by Gayle Eden
Many of the aristocracy had left the address when the “newly rich” middle class, moved in, and began constructing their own homes. Alexander had rented it out, so it retained its fine architecture and old charm. Having spent most of his time at the Ramsey’s house, Archard had little time to do more than repair and spruce it up. The decorating would fall to Valerie.
As for the estate, it was not that far from Hawksmoor, the Marquis's country home, that most of his male friends envied, although it was impossible to find anything that compared to the homesteads and flavor of his Swiss heritage: the chateaus and vistas, the countryside and coasts, Van Wyc bought the place as it was, and had slowly transformed it to possess some of those things. He had changed the name too, and called it Whitestone. In summer’s sun, the stone of the main house looked white. It actually had been a monastery a century ago, but been transformed into a residence with farmland, parks, woodlands.
Two lakes graced the property with marshes he and the Marquis had hunted duck and quail in. In the spring, it greened and was lush. In the winter, it iced and crystallized. Now in the fall, it would be painted gold and red in the woodlands, thick with wildlife, the last of the autumn’s harvest being brought in. It was a beautiful property, but also, under his hand, prospered.
Following the normal male conversation about property, not including holdings and such Van Wyc had that were vast and varied, the marquis asked a few questions about his travel plans and Van Wyc told him he hoped to return by spring.
It was at breakfast, later, Archard having eaten and sat back, observing the sisters, although the beautiful Duchess of Summerton, Lord Edmund’s sister, was still a guest, as was Lord Adam Auvary, a close friend to both the Marquis and earl, having been so much with the family, Archard was used to the ladies distinct personalities, used to their beauty also. Even if none of them were particularly vain about it.
Here at Hawksmoor they were all more apt to wear trousers than dresses. Johanna, Jo, and Alex, were more competitive than some men were. Alexandria was quite striking, petite with caramel and white curls and framing her face, wide sherry eyes, at the moment still holding a glow so obviously matching that of her husband—likely from that “riding” done in the bedroom.
Jo, the brazen one, shocked society just for sport. She had dark, rich, red hair, and green eyes. Provocatively dressed most times in town, was awhile forgiving him for providing the Viscount, Sascha Auttenburg, passage out of England, and a new start on life in his country. The two set off instant sparks. Were likely perfect in that “attraction” way. However, Sascha was already deep in a messy situation by the time they had met.
Jo or Johanna, certainly fit all the tales he had heard of the Rakehell Marquis, and her spirited mother—who had been wed at the time of her affair with Alexander. She had kin, the Campbell’s from Scotland who came down in the summer. It was with them that Jo’s competitive side came out. She was a better shot than most men were. Like Alex, a trained fencer, and unlike most females, rode, sailed, took on any sport or task with a— I can do this—and do it better than you— attitude. If Jo had a great flaw, it was that her passions were so intense, so deep, that whilst fighting the world and its strictures on her sex, its ideas of female limitations—she also caused herself pain, by making her mistakes, having to learn that way, instead of heeding advice.
Van Wyc did not consider that weak. Because, were she a male, Jo would be admired for many of her skills and qualities. He, like her father, merely hated to see her pain. Pain she masked, in high spirits and high jinx, running after life with both hands open—and yes, shocking the ton. She had fallen hard for Sascha. They were both passionate people. Nevertheless, the timing was wrong.
His gaze moved to Val, who was talking to the duchess. It did not matter what past memories he had of Valerie. It did not really matter what she considered “her worst”; he was affected every time he saw her.
It was not the time to muse over that first memory, or the past season when he had watched her, witnessed her regal pose and high held chin, her inborn confidence in the face of whispers and residue from her divorce, and Leland’s scandals. He expected the Marquis would soon announce the marriage—sure, that Val had already told her sisters, and the duchess. Nevertheless, it was the proper thing to do.
