Grace Burrowes - The Virtuoso

They’d talked enough, at least for the present, so when Val settled his length over her, he offered her one heartfelt, “I love you,” before allowing his hands and mouth and body to express for him what words could only approximate.

“I love you, too,” Ellen replied, lifting her hips to receive him and closing her arms around him. “I always will.”

He joined them slowly, memorizing every sensation and sound: Ellen’s sighs; the way her body welcomed his into sweet, female heat; the feel of her foot gliding up his calf; the hot glow of pleasure simmering in his groin. He kissed her, grazed his mouth over her every feature, and held still while she returned his explorations. When he moved again, it was with less restraint and more desperation.

“Stay with me.”

Val heard Ellen’s words whispered against his shoulder and understood what she was asking—and what she wasn’t. Not, “Don’t ride away today,” which would have had him singing hallelujahs for the whole shire to hear, but rather, “Share bodily pleasure with me, intimately, completely, one last time.”

A gentleman with any sense wouldn’t. A smart man, out of consideration for the woman and for his own future might not. A wise man certainly couldn’t even entertain the notion, given the timing of the lady’s request.

But Val was her lover, and binding Ellen to him through any means was entirely consistent with his hopes, his dreams, and his heartfelt needs. Even that might not have allowed him to comply with her plea, but he knew her and took it upon himself to know her dreams and needs, as well.

When Ellen locked her ankles at the small of his back, when she was making an odd little keening sound against his shoulder, when slow, deep strokes into her body had Val’s entire being aflame with the pleasure of their joining, he allowed himself to stay with her. He deluged her with pleasure and submerged himself in the same flood, until passion was spent, and the time to part was inexorably upon them.

By the time he rose from the bed, the cottage was growing light, and the birds had gone quiet.

“Valentine?” Ellen struggled up against the pillows banking the headboard.

“Love?”

“Thank you—for everything. And I do love you.”

He offered her a smile, realizing that even in giving him the words, she was confirming her belief that they needed to part. He heard the farewell in her words, though he didn’t want to. The same farewell had been in her smile when he’d carried her over the threshold; the same farewell had been in her entire story when he’d held her on the piano bench in the assembly room, and in her loving just moments earlier.

So he’d leave her and let her—and Freddy—think the game was over. Lord Valentine Windham, musical artist and virtuoso without portfolio, had things to do if he was going to ensure his lady’s peace of mind and safety. If Ellen had to remain here, he’d trust friends, Almighty God, contingency plans, and the good luck he was long overdue to keep her safe until Val himself was once again at her side.

Sean took Zeke’s reins from Val’s hand, and Ellen watched as Val stuffed his riding gloves in his pocket. He was all brisk efficiency this morning, while Ellen felt dazed and aching in every corner of her soul.

“Walk with me, Ellen.” He linked his fingers through hers and turned her toward the home wood. “You will listen to me, for the sooner I can get moving, the less heat Zeke will have to deal with between here and Town.”

She nodded, heart breaking, while Val—man-fashion—focused on practicalities.

“You are to move to the house,” he began, sounding very stern indeed, as stern as a duke. “If Freddy is waiting to strike, you will be safer at the house. The staff is instructed not to admit him and to keep you safe at all times. I understand you will want to continue to pass along your rents to that weasel, and I can’t stop you, but I’ve hired gardeners for this property, and I expect you to put them to work.”

“I can’t stay in your house,” Ellen protested weakly. “I’ll be a kept woman.”

“Stay in your cottage,” Val shot back, “and you could be a dead woman. I’m leaving, Ellen. Leaving. You own the life estate here and you have as much right to dwell in that house as I do. I will feel better knowing you are at the manor and not in the cottage where you might have already come to grief. I want your promise on this.”

She bit her lip but couldn’t deny his logic. “I’ll live at the house. I promise.”

“Good.” He nodded briskly and barreled onward. “You will also receive callers, including but not limited to Sir Dewey, and Axel and Abby Belmont. Abby will want a female friend on hand as her pregnancy progresses, and I think you owe her that much. I understand her sister-in-law will be up with Axel’s brother at the start of the Oxford term, and they will likely call on you.”

“I can receive them.” She didn’t know quite how, but for Valentine, she’d make the effort.

“And the vicar and his wife,” Val went on, “and Mrs. Bragdoll, if those louts of hers can ever be left unsupervised for a moment. And you will correspond with my sisters-in-law.” Ellen merely nodded, too overcome with the looming parting to do more than hear his words.

“Valentine?”

“Yes, love?” His green-eyed gaze held hers as he walked with her past a particular corner on the path through the woods.

“You’re really going?” Except it wasn’t a question.

“You’ve asked it of me,” Val reminded her gently, “and you are convinced Freddy will pester me literally to death if I don’t leave you to continue on with him as you did before, and you have forbidden me to call him out.”

She nodded and leaned into him, fell into him, because her knees threatened to buckle with the magnitude of the loss she was to endure.

Val embraced her, resting his cheek against her hair. “You’re a strong woman, Ellen Markham, and I have every faith in your ability to soldier on. I need to know as I trot out of your life that you will be fine and you will manage here without me. So”—he put a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze—“tell me some pretty lies, won’t you? You’ll be fine?”

Ellen blinked and obediently recited the requested untruth. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be fine, as well.” Val smiled at her sadly. “And I’ll manage quite nicely on my own, as I always have. You?”

