch work in the layette
that Stiles had been making with a pair of scissors. “Vidama,” she said, “won't
you join me in tea?" and it was so nice to be addressed properly that Lydia
said yes and sat at the table without wondering if it was appropriate.
After she had served a lavender tisane Baba went back to her mending, “I love
my grandson dearly, and with all my heart, but he stitches like a drunken
butcher.” She said and Lydia snorted a laugh. “All of that money spent on
making sure he was accomplished and look,” she showed Lydia the stitch work.
“Are you sure that is not simply basting?” Lydia asked. The stitching was large
and ugly.
“I wish that it were.” Baba said, “he stitches like he is sewing together a dog
bite that must be left open to allow the wound to breathe, though I have told
him it is like stitching together an artery, tiny invisible stitches. I despair
of him, nor can he play the pianoforte.” Baba smiled to herself at that. “All
that university level education and he cannot make a layette, can you stitch,
Lydia?” With that, she pushed one of the articles, a pretty little baby’s dress
across the table. “I do this whilst he is the herbarium, I can’t have people
thinking the outfit was put together by monkeys.”
“Jennifer said that you were a midwife.” Lydia offered.
“Jenny probably said that I am a witch,” Baba spoke with a distinct accent but
with the ease of someone who had spent years speaking the language. “She calls
me a gypsy and a whore, but she is good at her job so I ignore the slurs, after
all, I have been called much worse over the years, but yes, I am a midwife.”
Baba put her sewing down for a moment, “has anyone spoken to you about
pregnancy?”
Lydia blushed again, “I, he hasn’t come to me, not like that.”
Baba frowned a little, it seemed a comfortable gesture on her face, “one
moment,” she said and put her snips on the table before she got up, and from a
cabinet, that she unlocked with a key on her chatelaine, she pulled a large
black bottle, then a smaller bottle and a funnel. She poured the contents of
the first bottle into the smaller one and then corked it. Then from a jug, she
filled a second, larger bottle although to Lydia it looked like water that she
was pouring. She put the two bottles in front of Lydia.
Pushing forward the first bottle she said, “take five drops of this in water
every morning, ten if you’ve had congress the night before, it will both ease
your days and prevent a pregnancy catching, but it is not foolproof, especially
if you forget to take it.” Gesturing to the other bottle she said, “this is a
tonic for your blood, it does taste unpleasant but take a soup spoon of it
every morning, you can add it to the same water, or even lemonade. Almost every
omega I have ever met has had problems with their blood being thin, this will
prevent that. And when you are ready to have a baby come back to me.”
“Aren’t these immoral?” Lydia asked.
“I’m a midwife, vidama,” she said with a shrug, “I find it more immoral to
saddle people with children they are unready for or more than they can cope
with or afford. If adding a tincture of chaste berry and Queen Anne's lace to
water prevents it I will give as much of it as I can. My interest will always
fall with the omega, not the alpha church.”
What followed as Baba worked on the baby dress in her hands and Lydia stitched
the ruffles on an adorable baby bonnet was one of the frankest and possibly
most disturbing conversations that Lydia had ever had. Baba was honest and open
about copulation, babies and a few other things Lydia had never needed to know.
Often she accompanied these explanations with hand gestures or stabbing motions
with her snips. She had no patience for Lydia being embarrassed about these
things and explained that sex was a wonderful thing when done right and really
Lydia had nothing to worry about because Peter was such a cocksman.
“He won’t let me look at him.” Lydia said as Baba made her more tea, “he keeps
trying to talk to me but insists I don’t look at him, and now he’s arranged for
us to have supper together.”
“Supper is often a way into frolics.” Baba told her, “but Peter is vain. He was
a very handsome young man and,” she stopped, spooning lavender into the pot,
“do you have any scars, kochanie?” she said suddenly, “when you first scar it’s
red and angry, and later when it fades, when almost no one can see it in your
head it is still red and angry. Do you understand?” Lydia told her that she
did.
“Half of Peter’s face was badly burned in the fire, he doesn’t see the scars as
proof that he survived, that he saved Lady Persephone, he sees it as the
failure to save everyone else, and he’s vain enough that he would rather haunt
that old pile than admit that no one cares.” She put the pot down on the table
and picked up her stitching. “You are beautiful, kochanie, don’t forget that
and that might be why he hides from you, he has spent so many years trying to
please you.”
“I didn’t know he existed until I was summoned.” Lydia cut her off.
“I only know what I heard from Talia and then Peter,” Baba said, “but that was
your parent’s decision, not the Hale’s. What do you know about what happened?”
Lydia told her what Peter had told her, that her parents had approached the
Hales and that Alex was the alpha they expected her to bond with but she had
chosen Peter. Baba nodded and then continued, “normally, at least in England,
it is common for the parents of the alpha to sponsor the omega child in society
with the expectation” she enunciated the word carefully, “that they marry when
they are older. It is not an arranged marriage but the suggestion of one, Talia
offered this to your mother with the sum of one hundred pounds a year.” Lydia
questioned this for she had received five hundred pounds a year, her parents
had been specific about that.
“Peter had just received his commission, and although he was a major in the
Queen’s Dragoons he was being sent to Vienna by the foreign office, or was it
Berlin, no it was Vienna, and your mother was worried he would marry someone
else, a foreign princess perhaps, although those of us who knew him were pretty
convinced he would never marry so she renegotiated. Perhaps she hoped that
Peter would die on the peninsula. She wanted you to marry straight away. Talia
thought that you thought it was a game, perhaps you did. There are worse things
for a child than wearing pretty dresses and flowers. You were given the
allowance that was due to Peter’s wife, I don’t know how much it was.”
“Five hundred a year,” Lydia said darkly.
“Did you never receive gifts you couldn’t explain, pretty trifles from Europe,
books on the natural sciences and philosophies, gowns finer than you expected.”
Lydia looked at the table because she and her siblings had received such gifts.
She had believed those gifts were from suitor as she was an omega. “I imagine
there were letters too, but Peter was so much older, and he was in the army, if
only in name. Perhaps your mother hoped he would die,” she shrugged it off.
“Mothers have done more in the name of all of their children.” And that was
what Lydia’s parents had done, they had taken the money and used it for all of
their children, they had used it to garner dowries and educations for their
beta daughters, for land for their beta son. Lydia knew now she could find
herself a solicitor and sue them for the money but it wasn’t worth it. She just
hoped they realized that they had been cut off.
There was also a moment of impishness where she could spend the money Peter
gave her as an allowance, five hundred a year was a lot of money and showed how
wealthy that the Hales were. She wouldn’t need to rely on the staff in
Maunlilie and Jennifer’s management of the house, five hundred was more than
enough to buy her own staff and clothe them all in silk if she felt like it.
She could set up her own household in London for five hundred pounds a year.
She suddenly felt a lot better about meeting Peter for supper that evening.
Chapter End Notes
     The remedy Baba gives Lydia IS an actual contraceptive however I
     highly recommend you don't just take my word for it - look it up,
     research it, read around the topic before deciding it's what's best
     for you (even if that's just finding a contraceptive that works
     without the pressures of getting birth control in the US) and even
     then don't use it as your only, be SAFE, okay, I don't want you to go
     and take something you read in a fic as law and get yourself hurt
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
     there is some consent issues in this chapter. Lydia gets very drunk
     and asks Peter to have sex with her, he refuses because she is drunk,
     it later comes out that she was a bit friendly with Liam when she got
     him to help her undress, it was not meant sexually she was just very
     drunk and is embarrassed about it. She later apologises off screen
     for smashing his face into her breasts whilst she was fully clothed.
     nothing happens but Lydia offers, she probably wouldn't have if she
     had been sober.
Lydia Martin was drunk. She was aware of this on several levels, including the
steady knowledge that someone who had drunk as much of the pastis as she had
should be drunk even without the room gyroscoping around her. She had asked
poor Liam, the footman in training, to help her with her corset because she was
drunk, and the poor lamb had, his ears so red that they looked fit to explode.
She had tried to seduce her husband. it might have gone better if he had
attended the dinner he had arranged to share with her.
She had worn the finest gown in her wardrobe, one made of a silk called habotai
where the weft was green and the weave was red so that the dress shimmered and
changed colours as she moved, but the lining of her mantua was a soft pea green
that matched the lace that trimmed the dress, was caught in waves at her elbows
and formed pleats under her bosom, there was a silk corsage at one shoulder
with green ribbons falling from it, and a cameo brooch she had found in her
jewellery chest. Heather had pinned her red hair up into a crown of curls at
the back of her head apart from a single ringlet that fell down over her
shoulder, opposite to the corsage.
She finished the outfit off with the moonstone cross and a touch of rouge on
her lips and went down to her favoured sitting room to wait to be called for
supper. She had brought with her a book, a salacious novel that Baba had
recommended to her but she wasn't really in the mood for reading.
She felt like her heart would have been in her mouth if not for the strict
corseting of the gown.
The first pastis had been an aperitif to settle her nerves.
Pastis was what her father had drunk and so she had developed a taste for it
because when she and her sisters had been good girls they were allowed to sip
from papa’s glass. The green cloudy liquid, for she always diluted her pastis
with water, matched her gown she noticed around the third glass.
Liam, confused under a pair of thick eyebrows, stood at the door and every time
her glass emptied he offered her more and she said yes, she had no reason not
to after all. He wore a suit that appeared to be borrowed, perhaps from Matt
the other footman, because it didn’t fit him, and kept shifting around on his
feet, not sure what to do, and so leapt on the opportunity to fill her glass.
It was Matt that told her dinner was being served, although there remained no
sign of her husband.
Danielle was serving, again suggesting the dearth of staff in the house. She
half expected Jennifer to sit at the table but she sat alone. “If I wait any
longer," Danielle said putting a bowl of mock turtle soup in front of Lydia,
“dinner will be ruined, and I am not letting my hard work go to waste because
someone is feeling shy.” Lydia was almost drunk enough to laugh.
She ate her meal alone. The food was wonderful, the pastis went down easy,
washing down mock turtle soup, beef in onion gravy and a sweet mint bavarois
with champagne.
No one joined her, and apart from Liam she might as well have sat in the formal
dining hall alone. There were paintings, one of which was a formal portrait of
an omega done in the alpha style, but showing his ears proudly. There were
three long scars across his cheek but he was lovely, but shown with his wealth
with Maunlilie in the lands over his shoulder. She drank a toast to him.
When the final dishes were cleared away she got to her feet, her legs unsteady
under her and she stumbled against Liam, with an orange stuffed in her fist.
“My husband," she told him as he uncomfortably picked the pins from her hair,
“is not a good man," Liam avoided saying anything, it was possibly the clever
answer. “He could not even join me for supper. How am I supposed to like him if
he does things like this?" she wiped at her face, sniffing back tears. “I hate
this house, I hate this place, I hate him.”
Liam had looked like he might at any moment be devoured by a house sized demon
as he had offered her a handkerchief. “There there," he said, patting her
shoulder. As she sloughed out of her dress and climbed into her bed.
“I’m a little drunk." she told him. It was an understatement she was well and
truly foxed. She was still holding the orange. She couldn't remember why and
the room was spiralling away from her, from left to right, from right to left
and switching the ceiling and floor in a gyroscopic motion that she did care
for. She fussed around with her free hand, not wanting to give up the orange,
until she found the blindfold and pulled it on, just to make the room stop
spinning. "I hate him." She said.
“Sleep well, my lady,” Liam said and took the opportunity to flee from the
scene which made him very uncomfortable.
Lydia did suppose she did sleep because when she next noticed the world her
mouth was dry and felt like someone had laid out a aubusson carpet inside it
when she was not paying attention. She tried to sit up but suddenly there were
hands beside her. For a moment she thought it was Heather. “Here," the male
voice, Peter’s voice, said, “Drink this.” The water was cold and flavoured with
mint and she drank it greedily. “What were you thinking?”
Lydia was drunk and angry. “That maybe you would come to the supper you set up
with me,” she tried to sit up but his hand on her shoulder kept her from
twisting out of his grip and spilling the water all over herself. “That maybe I
could be something other than a pretty trinket.”
“I’ve never thought of you as a trinket.” He said. “Lydia Martin is not only
beautiful, not only incredibly intelligent, she is mine and I have never had
use for trinkets.”
“Then why did you not come." She knew she was whining but couldn't quite make
herself stop. She thought she might cry again.
"I did not know that you wanted me to.” He said softly, he was stroking her
hair over her blindfold, and it was such a gentle gesture she leant into him.
She had been so lonely.
“I don't know what I want." Lydia admitted. “I think I want you to fuck me.”
He made a noise before he continued to stroke her hair. “You’re drunk." He
said.
"I should like to think so,” she said, “otherwise that was a lot of fine pastis
I wasted.” He huffed a laugh at her answer, “but really, you should fuck me.”
Although her hands felt strange and misshapen, like they were made of clay, she
found the tie of her chemise, “you said I was beautiful,” she said as she
pulled the string letting the fabric fall from her shoulders. “Don’t you find
me beautiful?”
He tugged the chemise back up around her shoulders, “do not tempt me so, love,"
he said, "I’m only human and you are very beautiful.”
“Then why won't you?” she thought she might cry again.
“Because you are drunk.” He said, “and I would not hurt you.” He laid a soft
kiss against her forehead. “I have moved heaven and earth for you, sent you
gifts and built you palaces of the mind, I have done so much for you and you
have sent away everything I’ve given you, I’m only human, Lydia, and I can only
withstand so much.”
“Stay,” she mumbled.
“Til you’re asleep.” He agreed, wrapping his arms around her. She was amazed at
how safe she felt and warm and safe and very drunk, she let herself drift.
—-
Stiles was sat in the kitchen on a padded wing back chair that Boyd had brought
in for him, with a cushion behind his back as he sat with Lydia drinking fennel
tea. It was not something she cared for but it did seem to be helping with her
hangover.
She was incredibly hungover, her stomach was roiling, her very hair hurt and
her skin felt like it had been switched with the carp that Danielle was making
into a pie on the sideboard. Stiles had no compunction at laughing at her as he
made shapes with the pastry that would decorate the pie. He was wearing his
blue felt smock and his hands were deft as they twisted and folded the pastry
into roses and birds.
“The worst thing,” Lydia said, “was I woke up sharing my bed with an orange. I
had laid it out on the pillow like it was Queen Charlotte’s sceptre on it’s
velvet pillow. I am never drinking again.”
“Come now, don’t blame the drink,” Stiles said. “It was at worst a willing
participant, that is like blaming Danielle’s exquisite cooking for you not
being hungry. The first time I got that drunk I woke up with a fruit in the bed
my husband spent weeks judging me. He has very judgy eyebrows.”
Danielle made a noise of agreement, “his eyebrows can judge like god.”
Stiles made a sort of grunt and put his hand to his stomach, “I think I need
more fennel tea, I swear this week it’s been inhale through my mouth and exhale
through my ass. I’m going to have to start growing more of it in the herbarium
if I’m expected to share.”
Lydia might not have liked the taste but she was certain that the tea was the
only thing holding in her breakfast, light as it was, a Sally Lunn bun toasted
and slathered in butter of which she ate half. Previously she had only had the
buns, which were a light sweet bread that had the consistency of cake, in Bath
where they were well known but she shouldn’t have been surprised that in place
like Maunlilie they might be available. The last time she had had them she and
Lys had been stuck in bed the whole rest of the evening from eating them fresh
from the oven in the store although everyone told them to wait and they had
been sick with bloating. She had had the same problem every time she had taken
bread from Millie, their cook, as a child, but these had been left to cool and
then toasted. Whatever nausea she had she knew was from the pastis not the bun.
“I saw you, yesterday,” she surprised herself by saying it, “in the potting
shed.”
For a moment Stiles furrowed his brows in thought and then made an oh shape of
realisation with his mouth. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” He said finally,
and lifted the pot of tea to offer to Danielle that they might have more hot
water. She used the pump to fill the kettle which she hung over the fire. “I
should have locked the door.”
“I thought you should know.” Lydia said, “you’ve been so kind to me, I’ll keep
your secret.”
“What secret?” Stiles asked, “that I fuck in my potting shed, half of Wales
knows that, most know to knock.”
“I saw him, your alpha, in London.” Lydia said, “I saw him a lot, I think he
thought he was invisible, but I saw him, we laughed about him, we called him my
dark alpha because of the way he stared.”
Stiles smiled to himself, it was a soft, fond gesture. “He thinks himself
subtle, but it’s more like a brick falling into a pond. I asked him,” he
continued, “to keep an eye on you. To make sure you came to no harm, I didn’t
have a season but I heard the horror stories. I grew up with the horror
stories, about omegas lured into dark corners and compromised into marriage.
Omega and beta girls attacked on the streets. Peter assured us you’d be fine,
but you hear the stories so I asked him, to watch. It doesn’t surprise me at
all you saw him, what would have surprised me was him asking you to dance.”
“Why? you thought he might try to court me?” Lydia asked, Stiles’ paramour
seemed quite smitten with him from the moments she had seen in the potting
shed.
“Derek?” Stiles asked, “God, no, if the world’s survival counted on Derek doing
a quadrille he’d let us all die. He can’t dance, he’s shy and covers it up with
bad temper. If he hadn’t been asked he wouldn’t have attended any of the meets
over the season.” He laughed to himself, “I’d be less surprised if he had
shouted at you, threatened you and thrown you over his shoulder to bring you
here. He really doesn’t like people.”
“He likes you well enough.”
Stiles laughed and then made a mild noise of surprise, his hand resting on his
abdomen, to better guide the gas, Lydia guessed to herself. “No wonder Peter is
head over heels for you, Lydia, you’re so funny.”
“I propositioned him last night?” Lydia said.
“Derek? he didn’t say.”
“No, Peter.”
Stiles’ face made a moue of acknowledgement, before he took one of the slices
of carrot that littered the table from Danielle’s pie and popped it into his
mouth, chewing for a few seconds before he asked, “what did he say?”
“That I was drunk.” Lydia replied.
Stiles nodded, “you were.” He agreed. “Liam says you compromised his virtue.”
“I asked him to help me with my stays.” Lydia protested, “it was nothing more
than that. I don’t have a lady’s maid unless you count Heather. I needed help.”
“He says,” and he said this in a conspiratorial tone, “that you grabbed his
head and pressed it into your bosoms when he tried to find the tie which was at
the back, he says, you laughed at him for not reaching and sort of shoved him
in there so he had an extra few inches of reach.”
“Oh God,” Lydia said, she could remember that now. “he’ll never look at me
again. I like Liam, he’s so much nicer than Matt.” She was blushing, well she
thought she might be blushing, however she felt so awful from the hangover she
could be mistaken. “And Peter will kill him and there will be seven cairns in
the woods.”
“Why would Peter bury him there?” Danielle asked, laying the pastry into the
tin for her pie, “those are the dog’s graves.”
“What?” Lydia asked, perhaps she was still mostly drunk because she continued
without thinking. “I thought that was where he had buried his previous six
wives.”
Stiles burst out laughing, “Lyds,” he said reaching out and patting her hand,
“You’re not the seventh bride, and even if you were Peter hasn’t murdered six
girls, and you would have outlived it anyway, the brides died within a year,
you’ve been married for twelve.”
“Then the women, the ones in the portraits in the west hall. Jennifer said they
were the Ladies Hale.”
Stiles stood up and offered her his hand, “I think you need to meet the Ladies
Hale,” he said, “Peter’s two sisters, Talia and Thisbe, Talia’s omega bride,
Marianne, her two daughters Laura and Cora, and the omega bride of one of her
sons, Eleanor.” Lydia struggled to her feet, she felt like she weighed as much
as the Tor and full of shame. “I think you need to know where the stupid rumour
of the seventh bride comes from, but I can assure you, Lyds, it was never you.”
***** Chapter 12 *****
"I need to walk," Stiles said as he stood up, his hand on his stomach and a
grunting noise, "I wish my body would make up it's mind, my back is breaking
but I sit for another moment I think my feet will fall off."
"Do you need a cane?" Danielle asked, "I can fetch one."
"No, I do not need a cane." Stiles was horrified at the very suggestion. "I'll
walk it off and there will be carp pie when I get back. If he appears please
tell Boyd or Himself that Lydia and I are going to the Moorish Kiosk."
Danielle nodded, "you might need a shawl."
Stiles raised his eyebrow. "I'm not incompetent," he said, then looked down at
his smock where two large wet stains were spreading. "Goddammit," he said and
tugged the smock up over his head, his shirt catching on what was obviously a
pregnancy corset, with the lacing open to support the small swell of his belly,
and the padding around the breasts he was beginning to have was soaked, "I'm
leaking."
"I was under the impression your husband liked it." Danielle said offering him
a cloth to sop up the worst of the mess.
"He does, doesn't meana that I do." Stiles snarked.
"Stiles?" Lydia asked, "are you pregnant?" She was surprised for she had not
even considered such an option.
"No, I'm just carrying five pounds of extra weight in my uterus." He answered,
"of course I'm pregnant, look at me, I'm the size of a cow, my back hurts, i
have to pee constantly, if I'm not peeing I'm farting, you watched me eat," he
was indignant that she had not noticed, "I had fruit bread with a fried egg,
wiltshire loaf cheese, ginger chutney and fresh strawberries all in one
mouthful, and I hated myself for doing it."
"My brother ate weird things." Lydia shrugged off, "I thought it was just a
male thing, I didn't give it much credence."
"I'm the size of a house!" Stiles protested, "look at me." Apart from the swell
of his stomach, which was not large, certainly not as large as some women that
Lydia had seen where it looked as if they were containing a bird cage up under
their skirts, and covered entirely by his smock there was no outside show that
he was pregnant at all, and Lydia said so. "Believe me," Stiles protested,
"when I stand sideways there is no telling me from Maunlilie itself. I have had
to make a pillow just for my belly, I wonder if I am not going to give birth to
a baby oliphaunt but Baba tells me it's normal."
"I didn't even notice," Lydia said, "you're not that huge."
"The first thing Himself said on seeing me was oh my god, you've gotten so big.
