Bewildered by Love (Kendawyn Paranormal Regency)

by Amanda A. Allen

  George didn’t need to answer so obvious a statement.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Phoebe walked through the shop she owned. She rarely visited and never with notice. It was run by a Mr. Thomas Iverning. Not even Iverning knew she owned the entire building. He had been poor, maligned, and desperate when she hired him, and their partnership had been born of mutual need. She’d saved him with what little money she’d inherited, and he’d saved her with his willingness to be the face of their trade.

  To keep her secrets.

  It was only Iverning and her man of business who knew her secrets. Her man of business had worked for her aunt and then Phoebe for centuries. He had an impeccable past. He was trustworthy without question.

  Iverning was not.

  The shop was near to closing for the evening, and Iverning was arranging displays in the corner. He hadn’t heard her enter for she’d brought her wolf to the forefront and stepped so lightly the tiny bell didn’t ring. She ran her fingers over the little puzzle boxes made by an artist that she had discovered and written to Mr. Iverning to contact.

  The shop was filled with the work of people like Phoebe. Those who struggled to support their families and their lives in a world that denied them honest work. The fifth son of a lord would hardly be hired by some random merchant. They hired their own—those who’d been raised and trained, not spoiled princelings without inheritances or business know-how. Augustus Palmer, the artist, could now support his family—because of his connection to her shop. She’d sought him out. The man had eight children. Eight no longer hungry children. Iverning had escaped debtor’s prison because of what she’d done for him. The paintings that hung around the shop were for sale and supported a genteel artist who lived with her cousins from Dremmerington. Eventually Miss Howser would be able to afford her own apartments—the girl’s simple dream was to not be a burden to her family.

  Phoebe had made this shop into something beautiful because it provided an outlet for those who were simply trying to get by. She was proud of it.

  Mr. Pallister would never keep her secret. Nothing that Henry Darcy could do to Mr. Pallister would stop his revenge if she turned down his marriage proposal. She was so proud of this shop and what it stood for. And if it died, the artists who it supported would, perhaps, find other stores. But some wouldn’t.

  Some of those children would go hungry. Some of those dreams would die.

  That couldn’t happen.

  “Lovely day,” she said from immediately behind Mr. Iverning. He jumped and whirled, hand to his heart. His gaze met hers and slipped to the side.

  And she knew. There had been little doubt before, but it was cemented in that moment when Iverning could not meet her gaze.

  “Oh, Mr. Iverning…”

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “Let’s not play games,” she said, softly sitting in the pretty little arm chair that she’d sent to the shop. She’d loved it when she purchased it and had him recover it time and again rather than replacing it.

  “Miss, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Please,” she said as quietly as before, but the wolf was high in her eyes, and she knew he could see her beast. So many emotions were rampaging inside of her. Sadness was the topmost. Sadness for herself, for Iverning, for the artists who worked for them, for George and herself and her little nephew, Rodger.

  “I…I…I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just tell me,” she said. And then she heard an unsurprising story of a recovered gambler who’d fallen into gambling again. Who had bet and lost and they’d come after the shop—his debtors—only to discover that he didn’t own it.

  “I’m sorry, Miss.” He shifted and looked to the side and didn’t meet her eyes again.

  “There’s more.” She hadn’t realized her voice could sound so cold. But she hadn’t realized how angry she could be until the last few days. Between Pallister and this betrayal, rage seemed to have become her bosom friend.

  “I…”

  “Now,” she said. It was how she’d speak to Rodger when he was in trouble, but far, far cooler. She was certain Iverning knew that he could come to her. He hadn’t wanted to. Which meant…there was more. More than just a gambling debt.

  “I…I was desperate. And I was drunk. And I…I think they sought me out.”

  “You seemed like a wealthy merchant,” she said, pretending some understanding. She did not feel it.

  “Yes.” He hung his head, like a child. He’d broken their solemn and cardinal rule.

  No gambling. It had been well and firmly established before she’d helped him. As had the consequences.

  “They demanded to know who owned the shop. And I was so scared, and their knives were at my throat, and I owe them so much money.”

  “So you told them?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “When?”

  “A year ago?” He said it like a question, but that was the answer.

  “Who did you tell?”

  “Merlin Pallister.”

  She paused, her only reaction. His pursuit of her, his sudden appearance in her life…It was too obvious.

  “Who else?”

  He struggled with words for a minute and then admitted, “Well, once one person knew, it seemed to spread among a few others. And then beyond. I…I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before now.”

  “You haven’t seen me before because I am a nobody living with her brother and having a quiet little life. You have ruined everything.” Her fury echoed through the shop.

  “Yes, ma’am.” His head hung, but it didn’t matter. It was too late for sympathy for Iverning. As soon as Pallister had threatened her, she’d known who had betrayed her. She just hadn’t wanted to know.

  She had known that he thought there were others who knew her secrets. But there weren’t. There were just the different personas she had assumed and a man who had known her since her birth who carried out her orders.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that you are fired.”

  His fingers trembled as he shook his head.

  “How much do you owe them?”

  “They…they agreed to wipe my debt clean if I told them who owned the shop.”

