The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3)

by Grace Burrowes

  “I know I don’t.” She shifted to stroke Val’s wrist and forearm. “I might be more involved, had I children, but I don’t. I am purely a widow, not a mother, a sister, a sister-in-law, a close neighbor, a shopkeeper.”

  Val closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Do you think you are more inclined or less than other widows to take a lover?” He sat forward abruptly and opened his eyes. “Forget I asked that and forgive me.”

  What on earth was plaguing him, that such a thing would come out of his mouth?

  “That isn’t a question one easily forgets,” Ellen replied, and Val was relieved to hear humor in her voice. “If it’s an oblique way of asking if I’m lonely, then you needn’t mince around the issue: I am lonely, and I miss my husband’s attentions. Perhaps I’m a snob, but I can’t see loneliness being assuaged by casual affiliations.”

  Val shot her a frown and blew out a breath. She’d just articulated something he himself had long tried to put into words: Casual sex was only mildly appealing because in his experience, it might ease lust, but it only heightened loneliness.

  Well, hell.

  Hell and the devil.

  “I think there’s something wrong with me,” Val said slowly, “because I am a man, and I agree with you.”

  “You agree with me, how?” Ellen clasped his hand between both of hers, the warmth of her palms seeping into Val’s sore and aching bones.

  “Loneliness and lust are two different things. I still want to kiss you.”

  “I did not come out here for that.” She carefully set Val’s hand on his own thigh and sat up.

  “Neither did I.” And he wasn’t pleased to admit it. “But you’ll have to be the one to stop me, as I think we need to get this taken care of.”

  As introductions to dalliance went, that had to be the worst tone of voice and the worst line of speech Val had ever heard himself compose. He gave her all the time in the world to call him on it and laugh or slap his face or make an abrupt, indignant run for the house. She simply held his gaze, and when he lifted his right hand to brush her hair back, she closed her eyes.

  So Val started there, setting his lips on her eyelid, letting the floral scent of her hair tease his nose, then drawing back to kiss the other eye. When he heard her sigh, he shifted to graze his mouth over her cheek and brow and temple, taking his time, learning the contour of each feature with his lips.

  When he’d inventoried her face, he paused and switched tactics, bringing the fingers of his right hand up to caress her neck then her jaw. He closed his eyes and traced her bones with his index and middle fingers, reveling in the softness of her skin. It occurred to him he was doing as he’d thought he might when he’d been close to her in the darkness before: He was learning her by touch.

  “Valentine,” Ellen whispered, “kiss me, please.”

  “Hush.” He bussed her cheek. “I am kissing you.” But he wasn’t done orienting himself with his fingers or nuzzling at her neck or burying his hand in her hair. She moved toward him, her hands slipping up his chest to link at his nape.

  “Please.”

  She sounded as if she’d put five years of longing and loneliness in that one word, and Val gathered his focus to bring his mouth to hers. He paused again, his lips a quarter inch from hers, then closed his eyes and joined their mouths. Ellen’s mouth clung to his, her hands winnowed through his hair, and her body arched closer to his.

  Oh, God, he hadn’t dreamed this. In his mind, Val had referred repeatedly to their sharing one kiss as if it had been some polite little gesture stolen in a moment under the rose arbor.

  In truth, a year ago, in the waning light of the overgrown woods, he’d kissed her forever, like he was kissing her now. Lips were just the start of it, as Ellen’s fingers drifted through his hair, around his neck, over his ears—his surprisingly sensitive ears—and down along his chest. She pressed forward, her very body burrowing closer to him, and she conveyed both eagerness and a kind of shy wonder in her touch and posture.

  And her mouth, Jesus in the manger, her mouth…

  “Sweetheart,” Val whispered, “slow down, easy…” But Ellen took advantage of his lapse to seam his lips with her tongue and cradle his jaw with her hands. He tasted her in return and she groaned, a soft, sweet sound of longing and encouragement.

