7. Converging

'Is it very much further, do you think?'

Will took one look at Brian's sallow face and swallowed a laugh.

'I would think not, but if you wish to stop the carriage I am sure Sir James would not object.’

'Eh? What was that?' Summoned from a light slumber, Sir James offered a vague smile from his seat opposite.

'Nothing, father.' Brian squared his thin shoulders and nudged Will crossly. 'I shall be quite alright. I am not used to such long journeys, that is all.'

Amused, Will turned his attention back to the fields which rolled past them in varying pastel pale shades. Although still early March, spring had arrived and had taken up residence with stubborn determination, shouldering aside the feeble remnants of winter.

They left the high road; and as the carriage rattled along a series of narrow lanes surrounded by high hedgerows, all three occupants gazed out with eager curiosity - for, as the driver informed them in rough tones, they had at last arrived at the boundary of Fell Park, home of the famous Lady Bedelia du Maurier. They saw an abundance of trees – clusters of oaks and elms dotting lush green fields – but as yet, no sign of the house itself was visible from the road.

How odd to think that after all his mocking denouncements, Will was soon to be a visitor at that grand establishment. Odder still, he considered, to be doing so at the behest of Mr and Mrs Franklyn...

'Engaged to Mr Franklyn? I cannot believe it! Beverly, why ever did you accept? What were you thinking?'

The stoicism with which Beverly bore this unguarded exclamation put Will immediately to shame, and he blushed as he paced the morning room, but he did not retract his words. Only two days after the same offer had been made to himself? It was absurd.

'I am thinking,' she replied calmly, watching him from the sofa with an air of perfect tranquility, 'that I will be leaving my parents' home for the comfort of my own. I am thinking that I need no longer worry about how burdensome I shall be as the years pass and I am forced to rely on my family for support. And I am thinking, Will, that as I have never been romantic, my chance of happiness with Mr Franklyn is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.'

‘I am sorry.’ Chastened, he moved to sit beside her, and regarded her earnestly. ‘I would never wish to offend you. You are my dearest friend, Beverly. Please forgive me.’

‘Oh, Will.’ Beverly smiled, and Will fancied that he caught a glimmer of sadness in her dark eyes. ‘We are very different people, you and I. But never think that I do not appreciate your idealism.’ She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Indeed, it is a quality which I hope you never lose.’

At length, the chimneys of Fogmear Parsonage came into view. Sir James recognised them at once, having been regaled with a detailed description by his then son-in-law-to-be one evening at Price Lodge.

'This is quite a gathering.'

Turning, Will smiled and accepted the glass of wine which Mr Brown proffered. Dressed in his regimentals, the officer cut a fine figure, and the younger guests had been fluttering around him ever since his arrival with Mr Randall. Abigail in particular had proven difficult to dispatch, though finally an invitation from Brian to dance a reel had tempted her away.

'Yes, I believe that Sir James is determined to spread the news of his daughter’s good fortune with the utmost speed - and it would seem that this is the most economical way.'

'In terms of time, yes. Though hardly in a monetary sense, given the number of empty bottles which I have already seen carried out. But no matter. It is very good to see you again, Mr Graham. I was sorry to have missed the Muskrat ball.'

Will felt Mr Brown's eyes travel over him with lazy appreciation and tried not to mind. Indeed, he felt frustration at the very fact that he did mind. Here was a handsome, intelligent, industrious, good-humoured Alpha, who was most assuredly interested in him; yet the only romantic inclination Will had felt thus far had been wasted on a supercilious aristocratic who had spurned him at every turn.

‘Why did not you attend the ball?’

'Alas, I decided,' whispered Mr Brown, leaning in conspiratorially, 'that discretion would be the best course to take. It would not have done to have inadvertently caused a scene; and I am convinced that Mr Lecter would have created one, had our paths crossed. Still, it is a shame. I have heard that it was a rather diverting evening.'

Will stiffened at the allusion to events which he wished desperately to forget. He had been entirely unprepared for the sharp pain which had gripped his heart upon the realisation that Hannibal had, in all probability, persuaded the Vergers to quit Muskrat Hall on the very day of their last encounter.

'Yes,' he murmured, eyes on his wine glass, the rich dark liquid calling to mind another set of eyes. 'It was indeed – most diverting.'

