Omega’s Gambit by Flora Quincy
Syon
One morning Hartwellarrived earlier than usual, her face drawn and something like anger causing the muscles in her shoulders to tense before she took a steadying breath and released whatever plagued her. I cursed for noticing such details, but since her arrival, I’d caught myself hunting for hints of the omega she’d dressed as. Not just any omega but her sister Viola. The dress I’d stolen after that day was carefully wrapped in tissue and placed at the bottom of the closet in the duchess’s nest. I could somehow excuse holding on to it when I kept it in an omega’s quarters.
We’d been working in silence for some time when she stood abruptly and walked to the other window before spinning around to stare at me with those fierce eyes.
“Are you sure you want to marry her?” she asked. “The countess. Could there not be another omega in the world you could pick?”
“Why do you ask?” I felt my lips twitch. “Don’t tell me you’ve already seen her and decided to take her for yourself?”
I meant it to tease. After all, she was heir to her mother’s fortune which was respectful and certainly good enough to support the young countess. I considered that if she couldn’t afford the omega price, I would help her. However, even as I thought the words, I realised my mistake. I did not love the countess, but if Hartwell married her I would lose my secretary. “Surely you are too young to think of marriage?”
“Omegas are married at my age,” she snapped. “But no. I’ve no interest in omegas. She is a shell, Your Grace. I cannot… I have met her. I admit she is as pretty as a picture, the model upon which all omegas should be formed. But there is no life in her eyes. Her alpha guardian growled at me. And! An old crone is sneering down her nose at the countess. I did not like it. I do not like it. I urge you—“
“So you are saying her life is not happy?” I stood and crossed to where she had rested her forehead against the glass. She had a soft heart if she thought widowed omegas lived happy lives.
“More than that—“ she slammed a hand against the windowsill.
I purred for her on instinct. I wanted to soothe her. “Then surely becoming my wife would be a solution? It would offer her protection from the hell she is living in.”
“I know. Being your wife would be… It is her best hope.“
“You had not thought of that before? I thought we had agreed to that.”
“Your Grace! How could I? You’ve said that… You want a wife and mother to your heirs, not a mate. What would you be doing but put her in yet again the same situation.”
“She would give me alpha children who would care for her,” I touched her arm. “There is no reason to think she is barren. The Earl had no natural children. An alpha like him? He’d be rutting anything with a womb. Designation wouldn’t matter to him so long as they gave him an alpha heir. He was a nasty piece of work, you wild puss.”
I froze when I realised what I’d called her, but thankfully her mind was full of the countess and not my slip of the tongue.
“You can’t guarantee that!” She spun away and thrust hands through her hair bringing it loose from the black velvet ribbon that held it back. “Don’t you see—“
“Enough!” I barked. The sensitivities of youth had their place, but she took it too far. And in a conversation I believed us to have come to an agreement on. “Perhaps, having been surrounded by so many omegas, you think that there is some romantic notion to all of this. But amongst the aristocracy marriage is not as simple as it is for the lower classes. Mating is not so simple. The reason the countess is in this predicament is because she bore no alpha children. Not because she lacked a mating bite—would you really want her mated to one such as him? Do you think the world cares for your romantic notions about mate bites? They do not. I will allow you to have some emotions about this; you are young and raised amongst omegas. But I shall not tolerate this behaviour from my secretary. If you think to continue in this manner I shall send you on your way. Are we understood?”
There was a moment when I thought Hartwell, raised by omegas, would submit like an omega. How wrong I was. She straightened her spine and crossed to my desk where she picked up a bottle of ink and dashed it into the fire. A pretty display of temper to be sure. Those eyes flashed with anger, and it called to some primal need to dominate her. I wanted to put her in her place, on her knees cowed to my superior alpha. Another part of me was on edge, curious and excited for what she would do next. Another still wanted to comfort her in her distress.
“Your Grace… You are wrong if you think I am not aware of the place omegas hold in our society. Do not forget I went to meet the countess dressed as Viola, covered with her scent. I endured an alpha sneering at me and could do nothing but bow my head and retreat like a good omega. If you think for a moment that I am determined to let this go you are mistaken. If what I had to go through is the worst of what my sisters suffer… I will not let it stand. My father and mother taught me better than that. You and any other alpha would use that young woman, that frail beauty as a broodmare. And when I tell you, Your Grace, that she will be ripe for picking the moment she comes out of full mourning, I do not lie. A simple sign of kindness will have her in love. There is nothing I would not do to protect that innocence.”
By the end of her speech, she was panting, and if possible those eyes were even brighter than before. I wanted to smooth that furrowed brow. Instead, I lowered the pitch of my voice, spoke to her as I might a young filly just becoming comfortable with a saddle.
