An Unlikely Alliance

An Unlikely Alliance

by Rachel Van Dyken

Published by Astraea Press

www.astraeapress.com

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

This is a work of fiction. Names, places,
characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any
similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are
purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names,
or named features are assumed to be the property of their
respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no
implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for
review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part,
electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright
violation.

AN UNLIKELY ALLIANCE

Copyright © 2012 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

ISBN 978-1-936852-99-4

Cover Art Designed by Elaina Lee

Edited by Em Petrova

To my mom and dad, who provide so much
support and encouragement! I love you guys so much!

Prologue

Evelyn De Jarlias sighed as the sun set over
the horizon. Two more days until her twenty-first birthday and what
did she have to show for it? Looking down at her hands only made
the thought more depressing. Dirt caked around the insides of her
nails. After a long, hard day working on the farm, all she needed
was another reminder that there were no available gentlemen in the
area, and even if there were—hers would not be the first door they
would beat down.

She walked to the edge of the pond and let
the pins out of her hair. The thick, cornflower-white tendrils hung
down to the middle of her back—it was her crowning glory. Not that
her face was ugly by any means. It was just extremely tanned,
showing everyone within a safe distance she was middle class.

Growing up, she had always dreamed of a
bigger future. A glamorous future with beautiful dresses and
dancing. Lots and lots of dancing.

Her reality stared back at her through the
reflection in the water. A working girl covered in dirt, no money
in her pockets, no prospects, and certainly no future.

"Evelyn! Evelyn!" The sound of her father's
voice shook the melancholy from her. Stuart De Jarlias was a
hard-working man. Never once putting himself before anyone else.
Always trying to make her life better than it was. For that she
loved him and was grateful for his love, especially since it was
just the two of them. Her mother had died while she was still quite
young, leaving them with a giant hole in the family which would and
could never be filled.

"Yes, Daddy?" The question hung in the
air.

"Evelyn!" He yelled even louder. His head
finally showed over the little hill he came from. "Evelyn!" His
face was covered in a mixture of dirt and water, caking mud in the
wrinkles around his eyes. Oh Lord, what had happened? Had the
moonshine exploded? Was he okay? He stumbled towards her; were
those tears in his eyes?

"Daddy!" She ran to him, tripping over her
skirts as she finally reached him. Scrambling, she pulled his face
into a closer view and panicked. "What's wrong, Daddy? Are you
hurt?"

Then her father did the most ridiculous
thing imaginable. He laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed until she thought he stopped
breathing.

"Daddy!" She stomped her foot. "Stop that
right now! What's wrong with you?"

"We're rich, Babydoll. We're saved!"
Babydoll was her daddy's nickname for her. He also called her Sugar
and Cupcake, but Babydoll was her favorite. It took her back to the
time when her mama was alive. When things were simpler and happier.
Frustrated, she closed her eyes and tried a new tactic.

"I don't understand, Daddy. Have you been
drinking your own moonshine again?"

He shook his head, tears still streaming
down his grimy black face. "No, Babydoll. No moonshine! We're rich!
A British lord has offered to buy all of our acreage! And for fifty
times what we purchased it for!"

That day Evelyn's life changed forever.

Chapter
One

Royce McArthur swore as another glass of
champagne went flying by his face. "What was that for?" he yelled,
just as the glass shattered into a million tiny pieces next to his
polished boot.

"Stop pretending that you don't know!"
Sheila screamed, picking up another glass.

"I can explain!" He started looking for
exits.

"Explain?" she wailed, closing her eyes.
"Explain this!" A piece of cutlery nearly nicked him in the shin as
it whizzed past him and stuck in the nearby wall.

This was not going well. It was impossible
to know just what she was so upset about. One minute he had been
having a nice drink of whiskey with his brothers, and then next
thing he knew, glassware was flying dangerously close to his face
at alarming speeds.

Women.

Can't live with them, and in his current
state, he definitely wanted to live without them. What good were
they anyway? It wasn't as if he was in dire need to marry anytime
soon, which was why he took his pleasures wherever he could find
them. Sheila was the last choice he had made in that department,
albeit a poor one. Yes, if he had thought about his actions, he
might have foreseen this happening. She was prone to jealousy more
than his other mistresses had been. Hence the need for
violence.

He racked his brain, trying to think of some
way to calm her down. What could she possibly be so upset
about?

And then, as another plate darted past his
head, it hit him. The thought, not the plate.

She knew about Constance, his ex-mistress
who had just returned from Boston. The mistress he had spent the
night with after canceling on Sheila. The same mistress.

"Perfect," he huffed as another woman barged
into the room.

"Ah, Constance, lovely to see you." He tried
to approach her, but stopped when he noted the madness igniting
Sheila's face.

The same look rabid dogs wore before eating
their young.

Probably safer to stay put.

Crouching in the corner as another plate
shattered in the distance, he considered his options.