  “They only did that because you revealed I was a single lady. You chose to sacrifice me to save yourself.”

  She did not need his confirmation, but he nodded miserably. But what defense could he make? And no one would have cared if it were some elderly miser who owned the shop and used Iverning as the store front. He’d told them that she was a lady as a bargaining tool. She didn’t understand why Mr. Pallister thought he would gain. Even married to her…this wasn’t the mortal realm. Her property remained her own.

  Her will left everything to Rodger. Mr. Pallister must have assumed that she didn’t have a will or would change it. Or that he could manhandle her into giving him her money. Blackmail over the marriage bed?

  She felt sick.

  But her plan was already in place. And her help waited outside the shop.

  “Leave, Mr. Iverning. Get your things and go.”

  “But you need me,” he said, desperately. His voice trembled and his hands shook. Tears welled in his eyes. No one would hire him without a reference from her. He wouldn’t be saved so miraculously again, and he’d only had his debts wiped clean. He couldn’t have a savings account. That would have gone long before the knives at his throat.

  She sighed before she spoke. She was not without empathy but her softer side did not allay the needs of what her business, her family, and her artists needed. “I needed you. I needed someone as desperate as I was. Now you are the desperate one, and I would have helped you. But instead you chose to betray me and ruin my future. I won’t sacrifice our artists and their futures. We’re their only income right now. We shepherd them and give them a place. We help them, and you destroyed that by forgetting the nature of our deal. You betrayed us all.”

  She waved her hand, and Jeremiah Kingston entere
d the shop. She raised her hood and said to Mr. Iverning, “You are fired. You have betrayed me. But you still owe me a significant amount of money. That debt can send you to debtor’s prison. I am not friendless.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said.

  “You’ll deny my name from now until forever or the Wolfemuir clan will teach you the error of your ways.”

  He choked and then swallowed. She could see his resolve. Now it would depend on whether he feared the Wolfemuir Clan more than he feared Mr. Pallister. Hopefully Iverning had been savvy enough to recover his IOUs.

  “Leave,” she said flatly. Hating to see him go, wishing she could be more merciful, but he had betrayed her so thoroughly. She’d never be able to trust him again.

  “Jeremiah, have the locks changed. Gather the books, be here in the morning. Write to the artists on the list I gave you with the letters I provided.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You can also be replaced.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He was young and bright. And honest. He would do. He’d jumped at the offer, and he would never speak of her. He had been told to say that Mr. Iverning had retired to the seaside and that he knew nothing about the silent owner of the store other than it was an elderly merchant who’d opened the little curiosity shop out of boredom. Kingston was to laugh if asked whether a lady was that partner.

  It wouldn’t stop the rumors, but it would slow them. And perhaps, given time, she could ride it out. She doubted that George would risk the scandal—no matter the feelings he may carry. He’d do what he could, but the needs of his family would pull them apart. She pretended that the idea of his loss didn’t torment her. She told herself that it was Rodger who concerned her. Rodger more than anything else.

  And it was true, in a way. Rodger might as well be her own child. She would do anything for him. But that did not mean she would not mourn what had been possible with George—if George was all he had appeared.

  Later that evening, George pulled her into a waltz, smiling down at her, and whirled her around the room. She was beautiful beyond belief. Her face—it was the face of his love—and nothing could be more beautiful to him. But then there was the dress that swung around her dainty feet, setting off the color of her skin and hair, accentuating the flush in her cheeks. And the feel of her in his arms.

  Nothing could be better than that. As long as she was in his arms, he would be happy. The musicians played lively, and the lights and dresses were an appealing blur as she focused on the face above her. His face.

  Her eyes on his face. Her body in his arms. He was content.

  Phoebe struggled to pull her thoughts together. She looked at him, looming over her. But she felt cherished not overwhelmed. She loved him, she thought. And yet, it was so dangerous to love him. But she looked at his beloved face, with its sharp wolf’s jawline. Brilliant, dark eyes. Full, tempting lips.

  “So what did you do today?” George asked as he spun her body and her senses.

  “I confronted the source who leaked the rumors.”

  “Alone?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. She saw the wolf rise high in his eyes. She knew it for what it was—for she would not lie to herself again. It was an inexplicable desire to protect her. She just wasn’t sure why he felt so. Because she hadn’t fallen into his arms? Because she wasn’t sure what she wanted? Because she was a challenge?

  Why did she love him?

  She didn’t know. She just knew she did. And in loving him, she was torn. For he wanted her and she wanted him. But she’d made a mess of her life, and she could not—would not—make a mess of his.

  And then there was the question of why he wanted her. Was it love? He was a wolf, and she would not lie to herself. She was prey to him. In denying him, had she spurred his interest? If she stopped hesitating, would he still want her?

  He was an honorable man. And honorable men did not pursue women, receive their hearts, and then abandon them. If she stopped hesitating and gave herself to him, he would take her and try to make her happy.

  Even if he finally realized that he did not, in fact, love her.