  Val shifted and hoisted her to straddle his lap. He hadn’t planned to do such a thing, but when Ellen looked down at him, dazed, her lips glistening in the moonlight, he had to approve of the impulse.

  “You kiss me,” he urged, his hand running down her arm and back up to her collarbone. “Please.”

  She framed his face with her hands and bent to the task, tasting him first with her tongue then sealing her mouth to his. Val’s palm moved to the base of her spine, to urge her down, down onto the rising ridge of flesh at his groin. His left hand remained at his side and never had it felt more useless.

  “Give me your weight,” he whispered between kisses. “Let me feel your body over mine.”

  When he pressed down this time, she let him guide her into his lap. She stopped abruptly when she met his erection then cautiously continued her descent until Val had the gratification of her weight resting on his cock.

  “Better,” he murmured, laying his cheek against her sternum. His hand found her calf next, and Ellen went still.

  Around them, the sounds and scents of the summer night went into high relief: The pause between breezes and the lift in the air when the lightest wind resumed, the subtle shift in the moon shadows as the air stirred, the blending of fragrances in the warm night.

  Val knew what came next. He’d ease her skirts up, diddle her until she either came or was begging him to make her come, then he’d penetrate that sweet heat of hers, and spend—or, if he were going to be a gentleman, he’d withdraw before he spent, cuddle her for a bit, lend her his hankie, and see her back to the house.

  It didn’t seem like enough. Not with her.

  “Just let me hold you,” he murmured, leaving his hand on the firm muscle of her calf. She relaxed against him, and he felt her lips against his neck. He shifted, enjoying the rub of his cock against her weight but for some reason not repeating the movement. His hand settled on her back, and she relaxed further.

  For long moments, she stayed draped over him, letting him rub her back, smooth his hand over her hair, and just pet her. His erection subsided some, but the desire to hold her and touch her did not.

  It occurred to him the weakness in his hand might be spreading to his cock, but it was just a passing, insecure thought. It felt right to hold her, and while it didn’t feel wrong to desire her, it didn’t feel desperately necessary to have her sexually, either.

  Not just yet.

  ***

  “Let me have the reins,” Ellen said quietly. They’d made their good-byes to the Belmonts, the savages were asleep in the back of the wagon, and yet she’d waited only until to the foot of Candlewick lane to state her demand.

  Val glanced over at her in consternation. “You?”

  “Me.” She reached for the reins, and Val saw she was wearing riding gloves. They weren’t as heavy as the driving gloves he sported, but they’d do.

  He passed her the reins. “Why?”

  “Because these are very sweet beasts and well trained,” Ellen said, shifting a little closer to Val, “and yet they are big fellows and will pull on that hand of yours.”

  Amusement fled, leaving Val to frown at his gloved hand then at his companion.

  “Did resting it and taking care of it this weekend help?” she asked.

  “Maybe. A little. It certainly didn’t hurt.”

  “Well, then.” Ellen nodded, apparently feeling her point had been made.

  “Ellen, I’ve been resting it for weeks now, and sometimes it’s better and sometimes it’s worse, but it never heals.”

&nbs
p; “Take off your glove.” She gestured with her chin. “The left one.”

  He complied and inspected his hand. He tried not to look at it, usually—the results were invariably disappointing. Besides, he could feel the differences, between the good days and the other days. Friday had been a bad day.

  “See.” Ellen nodded at his hand. “Your third finger is losing its redness, and even your thumb and first finger look a little better. Rest helps, Valentine, real rest.”

  “How am I to rebuild an entire estate and rest my hand, Ellen?” Even to his own ears, Val’s voice was petulant. He was surprised she answered him.

  “You admit you need to, for starters,” she chided softly. “Of course you will have to use it some, but you hardly give yourself any consideration at all. I see you, sir, up on that roof, tossing slates, or on the lane hacking at the weeds, or hefting stones the size of a five-gallon bucket. Even were you completely hale, you’d be sorely trying that hand.”

  She didn’t know the half of it, so Val kept his silence, feeling resentment and frustration build in the soft morning air.

