“I prefer my apple tarts properly clad,” Ellen rejoined, reaching around to pinch Val’s bottom.
“She pinched me.” Val sighed dramatically. “If I didn’t adore her before, I am thoroughly smitten now.”
“You are ridiculous,” Ellen said, though the sheer ease of his humor was marvelous to her. “I appreciate the effort.”
“What effort?”
“To tease and distract me, though I have to say I like the feel of you draped around me too. You are trying to preserve me from awkwardness.”
Val closed his eyes. “Is it working?”
Ellen laced her fingers through his. “It is, a little anyway, but you mentioned apple tarts for the tiger. Posthaste.” He let her shift out from under him this time, sitting back as she reached the point where she’d have to drop the sheet to rise from the bed.
“I love to watch you, Ellen. Clothed, naked, waking, sleeping. Love it, adore it, thrive on it. It’s better than apple tarts, just watching you.”
She nodded, grateful for the encouragement and willing to believe him, because she was similarly afflicted where he was concerned—God help her.
While it lasted, this business of being a tigress was going to be much more challenging than she’d anticipated. Thank goodness there was at least one very handsome male tiger in her personal jungle to make it worth her while.
Nine
He was an awful man, Val chided himself as he ambled home through the rainy woods. Ellen Markham wasn’t suited to dallying and trifling away the summer in each other’s arms. She was too decent for that, too good and innocent and dear. And yet, as Val wandered in the woods, he knew he wasn’t going to give her up.
Not yet. Not when he’d just coaxed her into sharing a bed, and ye gods… Val would never have an uncharitable thought about St. Francis Markham again, because the poor blighter, with his dying breath, had to have known he was leaving Ellen and universes of pleasure with her yet unexplored.
When Val was with Ellen, time was easy and sweet and somehow significant in ways it hadn’t been since Victor died. She soothed something in him and tempted him to offer confidences and assurances and all manner of words he shouldn’t even be considering, much less longing to give her.
So he was awful. Virtuosically awful. A cad, a bounder, and everything he’d ever despised in his confreres among the spoiled offspring of the aristocracy and the flighty artists in their music rooms and studios. He was going to break her heart. The only consolation he could offer himself was the absolute certainty she’d break his, as well.
But not yet.
He continued his meandering in the rain, an awful, very wet man, but for some reason, the dampness felt good, and he wasn’t in a hurry to get dry. On a whim, or because he didn’t really want to face anybody else, he detoured to the pond, where he took off his clothes, stuffed them under the overhang of the dock, and dove in.
The pond felt curiously warm compared to the rain on his skin, and so he set out on laps, trying not to think.
In his head, where nothing should have been, he heard a tune. It was a simple, sweet, wistful melody, but it wanted something sturdy beneath it, so he added some accompaniment in the baritone register. Then, the entire little composition was residing in the middle register of the keyboard, and that didn’t feel expansive enough. As Val sliced through the water, he added an occasional note of true bass, just enough to anchor the piece, not enough to overshadow its essential lightness.
But that affected the balance, so he began to experiment with crossing the left hand over the right, to sprinkle a little sunshine and laughter above the tender melody.
Around and around the pond he went; around and around in his head went the melody, the accompaniment, the descant, the harmonies.
He stopped eventually, because he wasn’t sure what to do with his composition. He was used to having music in his head and used to having a keyboard to work out all the questions and possibilities on. Even then, he’d play with an idea until it needed a rest, then put it aside and let time work its magic. He pulled himself up on the dock and realized it wasn’t even raining anymore.
And he’d been in the water a fair while if his protesting muscles and growling stomach were any indication.
Though he hardly felt like eating when there was such lovely music distracting him.
* * *
“Who’s for a sortie over to the neighbors?” Val put the question casually while dinner plates were being scraped clean and Day and Phil were haring off for their evening swim.
“I’ll come,” Darius said. “The alternative is to stay here with the Furies.”
“I’m thinking we should all go,” St. Just said, passing Darius his empty plate. “It will leave the boys a responsibility they’re ready for, create a show of force before the locals, and—most significantly—allow me to walk off my second helping of pie.”
Darius stuffed the plates and silverware into a bucket of water and rose. “What exactly is it we’re trying to accomplish?”
Val finished his ale and put his mug into the bucket. “Fair question. One must consider motive when trying to assign blame for a nasty deed. I have to ask who among all my neighbors and associates has a motive for scaring me off?” Val cast his gaze from St. Just to Darius.
“All my tenants,” Val answered himself. “They’ve been unsupervised for five years, and they’ve grown increasingly shortsighted regarding their care for the land.”
“You think your tenants have turned their children loose on you?” St. Just asked.
“I don’t know about that, but my tenants have a substantial motive for wanting to get rid of me, and they have access to those children.”
St. Just grimaced. “You make a good point. One Sir Dewey should be apprised of.”
“He should. Shall we be off?”
Over a surprisingly good bottle of whiskey, Val established with Mortimus Bragdoll that the home farm would be reverting to the estate’s use, though no rent would be charged for Mort’s appropriation of the land previously. In exchange, Bragdoll agreed to set his hand to cleaning up the buildings, scything down the weeds, repairing the fences, and otherwise restoring the property to good condition. Bragdoll was built on the proportions of a plough horse, with four sons growing into the same physique, leaving Val no doubt the home farm would be adequately tended to.
