The king: His mail-order mate

Blackrock city Six weeks before the Brinsley ball *Penny* If there's one task more unpleasant than choosing the woman who will marry the man I love, I can't imagine what it would be. Over the eight years I have been secretary to the Alpha of Brinsley, I have faced plenty of unpleasant tasks. I should be used to them by now. But this latest one takes the cake. Here I am, sitting at my desk in my small office in his Blackrock city residence. I'm using the green-marble-handled letter knife he gave me one Christmas to efficiently slice open another envelope. I prefer to keep the wax seal intact. I withdraw the heavy parchment and unfold it, adjusting my spectacles before scouring the words. Some young, naive unmarried miss has meticulously penned a response to the Alpha's recent advert seeking a noble she-wolf for marriage and procreation. He did the same last year, and it ended in disaster. He made the selection himself, announcing his choice during a ball that I had arranged and overseen. I hovered in the shadows, waiting for him to reveal his choice. I didn't know who he had chosen until his voice echoed through the grand hall, uttering the name: Miss Kiona Surefoot. For almost a year, he courted her. But in the end, she rejected him in favor of a man with no title and a questionable heritage. Brinsley should have learned his lesson then: finding a suitable mate requires a more personal approach. But no. Just two days after Miss Surefoot's rejection, he placed another advert in the Alpha Times, seeking an easy solution to his complicated issue. He wanted to secure a she-wolf who would make him content. Without even bothering to open any of the nearly seventy-two envelopes received, he handed the task over to me. Despite my annoyance with the chore, I take my duty seriously. I have created a grid on butcher's paper that covers almost the entire top of my oak desk. I have columns for the she-wolves names and attributes that I believe the Alpha desires in a mate, even though he didn't specify any requirements other than wanting a quiet Luna who is present when needed and absent when not. Every she-wolf wants a man who understands when she needs him, a man of charm and insight. A man who doesn't mind being bothered, simply to reassure her of her value. Kingsley Norton, the ninth Alpha of Brinsley, is certainly not that man. Yet, despite it all, I've fallen in love with him. Curse my impractical heart. He has never encouraged my deeper affections, and I hadn't realized the extent of my feelings until he called out another she-wolf’s name, and it hit me like a punch to the chest. It was a surprise to discover my depth of emotion for him. Perhaps it's because he trusts me with his business affairs when he's away. He often travels in search of investment opportunities, leaving little time for a proper courtship. He's responsible for managing multiple estates, earldoms, and a viscountcy, as well as the well-being of those who depend on them. Before working for him, I thought the aristocracy was spoiled and lazy, but he has shown me the truth: their obligations weigh heavily on them. My respect for him knows no bounds, and my heart followed suit. "Miss Pettifur?" "What the devil is it?" I jerk up my head to glare at the poor footman who has interrupted me. Then I feel contrite for having done so because his eyes widen in astonishment and reflect a touch of horror, like someone who has come upon a large, hideous spider and realizes too late that it has taken exception to being disturbed while weaving its web. "My apologies, Harry. How may I be of assistance?" "The Alpha just rang for you from the library." "Thank you. I'll be there in a tick." "Very good, miss." As he immediately and quietly takes his leave, I set aside the letter that lists a host of talents: playing the pianoforte, singing, croquet, and fencing… that is a skill no one else has claimed thus far, would require the addition of another column, and might result in injury to the Alpha when the woman discovers he has no time to enjoy any of her proficiencies. Snatching up a paperweight of black marble upon which has been carved and embossed in gold, "The early bird catches the worm”… a gift from the Alpha after I have been with him for a year… I set it on top of the letter to indicate I have not yet finished considering its author as a potential Luna. After shoving back my chair, I stand, patting my hair as I do so to ensure no wisps have escaped the no-nonsense bun. I make complete use of every minute of every day, doing a multitude of things concurrently whenever possible. Satisfied with my appearance, without even going to the trouble to look in a mirror, I begin marching toward my destination, along the corridor that leads