HOW TO MARRY
A WEREWOLF
(IN 10 EASY STEPS)
A CLAW & COURTSHIP NOVELLA
Gail Carriger
Wait, what am I reading?
NYT best selling author Gail Carriger sends regency romance to the wolves.
Guilty of an indiscretion? Time to marry a werewolf.
Rejected by her family, Faith crosses the Atlantic, looking for a marriage of convenience and revenge. But things are done differently in London. Werewolves are civilized. At least they pretend to be.
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Acknowledgements
With grateful thanks to my pack of pigeons full of Alphas, Betas, and even a few Gammas. They averted a major breach in the Parasolverse space time continuum.
A Note On Chronology
Claw & Courtship novellas can be read in any order. This book can be enjoyed without having read any of Gail’s other works.
Set in the spring of 1895 this story occurs after events chronicled in Romancing the Werewolf and contemporaneous with those of Competence. Channing is first introduced to readers in the second Parasol Protectorate book, Changeless. He also appears briefly in Romancing the Inventor.
CONTENTS
About How to Marry a Werewolf
Acknowledgements
A Note on Chronology
Step 1: Make Yourself Readily Available
Step 2: Situate Yourself in an Advantageous Location
Step 3: If You Must Be Bait, Be Very Stylish Bait
Step 4: Take Every Opportunity to Dance
Step 5: Become the Social Butterfly He Wants to Catch
Step 6: Take Your Werewolf Into The Garden for an Airing
Step 7: Remember: Either You Are At Dinner or You Are Dinner
Step 8: Never, Under Any Circumstances, Make a Public Scene
Step 9: Small Tokens of Your Affection Are Always Welcome
Step 10: Get Him to the Altar
Author’s Note
Want More Gail Carriger?
About the Writerbeast
Copyright
STEP ONE
Make Yourself Readily Available
April 1896
When a young American lady of good standing is indiscreet, kind parents retire her quietly to the country with a maiden aunt and a modest stipend. Faith’s parents decided to marry her off to a werewolf.
“Though you’re too soiled for even those unnatural beasts.” Faith’s mother was not looking at her. Mrs Wigglesworth hadn’t really looked at her daughter for nearly two months. Faith was more reassured by this than not. To be noticed might tempt her mother’s temper, and that was never pretty.
So, she was careful with her words. “Now, Mother, I don’t think they quibble about such things, so long as I’m fresh meat.”
“None of your lip, girl. That’s what got you into this predicament.” Faith’s mother had a voice like cracked peppercorns and the face of an offended jackrabbit – all ears, red-rimmed eyes, and wrinkled nose.
No, it isn’t what got me here, thought Faith. In fact, it was the opposite. If I'd said something – if I'd lied about it – there would have been shame but no ruination.
“Face it, my dear, she’s spoiled goods by everyone’s standards. Even the werewolves.” Mr Wigglesworth chewed his overcooked beef wetly, with a sound like the squelching of boots in a vat of gravy.
“I don’t know where we went wrong with her. The others all turned out well enough.” Mrs Wigglesworth gave a long-suffering sigh. “I did so well with them, and then this one. Rotten to the core.”
Faith looked down at her food. It sat untouched. She didn’t feel like eating; nothing worked to fill that odd lingering emptiness. Certainly not beef, at any rate. She speared a potato and ruminated over its roundness.
They must be desperate to be rid of me, she thought, to be considering werewolves. Or Mother hates werewolves so much, she would use me to punish them.
Prior to this particular conversation, Faith could not remember the word werewolf ever spoken in the Wigglesworth household, let alone at the dinner table. For while the packs may have helped the North with their Union troubles, they still weren’t considered civilized. Now they weren’t even allowed into the city without escort. A werewolf was lower than a Californian, all things considered – rough rural hillbillies with too much hair. And open shirt collars. And no table manners.
Faith shivered in titillated horror. Werewolves were not permitted in any of Boston society’s conservatories, let alone received into drawing rooms. Certainly not by the Wigglesworths. No one would make the mistake of calling Faith’s papa a progressive. But he was a pragmatist. And everyone in Boston now knew of his daughter’s shame. And Faith’s mother? Well, she made no bones about her hatred for the beasts.
Her mother’s hand, suddenly and without warning, slapped the table. “Don’t play with your food, girl.” She barked the words so sharply that spittle sprayed the table.
Faith put down her fork.
Her mother went back to not looking at Faith. Already, in one of those lightning mood switches that had so terrified Faith as a child, Mrs Wigglesworth was directing soft lips and coy eyes at her husband and his indifference. “You see what a bother she is to me? To this family?”
“So, how do we safely dispose of her?” Mr Wigglesworth asked his wife, because it really was Mrs Wigglesworth’s responsibility. A daughter embroiled in scandal was of little political value to him. He’d never paid Faith any attention anyway, not until her indiscretion.
Mrs Wigglesworth sighed again, louder and with more force. “We must still try for an advantageous match. Your cousin offers us a relatively inexpensive option – a London season.” She tapped the letter that had started the whole conversation. “Since I’d never allow American werewolves to darken our door, I was thinking of something grander. England. Some of those British monsters are even titled.”
