Rakehell's Daughters

by Gayle Eden

  Val took a step away. A habit, he was likely used to. She rarely allowed anyone of the opposite sex to stand too close or touch her. It was reactive rather than personal. In addition, Val was aware of doing it for the first time in any conscious way towards him. It made her waver in her decision; reminding her of the unfairness to him should he really desire this union.

  Still, she turned to him, looking up with her heart in her throat and her knees too weak to stand. “I’ll accept your proposal….”

  Those light blue eyes searched her face. There was a subtle smile lifting his mouth. Van Wyc reached out his rough, strong hand, palm up.

  Hers trembled as she laid it atop, palm to palm.

  He relayed, “You’ll never regret it. I promise you.”

  She swallowed again. “You will. You are still young. In your prime. You—”

  He was shaking his head, his gaze still sweeping her face. “I’ve never prayed for anything so intensely—in all my life.”

  She blurt, “But we must discuss a few things first.”

  Those eyes, palest blue, scanned her expression before he nodded, waving toward the house next. “Wherever you wish.”

  She would have suggested the woodcutter’s cottage back there, but now that she thought of it, she would be more comfortable in the house. She still led him via the back entry, to a garden room with rows of windows and French doors. Lighting a lamp, she settled herself, noting he had left the lantern outside. Though Van Wyc by no means fit the cabbage rose patterned furnishing and cane chairs, here at least was a room seldom entered by the rest of the family.

  She seated herself in one of the cushioned chairs. Slightly forward and hands too tightly clasped in her lap, Val tried to ignore how intently he regarded her as he settled across on a settee, his long legs apart and arms along the back. No other man would have done so without changing into fresh clothing. His earthy ways did not offend her. She had long learned that many things were “natural” to Van Wyc. He had his own ways and knew when to ignore “rules” and “decorum.” There were times other things were more important than wearing the right coat. Lord knew, he had seen her at her worst, her lowest, and most shameful moments.

  With those light eyes on her, amber lamplight playing across his high cheekbones, Val had to clear her throat twice before the words started to come out, “You must go to your family, in Switzerland?”

  “Yes. My uncle has another large house in Stockholm. My other widowed aunt lives there, also several of the cousins.”

  Val moved her gaze from being locked with that intense one, to the pleats on the shirt. It was damp. “You said when you asked me to wed and explained your obligations—I no longer fit. What did you mean by that?” She sensed rather than watched him rake his hair back. Her eyes stayed where they were. She wanted no distractions. No one could know how serious marriage was to her. How frightening, even with someone she trusted.

  “Tradition. I was referring to the fact that my uncles held full control and authority over the entire family until death. It was something that worked well, served well, in the past, when politics, the country not being under self-rule, was a difficult dance for merchants and men of business. However, to give the short answer—I have, during my travels and my life, come to view things differently. I have had my share of arguments with the uncles, no matter how compliant I have been to preparing myself for obligations. Trust me, few in the family, even those twice my age, would challenge them.”

  Val could see that. She knew Archard was intelligent and had skills and experience. It would difficult to take dictation without challenging something he thought would not work better a different way.

  He was saying, “I’ve seen the same accounts and reports, the same letters, my uncles have. Shared with me, in preparation for the day I would become “an elder,” Many of the family who run and operate a business, whether timbering, farming, or fishing, shipping—know it better. They know it, hands on. Unlike my uncles, I examined their petitions, ideas, and advice. I am of the mind that they should be handed the full responsibility—to rise and fall on their own, without oversight or approval from the “elders.”

  She raised her gaze, and her brow.

  He shrugged. “Some are older than me, Val. A few are not. Nevertheless, my view is, someone working, living and breathing the enterprise, needs fewer constraints. They need to be able to make decisions without consulting the elders/family and waiting on votes. Such things take too much time. Aside from that, there is personal dignity. Whilst some may admire and love the traditions and old ways, others deserve the confidence and independence to oversee their business. To feel like they own it. I think there is a compromise that can be reached, respecting many of the traditions, whilst making those changes.”

  “You’ve become a progressive man.”

  He returned thoughtfully, “Much about who I am, is seeped in those traditions. I do not exist without those things. Family is important to me. Yes, if you mean that I have learned something. I have. It is partly the era, or times we live in. Part of it, simply having insight all these years, through accounts, letters to the uncles. That “family” is made up of young men—and women, for some do as much work, who are capable and intelligent. There is much to work out. Everyone would still have to contribute to the elders, and the education of the younger ones. There would be much resistance and arguing, because change is frightening, to the elders mostly, some who lost more in the past…”

  “You plan to put this to your family—when you go home?”

  “All hundred and fifty of them.” His eyes twinkled slightly.

  Fascinated by that twinkle, she nonetheless murmured, “That is a lot you are preparing to do. Refuse the bride they have prepared for you, and centuries old traditions.”

  “It’s not exactly sudden. I’ve challenged things before.” He sat up, forearms on his thighs. “I do have many already on my side.”

  She had to smile whilst musing aloud, “You should have been born during the Viking days.”

  When she raised her eyes, it was to find his startling grin smile in place. Val realized he took that as a compliment.

