Chapter Text
He was determined to protect his brother’s heart…
Jason had always known that success in Society was not for him: he believed he was too tall for an omega, somewhat old for marriage at twenty-one, and not particularly handsome. For that reason, he dedicated himself body and soul to protecting his "little demon" of a brother from all the unscrupulous scoundrels who circled him at balls and gatherings, drawn by his beauty. Jason felt more than capable of keeping cads of dubious reputation like Viscount Richard Wayne at arm's length… though he would soon discover that it is but a short step from confrontation to passion.
Richard Wayne was certain of one thing in his life: that he would not live more years than his father, who died before the age of forty. Because of this, he decided to live his youth intensely, without committing to a love that would be abruptly cut short. However, the time comes when he decides to marry to leave an heir. But he encounters a formidable obstacle: the persistent brother of his chosen groom, who dares to defy him constantly. Gradually, Dick discovers in that omega a rival worthy of himself, capable of making him rethink many things… and an exceptional being with whom it will be very difficult not to end up falling in love.
The season has begun this year of 1814 without any reason to believe we shall see any notable change from that of 1813. As always, social events continue to be filled with Ambitious Mamas whose sole objective is to see their precious omega children married to stable alphas of good breeding. The deliberations among the Mamas point to Viscount Wayne as the most prized catch of the year; indeed, if the poor man appears windswept and his hair disheveled, it is only because he cannot go anywhere without some young omega fluttering their eyelashes with such vigor and celerity as to produce a breeze of hurricane force. Perhaps the only young omega who has shown no interest in Wayne is Mr. Jason Todd; his attitude toward the Viscount at times borders on outright hostility. And this is why, dear reader, this author believes that a match between Viscount Wayne and Mr. Todd would be precisely what would enliven an otherwise lackluster season.
—Lady Oracle’s Society Sonatas, April 13, 1814
He was determined to stop the notorious Viscount from seducing his brother. But what if the Viscount seduced him instead?
Richard Wayne always knew he would die young.
Oh, but not as a child. Little Dickie had never had reason to contemplate his own mortality. His early years had been the envy of any boy his age—a perfect existence from the very day of his birth. It was true that Richard was the heir to an ancient and very wealthy viscountcy, but Lord and Lady Wayne, unlike most aristocratic couples, were deeply in love, and the birth of their "pup" was welcomed not merely as the arrival of an heir, but as that of a son. Therefore, there were no grand parties or social functions; there were no celebrations other than a mother and father gazing in wonder at their offspring.
The Waynes were young but sensible parents—Bruce was barely twenty and Selina only eighteen—and they were also strong parents who loved their son with a fervor and intensity uncommon in their social circle. To the great horror of Selina’s mother, Selina insisted on caring for the boy herself. Bruce, for his part, had never accepted the prevailing aristocratic attitude that parents should neither see nor hear their children. He took the boy on long walks through the fields of Kent, spoke to him of philosophy and poetry even before the little one could understand his words, and told him a story every night before bed.
With a couple so young and so in love, it was no surprise to anyone that a younger brother, whom they named Timothy, joined Richard a few years later. Bruce made the necessary adjustments to his daily routine to take both his sons on his excursions; he spent a week in the stables working with his tanner to devise a special backpack that would hold Dick on his back while allowing him to carry little Tim in his arms.
They walked through fields and streams, and he spoke to them of marvelous things—of perfect flowers and clear blue skies, of knights in shining armor and damsels in distress. Selina would burst into laughter when the three returned with wind-swept hair, bathed in sunlight, and Bruce would say: "See? Here is our damsels in distress. It is clear we must save her."
And Dick would throw himself into his mother’s arms, telling her through laughter that he would protect her from the dragon he had seen breathing fire "just two miles from here," on the village road.
"Two miles from here, on the village road?" Selina would ask, lowering her voice and striving to make her words sound heavy with horror. "Good heavens, what would I do without three strong men to protect me?"
"Tim is a baby," Dick would answer.
"But he will grow," she always clarified while ruffling his hair, "just as you have. And just as you will continue to do."
Although Bruce always treated the children with identical affection and devotion, when Richard held the Wayne pocket watch against his chest late at night (given to him on his eighth birthday by his father, who had received it from his own father on his eighth birthday), the boy liked to think their relationship was a bit special. Not because Bruce loved him more. By then, the Wayne children were four (Terry and Helena had arrived in quick succession), and Dick knew well that they were all dearly loved. No, Dick liked to think his relationship with his father was special because he had known him the longest.
It was as simple as that.
After all, no matter how long Tim had known his father, Dick would always have a two-year head start. And six over Terry. As for Helena—well, aside from the fact that she was a girl (the horror!)—she had known her father eight years less than he had, and it would always be so, he liked to remind himself. Bruce Wayne, in short, occupied the very center of Dick’s world. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and rode a horse as if he had been born in the saddle. He always knew the answers to arithmetic questions (even the ones his tutor didn't know), he didn't object to his children having a treehouse (which is why he built it himself), and he had the kind of laughter that warms a body from the inside out.
Bruce taught Dick to ride. He taught Dick to shoot. He taught him to swim. He took him to Eton himself, instead of sending him in a carriage with servants, which was how most of Dick’s future friends arrived. And when he caught Dick staring nervously at the school that was to become his new home, he had an intimate talk with his eldest son to assure him that everything would be alright. And so it was. Dick knew it couldn't be any other way. After all, his father never lied. Dick adored his mother. Hell, he’d surely bite his own arm off if it would keep her safe. But everything the boy did as he grew up, every achievement, every dream, every single one of his goals and hopes… it was all for his father.
And then, suddenly, one day, everything changed.
How curious, he reflected afterward, how life could alter in an instant; how one minute things were a certain way and the next they simply… were not.
It happened when Dick was eighteen; he had returned home for the summer to prepare for his first year at Oxford. He was set to enter All Souls College, just as his father had before him, and his existence was as promising and resplendent as any eighteen-year-old has a right to desire. He had discovered omegas and, perhaps more marvelously, omegas had discovered him. His parents were still happily reproducing and had added Cassandra and Carrie to the family. Dick did his best not to roll his eyes every time he crossed paths with his mother in the hallway—pregnant with her seventh child! In Dick’s opinion, the whole thing was rather unseemly, having children at his parents' age, but he kept his opinions to himself. Who was he to question Bruce’s prudence? Perhaps he himself would also want more children at the ripe old age of thirty-eight.
It was late afternoon by the time Dick found out. He was returning from a long, hard ride with Tim, who had just come out of his first omega heat, and had just stepped through the front door of Aubrey Hall—the ancestral home of the Waynes—when he saw his ten-year-old sister sitting on the floor. Tim was still in the stables, having lost a silly bet with Dick that required him to brush both horses from head to tail. Dick stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Helena. It was certainly unusual for his sister to be sitting in the middle of the floor in the main hall. It was even more unusual that she was crying. Helena never cried.
"Lena," he said hesitantly—he was too young to know what to do with a weeping female omega and wondered if he would ever learn—"What…?"
But before he could finish the question, Helena lifted her head, and the tremendous suffering in those large blue eyes pierced Dick like a knife. He took a staggering step back because he knew something had happened, something terrible.
"He’s dead," Helena whispered. "Papa is dead."
For a moment, Dick was convinced he had misheard. His father could not be dead. Other people died young, like Uncle Thomas, but Uncle Thomas was small and frail. Well, at least smaller and frailer than Bruce.
"You’re wrong," he told Helena. "You must be wrong."
The girl shook her head.
"Cassandra told me. He was… it was a…"
Dick knew he shouldn't grab and shake his sobbing sister, but he couldn't help himself.
"It was what, Helena?"
"A bee," she whispered. "A bee stung him."
For an instant, all Dick could do was stare at her. Finally, in a harsh and barely recognizable voice, he said:
"A man does not die from a bee sting, Helena."
The girl said nothing; she remained there, sitting on the floor. Her throat worked tremulously as she tried to hold back her tears.
"He’s been stung before," Dick added, his voice rising. "I was with him once. We both got stung. We found a hive. It stung me on the shoulder." Instinctively, he reached up to touch the spot where the bee had stung him all those years ago. He added in a whisper: "It stung him on the arm."
Helena stared at him with a haunting expression of perplexity.
"Nothing happened to him," Dick insisted. He could hear the panic in his own voice and knew he was frightening his sister, but he was unable to control it. "A man cannot die from a bee sting!"
Helena shook her head; suddenly her dark eyes looked like those of someone a hundred years older.
"It was a bee," she said hollowly. "Cassandra saw it. One moment he was standing there, and the next he was… he was…"
Dick felt something very strange growing inside him, as if his muscles were about to leap from his skin.
"The next he was what, Helena?"
"Dead."
She seemed as baffled by the word as he felt. Dick left Helena sitting in the hall and took the stairs three at a time to his parents' bedroom. Surely his father wasn't dead. A man couldn't die from a bee sting. It was impossible. Complete madness. Bruce Wayne was young; he was strong. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with powerful muscles, and by God, no insignificant bee could have brought him down.
But when Dick reached the upstairs hallway, he could tell by the silence of the dozen or so motionless servants that the situation was dire. And their pitying faces… that pity on their faces would haunt him for the rest of his life. He thought he would have to push them aside to enter his parents' room, but the servants parted like the Red Sea, and when Dick threw the door wide, he knew the truth. His mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, not crying, not even making a sound, just holding his father’s hand while rocking back and forth. His father was still. Still as… Dick didn’t even want to think of the word.
"Ma?" he called with a cracking voice. He hadn't called her that in years; she had been "Mother" since he left for Eton. She turned, slowly, as if hearing his voice through a long, long tunnel. "What happened?" Dick asked in a whisper.
Selina shook her head, her gaze completely distant.
"I don't know," she answered. Her lips remained parted about an inch, as if she wanted to say something more and then forgot to do so. Dick took a step forward with a clumsy, uneven movement. "He’s dead," Selina finally whispered. "He’s dead and I… oh, God, I…" She placed a hand on her belly, swollen and round with pregnancy. "I told him, oh, Richard, I told him…" It seemed she was about to shatter from the inside out.
Dick swallowed the tears that burned his eyes and stung his throat and went to his mother’s side.
"It’s alright, Ma," he said. But he knew it wasn't that simple.
