Page 62 of The Virtuoso
“You make passionate love to me,” she said, all teasing gone, “and then you essentially avoid me, unless we’re among your fellows or it’s the dark of night. You hold me tenderly in the dark then depart with a kiss to my cheek, Valentine. I would not have you reporting to my bed out of guilt or the sense you’ve embarked on a course you cannot gracefully depart from.”
“Blue blazing… You think I could stay away? From you?”
“You have. You’ve stayed away from me in one sense, at least.”
“Dear heart.” Val shifted to crouch over her. “You are so wrong. If I join with you now, I can get you with child. I’ve kept a respectful distance during the day so you might have some privacy and a chance to tend your flowers. I am hesitant to disturb your sleep because I know how hard you work and I do not want to impose.”
“So I was… adequate?” She buried her face against his neck.
“No.” He shifted up and she let him go.
She held her tongue while Val got out of bed and lit an oil lamp using a taper and the embers in the hearth. He turned the wick up to let her see not only his naked body but his features as well.
“Look at me, Ellen Markham.” Val sat at her hip and reached for her hand. “I want you to see my face when I tell you this, so you’ll know I’m not flirting or prevaricating or being what you call sophisticated and what I would call false.
“You were not adequate,” he went on. “You were every wish and prayer I’ve ever articulated or dreamed made flesh. You were my most generous fantasies brought to life; you were an experience I could not have conjured from my wildest, most selfish and creative artistic imagination. I hunger for you.”
Hunger. He’d chosen the word advisedly. It was an order of magnitude more compelling even thanadore.
“You can blow out the lamp,” Ellen said, dropping her gaze.
“Do you believe me?” Val scooted closer and looped his arms around her shoulders.
“I believe you.” But she kept her forehead against his shoulder.
“Let me hold you.” Val blew out the lamp and climbed under the covers. How in the blazing hell could he have been so remiss? Women needed reassurances; he knew this, and he wasn’t usually so unforthcoming. There was always something he could tell a woman—she had smooth skin even if her figure was less than average. She kissed enthusiastically if not with much skill. She was restful if not inspiring.
And he realized why he’d had no pretty words for Ellen.
She was beyond the little consolation compliments Val might have come up with for his usual fare. She was beyond flirtation and banter and superficial kindnesses.
Andshewaswellbeyondhissillyduplicityregardinghisstationinlife.
“Why the sigh?” Ellen stretched up and kissed his jaw. He’d put her on her back while he’d kept to his side. Her leg was again hiked over his hip, her cheek against his chest.
“You won’t be safe again for another week at least. That looms as an eternity.”
“It does seem like a rather long time.”
“We can settle for half measures,” Val suggested, not liking the idea they had options he would keep from her.
“Like on the blanket under the willow?”
They did not indulge in those half measures Val alluded to, but Ellen was giggling and blushing far into the night, and for Val, that was just as enjoyable, if not more. He explained to her all the taunts and insults and naughty terms she’d heard on darts night and not understood. He listed not less than a dozen terms, all referring to his member, and stopped only when Ellen was laughing so hard she cried.
***
Summer in London stank, literally.
Summer at Roxbury Hall stank literally and figuratively, but thank all the gods Freddy’s third-quarter allowance had arrived with the first of July and he was free to leave for Town.
Freddy took himself to the stables where his handsome bay gelding had been kept walking the better part of an hour. It was just as well, as Freddy’s mood was not suited to a fresh horse with spunk and sport on its mind. He swung up from the mounting block, thinking the ladies’ block might have been the better choice, as his blasted breeches were far tighter than the expense of having them tailored merited.
By the time he reached Great Weldon, Freddy’s breeches were fitting a little more comfortably, and his mood was improving. He needed more coin if he was to be ready for hunt season in the fall and Portugal in the winter, hence the necessity to tend his schemes and detour through the rural provinces of Oxfordshire.
He rapped on the polished bar of The Hung Sheep. “Whiskey, my good man.”
He detested the place, particularly the image of the cheerfully leering ram that swung over the main entrance. Nonetheless, a certain kind of business could be transacted here, and so here he would bide at least for a few minutes.
