When the song was done, Rhys, Antigone, and Bradford Malvern clapped. Oliver met Rhys’s gaze, winked, and started a second duet semi-forcing Venetia into staying at the piano. It was one that she could leave him behind on and it wouldn’t have been impossible for him to play it alone. He’d chosen it on purpose to give her a choice. But after a long moment, she stayed.
“Am I so bad,” he asked softly. “Too terrible to even get to know?”
“I am fully aware that you want something more than friendship,” Venetia replied. Her fingers moved over the keyboard smoothly. He’d somehow selected a song she knew very well, and he was enjoying playing it with her.
“You know Alice well?”
“Yes,” Venetia said softly. “And she knows me well. She should have known that the something more you seek is not something I want to give.”
Their voices were low, too low to overhear by the others—especially with the piano music. It was only Rhys that Oliver had to worry about. Come to think of it, he wasn’t quite sure which line of Kendawyn supernatural Antigone belonged to. He’d seen her in the sunlight, so she wasn’t a vampire, she had a faded scent of the wolf about her, but that was likely being the child of a werewolf. The scent was too weak, now that he thought about it, for her to be a wolf herself. She was another Mage, like Venetia, and for that matter, Alice.
He ignored Venetia’s statement. He had, however, heard it too well. “Then you know Alice wouldn’t have sent me if she didn’t like me—love me even and certainly trust me. She knows me, Venetia. Knows that I wouldn’t play with your feelings. Though I suspect that Alice knows me rather better than I thought given that she sent me to you. I can’t help but ask you just to give me a chance.”
Venetia dropped her fingers from the keyboard and looked directly into his eyes.
“No,” she said distinctly. Her gaze was direct, her face firm. There was no humor or teasing in her face. She was all serious, and the sober reaction filled him with dread. What if he was unsuccessful? She had snuck into his heart so quickly.
He played on, but he reeled inwardly. What did she mean no? He was charming. He was well-bred. He enjoyed her jokes. He was attractive and smart. Even if you set aside rank and fortune, he wasn’t a monster. He had much to offer. Didn’t he?
“No?” He was honestly shocked. He suspected his face showed it.
“No,” she replied firmly. She rose from the keyboard, leaving him trapped in the new movement he’d begun when she was playing with him and she crossed the room to share a wide chair with Antigone—thereby saving her friend from further flirting from Rhys.
Rhys’s eyes narrowed on Venetia, and she raised a single, perfect brow at him. Oliver heard the low growl but he doubted any of the others did. His desired love didn’t wilt under Rhys’s commanding gaze either. She simply started talking dresses with Antigone, deliberately leaving Rhys out of the conversation.
Oliver felt a moment of trepidation but when Rhys leaned forward to pressure Venetia with his sheer presence, Antigone shifted slightly and Rhys rose—defeated with one mere shift of Antigone’s shoulders. Oliver paused, surprised, and realized that Alice was right. This young female was the only woman he'd ever seen, outside of family, who had ever dared to counter Rhys other than Venetia a moment ago. Oliver wondered just what Rhys thought about that.
“Well, my lad,” Rhys said, recognizing that they’d been thwarted. “Haven’t we agreed to shoot someone’s birds drastically early or run with a pack or some other such nonsense?”
Rhys’s thoughts were totally hidden as they rose, made their goodbyes, and left.
Oliver hoped his thoughts were as well hidden. He was shocked to his core that the female he wanted had no hesitation in denying him.
My lad, he thought, it’s possible you’re unaccountably spoiled. After becoming an insufferable ass as well, you might be far less of a catch than you thought.
* * * * *
“I admit to being…startled,” Rhys said as they stood outside the manor house. Their carriage pulled up and Oliver scowled at it before climbing in. The moon wasn’t so bright this evening, and he didn’t have any desire to shift and run. He wanted, he thought, to stew in his thoughts.
“Yes,” Oliver replied, keeping back that fervency that would make him seem desperate and possibly disturbing.
“We’re good catches. The best even.” Rhys’s voice was flat and disgusted.
