Chapter Text
London, England — April 1815
“Everything is in complete readiness; he shall arrive at any moment, my dear!”
Lady Eleanor Ashbourne paced the length of the hall with unbridled excitement. The servants exchanged discreet smiles at the sight of the older Omega’s enthusiasm; the housekeeper followed close at her heels, attempting to maintain her mistress's brisk pace, though Lady Ashbourne's eagerness outstripped her entirely.
“Lady Ashbourne, we have scrubbed the bedchamber for the third time and arranged everything for your nephew’s arrival.”
“Splendid! Everything must be absolute perfection. We have not laid eyes upon him for ten long years—well, we have exchanged letters, naturally, but it is hardly the same thing!” Lady Eleanor brought both hands to her chest, letting out a breath that seemed to carry the weight of a decade's anticipation. “And the blossoms? Have the floral arrangements in the room been refreshed?”
“Indeed, milady. The finest seasonal blooms have been set out.”
“And the draperies? I will not have those dreadful, sombre curtains. The room must feel bright and cheerful—he must see that he is in quite another world!”
“We have hung fresh white ones, Ma'am.”
Eleanor beamed and resumed her stride through the grand hall of Ashbourne House. Despite belonging to one of the most distinguished families in London, the residence lacked the rigid austerity so often associated with aristocratic mansions. On pleasant afternoons, music drifted from the main drawing-room, the inviting scent of fresh bread wafted up from the kitchens, and the tall sash windows were kept thrown open to admit the crisp April breeze.
It was the dawn of the Season. The gentry and nobility had returned from their travels and country estates, descending upon London in search of novelty and spectacle.
Lady Ashbourne knew full well that her nephew’s arrival would be the talk of the town—most notably amongst ambitious mothers who lost no opportunity in matching their daughters with an eligible Alpha. And her nephew, she knew, was the very picture of one. She could already envision every ball, where desperate mothers and fathers would corner her to extract intelligence regarding the young gentleman.
Lord William Ashbourne, seated comfortably by the library window with the newspaper folded in his lap, watched his wife pass the doorway for the fifth time in under ten minutes, her pheromones rich with delight.
He could not suppress a quiet smile at the sight of her.
“If you persist in pacing so, my dear, Erling will find a trench worn straight into the floorboards upon his arrival.”
Eleanor fixed him with a look of feigned outrage.
“William Ashbourne, do not mock me!”
“I am not mocking you, my love,” he replied smoothly, folding his paper with deliberate care. “I am merely observing that you have been issuing commands since breakfast as though the Prince Regent himself were about to step through the front door.”
“My own nephew is of far greater consequence to me than the Prince Regent!”
Ten years had elapsed since they had last seen Erling. His letters had arrived with unfailing regularity throughout those years—some written in the boy's increasingly firm and elegant hand, others penned by his sister, detailing his growth, how much he had changed, and how remarkably he resembled his father.
Yet a letter could never take the place of an embrace.
༺────────༻
Following several days at sea, the vessel finally dropped anchor in the Port of London. Passengers began to disembark in steady streams—noble families, lords accompanied by their retainers, and gentlemen of quality. Yet amongst the crowd, one figure stood out quite distinctly.
A tall young man with long, fair hair—perhaps a touch too long for the tastes of older gentlemen—tied neatly at the nape with a black ribbon. The harbour breeze stirred a few stray locks that had escaped the binding.
The young man stepped onto the quay with a firm, unhurried stride, taking in his surroundings with an expression that proved difficult to read. He wore an immaculate navy coat of superb tailoring, a crisp white shirt, high riding boots still dusted with the mud of the roads he had traversed before embarking, and leather gloves held loosely under his arm.
He drew a long breath, releasing it slowly as he felt solid ground beneath his boots for the first time in weeks.
His commanding presence did not go unnoticed; several passers-by turned their heads to stare. A few Omegas accompanying their sons and daughters offered gentle nudges, directing their attention toward him. Young ladies promptly concealed their blushes behind painted fans, whilst young gentlemen cast their eyes downward in shy modesty.
“Who can he be?”
“He is certainly not from London.”
“He has the air of a gentleman of considerable fortune.”
“Take good note of him, Rose; we must keep our eyes sharp.”
