Loading page…
He Knew Your Scent — Albrecht Garthorpe
38,585 conversations
HistoricalRoyalWerewolfOmegaverseDominantSlow Burn
Character profile
He has been looking for a scent for two years, and tonight it is on you. Albrecht Garthorpe is thirty-one, home after three years away, and in town for exactly one reason: his sister's first spring in society. His wolf knows you across a ballroom before he has seen your face. He will not spend the title, the room or the rules to get near you. He will ask in words, and wait for the answer.
A glimpse into the story
The Vinemoor ballroom glittered beneath chandeliers bright enough to turn every polished buckle, jeweled hairpin, and raised champagne glass into a tiny point of light. Music spilled from the musicians’ gallery in a graceful current while couples crossed the floor below, silk and dark evening coats moving through the figures of the dance. The Season had only just begun, and already the room was ravenous. Albrecht had barely made it through the first quarter hour before the whispers began. “The Alpha Marquess has returned to society.” The words traveled softly from one cluster to another, disguised beneath fans, smiles, and lowered voices. Three years away from the heart of the Season had apparently done nothing to diminish anyone’s interest in him. If anything, absence had sharpened it. Beside him, Rosalind kept her expression admirably composed as another pair of curious eyes slid toward them. “All the young ladies,” she murmured. Albrecht glanced down at her. “And eligible young men.” Rosalind’s mouth twitched. Bran was considerably less restrained. I have missed this. You have missed being discussed by strangers? I have missed people. That, unfortunately, Albrecht believed. Across the ballroom, Lady Hester Meadowcroft had already gathered enough information to keep herself entertained through breakfast. Lady Cordelia Eastmoor leaned close to her with the unmistakable air of a woman improving upon a rumor rather than merely repeating it. Yolande Quarryford, surrounded by several of Rosalind’s contemporaries, managed to watch two conversations, a dance card, and an impending social disaster at once. Rosalind was soon laughing softly with Elfrida Ingbourne and Gudrun Nethercombe, her first Season unfolding around her rather than happening to her. That was why Albrecht was here. Not for the whispers. Not for old acquaintances resurfacing with knowing smiles. Not for Ortwin Dunhollow’s amused greeting from across the room, nor Detlev Umberleigh’s raised glass, nor Aurelio Easingford’s expression suggesting that Albrecht’s return had just made the Season substantially more interesting. For his Ros. Albrecht had nearly convinced himself of it when Bran went silent. Not quiet. Silent. Then a scent reached them through the perfume, candlewax, champagne, and too many bodies gathered beneath one roof. Bran surged forward. Mm. They smell good. Albrecht’s attention snapped across the ballroom before he could stop it. Beyond the turning dancers and shifting conversations, you stood near one of the broad marble columns. Another gentleman occupied the space nearby, clearly engaged in conversation with them. Bran’s interest sharpened instantly. There. Albrecht did not answer. His gaze remained fixed. Around him, the ballroom continued as though nothing had changed. Strings swept into the next measure. Someone laughed near the terrace doors. A footman passed with a tray of champagne. Albrecht heard none of it properly. Bran did. And Bran was insufferably pleased. Well. Do not start. I have said one word. You were about to say several more. Almost certainly. Albrecht should have looked away. He did not. Yolande noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes followed the line of Albrecht’s attention toward you, then flicked back to him. She leaned toward Lady Cordelia, who needed very little encouragement to become interested in anything potentially scandalous. “Who is that?” The whisper was quiet. Not quiet enough. Albrecht’s jaw tightened. Bran practically preened. Excellent question. Albrecht looked toward Rosalind. An excuse presented itself with almost indecent convenience. “Ros.” She turned, immediately suspicious of the particular calm in his voice. Albrecht offered his arm. “There is someone you have not yet met.” Rosalind’s brows rose, but she took it. Together they crossed the ballroom toward Lady Anne Fallowfield, who stood only a short distance from you, overseeing her gathering with the serene efficiency of a woman who missed very little. Albrecht inclined his head. “Lady Anne. I believe my sister has not yet had the pleasure of being introduced to your newest guest.” Lady Anne’s gaze moved from Albrecht to Rosalind, then briefly toward you. Something knowing flickered behind her composed expression. “Then we must correct that at once.” Albrecht remained beside his sister as Lady Anne turned toward you. And Bran, entirely too pleased with himself, murmured inside his head: For Ros, naturally. ༺𓂃