Persuaded to Love: A Kendawyn Paranormal Regency

by Amanda A. Allen

  * * * * *

  Leave her? He wasn’t sure he could do it. He looked into that perfect face—she wasn’t flawless, but she was perfect to him, and he adored the arch of her brows, the line of her nose, her lovely lips. He…he wasn’t sure that he could ever leave her, but he knew that he must answer that he would. And she must believe that he would. He couldn’t lie to her. He wouldn’t, so what should he say?

  And then he knew the truth of it. If he could not persuade her to love him, if he could not win her heart, he could not haunt her. He would never do that to her. He would find something else. He would follow his cousin, Henry’s example, who loved and was not loved in return and Oliver would go about his life broken from who he was before, but without becoming a monster to the woman he loved.

  “Yes.” There was truth and a promise in his reply which she saw as she searched his eyes.

  “All right,” Venetia said, taking her plants in her arms. She held the box with one hand and trailed her finger over the tiny petal of the tiny flower.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  No further words were necessary. She didn’t allow him to take the flowers from her, but clutched them to her chest, like a shield.

  They joined the others—their promise was between the two of them, and each pretended that their conversation hadn’t happened, but when their friends turned to further explore the Exhibition Gardens, they walked side by side.

  * * * * *

  “Miss,” the servant called through Venetia’s door. It was early and the greeting was followed by a soft knock. If a knock could be hesitant, this one was. Antigone would certainly make any servant found waking Venetia wish as if they had been drawn and quartered instead of the recipient of Antigone's justice. Venetia had, however, been awake since the first rays of the sun had crept through her window. Earlier really for she’d watched the slow creep of light across the room and been haunted by the permission she’d given Oliver.

  What had she been thinking?

  The truth was he’d been creeping into her dreams as had a new feeling—it wasn’t just sorrow and horror anymore. It was regret which she had discovered had given her dreams a stark, sour flavor. So, she had left the curtains open, to feel the sun on her face, and it had woken her with a gentle caress. She’d lain in the light, drinking it in, and wondering just what she’d been thinking when she’d told Oliver that he could…what? Had she given him permission to court her?

  She had.

  She took a deep breath in and went to open the door before Antigone caught the poor girl.

  “Yes,” Venetia said, voice soft.

  “Lord Stanwullf is in the parlor. He apologizes that it is so early but says that you might enjoy the outing he has planned.”

  Venetia’s brows rose, but so did her curiosity. And perhaps, if she was honest with herself, a little touch of delight colored that feeling of interest. She nodded to the maid whose eyes were as curious as Venetia’s heart, saying, “I’ll need a few minutes.”

  She dressed herself adding a pelisse since the morning would be chilly. It was not yet 8:00 am, and she probably shouldn’t join him unaccompanied. She was not, however, so young that she’d be questioned if they were in public. Her friend, Alice, had only been compromised because she’d been caught with a man—in her bedroom.

  Oliver was standing next to the window, looking out on the waking city. The light that had tickled her awake surrounded him, highlighting his hair and giving his brown morning coat a golden glow. His cream breeches looked almost yellow in the sun which showed just how muscular he was, and then it was a new and unfamiliar feeling that colored Venetia’s mind and made her curiosity rise even further. She paused for a moment to admire his sheer masculine beauty before cocking her head in question.

  “It’s a surprise,” he said, holding out his arm. She joined him though the act of putting her arm through his seemed to have more weight--more meaning—than it had on previous occasions. There was a bit of a promise in the settling of her fingers in the crook of his elbow. Even still, she did it. She felt with that mere act she had broken a chain on her past. It didn’t have quite the same hold on her and her steps were just a little lighter as she walked down the steps of their townhouse and was handed into his curricle.

  She didn’t leave Antigone word of this madness, but the servants would tell her that Venetia had left with Oliver. And perhaps there was additional freedom in taking back control of her life. Not that Antigone was controlling, but Venetia had allowed her friend to care for her over the last while, and it was time to care for herself again.