An alpha leaves for four months and his first words are not that I missed you,
or I love you, but instead, oh my god, you've gotten so big. I," Stiles lip
wobbled and that was all the warning given before he started to cry. "And this
keeps happening." He said waving his hands at his face. "I keep weeping like a
beta woman. I cried for an hour because I had no more candy in the house, and I
had none because I had eaten them all, and I couldn't stop crying and Boyd
didn't know what to do, and Caitlyn, my maid, she had to hold me whilst I
sobbed and I couldn't stop." He was aghast, "I was disgusted with myself but I
couldn't stop. Although I knew he was returning I actually wrote Himself a
letter because I missed him so severely. Do not get with child, Lydia, the
experience is horrid. The only thing I have enjoyed is how comfortable my felt
smock is and now I'm getting," he was starting to well up again, "too fat for
it."
Danielle seemed better equipped to deal with Stiles minor breakdown, Lydia was
happy to call it that, she had had more than one herself since she had left
London, she wiped her hands on her apron and went to a large stone cloche,
lifting it to reveal a selection of cheeses. Using a knife she cut off a large
slab of what appeared to be Red Leicester andpressed it into Stiles' hand, and
a handkerchief in the other. He wiped his face, and then his chest with the
handkerchief and took a bite of the cheese. "I hate myself right now." He
added.
"It'll pass," Danielle said, "that's the thing about babies, they come out
eventually."
"Baba says maybe another four weeks." He sniffed into the handkerchief, "I'm
going to go see if I can find a dry shirt, I'll have left one here at some
point. If I need to I'll ask Peter, is Liam about?"
Lydia just put her head down on the table to wait, as it hurt and felt much
more heavy than usual, as if someone had, in her hair, stowed a weight or a
sack of flour, and set another across her shoulders, as well as stitched
weights into the hems of her skirt. The knowledge that Stiles was with child
had not quite sunk in, simply because it had to travel through the hangover to
get there. Danielle had returned to her work with the pastry before she poured
more hot water into Lydia's tea, and the steam which was slightly aniseed made
Lydia's stomach settle a little.
When Jennifer entered the kitchen it was likely she did not see Lydia, tucked
away as she was in the corner furthest from the door. "Why are you making carp
pie? It was not on the menu that I gave you." Jennifer said, her tone was
snide. She was wearing a dark green dress that struck Lydia as inappropriate
but she could not have said exactly why.
"Because the duke has returned and it's his favourite." Danielle answered, "and
I was told that he would be calling upon his uncle this evening and thus I
should make his favourite dish."
"And who told you this?"
"The Duke's household." Danielle answered, her tone was crisp as she turned,
wiping her hands on her apron and leaning against the counter. "Is there a
problem, Jennifer?"
"Lady Amabel does not care for carp," Jennifer said, leaning back and playing
with her hair, "and it's so hard to keep her happy."
"That is why she is having a supper of mutton and mint with herbed spring
potatoes." Danielle answered, "which was on the menu you laid out for this
evening. Everyone else will be having carp."
"But it tastes so muddy," Jennifer whined, everything in her demeanour was one
of sweetness so Danielle would simply give in to please her, "I suppose that it
makes sense considering who he married but I find carp to be hideously over
rated, I suppose people eat it more because of what it is than any taste it
might have." Lydia actually raised her head to hear the comment, she was aware
that sometimes servants said things about the house that were not to be
repeated. "I never did understand that decision."
"Which is good." Danielle answered sharply, "as it had nothing to do with you."
"Lord Peter will not like you talking to me so." Jennifer looked the picture of
hurt and Lydia raised an eyebrow although the effort was almost painful.
"Do you think I care if you spend your nights with him?" Danielle replied
tersely, "I do not work for Lord Peter, I work for the Duke, and I was hired by
Lady Laura." Something in what Jennifer said did not ring true to Lydia because
Peter had come to her in the night, and why would he bother to woo Lydia, which
he was clearly doing, if he was going to Jennifer. Lydia remembered that he had
called her beautifully and intelligent and it was not simply that she was his
wife because if that were the case he would simply have bedded her and left it
at that. It was not that she was an omega and Jennifer was a beta. It was
certainly something to discuss with Peter. Perhaps the reason for Jennifer's
acrimony was that Peter had left her bed for Lydia's. "And I am making carp pie
for his grace, not for you, and if it is so undesirable you do not have to eat
it. There is plenty of cold mutton."
Danielle clearly had no intention of backing down and Lydia liked it about her.
"Cold mutton sounds wonderful," Stiles said coming in. He had changed and was
wearing a fresh shirt and a vest that was pleated around the sides in a way
that was designed to showcase his belly. It was the sort of vest that meant
even Lydia would have suspected that he was pregnant instead of the shapeless
smocks he had been wearing. It was made of vertically striped silk jacquard and
was an ivory colour embroidered with red and blue zinnias and vines. It was the
sort of clothes nobility wore instead of the shapeless felt things he wore. It
even looked like he had pulled a comb through his hair. "Is there some in the
cool box, Danielle?"
"Certainly," Danielle said moving to the stone box that sat in the coldest part
of the kitchen, it was lined in wood, and from it she pulled some cooked mutton
wrapped in fabric.
"Will there be anything else, your grace?" She asked, slicing into the roast.
"Not at all," Stiles said sitting back down, she took the slices of meat which
she had placed on a small pewter plate, "but Himself is certainly looking
forward to your carp pie, apparently the staff in London has not even come
close. The very last thing that I wished to talk to him about now that he's
returned was how subpar Mrs Coley's cooking was in comparison and how he had
lain awake at night dreaming of your carp pie." He ran his hand over the swell
of his stomach very deliberately as he looked at Jennifer, making sure she saw
the bump and how proud he was of it.
"I have a secret blend of herbs and spices."
Stiles laughed, but his eyes were fixed on Jennifer and hard like gold beads.
"That would work better if I was not the one who grew them," he said with a
laugh, "and how is my dear aunt, Jennifer?"
"She is well, your grace." She grated the words out.
"Good, now Lydia, my dear," Stiles said turning to her, bringing the room's
attention to Lydia, and Jennifer seemed to pale when she saw her before she
raised her head with a slightly cruel smile. "Shall we check out the Moorish
Kiosk and leave Danielle to her pie."
"Certainly, your grace," Lydia said standing up. "I am most intrigued to see
it.
"I would be too," Stiles said, "if my husband had gone to such effort to please
me, why it cost nearly three hundred pounds to build and furnish. I do hope you
like it."
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
     there is some grossness in this chapter, it's work safe, just gross
The Moorish Kiosk was terribly misnamed as when Lydia approached the folly it
became clear that it was far too large to be a simple kiosk and the style was
Byzantine, not Moorish, even to her untutored eye. It was a cylindrical brick
building with a red tiled roof, but rather than being perfectly round, like the
Oxford Camera, it was instead made of flat surfaces each at a slight angle,
certainly more than ten but less than thirty. It had high narrow windows, each
of which was set with coloured glass and hidden chimneys as she looked at it’s
exterior.

Stiles, from the pocket of his coat, pulled a heavy brass key. “Peter built
this for you,” he said and then turned, “well, he didn’t do it personally, he
paid for it to be built. Your mother said you were interested in the sciences
and she was worried you’d set fire to the curtains.”

“She never told me that she wrote to him,” Lydia answered, her stomach was
burbling uncomfortably and she was mostly sure that it was just the hangover so
she ignored it.

“I’m getting the impression that your parents didn’t tell you much of
anything,” Stiles said under his breath.
“I’m learning that too.” Lydia said as she walked through the door and then
fell silent because the room assailed her with it’s beauty. It was, like the
outside, basically cylindrical but had been designed as if it were the lost
laboratory of an ancient alchemist studying under the Byzantine moon. The roof,
which outside had been tiled, was arched and vaulted with paintings set inside
of the twelve figures of the zodiac, which she recognised only from their
symbols, around a central oculus of faintly golden glass that tinted the entire
room. An outer cloister was separated from the inner chamber by a wall of
arches, above which paintings of what might have been saints, Lydia did not
recognise the figures immediately, and between them the windows that she had
seen outside.
The entire effect of the architecture was one of wonder.
The inner chamber was not empty of furniture though, a heavy wooden table stood
in the centre of the room, directly under the oculus, and there was both a
large brass distillery and alembic, sat over braziers which were unlit. There
were book cases, some stuffed full and others almost empty, and devices for the
measuring of distances and other geometries.
In all her life she had not dreamed for such a room as this.
There were as well certain simple luxuries, braziers that could be moved and
not just those for the still and alembic, a large fireplace with a few hangers,
and a trivet for boiling water, as well as a few tin canisters perched on the
mantel with cups. There was a trough and pump that stood over a drain for the
washing of the glassware that stood in an enclosed hutch, with glass doors.
“It’s beautiful.” She murmured, wandering over to touch the spines of the
books. Ignoring the pounding of her head and the quivering of her belly to just
read some of the titles. There were blankets and coats hung from hooks on the
outer cloister to guard her against the chill, and with the windows so high
there was no room for distraction.
“Most of the books came from the house library.” Stiles said, “I have a key
because I like to read, but it was put together for you.” He sat down on the
leather covered chair that was clearly designed to be the one used most. There
were, beside the fireplace another pair of cloth covered arm chairs, but the
fire was unlit, and the May weather unseasonably warm, meaning the building had
a slight, but pleasant chill to the air. “I come by and light the fire, stop
damp getting in and whine about how I don’t have an alembic of my own no matter
how much I ask my husband to get me one.”
“You have an allowance, don’t you?” Lydia said turning. “Why not buy one for
yourself?”
“And miss the fun of the argument? Lyds, it’s like you don’t know me.” His
smile was impish, rubbing his hand over the swell of his belly. “Not only is
bickering good for the blood, making up is worth the change. You must tell me
when you and Peter become intimate because I have all the virtues of my
husband’s knot to extol and no one to extol them with.”
Lydia blushed to the roots of her hair, or at least she assumed she did. She
felt genuinely unwell. “Shall I tell your husband at supper that you are
desperate for his knot.”
“Oh he knows,” Stiles said with a leer. “Or at least he certainly should by
now. There is no shame in enjoying such frolics with my husband, nothing that
feels so heavenly could be against the will of God, and if we preach of the
virtues of those other things that are godly at length why shouldn’t I wax
loquacious about the virtues of his knot.”
“Wax loquacious?” Lydia asked. “Are you practising your ability to speak in
public, perhaps running for parliament yourself?” She was enjoying the
conversation despite herself, not because the topic was uncomfortable, or at
least should have been, but instead because she felt quite wretched.
“Parliament, what a bore? I’m a herbalist, Lydia, a pellar, I have no interest
in politics, I just happen to be a very accomplished bride of a fine society
gentleman.” His grin was knife sharp. “One that has a fine knot.”
Her laughter was interrupted by a small burp which to her dismay tasted of
vomit. “I am sorry, Stiles, but I feel vile,” she leaned back into the chair,
“would you mind most awfully if we returned to the house. If I am to finally
meet this fantastic knot bearing husband of yours I think that I need to lie
down for a few hours, let this nausea pass.”
“I think I spent the entire fourth month of my pregnancy trying to sleep off
the feeling of nausea. I’m quite certain I only climbed from my bed to visit
the privy.” He said, “so I quite feel your pain. We can certainly go back to
the house. And whilst you’re lying down I’ll see if I can find out what
happened to your key to this place.” As they left Stiles locked the door behind
him. “A lot of the books came from Mortlake.” Lydia wanted to revel in that
knowledge, he had not just given her a library. He had given her the library of
Dr Dee. The books would of course be out of date, nearly two hundred years old,
but belonging the primary English alchemist in history, one who knew all the
European ones. One of the fathers of modern chemistry and one who appreciated
math and herbalism and many other scientists. “and well, unattended things
wander, even outside London, a stout lock is certainly worth the investment.”
He prattled on as they walked, talking about the most famous member of the Hale
family, the omega William who had built Maunlilie Tor as it was now, who had
been a friend of Dr Dee so when he had left for the imperial court at Prague he
had been asked to watch over the library, but had gotten there to find some of
the instruments, those made of precious metals had already been stolen, so he
had taken the books into his own care.
William had been an omega that had served three queens, Catherine Parr, the
last queen consort of Henry Tudor, Mary Tudor, his daughter the one with the
bloody sobriquet, and then Elizabeth the omega queen. He had, despite being
scarred about the face as a young man married well several times, resulting in
his own great wealth and through it all he kept his own name, so that his alpha
children were Hales, so great was his power at court.
He was the omega portrait over the table in the formal dining hall, a handsome
and fey youth with black curls and kaleidoscopic eyes, but three angry red
lines running down his left cheek. He had worn no powder to conceal his
disfigurement, instead had worn the marks proudly.
As Stiles chattered on Lydia learned that he had been scarred by Lady Johanna
Belvoir over a family scandal. It seemed that she had been an Argent and the
great feud between the families had seen Johanna lunge herself, according to
the story, at the omega in front of Queen Catherine before she flung herself
from the window and her certain death. “She’s the one who cursed the Hales.”
Lydia said very little, content that she was keeping her stomach to herself.
“She the sister of the Black Abbot,” Stiles continued, “and he was responsible
for it all. Even for Jenny o’ the woods, but that’s a different story.” She
pushed open the door to her chamber glad at last she was there because she was
certain that it was only will that was holding her roiling guts in.
The room had been trashed.
In the short time since she had left it someone had swept through the room like
a storm. Her gowns had been swept from the wardrobe and chest and either flung
about, some few lay in the fire place, or torn to shreds. Her novels were
destroyed, the pages ripped from their bindings and scattered like cherry
blossoms across the floor.
Scrawled on the wall, in what appeared to be human effluent was the word
“whore” and it appeared someone, not content with slashing the counterpane and
mattress so that the down erupted from it, had relieved themselves in the bed.
Worse still, under the broken mirror, was a wire and ceramic crown that had
clearly been trampled underfoot, and recognizing that it was valuable it had
been displayed.
Lydia managed to stumble to the basin on the floor and lifted it just long
enough to noisily heave her guts into it.
-
Baba was patient with Lydia as she was sick, stood next to the commode as
Lydia’s guts abandoned her, stroking her back as she was sick. She had tied
Lydia’s hair back, gathering it in a lace snood, so it would not get in the way
and encouraged her to just let it out. There was a glass of cold water with
ginger oil to sip, and parsley to chew in the short periods of restfulness.
To counter the headache Baba had found a blindfold, although not one as well
made as the one that Peter had given her, that had been destroyed with the rest
of her things in her room, and scented it heavily with lavender oil to cover
the smell of the sick room and ease the pounding of her temples.
As soon as Stiles saw the devastation of her room he had guided her to another
room screaming for Heather and Liam to fetch Baba. He was more worried about
Lydia’s sickness than the state of the room, although Heather had looked at it
and muttered animals.
Lydia had been moved to the moe elaborate part of the house, where there was a
flushing toilet, even up the stairs, and a large and beautiful bedroom with
stars painted on the ceiling. There was a bath with faucets where the lady who
had this room would be able to draw her own bath.
The room was soft and cool in shades of duck egg blue and white, with beech
furniture and a triptych of full length mirrors, but mostly Lydia had just seen
the painted commode and a slop bucket into which she was sick.
Baba turned out to be a god send, because although she was a grown woman Lydia
wanted her mother, because she was sick and she had memories of her mother
offering her succour. Baba said nothing when Lydia wept into her breast as her
body was wracked with spasms, both from above and below. She barked out orders
to others but to Lydia she was kindness herself, and when Baba put her into the
fine lady’s bed she knew no one would question it because it was what Baba
wanted. So she just nestled into the pillows, sweetly cold against her face,
and let exaustion pull her into sleep. Her last thought was that Stiles would
be disappointed in her that she could not meet his husband.
-
When she awoke there was someone reading to her, poetry, Milton she guessed, in
a sure voice. “Should you not be at supper?”
“When my wife is in ill health?” Peter asked, “but at the best of times I would
rather gouge out my eyes with my sister’s finest silver apostle spoons.
Danielle has invited half the local nobility who are here for the summer months
and between you and me, Desdemona Greenberg is an almighty bore.” Lydia
struggled out a laugh. “Stiles gets more amusement from watching me duck her
than he does with her as a dinner guest.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” she said, “I hurt.”
“Might I help you sit?” he asked. She made a noise of assent and he helped her
up against the pillows. She had, during one of her brief periods of
wakefulness, as her stomach woke her with its roiling, been washed down with a
wet cloth and placed in a fresh chemise. “Do you know what happened, love?”
“I drank too much pastis. I am now suffering from my excess.” She answered
calmly, “is there water? My mouth is parched.”
He pressed a cup into her hand and helped her bring it to her mouth so there
was no mess without removing the blindfold. “No,” he said, “yesterday Baba gave
you a tonic for your blood, water boiled with iron and some herbs, it appears
the bottle was switched for one of a particular noxious mix of flaxseed oil,
linseed oil, castor oil and epsom salts that Finstock gives to the horses. My
dear, you were poisoned, possibly by the person who destroyed your room. Do you
have suspicions who it is?”
In that moment she remembered the devastation, the ruined gowns, the ones she
had for London, and the broken circlet. “My crown.” she murmured, “they had to
destroy my crown.” It had been one of the few things that had given her
comfort, the gift from the charming roi de soliel who had commanded her
attention at that last ball of her season, the charming man who had been so
kind and so wicked at the same time. And now it was destroyed. “I am almost
certain that it was your dear aunt.” Her hand went to her arm and the healing
scar there. “She spends the nights wailing like a banshee and of all the
inhabitants of this house only she has called me a whore.”
“Aunt Amabel?” Peter asked. “Lydia, it cannot be her. She is bound to her bed,
she cannot even get into a bath chair without aid. She is crippled.”
“Who else would care?” she asked, “why do you care? Is it because they damaged
something that belonged to you? Wouldn’t it be easier for you if they succeeded
and I was gone?”
“Lydia,” he said putting his hand on her cheek and raising her face. “I have
waited for you to be old enough for years, after the fire it was only the
promise of you that kept my wits. I worked on my histories and imagined what it
would be when you finally returned my letters. And the longer you did not the
more despondent I became until I was drowning in my melancholia. I am not ready
for you to see my face but these past weeks, these hours I have spent with you,
they are the happiest I have been for a long time.”
“You are not a good man, Peter Hale.” She answered, “and I do not know who to
believe. I am told that you are silent in your melancholia but you talk as if
you cannot stop. I am told that you are a vain peacock but you will not let me
look upon you. I am told that you murdered six brides before me, and that I am
your only bride. I am told that you spend your nights with me and your mornings
with Jennifer. What am I to believe, sir?”
“Why would I lay hands on Jennifer?” he asked, as if that was the problem that
they were discussing. “I find her simpering to be the worst behaviour women can
do, I have no use for a woman with no mind of her own. I would be bored long
before bedplay became an option. I tell you now, Lydia, I have never laid hands
upon my aunt’s nurse.”
He stood up, she could hear him walking around. “Jennifer, what an absurd
notion, besides the cap she set was aimed at my nephew, not me.” He paused for
a few moments. “Tell me, Lydia, why I was not alerted when you arrived at the
house, why you told the staff to keep your presence from me.”
“I did no such thing,” she answered, “I was shown to that room which has been
my own and I know believe that they mistook for a companion for your aunt.”
He was quiet, clearly chewing over the information. “How interesting,” he said,
“that all of these malefactions have a simple source. I do believe that was the
person who destroyed your things, unaware perhaps that I would have you moved
not to another of the servant’s chambers, as I had mistakenly believed that you
had chosen. But to the rooms I had created for you. And I heard from Danielle
that the whispers I had of you making love to Matt were in fact you giving him
a dressing down for looking upon you unclothed, yet another told me that you
aimed your bonnet at him. We have an enemy, dear one, and that cannot be borne,
not in this house.”
Lydia thought about it for a moment, taking another sip of the mint water that
she had been given before she tugged the blindfold from her eyes.
***** Chapter 14 *****
As soon as he realized that Lydia had removed her blindfold Peter’s hands came
up to cover half of his face. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, throwing back
the coverlet and walking over to him, still in her chemise, then pulled his
hands away, “you act like the villain in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s books. Were
you sequestered away in your madness for fear you would terrorize the
countryside like one of her villains?” she felt as weak as a new born kitten
but would not tolerate this. So much had happened to her in the short time she
had been here and now Peter’s vanity was in her way.
“Am I to be the vapid heroine of one of her novels? forced into marriage with
the beast for you have never been beastly to me.” She tugged away his hands to
reveal the scars on his face. For a moment she searched for words and found
them lacking.
At her worst Lydia had expected his face to be blackened, perhaps with bits of
exposed bone. There had been a beggar she had seen as a child whose entire face
had been burned and his face was polished smooth by scar tissue, shiny and dark
pink, his eyebrows and lips burned away and replaced as if by swollen tissue,
so it was like a mask over his face.
Peter’s burns were not so severe, but there were scars. Patches of his face
appeared to have melted, like cheese that bubbled upon bubble and squeak, and
slipped down but not far. The skin was pale, certainly it lacked the ruddy
health of the opposite side, and there were bald patches in his dark hair.
Covering his right eye, and the worst of the burns around it, was a black
velvet patch trimmed in lace and ribbon. Strangely it just made the left side
of his face, which was completely untouched by scars all the more handsome.
And he was handsome. She realized now he was the beautiful boy who had been in
the portrait in her solar, the one in the military coat with the brilliant blue
eyes and dark curls. Time had thickened the cheekbones and hardened the plush
lines of his mouth but he was still handsome, more virile than the prettiness
of his youth, and his eyes were a soft Mediterranean blue, like in paintings of
the islands of Venice.
“You got these burns trying to save others,” she said and reached up on tiptoe
to kiss his cheek, feeling the rough edge of the scar tissue against her lips,
“they are proof that you survived.” She kissed him again, “you don’t need to
hide that, not from me.” With careful fingers she tugged away the patch to
reveal the ruin of his eye, milky and blind, the skin around it melted to a
polished sheen and nerve damage causing the skin that should have hosted the
eyebrow to droop. Even so it was nowhere near as bad as Lydia had imagined, her
mind had taken her from weeping sores to a bright red like a sunburn.
He seemed surprised by her reaction as if she was performing miracles but there
were scars, that was true, but perhaps Baba had been right when she had said
that in Peter’s head they were as fierce as they had been when he was first
burned. Perhaps he was incapable of seeing what they had become blinded by what
they had been when they were new, and how lovely a youth he had been before.
Peter had a certain vulnerability as he wavered between leaning into her hand
and pulling away and Lydia wondered in that moment how long it had been since
Peter had allowed someone other than Baba, who had treated his burns, to touch
him. She knew in that moment, more certainly than she had upon his word, that
he was not involved in a tryst with Jennifer.