The parsonage was a large, rambling building of grey stone, encircled by a neat cottage garden. As the carriage drew up, Mr Franklyn and Beverly appeared, side-by-side, in the doorway of the house. Will's heart swelled as he waved at his smiling friend. Relations between them had been a little strained since the engagement, and he had half-feared a lukewarm reception, even though the invitation to visit had come from Beverly herself. But her eyes were filled only with affection as he climbed out of the carriage, and he embraced her warmly when they came together at the garden gate.

'You look well, Beverly. Truly, very well.'

The apology in his tone was heartfelt, and the brief tightening of Beverly's arms around him communicated perfectly her acceptance and gratitude.

'Oh, Will, it is so very good to see you again. And Brian. Father. Welcome to you all.'

As Beverly turned her attention to her family, Will found himself momentarily alone with Mr Franklyn, who to his credit looked neither excessively smug nor overtly triumphant. Indeed, both of the newlyweds exhibited a sort of contentment that astonished Will. Clearly there was more to his cousin than appearances had thus far suggested.

'Dear cousin,' gushed Mr Franklyn. 'My Beverly and I are pleased to welcome you to our humble abode. Tell me, how does your family?'

'They are well, sir, thank you,' responded Will automatically, although in the case of Alana, he was not at all sure of the accuracy of the statement. Nor was he the only one in the family to have felt such concern. Their aunt, Mrs Crawford, had drawn Will to one side not long after her arrival with Mr Crawford for their annual Christmas visit.

'Alana is so quiet,' she commented worriedly. 'How long has she been like this?'

'Above a month.' Will shrugged helplessly. 'As I told you in my letter, she has heard nothing from Miss Verger since the family left for London.'

'But she did receive a second letter from Mrs Cordell.' His aunt looked at Will shrewdly. 'I have no wish to pry, Will. But if I knew more, then perhaps I could be of some help.’

'There is something –' Will hesitated, reluctant to break a confidence. But then again, he reasoned, Alana had never requested silence on the subject. And their aunt was, after all, the model of discretion. 'Although to speak truth, it is not a problem which is easily remedied. There was a suggestion in Mrs Cordell's second letter that the family were desirous – even expectant – of a union between Miss Verger and the sister of – of a close friend.'

It had been more than a suggestion – 'Mischa Lecter has not her equal for beauty and accomplishments; and the affection which she inspires in us all has strengthened to the hope that Mr Verger and I will soon be fortunate enough to call her our sister' – but Will refused even for a moment to give it credence. Whatever the machinations of Hannibal Lecter and of Margot Verger's siblings, it was impossible to believe that the lady herself could have so quickly and readily abandoned a regard which Will and so many others had witnessed with regularity for more than a month.

'Perhaps we should take Alana back to London with us,' suggested Mrs Crawford, 'for a change of scene.'

'Oh yes, please do. Distraction is just what Alana requires.'

Will felt a welling of affection as he smiled at his aunt. They had been ever close. And not only because Mrs Crawford, dark-haired and dark-eyed, was as beautiful inside as out. Bella Crawford was the only other Omega of Will's acquaintance, and had helped him through his first heat at the relatively late age of seventeen. Omegas suffered through these biological cycles only once in a twelvemonth, but for unmated Omegas such as Will, it was a trying time.

'And you, Will? Are you well?'

'Perfectly, aunt, I thank you.'

'Your next cycle is...'

'Sometime in September.'

'Then I think it will be safe enough.' She laughed and coloured a little at Will's quizzical look. 'Forgive me for being indelicate, Will. But you see, Mr Crawford has arranged to take a month off in the summer. He has promised me a tour of the Northern country, beginning in mid-July, and we would like very much for you to accompany us.'

A month spent touring the countryside with his uncle and aunt, away from the inane chatter of his younger sisters and the disappointed glowering of his thwarted mother?

Will grinned.

'That would be wonderful. I am sure that Mother will be happy to spare me.'

'And what of Mr Brown? Will he be happy to spare you?'

Will flushed, taken aback. 'Aunt?'

'I was watching him throughout dinner yesterday. He is clearly very interested in you.' Mrs Crawford shook her head, eyes kind but serious. 'Be careful, Will. Want of fortune makes him, alas, an imprudent match. And I would not wish your affections to be engaged without hope of a future.'