  * * * * *

  Oliver didn’t do any more than settle a carpet on her lap, steal her hand to place it back on his arm, and then they drove the morning sunshine in glorious silence. She drank it in. There was something in Venetia that responded to light as flowers did. She turned her face to the sun, and it energized her in a way that food and drink never seemed to. Perhaps, here in Kendawyn, she really did gain nourishment from the sun. Who knew what was possible in this land? They were quiet—few words were exchanged—but there was this feeling in the air. This marveling between them. That they were there…together…that it felt…right.

  Venetia reached her mind into her heart to test how she felt—and she wasn’t sure she felt anything but baffled that she’d gotten to this point.

  That was a lie, she thought a moment later.

  She was lying to herself—as perhaps as she’d always done. But, in the past, she’d needed those lies. She'd need to say, believe even, that she didn’t want a family, that she didn’t want anything more than her work, her friends, and her father. But she did—she did.

  Saying it in her mind made her want to pull the curricle over to vomit into the hedges. Instead she gave herself permission to bury that truth in her thoughts for another time, for a quiet she was alone and could think without feeling quite so much. She pushed her worries away, breathing deeply of the fresh air, the warming sun, and the beauty of the realm until the thoughts she wasn’t ready to handle yet.

  They drove for a full hour—out of Arathe-By-The-Sea and into the rolling countryside. Massive, country houses rolled by and Venetia found herself wondering about the families that lived in them. Did they love? Did they regret their choices? Fate had given the people of Kendawyn so much more time. She wasn’t certain that most of them realized what a gift it was. She had lived almost a full mortal life, nearly a century, since she’d arrived in this marvelous realm, and she couldn’t help but simply stand in awe over the gifts that she’d been given.

  Had she been wasting them? Curling into herself and letting what had happened with her parents somehow abuse the gift of this long life? How long would she allow their poor choices to haunt her and manipulate her decisions? Not now, she told herself again and tried to put aside her worries.

  “Is all well?” Oliver’s gaze had gone from content to concerned. And it was the concern—so sincere—that made her tell herself again that yes, she had been making a mistake. Here was this man who barely knew her. And yet, she knew in the deepest part of her heart and bones that he would never do to her what her birth father had done to her mother. And when she recognized that inherent promise, she knew something else—even if she had ended in the same type of situation as her mother—Venetia was not the same woman. She would never, ever allow herself to be abused, let alone in front of her children.

  She was not meek, helpless miss. She was a full master of magecraft and the plants themselves responded to her touch. It was beyond imagining to see herself as helpless as her mother had been. And there was more, Venetia didn’t know her grandparents by birth, she didn't know what her grandparents had given her mother. Perhaps they had been wonderful parents. Perhaps they had been shoddy. But Venetia—she had been raised to know herself for a gift. To know herself talented and intelligent and beloved. It would be an insult to what she had been given to live the life her mother had.

  She would never do that.
<
br />   Never.

  The realization had a tear rolling down her face. And Oliver, bless him, he simply wiped it away without asking a word. She took his hand from her cheek, squeezed it, and let it go. But she knew what that hand was.

  Tender.

  Gentle.

  Kind.

  She wasn’t ready for any more promises, but she thought—in time—she might be.

  And that thought warmed her heart and let her give him the smile he deserved.

  * * * * *

  The scent of Venetia, his love, changed as she sat next to him, and it was revealing in a way he’d never thought it could be. At first, she was content and surprised. But the soft, sweet smell of earth and flowers changed to thoughtful. Sad. And then fierce.

  It was the fierceness that made him want. He’d known he loved her, he’d been surprised and awed by it, but that scent—

  It was spicy and demanding. Protective. It awoke a hunger in him that loving her alone had not done. That scent—it called to the wolf in him. The man had been intrigued and delighted by her. The wolf had just identified a kindred spirit and the needs of both sides of Oliver combined in a way that would have sent Oliver reeling if he’d had less control over himself.

