Текст книги "The Virtuoso"
Автор книги: Grace Burrowes
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
Ten
“You had that look at luncheon you used to get when you’d been away from the piano too long,” St. Just remarked as he and Val grabbed the cribbage board, a blanket, and a small hamper.
“I am preoccupied,” Val said, “but not with a melody.” He wished he might be, rather than the disturbing things he’d overheard between Abby and Ellen as they’d visited on their balcony just the other side of the rose trellis adorning his own. What on earth could the Baroness Roxbury have done that was worse than murdering her husband?
“What’s the worst offense you could commit?” Val asked his brother as they rooted through Axel’s library cabinets for a deck of cards.
“Worst in the sense of violating my honor?” St. Just eyed Val curiously. “I suppose it would be betraying Winnie, who as a child is more helpless and dependent on me than is my countess.”
“They are both your property,” Val pointed out, spying a deck of cards. “Or as good as.”
“True, but Winnie is helpless, entrusted to me by no less than The Almighty in every regard. Her health, her happiness, her education, her spiritual well-being…”
“Daunting?” Val smiled in understanding.
“I have Emmie and Winnie to lean on. We shall contrive.”
“If you don’t have a son, what happens to the title?”
“Goes to Winnie’s eldest son, even if I do have a son with Emmie.”
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 the truth. 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?”
“You might.” Val set the plate on the night table. “Are you done napping, and can I talk you into joining me on a blanket down by the pond?”
“You may.” She’d enjoy her time with him and then have the memories and enjoy those too. “Let’s eat our cake before we venture forth so we’ll have less to carry.”
Val nodded solemnly. “Always an important consideration. I thought of some more words.” He took the plate in one hand and Ellen’s wrist in the other and tugged her toward the balcony.
“What kind of words?” Ellen went willingly. The balcony was cool and shady—and safer than the bed.
“Pizzle,” Val said, setting the cake down on a wicker table. “Putz, which I think is a German word, as is schlange. In German it means snake, but the connotation is clear.”
Ellen grinned and did not meet his eyes. “You’ve put thought into this?”
“No,” Val admitted, seating himself beside her on a chaise. “The words keep occurring to me, so I’m passing them along. What have you been thinking about, Mrs. FitzEngle?”
Her past, Ellen wanted to say, but honesty was not going to win this day, not if there were to be happy memories from it.
“Vegetables,” Ellen improvised. “Do you have a favorite?”
He held a forkful of cake before Ellen’s mouth. “At lunch, my favorite was the asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, but the peppers stuffed with potatoes and sausage were also quite good.”
“Naughty man.” Ellen’s mouth watered at the thought of such fare even while Val put a bite of cake on her tongue.
“Very.” He passed her the fork and met her gaze.
He wanted her to feed him. A bolt of heat leapt through Ellen’s middle, and abruptly the cake in her mouth tasted richer, sweeter, and more pleasing to her palate. She took the fork and offered him a small bite. He slipped his lips over the fork and closed his eyes as Ellen withdrew it.
“Delectable.”
“How do you do that?” she asked, passing him back the fork.
“Do what?” Val asked, lashes lowering. “Eat cake?”
“You take a simple moment, something completely mundane, and imbue it with… passion. With subtleties and complexities and unspoken feelings. One feels like one was wading in the shallows, and suddenly, the bottom isn’t there and isn’t anywhere to be found, either.”
“I like the analogy.” Val fed her another piece, sliding the fork very slowly from her mouth, pausing, then removing it entirely. “But I can’t say it’s conscious on my part. Rather like making love or making music—a function of an artistic temperament, I suppose. Let’s fetch a blanket, take these books, and find a quiet, shady spot out of sight of the house.”
She didn’t even think of refusing him but let him lead her at a meandering pace to a spot along a rushing stream where the air was a little cooler and the stream bed a fine, sandy gravel perfect for wading.
He read an Austen novel to her, which was more entertaining than Ellen wanted to admit, and he dozed beside her on the blanket, and he fed her more kisses. The afternoon was turning out to be sweet, lazy, and altogether enjoyable, when Ellen heard Val’s voice in her ear.
“You, my love”—he kissed her neck—“are not wearing drawers.”
“It’s too hot,” Ellen said, smiling at his wicked tone of voice.
“Perhaps.” Val’s hand slid up her leg, hiking her dress along with it. “Perhaps it’s too hot for even the clothing you have on.”
