Page 1 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter One

“You’ll never get a husband looking like that.”

The fact that Sorcha’s grandmother had been dead for the last three years was not enough to stop her from sharing her opinion.

Often.

And with marked enthusiasm.

Especially when it had to do with the state of Sorcha’s hair, attire, or general marriageability. Granny had died at the age of ninety-three and elected to remain a ghost so she could further boss her granddaughter about.

Sorcha loved it.

The castle they called home had been built in 1414 for the first duke’s mother. Through complicated family lines—and no doubt a spell or two—Granny had eventually inherited Nettlestone Hall and taken great joy in barring entrance to the majority of her family. She did not get on with her sister, her brothers, her cousins. She tolerated her sons, liked her daughter well enough, and loved her granddaughter.

“It could be worse,” Sorcha said cheerfully as her grandmother hovered a foot off the worn stone floors, glowing faintly. Her witch familiar, a slender garden snake, wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet, as it had during the whole of her life, glittering green. “I could be wearing my breeches.”

“Bah, those horrid things.”

Granny, Lady Maeve, Dowager Duchess of Gloucester, had made certain she died in her best gown, an intricately embroidered robe à la Francaise. She had also draped herself in pearls and diamonds and a sapphire the size of a large walnut. She had no intention of haunting anywhere in a nightdress and slippers. She had standards. Being dead was no excuse. For her or for anyone else, in her opinion. And her opinion was the only one that mattered, naturally.

And, in fact, Sorcha was wearing a perfectly lovely, if slightly out-of-date, ball gown. It was a sapphire-blue open robe layered over a white silk round gown. It fastened under her breasts and there was a glitter of crystal beads at the hem. The Winterwells were an old-fashioned family. They would not mind that she was not wearing something more au courant. In fact, Lady Winterwell would prefer it. She insisted on being the most fashionable lady wherever she deigned to go, especially in her own house.

Something that made Granny cross, even now.

“You should wear the iridescent silk and the moonstones,” Granny said, sniffing.

Wolf-shifter customs were not Sorcha’s forte—she knew more about actual wolves and even more about dogs, but even given how private they were, everyone knew the Lycan were mad for moonstones. They were a badge of honor and prestige. “I am not wearing moonstones to a Lycan house.” Sorcha shook her head. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

“No, only married.”

“To a wolf? They don’t marry plain old witches like me.”

“You’re twice as pretty as anyone that will be in attendance.”

Sorcha rolled her eyes at that blatant falsehood. “Granny, I’m already late. I really must go.”

“At least wear the diamond tiara, ragamuffin,” Granny snapped, but there was no rancor to it. She simply enjoyed being cantankerous. She enjoyed it even more when Sorcha snapped back with some acidic retort or another. She found it as invigorating as a good, brisk walk on the beach, which she could no longer do.

“I’ll be back before dawn. Go haunt the barn if you’re bored. The kittens are running about now.”

“If only I thought you were sneaking off for something salacious that might end in a good marriage,” Granny muttered.

“You’d be even more put out.” Sorcha snorted. “Reputations and all that.”

“I would not! Not if it came to something. And don’t forget to put the Sally Lunn buns in the oven. I refuse to be outshone by that shop in Bath.”

“I’ll be back in plenty of time, and Aesop is here.”

“He does have a more delicate hand,” Granny said.

As that was perfectly true, Sorcha did not take offense. Aesop, despite being an enormous Minotaur who could lift the cast-iron oven over his head with his delicate hand, did not care to leave the grounds any more than Granny did.

The Minotaur in question waited in the front hall, holding her white silk capelet instead of her serviceable red cloak. He was gigantic, his curved back horns brushing the crystal drops from the chandelier above. They tinkled softly, like wind chimes. His eyes were wide and black from lid to lid, and his skin was a ruddy red, down his muscled stomach to his fur-covered bull legs. There were three kittens currently using him for climbing practice.

Only on the Isle of Lyonesse would an injured Minotaur appoint himself as your butler. In a castle that saw virtually no guests and therefore had no need for a butler. The draw of the family estate was privacy. And Granny had used it to pursue her one hobby: baking. It was not exactly the usual hobby for a duchess. She ought to have had a fascination with watercolor paintings or Classical architecture or dancing. And though Granny certainly agreed that a lady ought to sparkle with diamonds, she could sparkle perfectly well while kneading bread dough, thank you very much.

And that was that, as far as she was concerned.