Bewildered by Love (Kendawyn Paranormal Regency)

by Amanda A. Allen

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Bewildered by Love

  by

  Amanda A. Allen

  for Taryn

  CHAPTER ONE

  George Bentworth was a werewolf.

  Bound with a cravat around his neck, social niceties, and the expectations of a mother he adored. But that didn’t make him less of a werewolf. He put on his shiny town shoes, let his valet arrange his hair, and reined in every impulse behind a urbane veneer.

  It was, however, a facade. People looked at George Bentworth and saw the ideal ton gentleman. They somehow forgot that he’d followed his cousin Henry Darcy into the mortal realm and lived as a pirate for decades. They were able to set aside that he was one of the top ranking members of the Wolfemuir pack.

  He imagined that they thought his rank was because he was first cousins with the Duke of Wolfemuir. A ridiculous thought, really. Rhys would never left affection for a cousin put the security of the pack at risk—not even if the duke had spent every day of his childhood with that cousin.

  The wolf in George ranged inside him, making his skin crawl with the need to change form and run.

  Run, run, run.

  Run off the cravat and morning suit. Run until his hair was windswept because of the wind—not because of skills of a tiny little mage.

  Instead George glanced down at the lady on his arm whose wolf was so buried it might as well not be there. Another lady was on his other arm, and the two were interchangeable in their dresses so pale of a pink they might as well be white, with hair that was bound tight and firm against the back of their head, and the corsets that left them very little opportunity to breathe.

  In fact, George realized, he wasn’t quite sure which lady was which.

  One nose was a little more turned up. The other had a slightly curvier form. The first’s blonde hair was threaded with brown. The second’s hair was threaded with red.

  But both of them were so proper and stilted they might as well have been dolls.

  He walked Miss Jane Umbrilldge and her sister Miss Melody to their brother and got rid of them with a twist of a smile and a willingness to ignore their hints to stay.

  The spirit of his wolf companion had been born inside of George and yet had never quite settled into the high class social life of the ton. But the beast, for it was a beast, like George, was very fond of George's mother, so neither of them had too much trouble hiding their disgust with the females his mother had thrown before him.

  Every season George would come and stroll with some pretty little miss who his mother thought might catch George’s attention. The wolf would ignore his hunting instincts, and George would ignore his boredom. For although his mother was brilliant in many things, she had very little idea of what kind of female would catch his attention to the point where he’d actually consider joining his life to another. The very long life Kendawyners were blessed with—usually a full millennia—was far too long to make a mistake in marriage.

  He wasn't actually sure which of the young ladies his mother thought would appeal. Perhaps Mother had assumed that either would do. Or that he wouldn't be so ill-mannered to look beyond the eldest. He had no idea which was older and did not care.

  Even George only indulged his mother once or twice a season with these ridiculous escapades, so there was no surprise when she saw him strolling past her without either of the young ladies. He would not wait for her, for she would want to spend far more time chatting with her cronies and perhaps getting suggestions on another young lady that might attract her son. Her intentions to marry him off were notorious.

  Why him, the youngest of her sons, no one was quite sure. Least of all him.

  And this when his wealth was no confirmable inheritance but a fortune earned. A fortune he never referenced and wild rumors had the amount running the gamut of barely enough to survive on to even more than his cousin, Duke of Wolfemuir held. Added to those rumors—he didn’t have a title and long established estates like his cousins Rhys, Oliver, and Hugh. George had thought that these things would make him less eligible. But his urbane manner and the stories of his past had young ladies dreaming of some knight in armor while his mother encouraged every lady who had a daughter, niece, or friend’s child to marry off.

  His mother had once told him he was the most elusive bachelor of the Wolfemuir pack.

  "Surely not, dearest," he'd replied, sipping his claret and wishing for a cigar.

  "You're handsome."

  "Says my mother." He smiled at her and took another sip of the wine. Masterson refilled George's glass while his mother laughed softly. The candlelight flickered across the room, the fire was lit in the grate, and every single thing about the moment—save the lack of his brothers and father—bespoke home and family.

  "George, darling, you are handsome in a safe way. You don't have that dangerous edge of Wolfemuir. You are only a mister—but a very rich one. The rumors and stories about your wealth—they’re legendary. You're what half those young ladies want. All of the splendor of life in the ton without any of the responsibility.”

  "Mother, Wolfemuir is one of the--if not the most--powerful dukes and powerful pack leaders. He is the very definition of a catch. Dearest cousin Hugh is an earl. Your own darling son Oliver is a baron. They’re all better catches than my poor self.”

  "Oh, darling, no," his mother countered. "They don't see the wolf in you, so they think you are the catch. That you are catchable. Because you're sweet with me, they assume that you aren't a predator. There is no question, sweetest, that Wolfemuir is a predator."

  "I find myself somewhat offended," he said in the soft manner that generally hid the wolf in him in polite circles. When he was around his mother, however, it was rarely acting. She soothed him—perhaps why he adored her so.