“Valentine.” Ellen opened her eyes. “It is broad, sunny daylight. Will you behave?”
“Misbehaving is always more fun in broad, sunny daylight, and I’m not asking you to take your clothes off, just let me move them aside.”
“Has this been your objective since you came to my room?” Ellen asked, trying to peek over her shoulder to read his expression.
“Honestly?” Val met her gaze. “It became my objective the moment I first kissed you, and yes, I do mean that first kiss, a year or so ago. Lie back, Ellen.” Val’s voice dropped, and his touch became silken. “Let me pleasure you.”
“You will not… spend inside of me?” She was proud of her ability to use such language, though with Val, it wasn’t naughty, it was somehow simply intimate. Wonderfully intimate.
“I will not, though not for lack of wanting to.” His eyes followed his hand where it caressed her knee. “It has been a long week, sweetheart, and though I love holding you and talking with you, I want to pleasure you now while we have the time and the privacy.”
What did he have in mind? Ellen could not guess, though she tried to read his intent in the way his gaze dropped to where his hand now stroked her hip. He looked at her as if he could see through her skirts, as if his eyes could touch where his hand rested.
What he had in mind turned out to involve his mouth, his beautiful, luscious, naughty, knowing mouth, and Ellen’s most intimate person. She was scandalized and shocked and most of all, she was pleasured.
* * *
Long moments later, with Ellen’s clothing still in disarray, Val gave her some time to compose herself. He rummaged in the hamper, poured himself a drink, took a sip, and passed the mug to her.
“Cider,” he said. “Sweet, like you.”
“God in heaven.” Ellen raised her head enough to take a sip from the mug he held for her. “Merciful, everlasting God… Where does a man learn to do such things?”
Val took that as proof dear Francis had not done such things, at least not with Ellen. The man was a fool, a blazing, benighted fool, and to be pitied for his waste of a wonderfully passionate and generous wife.
Wife. The thought landed like a flaming arrow in the dry tinder of Val’s imagination, but he pulled it out and ruthlessly doused it in common sense for later consideration. Again.
Val smiled down at her where she sprawled in boneless, satisfied splendor. “Let me cuddle you up, and no, you are not to put yourself to rights. I’ll do it, when needs must.”
Instead of tidying her up, he drew her down to curl on her side, then spooned himself behind her. “Go to sleep,” he urged, his hand finding her breast and cupping it gently.
She subsided, no doubt hearing in his voice how pleased he was.
Leaving Val to hold her in the sheltering curve of his body and wonder again what crime such an innocent could have committed that was worse than murder.
* * *
Dinner on Saturday night was a lively affair, with Phillip and Dayton providing much of the entertainment as they regaled their parents with stories of the mishaps and altercations of the week past.
Abby rose at the conclusion of the meal. “Ellen, would you join me on the back terrace for a cup of tea?”
“It would be my pleasure.” Ellen smiled, meaning it. The day had had a few dips and bumps, but the afternoon and evening had been lovely. A cup of tea with good company would finish it pleasantly indeed. The gentlemen rose and repaired to the library, leaving the ladies whispering, arm in arm as they left the house.
“You didn’t eat much at dinner,” Ellen observed. “Is it the baby?”
“I get a little queasy.” Abby linked her arm with Ellen’s. “It passes, and then an hour later, I am stalking through the kitchen like a hungry wolf.”
“Peppermint tea sometimes helps, or it did me.”
“I wasn’t aware you’d carried. Will it offend you if I order peppermint tea for us now?”
“Of course not.” Ellen sank onto a wicker rocking chair. “After such a rich meal, I could use some too.”
Abby took a second rocker and smoothed a hand over her skirts. “So you lost your baby?”
Ellen did not meet Abby’s eyes in the silence that followed. She could mutter some polite inanity—she had on many occasions: It was a long time ago. It wasn’t meant to be. The Lord makes these decisions.
Except the Lord hadn’t made the decisions.
“Three,” Ellen said in low, bitter tones. “I lost three babies, all in the first half of my terms. I was miserable with the pregnancies—couldn’t keep much of anything down, and I survived on mint tea.” On what she’d thought was mint tea, God help her.
“Oh, my dear.” Abby reached over and took Ellen’s hand. “I am so, so sorry.”
“I shouldn’t be telling you such things. Your disposition cannot benefit from such a tale.”
