“I was wondering if her neighborliness was responsible for reviving your spirits this past weekend,” Darius said, tipping the cider jug to his lips.
“She went with us to Candlewick,” Val began, but then Darius caught his eye. “Bugger off, Dare.”
Darius passed him the jug. “I see the improvement in your mood was temporary. I did hear young Roxbury eloped for his country seat. Seems our boy did not take his reprieve to heart but has been running up debts apace.”
Val shrugged. “He’s a lord. Some of them do that.”
“I dropped in on my brother Trent.” Darius passed over the cider jug. “He mentioned Roxbury is an object of pity in the clubs.”
“Pity?” Val wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “His title is older than the Flood, the Roxbury estate is legendarily well run, and he’s yet to be snabbled by the matchmakers. What’s to pity?”
“He has no income to speak of.” Darius withdrew a cobbler from the hamper. “If he remains at Roxbury Hall, he can enjoy every luxury imaginable because the estate funds can be spent at the estate, on the estate without limit. His own portion is quite modest, though, and the previous baron tied most of the rest up in trusts and codicils and conditional bequests. Seems all that good management is a function of the late baron’s hard work and the present army of conscientious solicitors.”
“That would put a crimp in a young man’s stride.” Val frowned at the last bit of his sandwich. “How fortunate we are, not to be burdened with peerage, though such a sentiment sounds appallingly like something His Grace would say.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” Darius took another pull from the jug.
“I am not. I see what Westhaven has to go through, now that he has financial control of the duchy, his life hardly his own for all the commerce and land he must oversee. It’s a wonder he had the time to tend the succession, much less the requisite privacy. And now St. Just is saddled with an earldom, and I begin to see why my father has said being the youngest son is a position of good fortune.”
“I’ve wondered if Trent shares His Grace’s point of view.” Darius said, relinquishing the jug again. “How soon do you want to get busy on Mrs. FitzEngle’s addition?”
“As soon as the roof is done. Probably another two weeks or so, and I will prevail on the Belmonts to invite her for a weeklong visit. If the weather cooperates and we plan well in advance, we should be able to get it done in a few days.”
Val repacked the hampers and left Darius muttering numbers under his breath, his pencil scratching across the page nineteen to the dozen.
The hamper in Val’s right hand he lifted without difficulty. His left hand, however, protested its burden vociferously all the way down the stairs. A morning spent laying the terrace slates had left the appendage sore, the redness and swelling spread back to the third finger, and Val’s temper ratchetting up, as well.
Ellen, blast the woman, had been right: Resting the hand completely apparently had a salubrious effect. Working it, no matter how mundane the task, aggravated the condition. Val eyed the manor house, deciding to forego his plan to spend the afternoon with the masons on the roof, and turned to make his way through the home wood.
He emerged from the woods at the back of Ellen’s property and scanned her yard. In the heat of the day she was toiling over her beds, her floppy hat the only part of her visible as she knelt among her flowers. Val stood at the edge of the trees, watching silently, letting the peace and quiet of the scene seep into his bones. Through the trees he could still hear the occasional shout from workers on the roof of the manor, the swing of a hammer, the clatter of a board being dropped into place.
In Ellen’s gardens, the sounds were a distant, mundane chorus, detached, from another sphere entirely. The scent of honeysuckle was more real than those sounds or the industry producing them.
She looked up, like a grazing animal looks up when sensing a possible intruder to its meadow. Val walked forward out of the shadows, knowing without being told she’d hate being spied on. Fear it and resent it.
“Good day.” He smiled at her as she rose, seeing she was once again barefoot and back in one of her old dresses. Her hair was in its customary braid, and old gloves covered both hands.
She returned his smile and Val let himself enjoy the sensation of physical warmth it bestowed on him. “Mr. Windham. I hope you’ve had a pleasant morning.”
“I most assuredly have not.” Val’s smile faded slightly. “Soames was, as usual, late with his deliveries, Darius is in a brown study about something to do with his brother, the Visigoths discovered the cobbler, and my hand hurts.”
“Come along.” She pulled off her gloves and held out a hand to him.
“I am to be taken to the woodshed for a thrashing?” Val asked as he linked his fingers with hers.
“You should be. You no doubt spent the morning mending stone walls, laying slate, unloading wagons, and entirely undoing all the benefit you gained resting over the weekend. You are stubborn, sir, but I did not take you for stupid.”
“That smarts a bit, Ellen.” Val peered at her, trying to ascertain if she were truly angry.
“Oh, don’t mind me.” Ellen sighed gustily. “I shouldn’t complain. Your excesses give me an excuse to get out of the sun and to hold hands with a handsome fellow, don’t they?”
She retrieved her tin of salve from a pocket and tugged him back across the yard to where the stream at the edge of her property ran next to a single willow. Pausing to part the hanging fronds of green, she led Val to a bench in the shade, one sporting both pillows and an old blanket.
“Come, naughty man.” She sat on the bench. “Lend a hand.” Val complied, bracing himself for a lecture when she saw the damage he’d done in a single morning.
“You must be in a desperate tear to finish your house,” she remarked, opening her tin and frowning at his hand. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Ellen?”
