How To Marry A Werewolf (Claw & Courtship, #1)(21)

She gave Channing a questioning look.

He answered her. “It’s not done simply to spout it out like that as a verbal insistence. The invitation to dine on you, I mean to say. And signing your dance card is underhanded. You know, Ambrose, that it won’t hold up in court.”

Lord Ambrose looked faintly embarrassed. “Well, you would go and get all territorial on me. Can’t have that.”

Channing arched a brow. “I am not interested in her as a claviger, either, my good man.”

“No, I didn’t really believe you were.”

Channing snorted, leaned back, and crossed his arms. But he did not shift his protective stance between the two of them. Faith wondered how closely he’d watched them dancing.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you always cause a scene, Major?”

“Always. It’s why they don’t let me out much. I’m badly mannered and indifferent to society’s mores.”

“He’s a depraved old bounder. Why do you even pass the time of night with such a fellow, Miss Wigglesworth? A lady of refinement such as yourself.” The vampire looked at her, but he did not expect an answer. It was all said to cut Major Channing down.

Faith grabbed the opening he had given her, nonetheless. “Honesty has its appeal.”

“I very much doubt that. Especially in his case. You recognize his prior claim, then?”

Faith wished she fully understood the undercurrents here. But despite his aggravating ways, she felt safer throwing in her lot with Channing than Lord Ambrose. At least Channing came with a Biffy attachment. And while werewolves took wives, vampires did not. The blood-sucker’s game was much deadlier and more permanent.

So, she said, “I do.”

Major Channing’s eyes went from cold chips of icy indifference to pale blue flames of victory.

Lord Ambrose gave a curt little bow to Faith and, ignoring the werewolf, left them both.

Major Channing looked down at her, once more cool and contained. “He smells of rotten flesh and the long dead, and after that dance, so do you. I hate it.”

Faith winced. “Well, it’ll wear off eventually. It was a pretty short dance.”

He grunted.

Faith was curious enough to be unguarded. “What do I normally smell like?”

“Plum pudding soaked in brandy,” he answered promptly, “heady and rich with raisins.”

“Raisins! I smell of booze and raisins? I…” Faith lost her words at that. She glared at Major Channing, who was looking amused by her show of temper.

“I believe I’ll find my own way to supper, sir. Go away and pester someone else. Raisins indeed!”

Major Channing, mouth twitching with what could only be a repressed smile, drifted away, quite pleased with himself.



Faith’s life became a whirlwind of entertainments and petty obligations after that. She and Teddy were the talk of the ton, to be found in most drawing rooms, paying calls and receiving them, and everything that came after.

The papers described Miss Wigglesworth as effervescent yet sanguine in a manner that was part insult, part admiration. Brimming with American nerve, they said. Faith decided to take this as a compliment. Apparently, half of London’s eligible bachelors decided to take it as a ringing endorsement. Although it was possible they also thought she was wealthy. Americans had that reputation, too. Whatever the cause, the result was that the sitting room of the Iftercast house swelled with flowers from eager swains; there was even, unfortunately, some poetry.

“This one is an ode to my eyes, which are compared in one breath to sapphires which is then rhymed with camp-fires and in the next breath to fish eggs – which can’t be complimentary.” Faith put down the missive and looked at Teddy, who was red-faced in an effort not to laugh. “Can it?”

“I am certain he means to compliment.”

“Well, then, the pen does him no favors.” Faith, it must be said, was equally uninterested in the flowers. Botany, after all, was not her field of scientific focus.

Teddy, being Teddy, was pleased with her cousin’s success and not nearly so envious as Faith dreaded she might be. Maybe it was in Teddy’s nature to be generous of spirit, or maybe it was that one of the bouquets (a small modest one, containing mainly beautiful purple alfalfa flowers) was from young Mr Rafterwit. The sweetly bumbling Mr Rafterwit was a barrister of sufficient means to satisfy Mrs Iftercast, sufficient connections to satisfy Mr Iftercast, and sufficient horses to satisfy Teddy.

“He’s very sporting.” Teddy smiled over the purple blooms.

“Good, you won’t get any poems.”

“He keeps a stable of twelve horses in the country with a dear friend, for the purposes of breeding to race and to jump. He had a flyer in Ascot two years ago.”

“And his character?” pressed Faith, because there was more to life than horses and pecuniary advances and connections, even if they came with alfalfa flowers.

“He’s very quiet.”

“Well, that should suit you.”

“Oh?” Teddy laughed.

Faith blanched. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Bah. I know I am a chatterbox. But I meant to imply that he is quiet when I meet with him. It is difficult – at a ball or even a dinner – to fully comprehend a gentleman’s character, don’t you find? I hardly feel I know him at all.”