The Duke’s Obsession Bundle (95 page)

“I know that maneuver, and I know the tendency to choose practical clothing over the pretty. Shall I brush out your hair?”

Ellen intended to politely refuse. Abby Belmont had a busy household to run, her stepsons would no doubt want to greet her, and there was a meal to get on the table.

“Would you mind?”

“Of course not.” Abby hung Ellen’s dress in the wardrobe and fetched a brush from the vanity, while Ellen took the low-backed chair before it. “When I was married to That Man, he thought I should not have a lady’s maid, claiming it set an example of sloth and dependence on one’s inferiors. The Colonel was so full of nonsense. You have beautiful hair.”

“How do you reconcile that?” Ellen asked, closing her eyes. “How do you put up with knowing you were married to Stoneleigh for years, and in some senses those years were wasted?”

“Like five years of widowhood might feel wasted?” Abby asked softly. “With regard to my first marriage, it was the only marriage I knew, and the Colonel wasn’t overtly cruel. But I am convinced, as well, years in his household gave me a particular independence of spirit and resilience.”

“Independence of spirit is no comfort on a cold winter night,” Ellen said, her smile sheepish.

“I didn’t know what all I was missing,” Abby reminded her. “I think sometimes, what if I lost Axel now, especially with the baby coming and the boys not yet off to school? God above, I’d go mad with grief and rage.”

“You do,” Ellen said quietly. “A little bit, you do go mad, but the world does not take heed of your madness, and you must get up, don your clothes, tidy your hair, and put sustenance in your body all the same.”

Abby leaned down and hugged Ellen’s shoulders for a long, silent minute, and Ellen found tears welling. She swallowed and blinked them into submission, but the intensity of the emotion and the relief of Abby’s silent understanding surprised her.

Abby straightened and resumed brushing Ellen’s hair. “Axel says it’s like this: He loved his Caroline and so did the boys. In some ways, they all still love her, and that’s as it should be. He keeps some of her clothing in a trunk in the attic because they carry her scent.”

As Abby spoke, Ellen realized abruptly that part of her misgivings regarding Valentine Windham stemmed not from her own duplicity with the man, or even fear of entangling him in her past, but simply from a widow’s guilt.

Like sun bursting through rain clouds, it hit her that loving Valentine Windham, being intimate with him, did not betray Francis. Francis would
want
her to find another love, to be happy and to be loved.

Love?

Abby looked a little concerned at Ellen’s expression. “Perhaps I should not have been quite so personal on the topic of grief.”

“Of course you should.” Ellen met Abby’s gaze in the mirror. “I am glad you were. It’s a topic nobody wants to bring up, and you can’t very well stroll up to the neighbors and tell them: I’m missing my spouse who has been gone for years, would you mind if I had a good cry on your shoulder?”

“We should be able to, but we don’t, do we?”

“I didn’t.” Ellen closed her eyes as Abby drew her hair in a slow sweep over both shoulders.

“Maybe you did, a little, just now. Let’s put you in the tub and wash this hair. As hot as the weather is, it will dry in no time.”

Ellen let Abby attend her, let her wash her hair, pour her a glass of wine while she soaked, and wrap her in a bath sheet when she was done. She hadn’t permitted herself this luxury—an attended bath—since Francis had died.

Punishing herself, perhaps? Or maybe just that much in need of bodily privacy.

“We can sit on the balcony and I’ll brush out your hair,” Abby said when Ellen was in her dressing gown, her hair hanging in damp curls.

And Abby went one better, having a tray of cheese and fruit brought up to go with the wine. They spent the time conversing about mutual neighbors, gardens, pie recipes, and the boys.

“They are splendid young men,” Ellen said after her second glass of wine—or was it her third? “And I think having them around makes us all less lonely.”

“Lonely,” Abby spat. “I got damned sick of being lonely. I’m not lonely now.”

“Because of Mr. Belmont. He is an impressive specimen.”

Abby grinned at her wineglass. “Quite, but so is your Mr. Windham.”