“But it’s part of life,” Abby countered. “Axel’s first wife lost two babies, and he said that, more than anything else they faced, daunted her spirit. He did not know how to comfort her, but it’s why in seven years of marriage they only had the two boys. Axel would have loved a daughter, though.”
Ellen met her gaze in the waning light. “And all you want is a healthy child who grows into some kind of happy adulthood.”
“Desperately,” Abby said, and they shared a silent moment of absolute female communion. “I pray without ceasing for it, and I know Axel does too. But let me order our tea, and we can watch the moonrise while we discuss more pleasant things.”
A deft signal the topic was to shift, and Ellen was relieved. She hadn’t spoken of the babies to anyone, but Abby was becoming a friend, and five years was long enough to live in silence without a single friend.
* * *
“You’ll need it.” Axel held out a snifter of brandy to his guest.
“I’ll not refuse it,” Val said. “Nick has vouched for your kitchen, your cellars, and your hospitality.”
“We are going to have an uncomfortable discussion.” Axel poured himself a drink as he spoke. “I will impugn, or possibly impugn, a lady’s honor.”
“We’re not going to discuss Abby, are we?” Val said, slowly lowering his drink.
“Move over.” Axel settled beside him on the couch facing the hearth and bent to take off his boots. “Feel free to do likewise. You had a bath today, and I have sons.” He fell silent for a moment, staring at his drink. “Abby and Ellen shared a bottle of wine earlier today and certain confidences were parted with. Abby brought them to me.”
“I happened to overhear some of the same conversation, since the ladies were on the balcony adjoining my room,” Val said, watching as Axel set his boots aside. “It gets worse. Ellen has the local solicitor collect the rents then puts every penny into a London account. As the holder of the life estate, she is the landlord and liable for all improvements, and she has made none.”
“What is she doing with the money?” Axel asked, settling in with a sigh. “Hoarding it for eventual flight to the Continent?”
“Could be, or it could be she’s being blackmailed.”
Axel nodded, obviously more than willing to consider this possibility. “For her terrible crime, worse than killing her own husband, whom she professed to love.”
“She did love him, and he loved her, and they should have lived happily ever after. I simply cannot see Ellen as a murderer.”
“Neither can I.” Axel took a sip of his drink. “I still think you should make some inquiries. Find out if the money remains in that London account, for starters. That will tell you whether somebody’s bleeding her or she’s hoarding it. Either way, her behavior points to guilt over something, though I can’t see her as a murderer, either.”
“Why not?” Val let the slow burn of the whiskey take the edge off the need to get away from this conversation and play fast, complicated music far into the night.
“She’s a gardener,” Axel said, contemplating his feet. “She makes things grow; she isn’t a destroyer of life. Every time I see them, her gardens have that look of exuberance. They don’t simply grow, they thrive and glory in her care. Everything I’ve heard of her marriage to Lord Francis suggests he was thriving in her care, as well.”
Val really did not want to hear that. “For example?”
“When I ran into the man at my club, he never tarried in Town but professed to be eager to get home to his wife. He did not vote his seat when she was in anticipation of an interesting event. The birth would have been months away, and he remained in the country with her.”
“Blazes.” Ellen had carried a child?
“They never entertained over the holidays,” Axel recalled, “and the explanation Roxbury offered was he wanted the time to enjoy being with his wife. He was smitten, and one gets the sense she was pleased to be married to him as well. You know the lady better than I.” Axel saluted a little with his drink. “If she loved him, she likely didn’t kill him.”
“She might have inadvertently caused his death, provided a second dose of laudanum when a first had already been given, something like that.”
“A mistake.” Axel nodded agreement. “You are hoping it was a mistake, and so am I. The only reason I am telling you this is because I think Ellen could use a friend.”
“I am her friend. Maybe her only friend.”
“As her friend, you should make those inquiries. Find out what’s to do with that money; maybe dig a little regarding the late baron’s death.”
“I see your point.” Though he hated the idea of rummaging around in Ellen’s past without her knowledge or consent. “How does one dig past loyal solicitors?”
Axel snorted. “Loyal to whom? Not to the widowed baroness, certainly. But if the solicitors do hold the purse strings, they’ve likely held on to the late baron’s staff, as well. You might talk to them, see what they recall.”
“Or send somebody off to talk to them,” Val agreed, a certain someone coming to mind. “Before I go tearing around, violating the woman’s privacy, hadn’t I better stop to ask why I’m going to such an effort?”