  “I didn’t play a single note this weekend,” he said at length, but he said it so quietly, Ellen cocked her head and leaned a little closer.

  “On the piano,” Val clarified. “I peeked, though, and it’s a lovely instrument. Belmont plays the violin, and Abby is a passable pianist, or she must be. She has a deal of Beethoven, and you don’t merely dabble, if he’s to your taste.”

  “You are musical?”

  Val exhaled a world of loss. “Until this summer, I was nothing but musical. Now I am forbidden to play.”

  Ellen glanced at his hand. “So you work?”

  “So I work.” He scowled at his hand, wanting to hide it. “I keep hoping that one day I’ll wake up and it will be better.”

  “Like I used to hope I’d wake up one day and realize my husband was alive and I’d merely dreamed his death. Bloody unfair, but I’m not dreaming.”

  Val smiled at her language, finding commiseration in it from an unlikely source. “Bloody unfair. You drive well.”

  “And you rebuild estates like you were born to it. But it’s still bloody unfair, isn’t it?”

  “Bloody blazingly unfair.”

  He hadn’t kissed her again after their interlude in the gazebo, and when she had dragooned him onto a bench with her tin of salve twice on Sunday, they’d stayed more or less in plain sight while she worked on his hand. It meant somebody might see his infirmity, but that was a price Val had been willing to pay for the corresponding assistance with his self-control.

  That kiss had taken him aback, the intensity of it and the rightness. More disconcerting still was the way Ellen had felt in his arms, the way he’d been content to hold her and caress her and she’d been content to be held.

  Whatever was growing between them, Val sensed it wasn’t just a sexual itch that wanted scratching and then forgetting. It wasn’t just about his cock, but about his hands, and his mouth, and so much more. He hadn’t thought it through to his satisfaction and wasn’t sure he even could.

  “What does this week hold for you?” he asked his driver.

  Ellen’s smile was knowing, as if she realized he was taking refuge in small talk. “Weeding, of course, and some transplanting. We have to get the professor’s little plants taken care of too, though, so you’ll need to tell me where you want them.”

  “You must take your pick first. And you cannot keep donating your time and effort to me, Ellen.”

  “I will not allow you to pay me,” she shot back, spine straightening. “The boys do most of the labor, anyway, and I just order them around.”

  “Order them—and me—to do something for you,” Val insisted. “Wouldn’t you like a glass house, for example, a place to start your seedlings early or conserve your tender plants over the winter?”

  Ellen’s brows rose. “I’ve never considered such a thing.”

  “I could build a little conservatory onto that cottage of yours,” Val said, his imagination getting hold of the project. “You already have a window on your southern exposure, and we could simply cut that into a door.”

  “Cottages do not sport conservatories.”

  Val waved a hand and used one of his father’s favorite expressions. “Bah. If I made you a separate hothouse, you’d have to go outside in the winter months to tend it, and it would need a separate fire and so on. Your cottage will already have some heat to lend it, and we could elevate it a few steps, or I could make the addition the same height as your cottage and put the glass in the roof.”

  “A skylight,” Ellen murmured. “They’re called skylights.”

  “Pretty name. I’m going to ask Dare to come up with some sketches, and you are going to let me do this.”

  “It will bring in the damp.”

  Val rolled his eyes. “This is England. The damp comes in, but we’ll bring in the sun too, and ventilate the thing properly.”

  “You mustn’t.”

  “Ellen, I went the entire weekend without playing a single note.”

  “And the significance of this?”

  “I don’t know how many more such weekends I can bear.” He wasn’t complaining now, he was being brutally, unbecomingly honest. “The only thing that helps is staying busy, and a little addition to your cottage will keep me busy.”

  “You are busy enough.”

  “I am not.” He met her eyes and let her see the misery in them. She wouldn’t understand all of it, but she’d see it. “I need to be busier.” So busy he dropped from exhaustion even if he had to ruin his hand to do it, which made no sense at all.

