Then Liam snorted at the verbal gauntlet that George had given Oliver. The challenge demanded an explanation, but when George glanced between his two brothers, Liam merely lifted his glass and took a sip.
Oliver answered as if bored, “She’s a spinster, she’s in trade—very well hidden trade. She turned her tiny inheritance from some random aunt into enough money to live comfortably. Possibly even well. She lives with her brother, his wife, and their passel of kids. She seems to like just the one—the Rodger you romanced as carefully as the female. Miss Varling stands about as high as George’s shoulder, has brown eyes, brown hair, adorable freckles, and laughs at his jokes,” Oliver answered.
“Did you say trade?” George asked, interest in his love deepening. He hadn’t known that would be possible. Or that she could surprise him so thoroughly. The clever minx. That would explain Rodger’s attendance at Neton. To engage in trade, even as a fringe member of the ton, was courting ruin in their society. But another thought struck George, and he asked carefully, “Are you stalking my mate?”
“Just ensuring you weren’t making a terrible mistake. You did love Molly Jones for most of your childhood.” Oliver said with the tone that he knew would most irritate George.
George’s eyes narrowed as Liam answered. “She has big bosoms. It was understandable.”
“And Villette Matthieu?”
“I can’t explain that one,” Liam said, referring to the courtesan that had caught George’s imagination from afar when he was a very young man.
“What about Miss Harnin?”
“The mouse,” Oliver agreed. “She was awful. That high-pitched whine that she tried to pass off as a giggle.”
“Given your history, Liam and I decided it would be better to check things out,” Oliver added as George scowled at the two of them.
“Bentworth,” a voice said from behind them.
The three brothers turned and found Pallister, wearing a bruise on his cheek. You’d have thought he’d get a potion for that from some healing mage before showing up at Bane’s. The man bristled like a wet cat as if he couldn’t wait to challenge George Bentworth of the Wolfemuir clan. It was ridiculous.
“Merlin,” George said without inflection. Liam snorted at the name.
“Leave off Miss Varling. She is mine.”
Before George could answer, Oliver and Liam rose. Their heads were cocked and the wolves flashed from their eyes, yellow and bright.
“Careful lads,” said another voice from behind them all. The brothers didn’t need to look to see their cousin, Henry.
“You’ve been warned,” Pallister hissed.
Liam and Oliver broke into growls while Henry laughed merrily.
“Did you hear that, boys?” His laughter carried through the crowd, turning heads. “This fat monstrosity of a wolf thinks to warn off George? Of a female? What female would choose you over George? He’s taller than you, richer than you, handsomer than you, better connected than you.” Henry leaned forward to sniff at Pallister and then coughed delicately. “Smells better than you, too.”
Henry’s laughter continued as he dropped down next to his cousins, lit a cigar, and poured himself some whiskey. “It’s a comedy here tonight, my lads. But my leg is hurting me, and I need a drink. Go away Pallister, or I’ll let Oliver throw you out.”
Pallister repeated, “You’ve been warned.”
George lifted his glass and examined Pallister as he walked off.
“Wouldn’t put it past him to cause trouble, my lad,” Henry said.
“What can he do?” Liam asked as he took another sip of his drink.
George wasn’t willing to find out. This wasn’t some investment of wealth or a pirate adventure—it was his Phoebe. He would be watching Pallister carefully.
Phoebe walked out of the house with Rodger. Mr. Pallister was waiting for her at the end of the lane, and he’d clearly been lingering outside rather than approaching the door. There was a faded bruise on his cheek, and he was back to his normal shape. She assumed he’d given up on the stays. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t just get a weight loss spell from the mages. He was the most ridiculous wolf. Who had ever seen a fat werewolf?
“Mr. Pallister,” she said. “What a surprise.”
Only a moment’s reflection revealed that she didn’t want to see him. Any flattery she’d felt for him approaching her had faded once she’d spent time with a true gentlemen. She didn’t care that Mr. Bentworth…George, she thought, George. She didn’t care that he was richer or more handsome. But she did care that he was kind to Rodger and that George treated her well. Not as if he was favoring her as a kindness but that her mere attention was a gift.