“Handsome,” Oliver said, holding up a figure. He didn’t believe what they were saying and couldn’t help but remember that Alice had said it wouldn’t be enough. Come to think of it—those things hadn’t been enough for Alice or his brother’s wife, Phoebe.
“I might be over-bearing…”
Oliver laughed. “You are the most over-bearing man I know, without question, and I know many, many overbearing, commanding, arrogant fellows.”
“Yes, Yes,” Rhys interrupted. “But I am…”
“You aren't even truly being yourself," Oliver said. "I have seen you control your need to order that miss about."
Rhys shrugged and then said, "It doesn't seem to be what she wants."
He didn't sound defeated. More baffled. What they needed was Alice's advice, her guidance, maybe the chance to strangle her a bit.
“We don’t seem to be what they want,” Oliver said, knowing he stated the obvious and debating, once again, whether the pursuit was worth it. Did he want to chase Venetia simply because she was willing to deny him? But there was something about her—even in that first moment of dancing with her—it was as if, melodramatic, sentimental fool that he was—she fit him. It was like the puzzle of his soul was missing a piece, and he didn’t even know until he held her in his arms. Was it wrong to keep trying when they had said no?
How would he feel if he gave up? How would he feel if a female was doing this to him? He’d feel disgusted and irritated if it were him. How could he persuade her to give him a chance without making her hate him? He wanted her.
Not because she was lovely, though she was. Not because her sense of humor radiated from her like the sun, though it did. It was because now that he met her he’d never be whole again without her. As he had said, melodramatic, sentimental fool.
* * * * *
“Are you tempted?” Venetia lay back on her bed and stared up at the canopy. Her rooms had been given to her by her uncle some time ago. They had been far too nice for the child she had been, but they had been and still were exquisite. There was something about giving something so nice that made her feel welcome as words would never have. Not then. Not until she had known and trusted him. He was such a dear man, adopting her after she’d appeared in Kendawyn, lonely, cold, lost and recently orphaned. He’d decorated her rooms, hired the kindest of governesses and proceeded to spoil Venetia—even thanking her for filling his life with happiness. He acted as if she were the gift rather than the burden. Perhaps she was, but he was a gift as well.
“No,” Antigone replied. She sat at the vanity, brushing her hair and watching her friend through the mirror. “But you are. . .”
“Quiet,” Venetia ordered, disgusted. “You are tempted by the Duke. Who wouldn't be?"
“Wolfemuir himself? Surely you must be joking. Never has a more arrogant man existed on the face of the world of Kendawyn. He’s arrogant…”
“You said that.”
“Self-assured to the point of lunacy. Commanding as if I were one of his pack. Rude. Arrogant.”
“Again, you said that.”
“Not charming. In the least. I am not an object to picked up on a passing fancy.”
“All right," Venetia said, unconvinced, "I will accept your "no" then.”
“But why are you tempted?”
“His eyes,” Venetia said. “And maybe because I know that Uncle wishes it. And maybe because Alice is so happy. And maybe because I want to believe in fairytales even if I don’t believe in them.”
“So you don’t want to run?”
“Oh no,” Venetia replied. �
�I am also not a prize to be picked up with a passing fancy. I am just curious. And he’s very handsome.”
“Lusty wench. And what are you so curious about?” Antigone turned from the mirror to face Venetia directly. Antigone’s hair flowed down her back and reflected in the mirror. If the Duke saw her like this—in her quiet, relaxed beauty, smiling and comfortable—he would never leave her alone.
“To see, like Cinderella, if he’ll pick up the shoe and find me. Or if he isn’t interested enough to do even that.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then plans won’t change. But, Antigone?”
“Yes?”
“Alice is so rarely wrong. And, you do need a protector. An arrogant, powerful protector.”
“It is your turn to be quiet.”
“That is certainly true. I am tempted. I admit it. Irritated but tempted. He is so very handsome, and he smiles so very nicely. And he laughs...he wasn't bothered in the least by what we did. He was amused and intrigued.”