Ellen shook her head, and the countryside beyond the balcony swished around in her vision. “He isn’t my Mr. Windham.” It really was an interesting effect. “I think I’m getting tipsy.”

Abby nodded slowly. “One should, from time to time. Why isn’t he your Mr. Windham?”

“He’s far above my touch. I’m a gardener, for pity’s sake, and he’s a wealthy young fellow who will no doubt want children.”

Abby cocked her head. “You can still have children. You aren’t at your last prayers,
Baroness
.”

“I never carried a child to term for Francis,” Ellen said, some of the pleasant haze evaporating, “and I am… not fit for one of Mr. Windham’s station.”

Abby set her wine glass down. “What nonsense is this?”

Ellen should have remained silent; she should have let the moment pass with some unremarkable platitude, but five years of platitudes and silence—or perhaps half a bottle of wine—overwhelmed good sense.

“Oh, Abby, I’ve done things to be ashamed of, and they are such things as will not allow me to remarry. Ever.”

“Did you murder your husband?” Abby asked, her tone indignant. “Did you hold up stagecoaches on the high toby? Perhaps you sold secrets to the Corsican?”

“I did not murder my h-husband,” Ellen said, tears welling up
again
. “Oh, damn it all.” It was her worst, most scathing curse, and it hardly served to express one tenth of her misery. “What I did was worse than that, and I won’t speak of it. I’d like to be alone.”

Abby rose and put her arms around Ellen, enveloping her in a cloud of sweet, flowery fragrance. “Whatever you think you did, it can be forgiven by those who love you. I
know
this, Ellen.”

“I am not you,” Ellen said, her voice resolute. “I am me, and if I care for Mr. Windham, I will not involve him in my past.”

“You’re involving him in your present, though.” Abby sat back, regarding Ellen levelly. “And likely in your future, as well, I hope.”

“I should not,” Ellen said softly. “I should not, but you’re right, I have, and for the present I probably can’t help myself. He’ll tire of our dalliance, though, and then I’ll let him go, and all will be as it should be again.”

“You are not making sense. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

“But you should,” Ellen said. “The gentlemen will be done with their baths and hungry for their luncheon. I’ll take a tray here, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll leave you the cheese and fruit for now.” Abby got to her feet, her expression unconvinced. “Perhaps you’re done with the wine?”

“I think some tea is in order. You mustn’t take my dramatics too seriously.”

“I won’t. I’ll make your excuses to the fellows and send you up some reading with your luncheon.”

“My thanks.” Ellen let herself be hugged again. All three times she’d been pregnant, Ellen had felt the same wonderful, expansive affection for everyone in her world—well, almost everyone, as there was no genuine affection to be had for Freddy or some of his friends.

“Perhaps I’ll take a nap,” Ellen suggested.

“I never realized how invigorating a nap could be,” Abby replied, drawing back and picking up the wine bottle. “Not
that
kind of nap, though those are delightful, but simple rest. My first husband frowned upon it, unless one was sickening for something or suffering a migraine.”

“What a disappointing man he must have been, and what a lovely contrast Mr. Belmont must make.”

“Mr. Belmont encourages me to nap when I’m tired.” Abby’s smile was feline.

“Out.” Ellen pointed to the door, smiling back. “Out, out, out, and thank you for the visit, the wine, and the privacy.”

Though when Abby had left her alone, Ellen did not nap. Indeed, it took her some time to cease weeping.

“You had that look at luncheon you used to get when you’d been away from the piano too long,” St. Just remarked as he and Val grabbed the cribbage board, a blanket, and a small hamper.

“I am preoccupied,” Val said, “but not with a melody.” He wished he might be, rather than the disturbing things he’d overheard between Abby and Ellen as they’d visited on their balcony just the other side of the rose trellis adorning his own. What on earth could the Baroness Roxbury have done that was worse than murdering her husband?

“What’s the worst offense you could commit?” Val asked his brother as they rooted through Axel’s library cabinets for a deck of cards.