And at Darius’s prompting, Bragdoll started making a list of improvements—beginning with the roof on the hay barn—the present Lord Roxbury had declined to see to.
All in all, Val thought the gathering on the Bragdolls’ porch productive, though it failed entirely to illuminate the question of whether his own tenants were attempting to burn him out and possibly bring harm to Ellen as well.
“I’ll be back tomorrow evening,” Darius said, folding a list into his pocket as Bragdoll put up the whiskey bottle. “If you have the other tenants here, we can decide what comes next after the hay barn has been seen to.”
“Aye.” Bragdoll pulled on his ear. “And my Ina will join us, too. She’s the smartest among us, and she’ll tell you exactly what needs doing.”
He looked like he might say more, but marital loyalty apparently trumped an urge to commiserate with his own gender. Val, Darius, and St. Just took their leave, unaware Hawthorne Bragdoll, youngest of the four sons, sat with his mother on the second-floor porch and watched their departure.
“Think he means it when he says he’ll make the improvements?” Thorn asked.
“Mr. Windham?” Ina pursed her lips in thought. “Yes, I think he means to do right, but as to whether he knows what he’s about, I’ve no clue, young Thorn. The man is a stranger to us, and to hear Deemus tell it, he wears gloves no matter what he’s about, like a dandy. Works hard, though, if you can believe Deemus or Soames.”
Thorn nodded. Neither Deemus nor Soames was much given to exaggeration when sober, and that was too bad. It meant Mr. Windham was likely a decent sort, pouring a great deal of time and money in
to a dilapidated estate. If Thorn’s instincts were accurate—and they very often were—poor Mr. Windham was in for one hell of a hiding.
And Thorn knew what it was like to get one hell of a hiding a fellow had done nothing to deserve.
* * *
“Go back to sleep,” Val whispered. For the past three nights, he’d slipped into Ellen’s bed after she’d retired then slipped out again in the dead of night. He’d made it a point to cross paths with her during the day as well, but with people around, so she might get used to being near her lover in relative public.
This, however, this quiet closeness in the night, it drew him. He didn’t make love to her—not when pregnancy was a greater risk—and he hadn’t found a way to explain to her about sponges and vinegar. Those were not entirely reliable, in any case, and he wasn’t about to go purchasing what he needed in Little Weldon’s apothecary and herbal shop. He could have withdrawn, of course, but that bore risks, as well, and with Ellen, he found he’d rather just damned wait a couple weeks than settle for half measures.
Then too, waiting meant he did not give his conscience yet more ammunition with which to assail him.
So he held her and cuddled and whispered in the darkness, sometimes falling asleep for a while, sometimes holding Ellen while she slept.
“I wasn’t quite asleep.” Ellen stirred and rolled to face him, slipping one arm under his neck and hiking a leg over his hips. She located his lips with her fingers then leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. “I’ve missed you.”
“Since luncheon, you’ve missed me? I’ve missed you too,” Val said, grazing one palm over her breast. “I’ve missed particular parts of you intensely.”
“Is that why you haven’t made love to me since Monday?”
“You’re blushing.” In the dark he could not see her blush, but when he laid the back of his hand against her cheek, he felt it.
“I am. I’m also asking you a question.”
Val dropped his hand and went back to thumbing her nipple gently. “I have left you in peace for a variety of reasons, the first of which is consideration for your tender person.”
“Oh.” It clearly hadn’t occurred to Ellen her person might merit such consideration. “My thanks. Do men get sore?”
“Not as easily as women, or I don’t think we do, but you inspired me to a prolonged and lengthy performance. Blazing hell, that feels good.”
Ellen had one hand on his cock and used her free hand to rake his nipples with her nails. “What were your other reasons?”
“For what?”
“Abandoning me.”
“Ellen?” Val caught her hand, stilling it wrapped around his member. “Abandoning you?”
“You make passionate love to me,” she said, all teasing gone, “and then you essentially avoid me, unless we’re among your fellows or it’s the dark of night. You hold me tenderly in the dark then depart with a kiss to my cheek, Valentine. I would not have you reporting to my bed out of guilt or the sense you’ve embarked on a course you cannot gracefully depart from.”
“Blue blazing… You think I could stay away? From you?”
“You have. You’ve stayed away from me in one sense, at least.”
“Dear heart.” Val shifted to crouch over her. “You are so wrong. If I join with you now, I can get you with child. I’ve kept a respectful distance during the day so you might have some privacy and a chance to tend your flowers. I am hesitant to disturb your sleep because I know how hard you work and I do not want to impose.”
“So I was… adequate?” She buried her face against his neck.
“No.” He shifted up and she let him go.
She held her tongue while Val got out of bed and lit an oil lamp using a taper and the embers in the hearth. He turned the wick up to let her see not only his naked body but his features as well.
“Look at me, Ellen Markham.” Val sat at her hip and reached for her hand. “I want you to see my face when I tell you this, so you’ll know I’m not flirting or prevaricating or being what you call sophisticated and what I would call false.