“Hmm?”
“Could we just now not take too seriously to task one Valentine Forsythe Windham?” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “It’s a pretty day, the morning was… disappointing, and I would enjoy this respite with you.”
She fell silent, and he let out a sigh of relief. Her hands on him were gentle but thorough, working all over his palm, fingers, and knuckles, up his wrist and forearm, and then simply clasping his hand between her two. The stream gurgled, the breeze soughed, a faint buzz of insects came from the gardens, and Val felt a pleasant lassitude replacing his earlier ire.
“You’ve worked magic,” he said, opening his eyes. Beside him, Ellen’s expression was grave, uncharacteristically devoid of the special lightness he associated with her. “What’s on your mind, Ellen FitzEngle? You look most serious.”
“I get in these moods.” She smiled at him, though there was a forced quality to it.
“Broody.” Val nodded. “All the Windham men are prone to it. Maybe you are tired? We were up early this morning, and I know I could use a nap. Shall we?” He stood and grabbed the blanket folded over the back of the bench. “If we spread it here, nobody will know Val Windham, Slave Driver and Scourge of the Huns, has caught forty winks with his pretty neighbor.” He flipped the blanket out before Ellen could argue then extended a hand to her.
“Just forty winks,” she allowed, glancing around as if to make sure of their privacy then lowering herself to the blanket.
“Twenty apiece,” Val replied solemnly then lowered himself to the blanket and began unlacing his boots. “Getting up at first light and abusing my hand all morning is tiring work. I can’t imagine taming your own jungle is exactly restful, either.”
“It is, actually.” Ellen regarded him as he popped up and retrieved a pillow from the bench to stuff behind his head. He stretched out on her blanket and smiled up at her where she sat beside him.
“This is a
friendly forty winks, Mrs. FitzEngle.” He snagged her wrist. “Join me.”
She regarded him where he lay.
“Ellen.” The teasing tone in Val’s voice faded. “I will not ravish you in broad daylight unless you ask it of me, though I would hold you.”
She nodded uncertainly and gingerly lowered herself beside him, flat on her back.
“You’re out of practice,” Val observed, rolling to his side. “We must correct this state of affairs if we’re to get our winks.” Before she could protest, he arranged her so she was on her side as well, his body curved around hers, her head resting on his bicep, his arm tucking her back against him.
“The benefit of this position,” his said, speaking very close to her ear, “is that I cannot behold your lovely face if you want to confide secrets, you see? I am close enough to hear you whisper, but you have a little privacy, as well. So confide away, and I’ll just cuddle up and perhaps even drift off.”
“You would drift off while I’m confiding?”
“I would allow you the fiction. It’s one of the rules of gentlemanly conduct owed on summer days to napping companions.” His arm was loosely draped over her middle so he could sense the tension in her. “I can hear your thoughts turning like a mill wheel. Let your mind rest too, Ellen.”
“I am unused to this friendly napping.”
“You and your baron never stole off for an afternoon nap?” Val asked, his fingers tracing the length of her arm. “Never kidnapped each other for a picnic on a pretty day?”
“We did not.” Ellen sighed as his fingers stroked over her arm again. “He occasionally took tea with me, though, and we often visited at the end of the day.”
But, Val concluded with some satisfaction, they did not visit in bed or on blankets or with their clothes off. Ellen had much to learn about napping. His right hand drifted up to her shoulder, where he experimentally squeezed at the muscles joining her neck to her back.
“Blazes,” he whispered, “you are strong. Relax, Ellen.” His right hand was more than competent to knead at her tense muscles, and when he heard her sigh and felt her relax, he realized he’d found the way to stop her mill wheel from spinning so relentlessly.
“Close your eyes, Ellen,” he instructed softly. “Close your eyes and rest.” In minutes, her breathing evened out, her body went slack, and sleep claimed her. Gathering her a little more closely, he planted a kiss on her nape and closed his eyes. His hand wasn’t throbbing anymore, his belly was full, and he was stealing a few private moments with a pretty lady on a pretty day.
God was in His heaven, and enough was right with the world that Val’s own busy mill wheel slipped its cogs, and dreams rose up to claim him.
***
Val sensed when Ellen woke, sensed the change in her breathing, the wariness in her body as she sorted through impressions and regained her wits. He’d probably provoked her by shifting his hips back ever so slightly so his growing erection wouldn’t disturb her dreams.
He wasn’t particularly surprised to awaken aroused—Nature imposed a certain agenda on the slumbering healthy male of the species—but he was surprised at the pleasure it gave him simply to lie on a blanket with the inspiration for his lust. The feel of Ellen’s flank under his hand, the soft curve of her hip, the contour of her spine, for Val, they all became more alluring for being covered in the thinnest of cotton rather than revealed immediately to his eyes or his touch. The old blanket beneath them, the faint scent of lavender coming from the pillow under his head, the shift and sway of the willow branches, combined to imbue the moment with a precious languor.
He levered up slightly, tucked Ellen a little closer, and pressed a kiss to her temple. She made no protest, so he kissed her again, letting his lips cruise over her cheek, inhaling the rosy scent of her, drifting his hand along the flat of her stomach.