Her smile was soft as she took his hand, strong and hard in her fingers, and
pulled him towards the bed. He was as unmoving as if he was carved from wood,
and his breath seemed to rattle at the top of his chest, high and tight. “Come
lie with me,” she said, “I am cold, and I would have you read to me.” There was
nothing sexual in her offer, she certainly wasn’t feeling capable of it, as
weak and drained as if she were a sopped cloth wrung dry and pulled tautly, she
wanted to return to the fine bed in this room, but she also understood that her
acceptance of him needed to be absolute as it stood, she could not falter or
let him turn away, or he would return to hiding from her, or worse, lash out
like a cornered dog.
So she pulled him to her bed, and as vulnerable as she was at that moment, he
went.
He removed his shoes, breeches, coat, and vest until he stood in just his
shirt, but he had seemed more naked when she had removed his eye patch which
even now dangled from her fingers.
He was a handsome man, in more than just the face. He had a strong flat chest
that she could almost see through his shirt, and finely muscled thighs lightly
covered with dark hairs. For a moment she wondered how his calves would feel in
her hands, would they feel soft and yielding, like her own, or as hard as wood
the way they looked.
She scooted across the bed, doing her best to ignore the dark shadow between
his legs, the folds of his shirt preserving her dignity if not his, and she
lacked the health to blush, that had barrelled out of her hours before amidst
the vomit and other effluence.
His feet were remarkable, she thought, and wondered if she had, at any point in
her life, seen the bare feet of a man, and the only example she could think of
was the carved feet of the savior upon the cross, narrow and bloodied. At
another time she might explore this new wonder, this discovery of how different
her body was against his, the soft places that did not yield to him, the sinews
and thews, the way the tendons stood like cords in the folds of his knees and
had she not felt so wretched she might have registered the wonder with a
hunger, but she did not.
All of her life, as an omega, she was seen as a person to be married, an entity
that existed only for her ability to appeal to an alpha, and even then her
accomplishments were to promote that appeal. As an omega she was less likely to
be compromised like a beta girl might because she had value and so was more
closely guarded. There was nothing sexual in this because she was more
valuable, alphas did not look at her as a potential lover but wife and so,
although both Baba and Stiles told her that frolics with her husband were to be
enjoyable, calling Peter a cocksman, she could not perceive in herself that
slattern that might enjoy such things. What little she knew of congress,
without Stiles’ exhortations of the pleasures of his alpha’s knot, and her
brief discovery in the potting shed were that it was a thing to be borne to
enjoy the delight of children. It was a thing that alphas wanted of omegas and
something omegas did because it was expected of them.
Tucked into the crook of her husband’s arm, with layers of muslin between them,
as she laid her head upon the soft curve of his shoulder and he lifted again
the book he had been reading to her, she wondered if she might be like Stiles,
desiring her husband’s knot, or if she would not just endure it for the joy of
children. It was something to think on, she decided, comfortable and warm,
surrounded by him and his smell, sandalwood and musk, with the hint of sharp
juniper from his bath on his skin, the vinegar of old wine on his breath and a
smell she wanted to define as warmth under the lemon oil in his hair.
With such heavy thoughts, and how sonorous his voice was she felt it easy to
sleep, for the first time since she had come here, without the dogs draped
across her, she felt safe. She slept.
---
 
Breakfast was ginger flavored gelatin and a cup of rum with hot water, lime
juice, and sugar, an old fisherman’s sweater was offered, although it was too
warm, and so instead Lydia wore one of Peter’s banyans and thick woolen socks.
Baba was not eager to see her out of bed for any stretch of time, and although
she did not feel well, she certainly felt much less wretched.
She did feel up to arguing that she could sit in the huge knotting chair that
was pointed at the fire if she had a blanket over her knees, and someone to
bring her tea.
Instead, Baba had brought the layette she was correcting after letting Stiles
think that he was making it. Lydia realized now that the set was for his own
baby, not one from the village, so Lydia was given the stitching as Baba sat
and knit. After a few hours, so nearing lunch, although Lydia suspected more
gelatin in her future, although she was starting to crave hot buttered toast,
Stiles joined them and if he had been unaware of Lydia correcting his stitching
he said nothing as he carefully worked some blackwork upon the cuff of a shirt
that he pulled from a basket he had brought with him.
“I was considering,” Stiles offered, “going to Chester, we can go in a day,
sort out the staffing in this place. I had no idea it had gotten so sparse, but
apparently Heather’s the only housemaid, she can’t be expected to keep up the
house, and she’s getting married at the end of the summer. We need a new
housekeeper, Danielle needs a few minions to lord over in her kitchen. You need
a new wardrobe and it will be much less stressful when Boyd and himself go
through the servant's things for your jewelry, both Danielle and Heather
allowed it, but the others seem a touch more precious. Liam was more than happy
to let them look, so he’s going with me to Chester. There is a wonderful
modiste there, oh she’s probably not up to London standards but she’s more than
good enough to get you through the summer, someone has to be the face of the
big house, I won’t be able to soon enough.” He looked at his belly, “but I am
more than ready for that part.”
“Yes, your husband commented that you had a bay of hay placed in your
bedchamber, but he does not seem to know why,” Baba said, her row ended she
turned the needles in his hand. “He was rather embarrassed in asking me if it
was a thing for your frolics he was supposed to initiate and did not know how.”
Stiles brayed out a laugh. “I think we should let him continue to think that.
That’s hilarious. I can think of many uses for such a thing but surely he has
worked out that it is to help me give birth by giving me a surface I can rest
on and ruin without fear.”
“On the whole,” Baba said calmly, “alphas know little about the miracle of
birth and the less they know the better, for when they know something they
think themselves experts, and that is when things become overly complicated.
When I worked at the hospital at Cheapside,” she said, Lydia had not known
that - “it was a wonder how many of the doctors wanted the women and omega to
lie down to give birth, they seemed to think it would ease things.”
“But Isaac Newton proved gravity if all things fall and you are trying to ease
a large object through your birth canal any help is a godsend.” Stiles said as
if he was horrified at the very idea, “and the last thing you’d want is to lie
with your legs open and your quim on display as a baby squeezes it’s way out
with all the effluence of birth and all the other stuff.”
“Alphas have this strange idea it’s simply lying there and pushing and over and
done with in time for their wives to be up making them supper, and that is why
beta women and omegas will always find an omega midwife, and why I will be
delivering any babies you choose to have, Lydia, just as I’ll be delivering
that one.”
“I’ve had enough effluence in the past few days that I am more than content to
make him wait on an heir,” Lydia said.
“I heard, from a little bird called Heather that Peter spent the night in your
bed, you must tell me, how was his knot? I mean I love my husband dearly but
Peter is a good looking man, and it’s not human not to wonder, so I have, I’m
not interested, just wondering.”
Seeing the option for mischief, because Baba at least knew that nothing had
happened between them Lydia offered him a sly smile, “huge.”
***** Chapter 15 *****
Lydia’s journey to the modistes of Chester was cut short when Stiles, helping
her walk Colonel for their journey, the carriage outside, looked down at the
puddle that was slowly forming on the path at his feet. “I think my water's
just broke.” He said, “maybe we're not going to Chester this week.”
They went back to the kitchen, remaining calm, for Lydia had no idea what to
do, and Stiles seemed nonplussed by the revelation, in fact if anything he was
slightly annoyed about how Hales were never on time for anything, they were
either early or late and perfectly suited to be contrary.
Liam was sent to find Boyd and his lordship, Heather went to find a dropcloth
so Stiles could go back in the carriage although he was insistent he was fine
and could walk back to the gatehouse, and he was certainly not having his baby
in this house when everything was set up in the gatehouse, and Matt was sent on
a horse into town to find Baba, although Stiles kept trying to remind them that
labour took hours and he was good for a long time yet, certainly long enough
for her to finish her shopping.
Danielle, as she fetched a bucket of water to clean her floor, merely commented
at least they hadn't had the warning when he was stood on the rug.
After the mania had died down Lydia went out to her laboratory to actually
inventory what was there, she cleared out the fireplace and lit a new fire so
try and combat the damp as the two larger spaniels, Gunter and Gremlin,
sprawled out on an old blanket, making the most of both the pool of sunlight
and the nascent fire, as Colonel rooted around in corners until she found an
old cricket ball which she happily worried.
A volume labelled the Ars Amatoria that she found tucked into the drawer of the
work table amused her for a few hours before she decided, using her watch to
check, it was time for lunch. She banked and shielded the fire to let it die
out on it's own. She was relatively sure it was too soon for news but there
might have been some hope.
“My lady,” Liam said dropping knee as she passed, “might I suggest you dress
for luncheon, you have guests.”
Lydia wondered what was wrong with what she was wearing, one of Heather's
gowns, quickly basted to ensure a better fit, after all Heather was at least
half a head taller than Lydia herself. Then she wondered who it was that could
be visiting her, perhaps Desdemona Greenberg who served as a sort of gatekeeper
for Llandudno society, such as it was, enquiring after her health after Lydia
had missed the dinner with the duke due to ill health.
Liam was, if not terrified of Lydia, certainly apprehensive and since learning
of her marriage was entirely deferent, treating her not as just a lady of the
peerage but instead a queen. “I shall go as I am, Liam, just one moment to
change my shoes.” The ones that she was wearing where covered in mud and grass
clipping and she had no intention of letting the staff clean a mess that could
be easily solved by simply removing her boots and putting on a pair of leather
slippers in their place.
The blue sitting room was not the one that she usually preferred with it's
walls of paintings, instead it was a large expansive room with a pianola and
several blue velvet couches. She had, she was surprised to note, two guests,
sat around a low wooden table.
Allison Argent was sat in a lovely riding habit and facing her in a red
superfine coat was Scott McCall. Of all the guests she had considered they had
not been among them. “Lydia," Allison said, standing up and crossing the room
as if there was no massive breach of protocol here.
Allison had removed her pelisse, but she was still in the process of removing
her bonnet, and her hair was prettily curled. It was a lovely lavender colour
that brought out the colour of her skin, and she smiled sweetly of lilacs, "I
missed you so much." It had only been a few weeks, “when you left London so
suddenly everyone was a twitter with the scandal.”
“Allison, Mr McCall, is it not that I am glad to see you but why are you here?”
“Well after you left London we were worried and so we gathered information that
your mother had sent you here and we wished to make sure that you were well,
then when we receieved your letters we knew that we had to hurry here that we
might save you from this marriage that is already making you so unhappy.”
"I’m sorry," Lydia said, “my letters to you have been nothing but complimentary
of this house and it’s inhabitants.” It shocked her that anyone might have
thought otherwise. Lydia was not the sort that complained about her woes in
such a manner, even Stiles was unaware of how unhappy she had been in those
first few days, and he was aware of most of the terrible things that happened
in the house. She had kept her tears to herself and found in their place a cold
calculating anger.
“You look so unwell," McCall said standing but being careful to keep his
distance from her so it might not be considered inappropriate.
“I am recovering from an illness.” She said, “this is the first day I have felt
well enough to leave my bed, and have nothing but praise for those who have
helped me recover. I do believe, sir, that you are suffering under a gross
misunderstanding. I have not written to you, and certainly not invited you
here, so, might I ask where you recieved such an invitation?”
“We came to find you as soon as we learned that you were to marry a cripple."
Allison said, “and the Hales are such an awful family, they have such a
terrible hsitory, Sir Peter worst amongst them all.” She sounded so earnest
that Lydia was surprised at how wrong she was.
“Lord Peter." Lydia corrected almost absently.
“So when we were blessed to meet the Duchesse in Llandudno and she said she was
so regretful that she had pressed for the marriage because you were clearly so
unhappy, and it matched what we read in your letters, why we could not stay
away. We have come to take you from this place. McCall loves you," Allison
continued, “he has agreed to marry you even without a dowry.”
“How kind of him." Lydia said drily.
“If you collect your coat and more sensible shoes we can take you to Gretna
now.” McCall said.
Lydia took a moment to consider it before she answered. She wondered if there
was a time when she would have agreed, where McCall would have made her the
centre of his world and his wife, where he would have doted upon her in those
moments which suited him and ignored her in those that didn’t. Over the past
days she had compared all of her lovers and found that the expectation she
would marry was not reason enough to marry. Peter was distant but kind and
honest and he had done many things to please her, even before she had arrived
in Maunlilie, or was old enough to have considered the very idea of
consummating the marriage. The books and gowns and things she had thought were
sent to her by her many suitors had all been sent by him.
"No.” said Lydia.
“I beg your pardon,” Allison said McCall said, “but I thought that you loved
me.”
"No," Lydia corrected, "I did not, and if I ever gave you that impression then
I must apologise, but I found that more than the expectation that I would marry
you because I could picture a future with you was that I could not bear the
guilt that you would subject me to if I should disappoint you, I did not
realise it at the time but you are quite manipulative, and though I do not
doubt that you have such feelings for me that might, given time to grow, have
grown into love, you prefered the idea of marrying an omega and with my lack of
dowry I was the one without parents who would not oppose the match. So you
convinced yourself you loved me, but I now know it was a fiction between us.”
McCall reeled as if she had physically struck him. “You are too unkind, madam
to think my feelings are so easily manipulated.”
“Unkind, sir, let me ask you, all of those hours which we spent in
conversation, how much about me do you really know. Do I have siblings, for
example?”
“Yes," he countered, “you have two sisters, betas both, Lys and Lysette.”
"I have two sisters it is true, and they are both betas, but they are called
Lys and Lynette, and I also have a brother, Lysander, of whom I know I have
spoken often. And what, sir, of my hopes and dreams.”
“You wished to be married well and have children. Is that not the hope of all
omegas?”
“No, sir, it was not." Lydia answered, “I wished to understand and to explore
mathematics, and Lord Hale understands that of me and makes no presumption upon
me or my time.”
“But he is a cripple." McCall protested.
Allison added, “surely his wealth is not enough to make up for what he has
done.”
“So what has he done?" Lydia had worn the mask of clear indifference almost all
of her life, she had used it to maintain difference and disdain of the people
around her, secure in the knowledge that as an omega she was wanted and being
beautiful she would be cherished, and what she did in her own time was no one's
business but her own, as long as she managed the house and her husband’s social
engagements then what she did in her own time was her own.
But Peter had done everything in his power to make it something she could
explore.
“He is a murderer.”
“The six wives?” Lydia asked, “I must admit that I fell for that fiction too,
but it is just that, a fiction I know to be false, for he was not free to marry
six women and strangle them on their wedding night or however the story has
twisted itself.” Stiles had explained that very well, and once Lydia had given
herself the opportunity to chew it over she knew it to be true as well.
“He was well known for his duelling in Vienna, he is said to have killed five
men.”
“He was in Vienna for the home office, so I doubt that any gossip from there
might be true, after all the home office tends to be quite secretive about it's
agents.” Lydia answered.
“You can't possibly be considering this, he is a Hale." Allison ground it out
like it was the worst insult that she could consider.
“And you are an Argent." Lydia answered calmly, “I understand the two of you
have some sort of ongoing quarrel where neither can remember the cause.”
“They accused my aunt of burning down their house or somesuch, she had to go to
Scotland to evade the gossip.”
“Is that what they told you?” Peter asked from the door. In the daylight the
ruin of his face was more apparent, "I am sorry that I am interrupting but I
simply could no longer stand silent, might I join you, love.” He didn't wait
for an answer before joining Lydia on the couch. “You see, Miss Argent, I do
believe you have been rather misinformed. Your aunt came to us and suggested a
marriage to end this feud between our families, and my sister, the Duchess,
felt obliged to agree to at least humour her, to make a show of reconciliation.
Then one night, a few into her stay, she barricaded the doors, splashed liquor
all over the walls and carpets and set it alight.”
“You're lying.”
"In this," Peter said touching his face, "I do not have to lie, your aunt was
convicted to hang for the offence such proof was found, she pled the belly and
her husband, whom she had married for the purposes of arranging an alibi,
surprised her by growing a spine, he was the one who had her locked in bedlam,
after she tried to burn down his house. So please excuse me for wanting to keep
an eye on you. I would, of course, advise that you investigate this for
yourself.”
“My aunt would not do such a thing.” Allison protested.
“And yet she did, and stood there as the fire burned gloating, despite that
there were children in the house. What was it your parents accused her of
doing, perhaps a dropped lantern in the barn, a match from a pipe not
extinguished correctly, but the King believed she should hang for her crimes so
I think we should take his word on it, don’t you, and as for the duels in
Vienna, they too are a fiction, no more real than the six wives I am said to
have strangled on their wedding night, and as you can see, Mr McCall, I am
scarred, not crippled. Neither infirm in body or mind.”
Peter looked like he might at any moment explode into violence, and what
surprised Lydia was nto that he might act on her behalf, but that she liked it.
“Now I have simply one more question to ask before I insist that you leave, you
said that you spoke to the Duchesse in town, did you not?”
“Yes," Allison said, “she was most hospitable.”
"It is most curious for my nephew has married a male omega, who is currently in
delivery of the next heir, and that is not something you mentioned, even though
his grace spent the day here with Lydia.”
“No, it was a woman, she wore a fine velvet dress and introduced herself as the
Duchesse,”
“Did she have dark hair and light eyes?” Peter pressed, “for if so my niece has
been very remiss in not calling upon us.”
"No," McCall said, “her eyes were dark, and her hair brown, but dark, not
black. She was most pleasant, and invited us both to her hotel room to share
tea.”
“So," Lydia began, “despite knowing that Maunlilie is barely an hour's ride
from Llandudno you did not think it strange that the woman claiming to be the
Duke's wife might take lodgings there?”
“She said that she felt uncomfortable there whilst you were being wooed.”
Allison said, “the duke was so quiet about his wife that we did not question
that she might be shy.”
“One more thing, the letters that you recieved," Peter said in a soft voice,
“were not sent by my wife, you were misled, and now I must find out who it was
who dared such things, it is a good thing that we are entirely changing the
staff, for we do appear to have a malefactor among us. I shall get Liam to
bring you back to your carriage, Mr McCall, Miss Argent, I am sure you will
understand that if you wish to meet my dear Lydia again that you arrange to do
so in town. Miss Greenberg holds lovely parties, and I am sure you will see her
there.”
To his credit Peter waited until the carriage had pulled away before commenting
on the gall and cheek of it, trying to coerce his wife to Gretna, before he
kissed Lydia soundly on the lips, holding her jaw with one hand, for refusing
them in such a manner.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Lydia shared a cold lunch with Peter in the lounge after McCall and Allison had
been shown out by Matthew. There were cold cuts, early fruit, cheese and ginger
preserve. There was hot sweet coffee, as Peter admitted that he preferred it to
tea, tea was something he drank when he had no other choice, but he preferred
chocolate in the morning and coffee, thick, black and oily, with his meals. He
told her it was a habit he had picked up in Vienna, and it started him talking
about the city, and the people there. He had loved it in his own way, he
admitted, and found England very dull in comparison.
That had turned the conversation towards his travels and is adventures in
Italy, which Lydia admitted that she wished to see. “Shall we go there?” he
asked over the rim of his coffee can, “Venice, it is rather drab in the winter,
but wonderful in the summer.”
"Oh can we," she asked, she had never been further than Brighton and she said
so.
“If you wish, my love, we can go to the Americas to visit Lady Laura, we have
nothing to hold us here. I was merely waiting for you, but I do not care much
for Wales.”
“Then what is it that you have used to occupy your time?" she asked, she wanted
to know him.
"I am a writer, under a pen name, of course, I write silly romances such as the
middle classes eat up. Light little fripperies but they do secure me a lot of
mail.”
"I would like to see the baby, I do not much care for them, but I like Stiles
and I feel he might be offended if I do not,” Lydia said.
Peter laughed, “babies are strange creatures, they are immobile but everything
around them becomes strangely sticky. And that is assuming that they do not
soil themselves upon you, or just vomit. My sister had several children and
although I found them interesting once they were six or so, until then I was
worried I would drop them, Derek for example, squirmed greatly, and for some
reason both Talia and Marianne were desperately unhappy when I slipped them
coffee or sweetmeats. Evie liked gingerbread and I used to work hard to get Mrs
Dunbar, Liam’s mother and our cook before the fire, into making it for her.”
“Was Evie the youngest?” Lydia asked.
“Yes, she would have been sixteen this year, she was an elf of a child, just
out of chubby babyhood and capable of conversation, I adored her, she was
brilliant smart, when the fire," he paused, “I tried to get to her, to save
her.”
"I was told you saved Cora.”
“That is the common mistake," Peter said, "I saved Liam, who was wandering the
halls, but could not save Henry, do you mind if we change the subject?” Lydia
told him that she did not. He then told her about Boyd, his voice seeming
almost rusty with disuse, and how he had come to work at Maunlilie after
Laura’s beneficence found him in Virginia, in the Americas, where she was known
as an abolitionist, but had lost emphasis in her argument for her marriage,
which was legal but frowned upon, in the state, to another Alpha. He talked
about Cora who had taken a house in Lake Geneva and offered accomodation to
passing Englishmen on their grand tours and whose letters were often the fodder
for Peter’s “silly little romances" as he called them, yet refused to divulge
his pen name for fear that she had read them.
Spending the afternoon with him, coffee being replaced by lavender tea, the
cold cuts replaced by soft scones with thick cream and strawberry preserve. She
felt pleasantly full when she reached out and took his hand, “earlier," she
said, “you kissed me.”
“I did," he admitted putting down his tea, “did you not like it?”
“Yes," she said, “I did very much, but I have been thinking, Peter," and there
was such power in being able to say his name, “an omega is raised as a
commodity, they are taught to be a bride, but with no instruction in how to be
a wife, and until I came here I had neither knowledge or interest in congress.”
She pursed her lips in a way that she knew was pretty, “because it was
something an omega went through in order to keep their alpha happy, but talking
to Stiles and Baba, and even to an extent, Jennifer, I now wonder if it is not
something that might be enjoyed.”
“Why Lady Hale," he asked, “are you trying to seduce me?”
“Yes," she answered, “is it working?”
He patted the couch next to him, “why don't you come over and see.” She was a
little trepidatious but she did, “you must inform me if I do something that you
dislike, this should be pleasurable for both of us, not just me, so if you do
not like something you must say, or I shall not know.”
"I do not know what I am doing, perhaps the tea has made me bold,” Lydia said
with her eyes down cast.
