The Virtuoso (16 page)

“I see,” Val said, holding her hand passively between his. “Well.”

***

Beside him, Ellen was still and quiet, as if waiting for him to rain down contumely and criticism upon her.

What Val felt was a vast, sad relief that she'd confessed her mismanagement of the funds. He couldn't blame her for not putting her fate in Freddy's hands or for being ignorant of proper land management.

“Well?” Ellen glanced over, and the way she veiled emotion from her eyes tore at him. He dropped her hand, and she bowed her head until he slid his arm around her shoulders.

“Well,” Val said, kissing her temple. “You are being honest and I have to appreciate that. The question becomes, where do we go from here?”

“How can you want to spend time with a woman who has lied to you?” she bit out miserably. “I hate myself for it, and you must hate me too.”

“Must I?” He rubbed his chin on her crown. “Because your trust has been abused by the present baron and you were slow to confide in a stranger trying to get into your bed?”

“You're not like that.”

Val snorted softly. “All men are like that. I haven't been exactly honest either, Ellen.” The words were out, a little surprisingly and a little relieving too.

“You haven't?” She raised her head to peer at him. “Can you be now?”

He could; he wasn't going to be, not entirely.

“I did see Cheatham. He told me you had kept the rents, and the deed itself cites your life estate in the property. I didn't really study the deed until I met with him, though he wasn't willing to tell me much more than I could have inferred from the document itself if I'd only read it carefully.”

“I see.” Ellen's head returned to his shoulder. “Would you have been… intimate with me, knowing I wasn't being honest?”

Val was silent for a long, thoughtful moment. “I don't know. Maybe, eventually. I desire you profoundly and had already divined your reasoning. I haven't offered you marriage except as a last resort and can't blame you for looking to yourself and your own interests.”

“I don't think you would have pursued our dealings with this between us.”

“Why not?”

“Because you didn't.” Her voice was very quiet. “On that blanket under the willow, you could have. I wouldn't have stopped you. In the hammock, I wouldn't have stopped you had you been determined. You are very… persuasive.”

Persuasive.

“We have a larger problem,” he said, hauling back hard on the lust thumping through his vitals like a chorus of timpani.

“What sort of problem?” Ellen lifted her head to regard him again. “I will understand if you are done… flirting with me. We will be neighbors when you complete your renovations, at least until you sell the place.”

“Flirting.” Val frowned. “I am very persuasive, and yet you consider my best efforts at seduction to be worth only the label flirting.”

Ellen's gaze dropped to her lap. “In any case, I will understand.”

“Good of you.” Val's frown intensified as he tried to puzzle out what exactly was bothering him. “And am I to understand if you've lost interest in me? If you decide a man who seeks some honesty with his lover is a little too much work? If you prefer weeding your daisies to sharing passion in my arms?”

Ellen's gaze swiveled to meet his.

“I have not lost interest, Valentine. I wish I had, because I don't understand how you can tolerate the sight of me, and yet I still crave your embrace. I crave the simple scent of you, all cedar and whatever else it is you wear. I crave the texture of your hair against my fingers and the taste of you on my tongue…” She stopped herself, maybe shocked at her own words and the vehemence of them.

The truth of them.

Val gently pushed her head back to his shoulder. “That's putting it plain enough.” Reassuringly plain.

As they sat in silence, he savored her confession, more glad to hear it than he would have admitted. The money she'd kept was troubling, but it was legally hers, and in her shoes he might have done likewise. Her reticence about it was more troubling still, but in truth he'd been at the estate just about a month.

There were things it had taken his brothers years to confide in him—and he hadn't been hiding his ducal affiliations from them at the time. That was a sobering, lust-inhibiting thought, thank God. It inspired him to an additional exercise in honesty. “We do have another problem.”

She remained resting against him, a comfort thrown into higher relief by all their guarded honesties. “What problem is that?”

Val's hand closed over her fingers, and he brought her knuckles to his lips then pressed the back of her hand against his forehead.

“I should say”—he let out a quiet, tired sigh—“I have a greater problem, as it might be me somebody is hoping to kill.”

***

Monday morning came around foggy, damp, and chilly. The wagon was again loaded with food, amenities, more food, and a few books, all carefully stowed under tarpaulins.

