Chapter Text
Prologue: Bell Books
Anthony John Crowley: The Duke of Blackwood
Crowley breathed in deeply as he stepped over the threshold, out of the cold London afternoon, and into the cozy warmth of a familiar place. He sighed as the scent of old paper, beeswax, leather, tea, and something else settled something restless in his chest. He just needed a moment.
The journey from Castle Blackwood to London had been more grueling than Crowley had expected, a late season storm blowing in when he was only a few miles outside London. He'd been stranded at his country estate for three days before the roads had been safe enough for him to continue. This morning’s dawn had been clear, finally, and he’d set as hard a pace with his dark grey thoroughbred as he’d dared to make it back to the city before the Season’s First Ball.
With only hours until his first expected appearance in the ton after three years sequestered in the Highlands, blessedly free of the prying eyes of London’s elite, Crowley wanted some time just to wander the city proper as himself, not his title. So, he’d sent his valet, Eric, who’d chosen to ride alongside him these last weeks, the daft man, on to his townhouse in Mayfair’s most exclusive Eastgate Square, while he took to the streets.
Admittedly, not much had changed in the three years he’d been away. But he still didn’t like the noise and the crowds that came with city living. Crowley didn’t even realize he’d been steadily making his way here to this specific shop until the little bell above the door had announced his presence.
Bell Books hadn’t changed at all, Crowley noted as he moved through the cluttered bookshop tucked between a modiste and a tailor. The bookshop had been a favourite place for him and his mother to while away hours over the years. If anything, the small, but labyrinthine, shop was even more crowded, with thin volumes and thick tomes alike taking up much of the available space.
Crowley absently rubbed at the ache in his chest the thought his late mother inevitably brought. He knew, of course, the ache would ease as time passed, but at less than a year, he was still caught off guard by the memories that would arise unbidden. Not bad memories, no. He could have probably handled those better. No, he didn’t have bad memories of Fiona Crowley, the late Duchess of Blackwood. He’s not sure anyone who knew her did.
As Crowley was moving toward the area he last knew contained the poetry, he let his thoughts wander to his mother and their last days together this summer past. How she’d made him vow that he would come back to London this Season and find his true mate. How she’d taken the Blackwood Duchess’s ring off her finger, where it had rested since the day his father had offered it to her and himself as mate, and placed it in his palm. She’d closed his fist around it, using all the strength she had left in her failing body to clasp his hands and make him promise.
“She’s waiting for you, Anthony. I ken it,” she’d whispered as she kissed his knuckles.
He could only nod, having lost the fight against his tears long ago. He had to clear his throat several times, his voice still gravel rough when he spoke.
“Aye, my bonny Mother, aye. I will.”
She’d slipped away from him moments later, to join her true mate, his father, in Heaven. Crowley had cried at her side like the wee bairn he certainly wasn’t.
Crowley was only vaguely aware that there was another person further in the shop, a faint creamy vanilla and buttery shortbread drifting toward him–bloody lovely, really–but he was too lost in memories of him and his mother debating the merits of Shakespeare’s comedies over tragedies. Crowley had always been adamantly on the side of the funny ones, of course. Not much for lamenting over skulls, him.
He was torn from his musings by a soft, utterly irritated sound. He looked up.
“Oh, honestly!” came a frustrated, breathy huff as the little thing hopped—actually, hopped—with a petite mesh gloved hand outstretched in an attempt to reach a volume above her head. The creamy sweetness and buttery shortbread Crowley had scented on arrival was also the source of earl grey tea he'd thought was an ambient scent of the shop, which was stronger now that he was closer to her.
The omega, for Crowley could now catch the hint of a white floral that denoted her designation, proceeded to stamp her foot against the floor in this little tantrum she seemed to be having.
He couldn’t help the smile on his face as he moved toward the determined little omega who was now—Lord help him–making desperate little grasping motions at the book as she hopped, one white leather boot clad foot leaving the ground entirely with the latest attempt.
She really was a wee thing–a foot shorter than himself if he had to guess.