Two insanely angry and jealous women were
waiting for him to come out of hiding to either castrate him or
kill him. The second option seemed the better of the two, so he
made his decision. Slowly rising, he approached both ladies with
his hands up in surrender. Unfortunately, they took his advance as
an act of attack and began shouting over one another. The last word
he heard from Sheila's mouth was tramp, and then Constance grabbed
a handful of Sheila's hair and began tugging with all her
might.

"That's my exit," he whispered under his
breath and motioned for his two brothers to follow him out. He
should have left them there and fed them to the wolves, also known
as Constance and Sheila, but it would have ended in bloodshed and
he happened to like his brothers. Most days.

"Likely the most action I'll see for years,"
John lamented as they stepped out into the busy street.

"John, that's probably the most action
you've seen since birth," Ronald joked, nudging him between the
ribs.

Royce tried to ignore them both and made his
way back toward the mansion. They currently resided in one of the
plushest areas of New York known to Americans living on the East
Coast.

Society smiled upon the McArthur boys for no
other reason than they were handsome and rich. There were worse
things in life.

Royce had just never faced any of them
before.

He was spoiled.

But he only admitted it out loud when he was
drunk.

He took the steps two at a time as he
approached the beautiful mansion, only to find his mother already
outside waiting for him. Arms folded, lips pursed. Was it his lot
in life to one day be killed off by a female?

Something to look forward to, he thought,
pasting a giant grin on his face.

"Mother?"

"We need to talk." It was more of a command
than anything. Keeping the lazy smile firmly in place, he followed
her into his father's old study. Since his father's death, Royce
had officially taken over the family business as well as the
responsibility for his two brothers and his mother. Whatever she
had to say to him, it more than likely had to do with him needing
to grow up. Not that he felt the need to rush things. He was, after
all, only twenty-five.

"Sit," she ordered, her hands trembling with
nervousness as she straightened her dress.

He sat and looked at her through hooded
eyes. Boots perfectly polished. Wavy black hair tucked behind his
ears.

And waited.

"I'm only going to say this once,
Royce."

"That's a relief," he joked.

"Royce Donald McArthur, this is
serious!"

"Yes, Mother. I can tell by your smile."

"I am not smiling!" Her tiny voice reached a
higher pitch, but even he noted that the corners of her mouth had
turned, just slightly, revealing a grin.

"Aw, there it is!" He pointed.

"Royce!" She grinned and then closed her
eyes. "I cannot even look at you. I look at you and lose my ability
to think straight."

"Do you know I get that a lot? Usually from
lady friends, though just last week an odd-looking gentleman paid
me a similar compliment. Do please continue. I like to hear more of
my attributes."

"Oh, Lord, what have I done to deserve such
a vain son?" His mother clasped her hand over her forehead and fell
into the chair beside him.

"Do you think he'll answer?"

"Who, dear?"

"God. Because if He does, can you please ask
Him why He cursed me with this wretched ache in my back,
because—"

He stopped talking, mainly because his
mother did not appear amused, and he was wise enough to stop
conversing when he had pushed her past her limits.

"That is sacrilege, you spoiled, spoiled
boy."

"Thank you, I do try." He inspected his
nails and patted her hand patronizingly. "Now, what is it you wish
to discuss with me? The weather? Our money—we are extremely wealthy
by the way, thanks to another new investment—or how about dresses?
Would you like to go shopping, Mother? Is the décor in the house to
your liking? Traveling, maybe? You should like to take a trip to
London! Visit some of our cousins! Who are they again? Oh yes, the
Duke of Tempest, good fellow. Heard he just got married. Brilliant
match."

"Cease talking before I grab your father's
pistol."

He stopped talking.

"My dear, I love you. You know I do, but you
need to grow up."

He was a genius. He nodded his head in
agreement but was more concerned with the idea of locking himself
in the house for a few days to escape the wrath of the mistresses.
Which is how he would now refer to them, considering they were in
league against him.

"I love you too, Mother. How would you like
me to prove my maturity?"

"I need grandchildren."

Royce nearly choked "Ask John."

"No."

Royce ran his hand through his thick hair.
"Fine. Then ask Ronald."

"He's one and eight, Royce, and just
yesterday he asked me how many continents were on the planet."

Royce shrugged, "Nobody ever accused him of
being the smartest of the bunch. You've never mentioned this whole
grandchild business before. Why is it important now?"

"I'm dying."

"From not having grandchildren?" Royce
concluded.

"No, Royce!" This time her pain was real.
"I'm dying every day. I'm getting older and older, and well, I know
it's hard for you to understand, since you're so young, but I want
to see my grandchildren before I pass. Time is precious. We saw
just how precious when your father passed on."

Royce refused to talk about his father for
that reason. He had wasted time, and now he was gone. It was the
reason why Royce lived for every moment rather than carefully
calculating every move. It was also why, from a business
standpoint, he was so successful.