“Miss Varling,” Mr. Pallister said.
Or was that snarled? Her eyes narrowed, and she felt her wolf edge against her consciousness.
There was something about him that seemed to insinuate a curled up lip and a bit of disgust. Had he always been like this and she not realized? She glanced at her nephew, who seemed unfazed. Surely that didn’t mean…but she thought what it meant was that Rodger was used to Mr. Pallister being awful. Was she blind and dumb?
He had smoothed his mustache and adjusted his coat as they approached. Rodger had mumbled under his breath about Mr. Pallister—a freedom her nephew hadn’t taken before, and she realized that she’d been so entirely unaware. Perhaps Rodger had always mumbled. She knew that her own feeling of disdain seemed so familiar. Maybe she’d been ignoring her dislike. Or perhaps it was seeing how George treated her that made her nephew so willing to show his thoughts about Pallister. Rodger had made his preference clear. She’d only considered Mr. Pallister because she wanted to be part of Rodger’s life but escape her brother and his wife, but Rodger hated the man.
She couldn’t help but envision the future with Mr. Pallister, calling him Merlin, the marriage bed, breakfasts, children. It made her ill. Whatever had been happening with her to consider, to let him believe that this might happen. She realized as she hesitated to place her hand on his arm that George or no George, she could never have married Mr. Pallister in the end. She didn’t even want to say his name.
“A good surprise, I hope?” He smiled what she supposed was to be a charming smile. But he failed miserably. She nearly flinched as she took it in.
Phoebe forced herself to smile at him and hoped that answer would suffice.
“Run ahead, boy,” Mr. Pallister told Rodger. There was no attempt at kindness or even a smarmy hello for her nephew.
Her eyes narrowed on Mr. Pallister and Rodger glanced between the two of them. The edge in Mr. Pallister’s voice, for there was a definite edge, set Rodger’s back up, and for that matter, Phoebe’s.
“It’s all right, Rodger. I know your game is starting soon and you’d like to be there when they choose sides.”
“I—” he started. She could see how he wanted to stay. But he couldn’t hear what she had to say. She would not be so cruel to Mr. Pallister despite his behavior.
But then Mr. Pallister snapped at him, “You heard your aunt, boy.”
Rodger scowled and spun towards the park as Phoebe said, “Mr. Pallister, I would thank you to not interfere with Rodger.”
“Miss Varling, there are many things I would like to thank you for today. Perhaps one of them would be giving me the affirmative to my question.” That was an unquestioned snarl. As soon as Rodger had been out of earshot, Mr. Pallister entirely dropped any semblance of being a gentlemen. His arm tensed under her hand. He reached over and took hold of her wrist. His fingers were not gentle.
She gasped at the feel of his fingertips digging into her wrist and stared at him. How dare he…
But he went on, ignoring her reaction to order with an edge of menace, “There is only one answer that would be acceptable at this point.”
“Pardon me,” Phoebe said. She found fury rising in her. She snatched her wrist free and let go of his arm. Fury heated her cheeks, her entire face and chest, almost blinding he
r to their surroundings. She wanted to growl, to rip at his throat, to shake her fist at him and give him a piece of her mind, to teach him a lesson that he would not soon forget.
But before she could even gather her thoughts from the razor edge of rage, he recaptured her hand, wound it through his arm, and said, “Let me give you a few facts.”
She wasn’t listening, tugging at her hand to take it back, but he would not let it go. The need to prevent a scene kept her from all of the reactions she was fighting and had her walking at his side, nodding to their spinster neighbor who followed in Rodger’s wake, and Phoebe made herself promises that she would never be in this situation again while they waited for the woman to move on.
Her breath caught on a shriek, and she shared up at him only to find him scowling down at her. “I have not romanced you for months in order for you to take a another offer at the last minute.”