"I told him it had to be the last one," she gasped, sobbing against her son’s shoulder. "I told him I couldn't get pregnant again and that we’d have to be careful and… oh, God, Richard, what I’d give to have him back here and give him another pup. I don't understand. I just don't understand…"
Dick held her while she cried. He said nothing. It seemed useless to try to find any word that could match the devastation in that heart. He didn’t understand it either. Later that same night the doctors arrived, expressing their bewilderment.
They had heard of such things, but in someone so young and strong… He was so vital, of such a powerful nature; no one could have imagined it. It was true that the Viscount’s younger brother, Thomas, had died quite suddenly the previous year, but these things didn't necessarily run in the family and, besides, although Thomas had also died outdoors, no one had noticed a bee sting him. But, of course, it was also true that no one was looking. No one could have known, the doctors repeated over and over, until Dick felt like strangling them all.
After a long while, he managed to get them to leave the house and got his mother to bed. They had to take her to an unoccupied room; Selina was disturbed by the thought of sleeping in the bed she had shared for so many years with Bruce. Dick also managed to send his five siblings to bed, telling them they would all have to talk in the morning, that everything was going to be fine, and that he would look after them as his father would have wanted. Then he entered the room where his father’s body still lay and stood staring at him. He stared and stared, fixedly, for hours, barely blinking. And when he left the room, he did so with a new vision of his own life, a new notion of his own mortality.
Bruce Wayne had died at thirty-eight years of age. And Dick simply could not imagine surpassing his father in anything—not even in years.
The subject of womanizers has been addressed previously in this column, and this author has concluded that there are womanizers and Womanizers. Richard Wayne is a Womanizer. A womanizer (lowercase) is young and immature. He flaunts his exploits, behaves with utter imbecility, and believes himself dangerous to omegas. A Womanizer (uppercase) knows he is dangerous to omegas. He does not flaunt his exploits because he feels no need. He knows that both men and women will murmur about him. He knows who he is and what he has done; all other tales are superfluous. He does not behave like an idiot for the simple reason that he is not one (no more than is to be expected of all members of the alpha gender). He has little patience for the foibles of society, and in all frankness, most of the time this author cannot say she blames him. And if that does not perfectly describe Viscount Wayne—unquestionably the most sought-after bachelor of this season—this author will set down her pen immediately. The only question is: will 1814 be the season in which he finally succumbs to the exquisite bliss of marriage? This author thinks… not.
—Lady Oracle’s Society Sonatas, April 20, 1814
"Please, let me guess," Jason Todd said to the room at large, "she’s written about Viscount Wayne again."
His half-brother Damian, whom he led by nearly four years, looked up from behind the single-sheet journal.
"How do you know?"
"Because you’re letting out a snort that’s hiding a laugh."
Damian let out a snort that shook the blue damask sofa on which they were both sitting.
"See?" Jason continued, nudging his arm. "You always scoff when she writes about some reprehensible rake."
But Jason cracked a smile. Few things pleased him more than teasing his brother. Good-naturedly, of course. Talia Al Ghul, Damian’s mother and Jason’s stepmother for nearly eighteen years, looked up for a moment from her embroidery and pushed her glasses a little higher up the bridge of her nose.
"What are you two laughing about?"
"Jason is interested because Lady Oracle has written about Viscount Wayne again," Damian explained.
"I am not interested," Jason said, though no one paid him any mind.
"Wayne?" Talia asked distractedly.
Damian nodded. "Yes."
"She always writes about him."
"I think the truth is she likes writing about womanizing alphas," Damian remarked.
"Of course she does," Jason countered. "If she wrote about boring people, no one would buy her paper."
"That’s not true," Damian replied. "Just last week she wrote about us, and God knows we aren't the most interesting people in London."
Jason smiled at his brother’s naivety. Jason might not be the most interesting person in London, but Damian, with his sun-kissed skin and eyes of that green strikingly similar to emeralds, had already been named the Incomparable Omega of 1814. On the other hand, Jason, with his common black hair and washed-out green eyes, was generally referred to as "the Incomparable’s older brother." He supposed there were worse epithets. At least no one had started calling him "the Incomparable’s spinster omega brother" yet—something that was much closer to the truth than any of the Al Ghuls cared to admit.
At twenty (nearly twenty-one, to be scrupulously honest about it), Jason was already a bit long in the tooth to be enjoying his first Season in London. But in reality, there had been no other choice. The Al Ghul family had been prosperous and very wealthy some years ago, but thanks to what Ra's—Talia’s father—had done before she inherited the title as Countess, they no longer enjoyed that former prosperity. While it was true their situation wasn't bad enough to land them in the poorhouse, they had to watch every penny and every pound. With such financial constraints, the Al Ghuls could only scrape together the funds to pay for a single trip to London. Renting a house—and a carriage—and hiring the bare minimum of servants to spend the Season cost money.
More than they could afford to spend twice. Consequently, they had to save for five whole years to be able to afford this trip to London. And if the omegas were not successful in the Marriage Mart… well, no one was going to throw them in debtor's prison, but they would have to settle for a discreet life of dignified scarcity in some charming little cottage in Somerset. Therefore, both omegas were forced to make their debut in the same year. They had decided the most logical time would be when Damian turned seventeen and Jason was nearly twenty-one. Talia would have liked to wait until Damian was eighteen and a bit more mature, but then Jason would be nearly twenty-two, and heavens, who would want to marry a twenty-two-year-old omega then?
Jason smiled ironically. He hadn't even wanted to spend a Season in London. He had known from the start that he wasn't the type of omega who attracted the attention of the most elite aristocracy. He wasn't handsome enough to compensate for the lack of a dowry, and he had never learned how to smile, move with affectation, walk delicately, and all those things other omegas seemed to know from the cradle. Damian somehow knew exactly how to stand, walk, and sigh so that alphas would come to blows for the honor of helping him cross the street, despite him being perfectly able-bodied. Jason, on the other hand, always stood out for his height and square shoulders; he was incapable of sitting still even if his life depended on it and always walked as if he were in a race.
And why not? he wondered.
If one was going somewhere, what was the point of not trying to reach that point as quickly as possible? As for the current Season in London, he didn't even like the city much. Oh, he was having a decent enough time and had met a few pleasant people, but the whole thing seemed like a horrible waste of money for a young man who would have been perfectly content staying in the country and finding some steady alpha there who wanted to marry him. But Talia wouldn't hear of it.
"When I married your mother," she would say, "I swore to love you and raise you with all the affection and attention I would give my own child."
Jason had managed to get in only a single "but..." before Talia pressed on:
"I also have a responsibility as the alpha of your pack. Part of that responsibility is seeing you happily married and with your future secured."
"You could see me happily married and with my future secured in the country as well," Jason had countered.
"In London, there are more alphas to choose from."
After that, Damian had joined the conversation and insisted he would be utterly miserable without him; and since Jason could never bear to see his brother unhappy—even though he knew the little one was manipulating him—his fate was sealed. So here he was, sitting in a slightly faded drawing room in a rented house in an almost-fashionable part of London and... He looked around with a mischievous glint in his eye... because he was about to snatch the journal his brother was holding.
"Jason!" Damian cried. His eyes went wide as he stared at the small triangle of paper left between his right thumb and forefinger. "I hadn't finished yet!"
"You've been reading it for an eternity," Jason said with a playful smirk. "Besides, I want to see what she has to say about Viscount Wayne today."
Damian’s eyes, which were often compared to beautiful Dutch forests, lit up with mischief.
"You're awfully interested in the Viscount, Todd. Is there something you aren't telling us?"
"Don't be silly. I don't even know him. And if I did, I’d likely run in the opposite direction. He is exactly the type of alpha the two of us should avoid at all costs. I’m sure he could charm an iceberg."
"Jason!" Talia exclaimed. Jason winced; he had forgotten his stepmother was listening.
"Well, it’s true," he added. "I’ve heard it said he’s had more omega lovers than I’ve had birthdays."
Talia looked at him for a few seconds as if trying to decide whether or not to respond. Finally, she said:
"It isn't that this is an appropriate subject for your ears, but many of us alphas have them."
"Oh." Jason flushed. Few things annoyed him more than being contradicted when he was trying to make an important point, especially when a mental image was added to it. "Well, then, he has twice as many. Whatever the case, he is far more promiscuous than most alphas, and he is hardly the sort of alpha Damian should allow to court him."
"You are also enjoying the Season," Talia reminded him.
Jason shot Talia his most sarcastic look. They all knew that if the Viscount decided to court an Al Ghul, it wouldn't be Jason.
"I don't think this paper says anything that will change your mind," Damian remarked with a shrug, leaning toward Jason to get a better look at the journal. "It doesn't say much about him, to be honest. It's more like a treatise on the subject of rakes."
Jason’s eyes scanned the printed words.
"Pah!" he said, using his favorite expression of disdain. "I bet she's right. He probably won't retire this year."
"You always think Lady Oracle is right," Talia murmured with a serene expression.
"Usually she is," Jason replied. "You have to admit that for a gossip columnist, she shows remarkable good sense. Certainly, so far she has been spot-on in her assessment of everyone I've met in London."
"You should form your own opinions, Jason," Talia said critically. "It isn't like you to base your views on a gossip column."
Jason knew his stepmother was right, but he didn't want to admit it, so he let out another "pah" and returned his attention to the paper in his hands. Oracle was undoubtedly the most interesting reading in all of London. Jason wasn't entirely sure when the gossip column had started—sometime the previous year, according to what he’d heard. At any rate, one thing was certain: whoever Lady Oracle was (and no one really knew), she was a member of the most select aristocracy and was very well-connected. She had to be. No mere outsider could uncover all the scandals she printed in her column every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Lady Oracle always had the latest on-dits and, unlike other columnists, she didn't hesitate to use people's full names. Last week, for example, after deciding that yellow didn't suit Jason, she wrote with the clarity of daylight: "The color yellow makes the pale Mr. Jason Todd look like a scorched daffodil."