“Then give her to me. If I marry her, she will be protected. She can stay in the country or Town. She will want for nothing. I will allow her the life she wants. If she wishes to mate another alpha, she may. But she will have my blessing to find love where she can.”
“So long as she gives you alpha children,” she snapped, her face flushed.
“After she gives me an heir. Is that so bad?” I asked knowing better than to take the bait she offered. Why Hartwell was so desperate for a fight I could not fathom, but it seemed best to ignore it. Turn her thoughts in another direction. It was several moments before she spoke, and when she did the fight had drained from her. I took that stubborn chin in my hand and tilted her head back until she was forced to look at me.
“No,” she sounded so resigned. “If Iris hadn’t been born— Ha! Well, if my parents had no alpha children the others… You’ve no notion of my sisters. They are wild and determined to drive our Mama to an early grave.”
“Your older sister had something to do with the Summer Exhibition, I believe?” I prompted, glad her thoughts had turned to a more, shall I say, pleasant subject.
“You put it very nicely, Your Grace,” she chuckled, and the weight on my chest lifted. I did not believe she was completely satisfied with what we had been speaking of, but now at least her temper had cooled. “Beatrice paints. Hippolyta… She enjoys hunting.”
“And your twin?” I couldn’t help asking. That scent of violets and vanilla still haunted me.
“Oh? She is Viola. An idealist I suppose,” Hartwell worried her bottom lip between neat, white teeth. My eyes focused there, almost not hearing her. “She used to write letters to the cabinet when she was a child. They were beautifully written—she has the most beautiful handwriting according to the last three Prime Ministers—but until my uncle enquired at cabinet they were left unread.”
“And what did she think of that?” I smiled into the face I looked forward to seeing each morning.
She barked a laugh. “Your Grace? Viola couldn’t escape the praise that her handwriting was so fair until she parcelled out the fact the Prime Minister had only seen them at our uncle’s insistence. Then she determined to flood Parliament.”
“With letters?” I asked. She shook her head and I realised she meant Viola had planned to flood parliament in the most literal sense possible. “Where would she get the water? The Thames?”
“Of course.”
I looked at Hartwell, really looked, and was alarmed by my response. The desire to take her hand and assure her face in my hands and kiss away her worries. The Countess would become my wife, and be spared a miserable existence as an unmated, childless widow of a peer. Then Hartwell could go back to Oxford, complete her education, travel, and return for a brilliant career. I would sponsor her. We could be… friends. We could only ever be friends. Yet “friend” seemed so inadequate, as I’d grown to realise I wanted more.
“Your Grace?”
“Apologies, I was woolgathering.”
“Shall we return to business? I am sorry for… My outburst was inappropriate.”
“It is close to your heart. Your passion is admirable.” I gave in to impulse and took her hand in both of mine, patting it. “Everything will be fine, Hartwell. You’ve your votes. We’ll rescue the countess.” My lips quirked at the image of us, knight and page riding off on some ridiculous quest. “All’s well that ends well. Isn’t that what the alpha Shakespearia wrote?”
“Omega,” she grumbled, but I caught the hint of a smile in those violet eyes.
* * *
I found myself at Manton’s again, hoping to gain some mental space from Hartwell and the memory of her face as she wrote letters in my name. Yes, I needed to get the young alpha out of my head because when I’d teased her about her handwriting as pretty as her sister’s, she’d gone red, the flush disappearing down her neck. I had almost given in to the temptation to pull her never neat cravat free and see just how far down her neck her blush went. The flutterings of attraction bothered me one day and felt so natural the next. I put it down to the subtle whiffs of Viola that seemed to constantly hang around her. I could sniff out Viola more clearly every day—an addict desperate for the taste of juice of the poppy.
“You’ve been coming here more often than I remember,” Paxton said as he watched me take aim, a faint frown marring his handsome features.
“What? Am I not permitted to leave my own house?”
“That’s not what I mean, Orley,” he sighed. “You spend so much of your time in the country that seeing your face in London on more than one night in a year is an oddity.”
“I plan on marrying,” I told him, seeing no reason to hide my purpose for being in London.
“Oh? And who is the lady?”
“It is still in negotiations,” I smirked.
“Not one of Hartwell’s sisters? I beg you not to get involved with that family more than you already are.”
“And what is the tale there?”
“Beatrice Hartwell is a menace to polite society. Dressing as a man in an attempt to have her paintings shown at the Summer Exhibition. I saw them. Her work is without equal, but I’ve never witnessed such careless, reckless disregard for personal safety. An omega in a room of alphas! What’s more—the paintings… She went too far. An Omega’s Progress depicting—thinly veiled, mind—the Countess of Kellingham’s journey about an indigent farmer so poor he sold his omega daughter off to the highest bidder. And now she is a widow without a penny to her name.”