“That is not what is happening here,” Phoebe said. She let her wolf free long enough to give herself the strength to pull away from Mr. Pallister again. They had just stepped into the boundaries of the park, and her wolf raged within her. She was sure her eyes had turned yellow. But, he didn’t even notice. He had no idea that she’d lost so much control.
“Then what is happening here,” he snapped. “I need a wife. You will do. I know far more than you think.”
Phoebe knew immediately what he meant. How could he know about the little shop that she’d financed. That had been 97 years ago and she’d been painfully careful. It was eminently successful now and had made her far wealthier than she had been fated to be. But the fact was—she’d engaged in trade and his telling of her story could ruin herself, possibly Rodger, even her brother. It would certainly get her removed from her brother’s home. What would she do then? What would her options be? Was it possible to deny and weather the gossip and ostracizing?
“Do you think your fine gentlemen will want a woman in trade?”
She took in a sharp breath and kept her eyes focused on his face, her wolf growled, prompting, demanding that Phoebe attack this man who threatened not just herself, but Rodger, and George. Only Phoebe’s strength of will fought back the beast within.
“Do you think anyone would one such as you?” Spittle flew from his lips as he grabbed her arm in a vice like grip.
“You do,” she said, not caring how his own wolf flashed at the back of his eyes. He might be stronger than her human self, even her wolf self. It didn’t matter. Manners would eventually stop him from pressing beyond what she could handle. Despite the fury, all she saw of his wolf was a faint glow in his eyes. Was that all the beast he carried outside of the full moon when none could stop the shapeshift?
He let go of her arm and straightened his jacket as he said, “You’ll do. Shall we set the date?”
Phoebe’s wolf was so high inside of her mind that it took her a long moment to reply, for if she opened her mouth all she would be capable of was growling. Once she gained control, she said, “It is not just I who doesn’t have all the facts,” she hissed the words and then nodded to another prying neighbor, Abigail Marten. “Good morning, Miss Marten.”
She turned back to Mr. Pallister and then continued, voice low, “So, let me tell you what you don’t know. I will never marry you. Ruin my reputation in society if you must. Ruin whatever you will, but don’t think for one second that our relationship will extend beyond this moment.”
She spun, but he grabbed her arm again. She raged that he dared to manhandle her. She was no cur, no helpless female. Her wolf was far more powerful than his—she could see his anger and so little of his wolf. His wolf was nothing. His fingers dug into her bicep, and he squeezed even harder. There was no question that she would carry bruises for days. Though he did not know it, if there had been a shade of a chance for him, it had just ended. She would not spend her millennia watching the fortune she’d carefully gathered be spent my this…this…idiot. Nor would she allow herself or Rodger to ever be abused.
“This is not over,” he swore. “You are mine.”
She yanked her arm free, refusing to reply, and stomped across the green towards where her nephew would be playing with his friends. She couldn’t see for the rage, but when she slammed into another body, she knew immediately it was George.
“Oh,” she gasped.
He growled in reply, looking beyond her to Pallister. George must scent her fury. Or perhaps he’d seen? Would Pallister keep her secret from George? When would it be revealed? Tears formed as she realized it would come out. But she would not allow them to fall or even to be noticed.
“I’ve got this, my lad,” another voice said, but Phoebe’s eyes were on George. She neither knew nor cared who had just spoken. She only wanted to know what George had heard. Did he know? She found, in that moment, that she didn’t want him to know, that she didn’t want to lose him already, for suddenly—when she realized she could lose him—she knew.
She knew that massively, deeply inside of the farthest part of her heart, she was already his.
But…
Pallister. He’d ruin her, and she could not let herself ruin George.
George would never be anything but gentle and kind to her. But his entirely family were part of the highest circles of the ton. If he were expelled from among that elite circle because of her, she’d never forgive herself. Not even if he forgave her.
CHAPTER SIX
“Hello,” Phoebe spoke and then immediately pressed her lips together, gathering strength before she started, “Would you…”
“Yes, anything,” George said.
