Rakehell's Daughters

by Gayle Eden

  He had scowled. “Just how bloody old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  He had sucked in his breath and downed the brandy, turning away to cover his reaction. He placed the glass on a table. “If you’ll tell me your address, I shall get you home safe and discreetly.”

  She’d come closer behind him. “No worry. My aunt thinks I am abed. I know how to get myself home…discreetly.”

  “Shall I go fetch the duchess then?” He had tested her, thinking she was a young chit, using mere bravado, likely curious and nothing more, about a sophisticated woman.

  He had turned back however, and found her still there, those sherry eyes looking up at him.

  “You could. Or, you could promise me another sort of discretion, and settle a bit of curiosity I have on this trip. ‘Tis unlikely I shall return to London for years. That’s an awfully long time to wait for someone who can’t sleep at night the way it is.”

  “Why—can’t you sleep?” Edmund damned himself. He was hypnotized, almost outside himself, wondering why he had not already bundled her up and gotten her out of there, as he would have any other young woman. He did not converse with women her age. He did not flirt or indulge them. Yet, there he stood; asking something he knew was leading somewhere forbidden.

  She had freed her arm from the cloak. Her hand took his, her thumb playing over the veins, then, turning his hand over to rub at calluses from reins, fencing, and other sports, she had husked, “I knew several young men, growing up. My grandfather tutored them in our house near the university. He’d usually let me sit in and learn along with them, aside from allowing me to study what I wished.” Her thumb brushed his wrist. “When I got older I noticed this one, David, he used to always be looking at me with this odd expression…”

  “You’re quite a beauty…” That was an understatement.

  “Call me Alex,” She had invited and gone on. “Thank you, but I found him so compelling…his eyes and mouth. In any event, he never did or said anything during those years, but after he went on to finish his studies and after his tour, I began to get letters from him that I had to burn afterwards.”

  She smiled softly. “In them, there wasn’t the silly romance and odes to my eyes and so on. They were…written… as if one were physically making love to me.”

  Edmund stared at her thumb giving butterfly strokes to his wrists, his nose filled with her subtle perfume, and his vision full of her almost painfully young and innocent beauty, so very at odds with the seductive words coming out of her lovely mouth.

  He heard her say, “On the surface, my life is very practical. I have often been called a logical thinker, and a bold speaker, according to grandfather—not a woman filled with fanciful dreams. Nevertheless, sometimes I lay sleepless and awake. I remember those words and imagine it. In the last three years, I have come to realize it is all very normal. An awakening, you might say. However, females cannot fool themselves that marriage is the answer to that. Can they? I have heard very few accounts of women who are passionate for their husbands, or vice versa. Besides, I don’t want to be owned—not even by a lover.”

  “I’m sure you’re aunt—”

  “Is as silly as my cousin,” she had cut him off. Still holding his wrist, she had searched his eyes in a way that put heat in his blood and a chill down his spine. “You have a sensual face, do you know?”

  “No.” Was he even speaking? He did not know.

  “You do.” She’d wet her lips. “Tawny eyes, black lashes and wicked brows, high cheekbones. Your nose is slightly flared and your mouth…” She dropped her gaze there. “It has that look about it.”

  God help him, he had tried…“Alex. Whist I find this all very interesting. As a man with some experience, might I remind you that—”

  “—No. No don’t remind me.” She had dropped his wrist and tilted her head again. “Don’t remind yourself either.”

  She had glanced at the clock, over his shoulder, on the mantle. “I’ve an hour before one the maids are likely to miss me.” Her gaze came back to his. “What can two strangers who are attracted to each other, do, in that time?” She had raked her teeth over her lip. “We’ll likely never meet again, you know. I can judge by your maturity and age that you’ve experience.”

  Her gaze went over him, up him, like a flame licking over his skin. She murmured softly, “Can I touch you? Will you touch me?”

  Everything that following was a blur of red heat, and fast, yet, sluggish breaths, the kiss he had bent down and given, taken, he was not sure which. Their soft mouths and hungry tongues unleashed something inside him beforehand untapped.

