Chapter 11
Jensen
It’s almost impossible to describe how much worse my behavior has gotten over a very short period of time.
Initially, Lucien suggested that I walk things back slowly, so as not to frighten the lord. He said I should continue being chatty at breakfast, but should talk a little less each day. You know, rein myself in gradually until some sort of acceptable equilibrium is achieved.
That’s not how it’s played out at all.
The trouble is, the lord is actually quite fun.
He has a dry sense of humor that isn’t obvious initially, but once you spot it, you can’t unsee it.
He leans forward slightly when I talk, resting his chin on his knuckle and giving me his undivided attention.
He bobs his head when I make a particularly good point, and he calls Lucien my beastly ex-boyfriend, and that fills me with joy.
He calls Branson my beastly brother, and I like that a lot too.
I tuck the phone snugly between my shoulder and ear and hiss quietly. “It’s certifiably not that I have a crush on him, Lucien.”
It isn’t. There’s no way I can have a crush on a man I’ve never scented. It’s impossible. It’s just not how it works.
For all I know, I’ve been on the ass end of England for so long, and I’ve been starved of company to such an extent that I’ve accidentally gone ahead and struck up a robust friendship with an odorless nobleman.
Stranger things have happened.
They have. I’m sure of it.
“Shall I put your mail in the study for you, my lord?” Sid asks as he clears our plates.
It’s odd of him to ask because Sid brings the lord’s mail to him at the table every morning after he’s cleared his plate as a matter of course. There’s something a little strange about the way he says it too. Almost as though he’s hopeful. No, not hopeful, nervous about something.
Lord Augustus blasts out a sigh of epic proportions and extends his hand in Sid’s direction in a way that makes it clear the question has annoyed him.
Sid rushes out of the room and returns with a silver tray holding a neat stack of envelopes.
He keeps his left hand tucked behind his back, his posture very straight, and holds the tray out within the lord’s reach.
Lord Augustus takes the envelopes from Sid and then looks up at the ceiling for a long time. He mutters something that sounds a lot like, “Fuck,” under his breath.
He rips the envelopes open and sighs a little louder each time he opens one.
By the time he’s done, envelopes have been scrunched up and hurled around the room, and there is a pile of invitations on the table in front of him.
All of them are cream. High-quality cardstock, with tastefully embossed font choices.
For some reason, the mail appears to have put Lord Augustus in an absolute fury today.
“Another fucking fundraiser for the children’s fucking hospital,” he roars, throwing himself back in his chair. “For the love of God, why won’t they just let me make a donation? I’d pay ten times what I usually do if they’d leave me in peace.”
I’m not sure who he’s talking to. He’s yelling in the direction of the dining room door, so I don’t think it’s me. At least, I hope it isn’t me.
Mrs. Thompson appears in the doorway, pink-cheeked and slightly out of breath, and speaks to the lord in soothing tones. “Oh, I do wish they’d stop putting you through this, my lord. I really do—”
He snatches one of the invitations and waves it at Mrs. Thompson. “The viscountess is having another masked ball. It’s the third year on the trot, for God’s sake. Who thinks of these things?”
“It’s awful, my lord,” tuts Mrs. Thompson. “Just awful…but perhaps this year it won’t be as ba—”
“Of course it will be bad. It will be hellish. It was hellish last year, and it was hellish the year before. Why would this year be any different?”
Mrs. Thompson offers me a shrug and a smile with a little too much tooth.
“Lord Augustus isn’t all that fond of formal events,” she explains quietly, “and unfortunately, as a man of his station”—she lowers her voice to little more than a whisper—“he has no choice but to attend at least a handful of them each year.”
“It’s not that I mind formal events, Mrs. Thompson. It’s that I mind the people who attend them,” clarifies the lord.
Mrs. Thompson nods solemnly. “Yes,” she says.
“That’s what I meant. It’s the mamas and papas, you see, Mr. Lawlor.
” She glances at the lord to see if it’s safe to continue, and when she deems that it is, she adds, voice low again, “It’s that our lord is something of an eligible bachelor, and quite a few noble families would like to see their relatives mated to a man like—”
“Mrs. Thompson, please,” says the lord, running out of patience abruptly.
Mrs. Thompson gives him a curt nod and sees herself out of the dining room.
“I’ve always wanted to go to a masked ball,” I say as I watch her leave.
Lord Augustus’s jaw drops, and he glares at me incredulously.
It unnerves the hell out of me, so I quickly expand.
“We don’t really have masked balls back home, as such.
Or maybe we do, but everyone I know is far too common to be invited to them.
” I give a little chuckle, and the lord flinches at my use of the word common.
Naturally, that makes me double down. “At least, no one I know has ever been to one, and I’ve always thought that’s a real shame.
Masked balls are so sensual. They’re very Eyes Wide Shut, aren’t they?
Very Fifty Shades Darker, but actually sexy, don’t you think?
“No,” says Lord Augustus, drawing a line under the conversation. “They’re nothing like that.”
I’m not sure why exactly, but for some reason, all the late-night visits from omegas at Beaumont Craven House have started to annoy me. They’ve got right on my tits. I think it’s most likely the sleep deprivation that’s gotten to me. I’ve never been one to handle being roused from sleep very well.