As were the firearms and ammunition obligingly sent along with the other provisions, the spyglass, and the antique crossbow Day and Phillip's maternal grandfather had willed to them.

Day and Phillip were dozing in the back, and Abby was making her farewells to Ellen at the wagon. St. Just, however, was checking the girth on his gelding.

“Are we too early for your groom?” Val asked Axel as they watched St. Just adjusting stirrup leathers.

“I sent him off Saturday night on some errands. He should be back posthaste.”

Val glanced at the wagon to see Abby was hugging Ellen, something that hadn't happened the previous week. “I wish Ellen would stay with you.”

“I thought we agreed we'd stick as much to routine as possible, and that means Mrs. FitzEngle goes back to weeding her petunias and you go back to slave driving.”

“I don't like it.”

“St. Just will watch your back,” Axel reminded him. “Sir Dewey will drop by, as well. Then too, I'll be coming around by midweek, and we've got the solicitors on the alert in case anybody's asking questions about the place.”

By means of the post, Val had actually gone further than that but would keep the details of his own tactics private for now. “I guess we'll see you next week, then, if not before.”

“Before,” Axel assured him then glanced at the sky. “Weather permitting.”

“Right.” Val turned to walk back to the wagon, only to be spun by a hand on his arm—his left arm—and wrapped in a hug.

“Safe journey.” Axel smacked Val once between the shoulder blades and let him go. “You might beat the rain.”

Val climbed up beside Ellen, took the reins in his gloved hands, signaled to St. Just, and urged the team forward. St. Just went ahead to avoid the wagon's dust, letting the gelding stretch its legs, before also dropping into a relaxed trot. He would have missed the turn up the lane to Val's property if not for Val's shout and wave at the estate gates.

“According to Belmont, you've gotten a lot done,” St. Just remarked, peering around assessingly as they gained the stable yard. “And in a short time. Best be hiring some staff.”

Val shook his head as he climbed down. “Not yet. The interior has a long way to go, as do the grounds and farms.”

“And he insists,” Ellen said, “on doing most of it himself.” She turned and spoke over her shoulder. “Wake up, boys. Your palace awaits.”

“Is it lunchtime?” Day asked, sitting up and peering around.

“It's unload-the-wagon-and-put-up-the-team time,” Val replied, “and we need to hurry if we're not to get soaked.”

“Come, me hearties.” St. Just winked at Day and Phil. “We'd best unload our contraband before the excise men come around.”

Val reached up to swing Ellen to the ground. “I'll be seeing you safely home, and my first priority is installing some locks on your doors.” Ellen merely nodded, retrieving a wicker basket and falling in step beside Val. “What is in that little basket, Mrs. FitzEngle?”

“Apple tarts. Your brother was showing Mrs. Stoneleigh how to make them, and she insisted on sending some home with me, as did your brother.”

“One can never have too many apple tarts in one's larder,” Val said as they ambled through the wood. “At least if St. Just made them. I hurried through breakfast, so perhaps you'll save me one when I'm done fitting locks on your doors?”

“Of course.”

Val glanced over at her, wishing he had a hand free to hold hers, but he was toting both her traveling satchel and a toolbox. “I feel as if for all we've been plotting and planning this weekend, for all that you and I have cleared the air regarding the rents, we're still left with a distance between us.”

“Knowing somebody is contemplating arson, at least, and more likely murder, leaves me preoccupied. Mr. Windham.”

“I am sorry,” Val said as they reached her back porch.

“Sorry?”

“I've brought this trouble to you,” he said, pushing the door open for her. “You were safe and content here, then I go tearing up your peace, and now you are afraid for your own safety. When we find out who's behind this, I will hold him accountable for that more than anything.”

“Come in,” Ellen said, stepping back into her kitchen, “and welcome. I don't believe you've been inside before.”

“Except to put Sleeping Beauty to bed in the dark of night.” Val smiled slightly, glancing around. “This is like you. Pretty, tidy, organized, and yet not quite the expected.”

The dominant feature was the large fieldstone hearth, raised to allow feet to be propped on it, socks dried, or water heated. Two insets in the stonework sat ready for dutch ovens or warming pans, and a sturdy potswing held a cast iron cook pot. For those times of year when the fireplace would not be used, a small cast-iron stove stood in a corner of the kitchen opposite the sink. The fireplace opened on two sides, both on the kitchen cum sitting room, and on the bedroom behind it.