“Worst in the sense of violating my honor?” St. Just eyed Val curiously. “I suppose it would be betraying Winnie, who as a child is more helpless and dependent on me than is my countess.”

“They are both your property,” Val pointed out, spying a deck of cards. “Or as good as.”

“True, but Winnie is helpless, entrusted to me by no less than The Almighty in every regard. Her health, her happiness, her education, her spiritual well-being…”

“Daunting?” Val smiled in understanding.

“I have Emmie and Winnie to lean on. We shall contrive.”

“If you don’t have a son, what happens to the title?”

“Goes to Winnie’s eldest son, even if I do have a son with Emmie.”

Val met his brother’s eyes, not sure if the man were teasing. “Are you joking?”

“Dead serious,” St. Just replied as he waved his brother through the door of the library. “His Grace saw to the drafting of the letters patent and knew I didn’t want the earldom in the first place. As it stands, I will have the title for my lifetime, then my adopted daughter—our dear Bronwyn, who is in fact the former title holder’s offspring—will inherit on behalf of her heirs.”

“What did you have to give up to get this concession from Moreland?” Val asked as they gained the kitchen.

“I didn’t give up anything.” St. Just piled their booty on the counter and went to the bread box, extracting two fat muffins. “His Grace knew I never wanted an earldom—despite Her Grace’s insistence that one be imposed on me—and came up with this on his own. It’s a few words in the letters patent about my firstborn of any description rather than firstborn legitimate natural male son, and so on. Why do you find it so hard to believe the duke might act on decent notions?”

“He can.” Val made the admission easily. “He’s been more than decent to Anna, but his own ends are usually the ones he’s most inclined to serve.”

“His Grace becomes fixed on his goals.” St. Just wrapped the muffins in a clean dishcloth and tucked them in the hamper. “He’s a man who pursues his aims with an untiring fixity of purpose, regardless of the price it exacts from him in bodily comfort or personal ease. You hold this against him with a great deal of determination, I note.”

There was something irritatingly older-brother in St. Just’s observation, as if Val were missing some obvious point.

“I wouldn’t say I hold it against him so much.” Val frowned at the hamper. What was St. Just getting at? “The way he is just… frustrates. He’s more human since his heart seizure, and he’s made his peace with you and Gayle, but he and I have never had much in common.”

St. Just cocked his head, a curious smile on his lips. “Dear heart, what do you allow yourself to have in common with anybody? You stopped riding horses with me when you were little more than a boy; you’ve kept your businesses scrupulously away from Gayle’s eye; you seldom went out socializing with Bart or Victor, though you’ll escort our sisters all over creation; and you’ve chained yourself to that piano for most of your adult life.”

“I believe we’ve had this discussion. Would you be very offended if I begged off our cribbage match?” There was only so much fraternal cross-examination a man could politely bear, after all.

“Of course I don’t mind. I’ll trounce Belmont instead, or the grooms, or maybe just cadge a nap under some obliging tree. Go to your lady. It’s clear you were pining for her all through lunch.”

Val scrubbed a hand over his face. “Was I that obvious?”

“A brother far from home suspects these things. There’s cake in the breadbox. You might take her some.”

“One piece and one fork.”

“Well done. And Val?”

Val turned, cake knife in hand, and waited.

“I’ll be leaving on Monday, once I’ve seen you returned to Little Weldon,” St. Just said. “I won’t stop worrying about you, though. And because I will be absent and Gayle is up to his eyes in nappies, you might consider letting His Grace know where things stand here. You need someone at your back.”

Val drew in a slow breath, nodded, and departed.

He made his way through the house, unsettled by his exchange with St. Just but unable to put his finger on the exact source. The Duke of Moreland was an old-style aristocrat—bossy, self-indulgent, and much concerned with his own consequence. To say he was high-handed was comparable to calling the Atlantic wet.

Val put the puzzle of his father’s machinations away as his steps took him to Ellen’s bedroom, and he debated at the last minute whether he should intrude. What could he say: What crime did you commit that prevents me from courting you?