Lucien says it’s because all the midnight callers have been women. He says I’m worried that Lord Augustus is straight. He says it’s a valid concern because, though it’s rare, straightness does exist.
How ridiculous is that?
As if I don’t know that straightness exists.
I mean, seriously. Of course I know heterosexuality exists. It’s wildly overrepresented in classic literature. How could I not know it exists?
Anyway, there’ve only been four omegas who’ve turned up at night so far, and yes, they’ve all been women.
But I’m quite sure they don’t represent Lord Augustus’s complete sexual history.
There are probably plenty of other people he’s slept with in the county.
They’re probably out there, just waiting for a night dark and stormy enough to make coming out of the woodwork worth their while.
There are probably lots of them. Men, women, nonbinary folk, and—
Ugh.
I don’t feel all that good today. I feel a bit blah, actually.
It’s probably something I ate.
I’m out of bed like a shot when I hear the doorbell.
This is getting ridiculous. Why do these people have to call at night? That’s what I want to know. Why not come over in daylight hours like a normal person? Why not get yourself alphaed into oblivion while the sun is shining and let the people who actually live in this fucking house get some sleep?
It’s rude, that’s what it is, and I won’t stand for it. I hate rudeness. I always have. I’ve always felt it’s one of the worst ways a person can be. Mrs. Thompson and I are in total agreement there. Rudeness is the main thing we don’t like about awful Aurelia. That and her arrogance.
In addition to disturbing our peace, these bloody omegas are acting like I don’t exist, and that’s rude too. I mean, what do they think I am? Chopped liver? I live in Beaumont Craven House, and I have for almost two months.
Obviously, Lord Augustus and I are totally platonic, but they don’t know that, so it’s rude as hell of them to turn up here and make a scene. I won’t stand for it for one more second.
I fling my door open and tear down the hall in a lather.
I get to the entrance hall at exactly the same time Lord Augustus appears on the landing.
Like me, his sleep has been disturbed. I can tell because his hair looks nothing like it does in the day.
In the day, it’s neat, carefully combed off his face.
Aside from when he rides Gregor, it stays perfectly in place. A glossy dark mane, purposefully tamed.
It doesn’t look like that at all now. It’s tousled now. A dark curtain that falls into his face and causes shadows to dance across his eyes when he walks.
He’s wearing dark sleep pants and an untied blue-black robe. As he comes down the stairs, the robe catches a breeze and blows open.
The sight of Lord Augustus like this, tousled and shirtless, snatches the breath from my lungs and squeezes it in a tight fist. There’s something awfully wrong about seeing him like this.
Something awfully unexpected. He’s a lord, for Christ’s sake.
Surely, he should sleep in a pajama top.
Surely, he should tie his robe at his waist and find a way to rest that doesn’t ruffle his hair to this extent.
He looks at me, exhausted and slightly accusingly. “What are you doing up?”
“My peace has been seriously disturbed,” I answer gravely.
He shoots me a sideways glance and lets out a sigh. “Let me handle this.”
I don’t reply on account of it being his house and him being a lord, and technically my boss and all of that, but there’s no chance in hell I’m letting him handle it. He’s been handling this crap for years, and look where it’s gotten him.
I plaster myself to his side and arrange my face into something I hope looks patient and hospitable as he opens the door.
The omega on the doorstep is mournful and bedraggled, like all the others have been. It’s awful.
I’m not smiling because of the terrible state they’re in. I’m not.
But there is a slight chance I’m smiling because they’re a man.
“Edward,” says Lord Augustus. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Alfie,” the omega breathes shakily as he sags against the doorframe. “It’s been so long…” His voice fades as his vacant gaze swivels and lands on me. “What…who is this?”
I extend my hand with great aplomb.
“Jensen Lawlor,” I say loudly and clearly. There’s something in my tone that gives me pause. I sound awfully sure of myself, and that’s a concern. Though, when I think about it, why wouldn’t I? It is my name, after all.
Once I’ve said it, it occurs to me that in this neck of the woods, people usually have a bit more to say after their names. They’re usually the lord of this or a duchy of that. Unfortunately, I don’t have anything like that to add to my name, but it’s no matter. I’ll think of something.
I take Edward’s hand and squeeze it firmly before continuing, “Chief Librarian of Beaumont Craven House and…Omega to his Honorable Lordship Alfred Augustus the Third.”
Okay.
Wow.
I wasn’t expecting that.
I can tell the lord is reeling with shock without looking at him. To settle him, I place my free hand gingerly on his shoulder and give him a series of little pats. To my absolute amazement, his arm curls around my waist and he molds me firmly against him. United, we both look at Edward.
The omega blinks several times, mouth opening and closing, and then he straightens. He seems dazed, almost as though he’s been alphaed.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He looks at Lord Augustus, then at me, and then at his car that’s parked haphazardly in the drive. “I shouldn’t be here.”
He’s dead right about that, so I give him a tight-lipped yet sympathetic nod.
With that, he turns and takes his leave.
Lord Augustus locks the door without saying a word, and I get the distinct feeling that he might be a little less than thrilled with my behavior. But I’ve already done so many things that don’t make sense tonight, so instead of apologizing, I choose to go on the offensive.