The Earl Falls in Love - Chapter 13

Spicy BL/MM/GAY Omegaverse Historical Romance

Ian

It had been five days since we arrived in St. Louis and took up residence in Tyndall Manor. Since the house was approximately the size of a small principality, I hadn’t yet committed all its rooms to memory, nor had I ventured into some of the smaller, rarely used ones. My favorite areas so far were my bedroom (which could comfortably house a small village), the sitting room where the family gathered, the breakfast room where we took our meals, the library with its thousands of books, and the gardens where Waffle and I could escape when the sheer opulence became overwhelming.

My morning routine hadn’t changed despite the dramatic shift in circumstances. I’d rise early to watch the sunrise—though in St. Louis, this meant staring at a thick wall of industrial smog that gradually lightened from charcoal to pewter—then take Waffle for his morning constitutional before breakfast. Today was going to be no different, and I was just slipping out the back door when I heard my name called.

“Ian.”

I turned to see Alec approaching, and once again found myself momentarily struck by his appearance. He was undeniably handsome, with silky dark hair that I couldn’t help wondering about. Was it an inheritance from his mother’s or father’s side? I had no doubt there was Asian ancestry in his lineage, perhaps Chinese? From my limited education, I recalled that Northland and China had been trading partners for over a century, primarily in tea and spices, with significant immigration as a result.

“Alec,” I greeted him. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he replied with a smile that revealed that fascinating dimple. “Mind if I join your dawn expedition? The twins are already plotting artistic mischief, and I find strategic absence is the best defense against becoming their next creative victim.”

“Of course,” I nodded, genuinely pleased by the offer. “Though I should warn you that Waffle’s idea of a ‘walk’ more closely resembles a military training exercise designed by a sadistic general.”

“Perfect,” Alec quipped. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to avoid Lady Montgomery’s dance instruction. Nothing says ‘sorry, can’t waltz’ quite like legs that feel like overcooked noodles.”

Soon we were circling the perimeter of the garden, with Waffle sprinting back and forth like a furry pendulum on a broken clock. The air had a particular bite to it now that winter had fully established its reign, and Christmas loomed just around the corner.

“I’ve pretty much explored every nook and cranny of the garden,” I remarked, gesturing to the immaculately maintained grounds. I’d also become acquainted with all the gardeners, who seemed perpetually shocked by my insistence on addressing them by their first names. Was that not the done thing in the capital? Perhaps I was committing some terrible social faux pas without realizing it.

“Ah yes, the Tyndall horticultural fortress,” Alec said dryly, “where plants are arranged with military precision and the gardeners faint if a leaf dares fall out of formation. Don’t you find it terribly boring going around the same perfectly manicured paths every day?”

“Not really,” I replied. “I always did the same route back at Cheswick. There’s something comforting about routine when everything else in life seems determined to throw you off balance.”

“How delightfully philosophical for this ungodly hour,” Alec remarked with a grin. “Since you’ve already mastered the art of navigating the Tyndall botanical labyrinth, how about we stage a daring escape beyond these gilded gates? There’s a whole city out there just waiting to judge us harshly.”

Exploring the neighborhood? I hadn’t ventured beyond the iron gates yet. The past five days had been a whirlwind of activity, with Lady Samara and Lady Scarlet dragging Dorothy and me on grand excursions through the city. It had been entertaining, I had to admit—the famous landmarks were impressive, and the high-class restaurants served food that would make even Martha weep with envy. Oddly enough, though, my favorite discoveries had been the humble street vendors at the market and tiny hole-in-the-wall establishments. Curry and naan bread from India, kebabs from Turkey, stir-fried noodles from China, and sushi from Japan had all earned places of honor on my personal list of culinary revelations.

“Why not?” I agreed. “Though if we’re kidnapped by rival aristocrats, I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Fair enough,” Alec nodded solemnly. “Though I should warn you that kidnapping in this neighborhood is frightfully expensive. The ransom notes alone require premium stationery and proper calligraphy.”

The streets beyond Tyndall Manor were immaculate, with evenly spaced gas lamps and not so much as a fallen leaf marring the pristine walkways. The neighborhood was eerily quiet—perhaps it was considered uncouth in the capital to rise before noon? Most of the properties were grand manors similar to the Tyndalls’, though none quite matched its imposing grandeur.

