by Gayle Eden
He crushed the cheroot in a tray and picked up her tepid coffee, drinking it and setting the cup down before turning to face her. “Do you honestly think I would wed a woman I was not in love with?”
Her heart triple beat, Alex said, “I assumed you would wed for title and fortune, the heir, and all that. Given that you seemed more a part of that society than men in my father’s usual circle.”
He stood and walked over to her.
Alex pushed up to her knees while he sat his hip on the bed. Edmund continued, “I did not wed you because of the scandal, Alex. I wed you because I wanted you. And saw my chance to have you.”
“Lust….”
“Is that not what you said, all those years ago?” he challenged quietly. “You made yourself plain about marriage or an affair. I knew my place in society represented all those boundaries you had an aversion to. What choice did I have?”
Alex looked away from him and to the silk comforter on the bed. “Yes, of course. You are right. I can only say that I had not had those ideas challenged up to a point. I formed those in abstract. But…” She lifted her gaze. “I too had no reason to think you cared for me, nor would ever offer marriage. I had a perfectly horrid time at that ball you took me to. You were bloody distant. You confused me, Edmund. However, I still do not like rules. I am an adult. I can observe the important ones—without having to compromise my own independence.”
“Alex…” He reached out and cupped her cheek. “I was not trying to change you when were amid society. I was not trying to make you into anything.”
“I know that—now.”
“Good.” His thumb stroked her skin, his gaze firmly commanding her to absorb every word. “You are my Countess. It is a role you wed into. But just so you understand, I am prepared to make compromises and changes too, for this marriage.”
She covered his hand with hers. However, Edmund lay back on the bed and pulled her up and into his arms.
Lying with legs tangled, his arms around her, his chin on her hair; he confessed softly, “I’ve never said it.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
She arched her head back, gazing at him as he regarded her. “Are you saying it now?”
“I am.”
Alex swallowed, surprised to feel her eyes sting. Gruffly she asked, “Are you just saying that because you think I want to hear it?”
“Sometimes I could strangle you, Alex,” he murmured shaking his head.
She laughed even while a tear rolled free. “I can’t stand how much I love you.” Blinking as more tears came, she managed, “You’ve made me cry and I haven’t cried in years.”
Edmund raised and wiped her cheeks with his fingers, a smile past his own damp eyes. “Well, we knew this was a mistake, did we not?”
“Yes. Certainly.” She sniffed in more tears—and then Edmund was kissing her.
His own face wet from her crying, Edmund parted enough to say against her lips, “Just think how miserable we will be as friends.”
Her hands sliding up his back, she arched her neck for his nibbles. “I shall never like you when you are in that arrogant Earl mode.”
Against her skin, he countered gruffly, “I shall never like your being more independent than needing me.”
By the time they were lips to lips and his tongue swept in sensually, she gasped, “I love you, Edmund.”
“I love you, Alex.” He cupped the back of her head and rolled, bringing her atop him.
Aroused and astride him again, Alex husked, “Would you let me tie you to the bed and ravish you?”
Edmund’s eyes flamed amber fire. He actually shivered. In the end he rasped, “You told Kenworth not to pack any neck cloths.”
“Not a problem.” She kissed him and then jumped off the bed, going to the wardrobe and digging around. He sat up and was undoing the latches on his trousers when she came back waving silk scarves.
“Christ…” Edmund saw the fire in her own eyes. She prevented him finishing, wrapped his wrist and silk, and told him, “I’ll do the stripping down.”
An hour later, necked, hands, feet bound, and body bathed by her hands, lips, and tongue, every vein full, sinew strained and muscle bunched, Edmund watched her shadows on the wall of the moonlit room and felt her mouth take him.
He muttered faintly on an intoxicated gasp, “I will have to return the favor, you know, Alex.”
He heard her moan and then white-hot pleasure overtook him, burning and then drowning him while his inner thighs tensed and his stomach muscles cinched. Somewhere in the miasma on the downslide of his exquisite climax, he felt her unbind him.
Edmund did not recall getting under the covers afterwards, but he sensed hours later that he held Alex in his arms. He mumbled in sleep, “I love you, Alexandria. Don’t ever leave me.” He felt her hands caress his chest while he drifted into deeper sleep.
Alex smiled. Her lashes closed. They would be lovers, friends, husband and wife. Moreover, she had more to teach him, show him. He and the duchess would have a very real, very loyal and close family. It was something she suspected her father knew he needed, and their friendship was already strong.
Yes, there was much to show Edmund, and to explore with him.
Somewhere on the edge of slumber, she was amazed all over again that her sleek Earl had no idea how sensual and sexy he was. Oddly enough, that made her want him all the more. Just as his asking her never to leave him. Never would she. Edmund needed her and she needed him. Arrogant, aloof or not, he liked pleasuring her as much as he liked getting pleasure, though she still had a ways to go to get him to give in. When he did—Lord, but it gave her fever and sexual chills to witness it.
They had some ways to go, things to work through. Ah, well, Alex thought happily, wasn’t that what made their relationship so exciting? So many differences that made it all a challenge—she was stubborn and thought she knew her own mind well enough. He was arrogant and sure, he knew the world better than most. There would be some sparks in the future when they butted heads.
