The Duke’s Obsession Bundle

by Grace Burrowes

  “I’ll dry you off.” Val gestured with his makeshift towel, holding her gaze as if to imply he exposed himself like this to women every day, when in fact, he was by nature fairly modest. Cautiously, she leaned back on her hands and extended a foot toward him.

  He seized the foot gently and buffed it with the linen shirt. He dried first one foot then the other, then tarried over his own feet before finally putting the somewhat damp shirt back on.

  “Shall we?” Val had put his boots on and risen to extend a hand down to her. He’d left her no choice but to accept that hand and allow him to assist her to her feet. She didn’t protest when he kept hold of her hand as he led her off the dock.

  A year ago, Ellen had taken him by the hand to show him the wood, a casual gesture on her part—Val was sure of it. She could hardly object that he was turning the tables now, lacing his fingers through hers and setting a sedate pace back toward the house.

  “Belmont’s boys will be staying for a while,” he said as they gained the shade of the woods. “They’re good boys, but I think the professor wants to test out being separated from them before he must send them to university.”

  “I’m ten years away from my parents’ house, and I still miss them both desperately. But I’m also relieved they’re gone in another sense.”

  “Relieved?” Val stopped walking to peer at her. “Was there illness?”

  “My father was quite a bit older than my mother,” she replied, frowning down at some ferns trying to encroach on the path. “He was probably failing, but I was a child, and his death seemed sudden to me. My mother wasn’t young when I was born, so I was their treasured miracle.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “And were you somebody’s treasured miracle?” Ellen asked, bending to tug at the ferns.

  “I was one of ten such miracles,” Val said. “But I do not doubt my parents’ regard for me.” He fell silent on that thought, a little disconcerted to realize it was the truth. He had never doubted their regard for him, though he’d also never felt he had their understanding. He was pondering this realization when Ellen shifted her hand so her fingers gripped his arm near the elbow, which was probably prudent. They would soon be out of the trees, and he had no desire to rush his fences.

  Though what fences those would be, he would have to puzzle out later.

  Three

  “Thank you for showing me the pond,” Val said as they approached the picnic blanket.

  “My pleasure. It appears the fairies have been here, casting the post-picnic sleeping spell on your companions.”

  “We’re not asleep.” Darius opened his eyes and sat up. “Well, Belmont might be, but he had two helpings of cobbler, so allowances must be made. It’s too quiet. Where do you think the savages have got off to?”

  Belmont sat up and yawned. “They’ll be putting up their tent. It’s a sturdy business, that tent. If they use some of the lumber I brought to build a proper platform, it will keep them snug and dry and out of your hair.”

  “Savages with their own accommodations,” Val remarked. “Decent of you.”

  “My brother Matthew and I put a tent to good use on many a summer night,” Belmont said. “You might want to help the boys pick out a spot for a tree house, as well, but I’d set them to clearing all these damned saplings, were I you. Then Mrs. Fitz here can draft them as assistant gardeners. Pardon the language, Mrs. Fitz.”

  Val arched a brow at Ellen. “Gardeners?”

  “Good heavens, Windham.” Belmont got to his feet. “You can’t be thinking your work is limited to the house? If you’re to have a proper manor, you need to landscape it. The jungle will just take over again, if you don’t. The oaks need to be pruned so they don’t continue to litter your roof with acorns and leaves. You’ll want flowers near the house, an herb garden for your kitchen, a medicinal garden, a vegetable garden near your home farm.”

  Val scrubbed a hand over his face. “So many gardens as all that?”

  “And ornamental gardens, as well,” Belmont went on blithely. “Some scent gardens, cutting gardens for early spring through fall, color gardens. As it’s already nigh summer, you’d best get busy, or you’ll waste the entire season. You’ll take pity on him, won’t you, Mrs. Fitz? You can’t expect a city boy like Windham to comprehend the task involved.”