“Perhaps," Peter said and put the tips of his fingers under her chin and lifted
her face up to look at him. “You are lovelier than I could ever have dreamed,
are you sure that you want a monster like me?”
“Sir," she said, “Peter, you undervalue yourself greatly, you are scarred, so
are a great many men in England with the war, you are not incapable, or
rendered unable to even care for yourself, and you have shown me great kindness
although I did not know it at first, why do you consider yourself a monster,
because of these," she pressed her lips against his scars, “or is Miss Argent
correct about the skeletons in your closet?”
"I would much rather you did not speak of her when we are sat so close, or I
might get jealous that you wish her attention, not mine.”
Lydia laughed, “Miss Argent and I are like sisters, we have known each other
since early childhood, although I wonder now if knowing I was promised to you,
not knowing that we were already wed, if her parents might not have hoped to
break the engagement by simple association," then she stopped, “No, I am being
fanciful, it is like the plot of one of Mrs Ratcliffe’s novels.” She paused
again, “that is not your pseudonym is it, for I really enjoy her stories.”
"No, love," he said, holding her face with his fingertips so that her mouth was
next to his, “it is not, I am going to kiss you now, is that fine with you?”
“Yes,” she answered, and what surprised her was that it was. There was no
hesitation in her as her mouth softened in preparation. She was not entirely
clueless as to what happened between an alpha and an omega, she had a copy of
the Ars Amatoria after all, and oftentimes at parties couples, not always
married, would vanish away for long kisses exchanged whilst their chaperones
were at cards. She knew the mechanics of it, if nothing else.
Then Peter kissed her and everything she thought that she had known was gone,
or proven wrong. If the simple act of kissing was so sweet, and so sensuous, he
slowly dragged his lips over hers, and she could taste the lavender of his tea
and the strawberry preserve on his breath, and when his tongue flickered out to
touch hers she made a small noise, and he pulled back, “do you wish me to
continue?" he asked into her mouth, and she surged forward and kissed him
again. He took the opportunity to pull her towards him. His hands felt hot and
hard against her back.
He pulled his mouth from hers to kiss along the line of her jaw and down to her
neck, it felt wondrous and strange and Lydia made the decision that she quite
liked it, with her hands clutching into the arms of his black velvet jacket.
His mouth was hot and wet but such words were a small fraction of what she was
feeling, and the scrape of his teeth against her skin was transformative. “May
I?”he asked, his fingers at the button at the bodice of her gown. With no
reason to say no Lydia said yes.
The relief as he undid the top buttons of her bodice and her corset was enough
to punch the breath from her. His fingers were almost reverent against the
flesh of her breasts and she had not expected that it might feel pleasant. She
had, of course, seen those trysting couples, where the male beta and alpha
would mash the lady’s breast in his hand like he was kneading dough, often
through the corset and she had no idea why such might feel pleasant and assumed
it was something women endured because men liked it, but when the pads of
Peter’s fingers trailed across her skin it felt lovely, and the heat of his
palm when he cupped her breast was better than she expected, even as his mouth
came back to hers.
He asked before he took any liberties, begging permission before he tugged up
her skirt, his hand, rough and callused against the inside of her leg, catching
on her stockings before it felt like a brand on her inner thigh under the
layers of fabric of her chemise and petticoat.
She understood now why people in the Ars Amatoria were naked for these things.
Her skirts were very much in the way, as was his jacket. There was something
quite wicked about doing this in the middle of the day, with the things for tea
upon the table in front of them, and she rather liked it. She liked the
wickedness of it, how Peter had tugged up her skirts and then he touched her
between her legs and she jolted. “Did you not like it?" he asked against her
mouth.
"Oh no," she said, "I liked it very much indeed. Now I wish you would continue,
or I might have to do so for you.” She pushed her hips forward, further into
his hands as her mind went through the medical names for what it was that he
touched, and how she arched and made a squeaking noise when his fingertips,
slick with her, found her clit. It was almost a laugh as she pushed her hips
into his hand.
“You like that, don't you,” he asked into her ear, against her hip she could
feel his hips and hardness, straining to reach her despite his pants. “Now come
for me, lovely," he said. It surprised her when it happened, for it was at
first like the waves broaching the shore and then, like a volcano, it gained in
intensity and erupted so that she nearly jolted from his arms with a spray of
liquid from her cunt. “There’s my lovely girl," Peter crooned into her ear, as
he moved his fingers from her clit to down to the space between her cunt and
her clit, where he just kept his fingers, her entire body felt like it was
throbbing from there, around his fingers.
He held her through it, making no motion that he might seek anything more than
her pleasure as he did so, just murmuring reassurances that she was beautiful
between kisses against the side of her neck and ear.
-
Liam came in just as Peter was fastening the buttons on her bodice with his
quick, clever fingers. “My Lord, My lady,” he said with a forced stiffness,
“his grace, Szerafin, has requested your presence." He was blushing up to the
roots of his hair and his ears were so red that they looked fit to burst.
“Both of us?” Peter asked archly.
“Um, no, my lord, just my lady.” He stammered out, “he was most insistent.” And
Peter laughed into Lydia’s hair, even as he tucked up a stray tendril behind
her ear. “And right now, Caitlyn says, everyone is doing as he wishes.”
“Of course they are," Peter said, placing one final kiss on the tip of her
nose, “he’s giving birth, omega are never closer to god or more vengeful than
then."
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Herald Janusz Stilinski Hale was born in the late evening amidst a bevy of
threats, curses and expletives that might have made a sailor blush. Baba took
the baby away meaning Lydia, who had stood stalwart through the last pangs of
the birth by giving Stiles a firm tower to lean against, only saw the child's
dark hair, and clearly alpha pointed ears, mostly because of how they stood
away from his head.
Stiles saw those too. “Oh god," he said, dazzled with pain and exertion, "I've
had a goblin baby.”
“No, you haven't," Baba said, “he’s beautiful,” She was holding the baby in a
linen cloth as she waited for the placenta to drop before cutting the cord. She
had opinions on how long to wait and at least a quarter of an hour was best,
but the baby had been swaddled already, hiding his wide pointed ears that stood
out at right angles to the side of his head.
“He's got ears like a bat," Stiles wailed, “it's a demon baby.”
Baba rolled her eyes, “he has alpha ears," she corrected softly, “you’ve done
so well, Kochanie, I’m so proud of you.”
“Oh god, I gave birth to a demon baby, I shouldn't have kept using the garden,
I should have stayed in, oh god,”
“Kochanie," Baba said in a soft and patronising voice, “he’s a beautiful
healthy boy, and sometimes babies are born with teeth.”
"Oh god, my demon baby has fangs. How am I going to show him to Derek if he's
got fangs?”
“He hasn't got fangs, he's got one little tooth that I will pull because when
babies are born with teeth they come loose very easily and we don't want him
swallowing it, now do we, kochanie," she addressed this to the child, “because
you are Baba's best little boy, aren't you, yes, you are, you’re very handsome
even with the tooth and you got your father’s eyebrows didn't you?”
“He’s got bat ears, fangs and Derek's eyebrows. Get Father O’Connell, we need
an exorcism.” Stiles was almost frantic.
"No,” Baba said finally showing Stiles the baby but she made no attempt to give
it up, “we get this little monster into the bath,”
"Now you’re calling it a monster. Oh god, I've given birth to an It.”
Throughout this exchange Lydia wisely kept her own counsel. When Caitlyn came
in as Baba went through the process of preparing the child to meet his alpha
parent, who had been out riding when Lydia appeared because he had no idea what
else to do for fear that he might go mad, Lydia tried to excuse herself but
found herself helping Caitlyn deal with an exhausted and distraught Stiles who
was convinced that he had given birth to Satan himself, into a bath, a clean
nightshirt and then bed on a thickly folded towel in another room, one that was
not layered with straw and whatever else Stiles had felt that he needed for the
birth.
It was only when he was considered presentable, hair roughly washed and combed,
that his husband was allowed entrance.
This was the first time Lydia was actually introduced to her dark alpha as she
had called him, and he struck her with all the virility that she had noticed in
him before, like Stiles he had bathed, or a least thrown a jug of water over
his head to cancel out the stink of horse. “Congratulations," Baba said holding
the wrapped bundle, “you have an alpha son.”
"I have a son.” He seemed humbled in the knowledge with his hands strangely at
his sides. He was a very handsome man with a clear forehead, the same strong
cheekbones as Peter and despite his dark hair and light eyes. They were
currently overwhelmed and he had no idea what it was that he was thinking. He
seemed torn between taking the child and running away screaming. Lydia wasn't
sure if it was the child's appearance that caused that reaction.
"I’m sorry," Stiles muttered, half asleep, “I didn’t mean to have a goblin
baby.”
Baba rolled her eyes, “He's beautiful." She corrected. “And he's not a goblin.”
From what she could see of his screwed up face, which was bright red and irate,
with dark hairs across the tip of his turned up nose, Lydia wondered how right
Stiles was. Perhaps he had given birth to a goblin. “Sir, do you wish to take
your son?” she offered Derek the baby. It seemed very small, even dressed and
diapered and wrapped in linen against his chest. He sat on the edge of the bed
as if worried that he might, by simple virtue of standing, drop the child.
“Herald," he said in an awed voice, running his finger tip the length of the
child's forehead and nose.
This the baby took as an invitation to cry for the second time, as if it had
not taken Baba so long to quieten him the first. Derek, now as distraught as
Stiles, managed to turn and slide the baby into Stiles’ arms, even whilst he
was distraught and convinced he had given birth to the antichrist.
—-
When Lydia finally returned to Maunlilie she was exhausted, so she grabbed only
some buttered bread and cheese for supper, with a cup of cold lavender tea to
wash it down. Then she went to bed without bothering to bathe first.
Peter was waiting in her room as she began to unpin her hair, putting the pins
in her mouth as she worked. She didn't know why it surprised her. She spat them
out into her hand, and then the trinket tray on the dresser. He had a book in
his hands and was sat, wearing only pants and shirt on the bed. “Stiles had an
alpha boy.” She said, “and is quite convinced he birthed a goblin.”
Peter burst out laughing. It was a thing to see on him.
“Derek was such an ugly baby," Peter said, “he didn't pretty out till about
five or so, and puberty was terrible, it's no surprise really.”
"Oh no, the child has ears like a bat, Derek's monobrow and a tooth.” Peter
cackled before he composed himself, Lydia undoing the buttons of her dress and
letting it fall open, as she reached around to find the ties of her skirt. This
was a perfunctory unrobing, nothing of seduction or show about it, and she was
surprised how comfortable it already felt. Then she remembered that Peter had
been there when she had been ill, bringing her mint and ginger tea and stroking
her hair, after he had seen that she had no mysteries left.
She let the skirt drop around her feet in a puddle as she pulled off the
bodice, then went the petticoat before she untied her bum roll before unlacing
it from her corset, then letting it drop. “I am always amazed at the efforts
women go to," Peter said, “I do not know if the dresses are to flatter or hide,
your figure is lovely," and Lydia started to blush under the flattery, “I like
the softness of your thighs and the plumpness of your breasts.”
“Stop, sir, you shall make me blush further," she said, suddenly feeling the
urge to cover herself, one arm across her breasts and the other her sex. "I am
not sure I like to be scrutinised so.”
“Whyever not?” Peter asked, “when you are so very beautiful. I love the soft
pale cream of your skin, and the blue of your veins, your breasts are topped
with the palest pink aureoles that I ache to take into my mouth and suckle
upon, and I wish to place my mouth there, between your legs, and bring you to
climax upon my tongue, and where the skin is thinnest, where your veins are
most prominent I wish to place kisses.”
“But what if I were to fall with child," she said acting the ingenue although
she wanted to experience what it was that he offered, but she was not the type
to give up so easily, even when the rewards promised so sweetly. “I might have
a goblin baby like Stiles did, it might be a terrible curse upon the house.”
“Oh the image of you, swollen with child, those pale breasts heavy with milk,
you do tempt me, love, of course the goblin baby will be given to a nurse, and
I might keep your milk entirely for myself.” She threw the bumroll at him.
Peter laughed as he caught it.
—-
It took three days for the gossip about the baby to circle back from the
village to the gatehouse when Desdemona Greenberg arrived, with her entourage
of beta women of minor noble houses, to see the baby.
Stiles himself was not feeling up to guests buy Lydia was grandfathered in to
play hostess, although the duke himself seemed loathe to relinquish the child,
admitting in a low whisper that this was the longest he had gotten to hold him,
because between Stiles and Baba it was expected as the alpha parent he would
have no interest, when he was quite clearly besotted.
Baba had worked wonder with the child, whose face was still gathered in a
perpetual frown, but no longer had the singular eyebrow, and his ears were
tucked under one of the frilled bonnets that she had helped Stiles make. “His
grace is still indisposed," Lydia said as she took her seat, one of the two
maids, Emily she thought, laid out tea for Lydia to serve to her guests. “The
birth was taxing, but this is the Ducal Heir." In his arms Derek turned the
baby so that the gathered ladies could respectfully ooh and ah. More than one
of the beta girls mentioned that Lord Peter was not present.
One girl, Mary Eunice, a pale blonde beta girl who had looked around the
gatehouse with something close to disdain as clearly not worthy of either her
or the ducal family, “oh Mona," she said in what was meant to be a
conspiratorial whisper but was clearly loud enough for everyone to hear,
“that's not a goblin baby at all, I expected grey skin or a tail.”
“Get out." Lydia said bluntly, clenching her fists at her side. “All of you,
out now!” She stood up, her legs banging against the silver tea tray so the
dishes clattered.
“Why I never," the same rude beta said with her hand to her mouth.
“Do not play the victim here,” Lydia said, “you came to gawk at the goblin
baby, not to see the ducal child, Herald is a baby and this is his father, you
have insulted them both, why you should be dragged out into the street and
flogged for this insult.”
“How dare you?" Mary Eunice said, “do you know who my father is?” She was
incensed. “Do you think Lord Peter will continue to tarry with you if you make
such enemies.” Derek got up and left the room because he seemed to want to put
the baby down before he wrought the violence that Lydia seemed to gather from
him. “Just because you are an omega and a whore you think yourself better.”
“Where has this rumour that I have come to marry Lord Peter emerged?” she asked
regaining her composure. “For it is a terrible misconception, perhaps you are
so very rude because you aimed your bonnet at him yourself, but Lord Peter and
I ARE married, I came here not as a potential bride but instead as his wife,
and as Lady Hale I am horrified at your behaviour, miss, perhaps you are used
to your father brushing such actions away by paying for it, and spoiling you,
but I shall tell you now that I shall have you struck from the invitation lists
of all society, unable to marry even the lowliest footman, you vile creature.
Now get out.”
“My father will hear of this.”
“Good, then perhaps he will finally take your behaviour in hand. Including your
inability to follow basic instructions like get the hell out of this house."
Boyd was at the door, arms crossed and looking very much like he was about to
take Mary Eunice and throw her bodily from the house. Mary Eunice stood up,
smoothing out the fabric of her dress.
"I shall not stay to be so abused.”
“Good, for I have asked you leave several times, I am no longer in the mood for
guests, you shall have to entreat the Duchenne to recieve you, for I am not
nearly as patient as he.” The other betas made their apologies as they left,
the idea that they might lose the ducal favour offending them more than the
behaviour of their peer. She was still angry as she drank her tea, sweetened
with rose petals, such as preferred by the older women of the ton.
When Baba came in with the baby in her arms, perhaps quarter of an hour later,
Lydia had emptied the tea pot and eaten most of the cake fingers and finger
sandwiches that had been provided for their guests thinking. She did not often
eat her anger, her corset was kept tight enough that if she had done such she
would be sick. However as she was stuck wearing Heather's gowns she did not
need to wear them to get a good fit and the stiffness of the gown offered her
adequate support so she could eat in bad temper.
“Do you wish to stay the night?” She asked, “Derek is currently riding. He does
that when he is angry, the alternative is that he commits murder.”
“She was so rude, I would not expect such of even the French.” Lydia groused.
“Then I suppose I best not tell you that she is waiting outside in her
carriage." Baba said, “we must find out who is carrying tales into the village,
for beyond the walls of this house my Stiles' overwrought exclamation that his
son was a goblin was not heard, although I do not doubt you might have said so
to Lord Peter, whose counsel I trust. The question remains as to who overheard
it.”
“Someone was pretending to be him in town in regards to a pair of suitors who
had intent to whisk me to Gretna.”
“I doubt that Miss Sneyd would have been so forward if he had not thought you
simply Peter’s Mistress, she has been sending her father to Maunlilie for years
in the hope that he might return the honour and call upon them.” Baba said in
her quiet way, “he does not, but I do think she has long since fancied herself
Lady Hale.”
Lydia folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath of bad temper. “Well
she cannot have him, I am Lady Hale and unless I die he is not free for a
grubby little beta who has not the manners in her head because she thinks that
her father is important.”
“He owns a silk mill in Derbyshire, but her mother requires the sea air for her
health, they came here, I suppose for Peter, and apart from the usual gaggle of
rich beta girls she is not welcome in society. She is given invitations to
balls and such to make up numbers but still thinks herself popular, she
possibly even has convinced herself Peter is waiting for her but I doubt that
he knows her name.” Baba clearly had no time for the girl.
“I have no patience for such, she said such things in front of the duke.”
“I doubt she knows that he is the duke," Baba said, “Derek has remained aloof
from society, he is shy and has little interest in society, they probably
thought he was a servant, but even so.” She bounced the child in her arms, who
made a little noise of discontent as he yawned. “Stiles and I are excluded from
society be being Romani, they think it makes us unclean, there are rumours that
Stiles used his magic to seduce the duke.”
“Bullshit," Lydia was surprised by the vehemence with which the word escaped
her.
“But as I said," Baba said, “someone is carrying tales.”
“That is it," Lydia snarled, "I am going back to the big house and I am
dragging Jennifer out by her hair.”
Chapter End Notes
     I got permission from the lovely Spaggel to use her OC Herald for
     this
     you can read the adventures of Herald the goblin baby here
     http://swingsetindecember.tumblr.com/post/55341727307/herald-
     stilinski-hale-master-post
     and i highly recommend you do, the sheriff may not be in this story
     to see his most precious angel but to give you an idea of the
     wonderful, ugly baby
***** Chapter 18 *****
Despite Lydia’s best intentions to the contrary Peter spent the next few days
doing his best to distract her from her intent to drag Jennifer out into the
courtyard by her hair and drive her out of all of Wales. There were gifts,
elaborate meals, a gown with a modiste who came out to the house. There were
doctors who came out to investigate Aunt Amabel, as the duke had decided she
would be better served in a sanitarium, and what revelations came from that
meeting were taken from her by a new novel.
Peter was a fascinating conversationalist and if he wanted to change the
subject it was done with such deftness that Lydia did not notice until after
they had parted.
Stiles had come to term with the concept of having given birth to the
antichrist with the realisation that it was his, and despite misgivings, and
worries over things like how Herald never cried unless he was hungry enough to
drain both breasts, and never if he was just wet. In fact there was a good
worry that he seemed to like lying in his own filth. Which Baba reassured him
was not proof that he had had a goblin baby and was just a boy thing.
Baba was also fascinated by the baby, and kept stripping him down to his bonnet
and diaper and just letting him kick and wriggle when laid out on the table,
him being too young to do much more than soil himself and cry. Lydia thought he
looked much like a skinned rabbit. Exposure to the child was not making Lydia
any more fond of babies in general, not because he was ugly or a goblin, but
just because he seemed rather useless and noisy.
Even the sight of Peter holding the baby did nothing to arouse any sort of
maternal instinct in her. In fact the image just made her laugh as both Peter
and Herald managed to look horribly uncomfortable. It was not that Peter did
not know how to hold a child, it's just that he would much rather, he admitted,
hold a barrel of gunpowder with a lit fuse, than any baby.
However when he was pinned down with the baby in his arms he was not able to
run away from her questions. “What are we to do about Jennifer?” Lydia asked
sweetly, as Peter looked around for anyone to take the child, but there was no
one else.
“I have spoken with the magistrate," he admitted finally, “and there is not
much we can do to prevent her doing this to others. What she has done is cruel,
but none of it was illegal, except possibly her poisoning of you and we cannot
prove it was her. The easy option would be to simply fire her, but then we
cannot be sure she would not try the same things with another. I have a guest
coming, a dear friend of mine from Vienna, you might not care much for him. Not
many do, now please, relieve me of this burden as he has just relieved himself
on me.”
—-
Colonel John Sheppard was the very antithesis of his namesake. Where the
spaniel was hyperactive, excited by everything and given the choice would run
around after her tail until she collapsed from exhaustion, the colonel was more
like a cat, content to sprawl out in the heat and watch the world go by secure
in the knowledge that he was lord of all he surveyed. He was a thin alpha with
a shock of dark hair and bright eyes, and a laconic manner with a wry humour
that as soon as Lydia had spoken to him she understood why he was Peter’s
friend.
Peter was delighted to introduce him, he wore the formal black uniform with the
red cuffs and collar and gold work, the same as Peter had worn in his portrait.
He was a handsome man with a quiet manner and a humour as dry as Peter’s own.
It was strange how immediately Jennifer went from fractious to simpering in the
presence of a guest. "It’s quite useless," Peter murmured into Lydia’s ear
“he’s very happily married, his bride is quite awful, he has the temperament of
an annoyed weasel with a grudge to prove, which Shep finds his most endearing
trait, I imagine the two of you will get along well, he likes mathematics as
much as you.”
Knowing that, as Sheppard talked to them about his travels, watching Jennifer’s
simpering attempts at seduction became much more entertaining. “I do not know
what I would do if my Meredith decided to give me children," he said in
reaction to the knowledge of Herald, “actually I am not sure what Meredith
would do if he decided to give me children.”
“I am sure they would be quite charming, sir,” Jennifer said from the door,
“and very handsome.”
“They would be unholy terrors with uncontrollable hair," Peter drawled, “the
British army would despair that they might grow to join their ranks like their
parents.”
“How did you meet your Meredith?” Lydia asked.
“A shared love of ballistics." Sheppard answered.
“Shep is not given to listing his accomplishments, he was interested in blowing
things up, and Meredith’s interest was making bigger booms with less effort.”
Peter said, “it is Meredith’s recipe that the army prefers to use for its
cannon.”
