Bewildered by Love (Kendawyn Paranormal Regency)

by Amanda A. Allen

  Just maybe…

  Maybe this could be something more. Maybe she could trust him. Maybe he was what he presented himself to be.

  Maybe there was a chance for them…

  Phoebe fixed her gaze on his cravat and considered. She was beginning to feel a bit taken over. But also…alone.

  Lost.

  Confused.

  Her shoring had been removed—that wall she’d built that let her be independent and strong—that let her not need her brother. That let her stay with her family for the luxury of having family—not because she had to. The reality of her life was that it had always been her—and only her—looking out for herself. And later protecting Rodger. This trial was hers to bear, but he was taking it from her.

  Which, it turned out made her angry. Furious. She felt helpless because of Mr. Pallister, who had taken from her part of the life she had carved. But George was returning it to her and making her beholden.

  She didn’t know how to be in debt. She didn’t know what that meant for her. Was she less if he rescued her? If his standing and his place in this world let her keep hers—did she owe him something? Would she confuse gratitude for love?

  Did she even love him?

  She shook her head at that last thought, knowing she did. Desperately and confused by it as she was, she loved him.

  How could she trust what was before her when she was feeling all of these things that she wasn’t used to? She was used to peace and independence and…not this.

  “Phoebe…” The plea was so overt that she turned her gaze to his. “I don’t want to pressure you. I don’t want you to think of me like Pallister. But won’t you give me a real chance?”

  “Even with all of this?” But that was stalling. She wanted to know what he really felt about her…she needed to know if even testing it all out was worth the struggle.

  “Especially with all of it. Trust me. I won’t leave you alone in this regardless of whether you choose me in the end.”

  “Mr. Bentworth.” Her voice was hushed. “I want you to be all that you seem.”

  “Just give me the time to show you I am. Please…”

  She nodded, and he lifted her hand to his lips. It was the first time he’d done that, and that bare feeling—so simple—adjusted her thoughts. She’d been kissed on the hand before, and it had never once affected her as the feel of his lips did against the back of her hand.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  George’s instincts were telling him to give Phoebe space. To give her room to breathe when he wanted nothing more than to bring her home and protect her within the walls of his home.

  His den.

  His security.

  But that was not what she needed.

  “George, what will you do?”

  He paced before the fire while his mother sat in a chair across from him. He felt her gaze on him as he went back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He didn’t turn to her beloved face. She looked as young as he. With her lovely golden hair, brilliant blue eyes, and delicate frame—she was nothing like him. But they cocked their heads to the same angels, their smiles had the same charming shine, their eyes got the same protective gleam when they thought of those they loved.

  Thrusting his hands into his hair, he collapsed into the chair across from her. Leaning over, head in his hands, he said, “I don’t know.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Trap her inside my home until she is safe and happy here.”

  Mother’s laugh was low. “You didn’t fall for a cipher, my boy. So, you cannot treat her like one.”

  “I have to leave her,” his voice was tortured, but this was his mother and he didn’t have to put up the facade with her that he used with others. “I don’t know what to do. I need to protect her. She needs me to give her space. I have to go to Hugh and Rhys. It’s Hugh and he’s been shot. Everything in me is going a hundred directions and I feel….”

  “You did not choose a cipher,” his mother repeated. “She has taken care of herself for a long time. You can trust her to continue to take care of herself.”

  “But,” George started and then listened again to what his mother had said. He looked up at her.

  She was smiling at him, one brow raised as she watched him realize what he was saying.

  “She is capable of caring for herself,” he repeated, looking at his mother, acknowledging that it was true. Phoebe was no untried chit without skills or defenses.

  “Indeed she is, my son.”

  George wanted to bring Phoebe with him to the family’s estate. Even without the threat of Pallister, he wanted to see her in the massive, sprawling hallways, the great suites with more than enough room for her and Rodger both. But George had been summoned by Rhys, and there was no ignoring the demand of the pack leader.

  Or the duke.

  Since both positions were both embodied in Rhys, who called his cousins together, George had to go.

  “You’ll be all right?” he asked yet again as he walked with Phoebe in the little park where they had met.

  “Mr. Bentworth!”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I am no green chit.”

  It was as if she’d overhead what his mother had said to him. He felt shame at the use of the word chit. She was not helpless. She was powerful and smart and capable.

  “I know,” he confessed, squeezing her hand.

  “I am a mature and capable woman, despite my recent troubles.”

  “You are,” he infused his words with confidence in her. She deserved to know that he respected her.

  She nodded once, sharply.

  “You were betrayed,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips. “What is happening is not your fault. I do not see it as an indication of your capability or lack thereof. Phoebe…”

  She tugged her hand away.

  “Of course it is my fault. Do you think I was unaware of Iverning’s weaknesses?”

  “People can and do change,” he said. “But regardless…”

  She shook her head. She didn’t want to hear his excuses for her mistake. And she didn’t want to admit that his leaving made her nervous. Did he think that Pallister wasn’t aware that most of the Wolfemuir had already left the city? That George had to leave as well?