  “Oliver’s man of business told me where he found his news. He’s far more reliable and trusted in the community than Pallister’s. He’s dropping hints about the unreliableness of Pallister’s money and income. He’s also undermining the rumors about you.”

  George spoke seriously with careful eyes and gentle words. His tone, his everything was gentle, which was strange, really. Strange—for he was a werewolf, powerful far beyond the average werewolf, and it was combined with actually having lived as a pirate.

  Pirating, werewolfing, strong and powerful nobleman. All of those things would seem to produce an overbearing, controlling, demanding man. But he was not those things. He was gentle beyond anyone she’d ever known before. She wouldn’t deny, even only to herself, that his gentleness in contrast to his power was attractive beyond her wildest imaginings.

  “Will that ruin him?”

  Did it even matter? Ruining him didn’t necessarily mean saving her. She and Pallister were not locked into some sort of combination where only one could survive. It was far too easy for the ton to exclude either or both of them. It was, after all, what the ton did. Exclusivity was the nature of the society they belonged to.

  Although, she had to admit—that glow in George’s eyes bespoke that Pallister would not escape unscathed, even if she did. And she could not deny that it made her happy to think of him suffering. How dare he think he could take her simply because she’d made a fortune and he needed one? She wondered what was he planning. Had he accepted that she would never marry him? Had he given up on her yet?

  “It’ll certainly help when I’m done buying his gambling debts.” There was a wicked, vengeful in the golden gleam of George’s eyes.

  Phoebe licked her lips, pasted a smile on her face—a feeble attempt to hide her thoughts. And then she forced her mind back to him, saying, “Iverning, the man who ran the shop, was blackmailed by Pallister about gambling debts and sold me out to save himself. It is why Pallister pursued me in the first place.”

  George’s fingers tightened on her back. She saw him fight to control himself before he said quietly, “There are many reasons to pursue you, Miss Varling. The fact that you made your own fate is certainly one of those reasons.”

  Phoebe didn’t answer but pasted her gaze on his shoulder. “This ruins me, Mr. Bentworth. It is time to accept that. I cannot see a future where the ton does not ostracize me. Nor, for that matter, can I see a future where your association with me does not ruin you as well.”

  He growled. Actually growled in the middle of the ballroom. His eyes were deep, molten gold when he said, “Wolfemuir do what they want. I want you.”

  She laughed at him. He said it like she was a lemon ice on a hot day.

  Certain her eyes had begun glowing as well, for she felt the flush in her face and anger in her eyes, she answered. “I am not an object to be owned.”

  The growl rumbled in his chest, not audible beyond the circle of their arms. “I am not Pallister.”

  She pressed her lips together and returned her gaze to his shoulder. Her voice was a mere whisper. “I know.”

  She did not look at him when he spoke again. “I am of Wolfemuir. This not beyond you or I.”

  “It isn’t that simple.” Her fingers trembled where they held onto his shoulder and in his palm. She glanced up and around, looking at the ballroom. It was a party she’d not have been invited to without whatever finagling he’d done to get her an invitation. The walls were covered in swathes of fabric, servants—dressed in finery—wandered with trays of lemonade and champagne. Women wore creations of lace and magic while the men were tall, handsome, masculine with perfectly crafted…everything. Every single thing that adorned nearly every single person was beyond the economic reach of much of the rest of the world.

  “It is indeed that simple. There are few more powerful than Wolfemuir. And none of them wil
l counter us for Pallister.”

  The arrogance of it. She wanted to smack him. Didn’t he know? Couldn’t he see how she couldn’t bring him down with her? Didn’t he understand that she had her honor as well, and it demanded that she protect those she loved.

  Including him.

  Her breath caught on the thought. She told herself to recognize the truth. Phoebe Varling loved this great hulk of a wolf in front of her, with his careful facade of urbanity and his gentleness and his patient fingers and kind heart.

  She loved him.

  By the moon, she loved him so much it ached in her chest.

  So she said what had to be said. “People love rumors. Being associated with me will blacken your family name and ruin your standing.”

  He laughed. He actually laughed. She was dying a little inside as she told him her fears, and he was laughing.

  But his voice wasn’t gentle when he answered. Each word was slowly and precisely delivered. “I am of Wolfemuir.”

  “George…”

  “I was a pirate.”

  She shook her head. “That can’t be real. It’s a rumor to make you more, more…”

  She trailed off when she saw his grin. His shout of laughter was so long and loud that it turned heads. “Oh, Phoebe, my darling. It was. I was a first mate on a pirate ship. That is not a joke or a story or something that I am proud of.”

  She saw the truth in what he was saying. He was laying his shame at her feet. In the middle of a ballroom. She didn’t know what to say.

  “It is real, and I got through that—they’ve made it some sort of heroic thing instead of a way that we stopped crime. They ignore that we profited. I profited from pirates who murdered and plundered from the innocent. I hunted them down, stopped them, and took their gold.”

  Again, she didn’t know what to say.

  How to…how to say that she admired him? The gold didn’t matter to her. The children who had fathers that came home when they would have otherwise been murdered—that was what mattered. He was being so stark with her. He was showing her his sins and those confessions…tortured as they were…made her think that maybe…