Antigone, Venetia's closest friend, crossed the hall the moment that Venetia entered behind her adopted Uncle. Bradford Malvern was Venetia's only family, and she counted herself lucky to have been so blessed.
“Hello my dear,” Antigone said and slid her arm into Venetia’s. The friends were foils of the others. Venetia was small, curvy, with golden curls and blue-green eyes. Her lips were pink, her skin creamy. Antigone was taller than her friend, willowy, with long dark hair and pale, pale skin.
They kissed cheeks and linked arms with a smooth familiarity that bespoke long years of friendship.
“You look lovely,” Venetia said, grinning in delight to see her friend. They had, of course, spent the morning together, but Antigone had elected to get dressed at home rather than in her rooms at Venetia’s home.
“You’ll never believe it,” Antigone exclaimed without acknowledging the compliment.
“Lord Maxwell finally proposed to Charlotte Montrose.” Venetia grinned at the idea of it, and the two shared the joke they’d been discussing just that morning. Lord Maxwell was nine centuries if he was a day, and Charlotte Montrose wasn’t seventy. Though for some reason the two of them seemed fast friends regardless. If they were young boy and old man, it would be sweet. Because they weren’t, the old biddies had made a big furor over their friendship. The idiots.
It wasn’t so much that either Venetia or Antigone cared what the members of their village did so much as it bothered them that their neighbors cared and judged what the others did.
“No, better! The Duke of Wolfemuir and his cousin, a baron, Lord something or other have taken Edgefield for the summer.”
Venetia’s head cocked as she processed what Antigone was saying. Their village was small, and there was little to recommend it to outsiders. Edgefield was certainly one of the nicest homes in the area, but a Duke and a Baron electing to summer here? When they, no doubt, had many homes of their own? It was unlikely to the extent that it was surreal.
Their little town boasted only one knight, and he was a pathetic one at that. He had been knighted for some random piece of economics or other that benefited the Triumvirate and then retiring on his laurels. What would actual noblemen do to the already delicate balance of their vicious little society? And. . . how many of the neighborhood mama’s were imagining their beloved daughters as a duchess or lady?
Venetia knew the answer immediately and burst into laughter. The entertainment of seeing the others chase after these noblemen would give the two friends much to laugh over.
Antigone who had been waiting for Venetia to imagine it out joined in on the fun, and their eyes dance with the merriment of what was envisioned.
“That is priceless,” Venetia said. “I wonder how many of those mamas are agonizing over their daughter’s woeful wardrobe and imagining their sweet young miss coming to the ball to find the unlikeliest of romances.”
“The seamstresses have got to be rubbing their hands together in glee. New wardrobes are certainly going to be ordered,” Antigone added, glancing down at her exquisite but slightly outdated gown. “If they haven't been already.”
Venetia continued the thought without a pause, “As if a Baron and a Duke would come to a public ball and look among the local gentry for potential brides.”
Her sarcasm was evident. Being born in the mortal realm had impeded Venetia’s ability to care overly about rank, and Antigone was naturally rebellious which left both unmoved in the face of such potential splendor.
Venetia was a child tyros who had been found, protected, taught and eventually placed with Bradford Malvern who had similar abilities to her own and a kind heart. Which meant, she thought, that she’d been astoundingly lucky enough to find her way to Kendawyn and then to be well-adopted when she arrived alone in this magical world. She was a mage, like Uncle Bradford. And like him, she was very talented when it came to working magecraft with plants. It was as if plants responded to the whims of each of their hearts.
Venetia’s best friend, Antigone, was the daughter of a clergyman’s pretty wife and she had been raised by a relative. They were wealthy enough to travel and do as they wished, but they didn’t stand out among the well-bred gentry of the neighborhood. Perhaps they could have, but they chose not to stand out. Certainly not far enough to have much hope of a titled nobleman being interested in them—and neither of them would have been interested in such an event. Both, however, could predict the hearts and hopes of the neighborhood young ladies.