The irony of the conversation struck Will forcibly, yet there he drew the line. He could not possibly tell his aunt that the nearest he had come to having his affections engaged had involved a man who had plenty of fortune but absolutely no serious interest in him! Besides, that madness had been brought to an abrupt end with Hannibal's decampment to London. And so he focused instead on the issue at hand.

'Aunt, I am not in love with Mr Brown. To be sure, I like him – he is pleasant company and I enjoy our conversations. But beyond that, I assure you, you have nothing to fear.'

Mrs Crawford looked at him steadily for a moment before nodding in apparent satisfaction. 'I am only sorry that a warning was necessary, but such is the way of the world.'

And such is the fault of Hannibal Lecter, thought Will grimly. For without his interference, Mr Brown would not now be forced to sing for his supper.

'You realise, of course, that want of fortune is rarely ever enough to prevent two people from bonding if their affections are truly engaged, warnings from well-meaning relatives notwithstanding,' he could not resist adding dryly.

His aunt chuckled. 'Will Graham, you are incorrigible. In any case, I have done my duty. And now let us talk of more pleasant things.'

The Prices and Will were shown to their rooms by a gleeful Mr Franklyn, who was eager to point out every improvement and modification, no matter how small, which had been carried out on the instructions of Lady Bedelia.

'My dear, perhaps you would like to give my father and brother a tour of your garden,' suggested Beverly, when finally Mr Franklyn drew breath. 'It is his pleasure to tend it every day,' she added in an aside to Will. 'And in this I encourage him, for it is most beneficial exercise.'

'Oh, yes, of course.'

As Sir James and a bored-looking Brian trailed downstairs after Mr Franklyn, Will followed Beverly into the morning room.

A cup of tea later, they had caught up on most of the news which had accumulated over the two months which had passed since the wedding.

'Alana is still in London?'

'Yes.' Will stirred the remains of his tea, frowning. 'I had hoped that she would see something of Miss Verger during her stay, but thus far her only visitor has been Mrs Cordell.'

'And she gave no indication of when – or if – Alana might expect Miss Verger?'

Will laughed shortly. 'Oh, she gave a most definite indication that such a visit would likely not take place at all – Miss Verger is apparently now always in the company of Miss Lecter.'

Shaking her head, Beverly moved to pour them fresh cups of tea. 'I can hardly believe it.'

'Yet so it is. It seems that you were right, Beverly.'

'About what?'

'The need to bait one's hook well in order to land the fish.' Accepting his teacup, Will raised it from the saucer in salute. 'You are a wise person.'

'Does this mean that you intend to cast your own line? For Mr Brown, perhaps?' Beverly regarded him mischievously from over the rim of her cup.

'Most assuredly not.'

'And so tomorrow you will be in Kent.'

'Yes.' Will rolled his eyes at his aunt. 'I doubt that the visit will yield much pleasure, though of course it will be very good to see Beverly again. And I am glad that it has given us the opportunity to call in on you and Mr Crawford. And Alana, of course. Her spirits seem much lifted.’

'They are. I would that I could say the same for my nephew.' Mrs Crawford patted his arm. 'I know that still waters run deep with you, Will, but I should like to know that you are not unhappy.'

'Do I seem unhappy?' hedged Will, toying with the cuff of his coat in a bid to escape his aunt's probing gaze.

True, there was a restlessness – almost dissatisfaction – which had plagued him ever since the night of the ball all those months before. But to call it unhappiness was surely preposterous.

I knew him for so short a time.

'No one could blame you if you were. What he did was despicable.'

Yet that final glance had promised so much. Before he turned and left me. Before he remembered who he was. What I was.

'Now tell me all that you know of Miss Boyle.’

Will blinked. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Miss Cassandra Boyle. The young lady of whom you wrote in your last letter.’

What he did was despicable. Ah.

'You were speaking of Mr Brown.’

'Of course.' Mrs Crawford looked perplexed. 'Who else?'

With an effort, Will marshalled his thoughts. 'Mr Brown was free to choose whomever he liked, dear aunt. He and I had no understanding, although it is true that for a time he did seem to favour me. But I was never very comfortable with his regard. And it has now passed to Miss Boyle, that is all. She is Omegan, you know.' He looked at his aunt. 'And she is an heiress.’

'I see.' Mrs Crawford sighed. 'Then I am very sorry for her.'