  “All right.” Ellen’s gaze shifted to the broad rumps of the horses. “But you will allow me to tend your hand, and you will keep the boys occupied with your house and your grounds.”

  “Under your supervision.”

  “I won’t stand over them every minute.”

  “Certainly not.” Val grinned at her, wondering when he’d developed a penchant for arguing with ladies. “They require frequent dunking in the pond to retain any semblance of cleanliness, and your modesty would be offended.”

  “As would theirs.”

  He let her have the last word, content to conjure up plans for her addition as the wagon rolled toward the old… His estate.

  Five

  “What?” Darius approached the stall where his piebald gelding stood, a mulish expression on the beast’s long face. “I groomed your hairy arse and scratched your withers. I picked out your feet and scratched your withers again. Go play.”

  Skunk, for that was the horse’s name, sniffed along the wall of his stall then glared at Darius. As Darius eyed his horse, the vague sense of something being out of place grew until he stepped closer and surveyed the stall.

  No water bucket.

  “My apologies,” Darius muttered to his horse. Of course the animal would be thirsty, but when Darius had left Saturday morning, he distinctly recalled there being a full bucket of water in Skunk’s stall. Val had taken the draft horses to Axel’s, leaving Ezekiel to fend for himself in a grassy paddock that boasted shade and a running stream.

  So where had the water bucket walked off to?

  He found it out in the stable yard, empty and tossed on its side. When Skunk had had his fill, Darius topped off the bucket at the cistern and hung it in the horse’s stall.

  Resolved to find sustenance now that he’d tended to his horse, Darius left the stables, intent on raiding the stores in the springhouse.

  “What ho!” Val sang out from the back terrace. “It’s our Darius, wandered back from Londontowne.” He hopped to his feet and extended a hand in welcome. Darius shook it, regarding him curiously.

  “You thought I’d abandon you just when the place is actually becoming habitable?”

  “We’re a good ways from ha
bitable.” Val eyed his half-replaced roof. “I thought you might be seduced by the comforts of civilization. Particularly as I was not very good company by the end of the week.”

  Darius offered a slight smile. “You are seldom good company, though you do entertain. Where are my favorite Visigoths, and can I eat them for lunch?”

  “Come.” Val slung an arm around Darius’s shoulders. “Mrs. Belmont fears for my boyish figure, and we’re well provisioned until market on Wednesday.”

  “So where are the heathen?” Darius asked when they gained the springhouse and Val had tossed him a towel.

  “Mrs. Fitz has set them to transplanting some stock provided by Professor Belmont. Ah, there it is.” He took the soap from a dish on the hearth and plunged his hands into the water in the shallow end of the conduit. “Christ, that is cold.” He pulled his shirt over his head, bathed everything north of his waist, toweled off and replaced the shirt, then started rummaging in the hamper.

  “We’ve ham,” Val reported, “and cheese, and bread baked this morning, and an embarrassment of cherry cobbler, as well as a stash of marzipan, and…”—he fell silent for a moment, head down in the hamper—“cider and cold tea, which should have gone in the stream, and bacon already cooked to a crisp, and something that looks like…”—he held up a ceramic dish as if it were the holy grail—“strawberry tarts. Now, which do we hide from the boys, and which do we serve for dinner?”

  “We hide all of it. Let them eat trout, charred haunch of bunny, or pigeon. But let’s get out of here before they fall upon us.”

  The boys having made a habit of eating in the springhouse, Val and Darius took their hamper up to the carriage house.

  “For what we are about to receive,” Val intoned, “we are pathetically damned grateful, and please let us eat in it peace. Amen. How good are you at designing greenhouses with windows in the roof?”

  “Could be tricky,” Darius said, piling bread, meat, and cheese into a stack, “but interesting. I’m surprised Ellen will let you do this.”

  “She probably thinks I’ll forget.” Val accepted a thick sandwich from Darius. “I won’t. Between her butter and her cheese and supervision of the boys and her… I don’t know, her neighborliness, I am in her debt.”