Текст книги "The Virtuoso"

Автор книги: Grace Burrowes

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She smoothed her hands up his chest. “And I expect in certain other moods you like to be pinched here.” She tested his nipples gently and was rewarded with a groan and closed eyes.

“Love it.” Which was a small revelation to him. “Adore it, but you said you’d behave.”

“I am behaving.” Ellen blinked up at him and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “You are stalling, though, Valentine. Make love to me, please.”

“Yes, love.” He lowered his forehead to hers, and the enormity of the moment threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted her desperately, and she was willing and even eager.

“Valentine…” Ellen singsonged his name as she lifted her hips, just grazing the tip of his cock with her sex. He didn’t flinch away but pressed minutely forward.

“Kiss me, Ellen,” he instructed sternly. “Now.”

Oh, ye bloody blue blazes… He teased and nibbled and flirted with her mouth as his hips teased and flirted his cock against her sex. She twined her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and let him manage as she rubbed her tongue over his and her breasts against his chest.

“Valentine, please…”

“Patience.” But to his own ears, his voice had a hoarse, distracted note to it, as if he were concentrating just as hard as she was.

And then, like an answer to a craving, the broad head of his erection was more than just teasing her, it was gently, so gently, pushing against her wet heat. Ellen shifted restlessly, maybe trying to impale herself on him, but Val went still and lifted his face from hers.

“You gave your word,” he reminded her, stroking her hair back from her cheek. “This is important, my love, and you promised.”

She nodded, meeting his gaze and drawing in a steadying breath. “For the love of God, please hurry.”

He had to smile, for she was flat out begging. “We will make haste slowly,” he assured her, dipping his head to kiss her cheek. “Hold on to me.”

She wrapped him closely and closed her eyes. He didn’t kiss her now, didn’t distract her with any other caresses or words or sensations, but let her concentrate on the lovely sense of being filled, joined, and physically loved by a man who treasured the privilege.

Treasured her.

He wasn’t quite thrusting, but rather pushing carefully then holding his position, retreating only minutely, and then pushing even more carefully. There was progress, but it was maddeningly slow.

“I want to move,” Ellen whispered.

“Not yet,” Val muttered, his teeth clenched with the effort of his restraint.

“You won’t hurt me,” she assured him, but on the next tentative shift of his hips, she fell silent.

“Close yourself around me. Inside, as if you’d draw me into you a little or hold me still.”

She made an effort to comply.

“God, yes.” Val drew in a slow breath. “Now let me go.”

Her body eased, and he pushed one small increment farther into her heat.

“Again,” Val ordered. She slowly caught his rhythm and slowly, push and squeeze by push and squeeze, he was filling her, joining with her, and sharing with her the most incredible depth of pleasure. Her second orgasm welled up without warning, barreling out of the quiet around them just as she was constricting her muscles around him.

“Valentine…”

“ Yes.” His voice was a satisfied growl as he moved more strongly inside her, intensifying the orgasm even as he manacled his own lust in self-discipline. He was excruciatingly careful with his timing, and already he’d shown her how not to struggle against the pleasure, to go with it, to embrace the drowning glory of it, and even seek its greater depths.

As he let her catch her breath, Valentine waited above her, his hips moving in a slow, relaxed undulation. Her body could accommodate him now, easily and eagerly, because he’d been patient and careful. His fingers brushed her hair back from her forehead in a slow, tender caress, and then, sensing her emotions welling, he cradled her head against his shoulder as he kissed her temple.

“All right, then?”

“Undone. Hold me.”

“Bossy.” Val tucked her closer and hiked one of her legs higher on his hip. “I’ll distract you, good sort that I am.”

He rocked and petted and teased her from one orgasm to the next, balancing his caresses to both soothe and arouse. Then he shifted rhythm and angle and hooked one of her knees in the crook of his elbow, startling her into another orgasm. After another pause for Ellen to catch her breath, he went still, just studying her face for long moments as he traced her features with his fingers while his cock was hilted in her depths.

He gathered her close and twined his fingers with hers on the pillow. Knowing he’d already asked much of her, Val shifted to firm, measured thrusts. Beneath him, Ellen began to pant as her hips rose and fell in counterpoint to his.

“You too,” she got out, not yet having the sophistication to hold her pleasure at bay. She turned her face into his shoulder, and Val felt her teeth, not biting but pressed to his flesh in a hungry, silent scream.