“They don’t imagine, you silly chit, they have seen! They’re here! It’s wonderful. Mary fainted in front of the Duke. The nobles introduced themselves to Father and said they know your uncle. Can you believe it? It’s even better. One of their cousins married Alice. They’re proud of her. You can tell…it makes every one of those Mamas think their daughters have a chance.”
“Wait, what? Alice? No…that family?” Venetia breathed it out a laugh and then grinned at Antigone. Venetia was thrilled. The entertainment was going to be fantastic. Plus there was the chance of in-person news regarding their dear friend.
Alice, Antigone, and Venetia had all gone to the same lady’s finishing school. Antigone and Venetia were friendly because they’d come from the same village and been sent up to school together. Venetia and Alice had become friends almost instantly because Alice was kind and Venetia felt sorry for the other girl since even Venetia, as a tyros, could do better magecraft than Alice.
It hadn’t taken long for Antigone—who did not care for anyone but Venetia—to find Alice had somehow bypassed all the barriers Antigone put up against people and then it was too late. Antigone’s heart had been breached and she found herself with another dear friend. Which still made just two.
“Even if one of the noblemen's family has married Alice that doesn’t mean anything, the fools.” Venetia scorned the idea of wanting a relationship based off of the chance of birth and was far too democratic to find much value in a station in life that was the happenstance of birth. Venetia eyed Antigone carefully. Her friend’s answers were rarely what Venetia expected and she was curious what her friend was thinking.
“There’s more,” Antigone said, face a little more serious. “The Duke is the one my father has me foisted me upon when he finally fades. Father set it up forever ago when I was just tiny. Technically speaking, His Grace, Duke of Wolfemuir is my future guardian.”
“Because of…”
Antigone nodded before Venetia could finish. Not that she would have. Some secrets couldn’t be voiced aloud. Not with magic running rampant through Kendawyn and werewolves and vampires with their ridiculously sharp hearing in the same room as the secret.
Of course, just because Alice was terrible at magecraft didn’t mean Venetia was, even now she had a pinky ring that had been etched with spells—including one to hide their conversations from anyone who might want to listen in.
“We must know more,” Venetia said, “for that reason alone.”
“Exactly,” Antigone agreed.
“Plus, we’ll get to see Martha Wells and Letitia throwing themselves at the noble feet. That will be delightful,” Venetia said.
“My dears,” Venetia’s uncle interrupted. They turned in unison and found themselves looking past Uncle Bradford to two giants. The strange men were well over six-feet tall and both were broad shouldered. One was shaggier but far more commanding. The other was smooth, blue-eyed, and had a mischievous expression to his face.
“May I present, His Grace, Duke of Wolfemuir.” The shaggy one bowed slightly.
“And Lord Stanwullf.” The blue-eyed one bowed with precision.
Both ladies curtsied as Venetia’s uncle said, “My niece Miss Venetia Malvern and her good friend Miss Antigone Wellington.”
“May I have this dance,” the Duke asked Antigone. She was so startled, she nodded. And then the Baron asked Venetia to dance.
The glances the friends gave each other agreed that they’d be swarmed with hatred the next time any of the l
ocal misses got them alone. Their eyes were alight with laughter as they anticipated torturing their neighbors. It didn’t need to be said that they would be visiting their local village, Plavington, to buy ribbons or some other nonsensical item sometime soon. All for the sheer joy of watching the neighborhood misses squirm and beg for snippets of insider information about the Duke.
“Lord Stanwullf,” Venetia began though by rights she should have allowed him to direct their conversation. “Is it true that Alice Barrett married into your family?”
“She did indeed.” He grinned as he replied, and Venetia could see the affection in his eyes. “She married my far too-lucky cousin, Hugh Darcy.”
Venetia smiled up at the Baron, happy to see that grin in association with her friend. She missed Alice desperately. Of the three friends, Alice was—by far—the most romantic. It had been her, and only her, who had dreamed of falling in lovely, having a family, and such. Her parents had been devoted to one another, Alice longed for the same. She deserved, Venetia and Antigone agreed, to be loved as Alice had hoped.