“Splendidly,” Ellen whimpered, closing her eyes as tears coursed hot and fast down her cheeks. “Oh, Val…” She clutched him to her desperately, there being no words to express the pure, undiluted misery of the grief she’d willingly brought on herself.

“My dearest love.” Val kissed her wet cheeks. “You really must not take on so, for it tortures me to see it. This is what you want, or do I mistake you at this late hour?”

“You do not.” The sigh Ellen heaved as she stepped back should have moved the entire planet. She wanted Val safe from Freddy’s infernal and deadly machinations, and this was the only way to achieve that goal. She had the conviction Valentine Windham, a supremely determined and competent man—son of a duke in every regard—would not take Freddy’s scheming seriously until it was too late.

It was up to her to protect the man she loved, and that thought alone allowed her to remain true to the only prudent course. “You have not mistaken me, not now—not ever.”

“I did not think you’d change your mind.” Val led her back toward the house by the hand. “I have left my direction in the library, and in the bottom drawer of the desk you will find some household money. I know you’d prefer to cut all ties, Ellen, but if you need anything—anything at all—you must call upon me. Promise?”

“I promise,” she recited, unable to do otherwise.

“And Ellen?” Val paused before they got to the stable yard. “Two things. First, thank you. You gave me more this summer than I could have ever imagined or deserved, and I will keep the memories of the joy we shared with me always. Second, if there should be a child, you will marry me.”

“There will not be a child,” she murmured, looking back toward the wood. He was thanking her? She’d cost him a fortune and put his well-being in jeopardy, and he was thanking her? “I do not, and never will, deserve you.”

“Promise me you’ll tell me if there’s a child?” Val’s green eyes were not gentle or patient. They were positively ducal in their force of will.

“If there is a child I will tell you.”

“Well, then.” Val resumed their progress. “I think that’s all there is to say, except, once again, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Ellen replied, wishing she’d given him the words so much more often and under so many different circumstances.

“Good-bye, my dearest love.” Val bent and kissed Ellen’s cheek, not taking her in his arms. “Be safe and call upon me if there’s need.”

A final nod as Val slipped a hankie into Ellen’s hand, and then he mounted up and turned his horse, putting Zeke first to the trot then moving the horse up to a brisk canter. Ellen got a final sympathetic glance from Nick, and then he and Darius were off, disappearing down the drive in a clatter of hooves and dust.

And then silence.

She’d had a great deal of silence in the past five years, and for the most part, she’d come to treasure it. But this silence was different, as it wasn’t just the lack of sound, it was also the lack of Valentine Windham.

* * *

“A caller, Lord Val.” David Worthington’s butler, like every member of the staff at David’s townhouse, knew how to give the impression it was his pleasure to serve. Val glanced up from where he was bent over the desk in the music room and blinked.

“Who is it?” Val asked, glancing at the clock. Blazing hell, it was nearly teatime already.

“His Grace, the Duke of Moreland.” The butler didn’t make a face, but in his voice there were pinched lips and pruney expressions.

“No avoiding him,” Val muttered. “Best do the tea and crumpets drill, and he’s partial to crème cakes, if I recall aright. Let’s use the family parlor, since the formal parlor faces the street.”

“Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed politely and withdrew, leaving Val to roll down his cuffs and shrug into his coat.

With a longing glance over his shoulder, Val mentally strapped on the familiar armor of indifference and strolled—deliberately—off to the family parlor.

“Your Grace.” Val bowed politely. “You are looking well.” His father looked ever the same—tall, lean, blue-eyed, with a thick mane of white hair, his ensemble impeccable even in the middle of a wet and chilly fall day.

“I am looking old,” the duke shot back, “and tired. I trust you are well?”

“You may tell Her Grace that I thrive,” Val said with a small smile. “Shall we sit?”

“Of course.” His Grace plopped onto a pretty little chintz sofa, one likely reflective of Letty’s influence. “Too deuced miserable to stand around nattering. When will you come see your mother?”

“I did visit Morelands several weeks ago.”

“And you haven’t since,” the duke retorted. “And what kind of visit was that? You spent one night, and then off again to see Bellefonte, and then it’s back to London—and in this bloody raw weather, Valentine?”

“Bellefonte is a very good friend,” Val said, grateful for the interruption of the tea tray. “Now, there’s hot tea, and by purest coincidence, a few crème cakes. I’m not sure how many are on the tray, so I couldn’t possibly report to Her Grace how many you ate.”

The duke’s blue eyes warmed with humor. “Smart lad.”

“Tea or something stronger?”

“Tea with lots of sugar and a dash of whiskey, though the whiskey we’ll find here is probably too fine to deserve such a fate.”

“Fairly’s cellars are to be envied, but you didn’t brave London in this rain to discuss whiskey.”

“I most assuredly did not,” His Grace replied, arranging three cakes on a small plate—it would not hold more. “I got your letters.”

Val sipped his tea—his undoctored tea—and merely raised an eyebrow.

“Took a while.” His Grace demolished a cake in two bites. “Summer, you know, people are rusticating and off to fornicate their way through various house parties. You cannot know how relieved I am Her Grace did not indulge in that folly this year at Morelands.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t left for Yorkshire yet. A new granddaughter must have her in alt.”

“We are pleased.” The duke’s eyes twinkled as he appropriated the royal first person plural. “But we are also getting appallingly old, and St. Just, canny fellow, has hinted he might bring Emmie, Winnie, and the baby south for the winter. Her Grace and I would rather see that—so the entire family can then enjoy St. Just’s visit—than we would like to make a progress of hundreds of miles.”