“I heard Edward said Cheswick is beautiful in autumn,” Alec remarked as we walked.

I nodded, a pang of homesickness catching me off guard. “Mm-hmm. When the leaves turn russet and gold, it’s quite spectacular. It’s beautiful in summer and spring, too. In winter, when everything’s blanketed in snow, it’s breathtaking—though also cold enough to freeze the whiskers off a polar bear.”

“Sounds like you love Cheswick,” Alec said, his tone softening.

“It was... my home,” I said simply, the words inadequate to express the depth of my attachment. “I’m sad to have lost it.”

“I’m sorry that you lost it,” Alec said, his tone genuinely sympathetic. After a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “Do you... wish that you were born... legitimate? That was terribly forward of me—feel free to push me into that ornamental pond for asking.”

I turned to look at him and nodded. “Every day since Father passed away. But it’s not meant to be.” I sighed, then deliberately changed the subject, unwilling to wallow in melancholy on such a fine morning. “What about you? How did you come to be adopted by the Tyndalls? I imagine there’s a dramatic tale involving pirates or at least one runaway hot air balloon.”

“Alas, no pirates,” Alec replied with a theatrical sigh. “My biological father worked for the Tyndalls when he was alive. He was half-Chinese, born in Shanghai. Being of mixed heritage, he wasn’t fully accepted there—apparently not being purely one thing or another offends people on every continent. When he had the chance, he immigrated to Northland.”

He continued, his tone lightening, “When I was eight, both my parents died in a carriage accident, and with no living relatives on either side, the late Lord Eastwood adopted me as his son. It was largely thanks to Sam and Letty, who decided they simply must have me as their little brother. Edward says they threw a tantrum of such magnificent proportions that Father feared for the structural integrity of the house. So you see, I’ve been at the mercy of the Tyndall twins since childhood.”

So that was Alec’s story. No wonder the twins adored him, and he them in return.

“I became Lord Alec Tyndall a month after my parents died,” he continued. “Though having ‘Lord’ in front of my name is merely a courtesy title and quite bothersome really. Nothing says ‘please treat me normally’ like a hereditary title that’s been around since the Middle Ages.”

“I see,” I said, impressed by his humility. The Alec I was coming to know seemed remarkably grounded despite his privileged upbringing.

We were just rounding a corner when Waffle suddenly erupted into frenzied barking and took off without warning, leaving me to sigh in exasperation.

“And there he goes,” I muttered. “I swear he has the attention span of a particularly distracted butterfly.”

“The Tyndall gardens do have that effect,” Alec remarked. “Even humans have been known to dash off suddenly in pursuit of shiny objects.”

We followed Waffle’s trajectory and found him enthusiastically investigating another dog—a tiny, fluffy creature with pristine white fur. Waffle had positioned himself over the smaller dog and was engaged in what could only be described as a thorough inspection of its hindquarters. The little pup wiggled and whimpered in protest before finally managing to escape, darting to hide behind its master’s legs.

“Aki!” the young man exclaimed, looking mortified. “I’m so sorry about this. He’s usually much better behaved.”

“Haru Ono,” Alec called out, recognition brightening his features. “Out for your morning constitutional despite your brother’s dire predictions of imminent pneumonia?”

The young man looked up with a smile that transformed his delicate features. If Alec was handsome, this boy was stunning—fine-boned with dark hair and warm brown eyes that seemed perpetually surprised.

“Alec!” Haru exclaimed, his voice musical with delight. “What perfect timing. Aki and I were just discussing how dreadfully boring these perfectly symmetrical trees are as conversation partners.” He glanced down at the dogs. “Though I see your canine friend has decided formal introductions are entirely unnecessary.”

“That’s Waffle,” Alec explained with a grin. “He believes in a direct approach to social situations—rather like the twins but with considerably more fur and slightly better manners.”

Haru laughed, the sound unexpectedly bright in the morning air. “Waffle? What a marvelous name! Is there a story behind it, or does he simply have an affinity for breakfast foods?”

