The she-wolf in the Tower

*Horace* I avoid rooms crowded with Englishmen whenever possible. They’re all babbling gossips with more earwax than brains, as my father used to say. Though Shakespeare got there first. Yet here I am, entering a London ballroom, rather than fishing in a Highland stream, as I’d prefer. It’s a disagreeable but inescapable fact of my life, at any rate… that fishing for a bride has taken precedence over fishing for salmon. The moment I’m announced, a flock of young she-wolves swivels toward me, each face flaunting a gleaming array of teeth. To my mind they all look constipated, though more likely the smiles are an automatic response to my title. I am, after all, an unmarried Alpha prince in possession of all my limbs. Hair, too; I have more hair than most Englishmen. Not to mention a castle. My hosts, Alpha and Luna Goldtail, wait at the bottom of the steps, so the young she-wolves don’t instantly pounce. I like Goldtail… he’s stern but fair, and has a brooding gaze that’s almost Scottish. We’re both interested in financial affairs, unlike most ranked wolves, and he’s a damned fine investor. Because I’m a governor of the Bank of Scotland and Goldtail holds a similar post at the Bank of England, we’ve exchanged a good deal of correspondence over the last couple of years, though we’ve rarely met. “My alpha prince, may I introduce my Luna?” Goldtail asks, drawing his Luna forward. To my surprise, the Luna is significantly younger than her husband, perhaps in her late twenties. What’s more, she has sensual, full lips, and her lush breasts are framed by a bodice made of a twist of rosy silk. By all appearances, she’s one of those ranked she-wolves who emulate the attire and manner of an opera dancer. Goldtail, on the other hand, reminds me of nothing so much as a stern churchwarden. It can’t be a harmonious pairing. A man and wife ought to be complementary in age and interests. The Luna is telling me about her stepdaughter, Rapunzel, so I bow and express my ineffable pleasure at the idea of meeting the young Miss. Rapunzel. What an awful name. A long-tongued she-wolf would have that name. A fusty nut, a flap-eared… English she-wolf. Without warning, Luna Goldtail slides her arm through mine so I might accompany her to the adjacent reception chamber; I scarcely manage to suppress a flinch. In my youth, servants always hovered around me, adjusting my clothing, touching my neck, wiping my mouth. But in the years since I turned fourteen, I’ve suffered no such familiarities unless absolutely required. Because I have very little time alone, I prefer to maintain a barrier between myself and the world. I don’t lament my lack of privacy; I feel it would be a waste of time to dress, for example, without simultaneously hearing my secretary’s report. If there’s anything I hate, it’s wasting time. Time wastes itself, in my opinion. All too soon, and out of the blue, you topple over and die, and all your moments are gone. It would be rank foolishness to pretend that those moments are infinite and endless, which… in my opinion… is precisely what people are doing when they dawdle in the bath or spend hours lazing about reading poetry. It’s my inclination and my habit to do as many things at once as possible. Indeed, this ball is a case in point: before I travel to meet a group of bankers in Brighton tomorrow, I want to ask Goldtail’s opinion about a knotty point regarding issuance of the one-pound note. Goldtail is giving a ball, which young she-wolves will attend. I have an acute… not desperate, but acute… need for a spouse. Ergo, two birds with one stone. I prefer three or four birds with a single stone, but sometimes one has to settle for less. The only problem is that the room is filled with English she-wolves, and I’ve determined that it would be a bad idea to marry one of those. It’s true that a Scottish nobleman always has good reason to tie himself to one of the great houses of England. But it’s also true that an English lass is… Well English. Theirs is an indolent race, as everyone knows. Their gentle-she-wolves sit about doing naught but quaffing endless cups of tea and reading novels, while their Scottish counterparts to the north think nothing of running a Pack with a thousand sheep while raising four children. My own grandmother worked from morn to dusk without complaint. If reading was to be done, she always said it should be for improvement of the mind. The Bible and Shakespeare, with Montaigne’s essays for light reading. My late fiancée was, by all