Crowley effortlessly reached his long arm above her tiny head and slid his black leather riding glove clad hand past her lavender mesh mitt. He plucked the volume of Shakespeare from the shelf, noting the title as he did. A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Crowley’s personal favorite.
“Excellent choice,” och did that deep, gravelly sound come from him? When was the last time he’d spoken? At least he sounded like a proper English duke and not a wild Highlander.
Fresh apricot blossoms consumed him as he handed the book to the young omega.
Younger than I thought, Crowley couldn’t help but think, as she startled slightly at his appearance, her eyes taking a while to reach his face, due to the height difference and not at all like Crowley was being evaluated by this wee omega in lavender and white.
But then she smiled as she accepted the book from him and it transformed her formally put upon expression like the sun breaking over the Highland mountains. It was radiant–her plump lips wide, a little scrunch of her upturned nose, and those deep sapphire eyes bloody sparkled.
Och, stop it, you. Sparkling eyes. What are you, the Bard himself?
“Oh! Thank you!” Her voice was soft and breathy, sweet as anything he’d ever heard.
Crowley smiled–wide and genuine–in response before he knew what he was doing.
“‘Though she be but little, she is fierce’,” Crowley murmured.
Crowley watched as a different look entirely crossed her face. Her eyes gleamed with a wicked light as the faintest smirk touched her lips.
“‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’” she said softly.
Crowley’s loud bark of laughter startled him. He doesn’t remember the last time he was so thoroughly caught off guard at something so unexpectedly clever. His head tilted back with the force of his laugh.
The wee lass looked positively delighted by her accomplishment, a wiggle of excitement vibrating through her curvy little body, holding the book tightly to her chest, as she aimed that brilliant, eye sparkling smile at him again. Crowley’s breath caught in his throat.
He turned his body more toward her, his hand coming to rest naturally at the shelf just above her head. He could make out the palest blonde curls trying to escape her lavender bonnet.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before anything clever could pass his lips, a maid burst into the aisle. The omega next to him sighed so dramatically one would think she was being sentenced to the gallows. Och, he liked her spirit!
“There you are, my lady!” the maid exclaimed as she rushed forward, pausing only momentarily at seeing her mistress unchaperoned with a strange alpha.
“We must go or your lady mother will have both our heads!”
Crowley could only watch as the girl was ushered out of the aisle and through the shop. She glanced back at him every few seconds as her maid hurried her along, as if she couldn’t stop herself checking he was still there.
Right before he lost sight of her out the door, he realized she was still carrying the volume of Shakespeare clutched tightly to her chest. He smiled despite himself as his gaze returned to the now empty spot she’d so recently occupied by his side. He could still smell creamy earl grey tea and fresh apricot blossoms when he inhaled.
The lass liked us, his inner wolf rumbled.
…Don't be ridiculous, ye daft beast. I didn't even catch her name.
She's a noble, ye know that much.
Aye. Undoubtedly.
“Well, she left in a hurry, didn’t she?” the old bookseller said as he came to stand by Crowley.
“Didn’t she just?” Crowley mused, then finally looked at the bookseller. “Made off with one of your Shakespeare’s while she was at it.”
He smiled at the man, the man who’s been here longer than Crowley’s been alive. “I’ve got it covered, though.”
He turned back to the shelf of poetry, impulsively selecting a volume at random and handing it over to the bookseller. “And this one, Mr. McPhee, please.”
“Certainly, Your Grace," Mr. McPhee said, taking Crowley's book to his counter to wrap in tissue as Crowley selected more than enough coins from the purse in his Garrick coat, and placed them in the old man's softly wrinkled palm.
Crowley accepted the book, tucking it into his coat, as he made to leave.
"Welcome back, Your Grace. My deepest condolences on your lady mother's passing. She was an exceptional woman.”
Crowley's throat worked through his swallow as he nodded. " Thank you, Mr. McPhee. She was, indeed.” He rapped his knuckles on the counter. " I'll be sure to return soon, when I have time to catch up.”