  As if to solidify that guess, he said, “The English weren’t the first to give me that nickname. It was there before I was out of short pants.”

  Yes. She could see why. Mentally a vision of a young flaxen-headed lad invaded her mind, swimming necked in fjords and climbing ships masts, running in rugged mountains with cattle and forking hay. She could also see him in formal velvets with hair tied back, bowing to royalty. Such a contrast. Likely serious and oddly fascinated by his studies, by books, by the world he lived in. Yet, so intimate a man he was deeply tied to a large, extended family.

  He intruded on her muse by further saying; “It will change things. My future too.”

  Her gaze met his.

  “I will still have to travel. Still have the responsibility of my kin. I will have to offer opinions on decisions and each of us take in youngsters to educate and raise. We support the widowed, young and old, and must approve marriages. Much of which, I can do in writing. But many holdings will fall to me, and not all in this country.”

  “And your brother?”

  “—Is on my side.” He smiled short.

  “Of course.” Val moved her gaze around the room. “I like being around my family.”

  “As do I.” He intoned, “I plan to live here.”

  Her eyes whipped back to him.

  “Yes. It will be a shock to the family; I am sure, much more so, because my brother also wishes to join me. He has long petitioned to do so. He’s eager to see and experience more beyond his homeland.”

  Val digested that. He planned to live in England but would have to travel. If the uncle died, he would have many obligations and responsibilities. Likely, they would have family members living with them.”

  “Val,” he drew her attention with that soft calling of her name.

  She stared at him.

  �
�You fit my future more than you realize your education, your family connections— and poise, ease, in English society. Your maturity is well balanced with your enjoyment of life—when you let yourself relax. As here at Hawksmoor, you’re more like me than you realize.”

  She did not think so. She was still gaining her self-esteem and working through her weaknesses, or past weaknesses. She had once been independent, confident, and strong in her own way. She was not daunted by the thoughts of guiding some young male or female through society, regardless of how it treated her because of the divorce. Her father was a Marquis. Her sister had just wed one of the loftiest Earls. Her unconventional family was what it was, and society be hanged. Leland’s scandals still bothered her. It kept the connection fresh and she hated that. She would like to forget him. Likely, she would never get to. He was Van Wyc’s cousin. Nevertheless—it was not those parts of marriage that intimidated her.

  Society had already speculated that she and Van Wyc were lovers. Such rumors brought a blush to her cheeks. However, she supposed the worst of it would be that society would smugly think themselves right all along.

  Val speculated finally, letting her gaze slowly roam his face, “You have given this more thought than simply a week?”

  “I wanted you to wife, even before you left Leland.”

  Her stomach cinched. Val got to her feet, walking to the French doors. Back to him, she crossed her arms. “Don’t say that. There is nothing in the woman I was, that should be desired by any man in a wife.”

  “I saw more, below the surface. I did not dilute my cousin’s responsibility for the circumstances. Whereas you, blame only yourself.”

  She peered out, noting the fog was drifting over the back courtyard. “It was—partly my fault.”

  “By law, he owned you. You had little recourse.”

  Val shook her head. “I could have left him, came to my father.” Tension crawled over her. The old feelings began crowding in. She waved her hand and said, “Let’s put that debate aside for the moment. What needs be clear between us is that I don’t accept your proposal easily.”

  She turned, her gaze meeting his, not really surprised that he had once more sat back, arms along the back of the settee, appearing relaxed even though his attention was intently focused on her. “I think you will regret it.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I won’t.”

  She wanted to argue that point. However, Van Wyc could be stubborn too, in his way. “There is much about your reasons that I feel confident to meet. But aside from duties and responsibilities, we are two people entering a marriage, a union, and in that area, I will fall short.”

  He changed position slowly, coming to his feet and walking over to stand beside her. Looking down at her he husked, “Trust me, Val.”

  “I do. I just…”

  His hand lifted, fingers touching her lips to silence her. “That’s all that matters. That trust. You know me. You trust me. Everything else will work itself out.”

  When his hand dropped, Val let him hold her gaze, a million thoughts crowding her mind. She had agreed and yet she wanted to give him every chance to take that proposal back. Standing this close to him, she was all the more aware of how young and virile he was, how no matter his intellect and vast life experience. He was a man, with normal needs…. and appetites.

  As if reading her mind—likely not having to, considering he was intimate with her past, Archard said quietly, “Don’t talk yourself out of it, love. And don’t imagine I made the offer on impulse, although I shamelessly used the urgency of my situation to the advantage.”

  His hand rose again, this time he delicately touched her face, his light eyes probing her own. “We can wed before I depart, a small, intimate one here, with your family. I have men of business in London, and your father shares many of the same. I have purchased an estate—actually, I did so a year ago. Whilst I am gone, you will have a home to move into, already staffed. If I do not return by the spring, as planned, you will have income enough—you will be quite wealthy. However, we will discuss the details another time. If you go up with your family for the season, there is a house I own in London too.”

  She was not surprised at that either. He was not a man to ignore a good investment, nor one who was not planning ahead.