  Afterwards, he’d wonder that the door was not locked—that he’d stripped down to skin with her in a carnal and surreal, feverish flow of kissing, and touching. His head was full of her sighs and her moans. Her hot and feverish eyes went over him, telling him he was magnificent. She touched and kissed him, was over him like honey, and ravishing fire that blanketed his skin and spilled into his blood. She possessed him.

  He had spent a half-hour with his face buried between her soft, scented thighs. Her limbs covered with white silk stockings sensually gliding over his shoulders. He had suckled, and pleasured her, nearly losing his mind watching her neck arch, the tumble of her hair spilling to touch the small of her back—her expression, of bliss. Her breasts—Christ— he had seen dozens. Yet those small, firm breasts excited him beyond description. He had teased her nipples to hardness, until she had pulled his hair. She had moaned and begged him to suckle them again.

  In the aftermath of her moaning, shuddering, climax, she had pushed him to his back, rimmed his sex with her pink lips, and taken him out of his head. They had dressed. She had been slipping out. He had been aroused and hard still from the tang of her on his mouth. Both their lips were so swollen and tender. He had barely touched them together in that last kiss.

  She had whispered in his ear, “It’s more than I dreamed of. You are more than I could have summoned in fantasy. I envy your lovers, Sir.”

  He had cupped her face and whispered in her ear, “You are the most exquisitely passionate woman I’ve ever known, Alex. No one compares.”

  He had never, and would never, in his normal persona, say that to a woman. He was not particularly effusive with his mistress. He rarely if ever did anything but straight and quick sex. His mistress was handsome. He was generous with money and gifts, but going to her, released tension. It had little to do with passion. He did not know what the woman did most of the time, and frankly did not much care. He reckoned she had others, but it simply did not bother him.

  “Aren’t you getting out?”

  “What—.” Edmund realized they had stopped. He exited and shook off the miasma.

  They were older. Now he knew who she was. She likely researched him easily enough.

  He stripped down to trousers to get into the boxing ring. He told himself he was right to tuck that little secret—the slice out of time—away. She had been a young woman, ripe for passion. It pleased him to give it to her. It was something extraordinary in his otherwise distant life. That—was all it would, or should be.

  Chapter Two

  Lady Alexandria Ramsey kept her eye on the guests below the balcony, where she and her sister, Jo, leaned. They had been observing those her father had invited for an informal evening. Informal or not, they were well dressed. The majority of the males and females had been in her father’s circle of friends for years. There were more gentlemen present. Her father, Lord Alexander Ramsey, Marquis of Hawksmoor, did nurture his various friendships, and those he did business with. Far from what society assumed, her father was not a man without bonds.

  This gathering before the more formal balls and to-do’s of the season, was a show of support she assumed, since he’d informed all of them over the summer at Hawksmoor—that they were going to do the social season.

  He knew very well, none of them desired a debut— or a marriage. He was fine with that, he had said. Nevert
heless, he would be damned if they stayed in hiding. Everyone loved Hawksmoor, the main estate, yet there was a season for that and one for socializing, he declared. This was it.

  The ballroom was set up with tables, delicacies, and with the best champagne and spirits to be had. An area for dancing was cleared. Beyond a constructed lattice arch, one could see the card tables, which were nearer the windows and French doors, to waft out the abundance of cheroot smoke.

  Speaking of her father, Alex was always astonished to regard him as a man of fifty years. Her father looked amazingly handsome in his black and white. He was a strong and fit man, one of energy, bronze skinned, and truly attractive, with his silver hair and lavender eyes. It had once brought out her jealousy and her claws to see women eye him covertly at Hawksmoor, or their home village. That was mostly due, at first, to her own resentments towards him that they had eventually worked out.

  It was not easy to know one’s father from gossip rags and scandalous accounts. She had not found the money he had sent, nor his letters, until her grandfather died. Alex forgave her grandfather, understanding his reasons for wanting to support her himself. After some heated exchanges and hard words, which she had stored up for years—eventually, she understood her father too.