I snarled. I’d known my intended bride had not been born into a noble family but it seemed her tale was even more tragic than I’d known. Hartwell was right. She needed a light hand rather than my own brand of wooing.
“Ah, Paxton on his favourite topic? The delectable Miss Hartwell?” Fordom sauntered over. Next to Paxton, he appeared stocky, but I’d sparred with him at Jackson’s and knew him to be all muscle. I’d put my money on him were he to enter the ring against any professional. He raised his quizzing glass to his eye and faked being startled to see me. “Orley, but this is a rare pleasure.”
“Keep your mouth shut,” Paxton growled. “The Misses Hartwell as a collective unit are a menace to polite society.”
“You used those same words not a minute before. Are you certain you do not protest your dislike too much?” I asked. “And to answer your question. No, the Hartwell omegas are not where my interest lies.”
These alphas did not need to know that it was the alpha Miss Hartwell that truly called to me.
Fordom smirked at us. “The pair of you tied up in a family that delights in causing scandal. Two alphas, both alike in the indignity of omegas stepping out of their allotted roles. Taken down by the Hartwells. Miss Beatrice Hartwell shall be your downfall Pax, and Miss Viola Hartwell for you, Orley, since I have heard she is as dangerous as Beatrice.”
“And Hippolyta?” Paxton asked.
“I have already retired from the lists. Hartwells ain’t for one such as I. As for Hippolyta Hartwell…” Fordom laughed. “They don’t call her Queen of the High Toby for nothing. Beatrice is by far the most level headed Hartwell omega to have drawn breath in this century… And the most beautiful.”
The last seemed dragged from him as if it pained him in that moment to recall her face.
“You speak of the Hartwells?”
I turned to find Caroline Wilson, an alpha a few years below me at university, standing just to the side watching us. She was the eldest child of a vicar, and the last I’d heard she planned to join the army… Yet here she was.
“What of it? An odd family, wouldn’t you say?” Fordom smirked.
“Damn officious,” she spat. “I met Viola Hartwell at Lady Clare’s the other day. A shrew.”
I found myself growling—so this was the alpha who’d sneered at Hartwell while dressed as an omega. But it was Paxton who squared up to her.
“A shrew? You’re lucky Iris Hartwell is not here. She would challenge you before you took your next breath, and she a mere cub barely out of leading strings.”
“And I’m meant to be scared by that?” Wilson scoffed, but she left without another word.
“What a trio of fishwives we are,” Fordom chuckled. “Just the other day Pax faces down the infant and now he threatens to let the little one loose. You, Orley, must be next to defend the Hartwell name.”
* * *
I woke the next morning aching with need for violets and vanilla. Violets and vanilla. The first scent I’d smelled in so long that I thought I’d go mad with aching need no matter its source. I’d promised myself not to ask after Viola, but that control almost vanished when I entered my study to find Hartwell at my desk looking over some documents. She’d taken her bottom lip between her teeth and was worrying it.
“That is un-alpha-like behaviour,” I snapped, mad I had spent at least a minute staring and warring with the need to take the task upon myself or soothe the abused lip with gentle kisses.
“Oh, sorry. I suppose I am but a child in your eyes…” she murmured without taking her eyes off what she read. “Did you have a look at the latest bill they wish to put before the commons? It is rather peculiarly worded, don’t you think? Pitt must have a new secretary. Have you heard anything like that?”
“And why would you think the Prime Minister has changed secretaries?”
“Oh, the syntax. My father used to have us read all the bills pertaining to omega rights. All the bills, actually.”
“Even you?” I asked, confused. Alphas presented earlier than omegas, so it made little sense for Hartwell to have sat in on lessons with her sisters when she should have been at school. “Didn’t you go to school?”
“Hmmm… No. My parents could not bear the thought of us being away,” she was still distracted by what she was reading. I took the time to observe her in greater detail. “I presented later. They thought we would be the same dynamic. We presented at the same time. One of each. My father believed it had something to do with the fact we were born of a female alpha, male omega pairing.”
“And you? Do you believe your father’s hypothesis?”
“I am to read natural history and biology, Your Grace,” she chuckled and finally turned her face towards me. “I would say that my father had no proof… I should say that I respect him too much to argue with his ghost on a point he had spent his entire life working on. I too am interested in the assignment of dynamics. I plan…”
“I thought you wanted to follow a career in politics.”
“I do,” she hastened to assure me.”But first I will spend a few years looking at mating pairs. An odd kind of work to be sure.”