accounts, cast in the same mold, which makes sense given that my grandmother had arranged the marriage herself. Miss Rosaline Partridge died from a fever she caught while paying visits to the poor… virtue, in her case, proving less than rewarding. I rather think diligence is my primary requirement in a bride, other than the obvious… that she be beautiful, maidenly, and well-bred… The future Luna of Montrose cannot be a time waster. Luna Goldtail has towed me through the ballroom, and we now enter a smaller chamber. A quick reconnaissance of the room tells me that in matters of wealth or title, no unmarried man present matches me. In any case, there are likely only three contenders in all of London. So, strictly speaking, I needn’t waste time courting a mate once I’ve chosen her. Marriage is a market like any other; when I find the right Miss, I will simply outbid my rivals. The Luna draws me to one side of the chamber and stops before a young she-wolf, whom she introduces as her stepdaughter. It’s the sort of moment that cleaves past from present, and changes the future forever. Miss Rapunzel doesn’t belong in an overheated English ballroom. There’s something otherworldly about her, as if she is dreaming of her home under a fairy hill. Her eyes are green pools, as deep and dark as a loch on a stormy day. She’s delightfully curved, and has hair that gleams like the golden apples of the sun. It’s pulled up in ringlets and curls, and all I want is to unwind it and make love to her on a bed of heather. But it’s her eyes that truly beguile me: they meet mine with courteous disinterest, a dreamy peacefulness that shows none of the feverish enthusiasm with which unmarried young she-wolves generally regard me. I don’t consider myself a man given to carnality. An Alpha prince, to my mind, has no right to succumb to lust. I’ve watched with bemusement as men of my acquaintance fall at the feet of she-wolves with saucy smiles and round bottoms. I’ve felt pity, as I do now for the alpha with his lush young mate. But in this moment, looking down at Miss Rapunzel, love and its attendant poetry make sense. A line comes to me as if it had been written for this moment: *I never saw true beauty till this night…* Perhaps Shakespeare is useful for something after all. Miss Rapunzel’s rosy mouth curves into a smile. She drops into a deep curtsy, inclining her head. “My alpha prince, it is a pleasure to meet you.” To me, it’s as if the Luna has ceased to exist; indeed, a roomful of people fades into the wallpaper. “The pleasure is entirely mine,” I say, meaning every word. “May I have the honor of your hand for this dance?” I extend my hand. My gesture is met not by rippling eagerness, but by a composure that draws me as surely as eagerness would have repelled me. I want nothing more than to make those serene eyes light for me, to see admiration, even adoration, in her gaze. She inclines her head again, and takes my hand. Her touch burns through our gloves, as if it warms some part of me that has been cold until this moment. Rather than flinch, I have the impulse to pull her closer. Once in the ballroom and in my arms, Rapunzel dances as gracefully as the wave of the sea. And she is quiet. The dance keeps separating us and bringing us back together; we have progressed to the far end of the set before it dawns on me that we have yet to exchange a word. I can’t remember the last person who’d been so silent in my presence, yet she seems to feel no need..: nor inclination… to speak to me. Still, it’s the most comfortable silence of my life. I’m aware of a feeling of profound surprise. We turn and begin to proceed up the room again. I try to think of something to say, but nothing comes to mind. I have mastered the art of polite conversation; a whole drawing room full of people unsettled by my presence could be put at ease with a few well-chosen words. But in my experience, young she-wolves don’t need prompting. Generally, they smile feverishly, their eyes sending sparkling messages while inanities tumble from their lips. I am no fool. I recognize that life has just presented me with a stroke of fait. Everything about Rapunzel is exquisite: her easy silence; her serenity; her enchanting face; the way she dances, as if her toes scarcely touch the ground. She would make a perfect Luna of Montrose. Already I envision the portraits I will commission: one of the Luna alone, and, later, another of the four of us… or five; I will leave the number of children to her… to hang over the mantelpiece in the great drawing