by Gayle Eden
“No,” he cut in quietly and followed with a sigh, and a repeated. “No.”
“Yes. Were I normal…”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” He still did not look from the flames. His voice was stiff, however low. “I am leaving. I must. Let us not argue.”
“I’m sorry.” She felt terrible. Suddenly the realty of everything settled on her. She saw things from his side; how much he had already done, the two years before, and every care and kindness, his attention and protective attitude, in London. Even after she had regained her balance, he had been there—for her. “You deserve more. You might have—”
“No.” He straightened and turned toward her, the firelight behind him. “I’ve no regrets.”
“You will.” Her own throat was tight.
Those light eyes searching her own. He then walked the distance between them and went to his haunches.
His hand taking her own from her lap and holding it whilst his gaze never wavered, Archard husked, “I won’t lie. I want this to be a real marriage. I want to be a real husband to you. I never intended otherwise. However, I am neither insensitive to what you experienced with Leland, nor unaware of your ignorance of true intimacy, the right kind—between a man and woman. The last thing I want is to give you an aversion to that.”
His thumb caressed her skin making it sensitive. “I care for you. More than you know. When you feel the same…. attraction and I hope when I return and we are together more, you will. The rest we will work out.”
Her heart was beating too hard. Her skin flushed from having what constituted an “intimate” conversation with Archard. Val reminded herself that he was now her husband. That she should respect him enough to respond to his concerns.
Val licked her lips and dropped her gaze to his shoulder. She was not at all sure how to put things. She tried. “I’m not…unaware of your…of….how you…look. Although your character is by no means lacking, and there is no question as to your intellect. I’m sure your vast skill and knowledge of—”
“Val—.”
“—um having worked in the trades as well as being groomed for—”
“—Val….”
“That is to say, I’ve seen you without shirt and there’s no denying that…” Her eyes jerked upwards. Words were stuck in her ever-tightening throat. It confused her a moment to see his eyes actually twinkling, although the sinew of his face was a bit tense.
“I’m not very good at this,” she confessed in a whisper. “I was never a romantic to begin with. Not like Alex. Not passionate for a lover like Jo.” Her tone became gruffer, “I dreamed yes. However, they were not possible dreams. Merely made up ideals… that ended…well…ended.”
His fingers tightened but he did not stop her, merely was listening, that humor mixed with some affection as he did so.
She was not spending a great deal of time analyzing, because Val realized she needed to make some sense. “I care for you. I’m not blind to your…to you….”
That hand released her own. Carefully he placed his palm at her cheek, cupping it, while his eyes searched hers. His tone was still husky, accented, when he supplied, “But you are blind to yourself. You are a handsome woman, stunning. You have no idea how lovely your eyes, your skin, all of you is. Your intellect and all that aside—although it is something I find attractive, I hope that someday you take pleasure in yourself. I hope to be the man who makes you enjoy and be glad you are a woman.”
Her blush came.
He observed it. “That’s—being lovers, Val.”
Her hand covered his. Her instinct was to push it down, to hide her face, because this was a bit much. She could not think fast enough.
However, he said, “We’ll be apart a few months you’ve time to think, to consider, to open yourself to it. You trust me now, and you will trust me then, like that. We won’t rush things.”
The kiss came out of nowhere. She did not know he would, and before she could dodge it, his mouth met hers, warm, and velvet, soft. By the time she felt the tingling sensations, he had parted.
His face still close to hers, eyes locked, thumb stroking her cheek, he murmured, “I’ve wanted you a long time. Wanted, to kiss you, from the moment I laid eyes on you. More importantly, I wanted to kiss you when you would know it was me—just Archard, and know why I wanted my lips touching yours. Do you know why, Val?”
She could see it, feel it. His eyes were lighter, his face intense. There was a mixture of raw male heat and something else there. Although in some part of her it was intimidating, she reminded herself that she did trust him.
“Yes.”
