The Earl Falls in Love - Chapter 1
Spicy BL/MM/GAY Omegaverse Historical Romance
He’s my guardian, off-limits, and everything my omega instincts crave. Fate has a twisted sense of humor.
Finding a half-dead alpha bleeding all over Cheswick’s grassland wasn’t on my morning to-do list. Neither was discovering he’s Edward Tyndall—the very man inheriting our estate and making my family homeless.
I’m Ian Harrison, illegitimate son of the late Earl of Cheswick, and my life was perfectly chaotic before this broad-shouldered, smoldering-eyed aristocrat crashed into it. Between raising my twin siblings, maintaining my hard-earned reputation, and hiding my omega status behind herbs and attitude, I didn’t need another complication. Especially one whose scent makes me dizzy and whose touch sends heat racing through places it has no business visiting.
Now Lord Perfect is offering me everything I’ve ever wanted—education, security for my family, and a chance to escape our crumbling estate. There’s just one ridiculous catch: he’s my guardian, which means he’s completely off-limits.
He thinks I need protecting. I think he needs his head examined.
But when my first heat strikes at the most inconvenient moment possible, his touch ignites sensations I never knew existed. One kiss and I realize we’re both thoroughly, gloriously doomed. Because his alpha scent wraps around me like a promise—and God help me, I want him to keep it.
The Earl Falls in Love features a protective alpha earl with a weakness for blue-eyed omegas and a sharp-tongued country boy who’s softer than he pretends.
The Wild Wicked Gentlemen Series is light in the historical setting and heartwarming in the family saga. Oh, and there’s just enough steam to fog up the late nineteenth-century glass windows.
Note to readers: This is a complete rewrite of the original story, the narrative has been reimagined within an omegaverse setting, transforming what was previously a traditional historical MM romance into a richer, more dynamic story with additional layers of tension and attraction.
Prologue
Welcome to the Kingdom of Northland, an island nation nestled in the northeast of the North Atlantic Ocean. Surrounded by Great Britain, Ireland, France, Spain, and Portugal, this prosperous sister country to England flourishes under the rule of the graceful Queen Josephine. In this late nineteenth century, Northland stands as a beacon of progress and possibility.
Like other nations during this peaceful era, Northland maintains a class-based society where business and technology flourish, and academia, art, and literature are highly regarded. Yet Northland distinguishes itself through extraordinary diversity, born of generations of immigration that have created a vibrant tapestry of cultures where different ethnicities and races live alongside one another, sharing traditions and cuisines.
Most notably, Northland has embraced progressive social policies, including the legal recognition of interracial and same-sex marriages. This acceptance extends to the biological realities that shape Northland society—the secondary genders of alpha, beta, and omega that exist alongside traditional male and female distinctions.
Alphas, comprising roughly thirty percent of the population, occupy most positions of power and influence, particularly among the nobility. Their natural dominance, protective instincts, and heightened senses make them natural leaders, though they are expected to control their more primal urges in polite society.
Betas form the majority at sixty percent, providing the backbone of society as merchants, professionals, and skilled workers. Free from the biological imperatives that sometimes overwhelm alphas and omegas, they navigate social waters with greater ease.
Omegas, the rarest at ten percent, hold a complex position—valued for their fertility and nurturing qualities, yet often sheltered and restricted. Male omegas are particularly uncommon, comprising only a small fraction of an already small population, and face unique challenges in a society that struggles to categorize them.
In Northland, inheritance follows strict hierarchical rules: legitimate alpha children inherit before legitimate beta children, who inherit before omegas. Illegitimacy, however, supersedes all secondary gender considerations—a fact that has shaped the fortunes of many noble families.
It is against this backdrop of tradition and progress, biological imperatives and social expectations, that our story unfolds—a tale of unexpected love between an alpha earl and the omega ward who captures his heart.
Chapter 1
Ian
Cheswick Estate, Northern Region, Kingdom of Northland
Ruin, I’ve discovered, arrives in a cream-colored envelope with a fancy wax seal.