“He’s named after his greatest passion in life,” I interjected, stepping forward. “The first time I gave him a waffle, he developed an immediate and profound devotion to them that borders on religious fervor.”

“How delightfully straightforward,” Haru replied, studying me with open curiosity. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new to the neighborhood?”

Alec performed the introductions. “Haru, this is Ian Harrison, Edward’s new ward and the latest addition to the Tyndall menagerie. Ian, meet Haru Ono, botanical enthusiast and owner of the only dog in St. Louis with a more ridiculous name than ‘Waffle.’”

“Aki is a perfectly respectable name,” Haru protested, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. “It means ‘autumn brightness’ in Japanese.”

“Which is precisely why it’s ridiculous,” Alec teased. “The poor creature needs three interpreters just to understand his own name.”

I extended my hand, uncertain of the proper greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Haru.”

Haru waved away the title with a grimace. “Please, just Haru. All those formal addresses make me feel like I should be wearing ceremonial robes and making profound statements about cherry blossoms.”

“Aren’t you technically a ‘young master’?” Alec asked innocently.

“Only when Uncle Jin is feeling particularly traditional,” Haru replied with an eye roll. “Which, admittedly, is most of the time. But ‘young master’ makes me sound like I should be the protagonist in some gothic novel, discovering family secrets in a dusty attic.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I said, surprised by the parallel. “Complete with a mysterious governess who knows more than she’s telling.”

“Precisely!” Haru agreed enthusiastically. “I keep expecting to discover I’m secretly heir to a cursed estate with at least three ghosts and a forbidden wing no one will explain.”

“So you’re living with the Tyndalls now?” Haru asked, smoothly changing subjects. “How are you finding it? I imagine it’s quite lively compared to most households.”

“Ian and his family moved in last week,” Alec explained. “They’ve been valiantly adjusting to the twins’ artistic ambushes and Mother’s social scheming.”

“How wonderful to have a full house,” Haru said with genuine warmth. “Ono Manor feels positively sepulchral most days—just Uncle Jin, my brother Reo, and me.” His expression suddenly shifted to one of comical alarm. “Speaking of Reo, he’s approaching with that expression that means I’ve committed some grievous offense against propriety. Again.”

I followed his gaze to see a tall, lean Japanese man striding purposefully toward us. Despite the thunderous scowl etched into his features, he was strikingly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and a graceful bearing that spoke of careful discipline.

“Haru!” he called, his voice carrying the crisp edge of exasperation. “Out in the cold morning air again? Should I start planning your funeral now, or would you prefer to give me a few days’ notice?”

Haru sighed with the patience of someone who’d had this particular argument many times before. “Good morning to you too, brother. I’m perfectly fine—the fresh air is good for my constitution.”

“Your constitution,” Reo replied dryly, “is about as robust as a soap bubble in a rainstorm. Need I remind you of last month’s incident when you caught a chill because someone mentioned snow in your presence?”

“That was a complete coincidence,” Haru protested. “And I’m not as fragile as you insist on making me out to be.”

“So speaks the shrine maiden who requires three blankets in summer,” Reo retorted, though I caught the underlying affection beneath his sharp tone.

“If you call me ‘shrine maiden’ one more time,” Haru threatened, “I’ll tell Uncle Jin who really broke his favorite tea bowl.”

Reo’s expression momentarily flickered with alarm before he smoothly changed subjects, turning to acknowledge us. “Alec,” he nodded, then shifted his attention to me. “And you must be Ian Harrison. Your arrival has provided this neighborhood with enough gossip to last through winter. The quality of scandals has been disappointingly mediocre lately.”

“Happy to be of service,” I replied with a slight bow. “If conversation starts to wane, I can always create a fresh scandal. Perhaps riding backward through the park or challenging someone to a duel using baguettes as weapons.”

A hint of amusement softened Reo’s stern features. “I’d appreciate advance notice of such performances. The entertainment value would be considerably enhanced by proper anticipation.”

“How does everyone already know who I am?” I asked, glancing between them. “I’ve barely been in St. Louis a week.”

“Aristocratic gossip travels faster than light,” Alec explained. “It’s the one area where the nobility demonstrates true efficiency.”

