“What do you mean?” Rhys asked bringing Oliver back to the moment and the fact that Venetia and Antigone had left Plavington. Rhys was leaning against one of the pillars on Edgefield’s veranda. His shaggy hair rubbed against the collar of his shirt but he hadn’t bothered with a cravat. His brown morning coat was thrown over the side of the balustrade while he smoked a cigar with great deep breaths that proclaimed it was tobacco or murder.
“They’re gone. Bradford Malvern won’t tell me where they’ve gone.”
Puff, puff, puff. The cloud of smoke continued to grow around Rhys as he dropped his boots to the ground and leaned forward, a disgusted expression on his face.
“What do you mean he won’t tell you?” He growled.
Oliver frowned at Rhys, wondering if it would be necessary to hogtie him to keep him from burning Oliver’s bridges with Malvern. And if Oliver did need to hold Rhys back, would Oliver be successful? Perhaps with another cousin or two, but not alone. Rhys was the largest of the cousins, all burly muscle and determination, making him the alpha as much as his rank and position in the family. It was, in fact, the determination that made him the leader more than anything else, Oliver thought.
With a mildness that belied his utter frustration, Oliver said, “I mean that I asked and he said, “My boy, if you can’t figure that out, you’re no better than the bloke who needed a shoe to find his princess. Surely, you don’t need a shoe?”
“To which you said?” Rhys half-growled, half-laughed. But his puffs on the cigar were no less agitated.
Oliver slouched into the chair next to Rhys and answered, “How about a clue?”
“And?” Rhys was clearly considering demanding the information himself. Few would counter him. Probably Malvern wouldn’t. But, Oliver wondered, would that ruin everything? Venetia looked at Malvern with such utter adoration—infuriating her guardian—would be an excellent way to alienate her. His Venetia might call Malvern “uncle,” but that was the convention of this type of adoption and no reflection of their relationship. Malvern was her father, and a potential son-in-law did not estrange himself from his beloved’s adored father.
“I stood dumbfounded.” Oliver answered, “And then he laughed, clapped me on the shoulder, and said he had faith in me. He then left his office and did not come back. I stayed for a while to be certain—eventually, the butler showed me out. It was all very disconcerting.”
“I see now where your female gets her ways. I had thought it was the influence of the mortal realm. I see now I was wrong. You'll need to curb that in her.”
“And why, I wonder,” Oliver asked with a barely hidden snarl, “is your female not lounging at your feet waiting for your next command?”
Rhys shot Oliver a disgusted look but he was…was it possible that Rhys was the reason that Venetia had fled? In truth, Rhys was difficult for anyone who was not used to him. Perhaps he’d driven both of them away.
But…no.
Rhys had been a bit overbearing and certainly too sure that Antigone Crestwell would fall into line. But, he could be charming and suave. Rhys hadn’t driven them away.
“Do you think this is a game?” Rhys asked.
“I think…” Oliver slumped into one of the chairs along the veranda and considered. “I think that they have lives and we hadn’t succeeded in gaining their interest. They don’t owe us anything, Rhys.”
“So how do you get a female to give you a chance?” Rhys looked, yet again, a bit lost and Oliver felt that perhaps this was the first time in the entirety of Rhys's centuries where he couldn't just make a demand and get what he wanted. This way that Rhys was holding back his wolf, being something other than he was, Oliver wasn't sure if that was Rhys's best choice.
“If I knew that,” Oliver ground out, “we wouldn’t be wondering where they went and if it were disturbing and wrong to follow them.”
“It is disturbing. Possibly wrong.” Rhys answered without hesitation, “But does that matter? How desperately do you want your Venetia to give you an actual chance?”
This time it was Oliver who didn’t hesitate, “Rather more than I thought possible.”
“So what do we do? I'd like to just order that minx, Antigone, into a carriage with me, so that I could...not charm her. I am not charming. Make her be mine.”
“I think we’ll need to visit the Martha and her savvy little sister. And I think we’ll need to be smarter this time around. Alice told us that we’d have to work for a chance at these females.”