“Well, that’s that,” Grandma Eliza announced one month ago, slapping the letter down on our wobbly breakfast table hard enough to make the salt cellar jump. “Some St. Louis peacock is taking Cheswick.”
I stopped mid-bite, my porridge spoon suspended halfway to my mouth. “Taking it where?”
Grandma fixed me with a look that could curdle milk. “Not taking it somewhere, you impossible boy. Taking it from us. Edward James Tyndall is to be the new Earl of Cheswick.”
And just like that, nine generations of Harrison legacy were tossed aside like yesterday’s chamber pot contents.
I’ve since added this Edward Tyndall fellow to my nightly prayers—right after “bless this food” and just before “please don’t let the roof collapse while we sleep.” My prayers aren’t what you’d call traditional. Neither is my language when discussing our impending eviction, which is why Grandma keeps threatening to wash my mouth out with the lye soap.
She should talk. I learned half my best curses from her.
This particular morning, I was watching dawn break over Cheswick’s hills from my bedroom window, contemplating whether one could reasonably poison an earl and get away with it. Probably not. Aristocrats likely had food tasters or some such nonsense. Besides, where would I even get poison? The apothecary in Greenhill Village barely stocked headache powders, let alone anything lethal enough to dispatch unwanted nobility.
“Damn useless system,” I muttered, fogging the glass with my breath. “Born on the wrong side of the blanket, so we lose everything to some overstuffed shirt who’s probably never even seen a cow up close.”
A small, warm body shifted beside me, interrupting my treasonous musings. Reuben had snuck into my bed again, his little form curled against mine, one thumb dangerously close to his mouth. On his other side, Waffle’s substantial bulk added warmth to our nest, his black and red fur rising and falling with each snore.
“Ian?” Reuben mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes with tiny fists. “Why you up?”
“Just watching the sunrise, little man,” I said, smoothing down his rumpled hair. “Go back to sleep.”
Instead, he scrambled up beside me, pressing his nose against the cold glass. “Pretty,” he declared, pointing at the pink-streaked sky.
“Indeed it is.”
His little face suddenly turned serious, bottom lip wobbling slightly. “Ian? Are the bad men coming to take our house?”
Damn. I’d hoped to avoid this conversation for at least another cup of tea. “Listen here, you little terror,” I said, gathering him close. “If anyone tries to hurt our family, they’ll have to get through me first. And I’m very scary.”
Reuben giggled, showing the gap where he’d recently lost a tooth. “You’re not scary! You’re my Ian!”
“I can be both,” I assured him, tickling his ribs until he squealed. “Now go back to sleep before I toss you out the window.”
“No!” he protested through his laughter. “Too cold outside!”
“Then back under the covers with you,” I said, tucking him in beside the still-snoring Waffle. “Some of us have work to do.”
“Kay,” he yawned, already drifting off again. “Love you, Ian.”
“Love you too, brat,” I murmured, waiting until his breathing evened out before slipping from the bed.
At eighteen, I was too old to be melting over such simple declarations, but there was something about Reuben’s unconditional adoration that made my chest ache. The twins had never known our mother’s warmth—she’d died, taking with her the gentle hands and lilting voice that had once sung me to sleep. Instead, they had Dorothy and me doing our best to fill the void she’d left behind.
Poor Dorothy had shouldered the heaviest burden, taking on the role of mother when she herself had been barely twenty. While Grandma Eliza had taken charge of the estate after Father fell ill with grief, Dorothy had devoted herself to raising the twins, teaching them their letters and mending their clothes with the same quiet determination she applied to everything. Between her maternal care and my awkward attempts at brotherly protection, we’d somehow managed to give Reuben and Rosie a childhood filled with more laughter than tears.
I padded to my washstand, grimacing at the layer of ice on the water. Breaking through the frozen crust, I splashed the frigid water on my face and bit back a string of curses that would have had Grandma reaching for the soap. After the initial shock subsided, I examined my reflection in the small, cloudy mirror.
“Lord,” I muttered, “couldn’t you have made me ugly? Or at least less... this?”
