“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.