"Not quite, Hale," Shepherd said, “Meredith is more interested in the
mathematics of it, he considers chemistry more of a soft science given to
dabblers. There are many names in science that quake in fear of his letters,
and several newspapers that lack the courage not to publish his letters. He is
not even as polite as scathing to those in natural philosophy.”
“That is because your darling Meredith might be a kitten when you scratch his
chin, but to the rest of the world he's a fractious hell cat with a
vendetta and a penchant for the sciences.”
Rather than take offence at what Peter said about the charming Meredith,
Sheppard laughed. “Ah, but he’s my Hellcat.” Jennifer made a sort of
discontented noise as she was indicated to pour more of the wine. It was clear
whatever cap she was setting to Colonel Sheppard he had no intention of paying
it any heed.
This was the first time that Lydia had drank alcohol since she had drunk to
excess with pastis, normally wine was something she had with food, perhaps half
a glass of a red with red meat, or watered white with dessert. She would have
champagne and lemonade at balls or social engagement, but Sheppard had brought
with him a liqueur made sweet with lemons and honey water that was apparently
just the thing in Venice. Like lemonade it went down easy, soothing the burn of
the quite strong alcohol and it did not take as much as she thought to get her
foxed, and the more foxed she got the more interesting tales Sheppard had to
tell her about Peter.
Peter, not one to be undone, started talking about the terrible circumstances
of Lydia arriving early at Maunlilie by nearly two weeks and being mistaken for
a fallen woman because of the machinations of a cruel servant.
Sheppard, now as drunk as both Peter and Lydia, said that it was not a patch on
the story he had told about Dorka, the midwife who had come from Warsaw and
crossed a war torn Spain with a baby on her back to work in the slums of London
despite having been the midwife to the king of Poland’s mistress. The story
struck Lydia as being mildly familiar until Peter said, “but I had to change
it, no one wants to read about the war, it's all muck and mud, they want to
read about La Terreur.”
“The Dear Evangeline books,” Lydia exulted recognising the story. “You wrote
the Dear Evangeline stories?!" She tried to get up to kiss him, for she very
much enjoyed those books but her legs were unsure under her, and she crashed
into the table and fell back onto her couch with a laugh. "I love the Dear
Evangeline books, the way that she outmaneuvered the French Baron who wished to
force her into marriage, do I know Dear Evangeline, really?”
“Dorka, she’ll be about somewhere," Sheppard yawned. “But he’ll make you
famous, little girl, soon enough people will be buying the story of the waif of
Maunlilie Tor, although he’ll change the names so it will probably be more like
Thorncrush Grange.” He scratched at his head, “all of Peter’s books are
hackwork of stories he’s heard from other people, probably why they’re so much
fun.”
“And how would you end this story?" Lydia asked, “now that the waif has met her
charming but crippled husband, and the machinations of the evil housekeeper has
been revealed.”
“Jennifer’s not a housekeeper," Peter scoffed, “she’s Aunt Amabel's nurse, and
a piss poor job of it she’s done. Oh there will be some terrible confrontation,
I imagine the housekeeper will threaten the waif with a knife, and then the
crippled husband will have to save her.”
“Then she is very much in for a surprise," Lydia said, "I have two sisters, I
am not incapable of my own defence.”
“But you are not a trained soldier.” It was possible Peter did not intend to be
so patronising.
“You know Croft," Sheppard started.
“Crazy Crofty, who decided to go one on one with a wolf pack in Bavaria?” From
his tone it appeared that Peter had no idea why Sheppard was mentioning it.
“And won." Sheppard added. “He had two sisters. Ugliest girls you ever did see,
but when you asked him why he got so good at fighting he’d drain his mug and
look at you like he’d come into the gates of Hell and kicked them down
screaming, I have two sisters as his explanation.”
“Ugly?” Peter asked, “so of course Jim-boy tried to seduce them both, at the
same time.”
“Of course," Sheppard admitted, “and got his face slapped soundly, on both
cheeks, by both girls.”
“Jim-boy Kirk was the most charming of the entire company, he believed himself
irresistible to women, however they had almost no interest in him, even though
he had rank and title, but he didn’t discriminate between girls others would
turn their nose up, pretty, ugly, hideous, he simply did not care. He would
turn on the charm until the lady in question told him to stop.” Peter was
explaining these things to Lydia who had no idea who these men were.
“He was always a gentleman when they refused him, and never pressed his suit.”
Sheppard laughed.
“But by the time they had lost their temper enough to refuse him outright it
was usually with the flat of her hand.” Peter qualified.
“He is to be married this Christmas,” Sheppard told him, “Miss Marcus.”
“How much did he pay her father? Last I heard he was dallying with that
divorced omega, McCoy.”
“The cantankerous Scot, best field surgeon in the British army," Sheppard said,
“refused to marry him, no matter how many times Jim asked. There are more than
a few who think that this engagement with Miss Marcus is to encourage McCoy
back into marriage, we all know the two of them have been dallying for the
whole of their service. It is a wonder that in all those years that McCoy has
not had to go to the country to avoid scandal.” Lydia knew the euphemism as
being one for pregnancy.
“He’s a surgeon and trained midwife, although there is little that he cannot
fix,” Peter said, “without him and Baba I would have died after the fire.”
“And if that isn't a coalition to give any alpha chills in his balls.” Sheppard
admitted, “add in my Meredith and they’d take over the world," he leered at
Lydia, “but would you serve in their army or lead, my lady?”
“My Lydia," Peter said in a rather possessive tone, “why she is as much a
creature of science as they, although even though Stiles has become a parent I
think that Dorka is very much training him as her heir in taking over the
world.”
“If her story," Lydia said, “is half as salacious as that of the Dear
Evangeline," she knew her gestures were large because the lemon drink was
clearly stronger than it tasted and she was quite drunk.
“Oh Dorka's story is far more salacious than that drivel Hale published. We
should fetch her, Hale, send your boy to fetch her and that nephew of yours,
the one that doesn't speak just manages entire conversations with his
eyebrows.”
“As do you, Shep,” Peter laughed, “when you’re not on a belly full of this
lemon shit.”
“You must tell me," Lydia said, “I wish to know, Peter," she was wheedling, “I
adore the tales of Dear Evangeline.”
“Then you must ask her yourself, it is not my place to tell the story of her
life," he said, “without her permission, if we do not treat our omega like the
queens that they are then how shall we expect them to not poison us or smother
us in our sleep.”
“You give me ideas, husband.” Lydia crossed her arms over her chest in a pout,
but it was interrupted by a yawn. “I am sorry, dear gentleman, but I fear I
must retire if my husband will not regale me of the interesting tales behind my
favourite novel, or my guest will not inform me of the mathematics which
interest his husband.” And with that she leaned over to place a sloppy kiss on
Peter’s cheek, she was too drunk to manage anything else, before she left the
room. All of her life she had been told that omega gossipped for lack of
anything to do, but it seemed the adage was quite wrong, omega discussed the
things that were happening in their daily life and made their plans - alphas
gossipped.
***** Chapter 19 *****
Lydia awoke in the middle of the night to a sound and the knowledge that she
had sat down on her bed to remove her slippers and fallen asleep in her corset.
She struggled to sit up, the corset, whilst excellent for the posture, was not
conducive to the flailing necessary to attain a sitting position. “I’m sorry,"
Peter said from the fireplace where he had been trying to coax a steadier blaze
from the coals with the poker, and it had been his cursing which woke her. “It
was not my intention to wake you.”
“‘M good." She said, but her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
Finally sitting, she poured herself a cup of water from the jug beside the bed,
and it was among the nicest things she had ever drank in her life, she was so
dry. So she drank a second.
She took the opportunity to remove the last of the pins from her hair and let
it fall loose down her back, although normally she would braid it for bed she
was a little too sleepy and the last of her drunk to care. She would deal with
that in the morning.
"I am not sure that I am comfortable, sir, with you watching me sleep.” She
said as she debated a third cup of the water, which would empty the jug. She
was sure Heather would bring fresh in the morning.
“I was in fact debating whether I would prefer to undress you and place you
into bed correctly in your chemise, or just taking shears to your lacing and
leaving you as you were. You are young enough that a night twisted into such a
position would not bother you much.” He answered, turning around. "I decided
only to check upon you, and restart the fire. I had not thought that you would
wake.”
“Nevertheless," she said stretching her arms above her head with an almighty
yawn, “you did come into my bedchamber without my permission, and watch me in
my bed.”
“Is that not my prerogative as your husband?” he was teasing her, and it
appeared to amuse him much more than the evening of chatter had done so.
“Although it is not my intent to bully you into such things as you are unhappy
with. After all, Lydia, you are my wife, not my chattel.”
“And you, sir, are my husband, not my maid, it is not upon you to arrange for
my comfort.” She undid the top buttons of her gown, and the top one of her
corset, just enough to make her slightly more comfortable.
“Who is to arrange for your comfort if not me?” he moved towards her like a cat
stalking its prey, with a lope that she found more attractive than she
admitted. He had removed his coat and his vest hung open, he had removed his
stockings and the sight of his bare feet surprised her. Again she liked it. "I
am, after all, your husband.”
“Are you trying to seduce me, sir?” She could play the ingenue very well, a
perfect form of artlessness that had made her a contender for the diamond of
the ton.
“Do you want me to?” his smile was wolfish in the poor light of the bedroom,
catching on his remaining eye.
Lydia thought of that when he had touched her, how good his mouth felt upon her
neck and shoulders, how wondrous his fingers had felt between her thighs. “I do
not know, Peter, do I want you to?”
He sank to his knees at her feet, on the deep woven rug that was there for her
naked toes, and put his hands upon her ankles. Through her stockings his hands
felt hot. “do you want me to?” she asked.
“There is nothing I find more delightful than the fripperies of female dress.
The restrictions and laxities,” he skimmed his palms up her calves, “and
underneath the softnesses, the delicacies. Here, the silk of your stockings and
there," she jolted just a little when his fingers touched her thighs. “Women
truss up and tighten away their delicacies like a gift to be unwrapped.” He had
pushed up her skirts so they sat upon her thighs. “Such a beautifully wrapped
gift," he said, and placed a soft kiss upon her thigh, before a soft bite, he
used his hand to part her thighs, and with a hungry groan he placed a single
kiss on each thigh, and then using one hand to open the folds of her sex he
kissed her there.
The noise Lydia made surprised her as her entire body fell back, and she lost
her mind, to his lips, his tongue and his teeth. He worked her softly, bringing
her to the brink and then pulling back to kiss at her thighs, and skim his
fingers up her calves. She didn't know what to do with her hands, only that she
did not want him to stop, and when she came it was with a scream and her hands
fisted in the coverlet. He twined three fingers together and slipped them
inside her, easing the throbbing as it started.
He stood up, wiping his mouth with the fingers of his free hand, “did you like
that, my dear?” He asked, knowing full well that she had.
When her wits had restored themselves she lifted her arms as if she was a child
begging to be held. Without removing his fingers from inside her he kissed her,
sweeping his tongue, still with her taste in his mouth, and it did not disgust
her as much as she thought that it might have, but instead the knowledge that
he had done this, that he had awakened such things in her. These were not the
simple obligations of the wife, but instead the hungers of something older and
more primal.
It made her feel powerful. She thought about the disdain women of society who
were known to be free with their favours could be. She thought of their private
salons and the army of alphas willing to do them favours and pay for their
amusements. Those women and omega, for at least one of them was male were not
invited to those parties that were the heart of society, they were not at
dances or dinners, so instead they held salons and invited those other
outcasts, whilst wives and mothers called them names out of earshot and snubbed
them in the street.
Yet the power of such pleasure, of bringing a man like Lord Peter Hale
voluntarily to his knees only for the purpose of her amusement, it was heady,
like a strong liquor lingering on her tongue. For a moment she considered the
concept of all those alphas desperate to please her and decided she had no
interest in it. Not whilst Peter was so very amusing.
"Peter," she said as he slipped his fingers from her, “why do you not mount
me?” She was not sure there were other words for it, in the titters she had
heard from other maidens when they gathered in little clusters to discuss
marriage prospects that was the word they had used with disdain for the act of
an alpha breeding his bride.
“Do you wish me to?” He asked, his breath was hot against her chin, as his
clever fingers started to undo the rest of the buttons of her gown. “Then tell
me, Lydia, what it is you wish me to do. Tell me which part of me you wish?”
The word caught in her mouth and he saw it. “How can I give you what you want
when you cannot even say the word? I can give you my mouth, my fingers, I feel
you have no problem asking for those, do you?” She wanted him to kiss her again
so she reached up and did so. He was kneeling now, across her waist, but
holding himself up above her. In the poor light she could not make out his
features, but she was aware of other things, the heat of his body, the strength
of his arms caging her in with his hands on either side of her head, even the
corded power in his thighs through the layers of skirts.
“Say it and I shall give you all that you ask for.” His voice was rough with
unkempt desire. When he spotted her hesitation he seemed to soften in his
intent, “if you are not ready then I will wait.”
“I want it." She snarled, surprised at her own vehemence and he smirked.
“Then say it, any of the names will do, say it and I shall let you do as you
please with it, perhaps take it in hand, or in your pretty mouth, or shall I
slide inside you and rock us together until I knot, with my hips pressed tight
against your lovely ass and my hands on your from behind as I kiss at your neck
and shoulders the way you so enjoy.” She undid the last of her buttons so that
the soft layers of her chemise were on display between her breasts as they fell
back into the folds of her armpits under their own weight. Her nipples felt
tight and hard.
“Cock." She said, “I want you to press your cock so far up inside me that it
feels like your knot is in my throat.” Lydia might have been educated in
society to be the demure bride that was every alpha's dream, but she had also
spent weeks in the the company of Stiles who was open about how much he enjoyed
his husband’s cock, and had found a copy of the sexually explicit Ars Amatoria.
The word was uncomfortable but she could say it.
Peter grinned and sucked her lower lip into his mouth, pulling away so the
suction was elongated into a singular experience, “there's my girl," he said
proudly.
Instead of merely unbuttoning his pants and going for it, Peter pulled back
standing beside the bed. "Might I undress you, Lady Hale?” he asked.
She climbed out of the bed and stood in front of him, he stood nearly a head
taller than her, and in that moment he made her feel safe. He slowly pushed the
dress from her shoulders and let it fall around her ankles, then the ties of
her bumroll, removing it completely with careful movements. Then the laces of
her petticoat so that she stood there in her corset, chemise and stockings. She
felt vulnerable as he turned her, undoing the lacing with careful fingers and
removing her corset entirely. “For now, that is enough, I always found the
promise of nudity so much more erotic than bare skin, there will be time for
that later.”
“Now you,” she told him.
At that he balked just a little, but she could see him shuttering himself. He
started with his pants, undoing both flies and pushing his pants down to reveal
his thighs, corded and strong but the left was scarred, much worse than his
face and neck, here and there marked with divots. The skin was not just melted
but in places burned shiny, it continued up his hips and over his chest when he
pulled out his shirt. She noted these things almost academically, then having
noted it pulled him towards her. “I thought you were going to knot me,
husband," she said. She noted that his cock was soft between his thighs, his
discomfort at his nudity having taken his desire from him.
“You are not disgusted?” he was surprised by that. “I am monstrous.”
“I have seen worse," she said, running her hands over the line of his chest,
appreciating the heat of his skin, “did I ever take the time to tell you about
my tutor in Mathematics? He was an astronomer who had nearly died in Russia of
frostbite, lost both ears and his nose to it, and two of the fingers from one
hand, and then he was in a ship battle on his way back, still invalid and he
took terrible oil burns. I was perhaps eight years old when he came home to our
village, he and his wife would come to church and all the children would stare.
I remember mother chastising my sisters about it, but I did not care. He
fascinated me, it was something of a morbid curiosity I must admit so I
gathered wild flowers to bring to him and apologise. I think I wished to look
at him without my mother's hand over my eyes.
“His wife let me in, she was a mouse of a thing, he had married her before he
had gone to Russia and spent years with him in the sanitorium in Buxton until
he was well enough to return. He was sat there, wearing loose clothes because
fabrics rubbed his scars and hurt him, at his desk, blind, although I did not
know it at the time, with his wife, as they worked through his mathematical
theorems.” She smiled to herself, “he taught me that the universe was made of
numbers and I went every day to listen to his proofs, they were beautiful.”
“I cannot give you that." Peter said, his arms wrapped around her now, pressed
up against her so she could not see his scars, what he considered his
monstrousness.
“You jest, Peter, you gave me a laboratory.” She said it in awe, “knowing I was
fascinated by the natural sciences you did not consider it a childish folly,
the whim of a silly girl, you built me a folly for the sole purpose of
encouraging it.”
"Is that why you lower yourself to lie with a monster?” His voice sounded
small, she got the impression he still didn't get the point she was trying to
make.
“I have never lowered myself," she said, “I do not love you, that is true, and
I am not obligated simply because you are my husband, but I do like you, Peter,
and I desire you. How can I make that clear? Shall I go to my knees and take
you in my mouth as you did for me? Perhaps I could do this?” Her hand felt
small against the girth of his cock. This at least was unscarred, he was
circumcised, and judging by the burns on his hip it had been removed to save
him further pain, but it felt hot and dry in her palm as she twisted her wrist.
He made a noise like he had been stabbed, the air forced from his lungs, and he
seemed to deflate against her, all the strength going from his frame and she
pulled him, hand around his cock, to her bed.
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
For the days following Shepherd's arrival Peter kept to his bed, refusing to
talk to anyone and barely eating the food that Danielle brought him under a
cloche, with jugs of lemonade and elderberry wine. Danielle told him it wasn't
that unusual, and Stiles was quick to agree. “He’s a victim of a terrible
melancholia and that's not quickly solved, Lydia, he has good days and bad
days, and sometimes it catches up with him when he does too much, all those
girls in town who fancy themselves his Lady they don't consider this.”
“So what do I do?” Lydia asked. Despite Maunlilie being a huge house with many
sitting rooms it was the kitchen that Stiles preferred, possibly for access to
tea, and so it was there that they spent most of their time.
“You make sure he has food, that his chamber pot is empty and when he feels
better that you’re there to support him. You are honest with him and let him
live his life," Stiles answered. “He’s much better than he used to be.” He
hefted Herald in his arms so the baby’s head was against his shoulder. “Really,
this is the first time he’s been like this since I got pregnant, I think that
might be the longest stretch yet.”
“He’s just worn himself out," Danielle said, sitting at the table. “Between you
and Shep," Shep was yet to rise for the day, “and the baby he’s tried so hard
he’s worn himself out, give him a few days.”
“He is asleep in my bed," Lydia said, “should I bed down in his room.”
“Do the sheets need changing?” Danielle asked, with one quirked up eyebrow. "If
not just go to bed regardless.” She was drinking hot lemon tea, bread proving
on the counter behind her. She was often busy with all the little things that
the house needed to keep running. Jennifer might be the one mistaken for a
housekeeper but it was Danielle that actually ran the house. “If he rolls over
unto you use your elbows, he's not going to want anything but knowing you’re
there if he does.”
Stiles laughed, bouncing the baby on his shoulder, “if he's not up to getting
up and sitting in a chair he is not going to be up to knotting you.”
“You're just complaining because you’re not up to being knotted," Danielle
said, reaching out to take the baby.
"I hurt," he hissed at her. “Someone’s head was a lot bigger than someone
else’s knot."
“Well if you will lie down with dogs, you’ll get fleas." Danielle was clearly
teasing him and Lydia was glad to see it. She wondered for a moment how a beta
like Jennifer would cope with a knot, for Peter fully aroused was about the
circumference of a lemon but knotted was closer to an orange or a small
grapefruit, as an omega Lydia’s body was designed for the stretch but a beta
was not. Alphas were preferable because they offered a lot of advantages in
society but Lydia ached, pleasantly, after taking Peter’s knot, would a beta be
like Stiles, hobbling and sitting on a sack of wheat-grain that Danielle was
keeping in the ice house. She also wondered briefly if Greenberg and her
coterie of high born betas had similar conversations or had the presence of
Baba and her midwife’s opinion of coitus had altered things.
She pictured briefly Jennifer’s face skewed up in disgust as if she had sucked
upon a lemon. The only reason she was still in the house was that with Lady
Amabel she needed a nurse so until they were ready to take her into the
Sanitorium in Buxton where she could get the care she needed, which was more
about the travel than her stay there, Jennifer was secure of her place here.
Then another thought popped into her head like a soap bubble landing and
exploding upon a surface. “Why does everyone call Jennifer Jenny o’ the woods?”
Danielle looked at Stiles for him to explain and he looked back, then sighed,
getting up to put his sleeping baby down in the straw basket he had for him in
place of a bassinet, before getting himself more hot water from the trivet for
his tea. "It's a local thing," he said, “an old ghost story, most villages have
them, and Jenny o’ the woods is ours.”
“She’s a bad omen," Danielle said, “you see her and bad things happen, sickness
or death in the house, a failed crop, that sort of thing.”
The comparison was obvious, Jenny was the shortened form of Jennifer after all,
and no one really seemed to like Jennifer. “Are you going to tell me his ghost
story?” Lydia said, “after all, we have nothing else to do, the men of the
house are sleeping.” With Herald in his basket, Peter refusing to leave his bed
and no sign of Sheppard despite it being nearly noon that was true. Danielle
fetched a loaf and uncovered the butter from its dish so that they might eat as
they talked.
“It’s an odd story, because some of it that we know to be true so there's no
reason for it not to be, but it is like something from Mrs. Radcliffe's
novels," Stiles started, “and it's about the Argent feud, so it might not make
complete sense to you because you didn't grow up with it the way that Peter or
I did.” He sat back down on his cooled pillow before reaching for the knife,
Danielle slapped his hand away and cut him a slice of the bread to butter and
cover with honey the way that he preferred.
“This land has been Hale land since before William the Conqueror came from
Normandy, and although the Hales swore to him he set up the Argents as their
neighbours and the Argents maintained that the Hales were disloyal, because
they were Jarls and not Barons, because the Hale land had a better harbour
which the Argents wanted, and the Hales gave as good as they got over the
better farming land to the south. But really they argued over any excuse they
could, whatever started the feud we may never know but it got worse. Eventually
even the king knew of their feud and not wanting two of his barons to destroy
each other he split them up, like children. He moved the Argents to
Northumberland and gave them a much larger piece of land when that baron died
and the Argents reacted by giving up a large swathe of their land to the church
just before they officially got the news because it was to go to the Hales.