Did he want to court her?

***

Ellen stared at the same page she’d been staring at for half an hour then put the book aside in disgust. Catullus and Sappho, indeed. What had Abby been about? Romance was little comfort to an impoverished, widowed baroness who ought to know better. So why had she even allowed herself to think, to acknowledge in her own mind she could be falling in love with Val Windham?

The answer came to her as another insight: Because it was the
truth
. She loved the man, despite short acquaintance, despite the difference in their present stations. She found a certain backhanded relief in simply acknowledging the uncomfortable, unwise truth, rather like confession to a trusted confidante. She loved Val Windham, and as such, wanted only good for him. When the time came, she’d slip from his life quietly, gracefully, and as gratefully as she could.

Love did that. Love did the right thing, and because love was the motivation, the right thing became the only thing to do. Not hard, not costly, not too much. Right.

A soft tap on her door interrupted her musings, and she had only made it to the edge of the bed before the door opened, revealing the object of her contemplation.

“You are awake.” Val smiled at her, and her heart turned over at his sheer, luscious, masculine pulchritude. Just gazing at her, there was a tenderness and a welcome in his eyes that made her heart speed up.

“I napped a little. Abby and I got to visiting over a lovely bottle of white wine, and I am not used to even that.”

“And in the heat, one can imbibe more than one should and more quickly than is wise.” He lowered himself to sit beside her. “I missed you at lunch.”

“I missed lunch,” Ellen replied, though the compliment had her blushing at her hands. “And do I see cake on your plate?”

“You might.” Val set the plate on the night table. “Are you done napping, and can I talk you into joining me on a blanket down by the pond?”

“You may.” She’d enjoy her time with him and then have the memories and enjoy those too. “Let’s eat our cake before we venture forth so we’ll have less to carry.”

Val nodded solemnly. “Always an important consideration. I thought of some more words.” He took the plate in one hand and Ellen’s wrist in the other and tugged her toward the balcony.

“What kind of words?” Ellen went willingly. The balcony was cool and shady—and safer than the bed.

“Pizzle,” Val said, setting the cake down on a wicker table. “Putz, which I think is a German word, as is schlange. In German it means snake, but the connotation is clear.”

Ellen grinned and did not meet his eyes. “You’ve put thought into this?”

“No,” Val admitted, seating himself beside her on a chaise. “The words keep occurring to me, so I’m passing them along. What have you been thinking about, Mrs. FitzEngle?”

Her past, Ellen wanted to say, but honesty was not going to win this day, not if there were to be happy memories from it.

“Vegetables,” Ellen improvised. “Do you have a favorite?”

He held a forkful of cake before Ellen’s mouth. “At lunch, my favorite was the asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, but the peppers stuffed with potatoes and sausage were also quite good.”

“Naughty man.” Ellen’s mouth watered at the thought of such fare even while Val put a bite of cake on her tongue.

“Very.” He passed her the fork and met her gaze.

He wanted her to feed him. A bolt of heat leapt through Ellen’s middle, and abruptly the cake in her mouth tasted richer, sweeter, and more pleasing to her palate. She took the fork and offered him a small bite. He slipped his lips over the fork and closed his eyes as Ellen withdrew it.

“Delectable.”

“How do you do that?” she asked, passing him back the fork.

“Do what?” Val asked, lashes lowering. “Eat cake?”

“You take a simple moment, something completely mundane, and imbue it with… passion. With subtleties and complexities and unspoken feelings. One feels like one was wading in the shallows, and suddenly, the bottom isn’t there and isn’t anywhere to be found, either.”

“I like the analogy.” Val fed her another piece, sliding the fork very slowly from her mouth, pausing, then removing it entirely. “But I can’t say it’s conscious on my part. Rather like making love or making music—a function of an artistic temperament, I suppose. Let’s fetch a blanket, take these books, and find a quiet, shady spot out of sight of the house.”

