Omega’s Gambit by Flora Quincy

Syon

I wasa bear in a cage anytime I was required to be in London.

The food bland, the people lazy and content to spend their time locked inside their cramped rooms rather than risk the refreshingly brisk winter wind. Yet here I was, the house draped in black crepe, the knocker off the door to let everyone know visitors were not welcome. I was in mourning for my grandmother. My last blood relative of any importance was dead.

My grandmother, the dowager duchess of Orley was dead. Dead. I’d yet to accept that. Killed at the age of eighty by, in her words, a trifling cold. No figure in my life loomed quite so large as she. There might be alphas who had no respect for the abilities of omegas to manage—and manage well—estates as great as ours, but she had until I was old enough to take up the reins. My grandfather had died before I was born. After his death, my father obsessed over my mother’s indiscretions rather than instruct his heir or look after the estates. So it was my grandmother, her three alpha mates, and Lord John, my grandfather’s omega mate, who’d raised me. But their pack was gone. My grandmother’s mates died in a yachting accident. And Lord John, the man who had given me my first pony, had only died three years ago.

Now I was alone.

And who was I but the Duke of Orley, named Syon at my grandmother’s insistence. But no one had called me that in almost twenty years. Not since my father had killed himself over my mother’s so-called honour not long after my eighth birthday. It had been Orley ever since. I almost forgot the sound of my name unless I spoke it out loud.

“Syon,” I whispered into the silence.

The loss of my grandmother created a dull hollowness in my chest. As the only living member of my family, as the woman who’d raised me when my own mother had fled the country with some German prince… Yes, I missed my grandmother far more than the omega who’d given birth to me. Her firmness and straight speaking. She’d never hidden the scandals attached to the name Orley. Not my parents’ disastrous mating and marriage that had my father blowing his brains out when his mate eloped with another man. Nor my grandparents’ own scandal—the duke and duchess of Orley not mating had been the on dit de jour—which had blossomed into a happy pack full of laughter and love. There were other scandals, but the last two generations had impressed upon me that a happy life meant not making my wife, the mother of my heirs, my mate—at least not right away. We could find emotional satisfaction elsewhere so long as we followed my grandparents’ example. Passion and instinct could and should be put aside.

I would find a woman to marry and give me heirs, but not mate her. She could find mates, lovers, whatever she chose after an alpha child had been born. I would have the same freedom. I’d even allow mating if either of us chose to mate the same sex before the child was born. So long as everyone knew that the child was mine, I was not concerned with our sleeping arrangements.

“Damn you, grandmother,” I laughed as I looked over the letter she’d written me on her death bed. Of all the letters she’d penned the one to her beloved grandson was the shortest, barely covering a single sheet. Others were thick packets, double-crossed in her tiny, precise handwriting.

Orley,

Marry now. Find a wife. An omega and a woman, for a man will not be able to give you an heir. I’m forever grateful that John had a hand in the raising of you. It made him very happy, though I am sure he never breathed a word of it to you. Let her be beautiful, for my sake, as I do not wish for a fish to have her portrait hung next to mine. Let her be cheerful, for yours. You smile so rarely and that is not good for procreation. For her sake and yours, do not mate her until you both know it is the correct decision. My marriage was happy because Orley and I looked elsewhere for love, for mates. Your father was not so wise. He married that woman and mated her. She brought him to the brink of madness with her dalliances. I blame her for his death. Thankfully the bitch is dead. But she gave me you so I cannot hate her.

But, beloved grandson and most excellent duke, think of your duchess as a wife and not a mate. At least not until you are sure of your mutual happiness, which I wish for more than life itself.

DDoO

P.S. I’ve instructed my goddaughter, Cordelia Markham, to call on you. I believe she can help you to find an appropriate omega.

Her voice came through in her letter. This was the woman I’d lost, and my heart ached for the first time since I’d heard of her death.

Now all that mattered was to find some omega to marry. An easy task—if I’d spent any time in London or been a social creature. My reclusive nature now meant I would be stuck here, kicking my heels until a bride was in my bed. And still, no omega of my acquaintance had caused my blood to run hot. However, I could not scent them the way most alphas could—the prize I’d won in an amateur boxing match in my youth. I might have a broken nose and lost my sense of smell, but the other fellow had been out for nearly ten minutes, had a broken jaw, and lost a couple of teeth in the bargain. Even the greatest brawlers of the age could not present a more mangled nose than I. My disfigurement was enough that I did not enjoy the stares of men or women. My title might allow me a second glance, but my face would cause any lover to close their eyes for the obscene visage I possessed. I’d have to rely on my title to find a wife.

Knowing I’d be in London for the foreseeable future, I wrote to the beta mistress I kept at the ducal seat Ayleigh letting her know our affair was at an end. I saw no reason to bring her up to London. I was done with her.

Goddess, I hated the city. The thought came unbidden, but I felt it in my very bones. I wanted this business of finding a wife finished.

“Your Grace, there is a Mrs Markham begging for a moment of your time,” Horne, my grandmother’s long-serving butler’s muffled voice came through the door. I had expected a visit from this matron, but she was near an hour late of the appointed time. Horne would be well aware of my dislike for tardiness and the pleading sound in his voice only confirmed that he knew I would have little patience for my grandmother’s goddaughter.