There were sachets and scent bowls in corners and on end tables, giving the whole cottage a fresh, floral air.

Ellen stood in her kitchen, arms crossed. “Well?”

“May I peek at your bedroom?”

The room was light and airy with only sheer curtains over the window, and a breeze coming in to flutter those. A shelf built over the bed held books, a wardrobe contained Ellen's dresses and shoes, and a chest of cedar at the foot of the bed likely her more delicate apparel. The bed, wardrobe, and shelf were pine, a pedestrian wood, but light in color and pretty to the eye.

And the bed… It was probably intended to be a canopy, but stood without the hangings, covered by a worn white quilt gone soft and thin with age. Val entered the room only far enough to stroke a hand over the quilt and inhale the lavender scent of the bed linens.

“Lovely.”

“Humble,” Ellen countered, standing beside him and gazing down at her bed. “It was a guest room set that was being moved up to the servant's wing at Roxbury. I appropriated it and did not ask permission.”

“It's pretty and sensible.” Val left off inspecting her personal space and met her gaze. “Like you, and if we don't leave this room right now, Ellen FitzEngle, I'm going to want you in that bed, naked and panting my name while I make you come so hard you can't see.”

Ellen sat on the bed, dropped onto it, more like, her expression thunderstruck.

“Ellen?” Val knelt to peer up at her where she sat. “Shall I leave?” He put a hand on her knee then slid it up to her hip, holding her gaze as he did. She laid her fingers over the back of his debilitated left hand. They'd been heading for this moment for weeks, but now that it was upon her, she looked not just surprised but stunned.

“I'll leave,” Val said, settling back onto his heels and resting his cheek against her thigh. “If you ask it of me, I'll get up and see about your locks, share a cup of cider and an apple tart, ask you your plans for the week, and understand.”

“Understand?”

He brought his other hand around her waist and held on, knee-walking in close to hug her middle on a sigh.

“Now isn't the time,” Val suggested. “You don't feel ready, you're having second thoughts, or you don't particularly relish getting involved with a man who's the target of impending mayhem.”

Much less, he thought, one who had only one reliably functional hand, even after more than a month of abstaining from his music. He was pushing her, but he wanted out from under the uncertainty of his reception in her arms. It had been almost a week since they'd been what he could call intimate, and in the intervening days his desire for her had only grown.

“Now is the time,” Ellen said softly. “But if you let me think about it, I'll lose my nerve and make excuses, and I don't want…”

He pulled back to survey her velvety brown eyes, finding them so somber as to unnerve him. He wanted this joining to be pleasurable for her, joyous even.

“You don't want?”

“To never have known what it's like,” she finished the thought, “to be with you like that. To be your lover.”

Warnings went off in Val's head, as her words could mean she wanted only a single experience of him, wanted a taste, a sample, nothing more.
He
wanted more, he wanted more than he deserved of her; he wanted to devour her, to make a feast of her, and to offer himself for her delectation too.

Ah, well.

A man worked with what life gave him, and life was giving him this opportunity with Ellen. He folded himself back down against her lap in gratitude and felt her hand stroking the back of his head. The moment was made complete and more memorable by the sudden gentle tattoo of rain on her roof, a showery patter that presaged a good, soaking rain, not merely a passing cloudburst.

“Valentine?” Ellen's hand went still against his nape. “I don't know what to do.”

He did not sit up. “About?”

“How do we go on?” she asked, curling down over him to press her nose against his back. “I've never… not in daylight, not here.”

“It's better in daylight,” he assured her. “I can see your beautiful face and your lovely body and let you look your fill of me.”

“Will you undress?”

“Of course,” he replied, smiling with pleasure, approval, and anticipation when he sat back on his heels. “With your help.” He rose and sat beside her on the bed, settling a hand on her lap so she could remove first one cuff link then the other.

“Now what?”

“Unbutton my shirt?” He could have pulled it over his head, of course, but he wanted to communicate very clearly that they were in no hurry. So one by one, he had her remove each article of his clothing until he was standing without a stitch in her bedroom.

“Let's get you comfortable, as well.” Though comfortable was going to be a stretch, he surmised. Her blushes suggested she could barely tolerate his nudity, much less her own.