'You suspect Mr Brown's motives?'

'You do not?'

Will shrugged. 'I suppose that even handsome young men must have something to live on, as well as the plain. But he seems to like her well enough. Besides, if Miss Boyle is content, why should not we be?'

'And you are not merely being brave?'

'No, aunt.' Will placed his hand over hers. 'I told you before that I was never in love with him.'

'That is lucky, but I doubt somehow that he would have acted any differently if you had been. Still, I dislike the idea of thinking ill of a young man who lived so long in Derbyshire. My family come from that county, as you know.'

'Well, I am afraid that I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire,' snapped Will. 'And of their close friends who live in Hertfordshire. I am sick of them all.'

'Take care, Will,' commented his aunt with some amusement. 'That speech savours strongly of disappointment.'

***

The first two days at Fogmear passed quietly enough, but the third day found Mr Franklyn in a state of fraught excitement, for the whole party had received an invitation to dine at Fell Park with Lady Bedelia and her son.

'Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel,' he said gravely as he passed Will's room and looked in. 'Lady Bedelia will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved.'

Will paused in the act of tying his neckcloth. 'Thank you, cousin. That is – most reassuring.'

The half mile walk across the park afforded tantalising glimpses of woodland trails – narrow brown smudges that wound, snake-like, through clusters of green-tipped trees – and Will determined at once to explore them all during his stay.

Soon enough, sprawling parkland gave way to formal gardens with rigid designs, and the party followed a beaming Mr Franklyn up a wide gravel path to the mansion itself. Restoration in design, its unrestrained grandeur did little to impress Will. Nor did the interior prove more to his taste. Shuttered passages and tapestried walls, lined with intricately-carved furniture of dark wood, created a stifling sense of decaying opulence. A self-imposed hush descended on the group as they were led by a solemn-faced footman in black and gold livery into a large drawing room.

'Sir James Price, Mr Price, Mr Graham, Mr Franklyn and Mrs Franklyn,' recited the footman tonelessly.

Such theatricality was novel to Will, and he looked around with interest: a black carpet decorated with swirls of moss-green; walls on three sides hung with portraits of various sizes; the fourth wall taken up almost entirely by a painting of a hunting trip, with the limp bodies of swans and various fowl slung across a long table; and directly in front of this startling image, two high-backed chairs, one occupied by a sullen-looking young man and the other by a woman almost bird-like in appearance. Here, at last, was none other than the Right Honourable Lady Bedelia du Maurier.

The visitors formed a line in front of their hosts. Mrs Franklyn curtsied, the gentlemen bowed, and all were acknowledged with a slight nod by the lady and an uneasy shifting in his chair by the young man.

Will and the Prices seated themselves on a long, mahogany, green silk-covered sofa; Mr and Mrs Franklyn arranged themselves on adjacent chairs; and as they all waited in respectful silence, Will took his first proper look at Lady Bedelia and her son.

He had to own that Hannibal’s aunt cut a striking figure. Golden hair coiled high, threaded through with black ribbon, proved an effective foil to the long, black velvet gown trimmed with gold lace which fell in graceful folds to the floor. Her features were sharp, refined; and narrowed blue eyes assessed each of the new arrivals with focused thoroughness.

'Welcome to Fell Park,' she said graciously, indicating the boy at her side with a sweep of her delicate hand. 'My son, Francis.'

Will's eyes widened as Lady Bedelia's Alpha scent wafted across the space between them. A coconut sweetness, cloying, like red orchids. Whether she in turn was aware that he was Omegan, he had no idea. Her self-possession was absolute and gave away nothing.

All eyes turned automatically on Francis du Maurier, who blushed and fell to fidgeting again, but said nothing at all.

‘Her son, Francis, will inherit a very large fortune, and it is widely believed that he and his cousin will unite the two estates.’

So this is Hannibal's prospective spouse, thought Will, recalling Mr Brown's words with a sharp pang that he shook off in frustration.

Pale, thin and dark; morose and near-silent.

Yes, he will do very well.

The haughty tones of Lady Bedelia cut into his brooding thoughts.

'I understand, Mr Graham, that you have four siblings.'

'Yes, Ma'am.'