Jason didn't mind the insult. He had heard it said more than once that one couldn't consider themselves "someone" in Society until Lady Oracle had dedicated an insult to them. Even Damian, who was a great social success in everyone's opinion, had felt jealous that Jason had been the object of the honor of an insult. And despite the fact that Jason still didn't want to spend the Season in London, he figured that since he had to participate in the social whirlwind, he might as well try not to be a total failure. If receiving an insult in a gossip column was to be his only sign of success, then it was welcome. Jason knew his limitations. Now, every time Barbara Gordon boasted that Lady Oracle had compared her to an overripe citrus fruit in her tangerine satin dress, Jason could wave his arm and sigh with great drama: "Yes, well, I am a scorched daffodil."
"One day," Talia suddenly announced, pushing her glasses up once more with her index finger, "someone is going to discover that woman's true identity, and then she will have a serious problem."
Damian looked at his mother with interest.
"Do you really think someone will find her out? She's been able to keep the secret for a year."
"Something like that cannot remain a secret forever," Talia replied. She poked the embroidery with her needle and pulled a long strand of yellow thread through the fabric. "Mark my words. Everything will be revealed sooner or later, and when it happens, a scandal of such proportions will break that you have never known anything like it before."
"Well, if I knew who she was," Jason announced as he turned to page two of the single-sheet journal, "I’d probably make her my best friend. She’s wickedly funny. And say what they will, she’s almost always right."
Just then Titus, Jason and Damian’s slightly overweight corgi, came trotting into the room.
"Wasn't that dog supposed to stay outside?" Talia asked. "Jason!" she shrieked a moment later when the dog went straight to her feet and began to pant as if expecting a kiss.
"Titus, come here right now," his master ordered. The dog looked longingly at Talia, then padded over to Jason, hopped onto the sofa, and put his front paws on his lap.
"He’s getting hair all over you," Damian said. Jason shrugged as he stroked the thick, caramel-colored fur.
"I don't mind."
Damian smiled, reached out, and began to pet the dog. "What else does it say?" he asked, leaning forward with interest. "I didn't even make it to page two."
Jason gave his brother a wry smile.
"Not much. Something about the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, who apparently arrived in town earlier this week; a list of the refreshments at Lady Danbury’s ball, which she called 'surprisingly delicious'; and a rather unfortunate description of Mrs. Gordon’s dress last Monday."
Damian frowned.
"She seems to take quite a lot of shots at the Gordons."
"And it’s no wonder," said Talia, setting aside her embroidery to stand up. "That woman wouldn't know how to choose a dress color for her daughters if she had a whole rainbow surrounding her."
"Mother!" Damian exclaimed.
Jason covered his mouth with his palm to try not to laugh. It was rare for Talia to speak so dogmatically, but when she did, she always came out with wonderful statements.
"Well, it’s the truth. She insists on dressing her youngest daughter in orange. Anyone can see that poor girl needs a blue or a mint green."
"You dressed me in yellow," Jason reminded her.
"And I’m sorry I did. That will teach me not to listen to shopgirls. I should never have doubted my own judgment. What we’ll do is fix that suit for Damian."
Since Damian only came up to his brother’s shoulder and his skin tone was several shades more exotic than Jason’s, this wouldn't be a problem.
"When you do," Jason said, turning to his brother, "make sure to remove the ruffle on the sleeve. It’s a hideous distraction. And it’s itchy. I was on the verge of ripping it off right there at the Jordans' ball."
Talia narrowed her eyes.
"I am surprised and at the same time grateful that you deigned to restrain yourself."
"I am surprised but not grateful," Damian said with a malicious grin. "Just think of the mileage Lady Oracle would have gotten out of that."
"Ah, yes," Jason said, returning the smirk. "I can imagine it: 'The scorched daffodil plucks his own petals.'"
"I’m going upstairs," Talia announced, shaking her head at her children's wit. "Try not to forget we have a party to attend tonight. You boys might want to rest a bit before we go out. I’m sure, once again, we’ll be returning home quite late."
Jason and Damian nodded and murmured their promises to keep that in mind as Talia gathered her embroidery and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Damian turned to Jason and asked:
"Have you decided what you’re wearing tonight?"
"The red suit, I think. I should wear white, I know, but I fear it doesn't suit me."
"If you aren't wearing white," Damian said out of loyalty, "then neither will I. I’ll wear the green muslin."
Jason nodded in approval as he leafed through the journal in his hand again, while trying to hold onto Titus, who had flipped upside down, positioned to have his belly rubbed.
"Just last week, Mr. Wilson said you were an angel in green, because of how well the color suits your eyes."
Damian blinked, full of surprise. "Mr. Wilson said that? To you?"
Jason looked up again. "Of course. All your suitors try to pass their compliments through me."
"Oh? And why would they do that?"
Jason smiled slowly, with an air of indulgence. "Well, for your information, Damian, it might have something to do with a certain occasion where you announced to the entire audience at the Kents' musical evening that you would never marry without your brother's approval."
Damian’s cheeks flushed slightly. "It wasn't the entire audience," he stammered.
"Well, nearly. The news spread faster than fire across the rooftops. I wasn't even in the room at the time and it took only two minutes for me to find out."
Damian crossed his arms and let out a "pah" that made him look just like his older brother. "Well, it’s the truth, so I don't care who knows. I know everyone expects me to make a grand and splendid match, but I don't have to marry someone who isn't good to me. Someone with the qualities to impress you would certainly be satisfactory."
"So, I am that difficult to impress?"
The two brothers looked at each other and answered in unison: "Yes."
But while Jason laughed along with Damian, a troubling sense of guilt grew inside him. All three Al Ghuls knew that it would be Damian who would manage to snag a nobleman or marry a fortune. It would be Damian who would safeguard the Al Ghul honor and allow them to escape their dignified scarcity. Damian was a beauty, while Jason was... Jason was Jason. Jason didn't mind. Damian's beauty was a fact of life. Long ago, Jason had come to accept certain truths. Jason would never learn to waltz without being the one trying to lead his partner; he would always be afraid of thunderstorms, no matter how much he told himself he was being silly; and no matter what he wore, how he styled his hair, or if he pinched his cheeks, he would never be as handsome as Damian. On the other hand, Jason wasn't sure he would even enjoy the attention Damian received. And he was beginning to realize he wouldn't relish the responsibility of having to make a good marriage to support his mother and brother, either.
"Damian," Jason said softly, his eyes suddenly turning serious, "you don't have to marry someone you don't like. You know that."
Damian nodded, and for a moment looked as if he might cry.
"If you decide there isn't a single alpha in London who is good enough for you, then that’s that. We’ll return to Nanda Parbat and enjoy our own company. There's no one I have a better time with, anyway."
"Nor I," Damian said. "And if you find an alpha who makes you lose your head, then Talia and I will be delighted. You shouldn't worry about leaving the two of us behind, either. We’ll enjoy each other's company."
"It’s possible you might find someone to marry as well," Damian suggested.
Jason felt his lips curl into a small smile. "It's possible," he conceded, though he knew it likely wasn't so. He didn't want to remain a bachelor for life, but he doubted he would find a husband here in London. "Perhaps one of your lovesick suitors will turn to me once he realizes you are unattainable," he joked. Damian tried to hit him with a cushion.
"Don't be silly."
"I’m not!" Jason protested. He wasn't. In all honesty, that seemed like the most probable way for him to find a husband in the capital.
"Do you know what kind of alpha I’d like to marry?" Damian asked. Jason shook his head. "An intellectual."
"An intellectual?"
"A scholar," Damian said firmly. Jason cleared his throat.
"I’m not sure you’re going to find many of those in town during the Season."
"I know." Damian let out a small sigh. "But the truth is—and you know it, even though I'm not supposed to say it in public—you and I are bookworms. I’d rather spend the day among books than wandering around Hyde Park. I think I’d enjoy life with a man who also had intellectual aspirations."
"True. Hmm..." Jason’s mind raced. Damian wasn't likely to find an intellectual alpha in Nanda Parbat either. "You know, Damian? It might be hard to find a true scholar outside of the university towns. Perhaps you’ll have to settle for an alpha who likes reading and learning as much as you do."
"That would be fine," Damian accepted. "I would be quite happy with an amateur intellectual."
Jason let out a sigh of relief. Surely they could find someone in London who liked to read.
"And you know what?" Damian added. "You can never trust appearances. All sorts of people are intellectuals in their spare time. Why, even Viscount Wayne, whom Lady Oracle won't stop talking about, might be a scholar at heart."
"Careful what you say, Damian. You are to have nothing to do with Viscount Wayne. Everyone knows he is a womanizer of the worst sort. In fact, he is the worst of the womanizers, and that’s that. In all of London. In the whole country!"
"I know, I was only using him as an example. Besides, he isn't likely to choose an omega this year. That’s what Lady Oracle says, and you said yourself she’s almost always right."
Jason patted his brother’s arm. "Don't worry. We’ll find you a proper husband. But no—definitely not Viscount Wayne!"
At that precise moment, the subject of their conversation was hanging out at White’s with two of his three younger brothers, enjoying an afternoon drink. Richard Wayne leaned back in his leather armchair and gazed at his Scotch with a pensive expression as he swirled it. Then he announced:
"I’m thinking of getting married."
Timothy Wayne, who had been indulging in a vice his mother detested—precariously balancing on the two back legs of his chair—fell to the floor. Terrence Wayne choked. Fortunately for Terry, Tim scrambled back up in time to give him a resounding thwack on the back, sending a green olive flying across the table. It narrowly missed Dick’s ear. Dick let the indignity pass without comment. He was well aware that his sudden declaration had caused a bit of a shock. Well, perhaps more than a bit. Complete, total, and absolute were the words that came to mind. Dick knew he didn't look like a man who had settled down.
He had spent the last decade as a playboy of the worst sort, seeking pleasure wherever he could. As he well knew, life was short and should certainly be enjoyed. Oh, he had maintained a certain code of honor, of course. He never trifled with omegas of good families. Any omega who had any right to demand marriage was strictly off-limits. Since he had omega siblings himself, Dick showed a healthy degree of respect for the reputation of well-bred omegas. He had nearly fought a duel for one of his siblings once, all over a slight to their honor. And as for the others... he had to admit readily that he broke into a cold sweat just thinking of them getting tangled up with a man with a reputation like his own. No, it was true, he wasn't going to take advantage of another gentleman’s younger omega brother. But as for other types of omegas—widows and actresses who knew what they wanted and what they were getting into—he enjoyed their company to the fullest.
