Persuaded to Love: A Kendawyn Paranormal Regency

by Amanda A. Allen

  She laughed at the chagrin on his face, but she could see it was true.

  “What is your favorite color?” His eyes were so steady on her face that it seemed as if the answer mattered instead of just being a random fact of little consequence.

  “The deep brown of healthy earth.”

  He smiled at her reply eyes lingering on her face too long. She blushed, she knew, for she could feel the heat on her cheeks and chest.

  “Yours?” She tilted her head as she waited for his reply, surprised that she wanted to know. Something seemed to have changed over the last weeks. Had she slipped past thinking about giving him a chance to actually being in love? Had she been giving him a chance this whole time?

  “The brown of your eyes.” A ridiculous reply but they’d sworn to tell the truth. That was his truth—at least at this moment. She paused as she realized that she believed he was actually telling her the truth. That he wasn’t just playing games with her.

  “Your favorite food?” she asked though it was his turn to choose the question.

  “Lemon cake.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded, and they both laughed at that memory of the horrible cake she'd gotten him to eat. It was a silly memory really, but somehow it was colored with something more. It was colored by now, the change in her feelings from then to this moment. The difference was stark even though so little time had passed.

  “Yours?” He asked it as he planned to hand it to her on a platter a moment later. Perhaps he did. She suspected that he spoiled those who he loved.

  “Pizza with pepperoni, pineapple, mushrooms, and red pepper flakes.”

  He paused and then replied, “Not something you get often.”

  “Not so much, but still my favorite. I really liked this one little pizza place near my home. My mom would take me there sometimes. Just the two of us.”

  She heard the sadness in her voice, but inside she was surprised. She hadn’t been able to think of her mom without pain for so long. But she didn’t feel pain now. Just a sort of…nostalgia.

  “Favorite holiday?”

  “Christmas,” She said without hesitation.

  He nodded in agreement and then said, “Your favorite thing about Christmas?”

  “The feel of it.”

  He grinned and then gave his own answer, “Me too. The family gets together. Everyone. It doesn’t happen often outside of Christmas at Wolfemuir House.”

  The sound of the surf was the backdrop to their conversation. Only a couple of little boys were on the beach, a long ways down, throwing stones into the water. The scent of salt and water, the soft breeze, the warmth of the sun, and the perfect blue of the sky crystalized the memory in her head, and she knew that whatever happened—this would be something she remembered.

  “What do you want in the future?” She asked, hoping he wouldn’t fixate his reply on her. And he didn’t.

  “A family. Children. Laughing together.”

  The perfect reply. She didn’t tell him what she wanted because she was no longer quite sure. She only knew that it was time to make a decision.

  * * * * *

  Oliver brought her home as the streets really started waking up, and she made her way to her room and started a bath for herself. Kendawyn was a place where running hot water happened as much by science as magic. Regardless, she added her bath salts and milks to the water, lit candles, and shut the curtains. She brought her robe into the room and requested a pot of tea with cream. She intended to linger in the water and try to decide what she wanted out of life.

  But she thought she might already know.

  Perhaps, once, she had wanted only peace and safety. But the more time she spent with Oliver, the more she wondered if she had limited her dreams. With him, she would still have everything she wanted. She’d have Antigone and her work and her Uncle Bradford. She’d have peace and safety. She didn’t even question that anymore. Oliver Bentworth would cut off his own arm before he allowed anything to happen to Venetia.

  Which wasn’t what she wanted so much as she wanted a man she’d never have to fear. How long had she been in Kendawyn to still be haunted by her birth father? He had been a hard man. Quick to anger—and so quick to show that anger through hefty, powerful fists. Mostly to her mother, Venetia remembered. Occasionally to herself. But not being hit so much herself, didn’t mean she hadn’t been scarred by the sounds of her mother pleading, crying, the sounds of her screams, the noise of fist hitting flesh as her own father beat her own mother.

