Bewildered by Love (Kendawyn Paranormal Regency)

by Amanda A. Allen

  George walked blindly through the city debating, and as he passed a shop with masks in the window, he stared for long minutes as a plan began to form. What was the point of so many Wolfemuir cousins if not to mask which one of them was so assiduously romancing the suddenly desirable Miss Varling? Everyone in the ton knew that George was the one romancing her. But if they were both well-masked, and the cousins all looked alike, then…

  Then, he’d be one of several of his cousins spending the entire evening with one lady. Henry would certainly seek out Leah. Rhys always had some lady he was considering. Oliver and Liam would seek out a lady just to help George. And there was Hugh—of course Hugh would have Alice in his pocket if he could. Not to mention the other cousins.

  If only George could turn back the moon and stop Phoebe and his mother from spreading those rumors about her wealth and investments. It was ridiculous, and it had brought out every fortune hunter who followed the scent of women with money assiduously.

  But he could not turn back the moon.

  However…

  However…only his closest family would immediately identify George over the others when they were masked. So, they’d all wear the same masks and black evening clothes.

  It was worth the chance. He would send his valet to purchase enough of the masks, write an explanation, and deliver them to his cousins.

  Yes.

  Perfect.

  “Mr. Pallister, you have been denied entrance to my rooms more than once. Are you so willing to be thrown out of the hotel again?” Phoebe had hired servants of her own since leaving her brother. A married couple recommended by her man of business, a governess for Rodger, and a lady’s maid—four people to care for Phoebe and a child.

  It was ridiculous, but Lady Darcy insisted. The lady would have preferred a footman or two as well. Though she had scoffed initially, Phoebe was beginning to change her mind.

  Pallister, again, had lurked in an alcove in her hotel hallways. The moment Phoebe passed, he lunged forward, grabbing her arm. She had her maid with her, who immediately went for a porter. It would take only moments for Pallister to be expelled, so Phoebe pretended to not mind his too-forceful grip on her bicep.

  “You will speak with me, Miss Varling. You owe me that much.”

  Phoebe shook her head and tried to twist out of his grip. She succeeded and tried to brush pass him, but he cut her off. When she moved to sidestep him again, he grabbed her arm and swung her around. As he did, the lift gate opened, and George exited the apparatus.

  Phoebe saw George’s eyes turn gold with a single breath. Probably to match her own. She hissed, trying to control her voice, “I do not owe you anything, Mr. Pallister.”

  Pallister grabbed her other arm, having not seen George. When Pallister shook her, George’s rumbling growl echoed in the wide hall. It was enough to raise the hair on the back of any neck and goosebumps on the flesh of any person. Phoebe felt as though the rattle of that rumble would shake her teeth together.

  “Mr. Bentworth, control your temper.”

  He said nothing, taking Pallister at the wrists and squeezing until he let go of Phoebe’s shoulders. As soon as she was released, George grabbed Pallister by the lapels of his coat and shoved him towards the stairs.

  “Mr. Bentworth!”

  He did not even turn. She sighed as she watched him kick open the door to the stairs just as her maid and the porter arrived.

  “Lilah, give the porter some money. Remind him of the confidentiality we expect.”

  “Of course, Miss Varling.”

  Phoebe didn’t wait or turn to look when she heard the crash. It was followed by the sound of something large rolling down the stairs. She did not have to guess what—or rather who—it was. She entered her hotel suite and ignored George’s voice as he called after her.

  Slamming the door, Phoebe said, “Asley, Mr. Bentworth needs a few moments to cool down.”

  He began pounding on the door before she’d crossed the sitting room to her bedchamber. She opened the door to her room, removed her coat, and freshened her hair as if she were not half furious and half disgusted. She splashed water on her face and sat down in front of her mirror, letting her head fall to the table. She did not want to admit that she’d been somewhat concerned. Pallister hadn’t succumbed this time. He’d have fought her longer. And though she was the more powerful wolf, he was the more powerful—physically at least—man. Perhaps she could have overpowered him given enough strength from her wolf, but she hadn’t been sure.

  Rodger came bursting in and asked, “Did Mr. Bentworth really throw Pallister down the stairs?”

  “I do not know, my love,” she lied. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead into her propped up fist. “If he did, it was not very gentlemanly.”

  “It was very wolfy,” Rodger said. “He’s the greatest wolf ever. Aunt Phoebe, can we got to Vauxhall? George said that he would take us, and we could see the horses and the singers and the fireworks!”

  “Perhaps, my love. How about if you give Aunt Phoebe a few minutes and go listen to the twaddle that George will tell you?”

  Rodger went without being asked a second time, but he called to George the moment he’d exited her room, repeating what she said. So when she appeared a few minutes later, George and Rodger rose together. As they did, George asked, “Twaddle?”

  “I am not, Mr. Bentworth, a bone to be fought over.” Her voice sounded as tired as she felt. She had become uncertain in the passing weeks. She knew he wanted her. But did he love her? If he didn’t tell her, how could she know?

  “Indeed not.”

