“I know what Stefan is.” He felt a rush of gratitude that Quentin, who abhorred violence, had offered to take his place.
“You know the rules Tiberius worked to establish,” he said. “He is head of his family, I of mine. He may challenge me for leadership of the Convocation—and because of what he is, he won’t stop until he destroys the Cause and the Forster line. That includes Rowena, Quentin. And Cassidy”
Quentin’s face had gone as serious as Braden could wish. “I’ll speak to Rowena. She’ll understand the need for a united front.”
And so she should. Whatever her loathing of the marriage arranged for her, she knew that her fate would be far worse if left to Stefan.
Stefan would never settle for anything less than full challenge. Blind or not, Braden was prepared. He had always been prepared, worked to harden his body and hone his remaining senses—and now he was eager for the inevitable duel.
To fight for one’s life was easy. No conflicting emotions, no inconvenient complications. As a wolf in battle, Braden would know only the need to protect what was his and defeat his enemy. His heart would beat and his blood would flow to the ancient rhythms of the earth, unblemished by the pollution of man.
Rowena and Quentin were both at his side, poised and serene, when the first carriages arrived bearing the German and Hungarian delegates. The Spaniard came be hind the Germans, a flamboyant young man who was succeeding his father as delegate to the Convocation.
The Russians delayed their appearance until well after the delegates were settled in their rooms in the guest wing. A light dinner had been sent to each chamber, and the guests had just gathered for the first informal assembly in the drawing room when the Russian’s elegant carriage pulled up in the drive. Leaving Rowena to entertain the guests, Braden took Quentin to meet his enemies at the front steps.
Count Stefan Boroskov languidly descended from the carriage, aided by what sounded like a large retinue of servants scurrying to and fro. Braden could no longer see the Russian, but he remembered how much Stefan resembled Milena—more than resembled her, with his white-blond hair skimming his shoulders and his dandy’s clothing obscenely expensive and hinting of eastern exoticism.
He was exactly like his sister in his elegance, his sophistication, his frightening beauty. His laughing, malicious gaze was a mirror image others, steeped in years of hedonism and every vice known to man.
Or loup-garou.
“Ah,” Stefan said in accented English, strolling forward. “How pleasant to see you again, Lord Greyburn. We parted under such… unfortunate circumstances. Our invitation to this gathering must have gone astray somewhere between England and Russia. Naturally we did not wish to miss the first Convocation since our mutual loss.”
If Stefan expected a welcome, he was to be sorely disappointed. Braden pinpointed the direction of Stefan’s voice and stared, unblinking, careful not to reveal a single thought or emotion.
“You have come a long way, Count,” he said. “I fear that you may find this Convocation of little interest to your family.”
“Indeed? And yet here I have a marriageable brother—you do remember Fedor, do you not? And my cousin Tasya, who begged to come.” Braden heard the other two Russians move to join the count. He identified Fedor’s scent; the woman was a stranger. Braden nodded to her, immediately aware that she was afraid. Neither Fedor nor Tasya spoke.
“Your brother I recall from years ago, before he joined the army,” Stefan said. “Quentin, I believe? You’ve become quite a man, I see.” His voice turned toward Braden again. “Have you a mate selected for the Honorable Quentin Forster, Lord Greyburn? Perhaps I may even suggest our Tasya?”
“This is not the time or place for such a discussion,” Braden said.
“Of course. I trust we are not the last to arrive?”
“Our guests are in the drawing room, and the other delegates will arrive over the next two days. The Convocation will not begin until all are assembled. You’re likely to find the amenities at Greyburn… not at all to your taste, Count Boroskov.”
“Not to my taste? I disagree. There are so many wholesome pastimes to pursue in your pleasant English countryside.” His words alone seemed to foul his surroundings with the promise of debauchery. “If nothing else, there will be the charming company of your sister, Lady Rowena. She is not yet wed, I hear, though somewhat… shall we say, overripe?”
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