The Argents built an Abbey on the land and it was always controlled by the
Argent family and everyone knew it, but with the church involved the Hales
couldn't seize the land or get it from the King and so they had a stalemate.”
He took a bite of his bread and chewed and swallowed before he continued. “The
Argent bishops had a bad reputation but it was mostly explained away as the old
feud, that proximity slandered them and because the church was responsible for
the Abbey even if the rumors were true no one could do anything because the
church ignored any complaints.
“The Abbot at the time had the worst reputation that he lured servant beta
girls to the abbey and murdered them but there was no proof, everyone knew the
story but the Church said it was just peasant silliness, probably because the
Argents paid them so much, but the story was all over the county to the point
that no beta girl would work there, and they were invited from all over the
country to do tasks the monks considered below them, laundry and the like.” He
broke off a piece of the bread.
"Jenny was a girl from the village, sometimes the story says she worked in
Maunlilie which was a lot smaller then, a small tower left over from the
Medieval period, but Jenny was never a Hale, or from one of the prominent
families, she was a servant girl who happened to be very beautiful, and the
story says she caught the eye of one of the Hale boys and one of the farm boys
and it was the talk of the town that they were going to fight over her. She
decided to marry the farm boy, called Daff, and the date as set, then a few
days before the wedding they both disappeared, as did the Hale boy, Stephen I
think he was, I'd have to check with Peter or Himself, they’d know, but I can't
remember off hand, anyway, the three of them went missing and rumours spread
around the town, and when the Hale boy came back everyone just believed that
Jenny and her boy had eloped and run off together.”
Lydia served herself some bread, refusing the honey and instead taking the
elderberry preserve she prefered. “Then the boy came back without her, he had
gone to make money for their marriage, as Jenny had turned down a life of
riches to be with him, but there was no sign of Jenny. Then one day an old
farmer's wife saw her in the woods. She chased after her but when she got there
Jenny was gone. Then a second woman saw her. Soon everyone saw her in one way
or another. The village was small, less than twenty people lived there but the
Hale boy followed her. He went to where she had been with Daff and waited until
she appeared somewhere else and slowly they followed her through the woods to
an old cave on the Abbot's land and they found the body of many women, some of
which were years old, and Jenny was only recognisable by a moonstone cross that
Stephen Hale had given her." Lydia's hand went to her neck and the cross she
wore.
“Earl Hale wrote to the church in the hope that they would finally act, but
they refused. The king at the time was Henry and he wanted to divorce his wife
but the church would not let him for Spanish reasons, I don't want to get into
that, but he decided to overthrow the church and seize the lands so they came
with the soldiers and it was an abattoir, please excuse the pun, but they had
been murdering girls, prostitutes and the like, girls looking for work and
others, inviting them to the abbey and killing them, the story says hundreds,
history says two or three. The Hales demanded that the Abbot be stripped of his
title and prosecuted and until that the king hadn't listened, but it's hard to
argue with lots of bodies, so they condemned him to death, but he couldn't be
found.”
Stiles stopped for a moment, “now the story goes that Lord Hale the elder had a
vision of Jenny who led him to the Abbot’s sister Joanna Belvoir who had given
him refuge. Lord Belvoir was in London so might not have known and there was a
huge trial, they couldn't keep it from the people because of the scandal, there
were plays, and Lord Belvoir was sentenced to life in prison on the Isle of
Wight. Now I have been to where he was imprisoned and it was a palace but he
was kept from his wife, and she blamed the Hales, and when her husband died, of
excess.”
“He drank himself to death." Danielle qualified.
“Lady Belvoir, who had been Joanna Argent, went after the Hales but was only
able to get to William Hale who was the queen’s companion, meaning he sang
whilst she worked. He was the one who improved Maunlilie and raised the title
from Earl to Duke. But she went at him with her nails, cursed the family that
seven of their brides would die, and killed herself."
Lydia nodded. “So the seven brides?” she asked, "I ask because everyone seems
convinced I’m the seventh bride.”
“The Seventh bride was called Eleanor." Danielle said, “and she died in the
fire.”
“She had curly hair," Stiles said, “and a laugh like she knew something you
didn’t and it wasn't to be shared in polite company, she was tall for an omega,
everyone said it, taller even than Will who she was married to, and she had
freckles, but they never made it to her portraits. I very much wanted to be
her," he sounded wistful. “I already knew I was going to belong to Himself, but
she was so beautiful and poised and not afraid to get down in the mud with Cora
and Henry and Liam, Evie and I, although Liam was much younger, Evie didn't
like to get dirty, but Ell, she was into everything, she used to wear pants
just because it made it easier to play. I don't think people realise just how
much we lost in the fire.” Lydia didn't have words for that, there were Peter’s
scars but there was also this ongoing grief for people she didn’t know; for
Eleanor and even Jenny who had died hundreds of years before.
“Jenny appears when things are going bad," Danielle said finishing her piece of
bread and honey, “in the woods, she lures children out towards the place where
she was found, she’s not a good ghost, and well, our Jennifer’s not a good
person.” Lydia was glad the topic was changed from the fire, otherwise, she
felt she might need to go upstairs, strip off her gown and get into bed with
Peter and let the world go on without them.
Chapter End Notes
     a sanitorium and a sanitarium may seem very similar but are very
     different, a sanitorium is a spa or posh hospital, but a sanitorium
     is a mental hospital - because English is a great language that
     exists to mess with people
***** Chapter 21 *****
It took three days before Peter felt steady enough to leave his bed, and when
he did he was quiet and reserved. Colonel Sheppard had agreed to travel with
Lydia, with a suitable chaperone in Heather, to take Lydia to Chester that she
might order a new wardrobe. The alpha had no interest in clothes but needed to
see a solicitor about things which was his purpose in England. He was not a man
given to conversation but instead had a tendency to deliver dry asides that
were devastating in polite company whilst never being overtly offensive. In
Chester, Lydia was recognized as Lady Hale and people treated her with a sort
of deference, her opinion asked upon matters of fashion and it was both
wonderful and boring.
When she had left London she had found these things fascinating and the
entirety of her world was what people wore or served for supper. In Chester,
lacking the social capital of London, where she was well respected simply by
virtue of her marriage, she was bored without Stiles witty conversation about
nothing, Peter’s erudite destruction of those around her.
As she danced, something she had always loved to do, she remembered the man she
had danced with at that last masque, her sun king who had been so charming and
cruel, and who had danced like a dream.
She was sipping wine and watching Sheppard dance, unwillingly, with a matron
who was groping his arm and laughing in an exaggerated manner, her manner was
one of seductress but the finished effect was rather ludicrous and Sheppard was
both flattered and enjoying the complete silliness of it. Peter had said that
Sheppard had some sort of effect on female betas that they threw themselves at
him, and he just thought it was hilarious. Some of the tales that they had
told, of their travels through Europe for the home office, often had Jim-Boy
Kirk swooping in to save Sheppard from the more amorous ones who were not so
keen to take no for an answer, he would then with his considerable charm offend
them in such a way that he was slapped and the problem was solved.
There was no one to rescue him now and Lydia was unsure if he might verbally
remove the lady, or continue to dance with her. She debated it for a moment but
he seemed to be having a wonderful time. There was a large spread of food,
delicate French pastries, and bright oranges, although it was not London they
clearly had spared no expense. Lydia was chewing on one of the pastries, a
crisp chewy thing with a buttercream center when the new entry caught her
attention. Miss Sneyd was not the sort of person one quickly forgot as she had
been the one to insult baby Herald in front of Derek and was, as such, cut from
the society in Llandudno.
She looked across at Lydia when she came in, on the arm of a man Lydia knew as
Sir Theodore Raeken, and smiled.
Theodore Raeken had been one of Lydia's suitors, so she knew him well. He was
an impoverished Lord with estates but no real blunt to speak of, having
inherited the scandal of his father’s suicide when the money ran out. He was an
anomaly in London society, titled well enough to be a good prospect but without
the wealth to appeal, and with the scandal no one was quite sure if they should
cut him in the street or invite him, knowing a good marriage with a wealthy
beta girl with no brothers, or at least a fine dowry, would restore his
fortune.
Miss Sneyd was certainly capable of that, and it was likely that his own
nature, which was acerbic, would restore itself after the wedding. Lydia did
not think that anyone would culture that awful spoiled nature of self
importance given the opportunity to curtail it. Or she could be left in the
country whilst he socialised, or better yet, sent to the continent. She
wondered how easily Miss Sneyd would be welcomed here in Chester if word of how
she had insulted the Duke of Altrincham were to slip out, although knowing Sir
Theodore it was possible that it would actually appeal to him about her.
Miss Sneyd was a wearing a dress that struck Lydia as familiar although she
could not have said why in a rather insipid pale coral colour that bleached the
colour from her skin, and an over large necklace with a large red pendant that
might have been a ruby, for it was too light coloured to be a garnet. That she
was also wearing a tiara was questionable, as it was not done for a girl to
wear one until she was married, even in Chester.
“Lady Hale," Theodore said coming over, “it is so nice to see you here," he
said, “when I came to Chester to visit a friend for the summer I had not
expected to have many acquaintances here, but you and Miss Sneyd have come to
my rescue." He was charming, an inveterate rake and seducer, but he called her
Lady Hale, and Miss Sneyd looked as if she had bit down on a slice of lemon in
reaction to it. It was only after he had kissed her knuckles that she realised
the way he said Sneyd sounded more like snide.
“I was not aware that we shared her acquaintance Sir Theodore.” Lydia said
calmly, “or even that she was still accepted in to polite society after her
behaviour with the Duke of Altrincham, or perhaps word of what happened there
has not yet reached here.” Her smile suggested a certain amusement at the whole
affair.
“You are correct, madam," he said, “the news has not yet reached here, but I
have heard that she did not attend the presentation of the child to the
community, she said that you were determined to slander her in your pretension
that you were Lady Hale, and that you were a fallen omega.”
“And what did you tell her?” Lydia turned and lifted a glass of champagne from
the table behind her, she was interested in what would be said.
“That I knew better than to get between two beautiful women," he offered her
his rake's grin, “well outside of the bedroom.” When he had been courting her
he had been polite and charming but had never said anything that might offend
her chaperone, but now he seemed to have no such worries. “Will you dance with
me, my lady, that I might hear this gossip?”
She placed her empty glass on the table. "I would be delighted, I thought that
I would have to steal Colonel Sheppard away if I wished to dance and then the
widows of Chester would be heartbroken.”
“Oh, her alpha's not dead," Theo said, “but he doesn't care a fig for society,
and he is a terrible curmudgeon, so when she can coax him out he forces her to
sit in the corner as he glares at those who come near. She has been hoping to
woo an alpha who might at least challenge him that she might gain more
freedom.”
“You know a lot about the people here,” Lydia said as they moved into the
centre of the floor.
“Come, madam, you know my situation, one of the few things I have to trade is
information, so I am of course most fascinated by our mutual friend.” In the
bright light of the ballroom she could see his clothes were not quite as new as
they appeared, there were frays at the cuffs and a small gravy spot on his
waistcoat almost completely hidden by his cravat which was tipped in machine
lace in a way that looked like an eccentric decision rather than a spendthrift
way to avoid having new clothes. He was perfectly turned out but his clothes
were older. Lydia had known that Theo was not seriously courting her, he
certainly could not compare to the wealth of most of those who did, and as an
omega it was expected she would only select the best candidate for marriage,
but she had enjoyed time with him because he was quick and cunning and
certainly sounded sincere when he flattered her.
She supposed them both knowing the situation between them he had no reason to
lie. “So," he said as he moved her along with the music, “will you tell me this
scandal about our mutual acquaintance?”
“You were not so forward in our courtship, sir." She answered. “But I am
curious why you accept my marriage when you have spent such time with Miss
Sneyd when she is adamant that I was compromised and ran off to be Peter’s
concubine.” The music made it easier to talk.
“I saw the announcement in the Times," he told her, “and when I went to
question your father as to your new address that I might keep up a
correspondence he tried to box my ears, but I was always fond of you, vidama,
you were not so twitterpated as so many of your peers, even if you did try to
hide that.”
“I believed I was in the market for a husband, and a society bride is meant to
have nothing between her ears but fluff and nonsense, she certainly should not
be more well read than her suitors.” She pressed her hand to his as they
danced.
“Yes, it is better suited to a mistress. It is strange that willful
childishness is adorable in a mistress and deplorable in a wife," his eyes
found Miss Sneyd across the room, “even when they are very rich.”
“You speak more openly now to me than you did when you sought my hand.”
"Oh the rules between lovers are different when one is married.” This was so
blatantly flirtatious that Lydia smiled.
“And yet, sir, I have only been married a month.”
“Then I shall ask you again this time next year.”
Lydia could not help but laugh loud enough that heads turned towards her,
especially that of Miss Sneyd.
“That dress of hers looks familiar," Theo said, "But I could not say from where
I have seen it.”
"I know, perhaps it is simply that her modiste copied the style of a dress she
found pleasing but it seems a little," she gestured with her gloved hand, “as
if it was made for a woman who was slightly plumper. I do know that all of the
kindness was clearly couched in the richness of her figure.”
“She is so thin she almost looks unwell," Theo agreed sagely.
“She will never be able to hold up her head in Welsh society again." Lydia
agreed, “for her temperament is as sour as her face.”
“You must tell me what it was she did, I have heard that you banned her from
attending the celebration for the birth of the ducal heir.”
“Then she is also a liar." Lydia answered calmly, “she was not invited but a
mutual acquaintance of her and the Duchenne was, a Desdemona Greenberg, perhaps
you know her.” Theo shook his head to suggest that he did not. “Of course the
Duchenne was still abed, the baby so new, but the Duke was more than proud to
display his alpha son. Miss Sneyd took the opportunity to declare the child had
no worth as he did not look at all like a goblin.”
"In front of the Duke?” Theo asked.
"Oh yes, and when she was politely asked to leave she refused, calling me a
whore.”
"In front of the duke?” Theo repeated as if could not believe such a thing to
be true.
“She continued, as she was escorted out, to malign myself, the child, and the
Duchenne, explaining the little whore had to have put a spell on his grace that
he might soil himself with such foreign leavings.”
“I have heard that the duke is besotted with his bride.” Theo was aghast at the
very idea. Dukes were second only to the crown in the hierarchy of the country,
one did not speak ill of them for fear that society would spurn you simply for
doing such.
“Oh he is, his grace absolutely adores the boy, and I understand why for he has
a heart as big as an ocean and loves his Grace as fiercely in turn.” It was
easy, Lydia noticed, to steer him to do what she wanted him to do.
“She is very rich." Theo said. He was obviously deciding what to do for he
needed the money but lifetime with such a girl would be unbearable.
“Not rich enough I wager." She admitted as the dance came to a close. “She
truly is quite unpleasant and fancied herself worthy of a title, she will see
little else in you but yours.”
“My title is worth less than the flag it is printed upon, and if I, even with
all of England knowing that I need her money, spurn her for such behaviour it
will ruin her.”
“Yes," Lydia agreed, “I suppose it will, but that dress does look awfully
familiar, I am sure I have one just like it.”
***** Chapter 22 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
After her dance with Theo Lydia moved to the gaming tables, and was invited to
join the next round of Hazard. She had a small allowance for gambling but the
point of the game was not entertainment but, in her case, gossip. She did not
know most of these people but she did want to know what they knew about her.
They all called her Lady Hale but that did not mean they thought of her as
such, but a little champagne and dice and they would tell her everything. She
would learn which of these women had bedded her husband, which of them had
hoped to snare him, as Miss Sneyd had done, and what the consequences of Miss
Sneyd's shame would be.
“Dear Mary-Eunice is dancing again with Sir Theodore.” One of the matrons said.
"I imagine he is going to let her down gently," Lydia told her, “after all the
scandal isn't one that he can risk.” She knew she had them hooked now. It was
unseemly for a maiden to play at the gaming tables, but a married woman had no
such constraints and she was enjoying the freedom. “After all she insulted the
Duke of Altrincham to his face about his new born son. I am willing, of course,
to overlook that which she said about me, but the Duke is furious.”
“Oh, we had not heard such," one of the matrons said. “Do tell what happened?”
“The Duchenne, Szerafin, was still in his confinement but the Duke was
delighted with his child, it's a bonny boy, and the duke could never deny him,"
the matrons cooed approvingly, “he was a little on the small child, his milk
brother came out at a startling fourteen pounds and when he opens his mouth to
cry we half expect him to ask for a pie and ale, and Herald is a tiny thing in
comparison, but the Duke is delighted, and those of us who know him can
recognise that though he is a terse, shy man little given to frivolity. So the
Duke decided to present the child himself," that was remarkable, often it was a
nurse or a trusted footman who did so. “not just be present, but arranged for
it to happen in the parlour that Szerafin might continue his confinement.” The
matrons cooed over this saying how adorable it was and how clear it was that he
loved his bride and how their own had never been so kind.
"Oh I wish my husband had been so attentive when I was in my confinement, as it
was my alpha son was four days old before he left the gaming hells.” Mrs Bennet
said in despair, the others made consoling noises that suggested that they had
heard this tale of woe before.
“I was present as the matron of the family, for I am a touch older than
Szerafin but I am unused to such meetings, I must admit, so it was mostly those
of Szerafin's coterie who were invited that day before the formal christening
where the entire county could come.” She sipped her champagne and watched the
dice roll across the table. “That will be held later in the month, after all a
Duke only has his first born once, but Miss Sneyd was invited to the house, I
think, or perhaps she was with someone who was invited. I did not arrange the
invitations so I do not know, the Duke himself did, he was so delighted with
his son.” The matrons all nodded politely. “And she exclaimed to Miss
Greenberg, with the Duke there with his new son in his arms, that she was
disappointed that the child was not a goblin and just an ordinary baby.”
One of the matrons, Lydia could not remember her name, actually put her hand to
her mouth in disgust, before flicking her eyes across to Miss Sneyd. “Perhaps I
was a little harsh when I asked her to leave the house but if the Duke had not
had young Herald in his arms I do not doubt he would have struck her for saying
such a thing, she had not just insulted the baby but his beloved bride,
Szerafin, suggesting that because he was born of Roma parents that his child
must be a goblin.”
“There were rumours the child was born with a full set of teeth and ears so
wide they resembled those of a bat.” Lady Wolstenhulme said, “of course I knew
them to be nonsense, but they were amusing, I particularly liked one that said
the sun went black and he flew around the room after birth, but there is a
world away from hearing such stories and repeating them.” Lydia knew that Lady
Wolstenhulme had dined out on those rumours just from the way she said them.
“And in front of the Duke himself.”
“The child is perfect, perhaps a touch small, but he did come early.” Lydia
said, “I have held him and can say that the only aspect of him that is unusual
is he has his alpha parent’s eyebrows, they are rather thick for a newborn.”
There was some laughter, most of it polite.
“So, Lady Hale, will you be gracing us with a new child?” Mrs Hargreaves asked.
"I am not married long enough to even know if I might," Lydia said, “but my
dear Peter has suggested he would prefer to wait a few years for such things.”
“I am amazed that you speak of him so fondly, I have heard that he is very
disfigured, and that the marriage was very rushed.” Mrs Hargreaves gathered up
the dice for her throw.
“Oh, he is," Lydia said, “but he is kind and very careful with such things as
his hygiene, a few scars and some shyness are hardly reasons to be cold towards
him when there are many husbands much less attentive or kind,and my allowance
is more than generous."
“Of course," Lady Wolstenhulme added, “she can always look over his shoulder
when they are in bed together.”
“And make sure there are no lights lit." Mrs Hargreaves added. “I personally am
sure to burn incense when my husband insists on his rights, he chews raw garlic
for his health. I am not sure of how it aids him except that there are no
others around him to cause him distemper. Maybe it is why he has not lost his
fortune at the gaming hells, for none will sit close enough to him. He chews
parsley before he comes to me, but although that clears up his breath it does
nothing for the garlic that he sweats.”
“Yes," Lady Wolstenhulme added, “Mr Hargreaves smells like nothing more than a
Frenchie, it is an improvement upon my own husband, he smells of cheap perfume
and liquor. I had thought that he was sharing his attentions with a mistress
but it turned out he just favours a rose oil in his hair and lilac on his skin.
He smells like a nosegay, combined with the lavender and cedar I store with the
sheets it's like lying with an Arabian houri, perhaps I too should leave the
window open, but he will complain of the cold.”
The conversation continued in such a vein, with each of the women coming up
with spurious reasons why their husbands were so much worse than the other's in
such a way that it invited sympathy but not pity, making their husbands objects
of mockery in very mild ways. Lydia just let them.
——
Lydia had, in the week she had already spent in Chester, made sure to contact
the agency to hire an entire staff for Maunlilie but also offered the staff of
the Chester house the opportunity to work in the big house if they prefered,
with the added caveat that the lady’s maid, Tracy, and the butler, Leif, a
position in her own permanent staff, answerable only to her explaining that she
had desire to travel. Both were competent and that was enough for her.
Tracy brought her her breakfast in the morning, calf livers fried with apples
spread upon toasted bread and a jug of thick black coffee, and then helped her
dress for the morning, brushing out her hair from the braid she had gone to bed
in, and pulling a stiff silk banyan over her night gown for the morning's tasks
of sorting her mail.
She was surprised when Leif brought her news that she had a guest, and due to
her state of undress she did not send Tracy, who was quiet in the corner with
needlework, away. Colonel Sheppard had informed her he would be out for the day
and she should not expect him for supper so whoever it was that was calling was
doing so for Lydia.
At Lydia’s urging as Beth, the house maid brought in a tray of tea and small
fancies, Leif showed in Miss Sneyd. She looked like she had been crying and was
attended by her chaperone. Miss Sneyd refused the offer of tea but her
chaperone, who seemed angry, took a cup and one of the small ginger biscuits
from the tray. Miss Sneyd removed her bonnet and pelisse with her handkerchief
in her hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Lydia asked. She
was sprawled out across her chaise and all she needed to finish the look of
disaffected nobility was Colonel curled across her but she had left the spaniel
in Maunlilie.
“You have ruined me, madame." Miss Sneyd started, “You have spread such lies
about me that not even the fortune hunters will give me the time of day now,
and I do not understand why.”