  “As long as we understand each other,” Phoebe said. She wanted to throw herself in his arms, but she couldn’t. Not until she was certain that her lies about the source of her wealth had been accepted. It was one thing to pursue her—many men were. Indeed, Phoebe felt like a fox being chased by hounds. There were too many rumors about her wealth now. She’d heard people talk about Aunt Felicity as some sort of monetary genius, a whacky old lady who’d made money for the thrill of it.

  She doubted any of the fortune hunters who were calculating the outside limits of her bank accounts had the merest idea. She had discovered long ago that she had a talent for turning a few pounds into a few hundred. And she’d done that many, many times over.

  If they knew or discovered exactly how much money she had ferreted away, she’d probably be kidnapped and dragged to the northern border for a hasty wedding.

  George, however, didn’t want her fortune. His mother had confirmed his wealth. He seemed to want her. And she thought he was in earnest. She was…she was in earnest for wanting him. For wanting to be his wife. To be able to press her face into his chest and tell him that she’d been scared.

  “Please, Phoebe, go to my mother’s. She has a large home. You won’t face these…irritations with her.”

  “I cannot do that,” Phoebe said. And she couldn’t. She would not risk giving him the idea that she would be his bride until she was certain that he loved her.

  George did not sit again when she did. He paced the sitting room and then knelt in front of her, not minding the sight of Rodger’s eyes widening as George begged. “Please let me send you a servant? One who would be of more help than Asley if there is an issue?”

  He looked up at her, and she could see the wolf in his eyes—bright and anxious.

  For her.

  She nodded.

  And he simply took her hand, squeezing it before rising to sit next to her.

  “You will come to the masquerade with my mother?”

  Phoebe hesitated before nodding. It was an invitation she’d have never received on her own. But most of the balls and parties she’d been invited to in the last weeks were far beyond Phoebe Varling without the attention of the Darcy’s.

  “It is a masquerade,” he said carefully.

  His tone was so controlled she waited.

  “An opportunity for you to avoid the fortune hunters.” The last two w
ords were growled. “And dance with me?”

  She knew immediately what he meant. “The entire time?”

  He nodded.

  She could see the want in his eyes, and she could not deny him.

  She wanted it, too.

  Badly.

  It would soon become perfectly clear whether her ruse had been successful, but she felt it had been. If she didn’t discover the truth of his love soon, this might be the only time she could spend an evening on his arm. The entire evening, unfettered by many of the restraints of the ton. She needed it as much as he did.

  “That sounds lovely,” she said quietly, taking his hand.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  What was wrong with her?

  What madness had brought her here?

  Phoebe wanted to shout as she walked up the steps of the St. Claire mansion. She wanted to pinch herself to see if this was really happening. The St. Claire mansion was so surreal—so much of a fairytale made of stone and glass that she felt as though she must be dreaming.

  The great doors—large enough to drive a carriage through—swung open as George approached with her on his arm. They opened as if she were someone. And he walked as if he expected nothing less.

  And the luxury. It was too much. So excessive that even Phoebe with all of her vast wealth could not purchase half of the random treasures she saw sitting out like so much flotsam and jetsam.

  Being here—included with those for whom this was normal—was madness. It was the kind of thing the Tyros expected, those who came from the mortal world and didn’t know the restraints of Kendawyn. Phoebe didn’t have the excuses of the Tyros. She wasn't new to this world with some inflated expectation of who she was and her place and rights. She knew exactly who she was--she was the daughter of an officer in the army who'd lived beyond his means his entire life.

  She had fallen from barely marriageable before Papa's death to a burden on her brother after his death. Phoebe might have taken the inheritance from her aunt and turned it into something else, something more, but she’d done so risking her place on even the edge of the ton.

  This—this party with these lords of the world—it was too much. She felt like the ugly duckling despite Lady Darcy having said that Phoebe’s dress was perfect, despite Lady Darcy’s promises that George loved Phoebe, despite Lady Darcy’s affirmation that the very wealthy were just people in nice clothes.

  Phoebe was not certain that Lady Darcy was not correct as she looked around at that glittering throng.

  "I don't understand," Phoebe told him honestly, the words pouring out as they descended a massive marble staircase together with her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. "There is nothing special about me. I'm not beautiful or clever or amusing."

  "You make my wolf smile," he told her and there was such a ring of truth in what he said that she stopped and he had to tug her after him.

  "Your wolf?"

  "You play with children and make my wolf smile. You protect Rodger. You recreated your fate. You are smart and fun and clever. You find joy in this world and the simple pleasures of it. When I am with you, I no longer feel haunted by my past or lonely for my future.”

  He stared at her like he couldn't believe she didn’t know these things As if he didn’t understand why she didn’t know how he felt. Didn’t he know that she needed to hear it? Feel it?

  She looked back at him--wondering if she seemed as bewildered as she felt. Surely he didn't really think that she was good enough for him. He had seen her home. Her brother. He’d seen her sister-in-law. She had never felt more out of place and lost than she did walking down the great marble stair case into the St. Clare ballroom.

  And yet that very act made her realize something else.

  George Bentworth was not playing with her feelings. He would not bring her here—to these people—unless he loved her.

  Unashamedly.