‘This’ being a face that had caused me no end of grief: features too delicate, eyes too large, lips too full. I looked like a painting of an angel that had somehow been brought to life and then dropped unceremoniously into the mud of rural Northland. Add to that the curse of being a male omega—the first in the Harrison line for generations—and I was practically a walking target.
At school, before I’d escaped that particular torture chamber, the other boys had taken great delight in my appearance.
“Look at Harrison!” they’d jeer. “Pretty as a girl! Sure you’re not wearing the wrong uniform?”
The taunts had grown worse after I’d presented as omega at fourteen. The village boys—all betas with more hormones than sense—had alternated between mockery and unwanted advances. I’d learned quickly that while I couldn’t change my face or my biology, I could certainly change their minds about tormenting me. After breaking Clarence Fitzhugh’s nose when he tried to “check” if I was really a boy, they’d kept their distance. Turns out even the prettiest omega looks intimidating when it’s snarling and covered in someone else’s blood.
I scowled at my reflection, then attacked my unruly hair with a comb. The brown mop defied all logic and proper grooming, sticking up in places that suggested I’d been struck by lightning while sleeping in a hedge.
“Useless,” I muttered, abandoning the comb after it became firmly wedged in a particularly stubborn tangle. “Just like every other blasted thing in this house.”
I reached for the small pouch of dried herbs I kept on my washstand—lavender and rosemary gathered from our garden, with a bit of wild mint I’d found growing near the stream. Grandma had taught me to crush them between my fingers and dab the oils behind my ears and at my wrists. “To smell presentable,” she’d said, though I knew the real purpose: to mask the omega scent that seemed to grow stronger with each passing year.
After dressing in clothes that had seen better days (roughly around the time Queen Josephine was in nappies), I grabbed my woolen jacket and headed for the door. Waffle roused himself to follow, stretching with a groan that suggested rising before noon was a personal affront to his dignity.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I told him. “Is Her Majesty’s beauty sleep being disturbed? Some of us have chores, you know.”
He gave me a look that clearly communicated his opinion on chores, then padded after me with the reluctant air of a martyr being led to execution.
The kitchen, as always, was the only properly warm room in the entire manor. Martha was already kneading dough with the vigor of someone imagining it was an enemy’s face, while Jenny chopped vegetables nearby with alarming speed.
“Master Ian!” Martha exclaimed. “Lord above, your hair looks like you’ve been dragged backward through a thornbush.”
“Good morning to you too, Martha,” I replied cheerfully. “I see your tact remains intact.”
“Tact’s for folks with nothing worth saying,” she snorted, punching down the dough with unnecessary force. “You want pretty words, go talk to that Gibson girl. Always mooning about how your eyes are like stars or some such nonsense.”
I grimaced. “Please don’t remind me. Yesterday she compared me to a flower that makes bees go ‘wickedly wild.’ I’m still not entirely sure what that means.”
Jenny chuckled as she swept vegetable peelings into a bucket. “My Amy’s got a romantic soul, that’s all. Reads too many of those novels Lady Dorothy keeps hidden under her mattress.”
“Those novels are educational literature,” I said with mock seriousness. “At least, that’s what Dorothy claims when Grandma threatens to burn them.”
“Educational indeed,” Martha muttered. “Teaching young ladies all sorts of ideas about heaving bosoms and throbbing—”
“Would you like some warm milk before you go?” Jenny interrupted hastily. “Paul just brought it in fresh from Bessie.”
“God yes,” I said, dropping into a chair. “I need something to wash down the taste of impending doom.”
Martha rolled her eyes. “Still moping about that letter, are you? World doesn’t end because some fancy lord gets a piece of paper saying he owns your house.”
“No, the world ends when said fancy lord tosses us out on our ears,” I retorted. “Unless you think he’ll want to keep a household of illegitimate Harrisons as decorative features?”
“You’re pretty enough for it,” Martha said bluntly, ignoring my outraged splutter. “But too sharp-tongued by half. You’d be back on the doorstep within a day, I reckon.”
