Bewildered by Love (Kendawyn Paranormal Regency)

by Amanda A. Allen

  “Are you decided upon her?” Mother’s voice was quiet and serious. She dropped her persona of ease and carelessness, and the mother-wolf in her came out, protective and focused on her son. But with a smile playing about the corners of her mouth.

  George confessed, “It is Phoebe Varling or no one.”

  “But you cannot know her that well.” She was testing him, and he knew it, for she’d tested his wants many times before.

  “That didn’t seem to matter to myself or my wolf. We’ve wanted her from the beginning. However, I can see with surety that I know her better than you think.”

  His mother cleared her throat and said, “Well, if she has caught your imagination--”

  “She has.”

  “Then you must get to know her better and be certain.”

  “Indeed.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pallister came to the picnic.

  George stood when the man arrived, but Pallister strolled up as if he’d been invited. He wore a light tan suit and carried a cane and looked as if he’d taken a potion to lose some weight or purchased a much better set of stays.

  “Who is that?” his mother asked, sensing George’s need to protect their territory. Her wolf senses responded to his.

  George growled in reply and then plastered a smile on his face for Rodger, who was running by with the kite that George had made for him—it was an airplane.

  “That is the other beaux.”

  “He’s fat,” his mother said, a growl to her voice as she watched Pallister weave his way through the crowd and to Phoebe’s side. “You’re so much better than he. Also, he is uninvited.” Her normally calm face was flushed with irritation.

  “And yet…”

  Rhys, George’s cousin, packleader, and Duke of Wolfemuir, had appeared uninvited as well. He’d been leaning against a nearby tree with a plate full of delicacies watching George be thoroughly routed by Phoebe.

  Rhys rose and strolled to George and his mother to join them in watching Pallister bend over Phoebe’s hand. “I expected better of you, cousin.”

  “If it were as simple as growling him down or a quick shanghai, it would be taken care of,” George said.

  “George!” His mother smacked his arm with her fan, but he had been entirely serious. Phoebe didn’t love that blighter. A quick trip overseas wouldn’t kill the bloke, and George’s Phoebe could be appealed to far more easily without Pallister poking around.

  “Why don’t you do it anyway?” Rhys seemed baffled.

  George laughed, but the sound was not amused. He said seriously, “If she found out, she’d send me packing.”

  “But why would she find out. She’s just a woman,” Rhys countered.

  “Rhys,” George’s mother had the dangerous tone to her voice that her sons knew so well. Rhys disregarded it as he stared his cousin down.

  “Women are not idiots,” George replied. “And this isn’t a game. You don’t risk what matters most over convenience.”

  “If she throws you over, you’ll find another.”

  George looked at his cousin, examined his face, and then shrugged off the comment. Rhys was so dry one could never be sure when he was testing his packmembers or when he was serious.

  “Another woman won’t do,” George said simply.

  His mother huffed with a note of interest in the comment.

  “I don’t care for her family,” Rhys said, idly. He hadn’t spoken to any of the Varlings, but that wasn’t really necessary.

  “Yes, well,” George’s mother said. There was a bit of an uncomfortable silence as she struggled for something to say. “Well.”

  They all watched Pallister take Phoebe’s hand. He tucked it into the crook of his own arm as if he owned her.

  George lost patience as he watched the movement. He walked towards the encroacher and Phoebe, waving Rodger over on the way.

  “Is your cousin engaged to Pallister?”

  “No!” The boy’s disgust was as clear as the sky overhead.

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Of course!” Rodger was a bit sunburned. He’d been wearing a straw hat but chucked it the moment that Phoebe looked the other way.

  “Invite Pallister to play ball with you.”

  “What?” The tone was so aghast that George laughed.

  “Then invite Rhys. That big bloke over there with the blue jacket?”

  “The duke?” Rodger was already shaking his head. “He’s the head of the Wolfemuir pack!”

  “The duke, my cousin. He’ll crush Pallister for fun.”

  “He will?”

  George could tell that the boy was imagining the idea of it by his widening grin. Whatever madness Rodger envisioned seemed to help him shake off any trepidation that he felt about approaching Rhys.

  “Indeed, don’t tell your aunt.”

  “Did you invite Mr. Pallister so that the duke would do that?”

  “Mr. Pallister was not invited.”

  The boy gaped. The crashing of this little family party was a breach of etiquette—even the boy knew that.

  “And Rhys is very territorial. I don’t have to ask. I just know my cousin.”

  Rodger giggled, and his laugh turned into a full-bellied, though high-pitched, roar. It was a flash of what it would be when Rodger was grown. As he tossed glances between the mountain of Rhys and the lump of Pallister, the boy’s grin turned wicked.

  Phoebe’s hand was tucked into George’s arm as the game began. She’d seen the look in Rodger’s eyes and glanced between George and the boy. But they assiduously avoided looking at the other. The camaraderie warmed her heart. If only…but…her secret would likely prevent a union between her and Pallister. It would certainly prevent one between George and herself.

  But she hadn’t been able to bear pushing him away yet. He brought too much joy to Rodger.

  And, if she were to be completely honest, to herself.