Antigone crossed the room and joined Venetia. Though Antigone had a room of her own, she often stayed in Venetia’s room while staying over. They had spent most nights together for the better whispering of fears, dreams, and plans. And rather than speak of the men again—who weighed on both their minds—they revisited old school days and made plans for what was ahead.
“Alice will be there,” Venetia said in the dark. They couldn’t see each other anymore, the fire had grown low, and the pile of pillows between them—Antigone was a kicker—meant that they couldn’t feel very much of the other. But even still, Venetia felt her friend still. Venetia was certain that Alice would join them in Arathe-By-The-Sea and more certain that Antigone needed to be prepared. Antigone held grudges.
And there was no doubt in Venetia’s mind that Antigone felt that Alice had betrayed them. Venetia, however, could see Alice’s point. Antigone denied herself her dreams for her family—refusing to even consider other paths. Alice did not—had never—found that an acceptable way to live.
“Why would you say that?” Antigone’s voice was ice.
Venetia gave Antigone a sarcastic look, but it was too dark for her friend to see it. “Alice may not have planned our shenanigans. But she’s fully capable of reading us like books. And she’ll want to make sure you don’t kill her.”
“I might. That Rhys she foisted off on me is awful.”
“You mean the Duke?”
“Don’t call him that.”
Venetia’s grin was wicked and unseen. “Why not? He is one, my future duchess.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Why ever not, your Grace?”
“Oh my stars, I will murder you in your sleep.” Antigone’s voice was agonized, prompting Venetia’s low laugh. Her friend lifted one of the pillows and slammed it down on Venetia’s face. It didn’t smother Venetia’s laughter.
“Shut up,” Antigone demanded.
Venetia’s laughter continued a merry bell that rolled through the darkness, muffled by the pillow.
“Shut up.”
Somewhat hysterical, somewhat happy tears were rolling now. “Of course,” tearful laughter, “of course, your grace.”
Antigone faded from the bed, Venetia could feel the shift of weight as her friend disappeared. Then the spirit form of Antigone rose off the bed, pale in the darkness, light streaming behind her like streaks of the other-world. “Ssssilllleenncccceeeeeee.”
Venetia threw a pillow at her friend. It flew through her.
“You are terrifying,” Venetia’s said mildly, curling into her favorite pillow. Antigone floated closer, hovering over the bed, spirit hair floating out in streaks behind her. She was quite simply—ghastly.
Antigone rose higher, hovering just beneath the canopy.
“If you continue to do things like this, your secret will be revealed, and everyone will know you’re a creepy reaper instead of the mage you pretend to be.”
Antigone switched to her human formed and flopped onto the bed, making Venetia’s body bounce on the mattress.
“I’m sorry,” Venetia said. “But I might call you the duchess from now until the day you fade from Kendawyn. It has been set in stone now. Nothing else is possible.”
“I hate you,” Antigone said, snatching Venetia’s favorite pillow and throwing it across the room.
“That was just evil,” Venetia said, peering at her pillow across the room and debating the chilled run to get it. There was the pile between them…but that was her pillow on the floor across the room. But then again…her home was large, rambling drafty, and often chilly.
“There are consequences to our choices,” Antigone said primly, quoting one of their school mistresses.
“I believe I mentioned that I hate you,” Venetia said as she bounded from the bed, snatched her pillow and leapt onto the mattress. She deliberately landed on Antigone, making her friend grunt before rolling across the pile of pillows and curling back up into her cozy ball.
“I..."Antigone's voice was a near whisper in the darkness. "I still worry over the few who have discovered my secret."
"Like Maud?"
"Yes," Antigone said. "I haven't heard the last of her. She's just..."
"...waiting," Venetia finished. She didn't think that Antigone was wrong, it was more that Venetia felt that the two of them could deal with anything. Antigone should not be a reaper. It was only possibly because her mother had not been faithful to her husband. If Antigone had been a mage like her mother, no one would have known. But--she wasn't. "We'll deal with it."