“Because you’re smitten.” Axel slouched down, his drink cradled in his lap. “Even if you weren’t smitten, you’re constitutionally unable to ignore a damsel in distress.”
“I can ignore them. I have five sisters.”
“Distress is not a missing hair ribbon. St. Just has told me how careful you were with Winnie last winter, how much time you spent with her. Nicholas reports you dote on little Rose, as well.”
Nicholas and his damned reporting. “I will concede I have a weakness for the underdog, but ask any man with four older brothers and he’ll tell you the same.”
“You have honor,” Axel said simply. “You do not tolerate injustice, and that is a fine quality in any man—or any man’s son.”
“Tell that to Moreland,” Val muttered before taking a hefty swallow of his drink.
“I think he already knows.” Axel yawned. “You’ll see what you can do to help Ellen?”
“I will. Have you somebody to take a message to London tonight?”
Axel glanced out the window. “Moon’s up. Wheeler will likely be game. You can afford this?”
Val smiled at him, knowing the question wasn’t intended as an insult. “You are a good friend, Axel Belmont, and a brave man. Compared to what I’ve put into the estate, this little investigation will be a pittance, and I can well afford it. I haven’t just produced a few pianos for the occasional schoolroom; I’ve also imported a lot of rare and antique instruments from the Continent. The Corsican left many an old family with little enough coin, so I can buy very, very cheaply and sell very, very dearly.”
“Trade.” Axel smiled. “One doesn’t want to admit it, but it can be fun.”
“Fun and profitable. I am seeing to it priceless instruments find a home where they’ll be taken care of, appreciated, and even played.”
“Shrewd of you,” Axel said, his gaze appraising. “St. Just claims your business sense is every bit as astute as Westhaven’s.”
“Maybe, but only in my very limited field.”
“I don’t buy that,” Axel countered, rising, going to the desk, and rummaging for paper, ink, pen, and sand. “I’ll leave you to your correspondence and warn Wheeler somebody had better be saddling up.”
“My thanks.” Val took the seat behind the desk.
“And Val?” Axel paused by the door. “I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t a connection we’re missing.”
“Connecting what?”
“Your estate has been beset with hidden traps, and it’s as if Ellen’s future has been sabotaged, as well. I can’t see the common thread, but I sense there is one.”
“As do I. I’ll see what I can find out.”
But after he jotted off a note to Benjamin Hazlit in London and had it delivered to the stables, Val sat for a long time, pondering Axel’s parting words. He knew what it felt like to have one’s future sabotaged, and it wasn’t a feeling easily tolerated.
* * *
Ellen came awake when Val quietly closed her bedroom door, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s going to storm and I wanted to be with you. Go back to sleep.”
“I can handle a storm, Valentine,” Ellen said, but she heard something brittle in her own voice. Her confidences to Abby earlier in the evening reminded her that she’d handled too many storms, truth be told, and hated each and every one.
“Maybe I can’t,” Val replied, lifting the covers and slipping in beside her. “Budge over and cuddle up, wench.”
“It is blowing something fierce,” Ellen admitted, snuggling closer. Snow might pile up, and rain might come down, but the violence and wind of the summer storm intimidated her the most.
“You’re safe with me.” Val kissed her crown. “Do you believe that?”
“Safe?” Ellen frowned in the darkness as she curled up against him. “Safe how?”
“I will not let harm befall you, Ellen. Now go to sleep.”
What an odd declaration, and how lovely to find he was as naked as she. “Can one be safe in the embrace of a tiger?”
“Yes, though perhaps one cannot get a good night’s rest in the arms of a tigress.”
Ellen considered his words while the wind picked up and the rain slapped down in gusts and torrents just beyond her window. The darkness and the fact that Valentine would seek her out in the middle of the night gave her courage. “May I ask you something, Valentine?”
He left off nuzzling her temple. “You may ask me anything, Ellen. That is part of what it means to be safe in the company of another. You are also safe in my esteem.”
She stretched up and put her lips near his ear. “Would you allow me to put my mouth on you?” To elucidate her inquiry, she slid her hand down over the flat, warm plane of his torso to cup him gently and then wrap her fingers around his member. “I’ve wondered about it since we were by the stream earlier. I’ve wondered a very great deal.”
“Your mouth?”
She held him a little more snugly. “Is it wrong to want such a thing with you?”