“That or the new earl’s an alpha who’ll take one whiff and decide to keep you for other reasons,” Jenny added with a meaningful look. “You’ve been using those herbs?”
I nodded, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “Every morning. Though I doubt it matters much out here. It’s not like we’re overrun with alphas in Greenhill.”
“There’s more than you think passing through,” Martha warned. “And your scent’s getting stronger, boy. Nature finding its way despite your best efforts.”
Jenny placed a steaming mug before me. “Drink up and stop fretting. The good Lord provides.”
“The good Lord could have provided me with legitimate birth papers and beta status,” I grumbled into my milk. “Would have saved us all a lot of trouble.”
After finishing my drink and enduring more of Martha’s unvarnished opinions on everything from my posture to the state of politics in Northland, I set out for my morning walk. Waffle bounded ahead, apparently having decided that the day might hold some promise after all.
In the courtyard, I encountered Amy, carrying kindling for the morning fires. Upon seeing me, she dropped her bundle with a clatter, her face lighting up like I was the second coming rather than a grumpy boy with haystack hair.
“Master Ian!” she exclaimed. “You’re looking absolutely radiant this morning! Like a prince from a fairy story!”
“And you’re looking delusional as ever, Amy,” I replied, though I couldn’t help smiling. Her enthusiasm was infectious, if misplaced. “Picked up any new novels from Dorothy lately?”
“Three!” she said proudly. “There’s one where the duke falls in love with a common shepherdess, and another where—”
“Fascinating,” I interrupted, before she could launch into a full plot summary. “I’m off for my walk now. Try not to set anything important on fire while lighting the hearths.”
“That was one time,” she protested. “And the curtains were hideous anyway.”
“True enough,” I conceded. “But Grandma was rather attached to them, hideous or not.”
“Do be careful out there,” she called as I walked away. “You look so absolutely delicious that it worries me! A handsome stranger might just snatch you away!”
I snorted. “In Cheswick? The only strangers we get are lost travelers and the occasional peddler selling miracle tonics that smell suspiciously like horse piss.”
“You never know!” she insisted. “Fate works in mysterious ways!”
“So does dysentery,” I called back. “But I don’t go looking for that either!”
Her scandalized gasp followed me across the courtyard. Honestly, the girl lived in a fantasy world of dashing dukes and midnight rendezvous. As if anything remotely interesting would ever happen in our forgotten corner of Northland.
As Waffle and I made our way across the estate, the morning air bit at my cheeks with teeth of ice. The rolling hills of Cheswick stretched before us, barren but beautiful in their own stark way. This land might not be fertile, but it was ours—or had been, at any rate.
I’d walked these paths since I could toddle, knew every dip and rise intimately. I could navigate the entire estate blindfolded, which had actually come in handy during that terrible fog three winters ago when I’d had to find my way back from the village.
These morning walks served a dual purpose—exercise for Waffle and a chance for me to clear my head, yes, but also an opportunity to let my natural scent dissipate in the open air before returning to the manor. The last thing I needed was for my omega scent to build up indoors, making everyone uncomfortable. Out here, with the wind carrying away any trace of my presence, I could pretend I was normal.
I was so lost in thought that I almost missed Waffle’s change in behavior. He’d run ahead as usual, but now he was barking sharply, urgently, his body tense with alertness.
“What is it, boy?” I called, quickening my pace. “Found another dead rabbit to roll in? Because I swear on all that’s holy, if I have to bathe you again this week—”
He barked again, more insistently, then ran forward and back, clearly wanting me to follow. Something was wrong.
As I drew closer, I noticed the tall grasses were disturbed, bent in unnatural patterns that couldn’t be explained by last night’s northerly wind. Waffle disappeared down the slope that led to the stream, and I hurried after him, heart suddenly pounding.
And then I saw them—a pair of expensive leather boots protruding from the grass.
“Oh, for the love of—” I broke into a run, rounding the patch of tall grass to find a man lying prone on the ground, his fine clothing torn and bloodied, his face unnaturally pale.