  He gave her two cards. The first simply read Devlin St. Claire and an address. She looked at it and then at George. The second was his mother’s name and address.

  “I will be back in two days.”

  She nodded.

  “I trust Devlin with my life.”

  “He is a St. Claire!”

  Her tone told him that she knew Devlin was related to one of the Princes of Kendawyn. That meant nothing between Devlin and George, but the St. Claire name was a talisman that Devlin could not shake—minor member of the family or not. How to tell Phoebe that Devlin might as well be a servant or an thing to Prince. St. Claire?

  “Phoebe, that doesn’t matter. He will help you if you need it.”

  “I don’t need it. I am not approaching the family of one of the Princes of Kendawyn. Are you mad? Besides which, I have survived my life thus far without you being here every second of it. I will be fine.”

  “Please take the cards,” he urged. It wasn’t a lack of faith in her that had him pressing the cards upon her. It was just…he felt so helpless leaving her behind at another’s mercy. He needed to be with her—even if it was just to witness her taking care of herself.

  She shoved them in her reticule and said, “Do not worry so. Go to your cousin and your duke and let me do what I must.”

  “Phoebe Varling, don’t you see?”

  She looked up at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

  “There will never be a time while I draw breath where I will not worry for you. It is not a lack of faith in you, but a measure of…”

  She waited to see if he would finish the phrase.

  But he did not. He squeezed her fingers and looked at Rodger running with the little boys an
d that was all.

  It was why he did not see her brow crinkle or the rapid flash of her lashes as she fought back an unexpected rise of emotion.

  And when he looked back to her, he saw only serenity and confidence.

  She feared she had lied about her capabilities when she discovered Mr. Pallister waiting for her on the way home with Rodger. George had left them in the park so Rodger could play longer. And because she had been melancholy, she’d taken the boy for ices and listened to him recapping the game she’d just witnessed. She enjoyed his bright, happy eyes and his chatter and the way he made sure no one was watching before throwing himself into her arms to whisper his love.

  Seeing Pallister after the perfect few hours with Rodger, who had easily dispensed with her melancholy, awoke fears and perhaps made them stronger than they would have otherwise been.

  “Stay with me, Rodger.”

  “Yes, Aunt Phoebe.”

  “But say nothing.”

  “Yes, Aunt Phoebe.”

  “Miss Varling,” Pallister said. He made no attempt at social niceties. “Go, boy.”

  “No,” Rodger said, belligerently, though he looked up at Phoebe to make sure that his rudeness would not get him in trouble.

  It would not.

  “Do not order my nephew about, Mr. Pallister.”

  His puffy eyes narrowed. He looked from Rodger to Phoebe and back again. And then he grabbed Rodger, shoving him behind his wide body. He walked towards Phoebe, forcing her to back up until he had her cornered in an alley. Rodger followed after, uncertain of what to do.

  “You belong to me,” Mr. Pallister said.

  Phoebe cocked her head and simply stared at the man. Did he think, actually believe, that simply telling her that she’d been claimed would be sufficient to make it so?

  She didn’t bother to answer him, just raised a brow.

  Which is when his hand flashed out, slapping her face. The heat and pain rose, but the wolf in Phoebe rushed to the front. She could hear, through the pounding in her ears, her nephew’s shouts.

  Her cub.

  It didn’t matter that she hadn’t given birth to Rodger—he was hers.

  Her hands curled, and a second later, they were wrapped around Pallister’s throat. She shoved him back, using the power of her abilities. Her wolf strove against his—and her wolf won. She didn’t need to see her face to know that her eyes shone yellow in the shadows of the alley. She heard the wolf, however, in her voice when she said, “I belong to myself. To myself and myself alone, and you will have nothing of mine.”

  “I will ruin you,” he hissed through the pressure of her fingers digging into his throat.

  She shoved against him, pushing him against the dirty side of the little alley meant for servants—not their employers. She pushed him and his expensive suit into the dirt, hissing, “You may try. You will fail. But in the process you will ruin yourself. Do you think Bentworth will forget what you do, regardless of what happens between he and I?”

  “Don’t you see? I’m already ruined without you.”

  “Don’t you see? That is not my concern. Find work. Emigrate. Sell what you have. I am not a commodity.”

  “Of course you are. Please, do you really think there was enough money for some to come to George Bentworth? He’s the youngest son of the most minor branch of the Wolfemuir clan. Those rumors of pirate gold are ridiculous. Utterly and completely ridiculous. If you think he chose you because of yourself, you’re an idiot. He wants your money. The same as anyone else.”

  “That’s not true!” Rodger shouted, sniffling behind them.

  Rage colored Phoebe’s vision as she realized how this interaction would affect her little boy. “Quiet, Rodger,” Phoebe ordered. “We will not be seen like this.”

  Phoebe was grateful she had brought her cloak because she could hide the bruise that was forming on her face. She stopped by a healer on the way home—a hidden, out of the way one—to have the bruise removed before she returned to her brother’s house.