This was a request she could not have made in daylight. In her hand, Valentine’s arousal was literally growing by the moment, and where she was draped along his naked frame, he’d gone still.
“It isn’t wrong. There is no bodily intimacy between us that could be wrong, Ellen, but neither is it something a decent man expects of any woman.”
She heard hesitance in his voice, which was not the same thing at all as censure, distaste, or shock. “When we were at the stream, Valentine, you surprised me, but I enjoyed it. Why did you use your mouth on me? I’m sure decent women don’t expect that, either.”
He wrapped one hand around her nape and used the other to cradle her jaw. “You trusted me. You did not let shyness overcome your curiosity, and I wanted to give you pleasure.” He fell silent a moment, his fingers moving slowly over her face as if to map her features in the darkness. “It pleased me tremendously to give you that pleasure, Ellen.”
In the next silence, she stroked the burgeoning length of him under the covers. Maybe what she wanted was wicked, but she could not reconcile wickedness with the pleasure and closeness he’d shown her earlier in the day, or with the tenderness welling within her for the man who’d come to her bed in the middle of a storm.
He pushed the covers aside and lay there, signaling in one eloquent gesture his willingness to appease her curiosity.
“Thank you, Valentine.” She pressed her mouth to his chest, drawing in the scent of him, gathering her courage. He did not offer her instructions or warnings or prose on about rules and pinches. She concluded from his silence and his passivity that in this, he was deciding simply to trust her.
She scooted a little and pillowed her cheek low on his abdomen. His scent was different here. No less clean but more male. Using her hand, she guided him to her mouth and allowed herself one lapping pass of her tongue over the soft skin of his crown.
Beneath her cheek, his belly tensed, and then she heard and felt him let out a sigh.
Perhaps a few words were not a bad idea. “You’ll tell me if I do it wrong?”
“You won’t.” He brushed his hand over her hair then let it rest at her nape.
When she licked him again, she let herself explore him with her tongue, found the different textures of the male organ, learned the contour of it from a wonderfully intimate and sensitive perspective. With long, slow strokes, she wet his length, then wrapped her fingers around him, and used her hand in concert with her mouth.
To feel him growing more aroused, harder and hotter in her grip and her mouth, was prodding Ellen past curiosity and a need to give him pleasure, on to fueling her own arousal. She took him into her mouth and set up a rhythm like the ones he’d used with her, while desire crested higher in her own veins.
“Ellen, I’ll spend.” She heard him, though she barely recognized that harsh rasp as her lover’s voice. She heard the desperate heat in his words and drew on him gently in the same rhythm that her hand was stroking his strength.
“Ellen… God…”
He cupped her jaw and carefully disentangled himself from her mouth, then closed his hand over hers. The firmness of his grip was surprising, the feel of his hot seed spurting over their joined fingers a moment later both intimate and shocking.
When he subsided, his hand still around hers, Ellen remained where she was, her head resting on Val’s chest for a long moment while his arousal faded. She relaxed against him, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing beneath her cheek, while tenderness for him threatened to overwhelm her.
Was this what hefelt when he gave her pleasure? Was this sense of trust and communion as precious to him as it was to her?
“I need to hold my tigress.” There was a different note in his voice—softer and perhaps slightly awed.
Ellen uncurled herself from him, groped around for her handkerchief on the nightstand, and tended to him as he’d tended to her. “Your tigress needs you to hold her, too.” She tossed the hankie away and tucked herself along his side, hiking a leg across his thighs as if she’d protect him with her very body.
“Thank you, tigress.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and Ellen felt his lips against her hair. While the storm raged outside, beneath the covers she felt safe and warm, well pleased with her tiger, and pleased with herself, as well.
When Ellen’s breathing signaled that she’d drifted into peaceful slumber beside him, Val lay for a long time, gliding his hand over her hair, listening to the storm.
There was a lesson for him here, in Ellen’s courage and generosity—in her trust. This intimacy she shared with him came from her heart, and the resulting depth of pleasure was unprecedented in Val’s experience.
The best music Val had ever created, the most sublime, had come not from the thrill of playing before a packed salon of educated connoisseurs, not from demonstrating hard-earned technical prowess before fellow students at the conservatory, not even from the polished efforts he’d put before his most learned teachers.
The best, loveliest music he’d ever created had come from the need to give something of value to someone he cared for—reassurance, comfort, consolation, relief from pain or despondency. The best music he’d ever created had come not from his fingers or his musical mind, but from his heart.