“Ah, God… Ellen…” Val hilted himself against her and pushed hard repeatedly, spending in the depths of her body as his ears roared, his body shook, and his soul sang. The relief of it was tremendous, to not merely dally but to join.He thrust on and on, swamped by a transcending pleasure of not just the body but the heart, as well. And God bless the woman, she held him tightly through it all, even as his movements ceased and his world gradually righted itself.

“You won’t be able to breathe unless you let me go, love.” He kissed her temple. “I won’t go far, but you need a little room.”

Her hands unclenched, her legs slid down his flanks, and her body eased from his. He shifted up, maybe an inch, and immediately felt her cling more tightly.

“Not yet,” she said, pressing her face to his sternum.

Val went still and realized the unjoining was going to take as much forbearance and finesse as the joining had, particularly as he wanted nothing so much as to flop to his side, drag Ellen over him, and stay in that bed until Judgment Day.

Joinings, he corrected himself. Where he’d found the stamina to go on as he had was a mystery, as he’d never in all his years of dallying and swiving and carrying on been quite thatvirtuosic before. After weeks of abstinence, he should have been on a murderously short fuse, but with Ellen, the sheer pleasure of being inside her had been tremendous, and the pleasure of bringing her to fulfillment even greater.

Val’s own orgasm had come along as a rousing cadenza, a flourish at the end to dazzle and delight, but completely beside the point of the larger composition.

Ellen had been the point, and she still was.

“I’ll be back,” Val assured her, “but we’re going to leave a mess if I don’t bestir myself for a moment now.”

She went pliant in some indefinable way, letting him ease himself from her then from the bed. As he crossed her bedroom to a basin and pitcher on her hearth, his body felt looser, his skin more comfortable to be in than it had in weeks. He dipped a flannel, wrung it out, tended to himself, and dipped it again.

He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the dampened cloth in one hand as he tossed back the covers with the other. “Knees up, love.”

She lifted her knees, drawing in her breath as Val gently pushed them open and held the cloth against her most intimate parts. He watched as he did it, staring at her in frank appreciation as he first held the cloth against her then swiped at her in slow, careful strokes.

“You’re going to be sore. A soaking bath might help, but I do apologize.”

“Sore how?” Ellen asked, her gaze on his face as he refolded the cloth and placed it against her again.

“Here.” He reached over with his free hand and ruffled her pubic hair. “I am a greedy pig, and I belong in your hog wallow.”

“You are a tiger,” Ellen corrected him, pulling him down against her midriff. “Lovely, fierce, and not afraid to take what bounty you find before you. You belong in my bed.”

Her hands stroked through his hair, calming him, helping him adjust from passion to reality. But the leap was long and fraught, in part because Ellen had taken to lovemaking with stunning enthusiasm.

Lovemaking, with him. Val smiled against her stomach and crawled up her body to rest his cheek against her breast.

“Hold me,” he murmured against her breast. Her arms came around him, tentatively, as if she were just now considering he might feel the same need for comfort and cuddling she did.

She settled in to the embrace, spelling on his back again, and Val closed his eyes to picture the letters she made. Earlier, she’d been bold and naughty with her vocabulary. Now, she spelled his name, which pleased him. She spelled the whole thing, not just the conveniently brief “Val.” He let his mind drift toward slumber until he realized she was repeating a pattern on his back in the soft gray light of the rainy morning.

Like a finger exercise or a scale.

He focused, resisting the pull of sleep, and felt her fingers start the pattern over again: I-l-o-v-e-V-a-l-e-n-t-i-n-e-W-i-n-d-h-a-m.

He wanted to weep but held perfectly still, listening to her practice over and over again, until the rain on the roof, the gentle caress of her fingers, and the aftermath of passion conspired to lull him to sleep.

* * *

For the first time in her life, Ellen awoke in the arms of an intimate.

In the arms of her lover, she corrected herself, keeping her eyes closed the better to savor the sensations. Val’s chest was ranged along her back, his right arm draped casually over her waist, his legs tangled with hers. His left arm was tucked under her neck and splayed along the pillows.

She opened her eyes and peered at his left hand. “It looks improved to me,” she said, looking more closely. The thumb and index finger were still visibly discolored but not as swollen. The third finger looked almost normal.

Val flexed his fingers without moving any other body part. “It feels a little better, but then it should. Between wasting much of Thursday at Great Weldon and spending the weekend at Candlewick, that hand has seen a great deal of rest in the past five days. But perhaps”—Val’s voice dropped half an octave—“if you kiss it regularly, it might heal more quickly still.”

