Alexia was charmed despite herself. She decided she had wasted enough of the evening, not to mention the delicious meal, agonizing over Lord Maccon. She proceeded to give the hapless Mr. MacDougall the full force of her attention for the remainder of supper. A situation he seemed to regard with mixed terror and delight.
Miss Tarabotti, never one to pass up an opportunity to display her bluestocking tendencies, matched wits with the young scientist on a wide range of subjects. Leaving the weighing of souls for another occasion, the salad course moved them on to recent innovations in various engine designs. Over fruit and bonbons, they broached the physiological correlation between mental and behavioral phenomena and how this might affect vampire hive dynamics. By coffee, which was served in the drawing room, Mr. MacDougall had asked for and received permission to call upon Miss Tarabotti the following day. Lord Maccon was looking as black as thunderclouds, and Miss Wibbley seemed unable to distract him further. Alexia did not notice the werewolf's disgruntlement; new techniques in the capture of evanescent reflections were just so riveting.
Miss Tarabotti departed the party still feeling rejected by the earl but secure in the knowledge she could look forward to further intellectual conversation the following day. She was also pleased with herself, convinced that while she might be upset by Lord Maccon's behavior, she had given no indication of this to him nor to anyone else who mattered.
***
Lord Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, paced his office like a caged, well, wolf.
“I do not understand what she is playing at,” he grumbled. He was looking even scruffier than usual. This contrasted sharply with the fact that he was still in evening dress, having just come from the Blingchesters' dinner party. His cravat was terribly mussed, as though someone had been pawing at it.
Professor Lyall, sitting at his own small desk in the far corner of the room, looked up from behind a mound of metal scrolls. He pushed a pile of wax rubbings to one side. He reflected sadly that his Alpha really was a hopeless case so far as fashion was concerned. He looked to be moving in that direction in the romantic arena as well.
Like most werewolves, they kept nighttime business hours. Essentially, the Blingchesters' dinner had been Lord Maccon's breakfast.
“I have had a report from the Westminster hive of yet another rove appearance,” said Professor Lyall. “At least they told us this time. Funny that they should find out before we did; I did not think they concerned themselves so closely with rove activities.”
His boss did not seem to hear this. “She completely ignored me, blasted female! Spent the entire evening flirting with a scientist. An American scientist, if you ken such an appalling thing!” The Alpha sounded particularly Scottish in his dudgeon.
Professor Lyall ceded to the fact that, for the moment, he was not likely to get any real work done. “Be fair, my lord. You undertook to ignore her first.”
“Of course I ignored her! It is her responsibility to come to me at this juncture. I made my initial interest perfectly clear.”
Silence.
“I kissed her,” he explained, aggrieved.
“Mmm, yes, I had the dubious pleasure of witnessing that, ah-hem, overly public occurrence.” Lyall sharpened his pen nib, using a small copper blade that ejected from the end of his glassicals.
“Well! Why hasn't she done anything about it?” the Alpha wanted to know.
“You mean like whack you upside the noggin with that deadly parasol of hers? I would be cautious in that area if I were you. I am reasonably certain she had it custom made and tipped with silver.”
Lord Maccon looked petulant. “I mean like attempt to talk to me, or perhaps not talk at all but simply drag me off somewhere...” He trailed off. “Somewhere dark and soft and...” He shook himself like a wet dog. “But, no. Instead she utterly dismissed me, not a single word. I believe I liked it better when she was yelling at me.” He paused and then nodded to himself. “I know I liked it better.”
Professor Lyall sighed, put down his quill, turned his entire attention upon his boss, and attempted to explain. Ordinarily, Lord Maccon was not quite so thickheaded. “Alexia Tarabotti is not going to behave in accordance with pack dynamics. You are enacting the traditional courting ritual for Alpha females. It may be instinct for you, but this is the modern age; many things have changed.”
“That woman,” Lord Maccon spat, “is definitely alpha and most certainly female.”
“But not a werewolf.” Professor Lyall's voice was aggravatingly calm.
Lord Maccon, who had been behaving entirely on instinct, looked suddenly crestfallen. “Have I handled this situation entirely wrong?”
Professor Lyall was reminded of his Alpha's origins. He might be a relatively old werewolf, but he had spent much of that time in a barely enlightened backwater city in the Scottish Highlands. All the London ton acknowledged Scotland as a barbaric place. The packs there cared very little for the social niceties of daytime folk. Highland werewolves had a reputation for doing atrocious and highly unwarranted things, like wearing smoking jackets to the dinner table. Lyall shivered at the delicious horror of the very idea.
“Yes. You have behaved, I would go so far as to say, badly. I suggest a well-crafted apology and an extended session of abject groveling,” said the Beta. His expression remained mild, but the look in his eyes was flinty. His Alpha would find no sympathy there.
Lord Maccon stood up very straight. He would have towered over his second even if Lyall were not sitting down. “I am not a groveler!”