Persuaded to Love: A Kendawyn Paranormal Regency

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Persuaded

  To

  Love

  by Amanda A. Allen

  A Kendawyn Paranormal Regency

  For Billie

  Ever Our Hero

  Chapter One

  The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves against the dirt road was the only sound other than the murmur of voices across the carriage. Given the heat outside, you’d think he’d be lulled into an unwanted nap, but Oliver Bentworth, Baron Stanwullf was in his prime and not a man to nap the afternoon away even if he was in a carriage, lulled by heat and boredom. It was moments like these that made him envy the mortal realm with their roaring cars, trains, or planes. But he was of Kendawyn—a realm he much preferred—except on the random occasion or when his cravat was particularly tight.

  Like now.

  His mother—bless her—had advised him at his brother’s wedding to find a wife of his own and her words were resounding in his head, possibly causing the tightness in his throat.

  “Oliver, my darling,” she had said. “Now that Hugh and George have married, the matchmaking mamas will set their sights directly on you. Handsome. Rich. Titled. You had better choose quickly using all of your resources. Or you’ll find yourself bound to a female whose laugh grates on your nerves, whose idiocy drives you mad, and you spend all of your time in your wolf form.”

  “Mother,” he had said, “Whatever makes you think I am a fool?”

  “Oh darling, all men are,” she had laughed. “Especially when it comes to love. You are tall, handsome, rich and well-mannered. Those broad shoulders and blue eyes would catch the attention of any woman if you were a pauper.”

  Oliver adored his mother. She was golden-haired, blue-eyed, round-cheeked wolf woman whose outer beauty was outshone by her kindness. He had been well blessed in his parentage, and he knew it. But his mother was also manipulative. Manipulative and wise and emboldened by the marriage of his youngest brother.

  “And what are these resources you speak of?” He had looked over her shoulder, admitting to himself that there might be something in what she said.

  “Alice and Phoebe of course. Though I’d suggest Alice.”

  “You adore Phoebe,” Oliver had said, shocked that Mother had bypassed her daughter-in-law for anyone else. His gaze turned naturally to his new sister-in-law who laughed up at his little brother. Since no one could read his thoughts, he admitted that George’s wife was appealing to an absurd extent. He didn’t see her as anything other than a sister, but he could see why George had succumbed so quickly.

  “Indeed, but you’ve spent your whole life torturing George when the chance presented itself. It is better, don’t you think, to avoid vengeance?”

  Oliver had laughed at the wicked gleam in his mother’s eyes, leaned down to kiss her on the brow, before leading her into a waltz. “You are the best of mothers,” he said. “As a dutiful son, I will consider your words.”

  He had not intended to give them much thought beyond what he had promised. But the next morning, he’d taken his stallion Chauncey out for a gallop and discovered two sporting Kendawyn ladies “happening” upon his course. The morning after that, he had joined his cousin Rhys, the Duke of Wolfemuir for coffee in a little café and had found that the early breakfast almost exclusively enjoyed by men had an untoward number of young females and their chaperones. The café was not an exclusively male establishment, but there was no question that he felt hunted by their giggles and flirtatious looks. Even Rhys had shifted uncomfortably against the alert eyes that were cast their way far more often that propriety should have allowed.

  “Well,” Oliver said, disgusted, “I find that my own table is all the more alluring, coz. I will, I think, be making my chef earn his income a little more often.”

  Rhys had only growled under his breath, tossed back his coffee, and abandoned Oliver without another word. Oliver downed his own coffee and followed. They had adjourned to a boxing saloon to work out their frustration—and Oliver had not been shocked to be thoroughly trounced by the irritated Rhys. There was a reason, after all, that the Duke was the leader of the Wolfemuir pack. And it was not his title.

  It had been at the quiet of Oliver's own home that he had pulled out his journal and began scratching away his thoughts. And it was in that magical though prosaic act that he had discovered—to his surprise—what he wanted. He knew himself, he had thought, so the unexpected shift in the tides of his heart had shocked him.