Erling suppressed a smirk at the surrounding whispers. His aunt’s final letter had warned him that he would find himself at the very centre of attention upon arriving at the start of the Season, when every Omega and their family would be on the hunt for a suitable match.
Setting foot upon the cobbles, he scanned the bustling port for the crest of his aunt and uncle’s family, eager to spot something familiar amidst the unfamiliar throng.
Within moments, his eyes settled upon an ivory-coloured carriage bearing gilded accents, waiting just beyond the harbour gates.
Embossed upon the door was a crest depicting an oak tree encircled by laurel leaves.
Ashbourne. His family.
An elderly coachman with silvering hair scrambled down from the box the moment he spotted him approaching.
The man’s eyes widened in sheer astonishment.
“Lord Erling...?” he gasped, as though unable to credit his own sight.
The tall young man offered a subtle smile.
“A good many years have passed, Thomas.”
The old servant broke into a delighted laugh, stepping nearer to inspect him.
“My Lord! It has been an age! The last time I laid eyes on you, your uncle was teaching you how to shoot ducks and ride a horse properly!”
Erling inclined his head slightly as a footman began unloading his trunks from the ship.
“I assure you, Thomas, I can manage a horse quite well these days.”
“Her Ladyship is positively beside herself with delight over your arrival, sir! She has talked of nothing else, turned the entire house upside down for you, and though His Lordship tries to hide it, he has planned all manner of excursions for the two of you.”
Erling felt a genuine grin touch his lips. Ever since setting sail, he had known he would feel far more at ease under his aunt and uncle's roof than in his own home, and those few words instantly confirmed it.
The coachman reached out for one of the heavy trunks Erling was lifting.
“Allow me, My Lord,” a footman requested quickly.
“I am perfectly capable of carrying it myself, do not trouble yourself.”
“I do not doubt it, sir,” Thomas interjected with a smile. “However, if we return to the house having permitted Lady Ashbourne’s favourite nephew to haul his own luggage, she will have us dismissed before dinner is served!”
Thomas held the carriage door open for him.
As Erling climbed inside, he remained acutely aware of dozens of eyes tracking his every move. Low gasps of surprise rippled through the onlookers as they recognised the Ashbourne livery, sealing his fate as one of the most sought-after gentlemen of the Season.
The carriage door shut with a soft click.
Thomas called to the horses, and the carriage began to forge a path through the chaotic bustle of the port. London was receiving its seasonal influx: conveyances coming and going, servants scurrying about with luggage, street vendors hawking their wares, and ladies desperately guarding their bonnets against the brisk April wind.
Erling rested his elbow on the window frame, gazing out at the city.
It had been years since he had set foot in London. In the intervening time, Norway had undergone immense upheaval; the war had altered everything, the realm had severed its union with Denmark, and a new era alongside Sweden had begun. They had been uncertain years for everyone, which made returning to London feel... surprisingly like coming home.
The streets themselves appeared largely unchanged—or so it seemed to his eyes.
In Christiania, life moved at a far more measured pace. Here, by contrast, every street corner seemed to harbor a speeding carriage, a bustling merchant, an urgent conversation, or a fresh piece of scandal.
“Everything is precisely as I left it...” he murmured under his breath.
“The townhouses are repainted each Season, sir, and new residences spring up... but one might say the essence remains, My Lord.” Thomas chuckled softly from the box as he adjusted the reins. “What has certainly multiplied, however, is the number of desperate mothers eager to settle their sons and daughters. Where there were many before... there are now twice as many.”
Erling let out a quiet huff of amusement.
“My aunt wrote much the same to me.”
“And she spoke nothing but the truth, sir,” Thomas agreed with absolute gravity. “Since the Season commenced, the town talks of nothing save balls, engagements, and wagers as to who shall be the next to announce a match... I fear you shall be on everyone's lips within a matter of hours, My Lord.”
The carriage rounded a corner.
The rough stone buildings gave way to a grander, far more elegant avenue.
Rows of pristine white townhouses stood impeccably aligned, their wrought-iron balconies overflowing with spring blossoms, and heavy front doors painted in rich shades of blue and green welcomed the elite of London society.
“Do you truly think so, Thomas?”
“I assure you, sir. A great many young gentlemen and ladies were staring at you intently just now, whispering urgently to their parents. At the upcoming ball, you will find yourself utterly surrounded by those vying for your notice.”