  He said, “Your father and family will help you, and I’ve grooms and other staff who are loyal to me, and shall be to you. I will write often and keep you abreast of the details of my family dealings, and decisions I make. Because, it will be your life too. No matter what I take on, or am in charge of. It is our life.”

  She closed her eyes and managed, “All right. Before week’s end.”

  Val felt that palm cover her cheek. She could almost feel his urge to embrace her. She did jump slightly when he leaned down and his lips brushed her brow.

  Before her lashes fully lifted, he had stepped back. “I’ll speak to your father in the morning.”

  She stood there watching him depart. Assured her sisters would help arrange the (discrete) ceremony. For divorced woman—well, even without that stigma, she was born out of wedlock; and the daughter of the Rakehell Marquis, small and discreet was better than some spectacle the whole of society would likely attend.

  The duchess was here also. She had become friends with her brother in law, the earl’s, sister. Their pasts were eerily similar, although Sonja suffered far more, for far longer, than she had.

  Val sighed and left the room, going above to her private chambers. Long after she had bathed and dressed, she lay sleepless and wrestled with doubts and second thoughts. She slept very little.

  Chapter Two

  Van Wyc slept less than an hour. Up at the chill of dawn, he was not affected by what he considered mild English fall and winter. It was warm compared to his homeland. Early falls in his country could mean snow. It sometimes lingered in the mountains well past the English springs. He walked, as was his habit, upon awakening, taking the trails through Hawksmoor’s woods and jogging around the lake.

  Arriving back at the manor, he shaved and bathed, changing into fresh suede trousers and linen shirt, a scarf—normally ones sent by his favorite distant cousin in Bern, and pulled on wine boots. Tying his long white blond hair back at the nape with a leather thong, Archard stood before a mirror he had to bend slightly to see his face in. He had no worries about the Marquis approving the marriage. His anxiousness stemmed from Val herself backing out.

  He turned and exited the guest chambers. The house was still quiet. The Marquis and his son in law, Edmund, Earl of Sotherton, he found in the study with coffee, reading an array of papers and magazines.

  Those lavender eyes looked up as he stepped through the door. The still handsome former Rakehell with tanned skin and a body fitter than men half his age, got his feet and poured a coffee, his gaze seeming to scan Archard’s face in a way that relayed he knew why Archard sought him out.

  Edmund stood also, folding a paper and carrying his cup. Obviously taken into the Marquis confidence, he said, “I think I will rouse Alex for an early morning ride. If you will excuse me.”

  At the Marquis chuckle, coming as Van Wyc sat himself in a chair by the hearth; the earl winked one eye and raised his raven brows. It was a clear admittance that the “ride” would not be on horseback.

  Van Wyc smiled behind his sip of coffee. He had a week of witnessing the newlywed’s intense attraction. Even had he not seen it all along, from the moment the Marquis brought Edmund into the circle of friends, the two exact opposites set off sparks hot enough to crackle the air.

  After the door closed behind Edmund, the Marquis sat himself across from Archard, casually dressed and relaxed, coffee in his hands and booted feet on a small footstool. Not formally attired, as he would be in an hour, at the usual late breakfast, Alexander’s silver mane was simply tucked behind his ears.

  Out of the daughters the Marquis had claimed, Van Wyc saw much more of him in Valerie. It was not just the lavender eyes they shared, but also muc
h of her handsome bone structure.

  “She accepted your offer?”

  Archard lowered the cup, holding it in his palms. “Yes.” His gaze touched the Marquis. “With reluctance.”

  Nodding, Alexander moved his stare to the morning light beyond the French doors, a side garden there, where they oft smoked between hands of cards or playing billiards. “There is nothing I can say that you don’t already know. In fact, you know more than she will ever be comfortable sharing with me.”

  “I know. I have no reservations. None.”

  The marquis’ gaze came back to him, going over his face then settling eye to eye. “We have been friends quite some time, you and I. Your age is irrelevant, so I should never flatter myself that I could have fathered a son with the character you yourself have forged. To females however, we have flaws. It is our lot to feel more clueless when in a relationship with them, than we consider ourselves. We are doers and protectors…. and naturally underestimate their strengths.”

  A small smile played on the Marquis’ lips. “Thus, no matter how confident and overjoyed I am that you will wed her, that you’ll be family, nor how confident you are that things will work themselves out smoothly—you had best resign yourself to be proven wrong. Women, my daughters, even the most expressive of them, Johanna, is still a mystery.”

  “I take little for granted,” Van Wyc commented, knowing full well that being a husband to Val was going to be a challenge. In more ways than most knew.

  “Good.” The Marquis took a full drink. Afterwards he asked for details, the date and plans.

  Archard gave him what he knew. Needing to pass it by Val, but suspecting she would be fine with Thursday because he booked passage the following day. They did not have much time. He had sent word to his solicitor and he had gotten a special license many months ago—also not something he had shared with anyone.

  “Very well.” Alexander listened to him talk about the estate and London townhouse, which, the Marquis and other friends in their circle had visited before Archard bought them. In fact, the London house had been owned by Alexander years ago. It was not on the same street as his current mansion, but nearer the merchant’s newer and elaborate homes.