  It was something she had shoved away for so long. In the bath, with the steam and her favorite tea and a morning with Oliver, it didn’t leave her as much haunted as sad. She was sad for her mother who had finally been driven to run but didn’t survive. She was so sad that her mother didn’t have someone to love her like Oliver. And she was furious, burning in the depths of her heart and stomach furious with her mom that she didn’t leave before. That she didn’t save Venetia from that life. How dare she stay when she had a little girl hearing and hiding under the bed? How dare her mother take Venetia away to the woods and then kill herself? How dare she?

  Didn’t she love Venetia enough? The tears were coursing freely now, and Venetia wanted to go back to the early days with Oliver when she had been leading him to late night swims with leeches and tricking him into terrible cake. She wanted to go back to the little girl she had been, pull her out from under the bed, and promise her that things would get better. She wanted to shake her mother and bind her birth father up with plants and leave him high, high, high in the darkest, deepest part of the woods to rot.

  But as she finally let herself remember, she realized she was angrier with her mother. Maybe because her father had been more monster than parent. Maybe because her mother had loved her enough to give her good memories and snatches of good times to mix in with the horrible, but her father had never cared enough to do anything but slap at her and send her running to hide.

  “What do you want, Venetia?” she asked aloud and then took a sip of her cold tea. It didn’t soothe like it would have if it were hot, but there was something solidifying about the act of sipping tea in a glorious bathroom surrounded by the luxuries that her adoptive father had provided to her that made her realize she was not that little girl anymore. And that she'd never be her mother.

  The little girl she had been had dreams despite her life, Venetia remembered. She’d dreamed of a time when she would be the Mommy when she would have a nice Daddy for her children, and they’d play and have tea parties, and pizza nights, and go to dances together.

  Remembering the child she had been awoke in Venetia what she wanted. She wanted the beautiful life she had now. And she wanted a family of her own. She wanted those early dreams to come to pass. And she just might want Oliver to stay a part of days and her nights, too. But she didn’t want to forget the child she had been anymore. That child deserved to be remembered and acknowledged. What a little fighter she had been. And was still.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oliver pressed his finger to his lips and led her deeper into the maze at the gardens for the Tyros House. They’d arrived with many friends to the charity breakfast for the Tyros House. There were few events that were better attended in Arathe-By-The-Sea. The truth was Tyros, like Venetia, were rare. Occasionally a traveling Kendawyner would bring back a mortal to the realm. The magical arrival of someone to Kendawyn without outside assistance required such a unique set of circumstances few arrived each year. Making the Tyros House constantly necessary, but never very full. Either way, well-connected Tyros like Venetia ensured that the house remained elegant and cared for. It was staffed with kind servants and people who taught Tyros about the realm. Who trained them in their abilities—they were nearly always mages. Who found them long-term places once they’d gained their feet.

  The maze, the gardens, the hall were crowded with people that Venetia knew both by face and by reputation. Which made, of course, following Oliver into the maze a ri
sk. Even still, she laughed as she followed him. The leaves of the vines and willow trees were brushing against her skin. Her magic thrummed in her, and it made each touch of the greenery a welcome that intoxicated her with their life.

  “What is it?” She looked up at him and couldn’t help but realize how much she liked his face. She liked the grin at the corner of his eyes, the brilliance of that gaze that shone with intelligence, wit, and humor. She liked the straightness of his nose and the wave of his hair and his straight, white teeth. She liked the curve of his lips and the strength of his jaw, and how they led down to broad, attractive shoulders. She refused to look further, but she could almost see him in her mind’s eyes. He was a beautiful specimen with the grace of the wolf that he was—

  Oh, she thought, I am infatuated with him. Possibly more. Oh no. She had barely been able to accept she wanted more than her current life. She wasn’t ready for love, was she?

  “I’m hiding,” he whispered, leading her further into the maze. But they weren’t in the maze, not really. That would be innocent enough. They had bypassed the edge of the maze and ended up in the wild gardens—the area that Tyros House had yet to cultivate. It was deserted and too private and a place where anything could happen.