Faith couldn’t face the potato. She slid it off her fork untouched. Not more society. Critical eyes, and uncomfortable clothes, mixed with monsters. The potato wobbled. Imagine having to sit across the table from a real vampire. Those fangs. Do they suck blood at dinner? She shuddered.
Mrs Wigglesworth continued, “Then she might marry and stay across the ocean.”
“To rot,” added Faith under her breath. The subtext being that then the Wigglesworths would never have to see their youngest daughter again.
Her mother gave a tight smile. “Cursing some monster with her wicked ways and amoral behavior, instead of us and our good name.”
Faith tried not to find that funny. Isn’t that what they call the irresistible need to shapeshift every full moon – werewolf’s curse? Midnight special, she thought, curse now comes with your very own indiscreet American fortune hunter. Buy while fresh.
Papa made his decision. “Send her to England then, my dear. No one will have heard of her shame there.”
No one will have heard of me at all. Faith was cheered by that thought. Oh, the joy of anonymity.
“Hardly matters. Werewolves don’t have standards.” Mrs Wigglesworth spoke with unsubstantiated confidence.
Faith actually didn’t mind overmuch. Anything to get out of the house. Apparently, she hadn’t any standards either.
Her mother glared at her, sharp and vicious. “We are being whispered about. In the streets! Mrs Kensington cut me in the park yesterday. Me! I want you gone from here and forgotten. You will find yourself a werewolf, girl. You aren’t
good enough for a human man. Not even an English one.”
Faith hung her head. She wants me shamed for the rest of my life. Tied forever to the same supernatural creatures that deceived and ruined me. All because she is being whispered about this month in a minor scandal that will be forgotten by summer.
So it was that Faith, with only her maid Minnie as chaperone, and last season’s dresses (which might themselves be considered a chaperone, for the discouragement that they afforded) and a few outfits Faith had made in secret (even more discouraging to prospective suitors, as these involved menswear), were packed into a dirigible and floated off to England. Properly, Mrs Wigglesworth ought to have gone along, but Faith’s mother obviously thought nothing worse could happen to her daughter.
She was, of course, entirely wrong.
Faith enjoyed the Atlantic crossing. Their dirigible, the Flotty, was a spacious, comfortable craft with amiable staff and excellent south-facing aspects. Their room was underdone, like raw pastry – damp and cool and unfinished – but Faith suspected her parents of penny-pinching in that regard and did not blame the ship. Poor Minnie was airsick the entire passage, but Faith was a strong floater with a head for heights. She spent most of her time abovedecks, enjoying the peaceful grey of the aetheric void. The prevailing cotton-wooly numbness suited her mood perfectly. Looking into the aether was like looking into her own soul – an empty void. She enjoyed it. It suited her to delve into a funk.
“Miss, you shouldn’t allow yourself to be maudlin.” Minnie roused herself enough to be critical when Faith came in one evening to change before a meal.
“Why shouldn’t I be maudlin? If anyone has the right, it’s me.”
“Now, miss, you’ve resisted it so far.”
“That was before they packed me off to England to catch myself a wolf.”
“Could be worse fates,” said Minnie.
“Oh, yes?”
“Could have airsickness like me.” Minnie was turning green again even as they spoke.
“Yes, you’re right, poor dear. More cold cloths? Could you manage a little barley water?”
Minnie clutched her tummy and moaned at the very idea of barley water, reaching for a bucket.
Faith made a hasty retreat in search of cold cloths and ginger nubbins.
They landed in London three days later, two hours after sunset. The city was beautiful, all lit up by gas lanterns, with other airships drifting about through halfhearted clouds. The moon was a slim crescent low on the horizon.
“I thought it was supposed to be a dirty, grungy place.” Minnie had finally made it up onto the squeak deck for the depuffing.
Faith frowned down at their new home. “It seems nice enough.”
Minnie did not look convinced.
They could see the Hyde Park embarkation green now, well lit to guide in the long-haul transports puffing in at night. She thought the park was probably pretty during the day, and much bigger than she’d anticipated.
Minnie glared at her mistress and not the view. “Will you be changing, miss?” Her tone suggested that Faith's outfit deserved nothing but censure.
Faith firmed her resolve. “I will not.”
“Oh, miss.” Minnie looked ill once more.
Their dirigible depuffed in stages. Minnie, while green, managed to maintain her dignity as the Flotty sunk with all dignified gravitas.
Once all the way down, the gangplank lowered, and porters swarmed up it. Minnie instantly commandeered one for their luggage. Faith trailed dutifully after.
Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings crossed his arms over his not-insignificant chest and growled. Since he was usually growling about something, most of his field agents ignored both noise and stance. Some of the newer ones moved a little faster about their assigned tasks, glancing at him sideways. He only sneered at them.
It wasn’t that they were being particularly incompetent. Nor that the mission was going any less slowly than expected. Just that Major Channing liked to growl. Being a werewolf, it was somewhat expected of him.