  Regardless, the words of his mother rang in his head then as they did now, and he’d decided to join Hugh and Alice in their journey to their home, Brookeholme. Which was why he was here in this stifling carriage, watching the two of them as they whispered to each other.

  George and Phoebe had not married as quickly as everyone had expected and the couple across from him had been married for months by the time the other two had journeyed down the aisle. Alice and Hugh Darcy were pressed together, speaking softly, and Oliver was determinedly not listening.

  He was attempting and failing not to be jealous of his cousin. But in the time since he had realized what he wanted, Oliver had discovered a well of envy that was deep and raging. He wanted to marry. He wanted a Phoebe or an Alice of his own. He wanted to use his own female as a shield against the women of the ton and sleep with her head tucked against his shoulder. He wanted children—young pups to run through his halls. He wanted, he was shocked to discover, a family.

  “I am so excited to go home,” Alice said a little more loudly as she laid her head on Hugh’s shoulder. Her gaze met Oliver's and she smiled at him.

  That dagger of jealousy embedded in his heart twisted a little. He shouldn’t be here, in this carriage. Not now as Hugh brought his wife home for the first time. Oliver recognized the truth of it too late. He hadn’t thought beyond his own purpose as he climbed into the carriage and he suddenly understood Rhys’s disgusted look before he’d mounted his horse. Oliver had only planned on taking the chance to speak to Alice without Rhys’s too-knowing audience. Now, Oliver watched the couple as he tried to remain expressionless and give Hugh what space was possible.

  Oliver had invited himself along with no explanation. And even now, he wasn’t quite ready to reveal why he’d wanted to come. Which was good as this moment was not his.

  He turned his gaze out the window, away from the couple, hiding his thoughts, not that either even noticed. They were encompassed in each other again.

  Oliver’s wants crowded forward again. With the marriages of his brother and cousin, he had been introduced to a different idea of marriage. Both of the men were werewolves. They were strong, powerful, commanding men. And they had, somehow, changed. They were still strong and commanding. But Oliver knew them well, and he saw the smile that hovered at the corners of their mouths. They walked with livelier steps. Any sign of boredom with their long lives and restricted society had vanished. These were men who
had two things Oliver didn’t.

  Hope and joy.

  In Kendawyn, a life that lasted a millenium was not uncommon. The early deaths of the mortal world were unlikely. The restrictions that society placed on them were intentional choices made by a very experienced society. Manners, restrictions, they mattered when one was as old and powerful as someone in Kendawyn could be.

  But restrictions and long-life led to ennui far too easily. To find joy and liveliness after centuries of tea parties and waltzing...it was a miracle.

  It wasn’t that Oliver was depressed. He wasn’t. He loved his life. He loved the puzzle of running his estates. He loved his people. He loved the power of being a werewolf, his family, his cousins, brothers, pack. He had an excellent life, and he knew it.

  Even still, he wanted. His mother clever woman that she was had expertly turned his mind to marriage with her warnings. Oliver could have avoided the matchmakers, but by the time, he’d come to that conclusion, he had discovered what he wanted—probably just as his mother expected.

  He wanted to be smugly happy like his brother and Hugh. Even though it irritated Oliver, he wanted it. He wanted the relaxed posture of those two when they swung their beloveds into waltzes, left society functions when they wanted, danced with other random women without having to face the matchmaking mamas of the ton. He’d read of the matchmaking mamas of the mortal realm. They had nothing on women who lived for a millennium and were endowed with superhuman abilities.

  “The Duke's home is too big,” Alice said, catching Oliver’s attention. “I can’t wait to live somewhere more reasonable.”

  She said it as though she weren’t sitting in a luxurious carriage with velvet cushions, dark mahogany wood, small hand-crafted details like the etching in the wood along the window panes.