  Anything, she thought, like falling in love or deeper into infatuation or being forced to realize that the distance you thought you were keeping was ineffective.

  “From who?” Her voice was a whisper as well and it only added to the seductiveness of the situation. They had to stand close to hear each other, the adventure—minor though it was—was building a link between them that was as real to her as the caresses from the plants on her cheeks.

  “Lady Crossley and her daughter, Melanie.”

  “And who are they?” Was that an edge of jealousy to her voice? It was not. No. No, she told herself, no, you are not jealous.

  He grinned before he said, “The most persistent of Mamas with the most tenacious of daughters. Both of whom have an eye on my title and estate. Save me.”

  Those last two words were accompanied by a hand that reached slowly out, giving her all the time in the world to escape.

  But she didn’t move. She watched his hand come closer, and when it cupped her cheek, she turned into it. The warmth spread from his fingers to her cheek to her spine all the way down to her toes.

  “What are you doing to me?” she whispered into his hand. She wasn’t sure she was ready for the answer.

  “The same thing you’ve done to me, I hope." The words were breath against her cheek as he moved closer. The shadows flickered across her face, vines trailed from ancient oaks, and her magic roared through her as he stepped just a little closer. His chest just barely brushed hers—but it was a closeness she had never experienced, and it shot a thrill of shock through her.

  He leaned just a bit closer, and she froze. And—he stopped. He waited, letting her choose. Not pressing or pushing.

  “I…” She didn’t know what to say, but that a twig cracked, her eyes widened, and Alice’s fate rolled out before Venetia.

  He saw her panic or sensed it or smelled it—she didn’t know which of his wolf senses betrayed the level of her panic, but he took her by the waste and tossed her high. Her magic surged, the vines of the tree grabbed her and pulled her into their depths, and she could only hear what happened next.

  “Lord Stanwullf?” the voice was too young and too eager.

  Was it the Melanie he spoke of?

  “I suggest that you don’t try it,” he said, coldly.

  The edge of suppressed fury shocked her. He was…well…he was furious like her birth father had been furious so often. She felt her heart beginning to race and her breath come fast and faster, and she wanted to run, to hide. But she also wanted to leap down from this tree and pummel the owner of the voice who brought out a side of Oliver that Venetia wasn’t ready to see.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” The words were flirty as was the tone. But, that statement was a clear lie and Venetia ached to peek, but she couldn’t risk it. She wasn’t ready to be trapped into anything. And the idea that the girl could look up and see Venetia hiding was horrifying. She could feel the pulse of her heart in her throat. She told herself it was only from the threat of being discovered.

  She heard movement and then the smell of Oliver lighting a cigar.

  “I believe that you intend on your mother popping out from the bushes in a moment or two with one of her cronies. I suggest that you are not here when that happens.”

  “Lord Stanwullf!” The voice attempted to be shocked but also teasing. It failed. There was an edge of panic in it, probably because Oliver sounded terrifying.

  “Move on,” he said. The barely hidden rage made Venetia even more uncomfortable. Further flashes of her father ran through her mind.

  “Or what,” the unconscionable brat asked.

  “Or I will take you by the arm, drag you through the bushes, and toss you at your mother’s feet. You will be ruined, but I will not spend the rest of my millennia with you. If you expect that you can somehow shame a Wolfemuir wolf into taking you on, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “It worked for the Countess Vohlk,” she said. And her voice was nearer, still failing at being a seductive tease. Venetia dared to tug the leaves hiding her eyes away and glance down. The girl stepped closer to Oliver and it echoed Venetia’s position from earlier. But the casual stance, the relaxed set of his shoulders was all wrong. She didn’t have a wolf’s ability to smell emotion., but she was certain that those who did would feel as if their nose had been set on fire by his anger.