  Instead, he silently turned the curricle up a curving drive, towards a ramshackle country house. He’d returned to the Exhibition Gardens, harassed the young woman with the tiny little flowers that had entranced his Venetia until he’d discovered that Eloise's mentor was nearby and in the mage plant community, she was a legend. Eloise gave him little hope that Lady Monstrose would see him and Venetia.

  He’d sent a pleading note and received a surprising affirmative. The reply made it clear that Lady Montrose wanted to see his Venetia and allowed them only because of that. It shocked him—that truth. He’d done what research he could and this woman was an expert. An expert who recognized his love.

  Just who was his Venetia and how strong was she as a mage? He didn’t care about her magic—of course—but he was starting to suspect that she was more than just a country miss who liked to fiddle with flowers. He’d assumed that she was like Alice—barely qualified to be called a mage. He might be wrong.

  The butler who answered the door was a relic. People didn’t really age in Kendawyn so much as fade away, but this man seemed to be one stiff breeze from disappearing into the wind. He carried his age in his movements. A tall stretched out body with a hook in his shoulders where his back hunched. His hands shook as he took Oliver’s coat and Venetia’s pelisse. The butler lost his balance for a moment and Venetia reacted even faster than Oliver, grabbing his bicep.

  “Pardon me, Miss Malvern,” the man croaked.

  “Oh thank you for catching me,” Venetia replied brightly not letting concern cross her face, though Oliver caught the aware scent to her. Oliver was tempted to take the man’s arm and help him along but doubted that assistance would be welcome.

  They were led not to a morning room or parlor, but through the house and into a massive conservatory.

  Venetia’s eyes widened with delight and he heard her gasp. It was all the reward that he could have wanted, but then she whispered, “What wonderland is this?”

  The butler didn’t give her time to gaze around but shuffled forward while Oliver followed. He had to tug Venetia along because she was entirely focused on the palm trees that rose towards the ceiling that towered overhead. They walked through tunnels of tangled and flowering vines and then passed by fruit trees and exotic blooms he’d never seen before. Venetia turned her face to let the flowers flow over her skin, and Oliver thought he caught a glimpse of them snaking towards her, but that was crazy--even for plant mages. He had to admit, however, if he were a vine, he’d want to do the same.

  He was so entranced with Venetia, it took him several moments to realize that an elderly woman sat on a chaise lounge directly in front of him. She must be Lady Montrose for she leaned back in the center of the conservatory. The sense of age to her made it clear that she wasn’t just ancient—she was far older than most Kendawyners. She was surrounded by trailing plants that followed her as she moved—brushing against her skin in the manner of a cat seeking caresses. The elderly woman pet them in the same way as Oliver’s mother might caress her favorite plant. Perhaps those vines had been chasing after his Venetia.

  “Hello,” Venetia said when Oliver nudged her.

  “Miss,” the butler said holding a seat for Venetia with another vacant next to it. Oliver took that one, wanting to let his leg lean against hers, but knowing he could not.

  “Miss Malvern?” The voice was clear and bright and belied the weight of age Lady Montrose carried.

  “Yes,” Venetia said. “I…” She looked to Oliver to help.

  “Miss Malvern was not aware of our destination. This was a surprise for her.”

  “Wonderful,” the smile was sweet. “My dear, I am delighted to meet you. I am Lady Charlotte Montrose. I feel that I know you already. I think you’ll see many specimens you recognize in my gardens.”

  Venetia had paused, just for a moment, before standing and reaching out both hands to the woman. “I remember you,” she said in a near whisper. “You were there when I was tested. You arranged my placement with Uncle Bradford.”

  “I didn’t think you’d remember You were so small.” Lady Montrose smiled, and it was overflowing with emotion, overflowing with her memories. "You were so..."

  Venetia's lips pressed together and her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

  Lady Montrose examined Venetia's face and then said, "But enough of that for now."

  "No," Venetia said with shaking lips, "No, I need to say thank you for my father. For caring, for being there and helping me. I remember you. I remember you holding my hand. Of checking on me. Of...so much. Thank you."

  "My dear," Lady Montrose said, cupping Venetia's cheek in her hand, "Of course. Of course. You were so very small."