“Scandalous man.” Ellen wrapped her hand over his right forearm. “So tell me how we go about this.”

“About this?” Val placed a kiss on her nape and nuzzled her neck.

“This getting up, getting dressed, and going about our day, as if…” She trailed off, frowning at his hand.

“As if?”

When Ellen remained silent, he gently pushed her onto her back and peered down into her face. “As if?”

“As if we haven’t just misbehaved intimately.”

He cocked his head, his beautiful green eyes shuttering. “Are you going to castigate yourself and resent me now?”

“I am not ashamed. I am shy.”

His dark brows flew up and then down as his lips curved in a smile. “Shy. I am shy too, you know.”

“Shy you might be.” Ellen tried to roll back to her side. “You are not plagued by a great deal of modesty, though.”

“I am modest, for a man raised with four brothers. What are you really asking me?”

“I don’t know.” She subsided beneath him, not truly bothered by his show of… curiosity? Caring? With men, the two could be related. “I just don’t want… awkwardness. I find it amazing we’re here in this bed, not a stitch between us, and I can even look at your face without burning alive with mortification.”

“You amaze me too, in many ways. But tell me, do you think Axel and Abby Belmont don’t romp away the occasional morning? She’s expecting, and it’s no secret the child will not be born nine months after the wedding.”

“They anticipated their vows.” Ellen reached up to trace one of his perfectly arched dark brows with her finger. “It happens.” Then she had a disconcerting thought. “You said we’d take every reasonable precaution, Valentine. What precautions did we take?”

“You are not fertile for another few days.” He turned his cheek into her palm, so she felt the slight rasp of his beard. “Your menses started on Thursday, and thus you will likely not come in season for another few days. I would not have risked making love to you beyond tomorrow.”

She eyed him curiously. “How do you know this?”

“St. Just explained it to me when I was twelve, among other things. You are also not likely to conceive the week before your courses start, but there are those many women whose patterns do not fit the usual. There’s a name for them, in fact.”

Ellen’s lips pinched with disapproval. “What is this name?”

“Mothers.” Val grinned at her. “Or brides. Now, are you going to waste this entire day trying to locate your misgivings, or will you share an apple tart with a hungry tiger?”

Ellen smiled as he bit her neck playfully. “I do have misgivings.”

“I know, dear heart.” Val growled and teethed her shoulder this time. “But I’ve put them out in the springhouse where they will not trouble you as much. Did you know tigers are fond of apple tarts, particularly when consumed naked in bed?”

“I prefer my apple tarts properly clad,” Ellen rejoined, reaching around to pinch Val’s bottom.

“She pinched me.” Val sighed dramatically. “If I didn’t adore her before, I am thoroughly smitten now.”

“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.

“I don’t know about that, but my tenants have a substantial motive for wanting to get rid of me, and they have access to those children.”

St. Just grimaced. “You make a good point. One Sir Dewey should be apprised of.”

“He should. Shall we be off?”

Over a surprisingly good bottle of whiskey, Val established with Mortimus Bragdoll that the home farm would be reverting to the estate’s use, though no rent would be charged for Mort’s appropriation of the land previously. In exchange, Bragdoll agreed to set his hand to cleaning up the buildings, scything down the weeds, repairing the fences, and otherwise restoring the property to good condition. Bragdoll was built on the proportions of a plough horse, with four sons growing into the same physique, leaving Val no doubt the home farm would be adequately tended to.

And at Darius’s prompting, Bragdoll started making a list of improvements—beginning with the roof on the hay barn—the present Lord Roxbury had declined to see to.

All in all, Val thought the gathering on the Bragdolls’ porch productive, though it failed entirely to illuminate the question of whether his own tenants were attempting to burn him out and possibly bring harm to Ellen as well.

“I’ll be back tomorrow evening,” Darius said, folding a list into his pocket as Bragdoll put up the whiskey bottle. “If you have the other tenants here, we can decide what comes next after the hay barn has been seen to.”

“Aye.” Bragdoll pulled on his ear. “And my Ina will join us, too. She’s the smartest among us, and she’ll tell you exactly what needs doing.”

He looked like he might say more, but marital loyalty apparently trumped an urge to commiserate with his own gender. Val, Darius, and St. Just took their leave, unaware Hawthorne Bragdoll, youngest of the four sons, sat with his mother on the second-floor porch and watched their departure.

“Think he means it when he says he’ll make the improvements?” Thorn asked.