“Alice, damn the girl, she could have given us a bit more help.”
“I suspect,” Oliver said, “she expects us to want their love enough to figure it out ourselves. Also their friendship is long-lived. She might love Hugh more than she loves them. But Alice doesn’t love us more than she loves Venetia and Antigone. I suspect that you are going to have to make a major sacrifice.”
“And what would that be,” Rhys growled.
“You’re going to have to be charming to Miss Martha while I persuade her sister to confide in me.”
“And why can’t I be the one persuading the little sister. I don’t mind that one.”
“Because, you’re the prize between the two of us. I’m the lowly Baron Stanwullf. You, dear cos, are the Duke of Wolfemuir. Also, and this is the most vital piece, you haven't one iota of ability to charm a young girl.”
A growl was the only reply Oliver received.
* * * * *
Oliver and Ana strolled behind Rhys and the sister. That female made Oliver wanted to gouge out his ears. He wasn’t sure you could ever make the sound of her voice go away, it was a high-pitched, manufactured affair that was supposed—he thought—to be delicate and feminine. He could sense Rhys wincing. The Duke was almost more wolf than human when it came to his senses, so the nasal tone had to be like hearing cats howling inside his eyeballs.
“Why would I tell you?” Ana asked under her breath. She wasn’t an idiot so she seemed well aware that she could whisper and he'd be able to hear her.
“I don’t know.” The idiotic answer made him want to smack himself. But he didn’t know what to say. Because I want the answer? Because I need it. Because, even though you are clearly not close with Venetia and Antigone, Venetia has become necessary to my happiness, and I need to throw myself at her feet and beg her to give me a chance.
Again.
“Oh my,” Ana said. “You were so eloquent and charming at the ball. You must be so in love that you can not function.” Her laugh rang out and caused her sister to toss a look back of consternation. Perhaps Miss Martha Wells had recognized that she was not charming Rhys. Foolish girl. Miss Wells was certainly more in the style of popular beauty. Lush and golden and pale. But Antigone—she was so much more. There was no way for Miss Wells to convey that same clever glint in her eye or that same sneaky sense of humor nor was there any way for Miss Wells to hide the avarice in her eyes when she stared towards either Rhys or Oliver.
Ana examined him carefully under her lashes, probably so her sister wouldn’t see her stare him down. This was another sneaky little one with a clever glint to her eyes and wicked sense of humor. Oliver liked her.
“You love Venetia, don’t you?” Ana Wells didn’t wait for him to reply. She carried on under her breath, “It radiates from you. My mother is a mage, as am I. It’s not like they’ve trained me well, but sometimes, I can sense emotions and yours…you love her so brilliantly, it’s like a fire burning from you. I could warm myself by it.”
Oliver grinned, but it was a mask. He could hardly believe that he felt what he was—perhaps it was the wolf in him—perhaps he just wanted to blame the wolf in him. To find some reason that made sense for why he ached for a female that he hardly knew. Did Venetia fit some perfect list? Was she just someone who matched him?
Still so softly that no one could overhear her, she said, “They’re in Arathe-By-The-Sea, I’m sure. They go every year around this time. Do not let it be known that I told you. My sister would never fo
rgive me ruining her chance at Wolfemuir.”
There was a longing tone in her voice so much so that Oliver almost wished that he could make a way for her to come too. What was the source of this sudden empathy he was feeling, he wasn’t sure why the untold, hidden lives of others were suddenly rolling out in the vistas of his mind? What had Venetia done to him? How hard it must be for Ana Wells to be the less favored sister.
“I will do what I can to help you, regardless,” Oliver swore rashly. “I don’t know what that is.”
Ana smiled at him before she said, “I don’t need you to save me. I just need to be old enough to rescue myself. That requires a few more years.” She grinned at him mischievously before adding, “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Thank you.” The words were heartfelt, and he could see that she felt the truth of them.