From the day he left Oxford and headed west to London, he had never lacked a lover. And occasionally, he thought ironically, he hadn't lacked two. He had participated in every horse race Society organized, boxed at Gentleman Jackson’s, and won more card games than he could remember. (He had lost a few, too, but he didn't count those.) His twenties had been spent in a conscious pursuit of pleasure, tempered only by his overwhelming sense of responsibility toward his family.
Bruce Wayne’s death had been sudden and unexpected; he’d had no chance to voice any final requests to his eldest son before passing. But Dick was certain that, if he had, he would have asked him to look after his mother, brothers, and sisters with the same diligence and affection Bruce had shown. Thus, between rounds of parties and horse races, Dick had sent his alpha brothers to Eton and Oxford, attended a staggering number of piano recitals given by his omega siblings (no small feat, as two of the three lacked any ear for music), and kept a close eye on the family finances. With six siblings, he considered it his duty to ensure there was enough money to secure everyone's future.
As he approached thirty, he realized he was spending more and more time tending to his estate and his family, and less on his old pursuit of decadence. And he realized he liked it that way. He still had lovers, but never more than one at a time, and he found he no longer felt the need to attend every race or stay late at a party just to win one last hand of cards. Of course, he still held the same reputation as years before. That was something he didn't much mind. There were certain advantages to being considered the most reprehensible playboy in all of England. For instance, he was feared almost everywhere.
Everything had a silver lining. But now it was time to marry. He had to settle down, have a son. After all, he had to pass his title on to someone. He felt a sharp pang of pity—and perhaps a touch of guilt—because he was unlikely to live to see his son reach adulthood. But what could he do? He was the firstborn Wayne of a firstborn Wayne of a firstborn Wayne, eight times over.
He had a dynastic responsibility to be fruitful and multiply. Besides, it gave him some comfort to know he would leave behind competent and kind brothers. They would see to it that his son was raised with the love and honor all Waynes enjoyed. His sisters would coddle the boy, and his mother would perhaps spoil him... Dick smiled a little as he thought of his large and sometimes boisterous family. His son wouldn't need a father to be loved. And whatever children he had, well, they likely wouldn't remember him once he was gone. They would be small, not yet formed. It hadn't escaped his notice that of all the Wayne children, he, the eldest, had been the most deeply affected by his father’s death.
He took another sip of his whisky and squared his shoulders, pushing such unpleasant musings from his mind. He needed to focus on the matter at hand—namely, the search for an omega. Since he was a rather discerning and somewhat organized man, he had made a mental list of the requirements for the position. First, the omega had to be reasonably attractive. They didn't need to be a staggering beauty (though that would be nice), but if he had to bed them, he imagined a bit of physical attraction would make the task more pleasant.
Second, they couldn't be stupid. This, Dick reflected, might be the hardest of his requirements. He wasn't much impressed by the mental prowess of the London debutantes. The last time he had made the mistake of engaging a schoolroom brat in conversation, she hadn't been able to talk about anything other than food (she had a plate of strawberries at the time) and the weather (and she wasn't even clear on that: when Dick had asked if she thought they would have inclement weather, she had replied she had no idea, as she "had never been to Inclement"). Perhaps he could avoid conversing with a wife who wasn't entirely bright, but he didn't want stupid children.
Third—and this was the most important point—it couldn't be someone he could fall in love with. This rule could not be broken under any circumstances. He wasn't that cynical: he knew true love existed. Anyone who had been in the same room as his parents knew true love existed. But love was a complication he wished to avoid. He didn't want that particular miracle in his life. And since Dick was used to getting what he wanted, he had no doubt he would find an attractive, intelligent omega with whom he would never fall in love.
What could possibly go wrong?
There was every possibility that he would never find the love of his life, despite searching for it. In fact, most alphas never did.
"Good heavens, Dick, why are you scowling like that? It can’t be because of the olive. I saw clearly that it didn't even touch you."
Tim’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. Dick blinked a few times before answering.
"It’s nothing. Nothing at all."
Of course, he hadn't shared his thoughts on his own mortality with anyone, not even his brothers. It wasn't the kind of thing one wanted to announce. Hell, if someone had come to him with a story like that, he likely would have laughed them off. But no one else could understand the depth of the bond he shared with his father. And certainly, no one else could understand what Dick felt in his very bones and knew with conviction: that he simply would not live longer than his father had. Bruce had been everything to him. He had always aspired to be a man as great as his father, despite knowing it was unlikely; he tried regardless.
To achieve more than Bruce had—in any sense—was entirely impossible. Dick’s father was, in short, the greatest man he had ever known, possibly the greatest man who had ever lived. To think he could be more than that seemed presumptuous in the extreme. Something had happened to him the night his father died, when he remained in his parents' bedroom alone with the body, simply sitting there for hours, watching Bruce and desperately trying to remember every moment they had shared.
It would be so easy to forget the small things: how he squeezed Dick’s arm when he needed encouragement, or how he could recite Balthazar’s song "Sigh No More" from Much Ado About Nothing entirely from memory—not because he found it significant, but simply because he liked it.
And when Dick finally left the room, with the first rays of dawn turning the sky pink, he knew in a way that his days were numbered; numbered in the same way they had been for Bruce.
"Out with it," Tim said, once again interrupting his thoughts. "I’m not going to offer a penny for your thoughts, since I know it’s impossible for them to be worth anything, but what on earth are you thinking about?"
Suddenly Dick sat up straighter, determined to return his attention to the matter at hand. After all, he had to choose a spouse, and that was certainly a serious business.
"Who is considered the Diamond of the Season?" he asked. His brothers stopped to think for a moment, and Terry quickly said:
"Damian Al Ghul. Surely you’ve seen him. Quite exotic, with brown hair and green eyes. You can tell which one he is by the flock of lovesick suitors trailing after him."
Dick ignored his brother’s attempt at sarcasm. "Is he intelligent?"
Terry blinked, as if the question of whether an omega was smart had never crossed his mind, despite having been raised alongside Tim. "Yes, I believe so. I once heard him discussing mythology with Donna, and he sounded as if he knew what he was talking about."
"Good," Dick said as he set his whisky glass on the table with a sharp clack. "Then I shall marry Damian."
At the Wests' ball on Wednesday night, Viscount Wayne was seen dancing with more than one eligible omega. This behavior can only be described as 'surprising,' as Richard Wayne normally avoids demure omegas with a perseverance that would be admirable if it weren't so frustrating for every mother with matrimonial intentions. Is it possible the Viscount has read this author’s most recent column and, displaying that perverse attitude all alphas seem to share, decided to prove this author wrong? It might seem that this author attributes more importance to herself than she actually wields, but it is clear that alphas have made decisions based on much, much less.
—Lady Oracle’s Society Sonatas, April 22, 1814
By eleven o'clock that night, all of Jason’s fears had materialized. Richard Wayne had asked Damian for a dance. Even worse, Damian had accepted. And much worse still, Talia was watching the pair as if she wanted to book the church this very minute.
"Are you going to stop it?" Jason hissed, giving his stepmother a nudge in the ribs.
"Stop what?"
"Looking at them that way!"
Talia blinked. "What way?"
"As if you’re planning the wedding menu."
"Oh, I won't stop."
"Talia!"
"Well, I may have been," the alpha admitted. "And what’s wrong with that, I’d like to ask? It would be an unbeatable match for Damian."
"Didn't you listen to us this afternoon in the drawing room? It’s bad enough that Damian has such a crowd of playboys and womanizers at his heels. You can't imagine how much time it’s taken me to weed out the good suitors from the bad. But Wayne!" Jason shrugged. "He is quite possibly the worst womanizer in all of London. You can't want him to marry a man like that."
"Don't you dare tell me what I can and cannot do, Jason Todd Al Ghul," Talia replied sharply, drawing herself up to her full height—which was still a head shorter than Jason. "I am still your mother. Well, your stepmother. And that counts for something."
Jason immediately felt like a worm. Talia was the only mother he had ever known, if he tried to strike Sheila from his mind, and never once had she made him feel like anything less than her own son. She had tucked him in at night, told him stories, kissed and hugged him, and helped him through those difficult years between childhood and adulthood. The only thing she hadn't done was ask Jason to call her "Mother."
"It does count," Jason said softly, looking down at his feet in shame. "It counts for a lot. You are my mother, in every way and in everything that matters."
Talia stared at him for a long moment, then turned her gaze back toward the room with a small smile, her eyes glowing the same green as Damian’s.
"I love you, Jason. You know that, don’t you?"
"Of course!" Jason exclaimed, amazed that Talia would even ask. "And you know… You know that…"
"I know." Talia patted his arm. "Of course I know. It’s just that when you commit to being the mother of a child you didn't give birth to, your responsibility is twice as great. You must work even harder to ensure the child's happiness and well-being."
"Talia, I love you, and I love Damian too."
At the mere mention of Damian’s name, both turned and looked across the ballroom to see him dancing with utter grace with the Viscount. As usual, Damian was a vision of exotic beauty. His black hair was neatly styled, his face framed by thick brows, and his form was grace personified as he executed the steps of the dance. The Viscount, Jason noted with irritation, was dazzlingly handsome. Dressed in rigorous black and white, he avoided the loud colors that had become popular among the more dandyish members of the aristocratic elite. He was tall, lithe, and proud, with thick black hair that tended to fall forward over his forehead. At least at first glance, he was everything an alpha was supposed to be.
"They make a very handsome couple, don't they?" Talia murmured. Jason bit his tongue. And it actually hurt. "He's a bit tall for him, but I don't see that as an insurmountable obstacle, do you?"
Jason gripped his hands together, digging his nails into his skin. It said a lot about the strength of his grip that he could feel them even through his kid gloves. Talia smiled. A rather devious smile, Jason thought. He shot a suspicious look at his stepmother.
"Richard dances well, don't you think?" Talia asked.
"He is NOT marrying Damian!" Jason burst out. Talia’s smile stretched into a smirk.
"I was wondering how long it would take for you to break your silence."
"Much longer than is my natural tendency," Jason retorted, practically snapping every word.
"Yes, that much is clear."
"Talia, you know he isn't the kind of man we want for Damian."
Talia tilted her head slightly to one side and raised her eyebrows. "I think the question should be whether he is the kind of man Damian wants for himself."