Lydia restrained the urge to laugh in Miss Sneyd’s face. “I have had every
reason," she said placing her tea and saucer upon the table, “yet I have not
recounted of you any crimes of which you were not culpable. You have maligned
both me and my marriage whilst setting your bonnet at my husband, but for that
I have not held you accountable, for I know that someone is spreading lies in
Maunlilie, and you are clearly a victim of such malicious slander, but you
insulted the Duke in his own home over the birth of his child.”
The chaperone did not seem to know that for she started so severely she nearly
dropped her cup.
“But I have never met the Duke," Miss Sneyd protested, “he has not left London
since he took the title.”
Lydia raised a single eyebrow. “Nevertheless you were rude about a new born
child into whose home you were invited to celebrate the birth. Who did you
think it was that was holding the infant whom you were told was the ducal
heir?”
“That was Stiles’ baby," Miss Sneyd protested. “He's married to one of the
footmen.”
Lydia wanted to press her palm to her face. “Stiles is Duchenne Szerafin Hale,
bride of Roderick Hale, Duke of Altrincham, and the Duke was the man who was so
proud to show off his new born son.”
The chaperone put her cup down. “This is not what you told me what happened,
Mary-Eunice." She said, “you told me that the footman was rude and that they
cast you out of their house for no reason.”
“Oh there was reason," Lydia continued, “she called me a whore shipped in from
London to satisfy Lord Peter and who had taken advantage of his reclusive
nature to pretend to be his wife. She told her friends and all those who came
to Llandudno for the summer that I was a fallen omega who had the official role
of being companion to Lady Amabel, but I do know someone else started that
rumour so I can understand that she believed it to be true, but she was not
even polite in how she spread the rumour with cruel delight, whilst she sent
tokens to my husband, which he showed me. I had planned to correct her in
private, but then she insulted the Duke who has been nothing but kind to me. I
drove her from the house for I knew if she remained he would have struck her.”
The chaperone was looking at Miss Sneyd in horror.
“But that’s not how it happened," Miss Sneyd protested.
“Isn't it?” Lydia answered, “Tell me, what reason do I have to lie? I am Lady
Hale, I lose nothing from the slander, my future is secured." She spread her
hands, “all of this is mine and more. Go to the continent, I am told Venice is
lovely in the summer, the faux pas that you committed is not unforgivable but
it is the topic of gossip.”
“But you told Theo," Miss Sneyd protested.
“Did you know he courted me?” Lydia said with a smirk, “I nearly married him
myself before Lord Peter swept me off my feet with his good humour and wit, why
wouldn't I tell him that you are a small minded little shrew with pretensions
above her station because her father has spoiled her for marriage. After all,
he is my friend.”
Miss Sneyd started to cry again, but this time her chaperone did not move to
comfort her.
Chapter End Notes
     sorry that it took so long, this chapter was like pulling teeth, it
     did not want to come
***** Chapter 23 *****
Lydia returned to Maunlilie feeling like a triumphant queen. The single
carriage she had taken to Chester was replaced by a train, albeit without the
Hale crest and most hired for the journey. Peter had told her to spend his
money without question when it came to the house, and that Morell would just
take it from the fund that all the Hales used for their houses. She was Lady
Hale, he reminded her, and as such that fund was open to her use. Morell had
simply accepted the reciepts, placing them on her desk to pay when they met
her. She had even given Lydia a list of positions required for the optimal
running of the house and asked if there were any that Lydia had in mind from
the Chester house, and also gave her a list of who was paid what and how often,
and which gifts had been given to who and for what acts. She noticed that
Jennifer was paid a lot, but that Matt had earned many gifts but although the
note said he served as Peter’s valet he was paid as a lower footman. It was
clear no one had checked these details in a long time.
She took the book with her, as mistress of the House, especially with Stiles
more interested in his new baby - as anyone would be - she would take over the
details of putting things in place for the new Housekeeper, although she got
the impression it would take at least a year for everything to be catalogued.
She didn’t know, for example, how many of the old staff had taken something
that had not been missed as there were too few staff to check the belongings
against the previous list of what was present.
She had taken the opportunity, whilst in Chester, to buy gifts for Heather’s
wedding. If she had specified that she wished to remain in the service of the
House Lydia would have promoted her to the role of personal maid, one she could
share with Tracy, for it was not unusual for a Lady such as Lydia to have
several of them, although Lydia herself was used to sharing one maid with her
sisters. She also picked up chocolates for Peter as a gesture. Such things as
liquor the house supplied.
She was actually pleased to return to Maunlilie, which she had not expected.
The household was lit and Heather waited at the steps, noting with her eyes the
new admissions to the staff. Lief was already removing her trunks from the back
of the carriage as the new housekeeper, Mrs Lindsay, whose husband was one of
the new gardeners, started to direct the new staff climbing down from the
carriage, using the map that Morrell had given her to send them to the kitchens
where they could get a light meal and be introduced to the house, in
expectation that they would start work the next day, once the lady’s trunks
were delivered to her room. Lydia had no interest in that, she had eaten in the
carriage and wanted to check on Peter. She had, she was surprised to learn,
missed him.
She found him in the library, to which she now had a key, having had extras cut
by Morell whilst in Chester. He had most of the shutters drawn and a draped
cushion over his shoulders, but there were papers across his desk and he was
using his pen, before putting it down and rubbing his eyes and pinching his
nose, and doing it again. “I had thought you would be delighted to see me but I
think instead you would prefer a camphor rub and your bed.”
He looked up and smiled at her. It crinkled up his eyes and his mouth parted
just slightly to show his teeth as his head turned slightly to the right. It
made her smile to see it. “I had hoped to complete my chapter, and perhaps a
little supper, I had not expected you to return before nightfall, and certainly
not so early.”
“The house will be in a terrible furore for the next few days, I expect Mrs
Lindsey will eventually be able to make it function as it should, why we won't
know what to do with ourselves when she does.” Lydia said, starting to gather
up the loose papers that covered the floor. “Miss Sneyd was in Chester, she was
trying to woo a known fortune hunter, so of course I informed him of her faux
pas, and Colonel Sheppard stayed in Chester, he shall return here in a few days
before he decides to move on to St Petersburg with his company and Lady Weir.”
She placed the papers on the desk, “Shall I shall fetch you some coffee," she
said and kissed him on the temple, “perhaps some laudanum for that headache."
"I cannot, dearest," he admitted, “I must finish this, then I shall go down to
the kitchens, but coffee does sound wonderful, perhaps with something to pick
at. I can work with this headache, it is not severe enough to send me to my
bed.”
"I can ask Baba for something to ease it.” She said, “I would not have you
suffer for no reason.”
"It is a headache, dearest," he said, turning his face to accept her kiss on
his mouth this time. He wore shirt and waistcoat with his superfine coat draped
over the back of another chair at his desk, “nothing to worry over, I have
perhaps spent too long at my desk, but when the story wishes to come there is
little I can do to dissuade it.”
"I was thinking of making Matt your valet permanently, is it something that
will upset you, husband?” She started to clear up the worst of the mess on the
table, lifting the sheets and tapping them on the table to fall into place in a
solid pile. She could see that the library would be a good place to work, with
many plush armchairs and tables with ink tables, there was plenty of lamps and
candlesticks, and a large fireplace with comfortable couches placed before it,
although no fire had been built there. The afternoon light was pooling on the
carpet from the high Tudor glass, that stood between mullions reaching up to
the arched and painted roof. It was clearly part of the older part of the
house.
There was an upper gallery with polished brass railings but the entire library
was covered in books, and there was polished wood panelling between the packed
book cases. In one corner one of the couches had many folded blankets and
cushions piled upon it. It looked like it had become a nest for a literate
omega and Lydia wondered if it was where Stiles had spent the winter nights
before his husband came back from London.
"I hadn’t thought that you would care to give him more power, or more of a
voice in my ear for I know you dislike him." He seemed genuinely surprised at
that.
“If he is good at his job I cannot see a problem,” she answered calmly, moving
in such a way that her loose hair was moved away from her head in a subtle
gesture that she knew looked lovely. She had bought new cosmetics and there was
a small amount of rouge on her lips because she had wanted to look good for
him. It had surprised her, but her time in Chester had reminded her of how
shallow society could be. Peter’s honesty with her was hugely refreshing. Theo
might have been charming but Peter was honest and that felt wonderful. She knew
that if he called her lovely he truly meant it.
He pushed back his chair and opened his arms to embrace her, and she settled
down onto his knee, curling into his arms and tucking her nose into the hollow
behind his ear where he smelled most like himself. He tried to twist so that
she was not touching his scars. She had no patience for that, she did not care
that he was marred, she had not known him before it, so why would she care for
it.
“You look well for someone who has spent several hours in a carriage.” He said
into her hair.
"Of course," she said, "I have a new maid," and she enjoyed his chuffing laugh.
“One would think you would be jealous, all of these young girls brought into
the house and such a handsome husband.” His lips found the curve of her neck,
and kissed her there.
“Stiles will never sleep again.” Her entire tone was flip and amused, “you are
too old, of course, to sway my maid from my service.”
“She has made your hair shine like gold, I wouldn't sway her from your service,
I’d just seduce her into mine as well.”
Lydia sighed, “then I would have to pay her double." She said, “and I'd have to
check the books, it's a lot of work for no real gain, I mean it is not like I
would lament her lying late abed but I slept poorly without you there, so I
would be crotchety from you climbing from my bed, and she would lie abed and we
could not rely upon her to serve me breakfast when I awaken.”
Peter laughed at what she said. “I am yet to see her, she might not be the sort
that I prefer."
Lydia moved his hand so that it was on the edge of her gown against her breast,
his fingers carefully moved aside the pendant she wore and popped the top
button. "I had thought you were undone by a headache," she teased him, as he
tugged her fichu away from her bodice, before his hand parted the fabric to
free her breast, cupping it in his palm.
"I told you it was not incapacitating." He said, “and I have a young and lovely
bride who has been without my attentions for nearly six days. Besides, I’m told
it's good for what ails you.” That was the point that Lydia burst out laughing.
She had decided she quite adored Peter, he was playful and could be as cruel as
she was. He also clearly adored her which did much to making her think fondly
of him.
But she did think of him fondly, and enjoyed time spent in his company, which
was more than she had expected of marriage, but life was much easier to a wife
than it had been to a prospective bride, her mother's fussing had been replaced
with autonomy and no one cared if she shared a tryst with her husband in the
library in the middle of the day, if someone had stumbled upon them mid coitus
they would simply close the door.
She kicked off her slippers, jacquard things with a wooden heel that showed off
her calves beautifully under her skirts and lifted her hems from the obvious
mud, even though she had been travelling by carriage, letting them clatter to
the floor.
“Perhaps we could have supper here," she said as he thumbed her nipple making
her hiss delightedly as he did so, “and retire early, you did say that you had
a headache and I would not be a devoted wife if I did not attend upon you.” She
curved her neck to his mouth, “and with your terrible headache it would be
terrible for us to be disturbed." He had tugged up her skirt and she had not
noticed him doing so as he played with her garter.
"I would not have you go hungry, my dear," she waited for him to make a crude
innuendo about placing her mouth upon him, perhaps with a gesture against his
crotch, “but perhaps we shall have supper sent to the room instead.”
—-
It was not a hardship, she decided, to concede to his vanity and to wear the
silk blindfold he presented her with, riding his cock with her chemise hanging
around her shoulders and her back against his bent knees as she raised and
lowered herself upon his cock, listening to him grunt as she did so, with her
hands braced against his. She found she rather enjoyed it, allowing her to
focus more upon the feel of him so thick and full within her. It was easy to
see how Stiles could be so enamoured of his husband’s knot, because Lydia was
fast becoming so with her own.
***** Chapter 24 *****
Matt did not seem best pleased to be called into Lydia’s newly appointed office
early in the afternoon. She had taken over one of the smaller rooms downstairs,
near the kitchen, that was not quite large enough to be a salon but perhaps as
a private room that a lady had used as her workroom. She had had the new
footmen set it up with a desk, with a lockable desk and cabinet for her books,
a couch and a sewing frame for embroidery, which she had been known to work
upon in the bright daylight from the windows. There was a small fireplace and
to help remove the disused air from the room there was a small fire set there,
with perfumed apple wood to make the room smell sweetly.
He struck her as being rather pissed at being summoned from his tasks, and sat
in the chair facing her like he was expecting execution. His uniform was shabby
and worn at the cuffs and at least an inch of ankle was showing above his
shoes, she made a note of it to order more for him, she wasn't sure if it had
been necessary but now she knew it was she could have him measured.
“Matthew," she asked, “how long have you worked for the Hale family?” she
wanted to make sure his pay scale reflected his long service, Peter spoke quite
highly of Matthew’s ability to do his duty, and she wanted to make sure he was
compensated properly for such diligence.
She looked him up and down, perhaps an entire new wardrobe, she thought to
herself, and not just jacket and pants. Most of the large houses would simply
supply a small stipend for clothing that was to be worn during their duty
hours, but it was a show of Hale wealth that all of their servants matched in
uniforms that were provided for them. She noted that his boots were done as
well, and so made a note that they would have to be replaced.
“All of my life," he answered. He was almost belligerant in his tone but she
ignored it.
“And how long specifically have you been serving as Peter’s valet?” she
continued. Peter was so vain he would want his valet to be perfectly attired as
he was, perhaps she could get Peter’s tailor to dress him, of course nothing as
fine as Peter wore but perhaps to the quality Lydia's own father had worn, the
sort that Lief would wear to represent the house.
“Since the fire, I helped Madama Stilinski with his care.” His answers were
curt and careful, and she scribbled them down.
Matt was a handsome lad, although perhaps softer in features than the Hales,
but his eyes were bright blue, though a different shape to Peter’s, but he had
the same thick brows. His hair had a curl which the Hales did not but Lydia
knew it was not unheard of that lords dallied with the servants and so she
looked for the Hale in him, but apart from the eye colour and his brows she
considered it unlikely.
“That will be all, Matthew." She said, “I’ll leave it to Leif and Mrs Lyndsey
to sort out the details, and then present your uniform to Liam.”
“So you're letting me go." He snarled. “You come into the house with no idea
how things are done and simply replace everyone, I’ll go over your head. Lord
Peter won't stand for this.” He stood up and leaned his weight onto the table.
“What? No, Matthew, I was promoting you,” She did not cower under his anger, “I
was adjusting your wage but if you would rather be cast out for speaking so to
a Lady I am sure there are many on the staff who would cast you out with
nothing more than the clothes upon your back. I appreciate that the mood in the
house has been one of upheaval and it might not have been clear but I have no
intention ot letting anyone go.”
“But," he collapsed back into the chair like the air had been let out of him,
“you fired Heather, Finstock has spoken of nothing else all morning.”
“Then he is mistaken," Lydia answered, “I told Heather that if she wished to
retire now that she could do so without losing her wage as she is planning her
wedding, but if she wished to continue working here that she could do so, but I
understood that if she wished to leave to continue her plans she could do so
with our blessing.”
Matt looked like he had been struck a blow to the solar plexus. “but the notes,
were you not writing my reference?” He sounded very much like a young child,
although he was about the same age that she was, perhaps only a few months
older or younger. “And my uniform.”
"I was arranging for you to get a new wardrobe, my husband is rather vain and I
thought that he would prefer if you dressed as well as he liked, and you have
outgrown your uniform, the cuffs need replaced but you stand a few inches too
many for it, so if we give it to Liam then he can wear it whilst he is still
growing.”
“My Lady, I apologise, I leapt to a conclusion.” He offered her the apology.
“You and I have started very much on the wrong foot.”
“A lie was spread, Matthew," she said, “I cannot hold you accountable for
believing it. If you know who started the lie I would like to know, such good
deeds cannot go unrewarded." There was a hint of steel in her voice when she
spoke. “But bear in mind that it was a lie, and I will not tolerate it being
continued. I am Lady Hale and I am indulgent but I am not tolerant. From here
we open a new chapter in our life in Maunlilie Tor.” She smoothed out the
fabric of her skirt in a calming gesture “if we are done here, you can send in
Danielle when we are done.”
“Yes, my lady," he said and for the first time he bowed his head to her, but
she got the feeling that she missed something.
In contrast her meeting with Danielle was much more like a conversational chat.
—-
Jennifer came in with a tray of hot mint tea and small sandwiches as Danielle
had decided that she had gone long enough without eating. Danielle had taken to
her new staff with a sort of wicked glee and was taking the opportunities to do
the more complicated dishes that needed several pairs of hands to complete,
although such meals were more commonly used for entertaining. So Jennifer
brought mint tea, small lemon biscuits shaped like pansy flowers with ginger
hearts, and small slim sandwiches with creme fraiche and cucumber. Lydia knew
that she would eventually come to terms with the idea that she would eat when
and what Danielle wanted her to, whether she cared to or not.
Jennifer wore a dull brown dress and a white cap over her dark hair. “I am sure
you have questions about Lady Amabel's journey to Buxton," Lydia said, “but I
have spoken with my husband about the matter and he has made it clear to me
that you will be accompanying her and remaining in her pay, but now as her
companion. My husband is very fond of his aunt.”
“And you’re not?” Jennifer was a little pert.
“I have had very few interactions with Lady Amabel," Lydia answered, “and she
slashed me with some broken glass. I understand she has a tendency to throw her
food at everyone but you. I pressed my husband to let you go, that if her
ladyship will be in the Sanitorium there will be many who will serve her needs,
better than a single maid could.”
“Lord Peter promised me he would always protect me.” Jennifer said raising her
head in defiance.
“And why would he do that?” Lydia asked. “I am new to Maunlilie and it's
history. All I have learned is that this is where the Hales bury their secrets,
but now I am a Hale also, and I do think your relationship with my husband is
one that I should know.”
Jennifer moved in a way that puffed up her bosoms, and tilted the long line of
her neck. “Lord Peter and I were intimate.”
“My husband denies it, although he knows that I would not hold him askance for
what he did whilst he waited for me to come of age. I could not accuse him of
things that he did when I did not know that I was married, and if so I would
have to leave him entire. You do not need to lie to me, Jennifer, your job is
secure and your position within the household assured. What is your histroy
with my husband?”
Lydia was sure that Jennifer was malefactor of the miseries that she had
suffered here in Maunlilie, but Peter insisted that she could not simply fire
her, even with Lady Amabel about to leave for the Sanitorium. So perhaps she
could get the reasoning from Jennifer herself.
“Lord Peter and his colleagues rescued me." Jennifer said, “my alpha beat me,
she broke my arm." Her gaze was unwavering and her jaw set, there was nothing
of the simpering maid about her. “She took me to Morocco where the laws are not
as favourable to omega as England. She took me from my family and she doxed
me," she tugged back her cap to reveal the curves of her ears, “so no one would
believe me, and when I fell pregnant she beat the child from me with a cane.”
Lydia did not know what to say, “but on their return from Vienna the Queen's
Dragoons called into port in Casablanca for repairs upon their ship. Vidame
McCoy found me and saved my life, they smuggled me away here, and gave me a new
name. Lord Peter was the only one who held land and his sister gave me a
position here for life.”
“Then why did you tell the staff that I was Lady Amabel’s new companion?”
"I did not." Jennifer said, “Lord Peter sent a letter that you had been hired,
that like myself you were a fallen omega, I tried to offer you kindness but you
offered me nothing but misery, so I offered you acknowledgement for I
understood your sorrow. When it became clear that you did not appreciate it I
gave you nothing but removed myself from your presence.”
“And the claimed intimacy?” Lydia pressed, if Jennifer was jealous that would
make sense of the cruelties, the ones she now denied. Jennifer said nothing in
her own defence. “And going to town to impersonate his grace, Lord Szerafin?”
“That is a damned lie." Jennifer answered, slamming her hands down on Lydia's
desk, making the cups rattle on their saucers. "I cannot leave the house
without being medicated against the terrible panic that I feel, it is not a
secret that I am as much in need of Lady Amabel's company as she is of mine.”
“And the destruction of the room that you gave to me, what do you know of
that?”
“That I cannot be responsible, with Lord Szerafin entertaining that evening
almost everyone in the household was helping Danielle in the kitchen." Jennifer
said it calmly, “even Liam and Finstock were called in to help.”
Lydia considered the information that she was given. “What do you know of the
woman in town pretending to be the Duchesse?”
“The Duchesse Krasikeva?” Jennifer asked, “she is an old friend of his Grace,
why would you ask me about her?”
Lydia fussed with her tea cup so as to control her nerves. “You have given me
much to think on, you are dismissed.”
***** Chapter 25 *****
Lydia threw her head back as Peter jostled her against the wall, she made an
unhappy noise when her head thumped but then just leant forward, pressing her
face into the crook of his neck as he hitched his hips and threw his fuck up
into her slamming the air from her lungs with a grunt that caused him to growl.
She was blindfolded, his hands on her hips under her chemise, because her
husband preferred the suggestion of nudity to actual nudity, but it meant that
she was acutely aware of the fabric sliding down her arms, the crinkle of it
against her breasts, dampened by his mouth, and the blazing heat of his hands
against her skin.
The blindfold was a concession to her husband’s scarring. She did not care that
he had been disfigured, but he did and so she wore the blindfold, but it made
the sensations of his skin against hers richer, and made her more aware of
every grunt and groan and the fleshy slap slap of his hips against her ass
where he thrust up into her, using the wall she was up against as leverage,
grunting with every roll of his hips.
She could feel his knot forming and ground down on it, this would have been the
third time that night that he had knotted her, he would wait until she had
locked down around him and they would move to the knotting chair which took the
pressure off her hips. At some point someone had draped a bear skin over it,
the fur brushed soft and warm against the skin of her legs.
She liked this time more than the actual coupling, she realised, he always made
sure she reached completion, bringing her off with his hand or mouth if his
knot wasn't enough, but the closeness gave them time to gossip and he would
tell her amusing stories of his time in Vienna, his fingers tightening on her
hips when she laughed around him at some thing that he had told her.
But Peter was charming and a little more fond of the sound of his own voice,
which gave Lydia the opportunity to recover her wits from his affections which
were a little overwhelming at times, he could play her body like it was a
musical instrument and her pleasure was a concerto.
She knew that she was in pre-heat when her body decided to announce that she
was almost at her most fertile, which, although she was using Baba’s birth
control tincture, had clearly sent Peter into rut. In a few years the two
cycles would regulate and his rut would correspond with her heat, meaning the
two would complement with their increased hungers.
She knew that a lot of his desire was that she was there and new and eager and
that it would calm, although judging by Stiles and his duke it might take some
time. She also knew that when she had him knotted up inside her he was less
wary and easier to manipulate.