Those lips turned to a soft smile. He kissed her again, gentle, quick, and then leaned back, taking her hand again. “We’ll be good together. In every way. I promise.”
Her face still too warm, her gaze locked with his. “I will try. I promise.”
Hand held, fingers weaved and palm to palm Archard murmured to her, “We’ve much already, being friends, knowing so much of each other and having that trust. Being good together, as lovers, requires only the attraction and letting one’s self feel and accept. Giving what you’re inspired to give.” He observed her flush a moment and eyed the pulse beat at her throat before holding her gaze again. “You’ve never had that. You have never had a man like me. I’ll make you glad you do.”
Heated inside and out, Val wet her lips and whispered, “I don’t doubt that for a moment. Archard.”
A twinkle lit behind the warm fires in his eyes. His strong white teeth raked his bottom lip before he arose, kissed her quick and then took his chair.
They talked until he left, at dawn. Val, half-listening as his intimate words settled, and absorbed in her mind. They made her flush, and a little scared.
No. She had never had a man, in any way—like him.
Chapter Three
It was a snowy winter. Valerie did not go to London for the little season. Jo went down with the Marquis, and after spending a week at Whitestone with her, Alex joined Edmund there.
However, Val had the duchess, Sonja, for company. It was not all trading dark memories and gloom. They laughed often, playing chess, the both of them equal in skill and even making the servant’s chuckle as they took each other on after dinner. When the weather was not too bad, they rode and visited tenants—Valerie enjoyed getting to know them, holding babies and playing a few games with the children. There were not many, mostly large farms that had taken up smaller ones. Nevertheless, even that was better, for it was easier to feel more like neighbors.
They had other like interest, reading and painting, so she and Sonja read magazines, even newssheets and rags. Often discussing society—and comparing Alex and Jo’s letters to the “gossip sheets” where someone, usually a female, was always being accused of some unpardonable sin.
Jo was causing her usual stir. One rag announced the “Brazen” daughter of Hawksmoor had caused a duel the very morning she arrived. She was continuing her flirtation with Lord Auvary, and according to Alex, wearing her gowns even more daring than last season.
Alex was “humoring” Edmund, playing her Countess role to the hilt. She had hosted a few entertainments’ and joined all the right clubs and societies. Her letters amused both Val and Sonja, particularly when she spoke of Edmund’s trying to keep his aloof and cold facade while she whispered naughty things in his ear. Apparently, she had found a way to enjoy the role.
Val, from the first letter from Archard, saved them for reading in private—although distracted by her thoughts of him, she was not unaware that the beautiful Sonja often got a note or two from the Marquis.
One night after a quiet dinner, they were in the study/library, each with a lap robe and book. Val looked up from the page, always struck by the duchess’s beauty. Raven hair, dark eyes, and a face that was mature and still somewhat haunted in the same aloof way Edmund’s had seemed to be.
Around most, Sonja was reserved, with reason. Even those who knew she was Edmund’s si
ster—and the ton embraced the handsome Earl, would neither let go whatever made up resentments they had when she came to London after the old duke’s death, nor forget that her former house on Regent street was often a place for lovers Trysts. Although, Sonja herself obviously mistrusted intimacy and men, she did not judge those who had affairs and sought out lovers.
Val had noticed the scars the woman carefully hid by designing her stunning gowns to cover her upper back and shoulders, a well-placed scarf, a higher neckline, no off the shoulder gowns, without some lovely covering. Lady Summerton spoke briefly of her elder husbands laying the whip to her. It sickened Val. Sonja had been a mere child, a girl, when wed to the man.
Today it was dawning on her that her father, the Rakehell Marquis, more than just embraced the duchess because of Alex and Edmund’s marriage. He paid her marked attention. She wondered if Sonja realized it. Alexander was a strikingly handsome man, after all
She also surmised that there must have been dozens over the years who tried to gain the attention and affections of the duchess. Regardless of rumors, the woman’s air of mystery and poise made her all the more charismatic. She was beautiful.
