Persuading Him: A Modern Persuasion Retelling (Pemberley Estates Book 1)

  A Modern PERSUASION Retelling

  from her side

  Keena Richins

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Untitled

  Persuading Him Copyright © 2018 by Keena Richins. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Keena Richins

  Photo stock from Shutterstock.com. Used with license.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Keena Richins

  Visit my website at www.keenarichins.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: Oct 2018

  To my mother for her constant support, my sisters for their encouragement, and Jane Austen for the inspiration.

  Prologue

  Anne fidgeted with her school uniform, a confused frown pulling at her lips as she listened to the mutilated cadence of notes clattering out of the music room. She'd only been gone for three minutes—maybe four—to the restroom, and yet someone had taken over the vacant room.

  She glanced down the empty hallways, hoping to spot a teacher—someone with authority who could order the rude person out. Then again, she'd hate to make a fuss over something so simple as her sacred practice time after school.

  Deciding to see who, exactly, was the offender, she edged into the music room. Cold metal folding chairs gathered in a semi-circle, facing an empty podium, their musical stand companions twisted in different directions; the only sign of the unruly students who had vacated the seats when the last bell rang. Irregularly shaped boxes lay stacked against each other in the far corner and piles of papers were shoved into cubbyholes lining the wall nearest to her. On the opposite side of the room stood an old, yet still imposing grand piano, the main attraction of the music room—at least to her. And on the worn bench sat a boy, his long legs bunched under the piano, his shoulders hunched, a puzzled frown on his face as he focused on the maze of piano keys, his fingers plucking notes as if trying to find a secret passageway. He wore no school uniform, but his shaggy black hair, his torn jeans, and the over-sized gray t-shirt wouldn't have fit this elite high school anyway. He must be an outsider. Maybe a student of the free GED preparation classes the school offered for those less fortunate than the ones that normally graced these hallways. She guessed he was a year or two older than she, thus over eighteen and an ideal candidate.

  He leaned closer to the keys as though his thin, lanky physical presence could intimidate the piano to play the masterpiece he so desperately desired. Alas, the piano only cried out in painful notes.

  Anne hesitated, not quite sure what to do. She badly wanted to finish her practicing hour. It was the only time she could play. Oh, there was a grand piano at home, far grander than the school's—her father didn't believe in anything but the best—but her family did not appreciate her constant practice and she, not wishing to create conflict, had sought out the school's piano instead.

  However, the boy played with such intensity, she didn't have the heart to demand her turn. He seemed to be trying to find a tune. Perhaps a cherished song of his childhood? Kind of like the very song she constantly played on that piano?

  She tugged at her uniform again, gathering the courage to interrupt the boy. She had never liked causing conflict—riling people up and having them yell at her. She preferred to give way and keep the peace. Still, the boy's intensity intrigued her and she'd love to know his story. Hoping he would be nice and not yell, she cleared her throat as loud as she could.

  As if she had screamed, the boy shot to his feet, shoulders back, chin raised, defiance shining in his eyes like a fiery beacon, his shaggy black hair fanning around his face like a small dramatic cape.

  She stared at him, stunned. His very presence demanded to be treated as a man, not as a boy.

  "What do you want?" Even his voice had authority. But it wasn't like her father's, barking orders to be left alone, or her older sister's, sneering commands because she could, but more like a king ready to defend his people from an advancing army.

  She suddenly wished she was one of his people. To be fought for, defended, and cared for. He didn’t seem like someone that would abandon her to suit his own interests—something her own family did too often.

  What should she reply to this not-a-boy? She wanted to say something cute, something that would catch his attention. Alas, that was not her area of expertise. She wasn't witty enough like her older sister or pretty enough like her younger sister. Her eyes fell on the piano. That was her sole talent. The only thing she was good at.

  "I like to play, too." She inwardly winced, knowing the witless statement wouldn't catch anyone's attention. She waited, expecting him to roll his eyes with boredom like her sisters and move on to something more exciting than conversing with her.

  However, he glanced between her and the piano as if the two were an impossible pairing. That stung more than being ignored, so she raised her chin to defy his silent evaluation. She may lack many talents, but playing the piano was not one of them.

  "Who's your teacher? Is he coming?"

  The question was like a slap to her face. She jerked her gaze to a lonely metal chair and fidgeted with her uniform. "She...died." At least her voice didn't crack with emotion.

  "Oh." The challenge left his voice; his defiant stance wilted. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't—I'm sorry." She looked up in surprise to see him looking around as if wanting to hide behind something. It was strange to see the defiant not-a-boy suddenly so uncomfortable. "Did you, uh, did you know her well?"