“Don't you want to get under the covers?” Her tone was almost hopeful, while her gaze was glued to his chest. She reached up a hand toward his sternum then dropped it back to her side.

Val picked up her hand in his own. “I would
adore
for you to touch me.” Carefully, he laid her palm over his heart then left it there so she could feel the steady, reassuring life-beat.

“I want to touch your heart too,” Val said, stepping in to kiss her cheek. “Clothes off, Ellen, hmm?”

She didn't comply immediately but stroked her hand over his chest, his biceps, his belly, his shoulders. She was touching him with such
wonder
, he could barely stand still for it. When her hands fell to her sides, he kissed her cheek, let his hands settle gently on her hips, and waited.

And while he waited, he couldn't help but kiss her. The way she fitted her curves and hollows to his was enough to send lust singing through his veins. When she sighed into his mouth and cautiously met his tongue with her own, he gathered the fabric of her dress in his hands. By slow, stealthy degrees, he drew her into the kiss even as he drew the worn cotton up around her hips. She gave a little gasp when the sensation of air on her legs must have registered, but Val held her hips still when she would have stepped back.

“Steady,” he whispered against her neck. She nodded, and he drew the dress and chemise up the rest of the way, leaving Ellen blushing in her shoes and stockings.

And even today, no stays. Val almost cried with gratitude at that discovery.

“There you are,” he whispered, running his hands down her sides and up her back. He wanted to look—wanted badly, badly to look—but he could feel the heat of Ellen's blush where her face was planted against his collarbone.

“Under the covers now?”

“Let me get you out of your shoes and stockings.”

He'd been careful to keep his erection away from her midriff—he was more than ready for what followed. She'd not seen him erect, not the way she might now, and he wasn't about to frighten her.

Impress, God, yes; frighten, no. Never.

He pushed her back with one hand on her sternum so she again sat on the bed, and then knelt to remove her shoes and stockings. On impulse, he leaned in and again embraced her around the waist, pressing his face to her thighs.

“It's different,” Ellen said softly, her hand running down the bare plane of his back. “We touched, just this way, only moments ago, but it's different.”

“It's better,” Val murmured, cheek against her leg. “Closer.”

“Your back…” Ellen touched him again, a slow, smooth skim of her hand up the long muscles beside his spine, then over his shoulder blades and onto his shoulders. “I think I can see every muscle God put in here, as if you're a perfect specimen.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to explain all that muscular articulation came from playing the piano, but that would have admitted a shadow to the bedroom, and the only shadows he wanted were those cast by the soft gray light filtering in from the rainy day outside.

“I want to see your back,” Val countered, straightening, “and for that, we can get into your bed.”

“Now?” Ellen's hand lingered on his shoulder. “You'll let me touch you more, later?”

“I'll let you touch me any way you please, forever and ever, but in your bed, love.”

He knew she was stalling, nervous and uncertain, but she'd warned him that had she too much time to think, she'd deny them their pleasures. That, he would not allow. Could not.

Holding his gaze, Ellen shifted back, careful to keep her legs together when she turned on her seat and scooted across the bed. Val joined her in one movement, lifting the old worn quilt and the sheet beneath it to drape over her legs.

“We need rules of surrender here,” Val said, sitting cross-legged on his side of the bed. He wasn't bothering with the covers, and Ellen had to notice his erection, enormously swollen where it arced up against his belly.

“Rules of surrender?” Ellen repeated, her gaze taking him in with an expression of trepidation.

“Ellen.” Val's smile disappeared. “I won't hurt you.”

Her gaze dipped to his groin then back up to his face, and he prayed he hadn't lied. She'd been without a man for five damned years, and Val was… he was well endowed, and he knew this for a fact. Tagging along with Nick on this or that debauch, having four older brothers, spending a couple years at public school then several more at university… Val had seen enough to know his equipment was in proportion to the rest of him.

“I won't hurt you,” he said again, holding her gaze. “Because our first rule is you tell me if you don't like something. Promise?”

She nodded once, but her gaze drifted back to his groin.

“If you can't find your voice, then pinch me,” Val went on. “Pinch me hard, understand?”

“Pinch you,” Ellen repeated. “Hard.”

“Hard enough to bruise,” Val clarified. “And my arse doesn't count, because when I'm in a certain mood, I like that.”

“Dear heavens.”