  Oliver looked over in a flash at his cousin. Surely, Hugh had told Alice about his home. Surely someone had told her. Oliver eyed Hugh who shifted uncomfortably, and a huge grin spread over Oliver’s face. His cousin’s eyes flared yellow at the edges. The eyes of a wolf who was semi-panicked. Oliver cleared his throat and glanced back out the window before Alice caught his gaze. They’d be there in minutes.

  Hugh could explain, or she’d see for herself.

  Oliver, however, wasn’t involved. Other than as an audience. He could not wait to rehash it for his brothers, George and Liam. Let alone tell Rhys the moment they left the carriage. Rhys would never let either Alice or Hugh live it down.

  “How much longer now,” she asked with her soft, lovely voice. “When will I see it? Is it cozy? It is cozy, isn’t it? Homey?”

  Hugh tensed visibly, trying to hide his yellow eyes from his beloved Alice. She must have felt his shoulders becoming rock hard under her head, warning her that all was not as she'd thought. Alice sat up, turning to her love, searching his face.

  Oliver watched out of the corner of his eye, hiding his grin. But he was entranced with the vision of the charming Hugh struggling to avoid his wife’s anger. Or perhaps it was just her upset. No one else could make Hugh squirm except Alice. Oliver hoped that was why his cousin adored her.

  “Hugh?” Soft, sweet words. A little tremulous. Alice’s eyes were wide as she realized she was missing some key piece of information.

  Hugh utter stillness showed his own concern. Oliver wanted to see Hugh scrabble to keep his wife happy. He would, after all, chop off his arm to make her so. And, she knew it. Just as she didn’t want him upset due to her own distress. Those two had this way of cycling worry between them as they struggled to keep the other happy.

  Oliver was charmed. Surprised that he was charmed, but he was. Entranced even. By the sight of these two working so hard on the other’s happiness.

  Hugh was struggling though Oliver delighted in it.

  “Homes are different things to everyone,” Hugh hedged. “It’s homey…to me.”

  Hugh’s last two words were so low even Oliver, with his werewolf hearing, had a hard time catching them. But Alice must have read Hugh’s lips for she glanced at Hugh and then at Oliver—caught his smirk—and her eyes jerked back to Hugh, eyes narrowing.

  Oliver had barely succeeded at gulping back a laugh at Hugh’s grappling attempts to describe his home as homey. Brookeholme was nothing short of a castle. Not just a castle—it was a massive fortress. It had stood for millennia upon millennia and could house the entire Wolfemuir pack and their friends and have room to spare.

  In fact, Oliver mused, it had. On a number of occasions.

  “Hugh!”

  “I never told you that my house was cozy,” he said, carefully. “I am certain I didn’t say that.”

  “But…you said it was very different from the Wolfemuir house.”

  “And so it is,” Hugh replied. “But dear one, I am certain I never said cozy.”

  Her eyes narrowed further until they were almost slits. She didn’t seem to notice the turn of the carriage and the change of the rhythm of the way it jolted over the ground. Hugh did, though, Oliver could see that by the way he very carefully didn’t look out the window. Scrabbling for a few more moments of ignorance in his beloved.

  Oliver’s snort was silent to keep Hugh from tearing out an innocent bystander throat. Oliver wasn’t the one who had led his beloved to believe that he owned a cozy country house. Alice should have known better. Hugh’s Lyndone home was sprawling. That was his city home. Not his estate. Sweet, innocent, Alice.

  “Hugh Darcy what is wrong with the house?”

  He swallowed. “Nothing is wrong with Brookeholme. And it is very different from Wolfemuir house. But…” His lips twitched. “I think we have a bit of a misunderstanding.”

  Oliver’s teeth were clenched against the laughter. He didn’t want to be tossed unceremoniously from the carriage during such a good show.

  “Oliver you tell me right now!” Alice almost shrieked.