He had enough time, unnoticed, to visually admire Val’s lush, thick, mink hair. She wore it drawn up with braids weaved amid curls. It enhanced her handsome face, a quit stunning one, with sable arched brows, thick lashed lavender eyes—a nose straight and strong, somewhat arrogant.
Her lips were full, dark and lush, her skin flawless and dewy. She wore a simple gown, but full figured, having a penchant for purple, lavender, and those hues, her attire always looked elegant and jewel like against her skin—today a purple silk and velvet, empire waist, but with the neck line higher than most, because of the fullness of her breasts. Having seen her in night rails, tended her, he did not need to view actual flesh to know she was curved and full, hour glass figured—with shapely legs, strong from walking, riding—yes, she fenced too, he discovered. Or had. It was something he would like to get her into doing again. Actually, he would like to see Val free herself and indulge just for her own amusement, too.
During the divorce, when both he and the Marquis watched her pull her courage and strength together, Van Wyc was always struck by the figure she made moving amid crowds of hecklers, spectators, and ignorantly hostile lords, attending the hearings. She had dressed her five foot eight inch frame and full figure in smart suits and veiled hats, deep colors that he suspected gave her confidence. Modern styles, that though plain and tailored were feminine without being frilly. It was as if she was saying, even subconsciously, I am woman, female and aware of the views, laws, strictures, but I am competent to represent myself—
It had not been pretty, nor easy. The questions were both intimate and harsh, geared more to favor Leland and his rights as husband. Nevertheless, she had withstood, prevailed, and gained her freedom. The stigma was there. He, like her father, like their circle of friends, saw it as a small price to pay “in society” for escape.
“I’ve an announcement to make.”
Archard turned his gaze to the Marquis, who then looked at him, smiling, before including Valerie in that scan. Alexander announced, “Val and Archard are to be wed by week’s end. Please, stand with me, let us toast the occasion.”
Everyone stood. Archard lifting his coffee and hearing Jo’s (famous!) and Alex’s (we know. isn’t it wonderful) whilst his eyes found and held Val’s.
She stood, coffee cup lifted, her cheeks slightly flushed. Toasts made, the earls’ and the duchess added congratulations. Archard sipped, observing Val then set her cup down, accepted hugs amid talk and laughter from the sisters—some teasing he guessed, before they moved to the informal sitting room.
“I am beginning to wonder if Alexander did not pick all of his friends to match up his daughters,” Lord Edmund intoned wryly, passing Archard, who was moving to stand by Val’s chair.
Archard returned the grin and murmured, “I have learned never to underestimate him. Society called him a mere Rakehell whilst he amassed a fortune. Never argue politics with him, either.”
Laughing, Edmund took himself to sit between Jo and Alex. Lady Summerton moved to a chair, quietly talking to Lord Auvary. The Marquis was pouring more coffee. Archard reached the arm of the chair Val sat in. He breathed her perfume, a haunting scent he also did not have the time—nor was this the place—to recall just how alluring he found it.
She glanced up for a second, some of the flush from being the center of attention still coloring her cheeks. It was part of the contrast between the confident and poised divorced woman—and the reserved, more comfortable one on one, Valerie preferred. Of the three daughters, she was the more private, the less apt to talk about her feelings. By now, Archard could read her pretty well, however.
“Does Thursday give you enough time?”
“Yes.” S
he nodded slightly, her lavender eyes obviously trying to judge his reaction and resolve after a night’s rest. He could have told her he had slept little, and changed his mind not a bit. However, she was asking him, “You have booked passage?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “It is up to you if you’d like to go directly to Whitestone and settle in before I depart. Or, would rather stay here with your family afterwards.”
Her eyes swept the others in the room and then returned to him. “I’ll go to your home….”
“Our—home.”
“Ours,” she amended, not without some tension in her tone. “Lady Summerton, Sonja, has offered to join me later. She has found some property of her own, but I gather she would rather not winter there. Actually, now that she has given in and joined our circle, I have expressed to her that there is no need for her not to join Jo, Alex and myself, as guest. We shall have many pleasant evenings at chess and cards—other amusements.”