room. The dance ends, and the strains of a waltz begin. Miss Rapunzel curtsies before me. “Will you dance with me again?” My voice tumbles out absent its usual measured tones. She looks up at me and speaks for the first time since we began dancing. “I’m afraid that this dance is promised to Alpha Beckwith…” “No,” I state, though I’ve never done such an impolite thing in this life. “No?” Her eyes widen slightly. “Waltz with me.” I hold out my hand. She pauses very briefly, and then once again puts her hand into mine. Carefully, as if I were taming a bird, I place my other hand on her waist. Who would have thought that all the romantic tripe about being burned by a lover’s touch is true? As we dance, I am vaguely aware that the entire assembly is watching us. The Alpha Prince of Montrose is dancing twice in a row with Goldtail’s daughter. The news will be all over London by morning. I don’t care. My heart is thudding in time with the music as I study her minutely, feature by feature. She is utterly delicious. Her lips hold a natural curve, as if she has a kiss or a smile in reserve, one that she has never given away. Her feet and mine move in perfect harmony with the music. I have never danced better in my life. We sweep through the waltz like sparks thrown from a fire, neither uttering a word. It occurs to me that words aren’t necessary. We are speaking through the dance itself. Another thought comes to me: I have never realized that I am lonely. Not until now. As the final strains of the waltz die, I bow to my dancing partner, and straighten again to find alpha Beckwith just there, waiting. “My Alpha prince,” Beckwith says, a distinct chill in his voice. “I believe you mistook my dance for yours.” He juts his elbow toward Miss Rapunzel with the air of a man ill-used. She turns to me with a polite smile of farewell, and slips her hand through Beckwith’s arm. I burn with impatience. I am a Scot: I don’t trade in that sort of politeness, not between a man and a she-wolf. I want to show her what I feel, snatch her behind a pillar, wind her in my arms, and kiss her. But she isn’t my luna… yet. Until she is, I have to follow the rules. I watch my future mate move into the next dance on the Alpha’s arm. I am wealthier than Beckwith. And I am better-looking than the alpha. Unless Rapunzel prefers slender, twig-like men. I can’t honestly say that she has looked at me with desire. But of course, one wouldn’t want a flagrantly lustful mate. My grandfather met my grandmother at a formal dinner and had known instantly that she would be the next Luna, even though she had been only fifteen at the time, and shy for her age. One certainly doesn’t want one’s future… let alone one’s current… Luna to crave strange men. I decide I will return in the morning to pay a call. That is part of the courtship rituals in England: visit the house of the intended three or four times, take her for a drive, and then ask the father for his daughter’s hand. Once that is settled in my mind, I search out the alpha and broach the subject of pound notes. Our work concluded, I say, “I’ll stop by on the morrow to pay a call on your daughter before I continue on to Brighton to discuss our conclusions with Pomfrey’s Bank.” I see approval in the alpha’s eyes. Obviously the man has invited me to this ball for reasons that have nothing to do with whether the government reimburses its banknotes with gold sovereigns. I do not dance with any other she-wolves that night. I have no inclination to, and I certainly don’t want to lounge at the side of the room and watch Rapunzel dance with other men. The very thought makes my jaw clench. Jealousy is the downfall of my countrymen. It is the dark side of their greatest virtue… loyalty. A Scotsman is loyal until death; unlike fickle English husbands, I would never turn from my chosen bride to seek other beds. Still, I know I am a damned possessive bastard, who puts loyalty above all else. It would eat me alive to watch Rapunzel moving from man to man before I have a ring on her finger that tells the world she is mine. Though my imprint on her heart would be even better. It would be a waste of time to stand about snarling at Rapunzel’s suitors, and I am not a time waster. Instead, I go home and compose a message to my London solicitor, Jelves. In it, I note that I plan to marry in the near future, and direct Jelves to draw up a suggested settlement and bring it to my door in the early morning. The task will probably keep the man up all night; I make a mental note to send him a bonus.