"He isn't that either!" Jason countered vehemently. "Just this afternoon he told me he wanted to marry an intellectual. An intellectual!" He shook his head toward the dark-haired cretin dancing with his brother. "Does he look like an intellectual to you?"
"No, but by that same token, you don't exactly look like a skilled watercolorist, and yet I know you are." Talia wore a smug little smile that drove Jason to his wits' end. He waited for her to continue.
"I will admit," Jason said through grit teeth, "that one shouldn't judge a person solely on outward appearance, but surely you’ll agree with me that, from everything we’ve heard of him, he doesn't seem the type to spend his afternoons hunched over ancient books in a library."
"Perhaps not," Talia said meditatively, "but I had a lovely conversation with his mother earlier tonight."
"His mother?" Jason struggled to follow the conversation. "What does that have to do with anything?"
Talia shrugged. "I find it hard to believe that such a polite and intelligent lady has raised a son who is anything less than the perfect gentleman, despite his reputation."
"But, Talia..."
"When you are a mother," she said haughtily, "you will understand what I mean."
"But..."
"Have I told you yet," Talia suddenly interrupted with a pointed tone that indicated she wanted to change the subject, "how handsome you look in that red suit? I am so glad we chose it."
Jason stared at his suit wordlessly, wondering why on earth Talia had changed the subject so abruptly.
"This color suits you very well. Lady Oracle won't be comparing you to any scorched scraps in her Friday column!"
Jason stared at Talia in dismay. Perhaps his mother was too warm. The ballroom was crowded and the air was getting heavy. Then he felt Talia’s finger digging in just below his left shoulder blade, and he knew the reason was something else entirely.
"Mr. Wayne!" Talia suddenly exclaimed, sounding as jubilant as a young girl.
Jason, horrified, snapped his head around to see a strikingly handsome man approaching them. A strikingly handsome man who bore a striking resemblance to the Viscount currently dancing with his brother. He swallowed hard. It was either that or let his jaw drop completely.
"Mr. Wayne!" Talia repeated. "What a pleasure to see you! This is my son, Jason."
The young man took Jason’s limp, gloved hand and brushed his knuckles with a kiss so ethereal that Jason suspected he hadn't actually kissed it at all.
"Mr. Al Ghul," he murmured.
"Jason," Talia continued, "allow me to introduce Mr. Terrence Wayne. I met him earlier while speaking with his mother, Lady Wayne, tonight." She turned to Terrence with a radiant smile. "What a charming lady!"
He returned the smile. "We think so."
Talia let out a muffled giggle. A giggle! Jason felt like gagging.
"Jason," Talia repeated, "Mr. Wayne is the Viscount’s brother. The one dancing with Damian," she added unnecessarily.
"I gathered as much," Jason replied.
Terrence Wayne shot him a sideways glance, and Jason knew instantly that the vague sarcasm in his tone hadn't gone unnoticed.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Al Ghul," he said kindly. "I hope you will do me the honor of granting me one of your dances tonight."
"I... of course." He cleared his throat. "It would be an honor."
"Jason," Talia said, nudging him lightly with her elbow, "show him your dance card."
"Yes, of course." Jason fumbled for his card, which was neatly tied to his wrist with a red ribbon.
The fact that he had to fumble for something that was, in fact, attached to his body was a bit alarming, but Jason decided to attribute his lack of composure to the sudden and unexpected appearance of a previously unknown Wayne brother. That and the unfortunate fact that, even in the best of circumstances, he had never been the most graceful omega at a ball. Terrence signed his name for one of the sets later that evening, then asked him if he would like to accompany him to the lemonade table.
"Go, go," Talia said before Jason could answer. "Don't worry about me. I’ll be perfectly fine even if you leave."
"I can bring you a glass," Jason offered, while trying to imagine if it was possible to glare at his stepmother without Mr. Wayne noticing.
"It’s not necessary. Actually, I should return to my seat with the other chaperones and mothers." Talia frantically scanned the room until she spotted a familiar face. "Oh, look, there’s Mrs. Shiva. I must go. Sandra!"
Jason watched for a moment as his stepmother hurried away, then turned back to Mr. Wayne.
"I believe," he said drily, "she doesn't want any lemonade." A spark of humor flashed in Terrence's emerald eyes. "Either that, or she plans on running all the way to Spain to pick the lemons herself."
Despite himself, Jason laughed. He would have preferred not to like Mr. Terrence Wayne. He didn't have much desire to like anyone from the Wayne family after everything he had read about the Viscount in the paper. But he had to admit it didn't seem fair to judge a man for his brother’s misdeeds, so he forced himself to relax a little.
"And are you thirsty," Jason asked him, "or were you merely being polite?"
"I am always polite," he said with a wicked smile, "but I am also thirsty."
Jason stole a quick glance at that smile which, combined with those devastating green eyes, achieved a lethal effect; he nearly let out a groan.
"You’re a charmer as well," he said with a sigh. Terry choked. On what, Jason didn't know, but he choked nonetheless.
"I beg your pardon?" Jason’s face flushed as he realized with horror that he had spoken aloud.
"No, it is I who should beg yours. Please, forgive me. My discourtesy is unpardonable."
"No, no," he hurried to say, looking terribly interested and also quite amused, "please, continue."
Jason swallowed hard. There was no way out of this now. "Simply..." He cleared his throat. "If you want me to be frank..."
He nodded with a shrewd smile that told Jason he couldn't imagine him being anything other than frank. Jason cleared his throat once more. Honestly, this was getting ridiculous. He was starting to sound as if he’d swallowed a toad.
"It occurred to me that you bear a certain resemblance to your brother, that’s all."
"My brother?"
"The Viscount," Jason said, thinking it was obvious.
"I have two brothers," Terry explained.
"Oh." Then he felt stupid. "I’m sorry."
"I’m sorry too," he said, as if he truly meant it. "Most of the time they are an atrocious nuisance."
Jason had to cough to hide a small gasp of surprise.
"But at least you haven't compared me to Tom," he said with a dramatic sigh of relief. He shot Jason a playful sideways glance. "He’s thirteen."
Jason caught the smile in his eyes and realized the man had been teasing him the whole time. He wasn't at all an alpha who wished to be rid of his siblings.
"You’re quite devoted to your family, aren't you?" he asked. His eyes, merry throughout the conversation, turned completely serious without so much as a blink.
"Entirely."
"As am I," Jason said, dropping a hint.
"And that means...?"
"It means," the omega replied, knowing he should hold his tongue but needing to explain himself anyway, "that I won't allow anyone to break my brother's heart."
Terry fell silent for a moment and slowly turned his head to observe his brother and Damian, who were concluding their dance at that very moment.
"I see," he murmured.
"Do you?"
"Oh, certainly." They reached the lemonade table, and he reached out to take two glasses, handing one to Jason.
He had already drunk three glasses of lemonade that night, a fact he was sure Talia was aware of before insisting he drink more. But it was hot in the ballroom—it was always hot in ballrooms—and he was thirsty again. Terry took a slow sip and watched him over the rim of the glass, then said:
"My brother has it in mind to start a family this year."
It was a game for two, Jason thought. He took a sip of his lemonade—slowly—before speaking: "Is that so?"
"I am certainly in a position to know."
"He has the reputation of being quite the womanizer."
Terry looked at him, trying to form a judgment. "That is true. It’s hard to imagine a rogue of such ill-repute settling down with an omega and finding happiness in marriage."
"You seem to have given much thought to this prospect, Mr. Al Ghul."
He met his gaze with a frank and direct look. "Your brother is not the first alpha of questionable character to pay court to my brother, Mr. Wayne. And I assure you, I do not take my brother's happiness lightly."
"The truth is, any omega would find happiness in a marriage to a wealthy, titled gentleman. Isn't that precisely what a London Season is for?"
"Perhaps," Jason admitted, "but I fear that line of thinking doesn't address the real issue at hand."
"Which is...?"
"That a bonded alpha can break a heart with a far greater intensity than a mere suitor." He smiled a faint, knowing sort of smile. Then he added: "Don't you agree?"
"Since I have never been married, I am clearly in no position to speculate."
"A pity, Mr. Wayne. That was the poorest evasion you could have come up with."
"Truly? I rather thought it might be the best. Clearly, I’m losing my touch."
"That, I fear, will never be something for you to worry about." Jason finished the rest of his lemonade. It was a small glass; Lady Wu, the host, was known for her stinginess.
"You are too generous," he replied. Jason smiled, a real smile this time.
"I am rarely accused of that, Mr. Wayne."
He laughed. A loud, ringing laugh in the middle of the ballroom. Jason realized with discomfort that they were suddenly the object of many curious stares.
"You must meet," he continued, sounding completely amused, "my brother."
"The Viscount?" Jason asked incredulously.
"Well, you might enjoy Thomas’s company as well," he admitted, "but as I told you, he’s only thirteen and would likely put a frog on your chair."
"And the Viscount?"
"He isn't likely to put a frog on your chair," he replied with an absolutely straight face. Jason would never know how he managed not to burst out laughing. With his lips very straight and serious, he answered:
"I see. He has much advice to give his younger brother, then."
Terry winced. "He isn't that bad."
"What a relief to know. I think I’ll start planning the wedding feast immediately."
Terry’s jaw dropped. "I didn't mean... You shouldn't... That is to say, such a measure would be premature."
Jason felt a pang of pity for him and said: "I was joking."
Terry’s face flushed slightly. "Of course."
"Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave."
Terry raised an eyebrow. "You aren't going so soon, Mr. Al Ghul?"
"Not at all." But he wasn't going to tell him he had to go to the retiring room. Four glasses of lemonade tended to provoke that bodily reaction. "I’ve promised to meet a friend for a moment."
"It has been a pleasure." He executed a precise bow. "May I escort you to your destination?"
"No, thank you. I’m quite capable of getting there myself." And with a smile over his shoulder, he began his retreat from the ballroom.
Terry Wayne watched him go with a pensive expression, then made his way toward his elder brother, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in an almost belligerent stance.
"Dick!" he called out, clapping his brother on the back. "How was your dance with the exotic Mr. Al Ghul?"
"He will do." That was Dick’s curt reply. Both knew what that meant.
"Really?" A very faint smile touched Terry’s lips. "Then you really ought to meet his brother."
"I beg your pardon?"
"His brother," Terry repeated, and began to laugh. "You simply have to meet his brother."