  “I suppose,” Darius spoke up as he got to his feet, “the boys could be set to work turning beds and transplanting seedlings. One should think the offspring of a botanist might have a few skills in that regard.”

  “They’ve both spent long hours with me in the conservatory and the propagation house,” Belmont assured them. “And I’ll be happy to send over seedlings, as will my wife. We’ve all manner of new varieties gleaned from her estates in Kent.” Belmont speared Val with a look. “If you’re to keep my savages here with you, I promise I’ll come back with a wagonload of seeds and sprouts for you and Mrs. FitzEngle.”

  Well done, Val wanted to shout, because the look of longing that crossed Ellen’s face let him know her assistance had just been bribed right into his lap. “Such generosity will be much appreciated, Professor.”

  “Well, I’m off then.” Belmont dusted off his breeches. “The leader is Nelson, and the off gelding is Wellie.”

  “Gelding?” Val asked.

  “I’m loaning you my wagon and team,” Belmont explained. “If all else fails, you can slaughter the horses and feed them to my sons. The boys can also ride these two, though we didn’t pack saddles for them. Their gaits are smooth enough, provided you don’t try to canter—or trot very far. My hay is in, and this is not my best pair, though they’re good fellows.”

  “Most generous of you,” Darius cut in, shooting Val a to-hell-with-your-pride look. “A wagon and team will save us a great deal of time and logistical complications, and the stables, at least, are sound and in good repair.”

  “Well, that’s settled,” Belmont looked around, his gaze traveling in the direction of noise most likely made by his children. “I will deliver a few paternal words of guidance, not because they will be heeded, but because Abby will expect it of me.”

  “I’ll see to your horse,” Darius volunteered.

  Val started after Belmont, only to find Ellen’s hand on his arm.

  “Leave them some privacy,” she suggested. “Good-byes are hard enough without an audience.”

  “And young men have surprising reserves of dignity.”

  “I was more concerned for their father,” Ellen rejoined, smiling. “Perhaps you might suggest a visit to Candlewick in the near future?”

  “I’d like to see the place. Belmont claimed it was in bad shape when he took it on.”

  “And I am sure Mrs. Belmont would like to see the boys,” Ellen said. “But if we’re to keep them busy, you must tell me what exactly you’d like them to accomplish.”

  They created a list, starting with the vegetable garden and including the transplanting of some young fruit trees from Ellen’s back yard to Valentine’s home farm. That property began with the meadow boasting the farm pond and ran along the lane toward more buildings and pastures in the direction of town. As he tried not to blatantly admire the curve of Ellen’s FitzEngle’s lips or the way her neck joined her shoulders, Val instead heard the melody of her voice.

  It would take woodwinds—strong, supple, and light, with low strings for balance—to convey the grace of that voice. Or possibly just the piano alone, a quiet, lyrical adagio.

  He pulled his thoughts back to the conversation. “Who works the home farm?” he asked as they watched Darius leading Belmont’s gelding from the stables.

  “The Bragdolls. Or they work the land. The vegetable gardens, chicken coop, dairy, and so forth are not used. The manor has been unoccupied since before the previous Baron Roxbury owned the place.”

  “I am not inclined to set all that to rights just yet. Your surplus is adequate for my present needs, and I won’t be hiring staff for months.” Assuming he even kept owners
hip of the place.

  “Get in as big a plot of vegetables as you can, anyway,” Ellen said. “Children can weed it for you cheaply, and you can sell the excess, if any there is. And if you hire staff even as late as next spring, you’ll still need a cellar full of food to feed them until next summer.”

  “Establishing a working manor with home farm is decidedly more complicated than I’d envisioned.”

  “You thought simply to restore the house,” Ellen reminded him. “That is a substantial project in itself.”

  Val shrugged self-consciously. “I liked the place when first I saw it. I still like it, and I like all the ideas I have for restoring it to health.” It reminded him in a curious way of creating… music. Part craft, part art; part discovery, part invention.

  “So what will you name your acquisition?” Ellen asked, looking past Val’s shoulder.

