Page 21 of Born Wild
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 issomething 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 wordcommon. 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 veryEyes Wide Shut,aren’t they? VeryFifty 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 theythink 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 nochance 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.
