Page 98 of The Virtuoso
“Of course I’m missing you.” Ellen hitched herself more closely to him. “I will always miss you.”
“You might trust me instead,” Val said softly.
She remained silent, and for the hundredth time that day, his heart broke, and he battled back despair. “Ellen?” He kissed her crown. “The assembly is this Saturday. I’ll be leaving the next day, as will Dare and Nick.”
She nodded, offering neither protest nor argument.
Lying beside her in the darkness, Val heard a slow, mournful dirge in his head. It soared, keened, regretted and lamented, a soul-rending, grief-stricken blend of tenderness, discord, resolution, and heartache. It went on and on, hauntingly sad, and still, neither his musical skill nor his artistic imagination nor all his ducal determination was adequate to bring it to a peaceful, final cadence.
Fourteen
“Whose idea was it,” Val groused as Nick knotted his cravat for him, “to leave this benighted place the day after the local version of a party?”
“Some duke’s son devised the notion,” Nick replied. “An otherwise fairly steady fellow, but one must make allowances. He’s dealing with a lot at present. Stickpin?” Val produced the requisite finishing accessory, and Nick frowned in concentration as he shoved gold through linen and lace. He patted the knot approvingly. “You’ll do.”
When Val merely grimaced, Nick offered him a crooked smile. “Dare and I will get you drunk, and there will be all manner of eager little heifers panting to take a spin with the duke’s son. Shoulders back, chin up, duty and honor call, and all that. Darius is also waiting for us in the library, guarding the decanter.”
“Suppose we must relieve him.” Val sighed, and met Nick’s eyes. “Heifers don’t pant.”
Nick’s smile was mischievous. “Maybe not after a duke’s youngest son. After a fine new earl like yours truly, turned out in his country finest and sadly lacking his dear countess at his side, they will be panting, or my name isn’t Wee Nick.”
They collected Ellen, who was looking pretty indeed, in a summery short-sleeved blue muslin dress patterned with little roses in a darker blue. She’d tucked her hair back in a chignon and woven some kind of bright blue flowers into her bun. A white woven shawl and white gloves completed her ensemble, and Val was reminded she was, by any standards, still a young woman.
A beautiful young woman.
And she was nervous. Even as a baroness, she’d likely never had quite the escort she had to the Little Weldon summer assembly, with the son of a duke at her side, an earl’s spare, and an earl in train, as well.
Nick handed Ellen into Val’s traveling coach—the only one he’d brought out from Town—and rocked the vehicle soundly when he climbed in and lowered himself beside Darius on the backward-facing seat.
Between Nick and Darius, the conversation stayed light, flirtatious, and even humorous, but as far as Val was concerned, they might have been in a hearse, so low were his spirits. He heard again the dirge, violins over cellos, the mournful bassoon adding its misery to the mix.
He looked up to find Ellen watching him as the coach rolled into the village and Sean brought the team to a halt.
“If you give your supper waltz to anyone else, Ellen,” Val murmured as he handed her out, “I will spank you on the steps of the church.”
“Likewise,” she replied, her smile sweet and wistful. “But look, they’ve set up the dancing outside.”
Sure enough, half the green was roped off, the trees hung with lanterns, and a podium set up for the musicians. Val’s little dowager friend sat in the center of the podium, three stools behind her. Two violin cases rested on the piano’s lid, and a guitar case leaned against one of the stools.
Flowers sat in pots every few feet around the dancing area, and children were shrieking with glee as they darted between adults. Tilden manned a tapped keg across the street outside the Rooster, and young men congregated around him in whatever passed for their evening finery. A punch bowl was set up under a tree, and ladies were gathering there like a bouquet of summer blossoms.
“The assembly itself will be upstairs,” Ellen explained. “There will be food there, and a place to stow hats, shawls, canes, and so forth.”
“Just like a London ball,” Darius quipped. “But with considerably more fresh air.”
As the evening progressed, the good humor and energy of the dancers seem to increase. Rafe’s generously distributed summer ale likely had a great deal to do with the level of merriment, and Val was just about to find Ellen and suggest a discreet and early departure, when the musicians announced that the next dance would be a waltz. A buffet at the long tables set up on the other side of the green would follow the waltz, and the party would then move into the Rooster for the annual summer darts tournament.
A cheer went up, and Val ducked through the crowd to find Ellen standing near the stairs leading up to the assembly rooms.
“May I have the honor of this dance?” He bowed to her as formally as he might have bowed to any duchess, and Ellen dipped an elegant curtsey.
“The pleasure is entirely mine,” she recited, laying her hand on his knuckles and following him across the street.
He didn’t lead her to the dancing area, though, but to the side yard of the livery, which was quiet and heavily shadowed. As the introductory measures drifted out across the summer night, Val was relieved to find it would be an English waltz, the slower, sweeter version of the Viennese dance.
He drew her closer than custom allowed; she tucked against him and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
The little group of musicians made a good job of it, the violins lilting along in close harmony, the piano and guitar accompanying with more sensitivity than Val would have expected. But for once, when there was music played, he didn’t focus exclusively on the sounds in his ears, but rather, spent his attention on the woman in his arms.