Alex looked forward to it.
* * * *
Weeks Later… Hawksmoor
Standing in the courtyard, enjoying an iced wine, the Marquis of Hawksmoor said to the Duchess Summerton whilst they watched the horseplay on the lawn between Alex and Edmund, “I picked him for Alex, you know?”
Her satiny brown eyes turned toward him and then back to the pair who was holding up the game of croquet. Alex stole his mallet and refused to give it back. “She is the best thing that ever happened to Edmund.”
“Um.” Lord Alexander glanced aside when Sonja moved away and walked down toward the group playing. He winced inwardly at himself, thinking his charm more than rusty. He had the duchess here more than 3 weeks and had yet not managed to impress her, apparently.
Alexander had known of her for years, seen her, and wanted her, truthfully. Knowing her background, he also recognized that wall of protection she had built. Her looks were stunning. Her poise and strength something he admired. He’d tried every subtle excuse beforehand to get close to her—all those invites to dinner and making excuses in London, to have her in their circle. It had not worked.
Now, at Hawksmoor, he was even more enthralled by her, watching her with his daughters, observing her whilst she let down her guard with them, and feeling a strange kind of ache when he observed her walking alone on the grounds, or sitting here in the courtyard pretending to read, but in some troubled muse.
He watched the late summer sun warm her already dark skin. Though she wore a beige summer gown, a short lace jacket covered her exposed shoulders. Alexander had felt sick, a pitiful sickness, when he realized why she covered those lovely upper arms and shoulders, her upper back. He’d been passing by the upstairs bathing rooms in search of Jo’s chambers, meaning to remind his daughter of a trip to the village in the morning, when he caught Sonja’s reflection.
The door had been opened and she was apparently washing her long thic
k hair, her back to the mirror and bent over a small tub. When she had straightened to coil her hair in a towel, the sun caught those silver lines and scars. Alexander stood rooted to the spot, his gut hollowing out until some commotion below stirred him to hurry on.
Later that night, his daughters accused him of being uncommonly brooding at dinner. He had glanced at Sonja—by then gowned in lovely ruby and black silk, her raven hair up with ruby pins—and reminded himself of his manners.
However, in hushed hours of night, he lay on his bed, half-struggling with the fact that he had more to overcome to reach her than he first thought. And, honestly admitting to himself that even should she consent to being his mistress—that being his beforehand fantasy—he would likely not be satisfied with that business like and unemotional arrangement.
Alexander mused to himself, that for the first time in too many years to remember, since Johanna’s mother, he wanted to give love, passion, healing and desire to a woman, so badly he ached. It was not simply that. He admired everything about her, even that strength that did make her independent, and not needful of a man.
Very simply, she stirred him; her voice, her perfume, the way she moved and smiled. He could not recall a time he had felt so enthralled. Truthfully, his young, reckless passion with Johanna’s mother was something different. That was wanting something that was already taken. Like trying to catch fire and wind, and in many ways, it was part of his “romantic” stage.
This was an ache in his soul, a stirring to his bones. This was something his lessons, maturity, and even making things right with his daughters could not equal. It had been seasons, months, and a long time that this woman stayed on his mind. In addition, this was the first time he wanted someone with a thousand emotions crowding his body and mind.
“Are you all right, papa?”
Alexander blinked out of his muse. He focused on Valerie, who was patting her face with toweling and pouring lemonade from a container. “Yes, of course. Who won the game?”
“Jo did.” She laughed and rolled her eyes before taking a sip. “But this time it is only because Alex stole Edmund’s mallet. He would have broken Jo’s record.”
Smiling, Alexander joined her, taking one of the cane chairs still in the shaded courtyard.
Glancing aside while she finished another long drink, he considered the daughter he had worried about all season. Valerie had her mink hair braided, though that was mussed, and she wore a striped beige and white skirt, a sleeveless summer blouse. Her handsome face flushed. He had to admit she had lost most of the strain from Leland and that mess, thank God. Every time he witnessed it, he wanted to hunt the man down and kill him. That anyone for so long, so deeply hurt one of his daughters…. few would know how it tormented Alexander.
However, the Marquis was aware of another dilemma concerning Val. He admired Van Wyc a million times over after the proposal he had overheard earlier. The young man continued to amaze him. Van Wyc was—one of the most unique and fascinating chaps the Marquis, in all his sophisticated life, had ever met.
At this very moment, the Viking was absent the group—likely pacing and trying to expend his wracked nerves cutting wood at the old cottage.
Last week Van Wyc had received a missive from his solicitor. Some dockside explosion had killed one of his uncles and the elder one was gravely ill. Were that not enough to shake the man who was expected to oversee his family’s fortunes—he was expected to wed a young woman who was some ward of his Uncle.
His proposal to Val had been both gentle and desperate.
“I will expect nothing of you other than the normal duties. You are one of the most intelligent women I know. I promise you, Val, I will respect any boundary you set should you consent,” he had said.
Moreover, lingering by the garden doors, Alexander had heard Val cry softly, “Why. Why me, Archard?”
“Because we know each other. We are friends—I hope?”