  Alex came to realize that aside from being her papa, he was a separate person. Yes, a handsome man. His wealth, and his past rep, appealed to many. Her father was no monk. His beautiful ex-mistress, Constance Zavala whom she had met and liked years ago, was a woman of with warm skin, reddish black hair, and striking brown eyes—a sophisticate, without the bitter and sharp edges—a woman, with depth and heart. She had read in the papers when her father ended that long affair, and still had not the nerve to ask why.

  “Leland was such a pig. Observe how brittle Val is.” Her sister Jo’s voice was more a growl.

  Alex muttered, “He’s gone, and he’ll stay gone awhile, if he knows what’s good for him. Father wanted to run him through.”

  Jo grunted. “I was all set to detest father. Nor like the two of you, either. However, I felt this instant bond with all of you. I will be bloody damned if anyone treats any of you badly whilst I am around. I’ll run the bastard through myself, given the chance.”

  “I know.” Alex grinned, very aware of Jo being raised with a slew of cousins, and how some of their non-blood kin, were considered family too. Johanna had a fierce protective spirit towards those she called family.

  “My thanks, that you feel that way.” She said to Jo. “Don’t forget that I know how to fence and shoot too. I think it is Val, we feel the most protective of. All of us. Rotten business, what Leland did.”

  Alex looked below and towards her sister Valerie, Val as they called her. She sat with a couple of familiar ladies near a palm. Val looked so lovely in off the shoulder purple silk, her mink hair was up with pearls and her creamy skin, glowing—poised as always, wearing that small smile. She noted only an imperceptible glance around the room, as her sister drank from her glass, and, a slight quiver in Val’s hand. .

  It was—simply rotten—what Lord Bellamy had done. She firmly believed he would have driven Val mad, or killed her, eventually. They all agreed that his next wife, if he wed, would likely suffer that fate. He was a selfish and coldly insensitive man.

  Hang the ton and their bloodless unions—the Ramsey’s would never settle for something like that.

  Val had not consciously done so. Leland simply played his part well up to the wedding. It was one of the reasons Alex was not panting for matrimony, one of the reasons she, oddly enough, understood the relationships that herself and her sisters were born from. It was not ideal, but it was up front and honest. It was real passion without tricks and schemes.

  “I’m going down,” Jo called her attention again.

  Alex watched Jo pull on the matching short gloves she had gone to fetch. Johanna’s outfit was a daring yellow gold that put sparks in that thick auburn mane and jade eyes. In the back of her mind, Alex smiled, always giving that sister points for wearing whatever she bloody well pleased. The fashion experts from Jo’s first season declared her choices shocking and fast. Alex recalled reading about her, even before they had met. Jo wore her gowns to suit herself. As it happened, this sheathe fit snug and pushed up her breasts, with a v neckline barely covering her nipples.

  Jo’s auburn hair was half gathered and half down; the curly stuff looking like warmed Bordeaux. The overskirt of the snug gown cut away to form a train, the sheath to the ankle showed a woman of shapely legs and hips. Her sister’s shoes were from France, very high-heeled yellow satin.

  Both she and her father got a kick out of seeing Jo’s wardrobe this year. She’d almost swear Jo did it partly out of mischief, partly because she liked playing dual roles; the Jo who was in trousers half the time at Hawksmoor, or riding hell for leather with their cousins whom she still visited, and this one the ton saw and shook their heads at—that Brazen sister, simply amazed Alex with her similarities to their father. Albeit, the Marquis swore Jo was very much her mother’s daughter as far as passion for life went.

  “Don’t expose our plan to Val.”

  Jo snorted. “I don’t have a bloody plan, I’m just not going to let anyone cut her or whisper about her. Leland escaped that and it’s not bloody fair she should suffer more for his doings.”

  Turning to go down with her, Alex held up the hem of her chocolate silk gown and said as they were descending, “That is true. I agree. Yet if we confront anyone in her sight, she will be angry with us. Val’s got pride—it’s about all that’s carrying her through now.”