  “My sweet cousin, Alice, is adored by her husband, and he would have married her regardless of interfering busybodies. The same can not be said of me or you. Make your choice, but you can be assured that you will be ruining yourself.”

  “Lord Stanwullf, I am certain that I don’t know what you mean.” The backpedaling the girl was attempting after that last move was shocking to Venetia. How dare she? How could she? Venetia didn’t think she’d ever be able to do what this girl was trying. Even if she were desperate for marriage, Venetia wouldn’t do it.

  “I am certain, you horrendous brat, that you are lying through your teeth. Make your choice.” The threat was so explicit in his tone, Venetia wasn’t sure why the girl wasn’t running.

  There was a rustle in the trees, but Oliver didn’t move. The girl was frozen in front of him. Venetia could only see hair and shoulders encompassed by a maroon material, but she suspected that Oliver knew exactly who was coming.

  “Oh,” Antigone said. She immediately glanced around and found Venetia’s gaze in the tree. A smirk spread over Antigone's face.

  Be quiet, Venetia mouthed. She wasn’t referring to Antigone revealing the hiding spot but daring to speak of this. Ever. Ever, ever.

  “Excuse me,” the girl said. She didn’t step back, but closer to Oliver.

  Rhys laughed. A mean laugh that was immediately followed by action. He crossed the clearing, took the girl by her arm, and tugged her away from Oliver. “Aren’t you a horrible little piece of lace and sass?” The growl in Rhys’s voice made the girl whimper.

  “Let me be entirely clear,” the Duke leaned down and put his face directly into the face of the girl. “You will never, ever approach any member of the Wolfemuir pack with your tricks again. Begone female.”

  He tossed her arm aside, and the girl spun and ran.

  “Am I unable to leave you alone for even a moment?” All of the anger was gone from Rhys’s voice and a brilliant humor colored his tone.

  “I will never hear the end of this, will I?” Oliver sounded aggrieved and tossed a glance up at Venetia that begged to be saved.

  “No, indeed no.” Rhys shook his head with a wicked, wicked grin. "What happened to your lady? I can smell her."

  Antigone laughed. She hadn’t meant to because the shock on her face was too telling. Venetia took that moment to let the vines set her on the ground.

  “Wond
ered where’d you got to,” his Grace said idly. He brought out his cigar and lit it off of Oliver’s.

  “Wimp,” Antigone said to Venetia, but her gaze was on the Duke.

  “Wench,” Venetia replied.

  “Whiner,” her friend countered.

  “Beast,” Venetia shot back without a flicker of a lash.

  “That smells terrible,” Antigone told the Duke. “Does his mouth taste like ashes,” she asked Venetia, with a toss of her gaze to Oliver.

  Venetia gasped.

  “I told you they weren’t kissing,” Antigone said. “Vee isn’t so easily persuaded.”

  “Oliver, you have let me down." The Duke took a slow drag off of his cigar and let the smoke out in one long breath.

  “You have to dance with three girls under the age of 50 at the next public dance,” Antigone said with an evil grin.

  “Shrew,” Rhys declared.

  “Reprehensible tyrant.”

  “Shrew,” he said again. His eyes crinkled as she stared at him.

  “I’m not sure you understand the game,” she said.

  “Is it a game? I just thought you were attempting to get me to chase you.”

  “You…you…”

  Venetia tucked her arm through Antigone’s and said, “Breathe.”

  With that word, there was another sound in the brush and the four turned as one to see Lady Silence and the woman who must be the brat's mother. Venetia’s eyes narrowed. Lady Silence was a nickname for Lady Guinevere Parkhurst a well-known gossip. The trap would have been very neatly sprung on someone other than a Wolfemuir.

  “Oh,” she said, looking the four of them over.

  Rhys took a long drag off of his cigar, before raising a brow, and saying, “Are you lost?”

  The words were so cold that Venetia shivered.

  “Just exploring,” the older woman said.

  “I thought you said there were midnight roses through here,” Lady Silence told the woman.

  “I must have gotten turned around.”