Omega’s Gambit by Flora Quincy
Syon
“Then take up my offer.The widow for votes. If we get it passed, then my sisters… After last night—Dammit, but my sisters must be protected. Especially with my mother out of the country… Viola can help. You intend to marry her by the end of the season or her next heat, whichever is soonest. The countess, not Viola. You don’t wish to marry Viola.”
“You want them like that?” I asked, amazed she was willing to sacrifice one omega for the gain of the others. “I’ll speak for you. But I will not force them. You convince them and with my influence, you will have your votes. Be sure of my support, Hartwell. It is yours,” I promised. Never before had I put myself out to help another, much less a stripling who had me pulling out my hair in frustration half the time we were in the same room.
“But that still leaves the countess. Let me… I could do it.” she laughed full of joyful humour or desperation, I could not tell. Neither I nor my plans were a joke. I was in earnest wishing to help the countess, but Hartwell wanted a quid pro quo.
“How dare— I can do my own wooing. All I wish is for you to find out which events she will attend,” I snapped. We’d been arguing all morning. “This is no joking matter to me.”
“Oh, Your Grace! Please excuse me. I do not laugh at you. Rather this,” she threw a hand about her. “This situation could not… I came here to be your secretary and now I offer to act as your go between? Really duke, it is too much! Farcical… My suggestion that I woo her, I mean.” Hartwell stopped abruptly and a definite crease formed between her finely shaped dark brows. I could almost see her mind flashing about hither and thither with thoughts that went too fast for me to follow. At last, those sparkling purple eyes met mine. “Your Grace… all mirth aside, I think that if you charge ahead like an alpha you will not meet with success. An alpha’s wooing is too rough. Yet… I never in my wildest imaginings thought I could provide a solution to your problem. Perhaps if you had asked me yesterday, this morning even I would have told you something else—even suggested putting pen to paper! Love letters. But the devil has me and I, if you shall permit, will speak my mind?”
I was struck dumb again by this odd alpha. Florey had warned me his niece was a young woman with an almost too serious disposition. This creature in front of me defied description—she sounded crazed, not sane, but as ever she piqued my curiosity. My visage must have been stormy though, for she swallowed and tugged at her cravat.
“I meant no disrespect,” she tried to chuckle, to bring back that levity she’d used so carelessly before. “And know you would be in the right to throw me out without reference. But I did not, on the honour of my family name, in the name of our friendship, laugh at you. I just can hardly believe my solution to your problem, for it defies all my good sense and reason. You are correct. I should be convincing you with the strength of my argument rather than bribe you with the countess’ hand in marriage—I admit I am wrong. However, I can still help you to the altar, and I think you should accept my help.”
“Well, tell me, whelp. And it better be good if you wish to keep your hide, for today you push my patience more than ever.” Though I could not help the smile that tugged at my lips. Faith, but the scamp was original. Yet her tune had changed so fast I worried she was up to some scheme that would end with us both in Fleet Street prison.
The fool gave a graceless bow. But when she had risen, our eyes met, and I saw just how serious she could be.
“Your Grace. I propose the unthinkable. Something I would not want spoken of here, would not leave these walls for I take advantage of my dear sister. Though you are a greater man and alpha than I, I fear my sister’s anger more than anything you could do to me.”
“Spit it out. None of your poetry,” now curious to learn whatever scheme she had devised within such a short space of time.
“I, under your direction, shall woo the lady for you.”
I grinned. She was mad.
“And how will you meet her? She will not see alphas.”
“Why, dressed as my sister. The fair Viola always wears skirts. It is known, Your Grace. Your business cannot be bandied about. So I will not ask her to do this for you. I will pretend to be an omega.” Her lips twisted into a wry smile as if knowing how ridiculous her proposal was.
I buried my face in my hands, but could not contain my mirth. A laugh erupted, much to her surprise. This young alpha was an Original, and, as little as I liked to admit it, I liked her despite, nay because of her graceless ways. I more than liked her. Our time together had been brief, but she’d yet to bore me, an all too often occurrence when I spent my days with all dynamics bowing and scraping afraid of speaking out of turn. There was a plainness to her manner, despite the poetry and almost careless deference. If there was a thought in her head, it would be spoken willy-nilly. Novel, to be sure. She fascinated me without any artifice—a worrying state of affairs if she were an omega, a temptation to look away from the countess.
“What do you get from this?” I couldn’t help but be curious. It was a dangerous game to play. An alpha intruding on an omega went against all my principles. I’d be happy for Mrs Markham, but an alpha? It bothered me.
“My sisters forever play pranks on me. Why shouldn’t I play one on them? Stand up for the honour of alphas everywhere?” she snorted with a wry grin playing across her beautiful face.