Twenty minutes later, Dick was convinced he had understood the whole story Terry had explained about Damian Al Ghul; apparently, the path to Damian’s heart and his hand in marriage went directly through his brother. It seemed Damian Al Ghul would not marry without his older brother's approval. According to Terry, this was vox populi—or at least it had been since the previous week when Damian had said as much at the Browns' annual musical evening. All the Wayne brothers had missed this declaration of capital importance, as they avoided the Browns' musical evenings as if they were the plague, just as anyone with a shred of appreciation for Bach, Mozart, or music in general did.
Damian’s older brother, one Jason Al Ghul, better known as Jason Todd, was also making his debut this year, despite it being known he was at least twenty-one.
This coincidence led Dick to the conclusion that the Al Ghuls must be among the lower ranks of the aristocracy, a fact that suited him just fine. He didn't need an omega with a large dowry, and an omega without one might need him more. Dick believed in taking every advantage. Unlike Damian, the elder brother had not caused an immediate sensation in Society. According to Terry, he was generally liked but lacked Damian’s dazzling beauty.
He was tall while Damian was petite, and fair while Damian was dark. Furthermore, he lacked Damian’s radiant grace. Also according to Terry (who, despite having arrived in London for the Season only recently, was a veritable font of knowledge and gossip), more than one gentleman had reported receiving trampled toes after a dance with Jason Todd.
Dick found the whole situation a bit absurd. After all, who had ever heard of an omega requiring the approval of his omega brother for his future husband? A father, yes; an alpha or beta brother, or even a mother... but an omega brother? It was inconceivable. Moreover, it was peculiar that Damian sought advice from Jason when it was clear Jason himself didn't know what to do in matters of courtship. But Dick had no particular interest in searching for another suitable candidate to court, so he conveniently decided that it only meant family was important to Damian. And since family was the most important thing to him as well, this was one more indication that he would be an excellent choice as a spouse. So, it seemed all he would have to do was charm the brother.
And how could that possibly be difficult?
"You'll have no trouble winning him over," Terry predicted with a confident smile lighting up his face. "No trouble at all. A shy, old-fashioned bachelor? He likely has never received the attentions of an alpha like you. He’ll never know what hit him."
"I don't want him to fall in love with me," Dick countered. "I only want him to recommend me to his brother."
"You can't fail," Terry continued. "It’s that simple: you can't fail. Trust me, I spent a few minutes talking with him earlier tonight and he couldn't speak more highly of you."
"Good." Dick pushed himself off the wall and looked around with determination. "Well then, where is he? I need you to introduce us."
Terry scanned the room for a minute or so and then said, "Ah, there he is. Look, he’s coming this way. What a wonderful coincidence."
Dick had concluded long ago that nothing within five meters of his brother was a coincidence, but he followed his gaze anyway.
"Which one is he?"
"The one in red," Terry replied, nodding in his direction with a barely perceptible movement of his chin.
It wasn't at all what he had expected, Dick realized as he watched him walk carefully through the crowd. In truth, he wasn't some spinsterish wallflower; it was only compared to Damian, who barely stood five-foot-seven, that he seemed too tall. In his own right, Mr. Jason Todd was quite pleasant to look at, with thick black hair marked by a white streak and bluish eyes. He had a fair complexion, rosy lips, and carried himself with an air of confidence that Dick couldn't help but find attractive. It was true he could never be considered a Diamond of the first water like his brother, but Dick didn't understand why he hadn't been able to find a husband for himself. Perhaps when he married Damian, he could provide a dowry for the brother. It seemed the least a man could do.
Beside him, Terry stepped forward a bit to clear a path through the crowd. "Mr. Todd! Mr. Todd!"
Dick didn't want to be left behind Terry and prepared himself mentally to enchant Damian’s older brother. An under-appreciated bachelor, that’s what he was. He’d have him eating out of his hand in no time.
"Mr. Todd," Terry was saying, "what a pleasure to see you again."
The man looked a bit perplexed, but Dick didn't blame him. Terry made it sound as if they had bumped into each other by accident, when everyone knew he had mowed down at least half a dozen people to reach his side.
"And it is lovely to see you again as well, sir," he replied ironically. "And in such unexpectedly quick fashion after our last encounter."
Dick smiled to himself. He had a sharper wit than he had been led to believe. Terry wore a charming smirk, and then Dick got the distinct and unsettling impression that his brother was up to something.
"I can't explain why," Terry said to Mr. Todd, "but it suddenly seems imperative that I introduce you to my brother."
Jason abruptly shifted his gaze to Terry’s right and stiffened when his eyes fell on Dick. He looked rather as if he had just swallowed a nasty medicine. Dick thought that was strange.
"How kind of you," Mr. Todd murmured through his teeth.
"Mr. Todd," Terry continued cheerfully, gesturing toward Dick, "my brother Richard, Viscount Wayne. Richard, Mr. Jason Todd. I believe you’ve already met his brother tonight."
"Indeed," Dick said, aware by then of an overwhelming desire—no, a need—to strangle his brother. Mr. Todd gave a quick, awkward bow.
"Lord Wayne," he said, "it is an honor to meet you."
Terry let out a sound that was far too close to a snort. Or perhaps a laugh. Or perhaps both. And then Dick knew. One look at his brother’s face should have told him. This was no shy, retiring, under-appreciated bachelor. Whatever the omega had told Terry earlier that night, it had included no compliments toward Dick. Fratricide was legal in England, wasn't it? If it wasn't, it soon should be, damn it. Dick realized belatedly that Mr. Jason Todd had extended his hand, as was polite. He took it and brushed a light kiss across his gloved knuckles.
"Mr. Todd," he murmured without thinking, "you are every bit as charming as your brother."
If he had seemed uncomfortable before, his attitude now turned openly hostile. Dick realized, with the mental equivalent of a slap to the face, that he had said exactly the wrong thing. Of course he shouldn't have compared him to his brother. It was a compliment Jason would never believe.
"And you, Lord Wayne," Jason replied in a tone that could have chilled champagne, "are almost as handsome as your brother."
Terry let out another snort, only this time it sounded as if he were being strangled.
"Are you quite well?" Mr. Todd asked.
"He’s fine," Dick barked. The omega ignored him, keeping his attention on Terry.
"Are you certain?"
Terry nodded furiously. "A tickle in the throat."
"Or perhaps a guilty conscience?" Dick suggested.
Terry deliberately turned his back on his brother and faced Jason. "I believe I need another glass of lemonade," he said in a strained voice.
"Or perhaps," Dick continued, "something stronger. Hemlock, maybe?"
Mr. Todd covered his mouth with his hand, presumably to stifle a fit of horrified laughter.
"Lemonade will do," Terry answered meekly.
"Would you like me to fetch you a glass?" Jason asked.
Dick noticed he had already taken a step, as if looking for any excuse to flee. Terry shook his head.
"No, no, I can manage perfectly. But I believe I have the next dance reserved with you, Mr. Todd."
"I won't hold you to it," Jason said with a wave of his hand.
"Oh, but I couldn't bear to leave you here alone," Terry countered.
Dick could see that Mr. Todd was becoming increasingly worried by the malicious glint in Terry’s eyes. He found an uncharitable pleasure in this. Dick knew his reaction was a bit disproportionate, but something about this Mr. Jason Todd fired his spirit while simultaneously sparking a terrible urge to do battle with him. And win. That went without saying.
"Richard," Terry said in a tone so damned innocent and eager that Dick found it hard not to kill him on the spot, "you aren't engaged for this dance, are you?"
Dick said nothing; he simply glared at him.
"Good. Then you shall dance with Mr. Todd."
"I’m sure that won't be necessary," the omega in question blurted out. Dick shot another irate look at his brother, then, for good measure, at Mr. Todd, who was watching him as if he had just ravished ten virgins in his presence.
"Oh, but it is," Terry said with great drama, ignoring the optical daggers being exchanged within their little trio. "I wouldn't dream of abandoning a young omega in his hour of need. How ungentlemanly," he said, shuddering.
Dick seriously weighed the possibility of putting some ungentlemanly behavior into practice. Perhaps something like planting his fist in Terry’s face.
"I assure you," Mr. Todd said hurriedly, "that being left to my own devices would be much preferable to danc—"
Enough, Dick thought fiercely; it was truly enough. His own brother had already made a fool of him; he wasn't going to stand there and do nothing while this sharp-tongued bachelor—the brother of young Master Damian—insulted him. He placed a hand firmly on Jason’s arm.
"Allow me to prevent you from making a grave mistake, Mr. Todd."
The omega went tense. Dick didn't know how, but Jason’s back was already as stiff as a rod.
"I beg your pardon?" he asked.
"I believe," Dick told him in a soft tone, "that you were about to say something you would soon regret."
"No," Jason said, sounding intentionally pensive. "I don't believe I planned on regretting anything."
"I’m sure you’ll eventually manage it," Dick said ominously.
And then he took his arm and, one might say, hauled him right onto the dance floor.
Viscount Wayne was also seen dancing with Mr. Jason Todd, the elder omega brother of the exotic Damian. This can only mean one thing, as it has not escaped this author’s notice that the eldest Al Ghul has been much in demand on the dance floor since the younger brother made his singular, unprecedented announcement at the Browns' musical evening last week. Who has ever heard of an omega needing his omega brother’s permission to choose a husband? And another question that is perhaps more important: Who decided the words "Brown" and "musical evening" could be used in the same sentence? This author attended one of these gatherings in the past and heard nothing that could strictly be qualified as "music."
—LADY ORACLE’S SOCIETY SONATAS, April 22, 1814
There was really nothing he could do, Jason realized with dismay. Richard was a Viscount, he was a mere unknown from Nanda Parbat, and both were in the middle of a ballroom packed with people. It didn't matter that he had disliked him at first sight. He had to dance with him.
"There is no need to drag me," he said through his teeth.
Dick loosened his grip with great ostentation. Jason clenched his jaw and swore to himself that this alpha would never make his brother his spouse. His attitude was too cold, too superior. He was also too handsome, Jason thought somewhat unfairly, with velvety blue eyes that matched his hair perfectly. He was tall—certainly over six feet—yet Jason remained the taller of the two. His lips, though classically beautiful (Jason had studied art long enough to consider himself qualified to offer such an opinion), were set in lines as if he never stopped smirking.
