The door shook and rattled as whoever it was seemed to be trying to physically force it open. But for all Lord Akeldama’s frolicsome decorative choices, his town house was built with the supernatural in mind, the protection of his clothing being paramount. The door barely budged. Someone on the other side yelled, but a door so massive that it could withstand shoe thieves could also muffle even the loudest commentary on the subject.

Lady Maccon was becoming concerned. “Conall, get up and answer the door, do! Really, it sounds most pressing.”

“I, too, have matters that are pressing and must needs be taken into hand.”

Alexia giggled at the terribleness of both pun and innuendo. She was pleased her husband still thought her attractive, despite her beached-whale state, but was finding it increasingly awkward to accommodate him. The spirit was willing but the flesh was swollen. Still, she enjoyed the compliment and understood that there was no real demand behind the caresses. The earl knew her well enough to realize she valued his desire almost as much as his love. After a lifetime of feeling ugly and unworthy, Alexia was now tolerably assured that Conall genuinely did want her, even if they could do nothing about it at present. She also understood that he was expressing his conjugal interest partly out of knowledge of her own need for such assurances. A werewolf and a buffoon, her husband, but wonderfully caring once he’d blundered into the way of it.

And yet, someone was still torturing their poor door. Conall blinked awake, his tawny eyes wide and direct. He kissed the tip of his wife’s long nose and, with a massive sigh, rolled out of bed and lumbered over to the door.

Alexia, sleepy lidded, admired his backside, then shrieked, “Conall, robe! For goodness’ sake.”

Her husband ignored her, throwing open the door and crossing his arms over a wide, hairy chest. He was wearing not one stitch of clothing. Alexia sank down under the covers in mortification.

She need not have worried; it was only Professor Lyall.

“Randolph,” grumbled her husband, “what’s all the ruckus about?”

“It’s Biffy, my lord. Best come quickly. You’re needed.”

“Already?” Lord Maccon swore a blue streak, his blistering language the result of military service combined with a creative imagination. After a glance about the room, he seemed to decide that changing his form would be faster than getting dressed. He began to shift, the musculature underneath his skin rearranging, the hair on his head migrating downward and turning into fur. Quick enough, he dropped to all fours. Then he dashed out and down the hall, presumably to leap the gap between houses and see to whatever had gone wrong. Alexia caught sight of the brindled tip of his fluffy tail as he skidded out of sight without even a nod in her direction.

“What is it, Professor?” she demanded imperiously before her husband’s Beta could follow in his Alpha’s wake. It was rather unlike Professor Lyall to disturb them with such forcefulness. It was equally rare for there to be any issue so in need of the earl’s attention that his second could not delay the matter or handle the preliminaries himself.