I sat back in my chair, head cocked to the side as I considered her plan. Sure enough, there were poems and songs of alphas and omegas cheating their way into a lover’s heart by transforming into the opposite dynamic. Even rumours that it had been done, and successfully. But when attempted—some omega wanting to take on the natural role of an alpha—the omega was caught in the lie. They could not carry off such a ruse because their scent and slick would reveal their dynamic sooner or later. Nature had its plans for the dynamics. The point was raised, and Hartwell grinned back at me.
“Your Grace should trust me. I’ve grown up with the best of omegas and know the ins and outs of their behaviour.” She stepped forward, a hand reached out in supplication. “And no one would expect me to produce slick amongst omegas…”
I cleared my throat, almost embarrassed by her jocular reference to eliciting slick from a roomful of omegas. Did there exist an alpha like Hartwell? The answer was plain as a pikestaff. Never, nor would there ever be an equal to my secretary.
“And you expect me to believe that you will honestly court her in my name? That you will not woo her for yourself?”
“Yes. And should she suspect that—“
“That you are an alpha...”
“Then I shall tell her the truth: I am an alpha, wooing in your name. Not so difficult, I think?” She smiled coyly. Yes, I thought. She could convince a grief-stricken omega, wild with the loss of her husband.
“I’d like to see you in this disguise first. I’m not convinced you will pull off the dynamic change,” I said, after some thought. She flushed again. Surprised and somewhat, I realised, embarrassed by my request. “If I cannot be convinced by your disguise, how do you expect an omega, whose sense of smell is even more sensitive, will accept the deception?”
“Will you keep me on as your secretary regardless of my success?”
“Yes.” I knew I could not live without her help. For Hartwell, despite her youth and seeming carelessness, made an excellent secretary. Though having been rusticated from Oxford, her understanding was greater than many who had graduated with honours. There was a rough idealism to her, and I determined to urge her to return to complete her degree rather than attempt to make a career in politics without the experience—quite frankly, the connections—that university would afford her. Idealism was well and good for youth, but hard-headedness was needed if she sought to establish a more liberal government, which would provide omegas with opportunities and legal protections from aggressive alphas.
Her shoulders dropped, and she flashed me a sheepish smile. “I admit, Your Grace, I’m more interested in working as your secretary than I am in flirting with an omega or sitting through morning visits.”
“What?” I laughed. “I saw you kiss one of London’s most desired women. She blushed and watched you until we left… Or did you not notice?”
She glared at me, her nostrils flaring. I know she struggled to believe herself attractive, a feeling I knew too well. And rather than give her a reason to pick another fight about her looks or quite frankly erotic kiss, I ordered her back to work.
* * *
A few hours later, grown restless from sitting for so long, I abandoned Hartwell and walked over to Manton’s, one of London’s exclusive shooting galleries. In one corner I found a dissatisfied looking Lord Paxton checking a pistol with Colonel Jack Fordom, a black-haired war hero with a gallows humour that held many at arm’s length. The two alphas were like silver and cold iron, as pretty and lethal as the guns they so accurately shot with.
“Orley. Didn’t expect to find you in town,” Paxton set his pistol down and flexed his hand. I leant against the wall and watched them at their game, for it seemed they were competing for some prize. “Will you demonstrate your aim? Jack is looking to embarrass any and all.”
“Embarrass? Ha. Orley is more like to embarrass me than any. Except perhaps Bea… Miss Hartwell,” Fordom aimed at the target and less than a breath later hit the bullseye.
“Hartwell?” I frowned. “Related to Iris Hartwell.”
“Not her again,” Paxton snarled. He glared at his guns, deep in thought. “I ran into the child the other night. Fired up like a dog with a bone when I mentioned her sister.”
“That’s not my impression of her,” I inspected the pistols laid out on the table. My intention to observe, engage in some conversation, and then leave was set aside in my interest to learn more about the Hartwells. “She’s too young to do more than blow a bit of hot air about.”
“Oh? And how’d you come to know young Hartwell?... Your Grace,” Fordom asked, throwing my title in at the last moment and shooting me a sharp glance. We’d sparred earlier in the year. I’d suspected he’d thrown the bout out of some deference to my position in society… Now I wasn’t so sure for he didn’t appear to be an alpha to lose to anyone.
“She is my new secretary,” I summoned a lackey and asked for my pistols to be brought over. “It’s no secret.”
“Ain’t like you to hire a stripling.”
I shrugged, yet I felt no need to explain myself to them. We might know each other, but neither of these alphas were my friends.
“She was lucky to have a handful of ancients with her the other night.” Paxton aimed and a shot rang out.
“She is a fencer,” I remarked as Paxton, clearly still riled by his run-in with my new secretary, lost another point. “I’ve a mind to try her hand.”
“What, to take on a girl just out of leading strings?” Fordom asked. “Is she as pretty as her sisters? Beatrice and Hippolyta have their mother’s fiery hair. Do the twins also carry all those curls or are they dark like their father?”