Venetia and Antigone had not been so lucky when it came to the relationship of their parents and the two friends had no more dreamed of love and marriage than they’d dreamed of losing their fortunes to become governesses or school house mistresses.
Instead, their dreams had been similar. They wanted their friendship. They wanted to travel. They loved to explore their abilities and to learn. They were, in fact, terrible bluestockings in their ways. And, for that matter, sneaky and rebellious in their ideals. It was far nicer to be a woman in Kendawyn than it had been to be one during much of the history of the mortal realm. They had no worries that they would be forced into marriage. They could own property and travel rather freely. There were ways for women to support themselves if they were not blessed financially although each of them had been. Venetia through her beloved uncle and Antigone through a distant female relative who had left Antigone quite the fortune when the relative had finally faded from Kendawyn.
None of Venetia’s history with Antigone and Alice would mean anything to this handsome baron. Venetia told herself to attend to the gentleman in front of her or she would be incalculably rude. She looked up at him and had to admit he was very, very handsome. He spoke to a part of her that she thought she had muted forever. He had straight, strong lines, in his back, his nose, his chin. He had a grin in his eyes which were bright, brilliant blue. Like the sea on a perfect day. He had a nice smile and a way of moving that was athletic and powerful.
He was, she told herself, a very fine specimen. And that was all.
Venetia wanted to ask more about Alice, but Venetia couldn’t imagine how this smooth nobleman could convey more than Alice’s chatty letters already had.
“It was," he grinned at her again with an inexplicable expression on his face, "Alice who told me to come meet you."
Venetia stumbled slightly in the well-known dance and his hand pressed lightly into her spine, keeping her on her feet and instep.
“She said, in fact, that you were the perfect match for me and that I would do well to persuade you to love me.”
Venetia tripped again over her steps, but he carried her through. She then breathed in, choked on her own saliva and broke into a lengthy coughing fit. During all of which the Baron looked down at her in bemusement while she looked up at him in utter, speechless horror.
Chapter Four
Venetia didn’t respond.
He had led her to the side of the hall and waved a servant with a tray over. While she pressed her handkerchief to her streaming eyes, the Baron stood by, bemused, holding a glass of warm, watered down lemonade.
The hair on the back of her neck rose as she recovered her poise. Once she stopped coughing, she breathed slowly, eyeing the monster of a man in front of her. He was, literally, a monster. He carried a wolf inside of him. Alice had told Venetia and Antigone about Hugh’s wolf. He ruled it, but it was still there. Capable of untold, unimaginable violence. For some reason that wolf adored Alice. But, Alice had said, once you noticed the wolves in the people around you, it was hard not to feel very much like a lamb.
What was happening with the wolf in front of her? The idea of it sent a chill down Venetia’s spine but she wasn’t sure quite why.
Venetia, after all, was capable of her own horrors in the form of magecraft. A battle between a powerful mage and a powerful werewolf was by no means certain. Not that that part mattered. What mattered was what Alice had done. She had foisted these wolves off of her two supposedly dearest friends. Knowing what she knew, she had disregarded her friends’ plans and hopes and, and, and betrayed them. But no, Venetia thought, Alice was who Alice was.
Romantic.
She was in love. She wanted her friends to love. It was not very much of a surprise when one stopped to examine what had happened. And Venetia had to admit there was something to someone like the Duke of Wolfemuir for Antigone. No one else would stand a chance, but that didn't matter for it wasn’t what Antigone wanted.
Venetia turned from the Baron to seek out Antigone’s gaze. In that gaze, Venetia saw corresponding panic.
That…that…horrible friend. Venetia wanted to believe that Alice would never have done this, but it was more that she should not have. But of course, she had. Of course. Alice was going to be strangled the next time Venetia got close enough.
Just what had Alice told the men? Venetia’s mind raced and she realized suddenly—that Alice wouldn’t have betrayed them fully. Venetia took a deep, calming breath. Pasted a sick smile on her face for Antigone and told herself to remember: No one can force another to love or marriage in Kendawyn.
Venetia was going to write Alice a letter that was so full of reproach Alice’s eyes would burn reading it.