That relived Archard. He did not want to leave her completely alone. Not that he did not think her family would be around, but he liked the idea of her having a close friend. Lady Summerton, however whispered about in society too, and having a dark past, was just the sort of woman Val needed in her life. Hopefully, it would help her let go of the shame and guilt she unnecessarily carried.
He would like to have time with Val. He would prefer it. The family situation was too urgent to delay.
The fact that no one was gushing, chatting about plans, bespoke the unusual circumstance of their uniting, as clearly as it did everyone’s understanding of Val’s past and her character. He was sure both her sisters had questions, which they would no doubt take to the Marquis, since the proposal had come out of nowhere, with no previous signs of courtship
Nevertheless, Archard supposed such intelligent and knowing females had noticed what Valerie had not. They likely guessed why he remained in the country. Aside from his closeness with the Marquis, he assumed that he forgot himself on occasion and revealed too much of his true feelings for Val. Certainly—he had slipped up kissing her in that coach…
“Archard?”
He pulled his mind and gaze back to Val. “Pardon?”
“I was merely asking if it would be appropriate for me to write to your aunts? I know, despite your assurances, that they will not be pleased you have not wed your uncle’s choice. Whilst it may be awhile before I meet them, under better circumstances than family illness and death, I hope—I still do not wish for them carry the assumption that there was anything inappropriate beforehand.”
He opened his mouth to tell her she need not explain herself to anyone once wed to him. However, knowing she would worry what the family thought of the union, of her, he said, “Of course. I’ll carry the letter myself.” He rested his hand on the back of the chair, his thigh near her arm as he leaned more toward her, adding, “I do not worry overmuch, I’ve always charmed the aunts fairly well.”
Rewarded with her grin though she shook her head, he added, “I’ve always been honest with them, written the family. Even my brother knows of you, and your family.”
“Nonetheless, you took seriously the expectation they had of choosing your bride.”
“I did.” He met her gaze. “But I am old enough and have earned the right to choose for myself.”
“I don’t envy you this reunion. I shall pray for your uncle.”
He wanted to kiss her, to touch her. Instead, he said, “Thank you, Val.” Then looked away, attending other light conversation, and was grasping, when he returned from this trip, he would actually get to spend the rest of his life with this woman.
It flooded Archard with emotions he had to mask. Valerie scarcely knew the flesh and blood man he was. He had learned to obscure much of that side of himself lately. Once free of Leland, he filled whatever role he could, to stay near her, to hopefully— let her see him as that—flesh and blood man.
* * * *
Thursday came awfully fast for Valerie. Even though the plans were not elaborate and no other witnesses were there, It still did not sink in that she was marrying Archard Van Wyc, the Viking, the man—who knew her weakness, her mistakes—until that morning.
The ceremony would be at noon, in the study. A preacher had arrived the night before. Someone her father knew, surprisingly. Or perhaps not, she mused smiling, the Lord of Hawksmoor played chess in the winter with a few vicars, and his old mentor.
Val arose early and donned a coat for a stroll in the woods, resisting the recollections of the elaborate wedding she had had with Leland. The fairy princess gown, pure white, flowers and candles, all of the dream like trappings and romantic things.
Everything had been perfect for a union made in utter hell, a mockery in every sense. Moreover, she had been the perfect naive fool. Having no idea how the first subtle and then violent abuse, would rob her of her very self. She often tried to go back before to find some excuse for her being blind. Nothing really made sense though. It was not something she could say, ah, there is the reason. Whilst it was happening, her emotions did not allow her to conceive time… it was there, her reality, before she could scarcely register it.
Lost in her thoughts, stomach tense, Val jumped when a noise intruded on the usual woodland sounds. Turning, she saw Archard striding in that leggy way through one of the side paths. Unlike herself, he was not in a coat, but did wear a soft flannel shirt and doe trousers, well-worn boots. His hair was loose, damp from morning fog, but his honey skin did not look the least chilled. In fact, she could almost feel the heat on his skin, as he got closer.