Did he realise he’d revealed he knew the Hartwells far more intimately than he wanted to let on? Dark like the father? The omega had died some five or so years before, and Fordom was only recently returned to England.
“Dark hair and violet eyes,” I scratched my chin watching them. “She’s slight for an alpha but does not lack courage. Speaks her mind.”
“Regretting taking her on?” Fordom smiled.
“You should throw her out.” Paxton snarled. He had taken my secretary into an intense dislike. It would be amusing to see them together again, and by his looks, Fordom agreed.
“If you see the fair Miss Hartwell, do let me know,” Fordom’s eyes didn’t leave Paxton’s face and sparkled with mischief.
“Which one?” I grinned enjoying a new kinship with Fordom when he taunted Paxton.
“For all that is holy. Be done with it!” Paxton threw his hands in the air. “Play or not. But let us leave Beatrice out of this. You aren’t worthy to—“
“So you do still care,” Fordom’s eyes flashed. “I was not speaking of Beatrice, the wretched albatross, but the youngest Viola.”
I watched the two and remembered with a suddenness that they were known for taking lovers together. Perhaps their problems with Beatrice Hartwell, who had red hair and caused her sister to lose her temper, were of a far more intimate nature. My guns arrived, and Fordom, clearly bored of teasing his friend, steered the conversation to less troubled waters.
* * *
I did not think of Beatrice Hartwell again, until the following week when my Hartwell barged into the library, a footman carrying a portmanteau. With each passing day, I became conscious that she was a beautiful woman who’d turn heads with a flash of her sparkling, mischievous eyes and easy confidence in both manner and body. To be certain, a captivating and dangerous woman.
“Your grace,” she said with a bow. Noticing the footman was still present she waited until I signalled he should leave. “Shall I prove myself? As an omega? I hope I’ve already proved myself a sufficient secretary.”
“Very well,” I waved her to continue.
“A screen perhaps?” She fiddled with her cravat. The nervous tick always brought a smile to my lips, but I’d not taken her for a prude after that kiss the other night.
“Aren’t we alphas?” I asked, curious to see how far she would take it. My curiosity was piqued. I conjured up an image of a lithe body, leanly muscled, and perfectly proportioned. My feral side blossomed with anticipation at seeing her stripped bare. “We are alphas.”
“Mystery,” she cleared her throat. “Watching the transformation will take something from it. Don’t you think?”
“Is’t something else?” I frowned sensing there was more than preserving the illusion.
“I am not such a fine specimen of alpha. But,” she took in a deep breath. “An alpha must have her pride.”
“What do I care for that?”
She sucked in her lips, hesitating before confessing a little too quickly. “I have an injury. My leg…”
She pointed to the offending limb.
“Yet you fence…” It seemed preposterous since this lithesome woman moved with grace one rarely saw in an alpha.
“I fight to win fast. A long bout and I would falter.”
No need to press her further. Alphas disliked discussing their weaknesses. As we waited for a screen to be brought I felt a strange sympathy. By no means was she an impressive alpha, but there was some quality in her manner that attracted me. At last, I admitted my response to her was not an objective appreciation of her face and form. Something deeper than that… For it wasn’t just my blood that ran hot when she was near. I smiled more when she was near. I liked the sound of her voice, the scratch of her pen, and her predilection for split infinitives.
“How long will you be?” I asked as she disappeared behind the screen.
“Not long! You would think ours a strange household. My sisters are as like to wear breeches and ride astride as not. And they’ve dressed me in their garb for a laugh or to play some prank. My sister Viola and I are very like, which is why I am confident this trick will come off. But she only ever wears skirts. We are of a height… She don’t think she is omega enough. I hear the countess is different… A perfect omega.”
I crossed to the fire and stared into its depth trying to remind myself why the countess was the solution to my problem. To put it down to being a female omega, who could provide me with an heir, wasn’t the entirety of it. I felt anger that she had been left exposed. The dead Earl had been the worst kind of alpha not to consider his young bride. But then I remembered my father—what little of him I remembered—and my mother—what little of her I wanted to remember—and the answer hit me again and again. To mate someone without due consideration to compatibility was a fate worse than death. True, my beliefs hinged greatly on my grandparents as well. They had not mated but instead found mates later. My grandmother spoke fondly of the six of them spending weeks on end together. They had been happy. If they had not been other than they were, they could have formed a pack of four alphas and two omegas. But a duke or duchess must ensure it was their bloodline that carried on. And if I bonded a wife to me, and she found someone she truly wished to mate? It would be uncomfortable for all of us. An unwanted bond was a burden to all and could lead to ugly jealousy—just as it had with my own parents. That would be… I did not want to think of it. I kicked the smouldering logs. There seemed no fair way out but to take the countess, who once her time of mourning had ended would be thrown onto streets. If I married her, she would have a home and place in society. Perhaps later we would be able to grow close and the possibility of mating could be raised once again. But for now, she needed the protection of a husband, and I could provide that.
