Page 2 of Romanced By the Orc

Desperate to escape this wretched discourse, Diana reviewed the dozen ladies and gentlemen assembled around the oval table, all distracted by their own conversations. Her gaze finally landed on the extraordinary fellow seated opposite.

During the previous season, she’d encountered Albion Higgins now and again, sharing pleasantries about the latest dramatic works scheduled for performances at Drury Lane and the like. This evening marked the first occasion where she’d the pleasureof dining in his company. At present, he was using his oversized hands to manipulate the tableware in a perfect mimicry of English manners.

Gifted with a square jaw, high cheekbones, and broad shoulders—the mere picture of masculine beauty in this or any other day—Lord Albion cut a powerfully striking presence. Thick horns curled over the top of his head, natural as his raven black hair, olive-green skin, and remarkable amber eyes. The fangs jutting over his upper lip did little to detract from his charm. If anything, they enhanced it. His tailored dress coat and expertly knotted silk cravat, as well as the exquisite red-orange Orcan gemstones on his cufflinks, furnished him with all the accoutrements of a sophisticated Bond Street Beau.

As she recalled, Albion’s agreeable character and impeccable knack for fashion resulted in a flurry of invitations last season. On that count, Diana had no reason to think anything had changed since she’d been away. She waited for a pause in his exchange with Lady Talridge before she spoke.

“I trust Parliament will strive to relieve the suffering of those caught in Rostin’s recent aggression,” Diana said, her voice louder to rise above the chatter. “Don’t you agree, Lord Albion?”

His lordship turned his head amicably, giving her a full view of his astonishing green skin color and handsome features. Diana seized this opportunity to look up into his eyes and fix her expression into a silent plea.

Help me.

“As you hail from the Hidden Realm, rather than English soil, perhaps you have an opinion on this tragic situation,” she said. “One which differs from that put forth by our government.”

“Oh, I daresay the intricacies of politics are enough to make a fellow’s head spin like a top.” Lord Albion’s rich baritone—a voice that held the potential to mesmerize under the right circumstances, she was sure—flattened under the burden of hisposh London accent. “Such matters are best left to finer minds than mine.”

“You are fluent in our language. Such competency requires a fine mind.”

“Parliament’s position should remain steadfastly neutral,” Reginald cut in. “The Duke of Rostin hasn’t given the slightest inkling he poses a threat to England.”

Lord Albion grasped the stem of his crystal wine glass, sharp claws at the ends of his formidable fingers.

“Quite. Again, I can’t vouch for my competence in the complexities of these confounded disagreements between nations.”

“Precisely. Best leave affairs of state to those designated to tend them. That is why we cannot tolerate this Phantom’s extralegal actions.”

“Not that blasted fellow again.” Albion waved his hand as though to shoo away a fly. The jewels on his cufflinks and signet ring gleamed in the candlelight. “Deuces! I know that name only too well.”

“Do you follow the exploits of the Benevolent Phantom?” Diana asked.

Lord Albion leaned forward, resting his large hands to either side of his plate. “I keep apprised of his feats via the scandal sheets. What one can finish in the time it takes to polish off a morning plum cake, that is. This fellow must have some merit, for he has captured the imaginations of London’s good ladies. Do you concur, Lady Diana?”

“Most ardently.”

“There you have it. How is a gent supposed to compete for attention? Hardly sporting. You are a bachelor, are you not, Reg? You sympathize with my vexation?”

Reg?Diana stifled a smile. Unfazed, Lord Albion tipped his spoon to enjoy the consommé. He appeared to devote a notinsignificant portion of his brain power to determine whether he cared for the soup.

“Blazes, if that isn’t good.” He wiped his mouth with a serviette. “I never was keen for an abundance of salt in these concoctions. Now, what was I saying? Blast it if my thoughts aren’t scattered this evening.”

“You were sharing your irritation with the Benevolent Phantom,” Diana prompted.

“Ah, yes. The ladies can’t get enough of their hero’s exploits. Obviously, I couldn’t let this unfortunate circumstance stand! I said to myself, Albie, you simply must do something, or you will be a dreadful bore at the supper table. So I took quill in hand to compose a poem in this rascal’s honor. Care to hear it, Reg?”

Sir Reginald fidgeted in a manner that suggested listening to Albion’s attempt at poetry was the last thing on God’s green earth he wanted.

“Oh, do share!” Lady Talridge implored. A peacock feather affixed to her velvet bandeau bobbed in Albion’s direction. “Did you read about the Benevolent Phantom’s rescue of Comtesse de Flarine and her children?” She pulled one gloved hand dramatically to her ample bosom. “Such courage!”

“You see what bother this scoundrel has caused us, Reg?” Albion flashed a sly grin that lent a flush to their hostess’s high cheekbones. “Now I must concentrate to do the words proper justice.”

Albion squeezed his fingers into mock fists. How he did so without scraping his palms with his claws, Diana knew not. He cleared his throat before commencing with his recitation.

What can we say?

Of this hero, who just may?

Force a vote, yay or nay?

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