“Send her in!” I called without once taking my eyes from my grandmother’s letter.

Being who I was, I’d a pretty good idea of the picture I painted when the admittedly dashing widow entered. How could I not? My portrait hung on the wall, a likeness only recently commissioned for grandmother last summer.

There my painted self hung. Honey-coloured hair cropped short because I abhorred the vanity of wigs. At least they were going out of fashion. But there, any neatness of dress ended. My clothes were as they ought to be for a nobleman just returned from a morning ride and who’d not taken the time to change. The artist had not missed a detail, for my boots too were splattered with mud. He’d painted me against the background of the great oak at Ayleigh. I liked the painting. Even my nose didn’t seem out of place.

But I wasn’t at Ayleigh nor back from a ride—that had been postponed by this omega’s tardiness. Today, I sat within the library, with all the appearance of a stuffed up self-important duke who didn’t care for the niceties of fashion. The library was an elegant chamber, every piece of furniture in its place as if it hadn’t been moved once since being placed there with care some five years before when my grandmother’d redecorated the entire place. It was the only room in the house I spent any time in.

On hearing her step, I rose ever so slowly and wondered if she could see those dark eyes some called inscrutable—a risibly romantic notion. Even given the distance between us, she could not but be aware of my presence—broad in the shoulder, with a trim waist, powerful thighs as I prowled towards her. Mrs Markham flushed and dropped into a neat curtsey. No omega flushed like that when they were embarrassed. It manifested an omega’s natural response to being near an unknown, unmated alpha. And just as omegas flushed, alphas became aroused. No one would find it strange if my cock became hard when I came into contact with an attractive omega, even a mated widow. This didn’t happen. I couldn’t scent her or her arousal.

I appeared to have no notion of my power over the weaker dynamic. How could I, when I did not seem to register the small gathering of slick she felt between her thighs? And she, a mated widow nearing fifty! I suppressed a chuckle. If only she knew. I could not smell her or her slick even if I was within arms reach. But I could read people and her face told me everything I had no interest in.

My dispassion would have scandalised many omegas, for what omega did not want an alpha to respond to them? I had noticed her attraction the moment she entered—flushed cheeks and fluttering fingers over a thin mouth spoke as loudly as scent. And I gave the matron credit. Her beauty had matured, not faded. Her fair hair still glistened in the afternoon sun. In all, if I had been so inclined, she would be just such a woman an unmated alpha might dally with—the wild passion of her heats would not be so severe and as she had been mated there would be no worries that she would form ideas for the future. But I was not so inclined. Once I had made my mind, I did not waver or become distracted as a weaker man might. No, I ran towards my goal with the singular determination of my dynamic. My goal was a wife, not some affair with an omega, who so easily wilted at the sight of a powerful alpha.

“Your Grace,” she murmured and dropped a submissive curtsy as if she’d not curtsied a few minutes before. I nodded and indicated she should take a seat on any one of the chairs littering the space.

“I require your help,” I said, still standing, curious to see how she’d respond to my request.

“Your Grace?”

“I look for a wife. Omega, of course. Let me be clear, a wife. I shan’t take a husband as I marry not for love but an heir. Perhaps I will take a mate, but for now, I’m not interested in that. I am not out in society much so don’t know the current market. I’d like you to bring me a few names. I’ll look them over and pick one.”

“Your Grace?”

“D’you have any other words than ‘Your Grace’? If not, then get out of my sight and I’ll find another. I don’t need a simpleton to help—“

“Your Grace!” Mrs Markham flushed a deep red. My lips twitched, I’d angered the omega—for that was anger, not arousal, colouring her cheeks. “I object to being called simple.”

“Simpleton,” I couldn’t help but correct her.

“Simpleton, not that it makes a difference.” She surprised me with a soft laugh. “I am shocked by your request and did not know how to respond in a civil manner.”

I took pity on her. “I’m not civil. But I don’t see why it’d make you uncomfortable. I’m sure my grandmother had some thoughts on the matter, even if she didn’t draw up a list for my… edification.”

“Nevertheless! Please forgive me, but, to take on such a task! You are still in mourning.”

“You think I’ve forgotten? If I’d the time, I’d look myself. I want to get this managed quickly. There is nothing in the law—“ I bit off the last for I did not like the fact I was defending my actions to a mere omega with no connection to me but she’d been my grandmother’s goddaughter.

“And you expect her to take on the role of Duchess immediately?” she asked, her eyes going from subservient to assessing. I repressed a grin. I would need to watch her like a hawk which I should have expected of my grandmother’s goddaughter.

“Obviously. Some help can be given by Mrs Danvers, the housekeeper. But she cannot be insipid or without a brain between her pretty ears. My grandmother requested no fish.”

She choked. “That is a… It is a lot of to expect of a debutante.”

I smiled. “I don’t want a child. Just a wife. What could be more simple? What omega wouldn’t want to be a duchess? Bring a list of candidates within a week. Exactly at the day and hour we were expected to meet. That will be all, I think. Happy hunting, Mrs Markham.”