“The Harrisons moving into Tyndall Manor was the most exciting news since Lady Pembrooke eloped with her riding instructor,” Reo added. “Most households received detailed reports before you’d even unpacked your bags. Except for Haru,” he continued, giving his brother a pointed look, “who remains blissfully ignorant of social matters because he believes leaving the house might result in unexpected conversation.”

“I had no idea we were such fascinating subjects,” I said, genuinely surprised. “I’d have worn better clothes had I known I was providing entertainment.”

Reo’s attention returned to his brother. “Didn’t Dr. Whitman explicitly instruct you to avoid early morning excursions during winter? Or did that medical advice somehow slip your mind along with every other recommendation he’s ever made?”

“Aki needed his walk,” Haru replied, as if this explained everything. “His delicate constitution requires fresh air and regular exercise.”

“His delicate—” Reo began incredulously, then stopped himself with visible effort. He sighed, the sound of a man who had long since accepted his fate. “Come along home before Uncle Jin notices your absence and subjects me to another lecture on my failures as a responsible guardian.”

Haru turned to me with an apologetic smile. “I’m being summoned back to captivity, it seems. We should have tea sometime soon, Ian. I make an excellent jasmine blend that will change your understanding of what tea can be.”

“I’d like that,” I replied, already looking forward to it. “Fellow prisoners of overprotective households should stick together.”

“Come on, Aki,” Haru called to his dog, who seemed only too happy to escape Waffle’s continued attentions. “Time to retreat with dignity while we still can.”

As the brothers walked away, their conversation drifted back to us.

“Waffle was behaving very strangely with Aki,” Haru was saying. “Is that normal canine socialization?”

“Waffle?” Reo asked, clearly confused. “You’re talking about breakfast food now? Your conversational transitions grow more baffling by the day.”

“No, no—Waffle is Ian’s dog,” Haru explained patiently. “Though now that you mention it, waffles with honey do sound delicious.”

“You named your dog after breakfast?” Reo asked, glancing back at us. “Well, I suppose it’s more dignified than ‘Sir Fluffington the Third,’ which you initially wanted to call Aki.”

“That was a perfectly respectable name,” Haru protested. “But seriously, why was Waffle so interested in Aki’s... personal regions? Is that normal dog behavior?”

“That,” Reo replied with finality, “is absolutely not a conversation I’m prepared to have before noon. Or ever, preferably.”

Beside me, Alec burst into laughter as the brothers disappeared around a corner. “Oh, that was magnificent. The look on Reo’s face when Haru started questioning canine mating behaviors—priceless!”

“Wait,” I said, finally understanding his amusement. “Are you suggesting Waffle was... making romantic overtures toward Aki?”

“Your dog appears to have developed quite the infatuation,” Alec confirmed, eyes dancing with mirth. “Though I fear any formal courtship would require Reo’s approval, and he seems the type to demand an extensive background check and substantial dowry.”

I looked down at Waffle, who gazed back at me with complete innocence. “You scoundrel,” I told him. “At least buy him dinner first.”

Waffle barked happily, tail wagging as if he were quite proud of himself.

“Well,” Alec said as we resumed our walk, “at least we know Waffle has excellent taste. Aki is quite the aristocratic catch in canine circles.”

“By the way, Lord Edward mentioned you attend St. Louis University.”

Alec nodded. “Ah yes, my daily escape from Tyndall madness. Edward mentioned you’re interested in Wellington Academy for botany studies?”

“Yes,” I confirmed, unable to hide my eagerness. “Lord Edward told me about their botanical research program. When might we tour the campus? I’m trying not to appear overly enthusiastic, but I fear I’m failing miserably.”

“Your scholarly enthusiasm is refreshingly genuine in a city where most young men your age consider ‘education’ to mean learning which fork to use for fish,” Alec replied with a warm smile. “How about next week? Wellington offers introductory courses for the winter session—excellent way to test the waters without drowning in academic expectations.”

“I’d like that,” I said, already imagining walking through actual university halls, surrounded by books and learning. “Though I’d be curious to see St. Louis University as well, if only to understand the differences.”

“We can certainly visit both,” Alec agreed. “Though Wellington is truly the better fit for you—not just because of your omega status, but because their botanical gardens are spectacular. Edward was quite right about that. I’ve visited them myself several times for their remarkable collection of Asian specimens.”