Instead of what she began to say, Val offered, “I’m so very glad you came to Hawksmoor last year. I often think poor father has turned his life upside down since he claimed all of us. I imagine it must be nice—your conversations with him. Your company, actually. Any man must crave interaction with females not his kin.”
Raising those dark brown eyes from her book, Sonja met her gaze and then moved it away tellingly. “He’s an interesting man. The Marquis. Too often society labels a person one thing, when they are much more complex.”
“Meaning he’s more than the Rakehell,” Val laughed.
“There’s no denying that part.” The duchess brow rose although she looked down at her book and turned a page. “He has all of you, without having ever been wed, after all. And …I have seen and met my share. He has the same…ease and confidence, around women. Still, one must give him credit for neither running from his responsibilities, nor wasting his fortune. He’s certainly shrewd in business and opinionated in his politics.”
Smiling, Val replied. “He is that. I used to feel guilty when he first claimed me, offering me help and so much more, because he was so very sensitive and kind, so affectionate. We all put him through it. We all had our resentments. I was in a place of thinking myself an adult. I do not know if it was I did not want his advice or I simply harbored resentments from him never being there as a father. But he won us all over.”
“And yourselves, him.” Sonja looked up with a small smile. “He is mad for each of you.”
“I know,” Val tried to sound off handed. “He could carry on with his life. Find someone…. perhaps get back with Constance, whom everyone said was mad for him. He’s more fit than men half his age, handsome—truly.”
“Um.”
“I don’t think he has a mistress.”
The duchess turned a page. “Hard to know. I expect he has learned to be more discreet.”
“It’s nice of him—to write you.”
Those eyes rose. Sonja responded, “I may not have romantic dreams or trust all men, but I’m not blind. I am well aware that your father…The Marquis… is attracted to me. I am not dead either. He’s quite devastating with that silver hair and those lavender eyes.”
“But…”
Searching her face, the duchess said softly, “Answer that from your own situation. How do you feel—or rather, how will you, when Archard returns? How certain will you be, that what you feel is what you think it is, or simply…”
Val was staring at her, when the words stopped.
Sonja looked down and closed the book, merely sitting there as Valerie said softly, “We’re not even half way there yet. Rather I have not had time to see him that way. I am not going to pry or even pressure you. But I can see that your attraction and what you feel, that my father feels, is giving you a lot to think about.”
Sonja got to her feet, carrying the book over to a table, Lingering after setting it down, looking out the window at a soft snowfall. “He’s the first man—ever—to make me waver in my absolute conviction, that no man can heal what goes beyond the scars. I’m so attracted to him that I in fact—forget I have them.”
She looked over her shoulder with a dry smile but troubled eyes. “He could hurt me, where it would not heal. And I… I could do the same.”
“I understand.” Val got to her feet and went over, hugging her. “I really do. You’ve protected yourself so long.”
The duchess added, “I did not believe it possible, that kind of passion, until Edmund found Alex. I am half-afraid knowing he has found it, has made me want it. I do not want to. I don’t want to want or care for anyone—that much.”
“Being vulnerable is bloody frightening.”
“Yes. It had less to do with Alexander, and more to do with me. Because, frankly, woman to woman, no matter what the ton says, half those ladies would kill for his notice.”
Val was not blind to her father’s potent appeal. “I think he’s seasoned a bit. But I hope whatever reservations you have about the attraction, you won’t deny him your friendship and company?”
“No.” Lady Summerton laughed. “I cannot resist him. He’s too well rounded, the charm and humor, fascinating conversation and worldliness.” She sighed then. “I gave into that obviously, when I showed up at Hawksmoor.”
They ended up on the window seat awhile later, lost in their own thoughts.