to the kitchens, past the wall upon which hang the parallel line of bells… one for the regular staff, one for me… marking the rooms in which a bellpull has been tugged, past the staircase leading to my small bedchamber in the servants' quarters. Then onward along another hallway to the weathered stairs used by footmen to serve a meal, the butler to answer the front door, the maid who sees to the needs of the dowager Luna when she is in residence, and the valet who tends to the Alpha. Stairs I am allowed to traverse to the main portion of the residence because I also tend to the Alpha, although not in a manner as personal as the valet. Still, I would argue my duties are much more important. As would the entire household staff, no doubt, because my presence keeps things sailing on an even keel. Not once has the butler objected to me handling the Alpha when he is in a foul mood. I would have preferred my study nearer to where he works, but he has never asked my preference. Unfortunately, he will probably never do the same for his mate either. His focus is narrow, seldom venturing beyond the empire he has built. The man cares about little more than making money and securing success at any cost. But the shrewdness, skill, and ruthlessness with which he manages his business affairs often leaves me quite breathless. It is a sight to behold, and I have learned a great deal from him, enough that I have managed, like many women, to invest my income in private businesses and government securities with astounding success. Never again will I be forced to do the unthinkable in order to survive. As I near the library, a liveried servant standing at the door gives me a quick nod of acknowledgment before opening it. With my shoulders pulled back, my spine straight, my emotions girded. I stride in without giving the barest hint of how much the mere sight of the Alpha always weakens my knees. It isn't his devilishly gorgeous features. I have known handsome men aplenty. It's the confidence in his bearing, the directness in his steady gaze, the power and influence he wields with ease. It's the manner in which he looks at me with no lasciviousness whatsoever. He views me as he might a man he respects, a man whose opinion he values. And for me, who has never known any of that before him, it is an aphrodisiac. His dark hair, half an inch longer than fashionable… I will have to take up the matter with his valet… calls to my deft fingers to brush aside the forelock that forever seems to be in a state of rebellion, falling over his hazel eyes as he comes to his feet, unfolding that long, lithe body that any clothing would be fortunate to drape. That his tailor painstakingly ensures each stitch is perfect only serves to make the Alpha more dashing. I saw him at breakfast, of course. He insists I join him because ideas, musings, and things to be researched often enter his mind as he sleeps or upon first awakening, and they sometimes dictate how I spend my day. I am also prone to fits of stirring from slumber when solutions come to me regarding problems we are striving to solve, and I share them with him as we take our repast. It is a lovely way to begin my day, even when we have nothing to say and simply read the separate newspapers, the butler irons and sets beside each of our places. The Alpha believes it to his advantage for me to be as informed as possible. "Pettifur, splendid, you have arrived." His deep, smooth voice creates warmth in my belly like the brandy I enjoy before retiring. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Lancaster." I nod toward the gentleman in the ill-fitting tweed jacket. "Sir." "Lancaster, Miss Pettifur, my secretary." "A pleasure, miss." I put him a couple of years past my own of twenty-eight. He has a hunger about him, an eagerness in his gray eyes as though he knows he is on the cusp of making a fortune, but I also sense a wariness because he understands all hopes could be torn asunder with two small words from the Alpha: not interested. "Miss Pettifur will be taking notes so I can consider the matter more fully later. I like to ruminate over investment possibilities, you see." A polite way of saying he will be digging into Mr. Lancaster's life until he knows the precise day and time and with whom the man lost his virginity and, ages before that, how long he might have nursed at his mother's teat. As unobtrusively as possible, I remove from my skirt pocket the pencil and small leather-bound notebook I always carry with me, slide over to a winged chair at the edge of the sitting area, adjust my spectacles on the bridge of my nose, and sit. Both gentlemen take their chairs. "Right then, Lancaster, impress me with this scheme of yours that is guaranteed to make me wealthier than I already am."