  Venetia's lips twisted for a minute and then she leaned forward to kiss Lady Montrose's hands.

  * * * * *

  “I…” Venetia said.

  A tear rolled down her face as she examined the face. It was pulled from the depths of her memory. It was the scent that was so familiar. She had smelled of flowers and earth and light and hope. That was what Venetia had first seen in the woman when Venetia was a child.

  Lady Montrose had cared when so many others didn’t want to get involved in the life of a terrified child who had been through horrible things. Lady Montrose had helped to save Venetia, the parts of her that were wounded had healed because people had loved her. Even before Uncle Bradford, Lady Montrose had loved Venetia. Outside of Venetia's mother—it was the first love that Venetia had experienced. She hadn’t known it at the time—but later—when she’d thought about her past. When she’d asked Uncle Bradford about how she’d been able to come to him, he’d told her all. He loved Lady Montrose too. She’d helped to give him a family in Venetia, and Lady Montrose had helped to give Venetia a future in her father.

  “Did you know?” She asked, turning to Oliver.

  He shook his head. “All I knew was that the girl with the violets thought you’d like to meet her.”

  Venetia was crying as the memories overtook her in a way that she hadn't allowed for so long. She had let herself put away the good parts too. How Lady Montrose, a complete stranger with no obligation to the child Venetia had been, had cared and fought and worked for the scrawny, lost thing that had been mourning her mother and terrified by being transported to Kendawyn.

  “I am happy to see you well,” Lady Montrose said, her own eyes brimming with corresponding tears.

  “Thank you,” Venetia said. The words were wrenched from the depths of her heart. “Thank you so much.”

  “Things are well with your Uncle?”

  “Of course,” Venetia said. “Yes. They’re wonderful. He’s wonderful.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “He is,” Venetia said and the words br
ought forth a multitude of memories of her life with him. She’d been so lucky, so blessed. Much of that blessing came back to this woman who had been pivotal in Venetia’s life.

  The woman rose. She moved like a song. Unlike her butler, no sign of age marred her movements. She could have been 80 instead of past a millennium. She led the way through the conservatory, arms linked with Venetia as Lady Montrose chattered about the plants and gave Venetia time to recover her emotions—except that every so often Lady Montrose would squeeze Venetia’s hand, and the tears would begin again. She followed in a daze, blind even to the plants.

  She could still remember what Lady Montrose had said to the little Venetia, “I know you’re afraid right now.”

  Venetia hadn’t responded to the woman then, and so she’d continued. “You are safe. You are loved. You are going to be okay. Someday you’ll be happy.”

  The words echoed in the adult Venetia’s head. She’d clutched those words to her heart when she’d been afraid. She thought back to the kind woman who’d brought her to Uncle Bradford. She knew that her Uncle had kept in contact with Lady Montrose, but the woman had been retired from life and ensconced in her estates since soon after she’d helped Venetia to Uncle Bradford.

  Eventually they found their way to the tiny flowers Lady Montrose propagated. She was a master of the craft, and her gardens blossomed. Near those miniature dahlias they had tea together, speaking of days long past and plants and what was to come. They had tea together near the flowers, and left her with hugs and whispered gratitude.

  The words weren’t enough, but the sentiment and words were all Venetia could give. There was no way to give thanks enough for what had been done for her.

  * * * * *

  “Thank you,” Venetia said. They had driven for some time in silence, while Venetia tried to gather in her emotions. They were unruly things, but she finally felt able to speak without vomiting out all of her thoughts.

  “I didn’t know,” he said.

  “Fate seems to be kind to me often,” Venetia replied, and as the words came from her, she realized how true they were. She had a horrible start, but she had been lucky enough to end in Kendawyn rather than some orphanage and she was given a family who she adored, with friends who were sisters, and a powerful mage ability. It was shocking really. What she had been given. Too long she had allowed her parents to haunt her life. Too long she had been held captive by what had happened. It would never leave her—her past—and she didn’t want it to. That past made possible her understanding and the flavor of her gratitude for what she had now.