  “What?” Val followed her gaze to see Belmont shamelessly hugging his half-grown children. “He’ll miss them.”

  He wondered if his father ever missed him but dismissed the thought. Victor and Bart were dead, and Val had never heard His Grace admit to missing either son. A mere youngest son off to Oxfordshire was hardly going to cause the Duke of Moreland to fret or worry or pine for the lack of him—any more than Val was going to permit himself to pine for his piano.

  “It’s Monday.” Ellen leaned in to lower her voice. “Suggest you’ll bring them to visit at Candlewick on the weekend, and that way, you can dodge services in Little Weldon.” She sauntered off, pausing to bid Belmont good-bye. From where Val stood, it looked like a punctiliously polite leave-taking on both their parts. When Belmont crossed the yard to join him, Val was still watching Ellen’s retreat with a less than casual eye.

  After Belmont had taken his leave and a wagonload of goods from town had been properly stored, Val sat beside Darius in the afternoon shadows and listened and calculated and listened some more. In the back of his mind, he heard the slow movement to Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, a sweet, lyrical little piece of musical comfort that had nothing to do with nails, lumber, sagging porches, and broken windows.

  Herr Beethoven, Val concluded, knew little of the realities of country life.

  “What say we round up the heathen and finish the day at the pond,” Val suggested, alighting from their perch on the lumber. “I don’t think they’ll last much past dark, and I’m not sure I will either.”

  “Swimming.” Darius affected an expression of concentration then hopped down beside Val. “That’s the business where you get wet and hope not to accommodate any leeches in the process. Wouldn’t miss it.”

  With the older males following at a sedate pace and the younger pair pelting through the wood, all four were soon shucking clothes and diving off the dock into the pond. To Val, the scene was reminiscent of many summer evenings spent with his brothers. He set himself to swimming laps around the pond, searching for a sense of peace in the soothing rhythm of water and mild exertion.

  “We’re heading back to start dinner,” Darius called from the dock. He was dressed only in breeches, his dark hair wet and slicked back, the boys similarly attired.

  “Leave me my soap. I’ll follow shortly.”

  “Soap?” Dayton hollered. “What about meat pie? What about cobbler? What about cold potato salad and biscuits with butter?” His brother lit out, leaving Dayton to give chase and Darius to smile and bring up the rear. When they’d left, Val swam over to the dock and pulled himself up onto it, content just to sit and appreciate the quiet as he dried off in the warm evening air.

  Who would ever have thought the absence of music could have any redeeming quality to it at all? God above, Belmont’s offspring were loud. Val couldn’t recall himself ever being that loud, but then, he’d been the baby boy. The youngest and then the musical artist, the one most likely to be watching and worrying while his older brothers leapt bellowing from rope swings into swimming holes or tore off across frozen ponds heedless of weak ice or protruding rocks. They had yelled and carried on enough without Val adding to the din.

  And now the loudest of them—Victor and Bart—were dead. Val brought his knees up, wrapped his arms around his legs, and lowered his forehead to his knees. The night was growing beautiful as the air mellowed, the shadows lengthened, and soft, summery scents floated on gentle breezes.

  Grief was so tenacious a companion he wanted to scream it out into the silence. At least when he could play the piano, there had been a way to express such emotions, to air them audibly without something so ugly as a scream. He sat up, then stood, and dove off the dock into the water and washed every inch of his skin and scalp.

  When he was as clean as soap, water, and effort could make him, he sat naked on the dock for a long time watching the shadows lengthen. Evenings were difficult, and he’d frequently survived them only by playing his finger exercises for hours on end. Mindless, technically demanding, aurally homely, they’d soothed him in a way nothing else did.

  When darkness threatened to obscure the path home, Val rose and pulled on his breeches. It occurred to him as he gathered up shirt, socks, boots, and towel, that in his own way, he’d grown used to making every bit as much useless noise as the Belmont brothers.

  ***

  Mr. Valentine Windham had troubles.