That night, Val sat on her bed reading Archard’s latest letter. She struggled with her own convictions, ideas, scars and emotions. Nothing he wrote was ever boring, or caused her any doubts about him, nor lessened her admiration for his character. He was being diplomatic with the family, at the same time getting his requests met for the most part. Things were going well—save for the ward, who apparently, after news he’d already wed, fled to some cousin’s homestead. The uncle had died—God rest his soul—, which brought more of the family together, and gave Archard more of a chance to put his ideas before the whole clan.
It was not that anything had changed. It was, hearing his voice in the words he wrote. She heard it as clear as if he spoke them, and not her own voice in her head reading them. Going to bed afterwards, she would dream of him, not the ugly parts of her past, but of that soft kiss, of his words about lovers. She dreamed of him as if they had no past between them, and in those, he was just a raw and virile giant with intense sky eyes and honey flesh…. velvet lips.
She wished she were like Alex or Jo. She wished she could just “know” how to “become” normal, in that kind of “normal” way. However, part of her was always afraid to romanticize or put too much emotion into thoughts of intimacy. It was frustrating, because he was not actually there and she did not know if those emotions or sensations she sometimes felt (thinking) of him, were her fantasies again, that which had betrayed her, with Leland.
She did not trust herself. That was it. She trusted him. But not herself. Whatever skewed her feelings for Leland—stemmed from something she lacked. She felt it strong enough to lose herself even when she did not like or love him or want him in particular. That was not something to take lightly.
It occurred to her that she “wanted” Archard. That was the word mingled with the attraction. Nevertheless, ignorance did not begin to describe what she knew about intimacy. Nothing Leland ever did to her felt anything but traumatizing. Archard would not be like that. She still did not know what exactly to do. Asking Alex would help, but bringing herself to do that made her cringe in embarrassment.
After she and Sonja had Christmas with the family, a gathering at Hawksmoor, she had returned and found a gift from him on the bed. One of the servants had left it. It was a beautiful tapestry, the scene and hues of deep green, blue and crimson, were breathtaking. She’d had it hung in the bedroom and never passed it without thinking of him. On her birthday, another gift was waiting
by her breakfast plate, a stunning set of pearl earrings with matching bracelet and ring.
She had everything without asking, a lovely home, no anxiety or drastic changes—other than being mistress of the house and duties she truly enjoyed, with the house staff and tenants. Her life was her own, and she never wrote him back that she did not express how much she loved Whitestone and how well she got on with those he had staffed it with. She spoke of the Steward and tenants, of her daily routine—and the duchess.
His letters mentioned family, his aunts, and his brother, Aric; where he went, the businesses, and locals too. He was wonderful at describing his homeland and the people. Obvious, in his love for both, he wrote about foods, animals, and celebrations. He wrote with humor, seriousness, descriptive when talking about family members. She could picture both the short and aged aunts, the brawny cousins and lively ones, the female ones, who apparently doted on him, too.
It was almost too easy, their relationship. Almost—too much, what she had by wedding him.
However, Val was not so young and ignorant that she did not realize his return would require more. It would bring that question of “intimacy” back to the forefront. She missed him. She truly did. Nevertheless, his being gone also made her realize she had wed a virile and potent man. She had wed someone who was wordily and his own man.
* * * *
“Edmund will send the coach for me next week,” Sonja, told her at the end of February. “I gather Alex wants a break before the season, and they’ll be off to their rustic retreat. I believe he’s afraid I’ll avoid the season all together.” She laughed before sipping her coffee. “I’ve assured him I won’t. But Alex also insists I not rent a house for it, but stay with them.”
“His is lavish enough.” Val smiled, sitting back with her own cup. She remembered seeing it after Alexandria wed Edmund. It was elaborate and huge, a wealthy Earl’s abode.
They were in the front parlor after lunch and she added, “I’ll go up soon, since father informs me—as did Archard—that the house he has there is scarcely furnished. I imagine I can accomplish that before Archard returns.”