“What are you studying at St. Louis University?” I asked, genuinely curious about his academic pursuits.

“Business,” he replied with a dramatic sigh. “The practical choice for a younger son determined to be useful. I help Edward navigate the labyrinthine Tyndall enterprises—properties across Northland, trading companies with headquarters in England, France, China, India, and America. My contribution primarily involves looking serious during meetings and occasionally making insightful comments that surprise everyone, including myself.”

My eyes widened at this information. The scale of the Tyndall family’s enterprises was staggering. “What sort of trading do they do? Besides world domination, obviously.”

“Tea and spices, silk, various other commodities that people with too much money simply must have,” Alec explained with a wry smile. “Edward is the head of the Tyndall and Halifax Group—nothing gets approved without his blessing, and his ventures typically triple in profit. He has an uncanny instinct for business that makes the rest of us look like children playing with toy coins.”

He continued, “The headquarters is downtown, where Edward works when he’s not busy rescuing damsels or acquiring new wards. His office overlooks Queen Josephine Park—the famous promenade where St. Louis society engages in the competitive sport of pretending not to notice each other while cataloging every detail of everyone’s appearance.” He winked conspiratorially. “I’d wager my monthly allowance that Sam and Letty will drag you there tomorrow for your official society debut.”

“Why tomorrow?” I asked, dreading the answer. The last thing I wanted was to be paraded around like some exotic specimen for the aristocracy to gawk at.

“Because it’s the weekend,” Alec explained with mock solemnity. “And weekends in Queen Josephine Park are the aristocratic equivalent of a livestock exhibition—everyone displaying their finest specimens and hoping for blue ribbons in the form of advantageous marriage proposals.”

“Ah,” I said, already contemplating which mysterious illness I might develop by tomorrow morning. Perhaps something exotic involving unexplained rashes and peculiar odors?

Half an hour later, we returned to the manor for breakfast. I was halfway through a particularly excellent waffle, having just tossed a piece to my namesake canine, when Lady Samara pounced.

“Ian dear,” she began with a smile that immediately put me on guard, “would you like to go for a delightful, absolutely voluntary, not-at-all-obligatory walk with us tomorrow?”

Even though I already knew the answer, I asked, “Where?”

“Where else?” Lady Samara chuckled, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Queen Josephine Park—the stage upon which all of St. Louis society performs their carefully rehearsed roles.”

Lady Scarlet leaned forward eagerly. “It’s the place to see and be seen, Ian dear. And we want you to be seen—our magnificent new brother with the face that launched a thousand sketches.” Turning to her brother, she added, “You too, Alec. We need you to look intimidating and ward off the more aggressive admirers.”

Alec sighed with the resignation of someone facing an inevitable fate. “If Ian goes, then I’ll come along. Someone needs to protect him from your artistic ambitions and society’s collective curiosity.”

The twins turned to me with expectant expressions that reminded me of Waffle when he wanted a treat. “Ian?”

From across the table, Lady Tyndall offered her own encouragement. “It’ll be quite entertaining, Ian dear. The expressions on the Wellington ladies’ faces alone will be worth the effort of getting dressed. Besides, it’s not good to be cooped up in the house all the time, you know.”

Cooped up? When had I been cooped up? I’d been dragged across half of St. Louis since our arrival, subjected to more social interaction in five days than I’d experienced in the previous five years at Cheswick.

But resistance, I’d learned, was futile where the Tyndall women were concerned. “All right, I’ll come along,” I conceded, mentally cataloging which of my woefully inadequate outfits might be least embarrassing for a public appearance.

“Wonderful!” Lady Samara exclaimed with such enthusiasm that I immediately regretted my acquiescence. “Oh, and please don’t forget we have an appointment today after breakfast.”

Damn. I had indeed forgotten about that particular commitment. Today was the day I was to model for their illustrations alongside Alec—a prospect I approached with the same enthusiasm one might feel for a public flogging.

“How could I possibly forget such a highlight of my social calendar?” I replied dryly. “I’ve been practicing my ‘tortured hero’ expression all week.”