  “Rather than watching this madness, would you like to stroll through the gardens?” He gestured to the manicured gardens that lined the lake. “The swans tend to gather on the other side of the lake.”

  “There are swans?” She well knew he was removing her from the scene of whatever crime was about to be enacted. She wasn’t sure that she minded. Mr. Pallister had been more and more…aggressive lately. She did not care for it.

  George took the spike of her interest as assent and began leading her along.

  “I wonder,” he said and then stopped himself.

  She looked up at him. It was a wordless invitation to continue, and he did.

  “Do you have an understanding with Merlin Pallister?”

  It was entirely out of the line to ask such a question, but George did not regret it. He’d been circling round her for weeks and getting no closer. He’d felt her wolf but had yet to see it in her eyes. He’d come to love her and her cousin—in and of themselves. But the way sunlight glinted in her hair enchanted him. The way her eyes watched the boy so carefully, the way she ignored the rudeness of her family and was protective of them. George had become addicted to her. Even from the careful distance she kept him at—he felt it would always be enough as long as she didn’t love or marry another. But he wanted more.

  He wanted her. He wanted to see for the rest of his life how she noticed every wildflower. He never wanted to not smell roses and think of her. He wanted to hear her laugh every single day of the rest of his life. He wanted to feel her fingers on his face, on his body.

  It bothered him how when she laughed, she seemed surprised and almost grateful. He wanted her to expect to laugh—and then he wanted to hear every single burst of joy. He’d rather have the mortal life—with her—than a millennia without her.

  She had, simply, become everything to him.

  “I do not,” she finally said. “I…”

  But she didn’t finish whatever she was going to say.

  Phoebe had been experiencing a slow and dawning revelation after she met his mother. George Bentwor
th was not a man who would introduce his mother to a potential inamorata. He was not a man who would befriend a child to romance a mistress. He…he wanted more than that. And she wasn’t sure why.

  Everything about her was ordinary. She was, like he, a werewolf. Everyone in Kendawyn belonged to one of the three races. They were werewolves, mages, or vampires. They lived by the standards they did—these arbitrary strictures—to contain the beasts that they carried.

  Phoebe didn’t run with a pack and had no idea where she ranked in abilities. But it had never mattered in this world of niceties and social standing. She was lovely enough, but then again, most of the upper classes of Kendawyn were. She had never imagined that someone like George Bentworth—handsome, powerful, well-connected—would ever have interested in one like her.

  “I would like there to be such an agreement between us,” he said simply.

  “I…” She didn’t know what to say. She could hardly believe that this was happening. “I don’t understand.”

  It wasn’t that she didn’t. She just didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know how to reply. She had…

  “What is it that you do not understand?” He was gentle in his question. It was no aggressive demand but a careful query. His voice, his hand, everything was gentle. But it made her want with a fierceness that she didn’t know how to handle. His gentleness was perfect, but it called to her beast in way that nothing else ever had. The sun streaked through the trees, making this glen and the flowers sparkle. She felt as if she’d fallen into some enchanted landscape.

  “I…why? I don’t…I just don’t know. I didn’t think that this was what you wanted.”

  He paused, looking down at her, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. She didn’t want him to know what she’d thought of him. She didn’t want to hurt him like that, but when she dared a glance, she saw that he understood.

  “I am an honorable man,” he said. His words were even.

  She reached for him with her free hand, holding his arm with both hands now, and said, “I know.”

  He cleared his throat and relaxed under her touch when she spoke. “All right then.”

  She didn’t answer the other question. It hung there, between them, like another presence.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she finished lamely.

  “Are you debating between myself and Pallister?”

  She shook her head. It was long since time to rid herself of Pallister, for she could never marry a man that her nephew hated.

  “What do you need to make a choice?”

  “Time.” She said instantly. This wasn’t a mistake she could make. But no amount of time…

  No amount of time would change her secret.

  With Pallister and his offer, she knew what she’d be doing. She’d marry a man she couldn’t abide for a home near Rodger. It was idiotic, and she had been a ninny to even give the idea of it consideration. It had been poorly done of her, for she well knew that Pallister expected her to consent to his marriage offer. His appearance here was full indication of that expectation.

  But there was more. In this world of expectations and societal rules, she’d broken many of them. She hadn’t done anything terrible, but she wasn’t sure George’s offer would stand if he knew.

  Could she trust him with her secrets? And even if she could, would he still want her?

  And if he did, could she allow her choices to affect their future? She wasn’t sure that her reputation would survive in the circles he was admitted to. In fact, she knew it wouldn’t. There was no recovery for her among the upper crust of the ton if they knew.

  “Would you allow me to get to know you better? May I call formally? May I take you to balls and parties? Will you meet my family and see what I have to offer?”

  She told him honestly, “I don’t care about parties. And I won’t marry you for your money or your home or your connections.”

  “What will you marry me for?”

  “If I am certain,” she said, feeling as if she were under a spell of honesty, but she knew the truth. His honesty, his gentleness, they pulled the truth from her. “Certain that you love me and I love you in return.”