I smiled. It was odd, but then the Hartwells seemed to be a family of singular tastes.
“You had an interesting childhood,” I observed.
“Very. We were in Scotland until my father died. We all went to the parish school, and my father taught at the university because omegas have that freedom… Edinburgh is a beautiful city. The most beautiful I know.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I prefer the country. Beatrice prefers town. Hippolyta is a cat, dissatisfied with wherever she is.”
“And Viola?”
“Viola…” she paused and looked back at the papers she held. “She wants to be with the people she loves… I’ve never considered it before. But what of you, Your Grace? I know that at some point you must have been a child.”
“Naturally. But nothing like your own. Perhaps you’ve heard about my mother and father?”
“Only whispers. My parents were not gossips. My aunt, only about the comings and goings of her neighbours. My uncle could not care less.”
I fought the childish urge to roll my eyes. Her uncle might not care for social standing but he was a shrewd man and a political creature to the bone.
“My parents were married and mated. My mother’s affairs with other alphas and betas drove my father mad with jealousy. The year I was meant to start school, he blew his brains out. Officially it was a duel. But he could no longer take the shame of being an alpha cuckolded by his mate.”
“Oh. I see.”
And I knew she did. That quick brain pulling the pieces together and understanding why I would not mate my wife.
“Which is why you choose to marry and not mate. Though why not mate at a later date? When you know each other better.”
“Perhaps I’ve no interest in turning into a feral alpha. It would take a remarkable person—one I could not imagine living without—to convince me to take a mate. One who could not live without me. I would mate them no matter the dynamic or sex. Do you understand me?” I could not explain why it mattered but I needed her to… To what? Agree with me?
“I should not have pried. We have work to do, Your Grace,” she cleared her throat.
“You are avoiding my question,” I pointed out.
“I do not understand it,” she sighed, her eyes unhappy. “I would not fight with you for the world. I am sure that your reasons make sense to you but to me, they are a mystery.”
“Because I do not wish an unhappy mating on anyone. My grandparents were happy because they married for respect, the legacy of the dukedom. But they mated those they loved. I grew up with a pack who were a single unit. Should I force a mate bond on an omega? A mate bond she or he didn’t desire? Or one that I didn’t desire? Is that love, do you think? Or respect?”
Hartwell, so quick with an answer to every question put to her, stood looking at me. Her cheeks were stained pink, and she pulled that blasted, plump lower lip between her teeth. I gripped the arms of my chair. My alpha rode me hard, urging me to make plain to her exactly how I felt about mating bites. If I just got my teeth on her neck, she might better understand the permanency of something she had not asked for. That is if an alpha would respond as an omega did. As our eyes locked. I perceived the dilemma of my reaction to my secretary. As an alpha, I really ought not have this response to another alpha. It was not unheard of. But alphas needed defined hierarchies, making an equal relationship between two alphas challenging without the tempering influence of an omega. Yet here I was, satisfied to allow her to play as she would, make small challenges to my authority, all because I knew it would take very little for me to exert my dominance. We could work, I realised. With her youth and, despite those sparks of temper, natural submissiveness. We could work as mates. And for that very reason, I must fight my urges. For desiring to mate her while I planned to marry the countess went against my own principles. What omega would accept that scheme? For if I were to take her to my bed, I would never deny her access. An omega bride would have to accept we were one. All of which made this an impossible game of if’s and could be’s.
“Get back to work,” I said, at last breaking eye contact. She walked back to her desk and sat, her focus seemingly back on the letters of business she’d been tasked with. But every so often, when I was caught in a mindless perusal of my young secretary’s face, her eyes would meet mine. Enthralled by each other before one of us looked away.
“Your Grace, I believe it is time for me to return to my uncle’s,” her voice rough as if roused from a deep sleep. I looked at the clock and saw the late hour and shooed her away before I gave in to the impulse to invite her to stay for a light meal or game of chess.
That night I sat up weighing my options. I could not do without the best secretary I’d had, though I would never tell her that. It was more satisfying to watch her not realise her own brilliance. And at the same time, I needed to right the course of our relationship. Put her in the role of secretary, perhaps protegé. Invite her to some dinner and introduce her to other alphas she could make connections with. For if I kept her too close, I would never be able to give her up. I walked into the duchess’s nest, a place I had visited every night for the last week. I had come to London with a clear plan in mind, but now I felt almost feral with the need to change that plan and follow instincts that demanded I bring her here to this nest. Nests were meant for omegas, but I wanted to see Hartwell here. See whether she would bare her neck for me. How would she taste? What would her pink cunt look like? What sounds would she make as I locked us together on my knot?