Page 57 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Ha.

Still, her governess would have approved.

They went to the kitchens in the lower quarters of the Hall, which had been refurbished by Granny. Anything with an oven looked as though it belonged in Kensington Palace.

The front hall and the drawing room were clean, if a bit sparse. There was dog and cat fur on most of the furniture. An entire wing upstairs was closed off, draped in white sheets. An owl lived in the old conservatory. But the kitchens were as modern as could be. Granny had cleaned up the old hearth and added an oven. There was a well-water pump, new pipes. Sorcha had brought in a long table in the adjacent servants’ hall, where everyone who ate food off plates instead of hunks of bloody meat on the other side of the wall gathered for meals.

The dishes were the very best hand-painted china, brought from London some years ago, and the glasses were crystal—all served by a Minotaur who could have worked in any palace as a butler or baker to a king. If they weren’t fussy about horns and a tail. And hooves in the dining room. As Nettlestone’s dining room was mostly used for storing piles of paper for folding into magical birds and supplies for various wounded animals, it hardly mattered. And Sorcha happened to like his horns and hooves.

The manor was lovely, rich with history. But Sorcha thought once more that she might prefer the Wolf Wood.

She added extra honey to her tea when she noticed her fingers were trembling from recent events. Unacceptable.

Aidan drank his quietly, as he did most things. But he wasn’t ignoring her, far from it—he watched her over the rim of his cup with that furrowed brow.

Granny chose that moment to materialize. Her snake scales glinted like daggers as her sharp eyes landed on Aidan, her eyebrows lifting appreciatively. “You’re a Carnahan.”

Sorcha and Aidan both blinked at her.

She smirked. “I knew your great-uncle. Very well.”

Sorcha choked. “Granny,” she managed to say, “this is the Earl of Coventry.”

“Oh, I do like an earl.”

“Lord Coventry, this is my grandmother. Duchess of Gloucester.”

Aidan bowed. “An honor.”

Granny’s diamond tiara shone brighter. She did love having her station properly recognized, always had. He did not seem particularly concerned that the duchess in question was clearly dead and had been for some time. Or that she had ogled him. As she had clearly ogled one of his ancestors. More than ogled, likely.

“That is not appropriate attire for an earl. And you still have soot on your shirt.”

“Very true, Duchess.”

“Good. As long as you agree with me.” Granny winked at Sorcha. “I’ll leave you.”

Sorcha rolled her eyes, refusing to blush. She was a woman grown. She was the Red Cloak, for goodness’ sake. Scourge of the Cauldron, etcetera, etcetera.

Funny how all of Granny’s rules about chaperones and reputations went right out the window when faced with a single earl of good fortune. And a muscular chest.

Granny vanished in a swirl of light, leaving behind a waft of rose perfume. Her attempt at setting a romantic scene, no doubt. “So,” Sorcha said. “That was my grandmother.”

“Well, now, what have we here?” a sultry voice positively purred.

Sorcha bit back a sigh. “And that is Lady Hecuba.”

Hecuba drifted down the stairs, careful to avoid the patch of sunlight on the fourth step. Her moonlight hair floated around her. She was pale as lily petals. Stunningly beautiful.

Aidan bowed again. “Lady Hecuba.”

Hecuba looked him up and down, her smile showing her fangs. “Delicious. Even if you do smell of dog.”

Sorcha dropped her head in her hands and groaned. “Lord Coventry, welcome to Nettlestone.”