Her jaw clenched briefly and her curtsy was decidedly rigid. I liked her. She would find me the right wife.

“I’ll take you to your carriage,” I ushered her out, suddenly feeling very jolly. “I’m headed out myself. I’d planned to ride, as you can see. But had to send my horse back to the stable. No matter. I’ll go to Jacksons and practice the Fancy. I feel like putting my fist into something.”

“I am afraid I don’t have the same joy in blood sports that you do.”

“Not for lack of wanting to punch an alpha or two in your time…”

My sally earned me a twitch of a smile.

* * *

A week went by in that manner when the hours seem to stretch for an eternity and the days flash by in a blink of the eye. I had both remembered and forgotten to expect Mrs Markham. So it caught me off guard when Horne came to me with the news that she had arrived with her daughter. I’d cursed all omegas for their unfortunate timing as I’d been on the brink of going for a ride. But it could not be helped. I had asked Mrs Markham to find some appropriate omegas. Of a sudden, I remembered a meal with my grandmother in my youth. We’d been at Ayleigh, and I about to go off to university. “Marry for the future, as we did in my day. And if you meet someone else? Well, Shakesperia said that music be the food of love, play on.” Such was her careless way of giving good advice.

“The Drawing Room?” I asked with some asperity.

“As Your Grace says.”

I did not waste time, for I wanted this meeting over with so that I could get on with my day. I hoped it would pass quickly. I cursed under my breath. Damn all omegas, except my sainted grandmother.

“I bring you news, Your Grace,” Mrs Markham said with a hasty curtsy as I entered. Today she was dressed more extravagantly as if she had put aside plans to meet me. She’d brought her daughter, a plain beta called Hero. An odd name for an odd almost bird-like child who fidgeted with her pelisse as if unused to wearing such a fine garment.

“Here is a list.”

I took the paper from her and glanced over the surprisingly long list.

The Hon Miss Divinia Cole

Miss Arabella Smith

Lady Olivia Clare, widowed Countess of Kellingham

I stopped after the third name and frowned at what I saw. “Tell me what you know of Lady Clare, Kellingham’s widow. I am surprised to see a widow on the list.”

“Lady Olivia Clare, wife of Lord Augustus Clare,” she said without hesitation. “They were unmated. He died without any heirs. I thought perhaps an older omega since you expect her to begin her duties right away.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Very. And a good woman.”

“How do you know she ain’t barren?” That was the relevant question, however crude.

“The late Earl had no natural children,” she replied her cheeks darkening with embarrassment. Then with a boldness that came through on occasion: “He left her to a terrible fate. Six years of marriage and never mated her during a marital heat.”

“I sense you have more to say,” I growled, unafraid to exert my alpha dominance on her. “Is she out of mourning?”

“Not yet… But… She has declared she will not marry again. That is to say, she will not suffer men or alphas to be near her except the alpha daughter of her vicar who acts as her temporary guardian. I suspect that perhaps Lord Clare was not kind to her.”

“Lord Clare’s past behaviour has no bearing on my suit.” I tried and failed to keep the bite out of my words. Now that I knew her fate—that she would be left without a penny to pinch, if the widow of an earl knew how to pinch pennies—I had irrationally, against all logic, decided that I would marry her. I would play the hero to her distressed damsel.

“Your Grace! She needs care!”

“Madam, the widow will be thrown out of her home when her period of mourning ends. She will not be cared for by some alpha children. She will be a pauper. Not many alphas, regardless of circumstances, will have the means to pay the Omega Fee for a Countess. Do you think she has a better option than the one I can give her?”

I crossed my legs and glared at the omega perched on the very edge of the sofa in front of me. I could sense she was beginning to fret. If she’d had a good mate, the alpha would have taken her aside and calmed her. But instead I, Syon Duke of Orley, was left to deal with the fidgeting hands that crushed her gown in a most unbecoming manner. She agreed even as she threw a distressed look to her silent beta daughter.

“Then find a way for me to meet and woo her. When she hears my suit, she’d be a fool to refuse.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” came in a whisper.

“Keep me informed,” I concluded our discourse as abruptly as I had the first meeting.

“Your Grace, if I may? I hope you realise that choosing a wife is not the same as buying a horse.”

“No, madam. I choose my bride because of what I can do for Lady Clare. I buy a horse because of what he can do for me. Just because I will mount both doesn’t mean I value them the same.”

“Then may I say you are riding for a fall.”

“Touché, Mrs Markham.”

She rose and left with a haughtier bearing than she began our meeting with, her daughter trailing behind her. The little beta glanced over her shoulder before following her mother out the door.

“Good day, your Grace,” she breathed so softly I nearly missed it.

I slumped against the window, my eyes tracking the carriage carrying Mrs Markham as it left. If only there were a cousin to take my place. But there were none. Like the late earl, I had no alpha bastards or cousins with any claim to the title. I must go through with this farce if I wanted the dukedom to survive and after twenty years the duke, I took pride in the title. Pride in everything that surrounded me. Moreover, should I die without an heir, my tenants, servants, the people who depended upon me would find themselves at sea with no guarantees to their future.

Shakespearia had it right, “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.”