“Of course—but—”
The blond giant had gotten to his knees and taken Val’s hands, pleading, “Have I not kept your secrets and protected you, Val? Have I not done this, without treading upon your dignity or with respect of your own strength and competence? I know we have crossed tempers of late, but it is only because I do not think that my bastard cousin deserves another day of your tears.”
“I don’t weep for him.”
“I know that. Listen to me, Val. I do not wish to manipulate you the way he did. I have always been honest—as best I can be, with you. But I have been here for you; even before the end of your marriage you knew you could trust me—”
“I do trust you. I just—”
“Let me speak, please, just allow me to plead my case. I have always honored my elders and known my place in my family. I have given myself, my life, to making myself capable of taking it over, with no thought to my own interests nor pleasure, save what I have stolen with your family.
I was always prepared to take upon myself these duties and responsibilities, but God’s mercy; must I take into my life, for the rest of my life, some near child who will have been groomed to serve my needs? It is not so different from your English society. Save that, I know my uncles and their wives—how my cousins were paired up. These girls are prized for their genteel natures and domestic talents, they are daughters of wealthy aristocrats and merchants, whose only exposure to men are strict guardians…”
“That is no great weakness, sir.”
“Don’t call me, sir.”
Alexander had smiled at that scold. Then Van Wyc got to his feet but went on to say, “I do not want to breed heirs on some tender young woman whose only conversation will be shopping and village gossip. Look at me. She will likely scream at the sight of me, for I am the largest male of my generation. Or, was, unless my brother has grown in the two years of absence between us. Do I not deserve to choose at least some companion with whom I can discuss the burdens of business, and what books I enjoy for pleasure…?”
“Perhaps, if you plead with your uncle. I am sure he will see things your way. And maybe he will allow you time—”
“There is no time, Val. This is not a request. It is a dictate. Members of my family, distant and close relatives, are waiting for me to arrive and take my place. A place I no longer fit. This ward has been groomed simply for this purpose, I know my uncle… he believes in tradition…”
“Then wedding me—”
“No.” Van Wyc had spun and faced her again. “You see, it would be approved because you were wed to Leland. Because all were appalled at his actions toward you—and in their eyes, he dishonored the family—continues to do so with disgrace. It would be relief, restitution, in their eyes, should I wed you….”
“In other words, you’d be the hero for sacrificing yourself?”
Alexander could have sworn the Viking flushed, but it was too dark out to tell. In any event, Archard had said, “What matters is that they would approve. Have I ever asked you for anything?”
“No—”
“I would not bed you—”
“What makes you bring that up?” Val had jumped to her feet, her hands clapped to her red cheeks.
“Because I know you are thinking it. Because—we have no secrets, and I have kept those, even your family does not know, between us. Because—you trust my word. Dammit.”
His daughter had her back to Van Wyc, shaking her head and murmuring, “I cannot even think of this…”
“One week, Val. Please. I am imploring you. I must leave in one week. My Uncle is dying.”
At present, the Marquis let his gaze remain on Valerie. She turned to watch Jo and the duchess set up the net for lawn tennis. He knew Van Wyc stayed away from the house, trying to give Val room, while wanting nothing more than to plead his case every day with her.
Sighing, Alexander wondered if Val had any idea of what Archard had done for her, and for Leland, even those years they were wed. What he did not know, he could guess. Moreover, it was fortunate that Van Wyc had int
ellect and self-control given his brawn and height, because Leland was the vilest gutter rat and the most selfish bastard alive.
Paying off the poor and ignorant was wrenching enough, but having watched Leland abuse Valerie and watching her stay, refusing to let go of her illusion—had nearly killed him.
He confided in Alexander that he came close, a dozen times, to killing his cousin out on some stretch of road. To a man like Van Wyc, where blood ties were stronger than sin, and family was a burden not taken lightly, it had been some of his lowest points in life.
Still, the Marquis had his own struggle with Valerie. She had none of Jo and Alex’s easy chatter and open ways. Valerie kept her feelings deep and though they had found their bridge to build their relationship, he did not underestimate the effects of Leland’s abuse.
He felt for them both. However, privately he wished she would accept Van Wyc. The man had been her guardian, her protector, and more a friend than she was aware of. He would give Val purpose, respect, and an interesting life, and perhaps someday….
“He has spoken to you?” Val suddenly turned.
Parallel lavender gazes met and held.
“Not formally no.” Alexander discerned that she had felt his stare.
Valerie searched his face, her own flushed more. “What do you mean, not formally?”
“I have always known he cares for you, Val. He has been more to you than I or anyone in your life. He’s been your sustaining, and your friend.”
She swallowed. “Are you telling me that I should accept him?”
“No. I would never influence your decision. Marriage is too serious a union to be manipulated into.” He admitted, “I overheard.”
Valerie looked beyond him and then turned to gaze out at the lawn again. She murmured, “I wish he had not asked me. I am fully aware of what I owe him.”
“It is not about that. I don’t think he presented it that way.”
“No.” She reached up and rubbed her temple. “He does not have to. As time has passed I let myself remember what I had pushed back in my mind for my own sanity.”