The bookseller nodded. " I look forward to it, Your Grace.”
With that Crowley strode out, the scent of buttery shortbread dipped in creamy earl grey tea and apricot blossoms lingering with him somehow long after his strides carried away from the bookshop and to his horse.
It lingered all the way through until his bath, even. How odd. Crowley put it out of his mind as Eric helped him dress the part he was here to play.
The Duke of Blackwood had a ball to attend.
Lady Azira Eastgate
The carriage wheels rattled violently against the cobblestones while she and Muriel rushed back to Eastgate Square. She sat pressed against the velvet squabs of the Eastgate coach, clutching the volume of A Midsummer Night’s Dream so tightly to her chest the leather binding dug into her lavender mesh covered palms.
Her heart was still beating rapidly behind her ribs as she forced herself to take deep breaths. She was behaving like an absolute lunatic. She’s hours away from her debut into the ton! She should be mentally reciting the list of eligible alphas and their titles while perfecting her curtsey. But no. Not her.
No, Azira is sitting here lost in the faint scent of cold rain on cedars, ozone after a storm, and something warm, like a roaring fire in a dark castle library. Honestly, she should be running through her mental checklist of her attire for the night, perhaps even discussing her exact hair arrangement with Muriel once more. Certainly not recalling short, fiery auburn, with just enough length on top to curl, atop an incredibly tall, lean figure of an alpha.
Who even was she? She’s certainly never flushed thinking of an alpha’s deep rumbling voice before.
“Though she be but little, she is fierce.” The absolute cheek of the man!
But did she do what proper omegas are taught to do and lower her eyes submissively? Oh no, not Azira Eastgate, the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Eden. Nooo.
What does she do? She boldly quotes the play right back to him!
Oh, dear, that laugh. If the smile had been distracting, the laugh was devastating to her senses. It had been sudden and loud, as if completely startled out of the alpha’s chest. A deep, thoroughly delighted sound. It had simultaneously warmed and excited something deep in her core.
The way his much taller–though incredibly lean–build had settled around her as he’d rested his hand on the shelf above her head. Not blocking her in, not at all, but as if just eager to listen to her speak.
And then Muriel had come bustling through, reminding her of herself and what today was. She hadn’t been able to keep from glancing back at the, quite unfairly handsome, alpha as Muriel had hurried her out.
“My lady, we really must get inside!” Muriel’s voice broke Azira from her reverie, so lost she hadn’t even realized they’d crossed Mayfair back to her father’s grand townhouse.
She accepted the footman’s assistance in descending the coach and then did her best to keep up with her maid’s quick stride. There was no stopping Muriel when she was on a mission. Azira had resigned herself long ago to a lady’s maid more fiercely terrified of delaying her mama’s schedule than she was Azira’s penchant for dramatics. Not that she was ever dramatic, certainly not. An Omega debutante must keep her composure at all times.
She allowed herself to be undressed and was ever so grateful to settle back in the oatmilk and lavender bath as she let her maid tend to her without fuss. Tonight was important, after all. It wouldn’t do to miss a spot of skin and have the scent of cedar, storms, and a warm hearth fire atop her own creamy tea and apricot blossoms reach her father’s nose at her debut.
A strange alpha’s scent lingering on the Duke of Eden’s youngest omega before her first Season’s ball would be unforgivable to her father. No matter how innocent the scent transfer may have been.
He hadn’t even touched her, for Heaven’s sake! Blessedly, Muriel said nothing about the strange alpha or why his scent seemed to linger on her skin.
Azira said nothing as the maid scrubbed a little harder than Azira really deemed necessary, but it worked. Only the faint lavender from bath mixed with her own.
She tried not to feel disappointed. She didn't even understand what was so disheartening about the alpha's scent being erased. She was officially entering her first London Season. She was the youngest Eastgate omega. She could not falter. Not tonight.
Not with her father watching her so closely.
She was Lady Azira Eastgate, youngest omega daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Eden and she had a debut to make.