Without hesitation, I dropped to my knees beside him, fingers seeking the pulse point at his neck. “Don’t you dare be dead on my property,” I muttered. “That’s the last thing we need—a corpse to explain to the magistrate.”
To my relief, a faint but steady rhythm pulsed against my fingertips. Thank God. I leaned closer, feeling the shallow warmth of his breath against my cheek. He was alive, but barely. From the dampness of his clothing and the blue tinge to his lips, he must have been out here all night—through the rain and wind that had rattled my windowpanes.
As I leaned over him, a scent unlike anything I’d ever encountered before enveloped me—rich sandalwood and leather, with notes of amber and something darker, spicier. The scent seemed to wrap around me, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. I inhaled deeply before I could stop myself, then jerked back in alarm. This was no ordinary traveler—this was an alpha. And not just any alpha, but one with a scent so potent it made my head swim.
I’d encountered a few alphas before, of course—traveling merchants and the occasional noble passing through Greenhill—but none had affected me like this. I forced myself to focus on the task at hand, pushing aside the strange warmth blooming in my chest.
“Sir,” I said urgently, “can you hear me? If you die after I’ve gone to the trouble of finding you, I’ll be extremely put out.”
To my astonishment, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes of such a deep, smoky darkness that I momentarily forgot my next biting remark. Despite his obvious pain, relief washed over his features as he gazed up at me.
I found myself cupping his face—a strikingly handsome one, I couldn’t help but notice. “You’re safe now,” I said, my voice gentler than I’d intended. “Help is coming. Try not to expire in the meantime.”
He lifted a trembling hand to my cheek, the unexpected tenderness of the gesture sending a strange warmth through my chest. His lips curved into a weak smile as he whispered a single word:
“Angel...”
Then his eyes closed once more, his hand falling limply to his side.
“I am not an angel,” I informed his unconscious form, ignoring the flush creeping up my neck. “And you, sir, are trespassing. Though I suppose nearly dying is punishment enough for that particular crime.”
I turned to Waffle, who was watching the proceedings with keen interest. “Get help,” I commanded. “Go get Jack and Paul!”
My faithful companion understood immediately, dashing up the slope toward home. While waiting for help to arrive, I examined the stranger for injuries. No broken bones, thankfully, but several cuts on his arms and chest. The most concerning was a nasty gash at his temple, surrounded by an angry bruise.
Working quickly, I positioned his head on my lap, draped my jacket over his torso, and tore a strip from my shirt sleeve to bandage his head wound. Then I leaned over him, trying to share what body heat I could without restricting his breathing.
“This is not how I planned to spend my morning,” I informed him, though he couldn’t hear me. “I was going to brood dramatically over our impending eviction, possibly kick a few rocks for emphasis, and then help Martha with the bread. But no, you had to go and get yourself half-killed on my morning route.”
I studied his face as I waited, unable to look away. Even unconscious and injured, there was something commanding about his features—the strong jaw, the aristocratic cheekbones, the well-formed lips now tinged slightly blue from cold. He was older than me, perhaps in his late twenties, and despite his current state, it was clear he was a man of means. His clothing, though ruined, was of excellent quality.
The alpha scent emanating from him was growing stronger as his body warmed against mine. It was... intoxicating. I’d never been this close to an alpha before, and I was beginning to understand why omegas were warned to be cautious around them. Something about his scent made me want to lean closer, to press my face against his neck and breathe him in.
I shook my head sharply, dispelling the inappropriate thoughts. This man was injured, possibly dying. The last thing he needed was some backwoods omega making a fool of himself over a scent.
“Who in blazes are you?” I murmured. “And what were you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”
After what seemed an eternity, I heard the blessed sounds of Waffle’s barking and the rattle of cart wheels on the rough path.
“Master Ian?” Paul’s voice carried down the slope.
“Here!” I called back. “Over here! And hurry up about it—this fellow weighs a ton!”
Paul appeared first, followed closely by Jack. Their expressions shifted from concern to shock as they took in the scene, but to their credit, they wasted no time in helping. Each took one of the stranger’s arms and hoisted him carefully between them.