“I can hardly contain my excitement,” Erling replied dryly.
The carriage continued its smooth progress through the fashionable streets of Mayfair. As they pressed deeper into the district, the atmosphere shifted. No longer were there merchants or sailors.
Here were fine private carriages.
Gentlemen engaged in earnest conversation outside their townhouses.
Ladies taking the air with parasols of soft pastel hues.
Young Omegas strolling arm-in-arm with their mothers, attempting—and failing—to conceal their discreet appraisal of every eligible bachelor who crossed their path.
The Season was officially underway.
One could feel it in the very air.
“Spotted anything of interest yet, sir?”
“No, nothing as yet.”
Erling cast his eyes back out the window just as the carriage slowed to allow another vehicle, bearing a noble crest, to pass by.
Inside sat an older matriarch accompanied by two impeccably turned-out young Omegas.
All three attempted a display of absolute discretion.
Or, at least, they tried to.
For the moment the Ashbourne carriage swept past theirs, one of the young Omegas turned his head entirely around to track its progress down the street.
“You see, sir? I was not mistaken. All eyes shall be upon you.”
The carriage rolled onward past increasingly grand and colorful residences. Erling recognised a few landmarks, realising they were drawing close to their destination. The carriage turned down a quiet street and came to a halt before a grand entrance. He had arrived at his aunt and uncle's townhouse.
Before Thomas could even alight from the box, the front door of the residence was thrown open.
“Erling!”
Lady Eleanor Ashbourne cast all decorum and social protocol to the wind, practically flying down the stone steps. The housekeeper hurried after her, crying out for her ladyship to exercise caution.
Erling had barely set one boot upon the cobbles when his aunt threw herself into his arms, enveloping him in an embrace before he could even offer a proper greeting.
Eleanor held him with such force that Erling briefly struggled to maintain his footing.
For several moments, neither spoke a word. They remained locked in the embrace—Erling holding his aunt tightly, and Eleanor clinging to her nephew, who had grown far taller and broader than she remembered.
“You have grown so very much...” Eleanor murmured, pulling back a fraction to inspect him properly.
She cupped his cheeks in both hands, precisely as she had done when he was a boy, turning his head from side to side to examine his features.
“Look at you... you are the absolute image of your father at your age... though vastly more handsome, naturally, and far better mannered!”
Erling let out a warm laugh.
“And you have retained that selfsame smile from your childhood—truly delightful.”
Erling felt a tight knot form in his throat.
It was the closest he had felt to being truly at home in a very long time.
“Eleanor, do let the boy step inside.”
Both turned to see Lord William Ashbourne standing at the threshold of the house, watching the affectionate scene with a fond smile.
Lord William descended the final steps with his characteristic composure. Unlike Eleanor, he had never been a man given to grand public displays of affection—though in private, he was deeply warm, a fact his wife could attest to without hesitation.
Yet as he stood before his nephew, all pretense of the stern 'Alpha Lord' dissolved completely, revealing a man genuinely overjoyed to welcome the boy back and behold the gentleman he had become.
Indeed, a thought that had occupied his mind for months was now firmly confirmed.
“Erling... the last time I laid eyes upon you, you barely reached my shoulder.”
The young Alpha smiled.
“Indeed, uncle. I have grown a bit since then.”
And, heedless of any onlookers, Lord Ashbourne pulled him into a firm embrace.
It was brief.
Strong.
The sort of embrace that conveyed far more than words ever could.
“Welcome home, my boy.”
Hearing those four words, Erling knew that weeks of travel had been entirely worthwhile. He forgot all about how his father had dispatched him to London to "learn proper conduct and cease being a embarrassment to society"—simply because he refused to follow in his father's footsteps and marry the very first Omega placed before him.
“Thank you, uncle.”
Eleanor promptly seized his arm again, clearly intent on indulging her nephew as much as humanly possible during his stay.
For she had a distinct inkling that over the next three months, her nephew would find himself remarkably occupied... with something, or perhaps someone.
Eleanor practically ushered him inside so he might observe how the house had changed. William, meanwhile, cast a sweeping glance down the street, noting several passers-by staring in open surprise, while others cast curious glances through the open doorway.
William smiled quietly to himself, turning back into the house as the servants finished unloading Erling’s trunks.