“You’re up early.” He stopped a foot away.
“Yes. You usually walk—I forgot—”
“You’re not disturbing me.” His brow rose. “I was heading that way next—” He pointed down the path she was taking.
Val nodded, watching him as he came alongside her. She started walking again, hands in her coat pockets, the long braid of her hair hid by the collar and coat. She had donned boots and trousers, an old sweater. He had seen her in it before.
“Everyone still abed?” he asked.
“Yes. Even if they’re awake, they know father likes his hour of solitude before the house stirs.”
“Um.” he agreed.
Quite a ways down the path, they stopped by mutual consent. Val sat herself on a log, observing Archard as he settled on the blanket of damp leaves, back against the tree trunk.
He withdrew a pipe and packed it, lit it. It was one she had seen him smoke before in the courtyard, an ivory carved one that likely was not sold in England, and held some meaning to him. After forgetting herself, watching those strong hands, fingers packing the bowl, she lifted her gaze seeing white smoke curl from his sensual lips and flared nostrils.
Val’s stomach did not ease its tension. In fact it increased as she experienced something akin to the sensations she had the first time she’d watched him throw axes with Jo’s Campbell cousins—shirtless, or when he would come back from the woodcutter’s cottage, absent the shirt also, wet or sweating—so that every muscle and sinew was enhanced.
Unaware of how long she had done it, she came to herself, and jerked her gaze higher to find his sky blue eyes waiting—watching her watch him.
Tingling with discomfort, she took her focus to the stream, the scent of the woods mingling with smoke and the feel of his gaze potent.
“You’re beautiful.”
“What?” She jerked her eyes back to him.
Head back against the trunk, hand with the pipe resting on the thigh of the one leg he extended, the other bent, those eyes never wavered. “I said, you’re beautiful.”
Val swallowed, simply staring at him. Even though he had excused an impulsive kiss—a drunken one—he claimed, delivered after a ball, he had never said, nor sounded, quite like this.
“Don’t start telling me I’ll regret the marriage because I said that,” he murmured. “I’ll be your husband, no matter how it’s defined for you. From the moment I saw you, I thoug
ht you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”
Unable to hold that gaze, she looked away again.
He puffed. Smoke wafted, and in easy tones said next, “You trust me, Val. Even in your most vulnerable moments, you trusted me. Don’t ever forget that.”
Why was he saying that? “I won’t.”
They sat silent for some time. When heading back, he took her hand. Valerie would never imagine a man like him, like he appeared, to outsiders, would be how he was with her. However, he was right. She did trust him. Even when she saw his disgust at Leland, his fury— and the aloofness he displayed in society, he treated her as an equal, and tended her when she had not the mind to know she needed it. He was unique, stronger than any man she knew physically. Certainly, bigger and stronger than Leland. Yet—deep in her bones, she trusted him.
They parted at the house, Valerie going above to get her bath and sit in her robe, choosing—needing—to have breakfast on a tray instead of with the others, because her nerves were starting to show themselves.
Jo entered before she was dressed.
Her sister was wearing a lovely emerald green velvet gown, long sleeved. Her deep Bordeaux hair was half up, half down, and she wore drop pearls in her ears.
“I won’t ask for details,” the usual lively Johanna promised as she offered to help her dress and do her hair. “Although—I am bloody well curious.”
“I’ll explain later. I promise.” Val let her help her into a lavender gown. It had subtle white stripes, deep V neckline and long fitted sleeves. The material had a sheen to it and there was a bit of delicate lace at the valley of her breasts. Considering hers were generous, the piece kept it on the modest side; sheer stockings, her silk chemise, and the white silk pumps—not bad for a makeshift wedding get-up.
Alex came in as Jo had sat her in a chair and was brushing her hair. Two maids were in the room, one of them, sally, was her normal maid and would likely go with her to Whitestone.