Page 60 of The Virtuoso
“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.