  She fidgeted with her uniform. "She was my mother."

  He sank to the bench as if the words pelted him in the stomach. "When?" A demanding tone, as if the answer would somehow provide relief. She had no idea how, though.

  "Last year." Tears pricked her eyes and she snapped her eyes shut. Memories sailed past, of the constant tests, the many treatments, the hopes and despairs as each treatment failed. Her mother, withering away; science unable to save her. Finally, only an empty shell in an overly decorated coffin, prettied up to pretend she still moved and breathed, that she was only sleeping and in a moment, she'd wake and smile, spreading joy once again. Except she never did wake; now lying six feet under cold dirt.

  "I'm sorry," he repeated like a broken record. "I really am. I...I never knew my mother."

  "Y
ou didn't?" Pity churned within her. To never have known of motherly kisses and hugs, concerned scoldings, and wise advice? She couldn't even imagine not knowing such things. That must be ten times worse than her loss.

  He turned to the piano, pecking at random keys. "Died from complications from a fall. Or so my Dad used to say."

  "Used to?"

  "He died three, four years back. Drank himself into oblivion."

  She wished his notes were in minor. With sad violins playing in the background. It would fit the mood so much better than his random plucking. "I'm so sorry." And to think, she had thought her family life was difficult. He had it much worse. She wanted to give him a hug, to re-inspire that defiant not-a-boy she'd seen moments earlier. She threaded toward him through the cold metal chairs and empty stands. "That's terrible."

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. "It's life. You deal with what you've got."

  She stopped short at that. "That's terrible advice." The boy had too much pain—he shouldn't be forced to bottle it all up in the name of being strong. No wonder he was so defiant, ready to defend. Life hadn't given him any easy notes.

  He stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed, a good strong, hearty laugh, as if her words had released him. "Yeah, it sure is." He stared up at the white ceiling, a myriad of emotions flitting over that strong face. She moved closer, wishing she could know his thoughts and see if she could soothe his aches. She wanted to be by his side and defend him, too, against a world that didn't care.

  But it would create such conflict with her father. She winced at the idea. He would never approve of a relationship, or even a friendship, with a poor, orphan boy like the not-a-boy.

  She fidgeted with her uniform while silence settled between them, the not-a-boy staring up at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts. Not liking the silence—she wanted his attention again—she asked, "Why were you playing the piano?"

  He shrugged. "Thought it would be useful. I'm going into the navy in two months."

  Her heart sank. He was leaving. But it made sense. He could defend people in the navy. He just wouldn't be around to defend her. Not that he would, anyway. She wasn’t special enough.

  "Maybe I could start a band or something," he continued and grinned at her. "Maybe I'll be famous. Become a concert pianist!" He posed on the piano like a stuffy Mozart. All he needed was a powdered wig and old clothing to complete the look.

  She laughed. She couldn't help it. He fascinated her, with his strange mix of arrogance, sorrow, and optimism.

  She decided to do something she'd never done before: be bold. She stepped up to the piano. "You're going to need to play better than a chicken, then."

  He snapped out of his pose, a daring twinkle in his eyes. "What, you want to teach me?"

  She grinned, a daring plan forming. Her father couldn't object to her teaching someone the piano. She could pitch it as a charity project, something to put on her resume and increase her chances of getting into that university he wanted her to attend. He should approve of that idea.

  She sat down next to him, back straight, and hands poised over the keys. She arched an eyebrow at him. "You want to learn?"

  A grin spread across his face, lighting up those brown, murky eyes like sunlight spreading over a freshly turned field. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

  Chapter 1

  Eight years later

  With a determined pull, Anne yanked the stubborn, fat folder out of the over-stuffed cabinet, then gave the drawer a good shove to snap it shut. She scooted the plush swivel chair to the cluttered oak desk and plopped the folder onto a somewhat cleared area surrounded by stacks of papers threatening to avalanche and spill onto the wood floor.

  She eyed the papers, and when they didn't fulfill their threat, she focused on the folder. Darcy Vs Wickham; the title on the folder read in her father's precise handwriting, with not even the slightest slant to the letters.

  Her eyes jumped to the calendar displayed on the computer screen, the days packed with multi-colored text screaming about deadlines and meetings, and scanned until she found one labeled the same as the folder. According to her father, this was a personal case for one of the upper bosses in the corporation and he had given the ominous signal that jobs would be forfeited if they lost this case. Her father, eager to re-prove his worth after his long medical absence, had eagerly accepted the challenge. Unfortunately, his health wasn't up for the challenge and the mighty task had fallen to Anne. She'd been gradually undertaking most of his work, anyway, so it wasn't much of a surprise he'd dump this one on her as well, reserving only the glory for himself.