"Well then," Dick said once their feet began to move to the steps, "let's say you tell me why you hate me."
Jason stepped on his foot. God, the man was blunt.
"I beg your pardon?"
"There is no need to cripple me, Mr. Todd."
"It was an accident, I assure you."
And it was, though he didn't actually mind this particular example of his lack of grace.
"Why," Dick said meditatively, "do I find that difficult to believe?"
Frankness, Jason decided quickly, would be his best strategy. If Richard could be direct, then fine—so could he.
"It might be," he replied with a wicked smile, "because you know that if it had occurred to me to step on your foot on purpose, I would have done so."
Dick threw his head back and laughed. It was not the reaction Jason had expected or hoped for. Though, come to think of it, he had no idea what kind of reaction he had expected, but it certainly wasn't that.
"Can you stop it, milord?" Jason whispered urgently. "People are staring."
"People started staring two minutes ago," he replied. "It isn't often an alpha like me dances with an omega like you."
As an exchange of barbs, this one had been aimed with precision, but unfortunately for him, it was also incorrect.
"That isn't true," Jason countered casually. "In truth, you are not the first of the idiots mad for my brother who have tried to ingratiate themselves with Damian through me."
Dick winced. "Not suitors, but idiots?"
Jason met his gaze and was surprised to see genuine amusement there.
"Surely you aren't going to offer me such a delicious bait as that, are you, milord?"
"And yet you haven't taken the trap," he replied meditatively. Jason looked down to see if there was any way to step on him again discreetly. "I’m wearing very thick boots, Mr. Todd," he told him. Jason snapped his head up. One corner of the Viscount’s mouth curled into a mock smile. "And I also have the eyes of a hawk."
"So it seems. I shall have to be careful where I step while I’m near you, that’s for sure."
"Good heavens!" he drawled. "Could that have been a compliment? I might die of the shock."
"If you wish to consider it a compliment, I shall let you," Jason said ironically. "There isn't much chance you’ll receive many more."
"You wound me, Mr. Todd."
"Does that mean your skin isn't as tough as your boots?"
"Oh, far from it."
Jason felt his own laughter before he even realized how much fun he was having. "That, I find hard to believe."
Richard waited for Jason’s smile to fade before saying, "You haven't answered my question. Why do you hate me?"
A rush of air escaped Jason’s lips. He hadn't counted on him repeating the question. Or at least he’d hoped he wouldn't.
"I don't hate you, milord," he answered, choosing his words with extreme care. "I don't even know you."
"Knowing someone is not an essential requirement for hatred," he said softly, his eyes fixing on the omega with lethal persistence. "Come, Mr. Todd, you don't strike me as a coward. Answer my question."
Jason remained silent for a full minute. It was true; he was predisposed not to like this man. He certainly wasn't going to give his blessing for him to court Damian. He didn't believe for a moment that reformed rakes made the best husbands.
For starters, he wasn't even sure a rake could be reformed. But Richard might have been able to overcome Jason’s preconceptions. He could have been charming, sincere, direct, and able to convince him that the stories in Lady Oracle’s pamphlet were an exaggeration—that he wasn't the greatest womanizer London had seen since the turn of the century. He could have convinced him that he followed a code of honor, that he was an honest man of principle...
If it hadn't occurred to him to compare him to Damian.
Because there couldn't be a more obvious lie.
Jason knew he wasn't unbearable; his face and form were pleasant enough. But in no way could he be compared to Damian like that and remain his equal. Damian was truly a diamond of the finest quality; Jason would never rise above average, nor catch the eye. And if this alpha said otherwise, then he had some ulterior motive, because he clearly wasn't blind.
He could have paid him any other hollow compliment and Jason would have accepted it as the polite conversation of a gentleman. He might even have felt flattered if the words had hovered somewhere near the truth. But to compare him to Damian... Jason adored his brother. Truly, he did. And he knew better than anyone that Damian’s heart was as beautiful and radiant as his face, even if he tried to hide it.
It wasn't that he considered himself a jealous person, but still... the comparison somehow hurt him to the core.
"I don't hate you," he finally answered.
His eyes were fixed on Richard’s chin, but since he did not tolerate cowardice—least of all in himself—he forced himself to meet his gaze to add more.
"But I find that I cannot like you."
Something in the alpha’s gaze told Jason that he appreciated his blunt sincerity.
"And why is that?" he asked in a quiet voice.
"May I be frank?"
Richard’s lips curved. "Please."
"You are dancing with me right now because you want to court my brother. That doesn't bother me," he hurried to assure him. "I am quite used to receiving attention from Damian’s suitors."
It was clear his mind wasn't on the dance steps. Richard moved his foot just before their feet could collide again. He noted with interest that Jason was back to referring to them as "suitors" instead of "idiots."
"Please, continue," he murmured.
"You are not the kind of man I would want my brother to marry," Jason said plainly. His attitude was direct, and his intelligent bluish eyes never wavered from the sapphire ones. "You are a womanizer. You are a playboy. In fact, you are famous for both. I wouldn't allow my brother within three yards of you."
"And yet," Dick told him with a wicked little smile, "I have waltzed with Damian tonight."
"An act that will not be repeated, I assure you."
"And is it up to you to decide Damian’s fate?"
"Damian trusts my opinion," Jason replied curtly.
"I see," Richard said with what he hoped was his most mysterious air. "That is very interesting. I thought Damian was of age."
"Damian is only seventeen!"
"And you are so very old. How many years? Twenty, perhaps?"
"Twenty-one," he snapped.
"Ah, that makes you a true expert on alphas and husbands in particular. Especially considering you are bonded to an alpha, right?"
"You know perfectly well I am not," Jason said, gritting his teeth.
Dick suppressed the urge to smile. Good God, it really was fun to bait Jason Todd.
"I believe..." he said then, speaking the words slowly and intentionally, "that you’ve found it relatively easy to control most of the alphas who have come knocking at your brother's door. Is that true?"
Jason maintained a deathly silence.
"Is it?"
Finally, the omega offered a slight nod of agreement.
"I thought so," Dick murmured. "You seem the type."
Jason glared at him with such ferocity that Dick struggled to hold back his laughter. If they weren't dancing, he likely would have stroked his chin, feigning deep reflection. But since his hands were occupied elsewhere, he had to settle for a slow, heavy tilt of his head, combined with a haughty arch of his brows.
"But I also believe," he added, "that you are making a grave mistake in thinking you can control me."
Jason's lips formed a serious, straight line, but he managed to speak as well.
"I am not trying to control you, Lord Wayne. I am only trying to keep you away from my brother."
"Which only goes to show, Mr. Todd, how little you know about alphas. At least of the womanizing and rakehell variety." He leaned in slightly toward the omega, letting his warm breath brush Jason’s cheek. Jason shivered; Dick knew he would. He smiled wickedly. "There is little we delight in more than a challenge."
The music concluded then, leaving them standing in the middle of the dance floor, facing one another. Dick took him by the arm, but before leading him back to the edge of the room, he brought his lips very close to Jason’s ear and whispered:
"And you, Mr. Todd, have dared me to the most delicious of challenges."
Jason stepped on his foot. Hard. Enough to make him let out a small yelp—certainly not very womanizer-like or very rakish. Nonetheless, when the Viscount shot him a hostile look, the omega simply shrugged and said:
"It was my only defense."
Dick’s gaze darkened. "You, Mr. Todd, are quite a menace." The Viscount gripped his arm more firmly. "Before you return to your sanctuary of chaperones and bachelors, there is one thing we must clear up."
Jason held his breath. He didn't like the hard edge he detected in Dick's voice.
"I am going to court your brother. And if I decide he would make a suitable Lady Wayne, I shall make him my spouse."
Jason snapped his head up to face him, fire in his eyes.
"Then I suppose you think it is up to you to decide Damian’s fate. Do not forget, milord: even if you decide he is to be a suitable Lady Wayne"—he spat the word with disdain—"perhaps Damian will choose someone else."
He looked at him with the confidence of a male who is never crossed. "If I decide to ask Damian, he will not say no."
"Are you trying to tell me no omega has ever been able to resist you?"
He didn't answer; he only raised a haughty eyebrow for Jason to draw his own conclusions. Jason managed to wrench his arm free and headed toward his stepmother at a brisk pace, trembling with fury, resentment, and even a little fear. Because he had the horrible feeling that Richard wasn't lying. And if Richard Wayne truly turned out to be irresistible... Jason shuddered. He and Damian were going to be in deep, deep trouble.
The following afternoon was like any afternoon following a great ball. The drawing room of the Al Ghul family home was filled to bursting with bouquets of flowers, each accompanied by a brief white card bearing the name "Damian Al Ghul." A simple "Master Al Ghul" would have sufficed, Jason thought with a grimace, but he supposed one couldn't really blame Damian’s suitors for wanting to ensure the flowers reached the correct Master Al Ghul.
Not that anyone was likely to make that mistake. The flowers were, as a general rule, for Damian. And really, "general rule" didn't cover it, since every single bouquet that had arrived at the Al Ghul residence for the past month had been for Damian.
Every single one.
Jason liked to think that he got the last laugh, anyway. Most of the flowers made Damian sneeze, so the bouquets usually ended up in Jason’s bedroom.
"Oh, you beauty," he said, tenderly brushing a lovely orchid. "I think your place is on my headboard. And you"—he leaned forward and sniffed a bunch of perfect white roses—"you will look stunning on my vanity."
"Do you always talk to the flowers?"
Jason spun around at the sound of a deep masculine voice. Good heavens, it was Lord Wayne, looking sinfully handsome in his blue morning coat. What on earth was he doing here? There was no point in staying quiet and not asking questions.
"What the de—?" He caught himself just in time. He wouldn't let this alpha reduce him to swearing out loud, no matter how much he was doing it internally. "What are you doing here?"
The Viscount raised an eyebrow while adjusting the large bouquet he carried under his arm. Pink roses, Jason noticed. They were beautiful. Simple and elegant. Exactly the kind of thing he would choose for himself.
"I believe it is the custom for suitors to visit omegas, is it not?" he murmured. "Or have I confused the book of protocol?"
"I meant," Jason muttered, "how did you get in? No one informed me of your arrival."