  “I could tell you,” he said. For he hadn’t said the words. She could tell that he wanted to give them to her, but he seemed to sensed that this wasn’t the moment.

  “I don’t need to hear them,” she said, looking up into his dark eyes and dark hair. Into the face that was starting to paint the back of her eyelids before she slept and color her dreams. “I need to feel them. And I need to feel like you want me.” When, she thought, you know all of my secrets and can still make me believe you love me.

  He nodded, taking hold of her hand where it clutched his bicep. They stood for a long while in silence, watching the swans swim past with their little cygnets. It was a family of those who mated forever, beautiful, symbolic—stunning in their majesty. It was what they both wanted—perhaps together.

  “Oh my goodness,” Phoebe exclaimed when they returned.

  Mr. Pallister was just lifting himself off the ground. It looked as if they’d been playing rugby. She couldn’t imagine what would make Mr. Pallister agree to such an invitation with these powerful wolves. He had clearly lost among them. He might be a werewolf as well…but he was nothing like these boys.

  “Did you engineer this?” she demanded of George. She’d already dropped her second hand and stepped from George’s side.

  He considered for a moment before saying, “Did I ask Rhys to crush Merlin? No.”

  “But,” she said.

  He grinned at her as he said, “But, I know Rhys well.”

  “So you did.” She sounded irritated as they started towards the stained and limping Mr. Pallister.

  “Any werewolf who’s attended school with any of the Wolfemuir—family or pack—should know better than to go up against our leader.” George sounded as unconcerned as he probably felt.

  She watched Mr. Pallister stumble and then struggle to stand again. It took him a second attempt to get to his feet. His Grace had offered Mr. Pallister a hand, but it was slapped off. She shook her head. What had Mr. Pallister been thinking? Even she—as unconnected and packless as she was—would never have accepted a challenge, friendly or not, from one such as the duke.

  George hid his grin. He would be sending Rhys some good port. It was difficult to hide his amusement. But he was jubilant for more than Pallister and his limp. George had gone on that walk uncertain if she was already taken and left with her considering him. There was a lightness of hope to him that the sight of a dirtied Pallister buoyed even higher.

  “Pallister, old boy,” George said. “It looks like you’ve had a bit of a mishap.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know that you were behind this,” Pallister hissed. “Miss Varling, please forgive my leaving you so early, but as you can see,” he gestured down at himself, attempting chagrin. He failed.

  “Oh, Mr. Pallister, are you all right?” Whatever she felt was hidden by her calm face.

  “Nothing that a little soap won’t take care of,” he said heartily.

  As George examined the interloper, it became evident that the slimmer figure of Pallister had been caused by stays. Broken stays were sticking out of the back of his coat. He bowed slightly, was jabbed by his undergear, and left with an even deeper flush.

  Rhys strolled over, looking a bit windblown. “I’ve got a bit of a splinter,” he said idly, “from his whale bone whatnots.”

  Phoebe choked but held back her laughter. Just barely. George grinned openly above her head but schooled his expression when she glanced up at him.

  “Oh, you,” she said, dropping his arm and heading towards her nephew, calling his name as she left.

  “I believe you owe me,” Rhys said in the same bored tone.

  “Protecting our family is your duty,” George said, “But I plan to send you a little something.”

  “Is she family then?” Rhys’s gaze pierced George. It deman
ded the truth of him and evasions would not be accepted.

  “Whatever happens from now until the end, she is family to me. She and Rodger.”

  Rhys shrugged, but George well knew that the duke had instantly accepted both into the Wolfemuir pack.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  George sat with his brothers Oliver and Liam that evening at Bane’s, their club. They were in overstuffed chairs in one of the darker corners of the room. The large room contained many gatherings of seats and tables. With wood-paneling, dark carpets, and low lights, the club lent itself to quiet conversation, though there were gaming rooms and a few dining rooms for those who wanted something more than a cigar and a glass of port with a friend.

  “So you’re romancing someone,” Liam said as he lit a cigar. George, Liam, and Oliver took after their mother and the Wolfemuir side of the family. They were all tall for Kendawyners with dark, thick, hair. They had dark brown eyes that glinted with humor and anger. Oliver was the burliest of the three brothers, powerful in his human form, and a huge wolf when shifted. Liam was the rangiest of them. And George was smooth and careful. As Liam spoke, Oliver poured each of them a few fingers of whiskey.

  “Phoebe Varling,” George answered, knowing that either his mother, his aunt, or his cousin had told his older brothers. There was no avoiding the interrogation. He didn’t even mind telling them. She was his everything. When he introduced her to his brothers, he wanted them to be prepared to charm her.

  “Who is she?” Liam demanded. There was no ill-intent in his tone.

  Oliver was leaned back in his chair, sipping whiskey, and watching George carefully.

  Rather, George thought, like a bug. Or some alien species. But of the Wolfemuir cousins, he was the first who had fallen for a female. So, perhaps they couldn’t see the appeal.

  “You wouldn’t know her,” George said. “She lives a quiet life for the most part.”

  Oliver snorted.

  George’s head tilted, and the wolf was in his voice when he asked, “Did you have something to say, brother?”