  Even as she began to believe, she couldn’t help but see again this home, these people. These gods that he walked among. They weren’t her people. It had never been more clear than it was now.

  She was no one. Yet he wanted her.

  And her alone.

  Even with the rumors of her wealth, it was her that he wanted. She knew without question that any settlements between them for marriage would be entirely in her favor. She knew without question that when he looked down at her, as he was now, with his eyes crinkled and his hand resting over hers on his arm, it was because he treasured her.

  It wasn't that she didn't like herself...she did.

  It wasn't that she thought she was ugly...she knew she was beautiful. It was just that what did being beautiful matter? The super-rich were always lovely in this land of magic.

  It was none of those things.

  It was just that she wasn't anything special to anyone other than Rodger. There had only been one man who'd ever been interested, and he’d been a rogue who was trying to steal her hidden fortune.

  Until this man in front of her. She looked up at him. He was perfection in a man, dark hair, dark eyes, wide shoulders, a kind expression.

  "I don't understand," she told him.

  And he gently took her hand and said quietly, "Why don't you stop fighting and believe me? Give me a real chance? Do you think I don’t know that you’ve put up walls? Stop fighting. Just for one evening.”

  “I…"

  "Please."

  It was the please that did her in. That kind face who was surprised and horrified that she doubted his feelings still.

  "I'm not like your people." Her voice was a whisper, and she needed to look past his shoulders when she said it.

  "You don't know my people," he whispered back.

  "I have different plans. This is a fairytale. It's the type of thing that is a passing fancy, and it fades in the light of reality.”

  He looked away. And she knew both that she had hurt him and that he wouldn't press her beyond this. She could see him pulling back. It hurt her that she had hurt him. He held out his hand for a dance, and she did not deny him.

  She didn’t understand why he wanted her, but she would not deny him again. She loved him. He loved her back—even without telling her. He had shown her in every way possible, and she would not refuse to feel that love simply because he hadn’t given her the words.

  So, she placed her hand into his, settling her other hand on his shoulder and let him wrap her up in his arms, never wanting to leave them.

  Despite the disparity between her world and his, despite that she’d dared to ignore the strictures on her set and made a fortune, despite anything, she would stay with him and be his if he would let her.

  She loved him.

  And though he had not said it, she felt his love. She had just needed to learn the language of it. But now that she had…it was as if she could look back and translate his love.

  He loved her with the press of his lips against her hand. He loved her with the time he spent with her each day, as if he could not stand to have a day without her in it. He loved her with his love of Rodger, with how he turned to his mother to help Phoebe. He loved her with his hand against the small of her back and the protective way he worried over her.

  He loved her.

  She looked up at him, and though he was disguised by his mask, his eyes were there in front of her. And he looked down at her, eyes still reflecting pleasure in her mere presence. She thought about the weight of his hand on hers and how it made her feel safe. With his palm against her the base of her spine, or the feel of his warmth when she leaned on his arm, she knew where she belonged.

  In his arms.

  She was taken from those arms a moment later when Henry cut into their dance. Despite his limp, Henry swung her into a fast waltz.

  “Are you done playing coy with my cousin, then?” he asked. He said it in a charming way, with a wide smile, but it wasn’t really a charming question, and he knew it.

  Phoebe decided that the question deserved the same stark honesty. “Will he regret
me if it comes out that I did engage in trade? If I’m shamed by the ton**?”

  “No,” Henry said.

  “Are you certain?”

  “I know George as well as I know my own self.” This time Henry’s voice had none of the pirate lilt. He spoke honestly, and it was evident in the smooth, cultured voice that must have always belonged to him. “George is many things. He is brilliant. He is kind. He is a powerful werewolf. He fights for justice. And he loves deeply. He loves you deeply. Are you deserving of that?”

  Phoebe’s eyes shone with tears as she shook her head and said, “I think not. But I would have him if he would have me in return.”

  “Then quit protecting him without letting him protect you. We aren’t mortals, Phoebe Varling. The centuries are long and lonely when you love and are not with your love. Don’t do to him what my love does to me. I can assure you that anything is better than what he is experiencing now.”

  Phoebe nodded, and when Henry returned her to George’s side, she looked up at him, overwhelmed with emotions and said, “Can we walk? Perhaps outside?”

  He nodded and led her through the maze of the St. Claire mansion without hesitation. As they passed, she saw a blonde confront Henry. She winced for him, for the young lady in the navy ball gown run through with silver had a stony look on her face that belied her brilliant red eyes.

  “Did you want to go anywhere in particular?” George asked. “There are many treasures in the St. Claire lands.”

  “No,” Phoebe whispered, taking a tight hold on George’s arm. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

  George tensed at her apology. He didn’t need to be a werewolf to see that emotions were riding high and strong in her. She was a ship on a stormy sea—almost overcome.

  He pulled her to a stop and turned her to face him. Her brows wrinkled and he pressed his thumb into the delicate fold between her two eyebrows. He couldn’t help himself—if she was declining him forever…

  He leaned forward and pressed his lips against the wrinkle in her brow before gathering the courage to ask, “Whatever are you sorry for?”