The twins were evidently eager to begin, as breakfast wasn’t even concluded before they whisked Alec and me away to the conservatory. The morning sun streamed through the glass, bathing the luxurious room in golden light as I found myself reclining on a settee, my shirt partially unbuttoned in what Lady Scarlet had described as “artistic dishabille.” Leaning over me, in a position that seemed designed to induce maximum discomfort, was Alec, his own shirt similarly undone to reveal a toned chest.

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” Alec muttered under his breath. “And why our poses always seem to involve me developing muscle cramps in places I didn’t know had muscles?”

“Because you’re a good brother who can’t say no to those two,” I whispered back. “And because they threatened to use Edward as their model if you refused, which would apparently involve him posing in even more compromising positions.”

“Ah yes, brotherly blackmail—the foundation of all Tyndall family dynamics,” Alec replied with a grimace. “Still, this particular tableau seems designed specifically to destroy my spine.”

What in heaven’s name was this pose meant to represent? And more importantly, how had I allowed myself to be manipulated into it?

I glanced up, acutely aware of Alec’s proximity. If it had been Lord Edward in this position—so close I could feel his breath on my skin—I was certain my heart would have burst from my chest, my body temperature would have soared to dangerous levels, and my more intimate regions would have...

I hastily banished thoughts of Lord Edward from my mind. This was neither the time nor place for such fantasies. It was broad daylight, there were witnesses, and dwelling on him would only lead to embarrassing physical reactions.

Though if I were being honest with myself, Lord Edward had occupied my thoughts every night since that evening at Cheswick when he’d taught me how to find relief from my omega urges. Now that I was living under his roof, knowing his bedroom was somewhere in the same wing as mine, the situation had only intensified. Each time his face appeared in my mind’s eye, my body responded with embarrassing eagerness. I would employ the techniques he’d taught me, but it was never the same—never as satisfying as when his hands had been on me.

I forced my attention back to the present, noting that Alec looked distinctly uncomfortable in his awkward pose. His face was strained, and I worried he might injure himself maintaining such an unnatural position.

“Are you all right?” I asked. “You look like you’re being slowly tortured by invisible thumbscrews.”

“I think I can manage a couple more minutes,” he replied through gritted teeth, “but my back is staging a full rebellion against this position. I may never stand upright again.” Raising his voice, he called to Lady Scarlet, “Are you capturing my slow death by artistic sacrifice, or can I collapse now?”

“Just a bit more time, please,” she replied cheerfully, her pencil moving rapidly across the paper. “Your suffering is creating such beautiful art—it’s practically a noble sacrifice.”

“You both are doing magnificently,” Lady Samara encouraged from beside her sister. “This will be our finest illustration yet—the moment of breathless anticipation before the declaration of undying devotion!”

“The only declaration coming is my spine announcing its immediate resignation,” Alec muttered under his breath.

I could see beads of sweat forming on Alec’s temples and sensed he was reaching his limit. Just as I was about to suggest a break, a deep, commanding voice thundered through the conservatory:

“What the hell are you two doing?”

At the sound, Alec collapsed entirely, his full weight landing on top of me as his face buried against my neck. “Freedom at last,” he mumbled against my skin as his body went limp.

“My goodness, Alec has expired from artistic exertion,” Lady Samara exclaimed, rushing toward us with dramatic concern.

“Alec, please postpone your demise,” Lady Scarlet implored. “We still haven’t finished the climactic illustration. Die after page sixteen, I beg you.”

“Don’t just casually announce my death like it’s a minor inconvenience to your schedule,” Alec muttered against my neck, his breath warm on my skin.

But I barely registered any of this, my attention entirely captured by the figure striding into the conservatory with thunderous purpose. Lord Edward Tyndall, in all his imposing glory, was advancing toward us with an expression that made my stomach twist into knots and cold sweat break out across my skin.

“Lord Edward?” I managed, my eyes wide with surprise and—though I was loath to admit it—delight at his unexpected appearance. He wasn’t supposed to return for weeks. Why was he here now, and why did he look ready to commit fraticide?

“Alec,” he growled, his voice a dangerous rumble that sent an inappropriate shiver down my spine, “get your backside off of Ian, you brat.”