Page 13 of The Virtuoso
“Valentine,” she said, enunciating each syllable as they moved toward a break in the trees. “It’s a lovely name. It shall be my privilege to use it. And you must call me Ellen when we are not in the churchyard.”
“Thank you,” Val said, releasing a breath. “So this is your pond?”
“Yours, actually.” Ellen dropped his arm and hopped up on the dock that extended a good forty feet out over the pond. “I use it after dark, and the local boys use it whenever they please.”
“A pond should be used.” Val stepped onto the boards, as well, watching Ellen move to the end of the dock, her features obscured by the floppy brim of her hat. While she surveyed the tranquil surface of the water, he sat about ten feet from her and started tugging off his boots.
Ellen’s gaze lit on him where he sat. “You are going to soak your feet?”
“And invite you to do likewise.” Val tugged off his second boot. “Ellen.”
She surprised him by nimbly slipping off her shoes and taking a seat beside him. Their bodies did not touch, and yet Val caught a whiff of the lovely honeysuckle and lavender scent of her. She carefully hiked her skirts just a little and let her toes dangle in the water.
“My feet are going to love this pond.” Val cuffed his breeches to just under the knees and slipped his feet into the cool water. “All of me will love it, in fact.”
“You are a good swimmer? The far end is quite deep.”
“I am a very good swimmer. You?” He swirled his toes in the water, unabashedly letting her fix her gaze on his feet. They were big feet, of course, in keeping with the rest of him, and long, with high arches.
“I am competent,” Ellen replied, “in a pond. I would not take on the ocean.”
“Nor I. Who are these boys you despair of?”
He distracted her with questions for about the next twenty minutes, regarding it as time well spent in his efforts to set her at ease. They were going to be neighbors at the very least, and a man was hardly a man if he didn’t take a little opportunity to appreciate a pair of bare, very pretty female feet.
“You have guests,” Ellen reminded him. “I should not monopolize your time, Mr. Windham.”
“Valentine. And they are uninvited guests.”
“Good manners do not distinguish.” She lifted her feet from the water and looked around as if searching for her shoes.
“Here.” Val took his feet out, as well, and spun to sit facing her, cross-legged. He pulled his shirt over his head and held it over his lap. “Give me your foot.”
“My foot?” Ellen’s eyes were glued to the expanse of his chest. Val knew it was a chest that boasted an abundance of nicely arranged male muscle—mostly courtesy of years at the keyboard—and for a widow, it could hardly be considered a shocking sight.
“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.