  At least the case wasn't too difficult. It was similar to other cases she had researched for her father. Someone had stolen one of the corporation's inventions yet again. Since their corporation, Pemberley Estates, invested heavily in new technology, actively acquiring budding inventors that could revolutionize remote living, they also attracted technology thieves, eager to steal the patented plans and make millions before they did.

  The printer beeped, signaling it had finished its job. She rolled the chair to the counter where the printer sat and gathered the large stack of papers. Though the report wasn't due for another few days, she had already finished the research and saw no reason not to send it in early. Grabbing what she needed out of the folder, she combined them with the freshly printed paper and tucked them into a manila envelope. Stamping the return address, she then wrote, as neatly as possible, the destination address. Alas, her letters had a slant to them. She had no idea how her father pulled off his perfect handwriting.

  Maneuvering around the stacked papers, she plopped the sealed envelope onto the tower of envelops in the 'out' basket--much taller than the 'in' box--and leaned back with a happy sigh. She was ahead, again; a fact she hoped her father would notice. It was one of the few times he would lavish praise on her.

  "Dad!" Her older sister's irritated voice rang out in the hallway.

  Anne dove for the over-stuffed cabinet, dragged out the closest folder, and hurriedly flipped it open. Placing it next to the fat folder, she pretended they were relevant and that she was very, very busy analyzing them.

  "Dad!" the irritated voice snapped again before the owner showed up at the office door. Eliza Elliot, her older sister and the pride and joy of their father, gazed down her short and narrow nose at the not-so-grand Anne. Her cold blue eyes swept a disapproving gaze around the cluttered office as if she could will the papers to organize themselves. She laid her hands on her hips, displaying her perfectly manicured nails, and arched a disapproving eyebrow. "Where's Dad?"

  Anne flipped over a page from the fat folder. "Napping."

  "Again?"

  "He's still recovering—"

  "He's been cancer-free for three months," Eliza scoffed. "And we have clients to meet." She pulled out a mirror from her handbag and carefully perused her face, brushing aside one stray brunette hair strand that had dared to escape her pulled-back permed locks.

  Anne kept a polite smile on her lips while inside, she groaned. Meeting clients meant expensive restaurants they could no longer afford. While her father and older sister made a lot of money as lawyers, they spent it with abandon, failing to remember that with all the health bills and the many months her father had taken off to focus on surviving his cancer, their financial situation was alive only by credit. One major mishap and they'd be ruined. She had tried to explain the dire situation a few times but they had no interest in hearing her warnings. Anne was a nobody; someone who kept to herself, which they simply could not understand. And thus, if they couldn't understand her, then obviously she couldn't understand them and their need to keep up their extravagant lifestyle. Her opinions were inferior and useless, especially since she'd abandoned law school in order to nurse her father back to health, a choice that flabbergasted her older sister. The family had always been lawyers and Anne was ruining a very long tradition. Her example had even inspired their younger sister to get married before finishing college—never mind the fa
ct that the youngest sister rebelled long before Anne gave up law school. To Eliza, Anne didn't fit the way she believed the world worked. Thus any rocking of that world must be Anne's fault.

  Eliza snapped her mirror shut. "Go wake him. You know how upset he gets if he doesn't have at least an hour to get ready for these meetings."

  Anne couldn't deny that, though she'd much rather he rest. Eliza may think he was completely healed, but Anne knew he had lost a lot of his former strength. One didn't face prostate cancer at the age of fifty-three and expect to bounce back like a twenty-year-old.

  "Eliza?" Another voice echoed down the hallway.

  "Office," Eliza snapped like an annoyed queen.

  Anne tensed as Penny Clay, Eliza's personal secretary, and best friend, joined her at the doorway. The two were like the sun and moon in both personality and appearance. Eliza's dark brown hair, piercing eyes, and haughty demeanor demanded attention wherever she went while Penny's timid, quiet disposition and average looks rarely excited anyone's attention except for her very soft, blond hair. Despite the timidity, there was something in her eyes that Anne didn't like. A quick intelligence that didn't match the weak personality she displayed. Anne often wondered if she acted so timid and docile merely to ensure her friendship with Eliza. Eliza, after all, would never tolerate someone who outshone her. Then again, Anne couldn't understand why someone would want to be friends with her sister. To constantly give way and offer undeserved praise was an exhausting existence, a life Anne already lived daily.