  "Darling." His mother patted his hand. "It's not your fault that they spend more time hunting dresses than rabbits and have no idea what a predator looks like. They see you, sense that your wolf is contained, and assume it's because he is mild and not that you are strong."

  It was perhaps rude that he hadn't remained with the bright young misses his mother had picked out, but that conversation had been haunting him for weeks.

  He was a predator.

  If he found a female who could see and accept that in him, he'd be far more fortunate than he realized. He'd always assumed that the women of his class knew what he carried—many of them had their own beasts—but perhaps their pampered wolves were so diluted that they had no idea what it was like to have the spirit of a real wolf within you.

  Or perhaps those who were in touch with their beast had their eye so fixed on Wolfemuir, they never realized that there were wolves like George.

  Strong, powerful, and utterly controlled.

  If that were the case, he'd eventually give into his desire for cubs and a proper den and settle for any young miss. The thought made him somewhat ill. But, he thought as he considered and rejected that plan to settle, perhaps before he reached that extreme, it was time to hunt for what he wanted.

  He carried the spirit of a wolf inside him after all. It would be silly to not use that power for what he wanted most.

  He strolled down the perfect paths, passing a bevy of the very young misses who were only barely allowed t
o join in the season. He tested out his hunting as he passed those ladies, and they were rejected summarily by the wolf. He passed a pack of young men who roved with the grace but not, he thought, the instincts of wolves.

  If he married one of those young ones that he’d passed, would his sons have no idea of their wolves? Of what a proper balance between man and beast could do? If he ignored his vision of what he wanted, would his daughters be silly young misses like the forgettable young ladies who’d bored him for the morning?

  He couldn't help but remember the many times Father had taken George for runs until he could shift without delay. The many times that Father had taught George to hunt, showing by example and teaching how to both control and live in balance with his beast.

  That was what George wanted.

  But he wondered if that were possible with a mate selected from among the pale, boring daughters of the ton.

  Did he even know what he wanted in a mate?

  Yes, he thought. Yes, he did. He remembered the many times he'd caught his father dancing with his mother, or holding her hand, or kissing her in a doorway or some nook of the house—as if he'd playfully tracked her down and claimed his prize.

  That was what George wanted.

  The female that would send both the beast and the man clamoring for a quick kiss before they took the cubs and taught them to control themselves but also enjoy what their bodies could do.

  Perhaps it would be best to ponder on this more. He realized he'd caught the attention of his wolf and that the beast liked what George had been planning. Mate, the wolf thought, cubs, family, den, laughter.

  But the utter insanity of finding the right kind of mate within the trap of the season was making his skin itch. He made a sudden decision to stay only until the St. Claire’s Masquerade. Then he’d slide away and spend some time shooting or take his yacht south and make a plan. His wolf tugged at him to hunt then.

  Right then.

  George’s brothers Oliver and Liam had somehow side-stepped Mother’s focus, and George had become her target despite being the youngest of her sons. But considering how well Mother knew her sons, perhaps George was the target because she knew he ached for a family.

  “George darling,” she had said only days ago. “Marriage isn't a curse or a burden when it’s with the right woman. You're strong, handsome, rich, and oh-so-marriageable. Far more importantly, you aren't a complete simpleton. Simply open your eyes and look. You’ll find someone easily.”

  His wolf tugged at him again as if his sense had been caught by something.

  He had smiled and sipped his tea, distracted her, and listened to her talk about buying some expensive shawl, heavily embroidered and embellished with pearls. Was buying it, she asked, reveling too much in their wealth? Don't you think I should use the funds to finance some orphan or perhaps a school? And then he'd kissed her cheek and left. He'd sent her maid to buy his mother the shawl and his secretary to finance needy children, and hoped that his mother could be happy in her gifts.

  Perhaps she was right about marriage. Perhaps it was time, after all, for him to simply look. Looking didn't equate choosing, did it? It did not, he told himself, stepping into the nursery area of the park and watching the children play. There was a small pack of wolflings playing cricket with a governess, and he felt an itch to join in. Take a step back from it all and let the playfulness of childhood refresh him.

  He acted on it more by instinct than anything else, expecting the governess to fade away. But she was more protective than that, and his perfectly tied cravat, shined custom shoes, and well-cut coat did not allay her concerns whatsoever. He wanted to nod approvingly but that would have been too much of a comment on her behavior. Too forward and unmannerly. Especially when he should probably leave her and her charges be. But he wanted to play cricket. So he contained himself and they played with the children, delighting the little ones. George helped two with their swing. He helped another catch the ball while she coached a skinny one with a shabby little coat on his bowling and directed him to make his run.

  The entire time he played with the children and the governess, his wolf was aware. He wanted the female. His hunting instincts demanded that he track her down, that he learn more of her, that he touch her. Even if it was his hand to her cheek, the feel of her hair. Something.

  Anything.