  Oliver leapt in his skin as her gaze caught his own.

  “Why am I in trouble?” He was instantly ashamed of the squeak he produced. “I had nothing to do with any of it!”

  “Oliver Bentworth. Hugh Darcy,” her eyes flooded with tears. “I…I…”

  “Alice, don’t cry. We don’t have to live there. I mean, it’s entailed, so I can’t get rid of it, but we can live elsewhere. It’s just that I never said it was cozy. But you can make whatever changes you want if you’ll stay. Or we can leave. We can leave. If that’s what you want, then that’s what I want.” The words shot out of Hugh’s mouth as if he were a child who had been caught red-handed in his crimes.

  Oliver’s jaw dropped. Hugh loved his home. Oliver could hardly believe that Alice hadn’t seen it yet. He could hardly believe that Hugh hadn’t dragged her to it and kept her in the highest tower for as long as he could get away with. But…the home had been undergoing repairs, and then they’d been married, and they’d gone a trip, and now she was expecting.

  She’d been crying at the drop of a pin lately. It had Oliver walking on egg shells. Hugh constantly looked as if he were balancing on the edge of a blade, so this moment probably couldn’t be worse for him.

  Oliver grinned.

  “You told me just last night how happy you were to return to it,” Alice said. “You said you hadn’t been as comfortable in your skin as you were outside of it. You said you couldn’t wait to show it to me.”

  Oliver looked up and saw her glance out the window. Her gaze caught sight of something, and she froze. Her mouth was open on whatever she was going to say next, her breathing was shallow, her eyes were wide.

  “I…” she finally said. “I…”

  Oliver was facing towards the rear of the carriage, so he couldn’t see what she did. But he’d seen it many times before. A mountain of stone, towers, and gables. Bridges. A moat. It was one of the largest castles in Kendawyn and had been in Hugh’s family since, it seemed, prehistoric times. The Earls of Alling—powerful as Wolfemuir in their way—and they had come down from their fortress from time immemorial, like centennials
of the past.

  “It’s…”

  “My dear,” Hugh said. “It’s….well it’s not cozy…but it’s…”

  It was massive, drafty, each bedroom could fit entire homes, perhaps even all of the houses of a small village. The halls were so wide, carriages could be driven down them. Oliver knew for certain that horses had been ridden through the house. The castle was large enough that each Wolfemuir cousin had a room of their own there. Despite the fact that their family was enormous, they all had their own rooms. It was so large that Oliver had only seen all of its rooms because he’d run through them as a pup with the pack of his cousins. It was utterly ridiculous to call such a place home, and yet, Hugh did.

  “I. . . ” Alice closed her mouth, pressed her lips tight together and sat back against the cushions of the carriage. Her face was pale as she gazed at the acres upon acres of fruit trees that folded out from the castle. The lake that the castle was set on was a mirror of blue beauty, reflecting the castle and the trees. Her voice was soft and controlled as she said, “It’s lovely.”

  She did not sound happy and she was pale. Hugh looked sick. Oliver admitted that his sense of humor was reveling in the madness of it.

  “My dear. . . Alice. . .” Hugh's attempts to comfort her were a trifle pathetic.

  She deliberately laid her head back on his tense shoulder. Each move of the carriage jolting her body, for she was too stiff to roll with the movement as she had only minutes before.

  “Alice, my love. . .” Hugh tried again.

  “How lovely it is,” she said and then closed her eyes.

  Chapter Two

  Oliver hadn’t brought his valet to Brookeholme Castle, so he adjusted his cravat carefully before shrugging into his coat. He stopped for one quick look around the room—thick stone walls, gorgeous magecrafted carpets, an enormous bed all speaking to the overwhelming fortune of the Earls of Vohlk. Oliver wondered what Alice was thinking in her own rooms. The suite of the Lady of the Castle had to make his own look wretched. He grinned at the thought and headed through the maze of hallways towards the breakfast room.