He smiled at her blush. “Rule number two.” He reached over and stroked a finger down her jaw. “We avoid conception by every reasonable means, but if there's a child, you must tell me.” She grimaced, and Val wanted to curse, because at least one shadow had found them.

“I'll tell you,” she said slowly, “but…”

“But?” Val waited patiently, because to him, to Ellen, to anyone, this should be important.

“It's hard for me to conceive. If I do, I won't do anything to harm the child. You promise you won't ask it of me. Nothing to harm the child, no matter what.”

“I promise I will not ask you to do anything to harm our child.” The words were unhesitating and firm, the easiest promise he'd ever given. “I promise I will take such good care of you, no possible harm could come to our child.”

Ellen shook her head and pressed two fingers to his lips. “Don't say such things.”

“I mean them,” Val rejoined, drawing her fingers from his lips. “I am not in this bed for a casual romp, Ellen. You matter to me, and any child of ours would matter to me very much.”

“That's… good.” Ellen nodded, heaving a deep breath. “To me, as well.”

Val regarded her at some length, sitting beside him with the sheet tucked primly under her arms, her cinnamon hair down her back in a tidy braid. This discussion of children had to touch sensitive nerves for her, for she'd quite plainly considered the lack of a Markham heir her failing. He'd love to give her a child, to prove to her the shortcoming had not been hers.

But children deserved legitimacy, and that meant asking Ellen to tie herself not just to a man with a disability but to a man who came with a parent who thought nothing of bribing mistresses to conceive or footmen to spy on their masters. The Duke of Moreland considered such measures excused by his need to protect and control his children—not in that order. And His Grace considered grandchildren more than reason enough to force marriages where they ought not to be forced, no matter how much Val might wish to have Ellen for his own.

So, there would be no children. Another shadow, but one that haunted every coupling outside a marriage bed and probably many within one, as well.

“Any more rules?” Ellen asked, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Val shot her a bemused smile. “One.”

“And that would be?”

“You tell me what you
do
like. I can read your body to some extent, and will delight in doing so, but I cannot read your mind.”

“What I like?” Ellen's brow furrowed. “I don't think I understand this rule.”

“Do you want to be on the bottom, or would you rather ride me? Do you want my mouth or my hand, and would you ever want to use your mouth on me? Are your nipples more sensitive, or your lovely derriere? And what of toys, bindings, spanking?”

The look she gave him was such a combination of confusion, fascination, and bewilderment, Val realized if she didn't have the vocabulary, she likely lacked the experience, as well.

“I see.”

“What do you see?” Ellen asked, uncertainty in her voice.

“How did you and Francis typically join?” Val asked, sliding down and crossing his arms behind his head.

“In the dark.” She glanced over at him, her gaze going to the soft down at his armpits. “In bed, at night. Without removing our nightclothes. We certainly did not
discuss
it, and I am not comfortable discussing this with you.”

“What did you like most about being with your husband?” Val asked, reaching out a hand to stroke her arm. “What do you miss most?”

She shot an unreadable glance at him over her shoulder, though Val could see longing in her eyes and… loneliness?

“He'd hold me,” she said very quietly, “afterward. At first, he'd just kiss my cheek and go back to his bedroom, but I asked him to stay, and it became… comforting. I had to make up excuses—I was cold, I had something to discuss, but eventually, he'd stay for a few moments of his own accord.”

Val kept his expression bland but surmised that dear Francis had left his wife hanging, and holding her was the only comfort she could ask for. Of course she'd want cuddling and comforting if her every experience was one of vague frustration.

“Let's start there. Let me hold you. But, Ellen?”

“What?” She was regarding him warily, as if his rules had provided not the sense of control and safety he'd intended for her, but just the opposite.

“You can recall your husband with all the love you ever bore him,” Val said, holding her gaze. “You can be grateful for the years you shared, the affection and the memories, but in this bed today, you are with
me
.”

“I am with you.” Her reply was gratifyingly swift and certain. “Only with you, and you are with me.”

“Just so. Now come cuddle up with me on this beautiful rainy day, and be my love.”

She curled up against his side with a sigh that bespoke five years of fatigue and loneliness, five years of coping, managing, and wishing for more, even when more could never be.

Val heard that sigh and propped his chin on her crown. “What does an enterprising gardener do on a rainy Monday?”