The wedding was hailed as a masterpiece of social engineering and physical beauty. Best of all, as Alexia's bridesmaid, Miss Hisselpenny was not permitted to choose her own hat. The ceremony went unexpectedly smoothly, and in no time at all. Miss Tarabotti found herself Lady Maccon.
Afterward, everyone assembled in Hyde Park, which was admittedly unusual, but exceptions had to be made when werewolves were involved. And there certainly were a goodly number of werewolves. Not simply Lord Maccon's pack but all the loners, other packs, and clavigers within traveling distance had attended the celebration.
Luckily, there was enough meat for them all. The only aspect of wedding procedure Alexia had invested genuine involvement and time into was the food. As a result, the tables set about their corner of the park fairly groaned under their burdens. There were galantines of guinea fowl stuffed with minced tongue quivering in aspic jelly and decorated with feathers made of lemon-soaked apple peel. No fewer than eight pigeons in truffle gravy nesting in coils of pastry made their appearance and disappearance. There were stewed oysters, fried haddock fillets in anchovy sauce, and grilled sole with peach compote. Having noted Lord Maccon's fondness for poultry, the Loontwill cook provided woodcock pie, roast pheasant in butter sauce with peas and celery, and a brace of grouse. There was a baron of beef, a forequarter of mutton glazed with red wine, and lamb cutlets with fresh mint and broad beans—all offered on the rarer side. Corner dishes included lobster salad, spinach and eggs, vegetable fritters, and baked potatoes. In addition to the massive bride's cake and the piles of nutty groom's cakes for the guests to take home, there were rhubarb tarts, stewed cherries, fresh strawberries and purple grapes, gravy boats of clotted cream, and plum pudding. The food was declared an unqualified success, and many a plan was made to visit Woolsey Castle for luncheon once Alexia took over supervision of its kitchens.
Miss Hisselpenny took the entire event as an excuse to flirt with anything male and on two legs, and a few on four. This seemed perfectly acceptable, until Alexia spotted her going goggle-eyed over the repulsive Lord Ambrose. The new Lady Maccon crooked an imperious finger at Professor Lyall and sent him to salvage the situation.
Professor Lyall, muttering something about “new brides having more to concern themselves with than meddling,” did as ordered. He insinuated himself seamlessly into the conversation between Lord Ambrose and Miss Hisselpenny, and hustled Ivy away for a waltz without anyone the wiser to his militarylike intervention tactics. He then carried Ivy off to the other side of the lawn, which was serving as the dance floor, and introduced her to Lord Maccon's redheaded claviger, Tunstell.
Tunstell looked at Ivy.
Ivy looked at Tunstell.
Professor Lyall noted with satisfaction that they wore identical expressions of the stunned-donkey variety.
“Tunstell,” instructed the Beta, “ask Miss Hisselpenny if she would like to dance.”
“Would you, um, like to, um, dance, Miss Hisselpenny?” stuttered the normally loquacious young man.
“Oh,” said Ivy. “Oh yes, please.”
Professor Lyall, all forgotten, nodded to himself. Then he dashed off to deal with Lord Akeldama and Lord Ambrose who seemed to be getting into some sort of heated argument on the subject of waistcoats.
“Well, wife?” asked Alexia's new husband, whisking her about the lawn.
“Yes, husband?”
“Think we can officially escape yet?”
Alexia looked about nervously. Everyone seemed to be suddenly fleeing the dance floor, and the music was changing. “Um, I think, perhaps, not just yet.” They both stopped and looked about.
“This was not part of the wedding plan,” she said in annoyance. “Biffy, what is happening here?” she yelled.
From the sidelines, Biffy shrugged and shook his head.
The clavigers were causing the disturbance. They had arranged themselves in a large circle about Lord Maccon and Alexia and were slowly pushing everyone else away. Alexia noticed that Ivy, little traitor, was helping them.
Lord Maccon slapped his forehead with his hand. “God's truth, they aren't really? That old tradition?” He trailed off as the howling began. “Aye, they are. Well, my dear, best get used to this kind of thing.”
The wolves burst into the open circle like a river of fur. Under the quarter moon, there was no anger or bloodlust in their movements. Instead it was like a dance, liquid and beautiful. The fuzzy throng was comprised of not just the Woolsey Pack but also all the visiting werewolves. Almost thirty of them jumped and pranced and yipped as they coiled around the newly married couple.
Alexia held very still and relaxed into the dizzying movement. The wolves circled closer and closer until they pressed against her skirts, all hot predator breath and soft fur. Then one wolf stopped directly next to Lord Maccon—a thin, sandy, vulpinelike creature—Professor Lyall.
With a wink at Alexia, the Beta threw his head back and barked, once, sharply.
The wolves stopped stock-still and then did the most organized, politely amusing thing. They lined up in a neat circle all about and one by one came forward. As each wolf stood before the newly married pair, he lowered his head between his forelegs, showing the back of his neck in a funny little bow.
“Are they paying homage to you?” Alexia asked her husband.
He laughed. “Lord, no. Why would they bother with me?”
“Oh,” replied Alexia, realizing it was meant to honor her. “Should I do something?”
Conall kissed her cheek. “You are wonderful as you are.”
The last to come forward was Lyall. His bow was somehow more elegant and more restrained than anyone else's.
Once completed, he barked again, and they all leaped into action: running three times around the couple and dashing off into the night.
After that, everything else was anticlimactic, and as soon as civility allowed, Alexia's new husband hustled her into the waiting carriage and on the road out of London toward Woolsey Castle.
A few of the werewolves returned then, still in wolf form, to run alongside the carriage.
Just outside of town, Lord Maccon stuck his head out the coach window and told them unceremoniously to “shove off.”
“I gave the pack the evening out,” he informed Alexia, retracting his head and closing the window. His wife issued him an arch look.
“Oh, very well. I told them if they showed their furry faces round Woolsey Castle for the next three days, I would personally eviscerate them.”
Alexia smiled. “Good gracious, where will they all stay?”
“Lyall muttered something about invading Lord Akeldama's town house.” Conall looked smugly amused.
Alexia laughed. “Would I were a fly on that wall!”
Her husband turned about and without further ado began unclasping the brooch that held the neck of her beautiful gown together.
“Intriguing design, this dress,” he commented without real interest.
“Rather say, necessary design,” replied his lady as the neck fell away to show a neat pattern of tiny love bites all about her throat. Lord Maccon traced them with proprietary pride.
“What are you up to?” Alexia asked as he gently kissed the tiny bruises. She was distracted by the delicious tingly sensation this caused, but not enough to forgo noticing his hands were round the back of the bodice of her dress, sliding open the row of buttons there.
“I should think that would be obvious by now,” he replied with a grin. He pushed back the top of her dress and became intent on undoing her corset. His lips moved down from her neck to delve into the region of her décolletage.
“Conall,” Alexia murmured hazily, almost losing her objections as new and delicious sensation extended from nipples turned strangely tight and hard. “We are in a moving carriage. Why this constant preference for inappropriate locations for amorous activities?”
“Mmm, not to worry,” he purposefully misconstrued her protestations. “I gave the coachman instructions to take the long way round.” He helped her to stand and shucked her out of her dress, skirts, and corset with consummate rapidity.