He gestured to the foyer with a tilt of his head. "The usual system. I knocked on the door."
Jason’s look of irritation at his sarcasm didn't stop him from continuing:
"Astonishing as it may seem, your butler answered. Then I gave him my card, he gave it a look, and he escorted me to the drawing room. Although I would love to claim some sort of devious and murky subterfuge," he continued in an extraordinarily haughty tone, "the truth is it was quite simple and straightforward."
"Infernal butler," Jason grumbled. "He’s supposed to ascertain if we are 'at home' before letting anyone in."
"Perhaps he has prior instructions that you are to be 'at home' for me under any circumstances."
Jason bristled. "I gave him no such instructions."
"No," Lord Wayne replied with a chuckle, "I never would have thought so."
"And I know Damian hasn't."
Richard smiled. "Perhaps your mother?"
Of course.
"Talia," Jason groaned, a world of accusation in that single word.
"You call her by her given name?" Richard asked politely.
Jason nodded. "She is actually my stepmother. Though she is the only parent I’ve known. She married my mother when I was only three. I don't know why I still call her Talia." He shook his head slightly while lifting and shrugging his shoulders in a perplexed gesture. "But I do."
The Viscount’s blue eyes remained fixed on the omega’s face. Jason suddenly realized: he had just allowed this man—his nemesis, really—access to a small corner of his life. He felt the words "I’m sorry" bubbling on his tongue; a reflex, he thought, for having overshared. But he didn't want to apologize to this man for anything, so he said:
"I’m afraid Damian is out, so your visit has been for nothing."
"Oh, I don't think so," he replied. He took the bouquet of flowers he had kept under his right arm with his other hand, and when he pulled them out, Jason saw it wasn't one massive bouquet, but three smaller ones. "This one," he said, placing one on a side table, "is for Damian. And this one"—he did the same with the second—"is for your mother."
He was left with a single bouquet.
Jason froze in shock, unable to take his eyes off the perfect pink buds. He knew what the alpha was up to—that the reason for including him in this gesture was to impress Damian—but, damn it, no one had ever brought him flowers before, and until that precise moment, he hadn't realized how much he wanted someone to do so.
"These," Richard finished while holding out the last floral arrangement of roses, "are for you."
"Thank you," he said hesitantly, taking them into his arms. "They are beautiful." He leaned forward to smell them and sighed with pleasure at their intense aroma. When he looked up again, he added: "It was very thoughtful of you to think of Talia and me."
He gave a gentle nod of his head. "It was my pleasure. I must confess that, on one occasion, a suitor of my brother's did the same for my mother, and I don't think I’ve ever seen her so delighted."
"Your mother or your sister?"
He smiled at the bold question. "Both."
"And what happened to the suitor?" Jason asked. Dick’s smirk turned exceedingly wicked.
"He married my sister."
"Hum... Do not count on history repeating itself. But..." Jason coughed, as he had no particular interest in being frank with this man, yet felt entirely incapable of doing otherwise. "But the flowers are truly lovely, and... and it was a charming gesture on your part." He swallowed. This wasn't easy for him. "And I thank you for them."
The alpha gave a slight lean forward. His blue eyes were clearly touched.
"A very kind sentiment," he said thoughtfully. "Especially considering it was directed at me. There, it wasn't so difficult, was it?"
In an instant, Jason went from leaning charmingly over the flowers to adopting an uncomfortable stiffness.
"You seem to have a special knack for saying exactly the wrong thing."
"Only when it concerns you, my dear Mr. Todd. I assure you other omegas hang on my every word."
"So I’ve read," Jason mused. Richard’s eyes lit up.
"Is that where you’ve gotten your opinions of me? Of course! The estimable Lady Oracle. I should have known. Gad, I’d love to strangle that woman."
"I find her quite intelligent and very accurate," Jason replied curtly.
"Naturally!" Dick countered.
"Lord Wayne," Jason said through his teeth. "I am certain you did not come to visit just to insult me. Do you wish for me to leave a message for Damian on your behalf?"
"I think not. I don't have much confidence it would reach his hands untampered with."
That was too much.
"I would never dare to interfere with another person's correspondence," Jason managed to say. His whole body was shaking with rage, and had he been a less controlled omega, he certainly would have lunged at his throat. "How dare you insinuate otherwise?"
"To be honest, Mr. Todd," Dick said with a tiresome calm, "the truth is I don't know you very well. The only certainty is your fervent declaration that I shall never find myself within three yards of your brother's angelic presence. You tell me—if you were I, would you leave a note with a peaceful mind?"
"If you are trying to obtain my brother's acceptance through me," Jason answered in an icy tone, "you aren't doing it very well."
"I am aware of that," Dick said. "I certainly shouldn't provoke you. It’s not right of me, is it? But I’m afraid I can't help it." He gave a shameless smirk and stretched out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "What can I say? You have that effect on me, Mr. Todd."
Jason had to acknowledge with dismay that that smile was a true force to be reckoned with. He suddenly felt his strength flagging. A seat—yes, what he needed was to sit down.
"Please, sit," Jason said, gesturing toward the blue damask sofa while he crossed the room with difficulty to take a chair. It wasn't that he particularly wanted Richard to linger, but it would be complicated to sit himself without offering a seat in turn, and he felt his legs trembling atrociously. Perhaps the Viscount found this sudden burst of kindness peculiar, but he said nothing. Instead, he moved a long black case that was on the sofa and placed it on the table; then he took his seat.
"Is this a musical instrument?" he asked, indicating the case. Jason nodded.
"A flute."
"Do you play?"
Jason shook his head, then tilted it slightly and nodded. "I’m trying to learn. I started just this year."
The Viscount gave an affirmative gesture in response. That seemed to end the topic, as he then asked politely:
"When do you expect Damian to return?"
"He’ll be at least an hour, I should think. Mr. Wilson has taken him for a ride in his curricle."
"Slade Wilson?" He almost choked on the name.
"Yes, why?"
"That man is anything but a good alpha."
"Look who’s talking." Jason couldn't help the comment.
Dick wore an amused smirk. "Well, if that doesn't support my thesis, I don't know what will."
Jason had reached the same conclusion about Mr. Wilson’s goodness—or rather, his lack thereof—but he asked:
"Isn't it considered rude to insult rival suitors?"
Dick let out a small snort. "It wasn't an insult. It’s the truth. He courted my brother last year. Or tried to. Tim did everything he could to dissuade him. He is not a good fellow, and I wouldn't trust him if we were shipwrecked on a desert island."
Jason had a strange and poorly timed vision of the Viscount lost on a desert island, clothes in tatters, skin bronzed by the sun. It left him with an uncomfortable feeling of heat. Dick tilted his head and watched him with a mocking gaze.
"Pardon me, Mr. Todd. Are you quite well?"
"Very well!" His response was almost a bark. "I’ve never felt better. What were you saying?"
"You seem a bit flushed." He leaned in to look at him closely.
Truthfully, he didn't look well. Jason fanned himself. "It is a bit warm in here, don't you think?"
Dick shook his head slowly. "Not at all."
Jason looked longingly at the open door. "I wonder where Talia is."
"Are you expecting her?"
"It is unlike her to leave me unchaperoned for this long," he explained.
Unchaperoned? The ramifications of that comment were alarming. Dick suddenly had a vision of being forced to marry the elder Al Ghul brother, which caused an immediate cold sweat. Jason was so different from any omega he had ever met that he had completely forgotten they even needed a chaperone.
"Perhaps she isn't aware that I am here," he hurried to comment.
"Yes, I’m sure that’s it." Jason stood up as if moved by a spring and crossed the room to the bell pull.
With a strong tug, he said: "I’ll ring for someone to let her know. I’m sure she wouldn't want to miss saying hello to you."
"Good. Perhaps she can keep us company while we wait for your brother to return," Dick remarked dryly.
Jason froze while still halfway to his chair. "Do you plan on waiting for Damian?"
The alpha shrugged and enjoyed the omega’s unease. "I have no further plans for this afternoon."
"But it could take hours!"
"An hour at most, I’m sure, and besides..." He stopped as a maid appeared in the doorway.
"You rang, Master Jason?" the maid asked.
"Yes, thank you, Jane," Jason answered. "Would you mind informing Mrs. Al Ghul that we have a guest?"
The maid bowed and left.
"I’m sure Talia will be down in a moment," Jason said, utterly unable to stop tapping his foot. "Any moment, I’m sure."
Dick smiled in that annoying way, looking terribly relaxed and very comfortable on the sofa. An awkward silence fell over the room. Jason gave him a strained smile. He simply raised an eyebrow in response.
"I’m sure she’ll come..."
"Any minute," Dick concluded, appearing to enjoy himself immensely.
Jason sank into his seat and tried not to grimace. He didn't succeed. Just then, a small commotion broke out in the foyer. A few determined canine barks were followed by a high-pitched shriek:
"Titus! Titus! Stop that this instant!"
"Titus?" the Viscount inquired.
"My dog—and Damian’s," Jason explained with a sigh as he stood up. "He doesn't..."
"Titus!"
"...he doesn't get along very well with Talia, I’m afraid." Jason went to the door. "Talia? Talia?"
Dick stood up behind Jason and jumped when the dog let out three more piercing barks, followed immediately by another terrified shriek from Talia.
"What is it?" he muttered. "A mastiff?" It had to be a mastiff.
The eldest Al Ghul seemed exactly like the kind of person who would have a man-eating mastiff at his beck and call.
"No," Jason replied as he hurried out into the foyer while Talia let out another shriek. "It’s a..."
But Dick didn't hear his words. Either way, it didn't matter much, because a second later, the most benign-looking corgi he had ever seen trotted in, with thick caramel-colored fur and a belly that almost scraped the floor. Dick froze in surprise. Was this the fearsome creature in the foyer?
"Good day, dog," he said firmly. The dog stopped dead in his tracks, sat down, and... smiled?
Unfortunately, this author has been unable to determine every detail, but this past Thursday there was a considerable scuffle near the Serpentine in Hyde Park, involving Viscount Wayne, Mr. Slade Wilson, the two Masters Al Ghul, and an unidentified dog of indeterminate breed. This author was not an eyewitness, but all accounts seem to suggest that the unidentified dog emerged as the victor.
LADY ORACLE’S SOCIETY SONATAS, April 25, 1814