'How very indulgent of your parents. Of course, they were doubtless hoping for a legitimate male heir.' And she cast a proud sideways glance at her own progeny. 'Nevertheless, they might have had the sense to stop after two failed attempts. You may not be entitled to inherit your father's property but your Omegan status should guarantee a match of at least fair standing.'

Will heard Mr Franklyn's tactless gasp and stifled a smile. In any other circumstance, he would have been gravely offended by such a derogatory assessment, but Lady Bedelia's slow, mannered speech merely amused him. Such jarring affectation could not be taken seriously.

In any case, no chance of rebuttal was given as Lady Bedelia turned gimlet eyes on Beverly.

'Mrs Franklyn, my gamekeeper tells me that he caught a young guttersnipe leaving your garden yesterday with fresh eggs in his pockets.'

'Yes, Lady Bedelia. Mr Hobbs and I have already discussed the matter. The eggs were a gift from me for the boy's family.' Typically firm, Beverly was nevertheless respectful in her response, and Will marvelled at her restraint.

'So I heard.' Arched brows conveyed a certain amount of displeasure on Lady Bedelia's part. 'You realise, of course, that such excessive generosity is likely to result in hordes of beggars clamouring at your door day and night. The next time you have an instinct to help someone, you might consider evicting them instead. It would save you a great deal of trouble.'

Beverly's lips twitched but she replied blandly, 'Thank you, Ma'am. I shall keep that in mind.'

It took all of Will's self-possession to refrain from digging his elbow into Beverly's side, but somehow he restrained himself.

***

The low hum of everyday city life – rattling carriage wheels, whinnying horses, the plaintive work cry of a sweeper's apprentice – was a symphony at once familiar and grating to Hannibal's ears, even after several months. For all his misgivings about Hertfordshire, the tranquility of country living had reminded him poignantly of Derbyshire and the home he had been absent from for almost a year. It was too long since last he had walked the halls and grounds of Ravenstag, the estate having been left in the expert hands of his manager Mr Sutcliffe while he had tended to Mischa, filling her days with parties and excursions and visits – all necessary distractions in the wake of her ordeal.

Yet Hannibal had returned to London to find the bloom restored to his sister's cheeks, the shadows of those terrible weeks all but melted away, and his thoughts dwelt now on rolling hills and symphonies of birdsong... and large blue eyes framed by dark curls. Eyes alight one moment with indignation, the next with sweet yearning...

'It would have been my first kiss.'

Jaw clenching, Hannibal refocused his attention on the set of accounts which had arrived that morning from Mr Sutcliffe, scanning the figures intently and making notes to send back.

'Working on estate business again, Hannibal?'

A distracted hum was the only response given to the scarlet-uniformed man who paused in the doorway for a moment before sauntering into the study. He came to stand in front of Hannibal's desk and peered down at the neat piles of papers tied into bundles.

'How deathly dull all it looks.'

Glancing wryly at his cousin, the roguish and utterly charming Colonel Anthony Dimmond, Hannibal laid down his quill and inspected his ink-stained fingers with a grimace.

'It is fortunate, then, that it falls to my lot rather than yours.'

'It is hardly my fault that I have not an estate of my own,' protested Anthony, settling into an armchair with a sigh. 'Youngest sons must shift for themselves, you know.'

'Youngest sons of earls are hardly to be pitied, either. But I would never accuse you of shirking, Colonel.'

The two men exchanged brief but warm smiles. At two years Hannibal's senior, Anthony had long been his most trusted advisor and closest confidant.

'I should hope not.' Gesturing at the gold braid decorating his coat, Anthony commented dolefully, 'You would not believe the amount of paperwork that is waiting for me back at headquarters. Give me a good front line any day.'

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. 'Is there really any such thing?'

Anthony laughed shortly. 'Of course not. But I have to admit that I much prefer action and the company of my men to the foppery of London society. Come now, admit it. You would far rather be out roaming the fields of Ravenstag than cooped up in an opera box five times a week.'

'Opera has its place, but yes. On the whole, you are correct.'

Resting his elbows on the richly-grained surface of the desk, Hannibal steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips in contemplation.

Anthony smiled. 'I am correct, eh? Then perhaps you will finally take my advice and go home.'

But at that suggestion Hannibal at once shook his head. 'Mischa is not yet ready. And I will not travel so far without her.'