And Alice! Her letters had been full of Cousin Oliver. The handsome, man-boy, tart-stealing, smirking, tease of the cousins. The one who needed to settle down and enjoy a pack of daughters. The sneaky wench…oh Alice, Venetia thought, why? But, wishing her friend had not done this was for another moment.
Alice had thrown this wolf at Venetia and told him to marry someone like herself.
“My sweet cousin Alice…” Lord Stanwullf began when Venetia had stopped coughing, hiding her thoughts behind a lengthy sip of lemonade, and finally looked up at him.
“Stop, please,” Venetia said. “I am going to be very much from the mortal realm when I say these things, but please understand, I am from the Mortal Realm. I have no desire to marry you, gain your title, or bear you children. There is, in fact, nothing you can offer me that I desire. I don’t know what Alice was thinking!”
With that statement, Oliver Bentworth burst into laughter. It was as if Venetia had told him some wonderful joke instead of been startlingly, horrifyingly, rudely blunt.
Venetia’s head tilted as she examined him. He was, she had to admit again, handsome. Very much so. Toe-curling handsome. His muscles had been firm under her hands while they danced. His back was broad enough to carry whatever load she wanted to place on him. His eyes were bright with humor and amazing color—the blue of the purest of seas. It was the mischief that enticed her.
His lips were wide, full, and curled with laughter. They called to her for a corresponding grin, but she could not and would not encourage him.
“You are looking me rather like a bug,” he said, and his voice was full of humor. He looked as if he’d run some wonderful race, energized by what she’d said as if she had dared him to make her fall in love with him. Oh no, maybe I have. As the thought settled, she realized that was just what she'd done. She should have just played the damsel, adoring and faint a time or two. She'd have been rid of him in days. Instead...she'd been rude and blunt. Oh, what have I done?
“You’re drawing rather more attention than I am comfortable with,” Venetia said, knowing she’d made a mistake. She told him no. She’d intrigued him.
“Let’s dance then,” he said, not waiting for a reply but pulling her back into
a dance.
She should have been embarrassed from the scene they’d just created for the people of Plavington, but the way his fingers were pressing into her spine told her that his interest was increasing.
“Do you object to being adored in moments?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation, regretting it a moment later. She needed to muzzle herself.
* * * * *
“And what,” he asked with an offended tone that did not disguise the underlying humor, “is so wrong with me?” Oliver wanted to bless Alice. Already his ennui had fled. Already he was planning his attack. He’d beg, he’d plead, he’d accomplish insane tasks to get this female. She had brought his wolf to full, vibrant, life, and interest. He’d do whatever was necessary to get this little female to give him a chance. Clean the stable Hercules had cleaned? Done. Cross the Seven Seas? In a moment. Whatever he had to do—just for a chance with this perfect Venetia.
Her image and her smile—the scent of her. They were imprinting into his soul and imagination. Suddenly, no one else would do for him, but her. He didn’t need to know her perfectly to know she fit him exactly. And the discovery of her would enchant the rest of his millennia.
He wanted. Wholly. Fiercely. Venetia and only Venetia.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she ordered before she explained, “I know Alice rather well and the answer is still no. I’d be happy to introduce you to Martha Wells, she’s far prettier than I.”
That statement wasn’t worth responding to, so instead he asked, “When and where do you come from in the Mortal Realm?”
As she opened her lovely lips to answer—they were the most enchanting shade of pink—he added, “Wait let me guess.”
He looked her up and down—and she reflected Kendawyn society in every respect. Her dress cupped her breasts, but without a shade of impropriety. Her gown was lovely, simple, and well-crafted. Her accent was precise without any reflection of any world other than Kendawyn, anytime other than this time. But, her uncle, the man who’d guardianship of her, was a man of learning and society—he’d have given her every bit of what he had to offer. There had been no skimping on the education of his adopted child and Venetia had received the best governesses and schools. She must have tested well as a mage, even as a child to be placed with one such as Bradford Malvern. “You’re from either the United States or Western Europe after the 1950s.”
Persuaded to Love: A Kendawyn Paranormal Regency Page 3