Was there any greater pleasure than seducing a willing woman on a lovely summer day?
Beneath him, Ellen opened her eyes and then closed them. In the brief glimpse he’d gotten of her mood, Val saw the dawning of pleasure, but something else, something a little sad or forlorn.
Gently, he shifted her to her back and maneuvered his body over hers. He kept most of his weight from her but put his forearms and knees close to her body, not quite trapping her but sheltering her. She lay passive beneath him, and he almost smiled at the challenge that presented.
“Touch me,” Val whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her neck. “Put your hands on me, Ellen, wherever you please.”
He ambushed her impulse to argue by settling his mouth over hers and seaming her lips with his tongue. When she offered no resistance, he invited himself into the plush heat of her mouth, exploring the contours and textures to be had there and inviting her to do likewise.
She was slow to respond, and he liked that too. Liked the savoring and the need to pay attention to her. She was shy but moved her tongue over his and took his lower lip between hers. Val felt his shirt being tugged from his waistband and had all he could do not to rear back and tear it off. Her mouth carefully exploring his kept him in place.
That and the desire to press his body more closely to hers, to find that exact spot where he could wedge his cock against her sex and push, gently at first, to test her arousal and increase his own.
She understood, bless the woman, for she raised and spread her knees so her dress dragged up her legs and the cradle of her pelvis accommodated him more closely. The fit was good—too good—and Val knew a moment’s consternation as his body suggested that coming—right now, in his breeches, merely by thrusting a few times against the woman—would suit famously.
He silenced that thought and raised up enough to see Ellen’s face. She met his gaze and brushed his hair back from his forehead, her expression a little dazed and bewildered.
He couldn’t merely use her like that. Couldn’t live with himself if he did, couldn’t find any pleasure in it. None. He shifted to lie on his side beside her but kept a leg across her knees.
“Don’t…” Ellen frowned and caught his right hand, bringing it to her stomach.
“Don’t?” Val kissed her mouth then rested his forehead on her sternum.
“Don’t stop touching me,” Ellen said, her hand tangling in his hair. “Please.” She held his hand over that place in her body where Val suspected the emptiness gathered most intensely, where a child should grow but hadn’t. Where life should start but where, for her, it had stubbornly refused to.
He stared down at her, trying to fathom what exactly she was requesting—and what she wasn’t.
“I’ll touch you,” he said softly, “however you want, for as long as you want.”
But she wasn’t going to give him any more clues, so he began where he was, by stroking gently over her stomach. She closed her eyes and let her hand drift to the blanket, a small gesture Val took for a sign of submission.
Trust, even.
Through the thin cotton of her dress, he traced the crests of her pelvis, the contours of her navel, and the undersides of her ribs. She sighed, her fingers twitching on the blanket.
Lower, he surmised. She wanted him to touch her sex, and he was happy to oblige. His hand drifted to her thighs, and Ellen opened her eyes long enough to meet his gaze. He saw acceptance there and knew he’d guessed right. She wanted him to touch her intimately, and yet she couldn’t ask for it overtly.
He held her gaze as he gradually slid the material of her dress up, until it lay across her thighs, shielding her sex from his view but not from his touch. He leaned in and kissed her, not a polite, teasing kiss that invited and dallied and flirted. This was a kiss of possession and arousal and challenge, informing her in no uncertain terms where he intended to take her and demanding she acknowledge the destination.
She tugged at his shirt again, her body coming slowly alive under his. He broke the kiss only long
enough to let her pull his shirt over his head, and then he was back, his chest arched over hers, his mouth sealed to hers. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, her grip surprisingly strong when he resisted slightly.
“Valentine,” she chided, physically urging him to give her some of his weight.
“Behave,” he growled back, angling his body only partly over hers. His hand covered her breast, and she went still, a shiver going through her body. Carefully, he closed his hand over the soft fullness, and she turned her face into his shoulder.
“Tell me.” He repeated the caress, watching her carefully. She was so quiet, so focused, he honestly could not determine if she was enjoying it, until she arched her back, pressing herself into his hand, and he had his answer. As he shaped and stroked and teased, he wondered if her precious baron had ever thought to pleasure his wife, or if Ellen had been deprived of the most basic accommodation between spouses for the entire five years of her marriage.
She made a soft sound in the back of her throat, and her hand closed over his, asking him to touch her more assertively. Gently, Val disentangled their fingers and untied the bows at her bodice. It was the work of a moment to loosen the front of her dress and ease the décolletage and chemise down, so the fullness of her breasts was exposed to the soft summer air.
No stays. God bless the woman; in this heat, toiling in her garden, she’d not worn stays.
“Valentine.” Ellen’s voice was faintly questioning but not scolding, and Val looked up to see her watching him soberly as he beheld her naked breasts.
“You are beautiful.” He leaned in and kissed the slope of one pale treasure. “Lovely.” He slid his mouth down to nuzzle the underside. “Breathtaking.” He grazed his mouth along the furled pink flesh of her nipple. “Beyond glorious.” He settled his mouth over her and felt her whole body gather itself toward the sensation as he drew on her softly.
The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3) Page 78