“Your Grace?”
I spun at the sound of an unfamiliar, sparkling, undoubtedly omega voice with all its song-like tones. But it could not be, for my secretary Hartwell stood before me. The white gown was cinched tight, hinting at a trim waist and flared hips that were most pleasing. The loose trimmings around the neck revealed her breasts—I’d not thought of her breasts until that moment. She’d let her hair free from the simple queue and was running fingers through the loose curls. My fingers itched to take on the task.
“Well, Your Grace? How do I look?”
I did not have an answer and was immediately grateful for the high backed chair I stood behind because, by all that was holy, I was hard and needing for the vision in front of me. This not-Iris laughed and dipped into a graceful curtsy before gliding towards me. Still, I could not speak. My eyes traced along every line of the face and figure that I longed for on a primal level I’d never before experienced. The vision moved closer until it stood next to me. Those unique violet eyes met mine, and I was able to accept the truth. This must be some hallucination on my part. I froze, unable to explain what happened next. Not in ten long years… It was impossible, but I scented her. Violets and vanilla filled my being and belonged indisputably to an omega—one that made my blood run hot and base need cause my erection to press hard and heavy in my breeches.
“Whose scent is that?” I rasped out, unable to believe I could smell. I, who would not smell horse manure if I stepped in it. Since nineteen, I’d scented nothing, but now, the most heady scent in the world caused my body to thrum with need. I reached down to adjust my hard cock, to squeeze and hope to ease the ache in my knot and balls.
“It belongs to Viola,” her eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Your twin,” I confirmed. Almost certainly too young for me, since I took Hartwell to be at best seventeen or eighteen. And there would be no doubt to her innocence. I found myself screaming at my instincts which sought to claim the owner of this scent. If I thought Hartwell too young, her sister, not yet presented at court, was, without doubt, a forbidden fruit I would need to avoid at all cost. I was a peer of the realm, an alpha capable of controlling himself. Throwing away the plans I’d made all for the chance at a schoolmiss? Unthinkable. Especially a sister I had silently sworn to protect from any unsuitable alphas—alphas like Gale.
“Do you think it will do?” Hartwell asked. She took a step back, her body tense, those fine shoulders rising up to her ears. Almost, almost I could convince myself it was the act of an omega uncertain around a virile alpha.
“Yes, an excellent facsimile of an omega,” my words a rough growl, for I had breathed in and now my body thrummed with primal desire to conquer. I needed her gone before I did something that would embarrass us both. “You may go now. I have letters...”
“Oh, do you need my help?” Delicate fingers tucked a stray lock behind her ear. At last, I saw the smooth column of her neck where her mate gland would be if she were an omega. Thank the Goddess I had enough control to stop myself from reaching out to touch that soft skin, to scent her, chasing the first scent… A decade and it must be my secretary’s omega sister that I must smell.
For the life of me, I wondered how she could continue to sound so calm and unaffected by my own aroused scent—I may not smell it but I knew that it had spiked the minute I’d laid eyes on this Viola Hartwell mirage. Those eyes. I focused on the one thing I knew: Those violet eyes belonged to my Hartwell and no one else.
“No. Change and I will see you tomorrow,” I growled.
I gave her a swift, abrupt nod and left the library, going straight to my room, hoping to find some peace away from that intoxicating scent. Fuck, my aching cock! I gave into temptation and squeezed it hard through my breeches. I’d never had such a strong reaction to an omega’s scent before. I would not show any weakness to relieve myself, but when I crossed to the window in an attempt to let in the cold crisp air I saw her leave my house. Hartwell was once again the charming young alpha dressed in men’s clothing. The tricorn hat over her dark hair and tossing a friendly comment over her shoulder to Horne my long-serving butler.
I turned away more confused and more aroused than ever. The way my body responded to her in all her guises only hardened my resolve to marry the countess. I could not in good conscious take... I spun away and almost tripped over my feet to get back to the library. The screen was still there. I edged towards it, my heart pounded with equal parts hope and dread. Behind it, the dress she’d worn lay crumpled on the floor—a white stain on the richly coloured carpet. I brought the delicate cotton, better worn in summer than this cold February, to my face and inhaled. A growl escaped before I could control it. I needed to ensure I was never in the same room as Hartwell dressed in her sister’s clothes. For those sparkling eyes, that smart mouth paired with the smell of—I inhaled again—violets and vanilla. I wanted to lick every inch of her omega twin.
But I couldn’t. She wasn’t for me. If I wanted to secure the future of the dukedom and save an unmated widow from destitution I could never test my resolve by spending any time around Viola Hartwell.