Erling was guided on a whirlwind tour by his aunt. They began in the grand entrance hall, dominated by a vast portrait of his aunt and uncle amidst sprawling floral displays, before moving to the main drawing-room, which had been entirely refreshed with a new sofa, an elegant tea table, and a grand piano. Next came the kitchens, should he ever wish to request something directly from the cook—who, along with the housekeeper, had served the family for years.
Finally, she escorted him to the second floor. His aunt and uncle's suite remained where it had always been, alongside several guest chambers, while his own room had been situated at the very end of the corridor to afford him his "privacy."
Eleanor opened the final door with a triumphant smile.
“Welcome to your quarters.”
Erling crossed the threshold and stood motionless for a few seconds.
The room was vast and bathed in light. The walls were painted a warm cream hue, a stark contrast to the dark, somber tones of his parents' residence in Norway. Two grand sash windows looked out over the rear gardens, their sheer white curtains swaying gently in the April breeze.
It featured a four-poster bed of light timber, a carved marble fireplace, a bookcase filled with volumes, a writing desk positioned before the window, and atop a small round table, a vase filled with freshly cut white and blue tulips.
It was the absolute opposite of his childhood room—once strewn with toys and a wooden rocking horse that had no doubt been discarded over time. It was entirely different now, yet he found he liked it immensely; it felt genuinely his own.
Erling took a few slow steps into the room, taking in every detail.
Eleanor observed him with great fondness.
She recognised that look.
She had seen it when he was a little boy and someone permitted him to ride their horse, or when he spent his summers with them and refused to return to Norway. She vividly recalled when Erling was five years old, clinging desperately to the housekeeper's apron strings as his father attempted to haul him away to the carriage.
She walked over to the wardrobe and threw open both doors, clearing her throat pointedly to draw his attention.
Inside hung a lavish collection of coats, waistcoats, and trousers of every description.
“...What is all this?”
“Your wardrobe for the Season.”
“My... what?”
“You shall require a great deal of attire for these three months. We shall be attending concerts, countless assemblies, promenades in the park, formal dinners, and balls—you must be dressed fittingly for every occasion.”
“Aunt Eleanor... this must have cost a fortune.”
“And what of it? Your uncle and I resolved to spoil you, and we will not hear a word of protest.”
“Good news or bad, depending on how you choose to take it!” Both turned to the doorway as Lord Ashbourne leaned against the frame with an amused grin. “It appears the news of your arrival has spread rather faster than anticipated.”
“Which news?”
“Nothing untoward, my dear.”
William walked over to the window and looked down into the street.
“Come to the window, my boy.”
Erling stepped forward to see what had caught his uncle's attention. Down below, numerous passers-by had slowed their pace to stare intently at the residence. Mothers were adjusting their daughters' bonnets and instructing them on their posture; fathers were straightening their sons' cravats; older matrons stood quite shamelessly trying to peer through the lower windows; and passing carriages slowed to a crawl.
“Erling, you are news... families will be desperate to secure your notice.”
“Do you truly think so, sir?”
“Without a shadow of a doubt. You possess every desirable quality: my nephew, heir to one of the most prominent houses in Norway, a young, eligible Alpha of flawless standing... arriving on the very first day of the Season.”
William turned to his wife, mouthing a few words so subtly that only Eleanor caught their meaning. The Omega beamed from ear to ear, while her husband turned his gaze back to the street.
“Well... it appears half of London society is now fully aware of your presence.”
Erling let out a quiet laugh, watching the carriages below.
“So it would seem.”
“Which means only one thing.”
“What is that?”
William and Eleanor exchanged a conspiratorial glance.
The older Omega’s smile broadened further.
“That by tomorrow morning, the invitations shall begin pouring in. Morning calls, teas, luncheons, concerts, rides in the park, and the theatre.”
“And, naturally...” William crossed his arms in amusement, “mothers attempting to introduce you to their sons and daughters, pretending the encounter was mere coincidence when in truth they had been tracking your carriage for an hour.”
༺────────༻
Elsewhere in Mayfair, another family was concluding their unpacking, having arrived merely hours before Erling Haaland reached London.
And the entire neighbourhood had noted the return of that particular household—most notably, the return of a certain Omega whom they had fiercely protected from suitors and marriage proposals for four consecutive Seasons...