'Mischa is stronger than you give her credit for. And I still cannot understand why you left Hertfordshire in such an almighty hurry,' huffed Anthony. 'I was looking forward to spending Christmas in the country. Breathe in all that fresh air, away from this damned city smog.’

Hannibal made a show of shuffling his papers. 'I told you about Mason.'

'You told me about Mason, yes.'

Cursing his cousin's shrewdness, Hannibal was almost grateful to hear the disdainful tones of Mrs Cordell echoing up from the vestibule, thus providing a convenient distraction.

'You came here alone, Miss Graham? Do none of your siblings keep you company?'

Miss Graham?

Frowning, Hannibal rose from his chair. 'I did not realise that Miss Graham was in town.'

'Hm? Oh, yes. She is staying with her aunt and uncle, apparently.'

As a yawning Anthony reached for the daily paper, Hannibal cocked his head to listen. At least Margot was safely out of the way, on an expedition to Mischa's favourite circulating library in Finsbury Square.

Miss Graham's soft, lilting voice carried clearly to the upper landing. 'My sisters are at home, and my brother is at present in Kent, visiting Mrs Franklyn – Miss Price as was – and her husband.'

Will is in Kent.

Will.

The name throbbed through him like a dull ache. Excursions, visits, trips to the theatre and to the opera – nothing had expunged the boy from his thoughts. And as for distractions of a baser nature, no smiles were as natural, no minds as fascinating, no forms as pleasing as Will’s. Not once had he entertained even the possibility of taking a lover. Not when memories taunted him constantly – of heated clashes and immersive conversations, of fleeting touches and covert glances.

Perhaps, after all, avoidance is not the answer.

Eyes glinting with intent, Hannibal turned to his cousin.

'Anthony, what say you to a dose of that country air you are so keen to experience? I think it is high time we visited our aunt.'

***

The woods surrounding Fell Park had become for Will something of a retreat after a fortnight of Mr Franklyn's incessant prattle and Lady Bedelia's imperious litanies. The latter had increased in frequency since Sir James's return to Hertfordshire upon the conclusion of their first week. Freed from the necessity of consideration for parental tenderness, Lady Bedelia now visited the parsonage every other day to scold, patronise and instruct. This, Beverly had assured Will with a wink as they had watched the lady's carriage depart after visit number three, was business as usual.

Eager to escape the dreariness of such attentions, Will had taken to wandering the woods on the days when Lady Bedelia was expected at Fogmear – or, on occasion, while the Franklyns were calling on her at Fell Park – and he had made a favourite of a particular stretch of ground at the furthest end of the park. Here a sheltered path wound among mossy banks, twisted firs, ancient oaks and clumps of rhododendron, culminating in a rush-filled lake and grotto. This stone-clad structure had apparently been carved into the hillside twenty years earlier on the instruction of Lord du Maurier, as a wedding present for his young bride. But according to local rumour, Lady Bedelia had from early childhood suffered from an unaccountable fear of water; and so in the event, the gift had generated as little pleasure as the marriage.

'Such news, cousin! Such news!'

Will paused in the act of cutting into his grilled bone and lifted enquiring eyes to Mr Franklyn, who had bustled into the breakfast room with the air of one hoarding a secret of great importance.

'Where is Mrs Franklyn?'

'Not yet down. It is barely eight o'clock,' pointed out Will as Mr Franklyn's face fell.

But he recovered rapidly. 'No matter. It will hardly be burdensome to repeat.'

'And why would that be, Mr Franklyn? Has Lady Bedelia acquired another painting? Or perhaps a new carriage?' Will's acerbic tone was, naturally, lost on his cousin.

'Better even than that,' he beamed. 'She has acquired a new guest. I have just seen the carriage turning up the lane to Fell Park. Can you guess who it is?'

'I really cannot.' Wishing only for the restoration of peace in order to finish his breakfast, Will conjured a smile. 'Do tell me, cousin.'

'I would have known the carriage from the crest, of course; but in any event, I saw him looking out as it drove past. I am sure that he will call here to pay his respects, and what an honour it will be to entertain such a prestigious visitor!’

Impatiently, Will prompted, ‘And of which prestigious visitor are you speaking?’

‘Why, Mr Lecter, of course!’ Mr Franklyn looked positively giddy.

Will dropped his cutlery with a clatter and pushed back his chair. 'I think that I shall take my morning walk now.'