Once we’d managed to get him into the cart, I insisted on cradling his head in my lap for the bumpy journey home. I told myself it was merely to prevent further injury, but the truth was more complicated. Something about this alpha—this stranger—had awakened a protective instinct I hadn’t known I possessed.
“Found yourself a prince, did you?” Jack teased as the cart lurched into motion.
“Yes, and I’m expecting a handsome reward for returning him,” I shot back. “Perhaps a castle. Or at the very least, a new shirt to replace the one I just tore up for bandages.”
Grandma Eliza was coming down the stairs with Jenny when we arrived at the manor, her eyes widening at the sight of our unusual cargo.
“Goodness gracious me!” she exclaimed. “What in heavens?”
“Morning present,” I said glibly. “Found him in the north field. Can we keep him?” When she fixed me with her best quelling look, I added more seriously, “He was unconscious in the grassland. He’s hurt badly.”
To her credit, Grandma didn’t waste time with questions. “Take him to the sitting room,” she directed, making her way down the remaining stairs with surprising speed for a woman who relied on a cane. “Paul, fetch the doctor. Jenny, warm water and cloths.”
As the servants hurried to obey, Grandma turned to me. “Ian, my boy, we need to get those wet clothes off him.”
“Why is it always me who has to undress the unconscious strangers?” I grumbled, though there had never been a previous incident to justify the ‘always.’ “Fine, fine. Jack, you take his boots and trousers. I’ll handle the top half.”
I knelt beside the sofa where Jack and Paul had placed our mysterious guest, my fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. When I finally pulled the sodden shirt away, I couldn’t suppress a small gasp. Good heavens! The man’s torso was a marvel of sculpted muscle and smooth skin, marred only by the cuts and bruises from his ordeal. I’d never seen anyone so perfectly formed outside of the classical statues in my school books.
“Well,” I muttered under my breath, “someone clearly doesn’t spend his days eating crumpets and drinking tea.”
“Ian, clean him up,” Grandma instructed, interrupting my embarrassingly appreciative survey.
I set to work with the warm water and cloths Jenny provided, carefully cleaning each cut and scrape. His skin was cool but warming gradually, and I couldn’t help but notice how it felt beneath my hands—smooth and firm, so different from my own.
“What in heavens could have happened to him?” Grandma wondered aloud, peering anxiously at the door for signs of the doctor. “Nasty accident? Poachers? Or bandits? But on our land?” Her voice rose indignantly. “I’d like to smack my cane on those bastards’ heads when we catch them!”
“Get in line, Grandma,” I said, wringing out a bloodied cloth. “I’ve got first crack at anyone who brings trouble to Cheswick.”
She snorted, but I caught the flash of pride in her eyes. “You’re all of eighteen and skinny as a rake, boy. What would you do?”
“Fight dirty,” I replied promptly. “Just like you taught me.”
“That’s my lad,” she said with grim satisfaction.
By the time I finished tending to him, Jenny had returned with a thick woolen blanket. She draped it carefully over him, then gathered the soiled water and cloths.
“That’s all we can do for now,” Grandma sighed. “Why don’t you change your shirt and get some breakfast, Ian?”
I glanced down, suddenly remembering I’d torn my sleeve for a bandage. “Will he be all right, Grandma?” I couldn’t keep the concern from my voice.
She patted my shoulder reassuringly. “He’ll be fine. He looks strong as an ox—a little beating won’t do him in.”
I nodded, allowing myself one last look at the stranger’s face before leaving the room. Waffle followed at my heels, his mission accomplished.
As I headed upstairs to change, I couldn’t shake the memory of that scent—sandalwood, leather, amber, and spice. It clung to my clothes, my hands, seeming to follow me like a shadow. I told myself it was merely biological—an omega’s natural response to an alpha’s pheromones. Nothing to be concerned about.
But deep down, I knew it was more than that. This alpha, whoever he was, had already begun to occupy a space in my thoughts that no stranger had any right to claim.