  Gritting her teeth, Jo muttered, “Very well. However, I am bloody well going to set anyone straight, who looks down their nose at her. You watch me.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs. Alex stood a moment, nodding to those who caught her eye, smiling at friends she had met since her father had fetched her. Winking at the elder Duke of Stromburg—whose grand estate she had visited many times. He had given her a pup, which was now a great shaggy beast, and kept at the estates. He was something of a rake in his youth. It was apparent he had been friends with her father for many long years. He was the Marquis’ Godfather and had mentored him after Alexander’s parents died in a storm.

  “I’m going on.”

  She felt Jo brush past her, going to greet Val and sit with her.

  Alex saw Archard Van Wyc, a friend of the Marquis, that the girls and most everyone had dubbed, (the Viking). Having first met Van Wyc at Hawksmoor, both she and Jo marveled at the six foot five Nordic giant, who indeed looked like a throw back from the Viking era. With long, shoulder blade length, white and honey hair, pale blue eyes, and a face carved out with craggy strong bones, Van Wyc looked the part.

  He had power on his frame, brawn in his legs and chest, was, simply amazing looking. He spoke with a deep and lovely accent. Even Val had agreed that he was something to observe and behold with awe. Absolutely, nothing like Leland. The vain and self-absorbed bastard. Thank God.

  This cousin of Leland’s was something between a hands-on actual fisherman/captain/ farmer, and an academician, so her father said. He apparently had some ties to royalty too. One would never know that last bit.

  He looked like someone who climbed mountains, felled trees, sailed ships and had been physical from his first breath. It was too; that white/blond hair and light eyes, combined with a honey hued skin that was startling. Alex was guilty of looking at him and murmuring she did not care if he had a brain or not. He was an impressive man. She kept picturing him in animal skin trousers, with a broad sword swinging over his head.

  She liked the contrast in his voice and light eyes, the somewhat gentle accented tone that was at odds with his brawn. She liked him mostly—because he was exquisitely kind to Val, too.

  More than once, he had to clean up Leland messes that were still cropping up to this day.

  Van Wyc must have felt her gaze. He looked over the guest’s heads easily and nodded to her. She nodded
back and watched him turn toward the card room. He had been with them often at Hawksmoor, riding, fishing, rowing, and all sorts of outings. He and her father were very close.

  She did not envy him the connection to his cousin at all. Such a rotter. A contemptible man in one’s family. Particularly an old and esteemed family like the Van Wyc’s, was a smear and shame few could swallow.

  Alex went into the main room, giving her hand in greeting, curtsying, and speaking a few words here and there. She tried to remind herself these were friends who knew her father’s story, and the facts of their past. The rest of society was whispering and gossiping since they had all arrived, waited with baited breath no doubt, to cut them one by one. It was not going to be a smooth season, for any of them. Not for Val, either.

  Val had always made excuses for Leland’s less than attentiveness when Leland was making a muck of life and racking up one scandal after another. Most of society knew enough thanks to the divorce. Aside from the fact they would be daughters of the rakehell Marquis, each of them had something further against them.

  Alex did not think the sticklers and highbrow pure bloods were cheering their arrival this season for any good intention.

  Reaching her sisters, she leaned down and kissed Val’s cheek, and afterwards stood slightly behind the chair, her hand on Val’s shoulder. “How are you? You look ravishing.”

  “Fine. Thank you. The both of you likewise.” Val glanced up at her and smiled. There was that same pain behind it that tensed Alex’s stomach. However, Val was saying cheerfully as she covered that hand, “It’s so very good to start the season thus. Family and friends. Papa looking so handsome. “

  “Yes.” Alex exchanged a dry look with Jo, who glanced at her during the word—family. They, all of them, privately laughed themselves silly when at Hawksmoor, over the unconventional one they made.

  “I heard one of the Van Wyc’s kinswomen raced horses—or dogs, was it, in the Alps?”