“Mr. Windham?” Ina pursed her lips in thought. “Yes, I think he means to do right, but as to whether he knows what he’s about, I’ve no clue, young Thorn. The man is a stranger to us, and to hear Deemus tell it, he wears gloves no matter what he’s about, like a dandy. Works hard, though, if you can believe Deemus or Soames.”

Thorn nodded. Neither Deemus nor Soames was much given to exaggeration when sober, and that was too bad. It meant Mr. Windham was likely a decent sort, pouring a great deal of time and money into a dilapidated estate. If Thorn’s instincts were accurate—and they very often were—poor Mr. Windham was in for one hell of a hiding.

And Thorn knew what it was like to get one hell of a hiding a fellow had done nothing to deserve.

* * *

“Go back to sleep,” Val whispered. For the past three nights, he’d slipped into Ellen’s bed after she’d retired then slipped out again in the dead of night. He’d made it a point to cross paths with her during the day as well, but with people around, so she might get used to being near her lover in relative public.

This, however, this quiet closeness in the night, it drew him. He didn’t make love to her—not when pregnancy was a greater risk—and he hadn’t found a way to explain to her about sponges and vinegar. Those were not entirely reliable, in any case, and he wasn’t about to go purchasing what he needed in Little Weldon’s apothecary and herbal shop. He could have withdrawn, of course, but that bore risks, as well, and with Ellen, he found he’d rather just damned wait a couple weeks than settle for half measures.

Then too, waiting meant he did not give his conscience yet more ammunition with which to assail him.

So he held her and cuddled and whispered in the darkness, sometimes falling asleep for a while, sometimes holding Ellen while she slept.

“I wasn’t quite asleep.” Ellen stirred and rolled to face him, slipping one arm under his neck and hiking a leg over his hips. She located his lips with her fingers then leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

“Since luncheon, you’ve missed me? I’ve missed you too,” Val said, grazing one palm over her breast. “I’ve missed particular parts of you intensely.”

“Is that why you haven’t made love to me since Monday?”

“You’re blushing.” In the dark he could not see her blush, but when he laid the back of his hand against her cheek, he felt it.

“I am. I’m also asking you a question.”

Val dropped his hand and went back to thumbing her nipple gently. “I have left you in peace for a variety of reasons, the first of which is consideration for your tender person.”

“Oh.” It clearly hadn’t occurred to Ellen her person might merit such consideration. “My thanks. Do men get sore?”

“Not as easily as women, or I don’t think we do, but you inspired me to a prolonged and lengthy performance. Blazing hell, that feels good.”

Ellen had one hand on his cock and used her free hand to rake his nipples with her nails. “What were your other reasons?”

“For what?”

“Abandoning me.”

“Ellen?” Val caught her hand, stilling it wrapped around his member. “Abandoning you?”

“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 than adore.

“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.

And she was well beyond his silly duplicity regarding his station in life.

“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.

When his whiskey appeared, Lord Roxbury leaned across to catch the bartender’s eye. “Be a good fellow and tell Louise to attend me in the snug.”

The bartender barely nodded before disappearing into the kitchen. A young lady emerged a few minutes later sporting a smile Freddy knew was as false as her truly impressive breasts were genuine.

“Milord.” She beamed at Freddy where he sat frankly ogling her breasts. “May I fetch you another?”

Freddy wrinkled his nose. “It’s a pathetic brew, but I’ve miles to go yet, so yes.”

Her smile slipped a bit, though Freddy wasn’t about to admit the drink was both decent and inexpensive.

“So there ye be.” She set the drink down a moment later, not spilling a drop. “What else can Louise get for ye?”

“Answers.” Freddy scowled at the drink. “It’s been two weeks, my girl. What news have you for me?”

“Plenty of news.” Louise smiled broadly. “What coin have ye for me?”

Freddy’s scowl became as calculating as Louise’s smile. For God’s sake, she took his coin, and all he asked of her—almost all—was that she pass along to him a few bits of gossip and keep her younger relations’ eyes sharp in the same cause.

“I have something for you, Louise,” Freddy said, “but it will have to wait until we can be private. But then, as I recall, the stables are private enough for a woman of your refined tastes, aren’t they?” He slid his hand over her wrist and pulled her down to sit beside him. “Talk, Louise, and then you’ll walk me to my horse.”

He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed tightly. She didn’t wince—peasant stock was tough.

“From what Neal’s pa says, Mr. Windham is improving up a storm at the old Markham place. The roof is almost done, the floors and windows are all in, the plastering and painting is thundering along, and even the grounds are looking tidy and spruce.”