“Ellen.” Val’s smile disappeared. “I won’t hurt you.”
Her gaze dipped to his groin then back up to his face, and he prayed he hadn’t lied. She’d been without a man for five damned years, and Val was… he was well endowed, and he knew this for a fact. Tagging along with Nick on this or that debauch, having four older brothers, spending a couple years at public school then several more at university… Val had seen enough to know his equipment was in proportion to the rest of him.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said again, holding her gaze. “Because our first rule is you tell me if you don’t like something. Promise?”
She nodded once, but her gaze drifted back to his groin.
“If you can’t find your voice, then pinch me,” Val went on. “Pinch me hard, understand?”
“Pinch you,” Ellen repeated. “Hard.”
“Hard enough to bruise,” Val clarified. “And my arse doesn’t count, because when I’m in a certain mood, I like that.”
“Dear heavens.”
He smiled at her blush. “Rule number two.” He reached over and stroked a finger down her jaw. “We avoid conception by every reasonable means, but if there’s a child, you must tell me.” She grimaced, and Val wanted to curse, because at least one shadow had found them.
“I’ll tell you,” she said slowly, “but…”
“But?” Val waited patiently, because to him, to Ellen, to anyone, this should be important.
“It’s hard for me to conceive. If I do, I won’t do anything to harm the child. You promise you won’t ask it of me. Nothing to harm the child, no matter what.”
“I promise I will not ask you to do anything to harm our child.” The words were unhesitating and firm, the easiest promise he’d ever given. “I promise I will take such good care of you, no possible harm could come to our child.”
Ellen shook her head and pressed two fingers to his lips. “Don’t say such things.”
“I mean them,” Val rejoined, drawing her fingers from his lips. “I am not in this bed for a casual romp, Ellen. You matter to me, and any child of ours would matter to me very much.”
“That’s… good.” Ellen nodded, heaving a deep breath. “To me, as well.”
Val regarded her at some length, sitting beside him with the sheet tucked primly under her arms, her cinnamon hair down her back in a tidy braid. This discussion of children had to touch sensitive nerves for her, for she’d quite plainly considered the lack of a Markham heir her failing. He’d love to give her a child, to prove to her the shortcoming had not been hers.
But children deserved legitimacy, and that meant asking Ellen to tie herself not just to a man with a disability but to a man who came with a parent who thought nothing of bribing mistresses to conceive or footmen to spy on their masters. The Duke of Moreland considered such measures excused by his need to protect and control his children—not in that order. And His Grace considered grandchildren more than reason enough to force marriages where they ought not to be forced, no matter how much Val might wish to have Ellen for his own.
So, there would be no children. Another shadow, but one that haunted every coupling outside a marriage bed and probably many within one, as well.
“Any more rules?” Ellen asked, drawing her knees up to her chest.
Val shot her a bemused smile. “One.”
“And that would be?”
“You tell me what you do like. I can read your body to some extent, and will delight in doing so, but I cannot read your mind.”
“What I like?” Ellen’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think I understand this rule.”
“Do you want to be on the bottom, or would you rather ride me? Do you want my mouth or my hand, and would you ever want to use your mouth on me? Are your nipples more sensitive, or your lovely derriere? And what of toys, bindings, spanking?”
The look she gave him was such a combination of confusion, fascination, and bewilderment, Val realized if she didn’t have the vocabulary, she likely lacked the experience, as well.
“I see.”
“What do you see?” Ellen asked, uncertainty in her voice.
“How did you and Francis typically join?” Val asked, sliding down and crossing his arms behind his head.
“In the dark.” She glanced over at him, her gaze going to the soft down at his armpits. “In bed, at night. Without removing our nightclothes. We certainly did not discuss it, and I am not comfortable discussing this with you.”
“What did you like most about being with your husband?” Val asked, reaching out a hand to stroke her arm. “What do you miss most?”
She shot an unreadable glance at him over her shoulder, though Val could see longing in her eyes and… loneliness?
“He’d hold me,” she said very quietly, “afterward. At first, he’d just kiss my cheek and go back to his bedroom, but I asked him to stay, and it became… comforting. I had to make up excuses—I was cold, I had something to discuss, but eventually, he’d stay for a few moments of his own accord.”
Val kept his expression bland but surmised that dear Francis had left his wife hanging, and holding her was the only comfort she could ask for. Of course she’d want cuddling and comforting if her every experience was one of vague frustration.
“Let’s start there. Let me hold you. But, Ellen?”
“What?” She was regarding him warily, as if his rules had provided not the sense of control and safety he’d intended for her, but just the opposite.
“You can recall your husband with all the love you ever bore him,” Val said, holding her gaze. “You can be grateful for the years you shared, the affection and the memories, but in this bed today, you are with me.”
“I am with you.” Her reply was gratifyingly swift and certain. “Only with you, and you are with me.”
“Just so. Now come cuddle up with me on this beautiful rainy day, and be my love.”
She curled up against his side with a sigh that bespoke five years of fatigue and loneliness, five years of coping, managing, and wishing for more, even when more could never be.
Val heard that sigh and propped his chin on her crown. “What does an enterprising gardener do on a rainy Monday?”
“I can start seedlings or get some baking done. Tally my books, work on my mending or sewing or embroidery. I can clean this cottage, particularly the windows—they get dusty easily this time of year.”
“I see,” Val murmured, drawing a slow pattern on her arm with his index finger.
“What do you see?” Ellen closed her eyes, and Val felt her begin to relax.
“I see you are as bad as I am.”
“In what regard?” In imitation of her lover, Ellen began to sketch on his chest with her third finger, though she probably wasn’t aware of her own actions.
“I am accused of being too serious. If you were to ask me what I will do with this rainy day, I would mention correspondence with both family and business associates, the accounts, perhaps plastering, glazing the kitchen cabinets, laying new tile in the foyer, moving pots of flowers to the terraces, hanging hammocks, ordering this and that from London, tending to my horse, and a whole list of activities that fall sadly outside the ambit of fun or even pleasure.”
Though a month ago, his list of activities would have been much shorter: He would have been at his piano. For the first time in his recollection, that state of affairs struck him as… sad.
“You don’t play,” Ellen observed succinctly, and Val started a little at her word choice.
“Well put.” Val kissed her temple. “I no longer play.”
“Is this play to you?” she asked, waving her hand at the bed in general.
“It is pleasurable, and it can be playful—I’d like to see you playful in bed, Ellen—but it isn’t a mere frolic.”