Page 8 of Omega's Virtue: Part One (The Hartwell Sisters Saga 2)

His smile flashed white in the candlelight. “Iffly, bring tea to the drawing room for Miss Hartwell and myself.”

“It is too late for tea,” I snapped, irritated that he’d changed the tenor of our conversation so masterfully. “It is after—”

His smile was deeply sardonic, reminding me of the precarious nature of my being here at such a late hour. If my mother had feared for my virtue before, any virtue I might have was surely in question if I visited an alpha so late at night. More fool him if he thought I gave tuppence for my so-called virtue.

“Never mind the time.” I grinned. “I am sure I don’t mind if you don’t. You don’t mind me visiting, do you, my lord?”

He watched, waiting for my next move. I blinked back.

The commanding alpha cleared his throat. “Well, perhaps it is a little late for tea, but my doctor has prohibited anything stronger, and against my own better judgement, I have consented to his prescription. Miss Hartwell, will you do me the pleasure of joining me in the drawing room for a cup of tea?”

I refused to hesitate and climbed the stairs, but each step that brought me closer to Lord Paxton reinforced my belief that this alpha was dangerous to my peace of mind. At the top of the landing, the difference in our heights had me feeling every inch the omega, the weaker dynamic… And I liked it. Goddess, forgive me, but I wanted to purr in satisfaction that we exemplified the physiology of our dynamics so perfectly. Old feelings filtered through. Desire, the likes of which I’d not felt in so long. By his scent, he felt at least some of what I did.

He indicated I should proceed him into the drawing room at the front of the house. I am not sure what I expected, but it was not the chaos I found.

The room was dark except for his candle, which he set on a small, demilune table with a large gilt mirror hanging behind it. The dark damask curtains remained drawn and looked heavy with dust, and large sheets protected the furniture. Why would anyone leave such a grand room to do nothing more than gather dust?

Except… Except… The walls were crammed with paintings, and what was not hung was stacked along the walls and leant against the furniture—four, five, six canvases deep. Lord Paxton crossed to the curtains and without difficulty pulled them open, allowing moonlight to flood the room. My omega appreciated the casual use of alpha strength, but in truth it was a petty, even showy attempt to prove his injury hadn’t fazed him. Such an alpha thing to do… Almost endearing. I pressed my lips together, furious I could find anything about him not repulsive.

“Now, Miss Hartwell…”

His next words were lost on me, in favour of examining the room as best I could in the poor light. What cave of wonders was this?

“You’ll hurt your eyes squinting like that. Light those candles for me,” he said with a nod to the candelabra on an ornate gilt side table. Hating following his casual order, I moved slowly telling myself I was afraid of knocking into any of the paintings. The room revealed more of itself with each new candle lit. I sensed him and glanced up to find him watching my reflection in the mirror.

“What is the matter my lord? Do you not like what you see?” I asked. He took a single step towards me. A fierce intensity in his eyes that had my heart racing. Oh, Goddess. I craved what his darkness promised, even as I fantasised about strangling him for his high-handed ways. Such was the life of an omega.

“How did you get here? Fresh out of your heat….” he growled, prowling towards me until—if he’d desired—he could have touched me. And Goddess, but his scent made my blood heat even more. The knowledge that he responded caused my omega to purr with pleasure.

“Walked,” I smiled, instinctually knowing he would hate the fact I’d risked walking instead of taking some stuffy carriage.

“Damned foolish,” he snapped. He was now so close I could feel the heat of his body.

“You should be in bed.”

“Your wound is still fresh. I can smell the blood. Turn and look at yourself before lecturing me about being foolish!” I spun to face him and laughed at how serious he appeared. “Who are you to tell me what to do? Are you my mate? No.”

His eyes flashed on the word mate, but his scent told me that the idea was not… unpleasant to him, even if it made my skin prick with fear.

“Very well.” He spun me around so that we faced the large mirror which hung on the wall. So close, I could feel the press of his arm in its sling. Despite that disadvantage, he exuded power and control. I was at his mercy, if he so exerted his will. Then, like the devil he was and knowing all my darkest secrets, he wrapped his hand about my throat. Only, instead of calming me, my pulse raced, and he knew it. I could see the glint in his eyes, could smell his sweet pine.

The candlelight reflected our faces back to us as clear as day. He loomed and overwhelmed my much smaller frame. “You think yourself safe coming to me while I am injured? That… That you do not smell sweet enough to eat? That your heat’s end does not remove the temptation? Hmmm? Little omega? Are you so…”

“Do not dare say foolish!” I snapped and tried to escape his gentle grip around my throat. His eyes flashed before a smirk tugged at his lips. For a moment, I worried he would lose control and explore the mutual attraction. My scent soured, and he shook his head, brought back to his senses.

“Foolish,” he whispered into my ear. His breath was hot on my ear and with a near silent curse he stood straight and released me. “Beautiful, foolish little Vixen. But enough of that. What brings you here in the middle of the night? It cannot be without some great reason.”

“Your note. You wanted to buy my paintings. They are not for sale.”

He did not respond, just held my gaze in the mirror. “You should not have come here, Miss Beatrice Hartwell. A note would have sufficed—been far more appropriate. Your disregard for the rules of society. How you flaunt propriety with a hoyden’s brashness… You should not have come so unprotected, my dear. I don’t like it.”

It was oddly intimate to hold a conversation through our mirrored reflections. Not just the press of our bodies but the way we were framed as if in a painting, a pair so… Dare I say it? Such perfect manifestations of our dynamics. I wished for my sketchbook to capture the moment. The deep contrast of shadows and light… chiaroscuro. My painting mistress had instructed me on the technique, showing facsimiles of the famous Italian paintings by alphas on the Grand Tour. Before tonight, I’d not considered using it in my own work, preferring the play of natural light. But now? Now I wanted to capture those gradations of light and dark. How the light caught the copper in my hair and the silver in his. That beautiful play of flickering candlelight called to me like no other.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, watching my face intently and trying to parse out my thoughts. “Are you thinking of me? Of us? Together?”

“I am thinking of how to capture this.” I waved to our combined image. “It is a pretty picture.”

“Paint it. Paint us.” His rumbling purr echoed through my body.

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