“Arathe-By-The-Sea."
Oliver took her hand in his, lifted it to his lips, and pressed a kiss on her goat skin gloves. But he'd have swung her in a circle, like a child, if it wouldn't have disconcerted the girl.
* * * * *
“Arathe-By-The-Sea is a sanctuary for the lesser nobility and old ladies. Spinsters live there after they fail to find a match in Lyndon. People who wish to appear more important than they are go there and posture among the others who can not afford Lyndon.” Rhys was disgusted.
Oliver didn’t respond. He’d already set the servants to packing for him and had no interest in Rhys’s egotistical whining. The man was like a child who had never been denied a thing and suddenly wasn’t getting his way.
“Come or don’t come. I almost prefer that you wouldn’t.”
Rhys quirked a brow as he lit a cigar but a hidden flash of humor glinted in his eyes.
Oliver grinned at his cousin before saying, “I have gained a new perspective on life and I believe that every female that we know would be disgusted for your last statement. I don’t need you running Venetia off for me. I am in earnest.”
Rhys took in a deep breath and certainly caught the scent of Oliver’s emotions. The leader of the pack had always had a good sense of his wolves’ emotions. It was one of the reasons he was so good at being the leader of a pack that had so many alphas. That and because no one else wanted the job. Oliver wasn’t sure that Rhys wanted it, but it was a natural fit for him regardless.
He didn’t respond to Oliver’s statement. Rhys just put up his boots, leaned his head against the back of the chair, and puffed on his cigar. With each deep inhalation, he relaxed just a little more.
“Did you see the look on Miss Wells face when we told her we expected to leave for a while? The silly chit seems to think she has us hooked.”
“I leave in the morning,” Oliver said, ignoring Rhys who didn’t care about the Wells girl, he was goading Oliver by changing the subject. But Oliver had no desire to be diverted. Tempted though he might be to leave Rhys behind, Oliver wouldn’t do that. There was an incontrovertible truth of the Wolfemuir pack, and it was this—Rhys could be counted on. It was why Hugh had sent to the Duke for help after being shot. Rhys’s reliability. His faithfulness. It was the backbone of the Wolfemuir pack. It was the reason behind a hundred actions of the Wolfemuirs—and most importantly the rich, young, and handsome generation of Wolfemuir cousins.
Oliver lit his own cigar and pondered what he’d do.
“Perhaps we should just thoroughly compromise them,” Rhys said it nonchalantly—as if purposely trapping someone into marriage were a viable option.
“I believe that Antigone Crestwell would stab you in the throat before marrying you if you did that.”
Rhys laughed before saying, “Indeed. It was one of the things that make her so intriguing.”
“I suspect,” Oliver said, “That it will not be so simple.”
Chapter Fourteen
There was something about the act of thrusting her hands into soil that made Venetia’s soul calm. She heard Antigone and Alice whispering, but Venetia didn’t care. Hugh, the Earl of Vohlk, had gotten their party into the Exhibition Garden a full day early and she didn’t have a single caveat that he’d abused his status to make this happen. She closed her eyes and let her mind sink into the soil. It was balanced and complete and because of it—there was a sense of happiness radiating from the ground. That happiness reached into her and soothed her. Between spending the last few days laughing with Antigone and Alice about their school days and this perfect moment—she felt she might get back to sleeping through the night.
All throughout the exhibition unique plants were on display. She wanted one of those lavender roses. And the orchid with the striped petals. And the plant that smelled like chocolate but bloomed with deep red leaves. And the one that grew tiny grape sized oranges. She wanted them all—but her personal garden at home was full—her hot houses were full. She’d have to choose between plants she already had and loved and these new, alluring beauties.
And then she saw them—tiny little violets. They were hanging in tiny little pots, and they appealed to her in a way she couldn’t explain. They looked as if they belonged in a little fairy garden—her childhood in the mortal realm demanded that she see Tinkerbell flitting among those lovely little beauties. Venetia leaned down and rubbed her cheek against the petals.