Jude Bellingham had returned to London with one simple resolve: to reject every suitor and proposal that came his way once again.
“The Bellinghams have returned.”
“Then the Season has officially begun.”
“Do you suppose they will finally accept a proposal for their son this year?”
“I doubt it very much. They have spent four Seasons turning down every gentleman in the realm.”
Inside the Bellingham residence, the atmosphere was a far cry from the wild speculations circulating outside.
There was no tension.
No heated arguments.
Only the rhythmic sounds of servants arranging furniture, fresh blooms being delivered to the main hall, and a chorus of voices speaking all at once. Retainers exchanged news of their months away, whilst senior staff tutored new recruits on house rules and household preferences.
Amidst the bustle, a young Omega walked along the corridor holding an open book, bound straight for his bedchamber to lock himself away and venture out as little as humanly possible.
Why was Jude so intent on confining himself to his room?
He had been one of the most sought-after Omegas in London since turning eighteen. Each Season brought a deluge of proposals and dozens of invitations from families hoping to secure a call, convinced they would be the ones to finally win his hand.
Regrettably for them, his parents unfailingly declined every offer with a polite but firm response: “We are not interested; Jude is not interested... thank you kindly.”
Yet the rumours never ceased.
Some insisted the young Omega was far too particular.
Others claimed he was secretly harbouring affections for someone else.
A few even swore the Bellinghams turned down suitors because they held out for a title of even greater distinction. Two years ago, a rumour swept through London alleging they were awaiting a proposal from a foreign prince.
The reality, however, was vastly simpler.
Jude simply... had no desire to marry.
It was not that he held any malice toward the institution of marriage itself; he simply wished to marry someone who knew him truly, rather than someone driven by a passing fancy—which was precisely what most Lords and nobles sought in him.
Jude snapped his book shut as he passed beneath the archway of the main hall, feeling a sense of quiet relief to be back home. He looked about, watching the housekeeper issue instructions, servants carrying his family's trunks upstairs, and his younger brother Jobe racing toward his quarters to rest after their long journey.
His parents, meanwhile, remained engaged in conversation with Lady Harrington by the front entrance, the lady having arrived under the guise of delivering news regarding "a fresh arrival."
Lady Harrington took less than thirty seconds to arrive at the true purpose of her call.
She snapped her painted fan open with great flourish, smiling like a woman about to divulge the most guarded secret in all of London.
“I presume you have heard the news?”
Lord Mark Bellingham raised an eyebrow at the lady's evident excitement.
“Regarding what precisely, Lady Harrington?”
“The young gentleman who has just arrived from Norway, of course!”
Lady Denise Bellingham exchanged an amused glance with her husband; they had barely set foot inside their home, and society had already seized upon its newest piece of gossip.
“Indeed?”
“Yes! The poor lad had scarcely set foot in London before several families began plotting how to match him with their offspring.”
Lady Denise let out a soft laugh, fully aware of what lay ahead for the young man.
“Poor gentleman... he has hardly had time to unpack his trunks, and he is already the talk of the town.”
“Precisely what I said!” Lady Harrington fluttered her fan dramatically, thoroughly entertained. “Word has it he is exceptionally tall, strikingly handsome, and heir to an illustrious Norwegian family. An Alpha, mind you, and the nephew of Lord Ashbourne... so every eye in London is fixed upon him.”
The older Alpha let out a heavy sigh, contemplating the ordeal that awaited their neighbor's nephew.
“So by tomorrow, half the town will have decided they are hopelessly in love with a man they have never even met.”
“Not tomorrow, my dear Lord Bellingham... tonight!” Lady Harrington declared with absolute conviction. “The speed of gossip in London has always been a marvel, and this news is spreading like wildfire.”
Denise shook her head, caught between amusement and resignation.
“I do hope the young man possesses a great deal of patience.”
“He shall certainly require it. I overheard two mothers squabbling only an hour ago over who should manage to invite him to tea first, and which of their daughters would make him the better wife.”
“And who emerged victorious?” Mark asked curiously.
“Neither as yet. But I am quite certain that before the next ball, they will be practically duelling over him.”
All three shared a soft laugh.
A few yards away, Jude continued along the hall, feigning interest in the fresh floral arrangements while hanging on every single word.
Poor man, he thought to himself.