There just wasn’t much she wished to manipulate him for, as he mostly gave her
her own way simply for the asking for he had no interest in the running of the
household and her allowance was more than enough to suit her tastes.
He could be closed mouth however, when it suited him, but like this, with her
face slick with sweat and pressed into the hollow of his neck, and his knot
caught up inside her she could ask him. “Peter," she began and he made a
pleased humming noise into her hair, “who is the duchesse in town?”
“Paige," he answered, “why are you asking about her?”
“Just curious, husband," she said, running her hands up and down his back, he
was easiest to question like this, and she had no intention of making him
suspicious so she used her touch to keep him calm.
“It is an interesting story, I suppose, the widowed duchesse in mourning who
locks herself in her room and watches the sea." He said softly, interspersing
the words with soft kisses against her hair.
“Will you tell me?” she wheedled, she knew there was Peter liked more than the
sound of his own voice. Had she given him wine he would have told her anything
she wished to know.
“Hmmm," he murmured, “she was a family friend, close to Laura." Lydia wondered
briefly if Paige had been Laura's duchesse, one she had abandoned when she had
run off to the Americas with another alpha leaving her title behind, but Peter
had called Paige a widow. “She came out the first year that Derek was Duke,"
Lydia knew that Laura was two years older than Derek, so she must have run away
almost as soon as she entered society. “A pretty omega, clever and stupidly
rich, she was the diamond of the season, she married a Russian Grand Duke,
whisked her away. After the birth of her son she went to Carlsbad for her
health, her husband died and his family refused to take her back, cut her off
without a penny, but her father took her back in and left her money, she's been
involved in a legal battle with the family since, but of course the regent is
coy about getting involved as the Russians are our allies against the French.”
He nuzzled into her hair, “are you jealous, love?” he asked her.
“I wondered if she was part of this scheme to drive me from here," she
admitted, “but if she is so close to Derek isn't Stiles worried?”
Peter laughed. He genuinely laughed, making no comment when she tugged off the
blindfold he liked her to wear. It did not matter much when she was tucked into
the curve of his neck.
“Derek decided he would marry Stiles when he was four years old with rice
pudding in his hair wearing a peasant’s smock and biting Derek's sister, and
Derek was ten still arguing about not being allowed to have his own pony. I do
not think that Stiles has any worries, are you not worried that she might steal
me away with her dark beauty and seventy thousand pounds.”
“I doubt she would survive your vanity," she said, “if she is only pretty she
is certainly not bright enough to appease your ego.”
“If you are fishing for compliments, love, you do not need me to tell me that
you are lovely.” He rested his chin on the crown of her head, “I am certain
that you are aware of the high esteem that I hold you in," to illustrate his
opinion he flexed his hips, grinding his knot deep within her.
“A beauty always fishes for compliments, it is the only sport that is socially
acceptable." She ran the tips of her fingers down her arm, “well that and the
consumption of wine. I have heard the Duchesse of Devonshire, the late one,
managed to set her wig on fire at one party in Brighton.” She reached over him
to the small table beside the chair and took the two cups of wine, both of
which were mostly empty and handed him one, where he took a lusty swallow. “And
we are out of wine.”
"I don't think we can just ring for more.” He said, “Are you sure there is none
left in the decanter.” He made a grunt when she leaned over him again to lift
the empty decanter to show it to him, there was only a few dregs left in the
crystal bottle.
"I might be able to get free.” Lydia said, “I am sure we have water to wash up,
but I can certainly make the attempt.” He tilted up her mouth and kissed her,
“hurry back, love.”
It took some negotiation, a few grunts, and the promise that she would be back
as soon as she found more wine, and perhaps some cognac, maybe she could just
bring the Tantalus. She used a cloth dipped in water to wash between her thighs
and pulled on the banyan that he had left discarded across the bed when he had
started pulling at her clothes with laughter and kisses. A second piece of
cloth bound her hair up from her face.
She lifted the empty decanter and stepped into the dark house to make her way
into the kitchen, and from there to the butler’s pantry to refresh their
libations, shuffling along in Peter’s slippers, humming a variant of the
lullaby that Stiles had been singing to Herald earlier in the day.
It came as a surprise when the knife found it's way to her back, pricking her
through the layers of fabric. She was surprised because it was a male voice
that said “now walk.”
She jerked her head hoping to catch a glimpse of her attacker, she had thought
that it would be Jennifer who would try to kill her, especially as she was so
unhappy about the move to Buxton and she had been clearly unhappy with Lydia
moving to Maunlilie but Peter was adamant that Jennifer was not likely to
threaten her place as she had her own reasons to keep the Hales happy, needing
their protection.
Perhaps this was her lover, Lydia thought, following the instructions
carefully, kicking off the slippers so they did not trip her. “You never
understood did you, how unworthy you were," the man said, “stupid omega light
skirt.” She said nothing, let him rant, walking along the corridor as he wanted
her to, the bottle loose in her fingers. “Whore thinking you could walk right
in here and use your quim to take whatever it was you wanted. I saw you, in
London, I saw the way they all hungered after you, but you were his and you
didn't care. You even flirted and danced with him. You gave him a token like it
wasn’t a cheap trinket like all those who were slaves to your quim had.”
"I don’t know what it is you refer to, sir.” She said. She genuinely had no
idea what he was talking about. She had been a flirt but she had gone to her
wedding bed a virgin.
He poked her with the blade making her cry out despite herself. "I know you,
whore, I know your kind.” He was spitting with hate, she could feel it on the
back of her neck when she spoke. “He waited for you, you don’t know what he
suffered, what he went through, and what did he get, a stupid whore with a
loose cunt.”
“You are mistaken, sir," she said, "I have remained true to my husband.”
“Liar!" he barked, “when you displayed yourself like the slattern you are to
Colonel Sheppard.”
“I did no such thing." She answered as he guided her to the tower steps, “I
travelled with Colonel Sheppard as we both had business in Chester.”
“Where you got to play Lady of the Manor, the poor afflicted princess with the
scarred husband, and the terrible household, why it's almost as if Maunlilie
was abandoned just for you to fix it.” He jabbed her again with the blade, and
she could feel how it drew blood, by the spreading warmth on her back. “Poor
little omega light skirt, well it won't matter soon, he’ll get over you, he
always does.”
“The rumours." Lydia said, “the mistresses who left, you killed them, didn't’
you.” There was only one person it could be. Only one person was capable of it.
“They didn’t deserve him!” He shouted.
“He told me they went to the continent, but the rumours persisted, that he had
killed them, that’s why they called me the Seventh Bride because the others
died, isn't that right, Matthew.”
“London whores and bitches, came up here like they were doing him a favour, but
you could see it in the way they talked of him when he couldn't hear, how they
hated his touch. They didn't know what he had suffered.”
“But you did, didn't you, Matthew?” she tightened her grip on the bottle.
“I WAS THERE!” He shouted poking her over and over with the knife, just deep
enough to draw blood through the heavy silk of Peter’s Banyan. "I was there
when he was dying, I was there when he couldn't take laudanum for the pain any
more, I was there when they spent his money and wrote their letter to their
friends saying how they had to scrub with carbolic to get his touch from their
skin but the money was good. I was there for him. He saved me, so I saved him.”
“And you're trying to save him from me, aren't you, Matt? You just want what's
best for him. I want what's best for him too.”
“Liar," he said, and went to thrust the knife but as he did so she spun on her
barefoot with the bottle in her hand, and as the blade’s edge left a line of
fire along her side she smashed the bottle hard into his face, causing him to
slump into the wall with a sickening crunch before he fell backwards onto the
shelf with his side. Lydia screamed so Lief, who had just been the one to hear
her, came running.
“He tried to kill me.” She said, “I,” there was a spreading stain of blood on
her chemise and she could feel it, warm and sticking to her skin. "I," her legs
felt like stalks of grass underneath her and she went down hard.
***** Chapter 26 *****
Lydia lay on the bed with the blanket pulled down to the swell of her ass as
Baba clucked and stitched the wounds on her back. She still felt dizzy but was
sure she was not going to pass out again, hissing every time she felt the
needle. "So what happens now?" she asked the woman tending her.
"That is complicated, they need to decide if Matthew has simply lost his mind
or his perspective, he will be unable to stay here, that is for certain." There
was the cold smear of honey poultice then the flat pain of boiled linen pressed
against it. "The magistrate would normally be sent for but there is no way he
would survive until trial, you broke his jaw and several of his ribs. They are
incapable of caring for him until then."
"And they'd just hang him." Lydia answered.
"Yes, and if he had done the things he told you that he had done we would
certainly send him to the magistrate and be done with him," this was the first
time that Baba had described herself as a part of the Hale family and Lydia
took note ofi t. "But the mistresses he claims to have murdered did not exist,
certainly there was a whore or two, but they were in Chester and handsomely
rewarded. Your new butler has set out to find if there was any issue with them
after the fact. Your husband has always kept fastidious records."
Lydia hissed as the larger slash against her side was washed out with wine
boiled with witch hazel. It stung fiercely, "looks like this doesn't need as
many stitches," Baba told her. Lydia was lying in a pool of the very early
sunlight, which was not yet bright enough to warm her, but there was a lamp as
well, on the table by the bed. The sheets, she thought, would have to be
burned, after the usable parts had been cut away for other purposes, they were
that covered in blood, honey poultice and witch hazel.
"And if he has lost his mind?" Lydia pressed.
"The Sanitarium that Lady Amabel is leaving for will be able to take care of
him as well as miss Jennifer, I am sure you have realised that she also is very
weak of the mind."
"This house is lousy with secrets." Lydia answered, "and no one tells me aught,
I find myself assaulted by a servant who believes me to be a light skirt
despite that is the reputation that he gave me, but I do not wish him to hang
for it is an ignominous death and it would bring terrible shame upon the
family. If he retains his mind?"
"Then he will be sent to Chesapeake to Lady Laura where he can serve in the
hostel she has built there." Baba said, "it is a hard journey but she does good
work."
"Tell me of Lady Laura, tell me the truth that I might not make these mistakes
again." Lydia said.
"Lady Laura saw a great injustice in the continued acts of Slavery in the
Americas, she abandoned her title to trick a captain into marrying her to
another alpha, Captain Deucalion Beecham, and together they both buy slaves for
the purposes of manumitting them, and smuggle those who they know are abused to
safety. Ostensibly she runs a hostel where slaves can go to be treated for
maladies with no cost to their owners. The owners then maintain trade with
Captain Beecham unaware that they are in fact funding their own downfall."
Stiles said from the door, he had Herald in a fabric sling wrapped around his
chest, and the baby seemed content to be held such, but in his arms he had a
large carafe of steaming water.
Lydia thanked him, both for the water and the information. "Baba, I am told
your story is the basis for the Dear Evangeline books that Peter writes under
the pseudonym Daniella Wilson-Booth, is that your story?"
Baba laughed. "That is a variation of it, yes," Baba said, "when you are
stronger and we are both deep in our cups I will tell you the truth of it,
because it's far more salacious than Peter's publishers would allow, but I can
say that it was from Berlin, and not Paris, that I came to Britain. I worked in
the Cheapside hotel for prostitutes, I have spent almost all of my adult life
serving as a midwife to whores, and Lady Talia sponsored one such hospital,
that is how we met. I was in the act of delivering one of her daughters with my
Szerafin in the Hale nursery with no one else to watch him when he met Derek
and Lady Talia offered to sponsor his education with the promise that when he
reached majority he would consider Derek's proposal."
"I knew by the time I was six that we would be married," Stiles added, sitting
on the side of the bed, "it was quite reassuring. I never felt the urge to look
elsewhere when he knew me so well. When Derek was barely twenty he was asked to
take a grand tour to give me opportunity to grow, we married before he left."
"But you would have been..." Lydia did the arithmatic in her head.
"Fourteen," Stiles said, "but it was not consummated until he returned nearly
three years later when I was nearly seventeen, by which point I thought I'd go
mad with missing him.
"And the fire?" Lydia asked, "everything circles back to it."
Baba took a deep breath before she continued, "Katherine Argent set the fire,
young Cora was unwell and throwing a tantrum, she was the same age as my
kochanie, and she was sick to her stomach, her mother, Marianne, asked that I
take her into the small cottage that Szerafin and I shared in case what she had
spread to the other children. I tucked her and Szerafin into bed and was about
to my own when I saw the fire.
The other servants of the house were roused and we attempted to stop the fire,
we did not know then that it was arson." She took a deep swallow before she
continued. "Peter had been in the back of the house practising his snooker, as
he was not, he says, ready for bed. He went to the servants nursery and he took
Matthew by the hand and had Liam in his arms, he threw them from the window,
and went back to get Evie, we could hear her screaming but the fire was too
fierce, the stairs collapsed under him forcing him upwards, he was forced to
retreat via the window, but the flaming curtain got caught around him when he
jumped, he landed in the mud, but it took long minutes for us to find him. It
was the mud that scarred him, but also saved his life.
"He spent the next six months close to death, covered in damn cloths covered in
salves. Derek and Laura were both at university which saved them, everyone else
died. He can no longer take opiates as he took them so profusely for so long.
It was Vidame McCoy that saved him, and I felt helpless. I have never felt so
helpless as I did in those days. I was for sure he was going to die. When we
were certain of his ability to travel he came here to Maunlilie with the hope
that the sea air would help him." She put the needle down and wiped her hands
off on a cloth, before smearing on the honey poultice and it's covering strip
of linen.
"Thank you," Lydia said, although she was not quite sure what it was she was
thanking her for.
"No corsets until the scars are fully healed." She said, returning to her
brusque manner, "I shall have some smocks and looser skirts sent for you."
"They're so comfortable, Lyds," Stiles said, "if I thought I could get away
with it I would still be wearing them, but my husband really likes my calves."
He stretched out his leg to show her, "as you can see I have an excellent pair
of calves, which are certainly worth wearing uncomfortable pants for." He was
wearing a tight pair of velvet knee breeches, but his vest did not look so fine
and there was a wad of folded muslin that went down over his shoulder to where
Herald was snoring to mop up the inevitable drool. "Baba, would wearing
uncomfortable pants like these pull her stitches?"
"Actually, kochanie," Baba said with a grin like a knife edge, "it might be
exactly some of the best things she could wear, I'm sure Peter would happily
sacrifice some of his clothes." There was something wicked in the way she said
it, "it might even help soothe his guilt over what happened."
"Why does he feel guilty? I thought it was Jennifer and I am the one who was
targeted, I should be the one to feel guilty. There is no way he could know
what was going to happen." Lydia could not understand how it worked.
"Yet Matt was his servant.” Baba said, “and men are strange creatures, and the
Hales blame themselves when it rains.”
“And Matt needs more care than we could give him, you broke his jaw, three of
his ribs and dislocated his shoulder. Peter was rather surprised," Stiles said,
“and Dr Parrish says he should be proud.”
"I told him," Lydia said, "I have two sisters.”
***** Chapter 27 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Lady Lydia Hale walked into Almacks content that the people whispering at her
entry were talking about her consistent ability to set fashion. Sometimes she
had her husband beside her but not tonight. A year’s honeymoon in Europe had
polished the edges of the diamond of the tonand two years after that she was
one of the most celebrated beauties of London. Poets vyed for invitations to
her salons, artists clamored for her favor, dandies and bucks altered their
entire wardrobes to match what they suspected she might wear that season.
She was wearing a sage colored bodice decorated with pinked roundels on the
stomacher and falls of cream colored lace at the cuffs that matched the skirt.
It was a light, easily imitated dress, that would be everywhere by the end of
the spring. With it, she wore a small bronze colored silk ribbon that
highlighted the color of her hair, darkened from her time in England where it
had been the color of old Venetian gold when she had returned from the
continent.
She was accompanied this evening by the Duke and Duchenne of Altrincham but no
one cared for such things, even though there was word that the Duchenne was,
again, with child.
“Miss Yukimura," Lydia said gliding over the floor to talk to her friend,
knowing that people would move out of her way. For society’s darling, they did
move. Miss Yukimura was the daughter of a foreign Alpha and her omega, who
although equally foreign was from another country and the two had had to flee
with some considerable wealth as the two countries were at war. Lydia imagined
it would be the same as if she had run off to marry a Frenchman, or worse, an
American.
Miss Yukimura was beautiful as well as exotic, although Lydia was quick to
close down any conversation that described her as such, for apart from her
appearance Miss Yukimura was as much a creature of London society as Lydia
herself. Even if she had not had a guaranteed dowry of ten thousand a year and
the full inheritance of her parents, with no endowment, which included a fine
house, she would have been popular in society for her beauty and her wit. She
had a self-deprecating air that made her popular, for what one cultivated in a
bride was not what one wanted in a mistress.
Miss Yukimura’s dress was a dark turquoise with a two zone bustier and matching
skirt in a heavy satin, and fitted sleeves, and paired only with a delicate
golden chain and amber cross. Her hair was black and sleek, brushed straight in
defiance of usual fashion which favored high powdered curls pinned in a cloud
about the head of the omega in question. She didn't even wear earrings, as her
hair was cut straight across at her forehead, higher than her temples, and with
longer bangs at either side of her head.
She had an elegant beauty and a wicked sense of humor that suited Lydia's own,
even if she was very sweet in her temperament. Lydia had, in the pre-season
before Christmas, introduced her to Mr. McCall as she believed the two would be
a fair match. She might even get invited to the wedding.
There was fake cheek kissing as they met, and exhalations of how wonderful each
looked. Lydia rightfully complimented Miss Yukimura’s dress and accepted
compliments upon her own, fielding questions about her husband’s absence like a
professional. Sometimes Peter felt up to society, sometimes he did not. Tonight
he had other plans, involving a new novel by one of his competitors in writing
novels. Of course, the Dear Evangeline books were still insanely popular but he
was aware he might, at any time, be ousted from his throne.
It also meant he would be pleasantly amorous upon her return, which was
something she always enjoyed, for the rumors were true and her husband was a
cocksman proud of his skill and he liked her best in her society gowns. There
were times she did not leave the house as he was so effusive in his praise of
her. She liked him best when he would laugh and pull her onto his knee.
“Oh, who is that?” Lydia asked. The girl in question was lovely, that was clear
but distinctly uncomfortable. She had brown hair pulled back in an alpha style
but her dress was in the omega fashion, with a certain French je ne sais quoi,
it was a pale coffee colour, festooned with roses and a daring black lace
detail on the stomacher which was not appropriate for a society maiden, none
the less it was a lovely dress, with wide French salopettes supporting a
squared skirt, rather than the more popular Polonaise or Anglaise currently in
fashion, and was, when she turned around, finished with a sacque.
The dress was clearly very expensive and would have been the height of fashion
in Paris, but not in London.
“That," Miss Yukimura said in a conspiratorial tone, “is Miss Tate, she will be
one to watch this season, frightfully rich, the only child of Henry Tate, a
wealthy industrialist, and with a dower of nearly thirty thousand pounds, the
only heir to his estate, following the loss of her sister, but not a manner in
her, she was raised in Canada of all places, and has loudly exclaimed that she
much prefers pantaloons to skirts. The fact that her father had recently
purchased Mickleover Manor in Derbyshire might not be enough to snare her a
husband.”
"I think I know one that might be perfect for her," Lydia looked across at Sir
Theodore, who was asking a rather shy ingenue, who Lydia knew did not have a
large fortune but had a pleasing laugh, to ask.
"I was under the impression," Miss Yukimura said, taking two cups of the punch
from a waiter and passing one to Lydia, “that he was a fortune hunter.”
"Oh, he is," Lydia agreed, “but he is fair handsome, charming and would not
mind never setting foot in society again." She said, she was fond of Sir
Theodore in his own way when they met he would make love to her, suggesting in
a playful manner that was not at all serious, that she make him her lover, and
such, but both knew nothing would come of it. “So for an omega who will not
wear skirts do you not think he might be perfect.”
“but if he is poor he might burn through her fortune as quickly as his own.” Mr
Tate was stood beside his daughter, speaking in a low voice. He was not a
handsome man which suggested that his late wife must have been an excessive
beauty, for his daughter was striking in her features.
“It was his father's gambling that saw his estates almost destitute, Sir
Theodore has almost restored them to earning him a living wage." Lydia said,
“yes," she said, “I do think that they will be perfect together.”
“Your new desire to see all of society married is most confusing, my lady,"
Miss Yukimura said.
Lydia laughed, “is it not the goal of all married women to find their friends
locked in similar connubial bliss?”
“Perhaps if all were as well married as you.”
Lydia emptied her cup of punch, “I shall let you in on a secret, my dear Miss
Yukimura. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of choice.”
“I believe the quote is chance." Miss Yukimura corrected her.
“I chose to be happy with my husband," Lydia told her, “and so I am. What more
could I ask for?”
“Twelve thousand a year, a fine estate and a reasonable allowance." Miss
Yukimura said before she realized how frank she had been, but Lydia just
smiled.
“A fine knot and the knowledge how to use it never goes astray," the Duchenne
said as he approached them. In a bowl in his hand he had a peeled orange with
honey poured across it, Miss Yukimura looked scandalized but Lydia laughed. “I
hear you and Mr. McCall are engaged in a fine correspondence, is there a
wedding in the distance?”
Miss Yukimura reacted the way she always did with Stiles' frankness, she
blushed clear to the roots of her hair. “I should excuse myself before he
thinks that I am making eyes at Sir Theodore." She said. “A good evening to you
both.”
Lydia smiled, “yes," she said to Stiles who was eating the slices of orange and
licking the honey from his fingers as his husband hungrily watched. "I think I
shall enjoy matchmaking. It is a fine occupation.”
“I think you should become a mother," Stiles said, “but I suppose making
matches for the ton shall have to do.” Lydia just laughed at the old argument
between them.
Chapter End Notes
     it is over, master has given dobby a sock and dobby is free! this one
     did not want to come out, the entire thing just went kerflop in the
     middle as it weasled out of the notes i had for it and went for
     broke.
     On several occasions I nearly pulled it.
     but it's over! we can celebrate with cups of hot posset (think really
     alcoholic hot egg nog) and gin
End Notes
     Warnings
     mental coercion,
     bullying,
     use of a racial slur,
     talk of suicide - one character urges another to do so
     suicide ideation,
     suggestion of self harm,
     suggestion of underage by California Standards [Stiles is 16]
     talk of mental illness in an elderly character
     abuse of an elderly character
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