“I want them,” she said as she lifted her head. She spoke to no one in particular and everyone who would listen.
“Aren’t they amazing?” The woman behind the table wore a lovely gown covered in embroidery that matched the flowers. “I have been working on them for years.”
“May I?” Venetia held her hand out, palm up, a slight glow coming from her skin—under the dirt.
The woman pressed her lips together before she slowly nodded. Venetia had been asking to delve the tiny violets, and it would show what and how the woman had brought these tiny beauties about.
Venetia reached out with the lightest of abilities barely touching the plants with her mind. She tested their boundaries—making sure they could propagate, that they were really healthy, that they didn’t need magic to grow.
And they were as perfect as they appeared. Already Venetia was imagining hanging teacups in her bedroom with tiny violets that she bred herself—perhaps ones that would be luminescent and night blooming.
“They’re wonderful,” Venetia said. In moments the two women were rapidly discussing the process of breeding the flowers. Venetia ordered enough of each color to be able to breed her own and inquired about the ones that hadn’t made it to the exhibition. But the woman refused to tell her anything about what she had in the works—Venetia examined the violets and her mind was skipping ahead, imagining tiny night blooming orchids. Little dahlias. Oh….she didn’t need to be told that miniature luminescent gardens would make her a fortune. But that money didn’t matter. Wouldn’t that be a lovely achievement? Let alone an amazing way to sleep, surrounded by the things she loved, most providing light in the darkness when the dreams haunted each night. The excitement of the forming plans burned away the last remnants of nightmares and the gardens began to heal her soul just as they had when she was a little girl, trailing after Uncle Bradford.
“Delicate,” a deep, too-familiar voice said from behind her. “Finely drawn. Brilliant in a subtle way. They’re like a reflection of you.”
“Nonsense,” Venetia said dryly before turning to face Oliver, Lord Stanwullf. She wanted to be horrified—how had he shown up the very moment her nightmares faded. She expected to be haunted again—immediately—but she wasn’t. It was possible—though barely—that she was pleased to see him. Possible, too, that her chest was warming at the sight of his face smiling down at her. Possible that she felt slightly guilty for the worry that crinkled the corner of his eyes as he looked at her. She had put that trepidation there. She both didn’t regret it in the slightest and wished it wasn’t there. She might like him much less if the guilt of hunting her down didn’t show.
“One of everything?” Eloise asked as she pulled out a small tray to
place the small violets on.
“Two, please,” Venetia replied, handing Eloise a card, so they could confer and Eloise could send the bill. They chatted amicably as though Oliver hadn’t come across country for Venetia—for a second time. She had told him no time and again. It was her choice, wasn’t it, to say no? But also to change her mind…
A feeling of awkwardness was beginning to form. They were alone. Antigone, Alice, and Hugh had wandered off and Venetia could see no sign of the Duke of Wolfemuir.
Finally she asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Hoping for a chance,” Oliver said calmly.
Such a brutally honest answer. She considered him before she answered. His face. The way he felt in her mage senses. The way he stood, so broad and strong and carefully not crowding her.
“Even after everything that we’ve done to you? The leeches? The not-hunt. Even after I left the ball, even after we left the village?”
“Venetia, if I thought I could persuade you to give me a chance, I would follow you across the realms.”
She blinked in one slow swoop as her mind stuttered over the feeling behind those words. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” Again it was so brutally honest. He seemed confused by it all. Perhaps as confused as she.
“I don’t know if I can,” she responded so softly she could hardly hear her words, but he heard them.
“Would you try? I know that I’m nothing to you, but…”
Venetia paused as she considered. Did she want to try for love? Try to just give him a chance? Any measure thereof?
“Try for happiness.” The words from her uncle echoed in her head as she asked, “Will you leave, later, if I give you a chance and can not give you what you want?”
He struggled to answer. She watched him swallow as he tried to find whatever it was he was going to say…
Persuaded to Love: A Kendawyn Paranormal Regency Page 11