  Ellen concluded this from her place in the shadowed woods and debated whether she should reveal herself or leave him to wander home in solitude. Coward that she was, she opted to guard her own privacy, lest he see from the look in her eyes she’d been spying for quite some time.

  He had troubles, as evidenced by the hunch of his back muscles when he dropped his face to his knees. Troubles, as demonstrated by the long, long silence he held while evening deepened around him and he sat naked and utterly still on the dock. Troubles, as outlined by the leanness of his flanks and belly, the way his ribs and hips were too clearly delineated under his skin.

  But God above, troubled or not, he was a breathtakingly beautiful man. Francis had been trim and capable of sitting a horse, but he’d never sported the kind of muscle Valentine Windham did. He’d also lacked Windham’s height and the sense of coiled, nimble power Windham’s body conveyed when it arched and dove cleanly into the water.

  Those images, of Valentine Windham naked and still, naked and hoisting himself out of the water, naked and gathering his clothes at the end of the dock… They made a hot night hotter and made Ellen’s clothes feel clingy and damp next to her skin. As full darkness fell, she stripped down and slipped into the water, circling the pond many times, just as Valentine had.

  And just as unable to find relief from the guilt and grief troubling her.

  ***

  “The boys will be all right in their tent?” Val asked as he poured two cups of tea from the pot on the stove while a few drops of rain spattered the roof of the carriage house.

  “They’re waterproof,” Darius replied, accepting his cup. “Rain or shine, this whole summer is a lark to them, as it should be.”

  “They’ve gotten a lot done this week. There’s not a sapling standing in the yard, the beds are dug and planted, the vegetables are in, and the drive is looking better.”

  Darius regarded Val by the flickering light of a single candle. “But you are not satisfied.”

  “With them? Of course I am. They’re good boys, and they work hard. I’m lucky to have them.”

  “With them, maybe, not with yourself.”

  “And you are such a paragon of self-satisfaction?” The last thing Val wanted at the end of yet another grueling day was Darius Lindsey peering into his soul.

  “You will take the boys and Mrs. Fitz to Candlewick tomorrow,” Darius replied. “Get some decent cooking into you, play Belmont’s grand piano for a few hours, and set yourself to rights.”

  Val was silent a long time, until he expelled a hard breath and set his mug down on the bricks under the stove. “I will not be playing Belmont’s piano or any other, and I will thank you not to raise the matter before oth
ers.” He crossed the room in two strides and sat on his bunk, hauling off his boots and tossing them hard against the opposite wall.

  “So that’s what all the gloves are about?” Darius asked, reclining on his cot. “Your left hand is still buggered up?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I have eyes, Valentine. It took me about two days to figure out you own the world’s largest collection of gloves, because you’ve bought them ready-made in two different sizes. From there, I observed your left hand is swollen, the thumb, index, and middle fingers noticeably red and painful-looking. You make every effort not to favor the hand for fine tasks but beat it to death on manual labor. One has to wonder if your actions are well advised.”

  “Fairly forbid me the piano,” Val bit out. “So I don’t play the bloody piano.”

  “And does your hand improve?”

  “Not much.” Val tried to match his companion’s casual tone. “At first, there was some improvement, but lately, it’s no better. I might as well use it for what I can, while I can.”

  “You say that like you are angry at your hand,” Darius mused, “though you do every kind of rough work there is to do with it, and you certainly make me look like I’m barely pulling my weight most days.”

  “I do every kind of work the common laborers do,” Val corrected him. He rose and crossed the room to where his boots lay against the far wall and set them tidily next to the door. “I just can’t do the kind of work I was born to do.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Play the piano. My art is how I go on, Darius, and the only thing I know how to do well enough to matter.”

  “Doing it a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Darius crossed his arms behind his head and regarded Val where he once again sat on his cot.

  “No, I don’t think. Were I going to be dramatic, I’d slit my wrists, hang myself, or jump into the Thames when the tide was leaving.”