“You were not adequate,” he went on. “You were every wish and prayer I’ve ever articulated or dreamed made flesh. You were my most generous fantasies brought to life; you were an experience I could not have conjured from my wildest, most selfish and creative artistic imagination. I hunger for you.”
Hunger. He’d chosen the word advisedly. It was an order of magnitude more compelling even than adore.
“You can blow out the lamp,” Ellen said, dropping her gaze.
“Do you believe me?” Val scooted closer and looped his arms around her shoulders.
“I believe you.” But she kept her forehead against his shoulder.
“Let me hold you.” Val blew out the lamp and climbed under the covers. How in the blazing hell could he have been so remiss? Women needed reassurances; he knew this, and he wasn’t usually so unforthcoming. There was always something he could tell a woman—she had smooth skin even if her figure was less than average. She kissed enthusiastically if not with much skill. She was restful if not inspiring.
And he realized why he’d had no pretty words for Ellen.
She was beyond the little consolation compliments Val might have come up with for his usual fare. She was beyond flirtation and banter and superficial kindnesses.
And she was well beyond his silly duplicity regarding his station in life.
“Why the sigh?” Ellen stretched up and kissed his jaw. He’d put her on her back while he’d kept to his side. Her leg was again hiked over his hip, her cheek against his chest.
“You won’t be safe again for another week at least. That looms as an eternity.”
“It does seem like a rather long time.”
“We can settle for half measures,” Val suggested, not liking the idea they had options he would keep from her.
“Like on the blanket under the willow?”
They did not indulge in those half measures Val alluded to, but Ellen was giggling and blushing far into the night, and for Val, that was just as enjoyable, if not more. He explained to her all the taunts and insults and naughty terms she’d heard on darts night and not understood. He listed not less than a dozen terms, all referring to his member, and stopped only when Ellen was laughing so hard she cried.
* * *
Summer in London stank, literally.
Summer at Roxbury Hall stank literally and figuratively, but thank all the gods Freddy’s third-quarter allowance had arrived with the first of July and he was free to leave for Town.
Freddy took himself to the stables where his handsome bay gelding had been kept walking the better part of an hour. It was just as well, as Freddy’s mood was not suited to a fresh horse with spunk and sport on its mind. He swung up from the mounting block, thinking the ladies’ block might have been the better choice, as his blasted breeches were far tighter than the expense of having them tailored merited.
By the time he reached Great Weldon, Freddy’s breeches were fitting a little more comfortably, and his mood was improving. He needed more coin if he was to be ready for hunt season in the fall and Portugal in the winter, hence the necessity to tend his schemes and detour through the rural provinces of Oxfordshire.
He rapped on the polished bar of The Hung Sheep. “Whiskey, my good man.”
He detested the place, particularly the image of the cheerfully leering ram that swung over the main entrance. Nonetheless, a certain kind of business could be transacted here, and so here he would bide at least for a few minutes.
When his whiskey appeared, Lord Roxbury leaned across to catch the bartender’s eye. “Be a good fellow and tell Louise to attend me in the snug.”
The bartender barely nodded before disappearing into the kitchen. A young lady emerged a few minutes later sporting a smile Freddy knew was as false as her truly impressive breasts were genuine.
“Milord.” She beamed at Freddy where he sat frankly ogling her breasts. “May I fetch you ano
ther?”
Freddy wrinkled his nose. “It’s a pathetic brew, but I’ve miles to go yet, so yes.”
Her smile slipped a bit, though Freddy wasn’t about to admit the drink was both decent and inexpensive.
“So there ye be.” She set the drink down a moment later, not spilling a drop. “What else can Louise get for ye?”
“Answers.” Freddy scowled at the drink. “It’s been two weeks, my girl. What news have you for me?”
“Plenty of news.” Louise smiled broadly. “What coin have ye for me?”
Freddy’s scowl became as calculating as Louise’s smile. For God’s sake, she took his coin, and all he asked of her—almost all—was that she pass along to him a few bits of gossip and keep her younger relations’ eyes sharp in the same cause.
“I have something for you, Louise,” Freddy said, “but it will have to wait until we can be private. But then, as I recall, the stables are private enough for a woman of your refined tastes, aren’t they?” He slid his hand over her wrist and pulled her down to sit beside him. “Talk, Louise, and then you’ll walk me to my horse.”
He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed tightly. She didn’t wince—peasant stock was tough.
“From what Neal’s pa says, Mr. Windham is improving up a storm at the old Markham place. The roof is almost done, the floors and windows are all in, the plastering and painting is thundering along, and even the grounds are looking tidy and spruce.”
“How charming,” Freddy drawled. “What about the estate itself?”
“Mr. Windham met with Neal’s pa and says he’ll look after the place, now he owns it. Mort and Neal and the boys are to clean up the home farm, since Mr. Windham will be setting that to rights too. The hay barn is to get a new roof, but quick-like, as there’s already hay in it.”
“Did your cousins set up the kindling where I showed them?”
“They did.” She made another effort to withdraw her hand, which gave Freddy another opportunity to exert his superior strength.
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