Page 68 of The Virtuoso
Val met his brother’s eyes, not sure if the man were teasing. “Are you joking?”
“Dead serious,” St. Just replied as he waved his brother through the door of the library. “His Grace saw to the drafting of the letters patent and knew I didn’t want the earldom in the first place. As it stands, I will have the title for my lifetime, then my adopted daughter—our dear Bronwyn, who is in fact the former title holder’s offspring—will inherit on behalf of her heirs.”
“What did you have to give up to get this concession from Moreland?” Val asked as they gained the kitchen.
“I didn’t give up anything.” St. Just piled their booty on the counter and went to the bread box, extracting two fat muffins. “His Grace knew I never wanted an earldom—despite Her Grace’s insistence that one be imposed on me—and came up with this on his own. It’s a few words in the letters patent about my firstborn of any description rather than firstborn legitimate natural male son, and so on. Why do you find it so hard to believe the duke might act on decent notions?”
“He can.” Val made the admission easily. “He’s been more than decent to Anna, but his own ends are usually the ones he’s most inclined to serve.”
“His Grace becomes fixed on his goals.” St. Just wrapped the muffins in a clean dishcloth and tucked them in the hamper. “He’s a man who pursues his aims with an untiring fixity of purpose, regardless of the price it exacts from him in bodily comfort or personal ease. You hold this against him with a great deal of determination, I note.”
There was something irritatingly older-brother in St. Just’s observation, as if Val were missing some obvious point.
“I wouldn’t say I hold it against him so much.” Val frowned at the hamper. What was St. Just getting at? “The way he is just… frustrates. He’s more human since his heart seizure, and he’s made his peace with you and Gayle, but he and I have never had much in common.”
St. Just cocked his head, a curious smile on his lips. “Dear heart, what do you allow yourself to have in common with anybody? You stopped riding horses with me when you were little more than a boy; you’ve kept your businesses scrupulously away from Gayle’s eye; you seldom went out socializing with Bart or Victor, though you’ll escort our sisters all over creation; and you’ve chained yourself to that piano for most of your adult life.”
“I believe we’ve had this discussion. Would you be very offended if I begged off our cribbage match?” There was only so much fraternal cross-examination a man could politely bear, after all.
“Of course I don’t mind. I’ll trounce Belmont instead, or the grooms, or maybe just cadge a nap under some obliging tree. Go to your lady. It’s clear you were pining for her all through lunch.”
Val scrubbed a hand over his face. “Was I that obvious?”
“A brother far from home suspects these things. There’s cake in the breadbox. You might take her some.”
“One piece and one fork.”
“Well done. And Val?”
Val turned, cake knife in hand, and waited.
“I’ll be leaving on Monday, once I’ve seen you returned to Little Weldon,” St. Just said. “I won’t stop worrying about you, though. And because I will be absent and Gayle is up to his eyes in nappies, you might consider letting His Grace know where things stand here. You need someone at your back.”
Val drew in a slow breath, nodded, and departed.
He made his way through the house, unsettled by his exchange with St. Just but unable to put his finger on the exact source. The Duke of Moreland was an old-style aristocrat—bossy, self-indulgent, and much concerned with his own consequence. To say he was high-handed was comparable to calling the Atlantic wet.
Val put the puzzle of his father’s machinations away as his steps took him to Ellen’s bedroom, and he debated at the last minute whether he should intrude. What could he say: What crime did you commit that prevents me from courting you?
Did he want to court her?
***
Ellen stared at the same page she’d been staring at for half an hour then put the book aside in disgust. Catullus and Sappho, indeed. What had Abby been about? Romance was little comfort to an impoverished, widowed baroness who ought to know better. So why had she even allowed herself to think, to acknowledge in her own mind she could be falling in love with Val Windham?
The answer came to her as another insight: Because it was thetruth. She loved the man, despite short acquaintance, despite the difference in their present stations. She found a certain backhanded relief in simply acknowledging the uncomfortable, unwise truth, rather like confession to a trusted confidante. She loved Val Windham, and as such, wanted only good for him. When the time came, she’d slip from his life quietly, gracefully, and as gratefully as she could.
Love did that. Love did the right thing, and because love was the motivation, the right thing became the only thing to do. Not hard, not costly, not too much. Right.
A soft tap on her door interrupted her musings, and she had only made it to the edge of the bed before the door opened, revealing the object of her contemplation.
“You are awake.” Val smiled at her, and her heart turned over at his sheer, luscious, masculine pulchritude. Just gazing at her, there was a tenderness and a welcome in his eyes that made her heart speed up.
“I napped a little. Abby and I got to visiting over a lovely bottle of white wine, and I am not used to even that.”
“And in the heat, one can imbibe more than one should and more quickly than is wise.” He lowered himself to sit beside her. “I missed you at lunch.”
“I missed lunch,” Ellen replied, though the compliment had her blushing at her hands. “And do I see cake on your plate?”