"But first," Antigone said, "We'll deal with these arrogant…men."
Chapter Seven
“Sweet,” Uncle Bradford said the next morning. He held out his arm and led her into the conservatory. They often wandered in there together in the mornings, examining their experimental plants and favorite flowers. Each of them were mages, each of them were particularly gifted when it came to plants. Many a day had been spent running their fingers over petals or leaves and discussing them. It was how they’d first bonded she as an orphan girl and he as the man who would be her father in every way that mattered. “I know that you wish to go to Arathe-By-The-Sea, but I cannot see you leaving here for at least six days.”
His face was so very sincere, so very kind, so very tender. But that sixth day was a message to her, and she knew it. She’d engineered this ball. And he wasn’t going to let her escape it.
She took a deep breath, held it and then said, “Father, Antigone and I wish…”
“Venetia,” he said softly, and she closed her eyes, letting her senses linger in the scents of their perfect conservatory, finding solace therein.
She so rarely used the term father. She knew he'd heard it. She'd seen his eyes shift towards hers. She was happy that it was a term that gave him joy, but...she should not have used it. Not then. Not to manipulate him.
Her father, her sweet Uncle Bradford, was not going to argue with her. He never did. He never scolded. His kind mildness was its own discipline. But she’d been older when she’d come to him. No unruly toddler but a terrified adolescent. She adored him.
“Of course, Uncle,” she said, attempting to hide her frustration and knowing she’d cooked her own goose.
“Venetia, my sweet,” Uncle Bradford said when she turned towards her favorite plants—the array of orchids that she’d arranged just so on shelves made by an artisan. She turned back to him when he said her name. “You know I want you to be happy.”
“Yes uncle,” she said, trepidation filling her very veins. This was an opening salvo, and she feared she knew far too well what came next.
“I would like for you to consider something.”
She swallowed, pressed her lips together to hide any trembling, and nodded.
“Happiness comes from the connections between people. I know that before you came to me, there were very hard times for you. But I think we’ve found happiness, the two of us, toddling by together.”
She licked her suddenly very dry lips and said, “Yes uncle.”
“Not everyone is like your birth parents.”
She didn’t reply, but tears filled her eyes at his gentle words with their gentle message.
“And Alice knows you very well. She must see something in this young Lord if she were to throw him your way knowing the secrets of your heart.”
Uncle Bradford’s face was not lined with age, but there was such a sense of calm assurance to him that it seemed he should be wrinkled and old. No one was in Kendawyn though. His wisdom and careful words had illustrated thoughts that had been trying to scroll across Venetia’s own mind, but she’d been carefully shoving then away.
Venetia bit the inside of her cheeks to prevent objecting or protesting or. . . agreeing.
“I’m not saying you don’t make that arrogant, assured young Lord earn you. I’m not saying you even give yourself to him or consider a relationship inevitable. I’m asking you to think about giving him a chance. Dance with him. Let him dance with you. Show him a piece of yourself and see what he does with it. Trust him by degrees, if he earns each measure of faith in him. Try for happiness.”
Uncle Bradford made it seem so very…possible. Reasonable even.
Venetia’s breath came in silent, jerking gasps as she tried to hold back a tornado of emotions.
“I won’t always be here,” he said softly. He was very old. People in Kendawyn usually lived for about a thousand years—ever young until they began to fade from the world. And though Uncle Bradford wouldn’t be fading anytime soon—he was much, much older than Venetia. She dreaded already the morning she woke to find that he was a little softer around the edges, and the one when she could see through him as she had Antigone the previous evening, and the one when he was no longer present in any sense.
“Don’t,” she cried. The tears overflowed as he spoke—just imagining his loss was too much for her.
“And it would give me much happiness to know that my girls were happy. Alice has found someone who seems to adore her. Antigone and you, however, my sweet, are my problem children. If Antigone ever falls in love or if you ever love another—the other will feel left behind. Both of you are so determined not to love . . . but neither of you should close your minds to happiness.”
Persuaded to Love: A Kendawyn Paranormal Regency Page 6