He was not excited about having to board and search this incoming dirigible. He wasn’t confident in their information, Americans were innately untrustworthy, and the airship was also American make, registry, and crew, so it wouldn’t be easy to investigate without giving offense.
But it must be done.
Reports indicated a shipment of Sundowner bullets was aboard, sent to arm the London Separatist movement and facilitate their anarchical agenda. Channing’s agents in America had tracked the bullets to Boston, but there the trail went cold. It was only supposition that they were headed to London. Certainly, the Bostonians could make good use of such an armament themselves, America being a generally hostile place where immortals were concerned.
In England, such bullets were controlled and licensed strictly to Sundowners – those few people authorized to kill vampires and werewolves. More importantly, they were extremely expensive to produce. Channing was motivated to find them. Firstly, to keep them out of enemy hands, and secondly, so that he might restock his own supplies.
As the head of BUR, Channing was a licensed Sundowner himself. The possibility of new bullets was extremely tempting. Channing liked killing things, even his fellow immortals. Especially them, more of a challenge. After all, everyone needs a hobby.
Unfortunately, in this instance Channing was anticipating failure. And no killing. He had a feeling the bullets weren’t on this dirigible, or if they were, they’d be too well hidden to discover without giving unpardonable offense to passengers through confiscation. This was one instance where even a werewolf’s nose could be fooled, and BUR had, of course, no idea what the enemy looked like.
Major Channing was always one to gather as much information as possible before codifying a mission; forewarned was forearmed, as the saying went. In this case there wasn’t enough to be going in with, and it was less four-armed than three-legged.
His men, three of them, all human, moved to stand next to the gangplank as the dirigible depuffed to ground. They looked with fierce assessing eyes at the debarking passengers. Transport vessel Floatsome Jetsome Comefloatington, or Flotty for short, was heavy with humans and baggage. The porters had their work cut out for them.
Come for the season, no doubt. Channing grimaced in disgust.
London had seen an influx recently of American upstarts on the British marriage mart, most of them interested in the cachet of a title. Brash young women desperate to find an Englishman with conservative political leanings to match their own upbringing. They saw it, in part, as missionary work. Americans supplied females full of wholesome ideals and strong anti-supernatural values (and, of course, money) to the upper crust of London’s high society. It was as if the colonies were returning home to save the British from themselves and the monsters they had become.
Channing’s lip curled despite his best efforts.
He couldn’t abide Americans.
Fritz-Lloyd Kerr, one of his newer agents, focused on a young lady, her maid, and their porter. The porter was struggling to load what looked to be a leather attaché case that had tumbled off the stacked baggage. The maid nipped in to rescue a wobbling sewing box while the porter hoisted the case back onto the pile. It was clearly much heavier than it ought to be.
Of course, one’s mind went instantly to bullets.
Mr Kerr approached. “Miss, pardon the intrusion, but we are investigating an issue of contraband. May I examine the contents of that case, please?”
His tone made it clear this was not a request but a demand.
The young lady, a pretty little blonde chit in something that looked more like a bicycling outfit than a traveling gown, bristled and blushed at the same time. “No, you can’t!”
Channing winced. That accent. So harsh. Pity, coming from such a prettily shaped mouth.
“I am afraid I must insist, miss.” Mr Kerr was firm. Channing approved.
“Under what authority?” The American female was firm right back.
Mr Kerr reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced his license. “BUR, miss. Name’s Kerr.”
“And what, Mr Kerr, is this BUR that you represent?”
“The Bureau of Unnatural Registry, miss.”
She jerked away at that, blue eyes wide in shock, glancing from Kerr to the other agents to Major Channing. Her maid gave a small gasp of horror.
Channing didn’t move under their panicked regard, arms crossed firmly, making it clear he was in charge.
“Supernaturals?” the American girl squeaked. “Are you…” She trailed off, clearly upset.
Now it was Kerr’s turn to blush. “No, miss.” But he did slide his eyes over to Channing.
Stupid man. He should control his reactions better than that! Channing frowned. Mr Kerr would have to go back in for more training. He clearly wasn’t yet ready for fieldwork when faced with an attractive blonde.
The young lady followed Kerr’s gaze and her eyes went, if possible, even wider. Her blush deepened in color. Flustered, she seemed so vulnerable, and as a result quite tasty, which only served to irritate Channing further. The wolf in him wanted to hunt.
He marched over. Without saying anything, he confiscated the leather case in contention. It was indeed suspiciously heavy.
The girl, as it transpired, was no milk-water miss. He should have known that by the fact that she was apparently attired in… Is that a split skirt or trousers? What are the young women wearing these days? Or perhaps it’s simply a plague of the colonies.
“Stop! That’s mine. Don’t you dare. Don’t touch it!” So much for her being flustered.
She followed her case, unafraid of Channing.
That is rather novel.
She smelled wonderful, he realized dispassionately. Like port and mincemeat pie, at once both sweet and richly intoxicating.
Channing ignored her, rested the leather case on a folding card table he’d set up expressly for this purpose. Then he popped the lid open.
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