She didn’t even think of refusing him but let him lead her at a meandering pace to a spot along a rushing stream where the air was a little cooler and the stream bed a fine, sandy gravel perfect for wading.

He read an Austen novel to her, which was more entertaining than Ellen wanted to admit, and he dozed beside her on the blanket, and he fed her more kisses. The afternoon was turning out to be sweet, lazy, and altogether enjoyable, when Ellen heard Val’s voice in her ear.

“You, my love”—he kissed her neck—“are not wearing drawers.”

“It’s too hot,” Ellen said, smiling at his wicked tone of voice.

“Perhaps.” Val’s hand slid up her leg, hiking her dress along with it. “Perhaps it’s too hot for even the clothing you have on.”

“Valentine.” Ellen opened her eyes. “It is broad, sunny daylight. Will you behave?”

“Misbehaving is always more fun in broad, sunny daylight, and I’m not asking you to take your clothes off, just let me move them aside.”

“Has this been your objective since you came to my room?” Ellen asked, trying to peek over her shoulder to read his expression.

“Honestly?” Val met her gaze. “It became my objective the moment I first kissed you, and yes, I do mean that first kiss, a year or so ago. Lie back, Ellen.” Val’s voice dropped, and his touch became silken. “Let me pleasure you.”

“You will not… spend inside of me?” She was proud of her ability to use such language, though with Val, it wasn’t naughty, it was somehow simply intimate. Wonderfully intimate.

“I will not, though not for lack of wanting to.” His eyes followed his hand where it caressed her knee. “It has been a long week, sweetheart, and though I love holding you and talking with you, I want to pleasure you now while we have the time and the privacy.”

What did he have in mind? Ellen could not guess, though she tried to read his intent in the way his gaze dropped to where his hand now stroked her hip. He looked at her as if he could see through her skirts, as if his eyes could touch where his hand rested.

What he had in mind turned out to involve his mouth, his beautiful, luscious, naughty, knowing mouth, and Ellen’s most intimate person. She was scandalized and shocked and most of all, she was
pleasured.

***

Long moments later, with Ellen’s clothing still in disarray, Val gave her some time to compose herself. He rummaged in the hamper, poured himself a drink, took a sip, and passed the mug to her.

“Cider,” he said. “Sweet, like you.”

“God in heaven.” Ellen raised her head enough to take a sip from the mug he held for her. “Merciful, everlasting God… Where does a man learn to do such things?”

Val took that as proof dear Francis had not done such things, at least not with Ellen. The man was a fool, a blazing, benighted fool, and to be pitied for his waste of a wonderfully passionate and generous wife.

Wife
. The thought landed like a flaming arrow in the dry tinder of Val’s imagination, but he pulled it out and ruthlessly doused it in common sense for later consideration. Again.

Val smiled down at her where she sprawled in boneless, satisfied splendor. “Let me cuddle you up, and no, you are not to put yourself to rights. I’ll do it, when needs must.”

Instead of tidying her up, he drew her down to curl on her side, then spooned himself behind her. “Go to sleep,” he urged, his hand finding her breast and cupping it gently.

She subsided, no doubt hearing in his voice how pleased he was.

Leaving Val to hold her in the sheltering curve of his body and wonder again what crime such an innocent could have committed that was worse than murder.

***

Dinner on Saturday night was a lively affair, with Phillip and Dayton providing much of the entertainment as they regaled their parents with stories of the mishaps and altercations of the week past.

Abby rose at the conclusion of the meal. “Ellen, would you join me on the back terrace for a cup of tea?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Ellen smiled, meaning it. The day had had a few dips and bumps, but the afternoon and evening had been lovely. A cup of tea with good company would finish it pleasantly indeed. The gentlemen rose and repaired to the library, leaving the ladies whispering, arm in arm as they left the house.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner,” Ellen observed. “Is it the baby?”

“I get a little queasy.” Abby linked her arm with Ellen’s. “It passes, and then an hour later, I am stalking through the kitchen like a hungry wolf.”