But Mr Franklyn was not listening. 'I really cannot wait to tell my dear Beverly. Excuse me, cousin.' And a moment later he was gone, feet pounding up the stairs.

It was with a thudding heart that Will stepped out into the garden. A gate at the rear provided a shortcut into the woods, and he ploughed on for some time without allowing himself the dangerous luxury of thinking. But at length, having reached the grotto, he stopped and flung himself down beneath a gnarled pine, chest heaving. The mossy earth was damp yet warm; and Will shrugged out of his greatcoat, spreading it beneath him like a blanket. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, gazing up through spindly branches into a vista of blue.

After four months, he and Hannibal Lecter were once again sharing this same sky. It was impossible to suppress a shudder of excitement. Impossible too not to recall the awful feeling of rejection that had for many weeks weighed him down after Hannibal's abrupt departure from Muskrat Hall.

The sun rose higher, glistening beams penetrating a canopy of unfurling green. Lost in reverie, Will was slow to discern the sound of boots clicking on hard ground; and by the time he had registered the significance, their owner was almost upon him. He looked around, eyes widening, and a soundless sigh escaped him.

A splendid pair of knee-high boots... tight-fitting breeches and linen greatcoat… a high cravat framing a face of severe aristocratic beauty… angular and haughty features… a straight sweep of dark blonde hair...

Hannibal.

The instant Hannibal saw him, the Alpha stopped abruptly. For long moments they simply stared at one other. It was Hannibal who finally broke the spell, with a slight inclination of his head.

'Mr Graham. I trust that you are well.'

'Mr Lecter. I trust that you are leaving.'

Hannibal's lips twitched. 'Your presence or Kent?'

'Take your pick,' snapped Will, choosing offensiveness as his best defence against the emotions clawing at his insides.

'Hm. As I arrived in the county only a few hours ago, I fear that my aunt would object most strenuously to the latter.'

'And the former?'

'As much as it pains me, I have come to the conclusion that such a thing is beyond my control.'

As Hannibal prowled towards him, Will scrambled to his feet and hastily dusted himself down.

'I should return to Fogmear. The Franklyns will be expecting me.'

Hannibal stepped into his path. 'Surely they can spare you for another half hour. After all, we have not seen each other since the Muskrat ball.'

'And whose doing was that? You were the one who left, not I,' blurted Will, discretion deserting him in his turmoil.

'I did.' Hannibal cocked his head to the side, eyes glittering with an emotion that Will could not place. 'Tell me, did you feel abandoned?'

A harsh laugh was pulled from him. 'Abandonment requires expectation, sir. I was under no such illusion.'

'Were not you?'

Will inhaled sharply, hands clenching into fists at his sides. 'What are you implying, Mr Lecter?'

The beautiful blue eyes that looked into his with such directness, such accusation, tugged at Hannibal as nothing else had for the entire, interminable winter.

How glorious you are, Will Graham. And what an unmitigated fool I was to believe that I could forget you.

It was intoxicating to feel so challenged. So alive. Greedy for more, he moved closer still to the Omega, whose fragrant scent filled the air between them.

'It would have been my first kiss,' he quoted softly, watching Will flush at his words. Eyes lingering on the boy, who hastily averted his own gaze, Hannibal smiled faintly. 'It seems that fate and circumstance have returned us to that moment.'

'To what end?' Will lifted his head, scowling. 'Omegan I may be, but I am no plaything, sir. Besides, I know very well your opinion of me.'

At this, Hannibal shifted uneasily. 'My conduct when first we met – what I said, the way that I behaved towards you – I would have you know that I have long regretted it. And then on the night of the ball, leaving you in that way, without explanation. It – was beneath me.'

'It was beneath me,' mimicked Will, affecting an exaggerated bass tone. Then, reverting to his natural voice, 'Cannot you just say, 'I am sorry, Will'?'

Hannibal stilled. Scornful, impertinent child. Always pushing. Always testing for weakness. Provoking and provoking until...

Grasping Will’s narrow shoulders, Hannibal crowded him back against the tree where, nose to nose, he hissed, 'I. Am. Sorry. Will.'

But as Will only stared back at him, lips parting in surprise, Hannibal's grip eased and his mouth dried.

'Will,' he whispered, then, 'Will,' and bent his head.