Page 53 of The Virtuoso
“I see.”
“What do you see?” Ellen asked, uncertainty in her voice.
“How did you and Francis typically join?” Val asked, sliding down and crossing his arms behind his head.
“In the dark.” She glanced over at him, her gaze going to the soft down at his armpits. “In bed, at night. Without removing our nightclothes. We certainly did notdiscussit, and I am not comfortable discussing this with you.”
“What did you like most about being with your husband?” Val asked, reaching out a hand to stroke her arm. “What do you miss most?”
She shot an unreadable glance at him over her shoulder, though Val could see longing in her eyes and… loneliness?
“He’d hold me,” she said very quietly, “afterward. At first, he’d just kiss my cheek and go back to his bedroom, but I asked him to stay, and it became… comforting. I had to make up excuses—I was cold, I had something to discuss, but eventually, he’d stay for a few moments of his own accord.”
Val kept his expression bland but surmised that dear Francis had left his wife hanging, and holding her was the only comfort she could ask for. Of course she’d want cuddling and comforting if her every experience was one of vague frustration.
“Let’s start there. Let me hold you. But, Ellen?”
“What?” She was regarding him warily, as if his rules had provided not the sense of control and safety he’d intended for her, but just the opposite.
“You can recall your husband with all the love you ever bore him,” Val said, holding her gaze. “You can be grateful for the years you shared, the affection and the memories, but in this bed today, you are withme.”
“I am with you.” Her reply was gratifyingly swift and certain. “Only with you, and you are with me.”
“Just so. Now come cuddle up with me on this beautiful rainy day, and be my love.”
She curled up against his side with a sigh that bespoke five years of fatigue and loneliness, five years of coping, managing, and wishing for more, even when more could never be.
Val heard that sigh and propped his chin on her crown. “What does an enterprising gardener do on a rainy Monday?”
“I can start seedlings or get some baking done. Tally my books, work on my mending or sewing or embroidery. I can clean this cottage, particularly the windows—they get dusty easily this time of year.”
“I see,” Val murmured, drawing a slow pattern on her arm with his index finger.
“What do you see?” Ellen closed her eyes, and Val felt her begin to relax.
“I see you are as bad as I am.”
“In what regard?” In imitation of her lover, Ellen began to sketch on his chest with her third finger, though she probably wasn’t aware of her own actions.
“I am accused of being too serious. If you were to ask me what I will do with this rainy day, I would mention correspondence with both family and business associates, the accounts, perhaps plastering, glazing the kitchen cabinets, laying new tile in the foyer, moving pots of flowers to the terraces, hanging hammocks, ordering this and that from London, tending to my horse, and a whole list of activities that fall sadly outside the ambit of fun or even pleasure.”
Though a month ago, his list of activities would have been much shorter: He would have been at his piano. For the first time in his recollection, that state of affairs struck him as… sad.
“You don’t play,” Ellen observed succinctly, and Val started a little at her word choice.
“Well put.” Val kissed her temple. “I no longerplay.”
“Is this play to you?” she asked, waving her hand at the bed in general.
“It is pleasurable, and it can be playful—I’d like to see you playful in bed, Ellen—but it isn’t a mere frolic.”
“Folly but not frolic. So what do you like?” She completely spoiled the boldness of the question by burying her face against Val’s shoulder so he could feel her blush.
“I am easy to please,” Val replied, hugging her to him. “I like to share pleasure, to give it and receive it from a willing partner. Beyond that, I am fairly flexible and accommodating.”
In truth, he was what plenty of grateful ladies had called, “a generous lover,” and ironically, he attributed the ease with which he pleased his partners to the same skills he’d honed at the keyboard: He listened—to the pillow talk, to the sighs, to the silences, to the urgent, inarticulate sounds, and to the occasional tears. He was willing to take small risks, to care a little more than he should, to expose his vulnerabilities a little more than he should, to experiment beyond what might be strictly expected. In other words, he was willing to put a little feeling into even his casual liaisons.
And then too, there was the simple matter of virtuosic manual dexterity.