She looked up into his face and then said, “Take care of Rodger?”
She turned and walked as quickly as society would allow. She only held back her tears until she was beyond his ability to see, hear, or smell them. Then, they poured forth. She hadn’t realized when she’d set up the shop and invested her tiny inheritance that she would one day regret it. She hadn’t realized that the stupidity that said members of the ton did not engage in trade would matter later when she fell in love with someone who was so eminently a part of everything that had been denied to her.
The ton hadn’t mattered before. She barely qualified to be part of it on her own merits. She couldn’t have afforded to join that throng without having done what she had. It was for that reason—that she had nothing to lose and everything to gain—that made her take the step. But being part of the ton mattered so much now. For the ton was his family, his friends, his birthright. It mattered so very much now that she realized what she’d lost.
So very, very much.
She dashed up the steps to her home, past her sister-in-law, and into her room. It was the bare attic room. The type of place you saved for elderly relatives you couldn’t toss out but didn't want to invest any sort of real kindness in. It was all her brother had given her when she’d appeared on his step after Father finally faded. It was all she’d been told to ever expect unless she found someone else to support her.
Instead she had decided, she’d support herself. But a millennia of taking care of other people’s children—the one vocation open to her—was utterly unacceptable. She hadn’t realized she’d receive anything from her aunt, and she had risked it all to escape that attic and enter trade. She hadn’t realized that her brother would father a child that would become Rodger—the light of her life.
She hadn’t realized that she’d fall in love with someone in the ton. The ton maintained its exclusivity with arbitrary rules about work—for any of the genders. They could be governesses, tutors, school teachers, secretaries, companions. Those who had to work could work for their own kind in a semi-menial role. Men could join the military—which required money—or they could go to school and work for the church—something that required connections.
Very little else remained for them. A few—the best and smartest and more adventures—were sent into the mortal realm on missions. Others mapped the mortal realm’s timeline and the paths to different locations so that
Kendawyners could visit various times.
Those didn’t matter, though, for she’d never been well-connected enough for that type of work. Now, she wished she had made a different choice. Or just stayed poor. Why hadn’t she just taken her fate? She felt so helpless, as imprisoned by the stupid constraints of society as she had been when she was poor. What had it all been for? She’d hidden her money, never letting anyone know, having to use ridiculous fictions to get Rodger into school.
She laid back on her bed and stared at the ceiling. There had to be something. She needed a plan. Must have a plan before the kindness in George’s eye and the gentleness in his hands persuaded her to something she could not do. Really, what she needed was to enact the plan she’d considered time and again and hoped to never use. It was too risky.
Better to not be found out.
But, she told herself, that door had closed. It was time to accept what lay before her with all its pitfalls, risks, and chances.
There was a knock on her door later—she wasn’t sure how much time had passed—but the maid said that Mr. Bentworth was downstairs. Phoebe’s head ached and she didn’t think she could face seeing him at that moment, so she told the maid to send him away.
“Miss,” the maid said after a quiet knock a few minutes later. “Mr. Bentworth…”
“Yes,” Phoebe asked, elbow across her eyes. She had lain dry-eyed in her bed after the first rush of tears, staring and uncertain. If only she knew how Mr. Pallister had found out. Then she could…
“He says to tell you that he won’t leave. That he’ll wait or he’ll come up to talk with you here.”
“He what?” She was too tired to be angry. She felt wrung out but knew that she could not argue with George through the maid. She wearily pushed herself up and faced the door, her arms and legs leaden. Her eyes hurt. Her face. Her teeth. She wanted to curl into a ball and cover herself with her blankets.
“Let me just freshen up,” Phoebe said. She approached her tiny washstand and tiny mirror and washed her face in cold water and before patting it dry. She let her hair down long enough to brush it and wind it quickly up, and then walked quietly down the stairs.
Bewildered by Love (Kendawyn Paranormal Regency) Page 4