  On the way back, she knelt in front of Rodger. “I’m sorry that happened, Rodger.”

  Tears formed in the boy’s eyes. What a terrible way to realize you were young and small. Oh! How she despised herself for allowing Pallister into their lives. She pressed her lips together, hugging her nephew close, and said, “What happened today was unusual and wrong, but we’re fine, aren’t we, buddy?”

  He nodded, eyes still swimming with tears.

  “Sometimes people like Pallister are idiots, and we have to help them see the error of the ways.” She lied a grin at Rodger, hoping he’d smile back. He did, but it was a weak shadow of a smile.

  She tried again, asking her beloved little boy, “How would you like to join me in the country?”

  “At Mr. Bentworth’s home?” Her nephew’s voice was suddenly excited. Hopeful even. He looked up at her with shining eyes that were seeing a future she couldn’t envision.

  “I was considering more a little cottage with just you and I.”

  “But you’re poor, Aunt Phoebe. And don’t you care about Mr. Bentworth? He will be sad if you leave.”

  “I know it is hard to understand,” she began, but her nephew interrupted her.

  “Mr. Bentworth will be sad, Aunt Phoebe. I know he will. We can’t leave him.”

  And Phoebe couldn’t tell her nephew that they would. That they could and they probably would. Not after what had happened between her and Pallister.

  A man like him would never forgive or forget what she had done.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Phoebe,” her brother said as she descended the cramped stairs to the breakfast room. “I would speak with you.”

  She smiled and followed him to his office. The telltale flush on his face told her he was furious.

  He sat behind his desk and motioned her to sit across from him like a recalcitrant child. Her eyes did not narrow, but the hair on the back of her neck bristled. If she were actually a wolf instead of a woman carrying the spirit of a beast, she’d have growled a warning. But she was a woman, and she would not behave as an animal.

  She perched on the edge of the stool that had been placed in front of his desk and looked at the newspaper he’d thrown at her.

  She glanced it over. And it took only a moment to see what made him so angry. The report of a Miss Varling of Carldon Street and the claims that she engaged in trade. Such horrible exaggerations, but the truth was there among the lies. The blatant lies hinted that she would disguise herself to barter for goods in the markets. They had, however, the right shop. And they guessed she was had grown the profit into a large fortune. Idle exaggeration on their part, clever deduction perhaps, but they weren’t wrong.

  “Surely you realize, Markus,” she said, “that I cannot possibly be spending my mornings mending bedding and socks with your wife and also bartering for goods in—where was it? The Fleet Markets?”

  He cleared his throat before he asked, “And the rest of it?”

  “What, Markus? What is it that you want me to say?”

  “Is it true?” he demanded. His eyes were a pale gold behind his normal watery blue. They were focused on her face, demanding a truth she didn’t want to give. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know where he would go with the truth. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a certain and pure knowledge of what he would want from her.

  “And if it is?” A soft challenge.

  A gauntlet.

  He took it up, snarling. “Do you think it’s respectable to live off of me and take the food from my family’s mouths while you garner a fortune?”

  “The allowance that Father gave me goes entirely to this house,” Phoebe said. “It more than reimburses you for the attic bedroom and what little I eat.”

  He cleared his throat, shrugging off her accusation. “And you feel that you can dishonor our name in this way? You don’t feel that you owe us something for what you have done?”

  He stood, grabbing the paper from her to stand over her
. She would not let him loom over her. She stood, facing him, letting the beast rise in her spirit and in her eyes.

  “Do you believe everything you read in gossips rags?” she asked, keeping her cool except for the burning yellow of her eyes. Her voice was quiet. Nothing about her presented a challenge.

  Nothing about her was obsequious.

  “Is it true?” he shouted. Furious at the idea and that, yet again, he could not intimidate her.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I own that shop. Yes, I have earned money.”

  “You have destroyed your name. Our name. You have destroyed your chance at Mr. Pallister. I never believed that Mr. Bentworth could possibly want you, but Pallister might have been tricked into wanting you.”

  She had expected nothing else of her brother and his wife than what was happening, but it didn’t make it less painful. And it did not make the way he was treating her—as if she were an unwanted puppy to be gotten rid of—any less hurtful. She was his sister. She had known him for almost two hundred years. She…

  …deserved better.

  Her voice was quiet and emotionless as she asked, “What do you want from me?”

  “Compensation for your board and care for a hundred years!”

  That could not be all. She waited.

  “And for you to leave.”

  There it was. That demand to get away. To be done with her. She could not allow it. She would not leave Rodger to this animal and his wife. Not even if they were her nephew’s parents.

  She swallowed and said, “I will leave, if you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “I have paid for my housing this entire time. I will not give you more money for something that I have already overcompensated you for.”

  His fury mottled his cheeks, his growled in his throat. He tried looming again. Making him ridiculous when she held up a single finger which, combined with the wolf in her eyes, had him stepping back.

  He sat again, trying to cover that he’d stepped back from her—that his wolf had lost to hers.