  When the game was through he bowed to her, crossing the green to give her back the ball that had ended in his care. He had grass stains on his shirt, a crumpled jacket, and no longer perfectly styled hair. George's valet would be horrified, so George considered it a morning well spent.

  "Hello," he said, grinning at her, noting her brunette hair, rosy cheeks, and the smattering of freckles. She smelled like a wolf and acted like a lady. He paused, considering that perhaps she wasn't the governess after all. Those brilliant blue eyes were too direct for a governess. She was lovely in a simple way, but somehow despite the quietness of her looks, she caught his attention fully. Both his and his wolf.

  She was beautiful really. But in the way where you had to take a second glance, and then when you did…she was breathtaking. It was a sneaky sort of beauty that delighted him.

  She smiled tightly, and he realized what a guff he was making of things. His gaze had lingered too long on her as he tried to categorize her beauty and whether she was a lady. And that ended his debate, for no governess would dare to flash him a look of such ire.

  He shrugged apologetically and grinned at her with all the charm he possessed. The charm that his mother claimed had the ladies wanting him instead of Rhys or Hugh or Oliver—the three titled cousins. George hoped his mother was right for he could use some of the luck of the charming.

  “Aunt Phoebe," the skinny scamp said, "can we invite him back for tea?" Without waiting for an answer, the boy said, "Hello, I'm Rodger Varling. Thank you for playing with us! You’re a champion cricket player! Would you like to join us for tea? Cook said there would be tarts and blackberry jam! Where did you learn to bat like that? And you out-raced Robbie, and he's the fastest. But you beat him without trouble--even in that getup." Rodger looked George up and down and asked, innocently, "What's your name?"

  "Rodger," the pretty cousin tried to reign the boy in, but the child was so exuberant, "it isn't appropriate..."

  "It's all right," George said, squatting down to the boy's level and saying, "My name is George Bentworth."

  The boy spread a wide, gap-toothed grin. George leaned closer to the boy and whispered, "Do you know how to introduce people?"

  The boy nodded frantically as his friends ran up.

  "Would you do me the honor?" George met the boy's eyes, which were sparkling in delight. The two grinned at each other, and then the boy said, "Mr. Bentworth, may I present my Aunt, Miss Varling.”

  "I am honored to meet you," George said, holding out his hand for hers. She placed it gently into his, face flaming. And as she did, his wolf stood at attention. He noticed immediately the shiver that racked her and didn’t deny that he was pleased to see her react to his touch. The beast’s instinct had George wanting to circle the lovely Miss Varling and try to pinpoint what was calling to this animal inside of him.

  But the scamp, Rodger, interrupted with, “Did I do it right?"

  George nodded gravely, his attention mostly on his wolf and only slightly on the boy.

  With a shout, the boy turned to the others, punched a slender, string of a boy on the arm, and said, "You're it!"

  The boys scattered before Miss Varling could stop them, and it took George a moment to realize he was happy the boy had run off. He took another look at the lady. She was slender but still showed curves in the most interesting of places. Her fair skin was flushed from playing with the children. She must play with them often, for she came with the child and that boy adored his aunt.

  It made George want to adore her back.

  Oh bloody hell, George thought, looking down at her and realizing that the moment he'd thought to open his
eyes and look, it was the first bloody female to cross his path who called to the more instinctual parts of him. She drew the attention of himself and his wolf. He told himself to back off—to look around the ton, to look beyond this female. The more he thought about that idea, the more she called to him. Not just the wolf, but the beast in the man, rejected the idea of moving beyond her.

  He wanted this female.

  This bright, beautiful, playful female. He wanted her with her quiet loveliness and the protectiveness she reflected for the child and the way she stood up to him already with her huff and direct eyes. Would that faded Miss he’d walked with for his mother this morning have played with these boys?

  The answer was laughable

  Would the other one, the sister, been able to cope with the utter impropriety of how'd they'd met without falling to pieces? Not when she couldn't even speak about anything other than the prescribed topics provided by society.

  George straightened his cravat, replaced his jacket, and held out his arm for Miss Varling. Phoebe, he thought, knowing already that he wanted her for his own.

  Bloody hell, could it be that simple?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Phoebe was entirely uncertain what was happening. She and Rodger had met the handsome gentlemen in the park, and he’d followed them home. Since then they’d never been able to quite shake him fully. He appeared in the park or invited them for lemon ices and a stroll.

  She was not an idiot, and she knew this man was a full-fledged werewolf who tucked his power behind a smooth face. That didn’t mean, however, he didn’t have it. She’d seen his wolf bright and aware looking at her from Mr. Bentworth’s eyes. She saw it every single time he played ball with Rodger, and she saw it again and again in the weeks following as George Bentworth appeared on her walks with the boy or while she was reading in the garden. He made her own wolf circle in her mind with desire.

  In truth, Phoebe had never desired another until George Bentworth of the charming smile and grinning eyes had taken her hand in his own. Since then, she had been…uncomfortable.