The Virtuoso

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.”

“Folly but not frolic. So what do you like?” She completely spoiled the boldness of the question by burying her face against Val’s shoulder so he could feel her blush.

“I am easy to please,” Val replied, hugging her to him. “I like to share pleasure, to give it and receive it from a willing partner. Beyond that, I am fairly flexible and accommodating.”

In truth, he was what plenty of grateful ladies had called, “a generous lover,” and ironically, he attributed the ease with which he pleased his partners to the same skills he’d honed at the keyboard: He listened—to the pillow talk, to the sighs, to the silences, to the urgent, inarticulate sounds, and to the occasional tears. He was willing to take small risks, to care a little more than he should, to expose his vulnerabilities a little more than he should, to experiment beyond what might be strictly expected. In other words, he was willing to put a little feeling into even his casual liaisons.

And then too, there was the simple matter of virtuosic manual dexterity.

But with Ellen, there was going to be nothing of the casual. He knew that as he held her naked beside him in bed, discussing seedlings and ledgers and—God bless her—his own preferences.

“You know,” Val went on, “I haven’t been asked before what pleases me.”

“Valentine…” Ellen’s voice was repressive, and he smiled at her truculence.

“I don’t mean in bed,” he added, though it was it true there, too. “I mean in the larger scheme. You know you love to garden and put up your jams. I can see you enjoy embroidery, and you dote on that lazy beast who lumbers around your gardens ignoring the mice. I’m not sure I’ve given much thought to what I enjoy.”

Besides—would the thought never leave his head?—playing the piano.

“You ride very well and you dote on your beast, too.”

“I’ve always liked horses, and my father taught us to take care of our stock. As boys, we rode everywhere and often.”

“Do you enjoy horses, though?” Ellen’s cheek was pillowed on Val’s shoulder while she lazily spelled out words of a lascivious nature on his chest: w-a-n-t, k-i-s-s, t-o-u-c-h… Did she think he couldn’t feel the letters she was burning into his skin?

“I did,” Val answered her, “but St. Just became the family horseman, and one wouldn’t want to steal his thunder.”

“What about your manufactories, then?” D-e-s-i-r-e. M-o-u-t-h.

“I run them.” Val shrugged, suffering her spelling practice manfully. “They make a scandalous profit, but one can’t expect that to last. I know something I do like,” Val said just as Ellen stroked a finger across one of his nipples, perhaps crossing a t.

“What?” Her finger paused, and it was both relief and frustration for that finger to stop stroking over his skin.

“Kissing you.” Val shifted slowly, carefully, so he was poised above her on his knees and forearms. “I really like kissing you, Ellen FitzEngle Markham, but I’ve found that practice can make the enjoyable nigh sublime. Assiduous, unrelenting practice.”

He started with the softest, most fleeting hint of what was to come, just whispering his lips across hers. She sighed and brushed her lips over his just as lightly.

“I like kissing you too, Valentine Windham.” She repeated the gesture, and he settled in a little more closely to her—on her—preparing to besiege her mouth.

“I like it exceedingly,” Ellen said, closing her eyes as Val’s lips went cruising over her features. He inhaled the fragrance of her hair, nuzzled her ear, pressed his cheek to hers, and ran his tongue up the side of her neck.

He wanted every sense—scent, touch, taste, sight, and hearing—involved before he’d proceed further.

“Valentine Windham, you are,” Ellen whispered in his ear, “the most sumptuous man.” On his back, her finger traced out the letters m-o-r-e.

That little, breathy compliment settled into Val’s heart, just like her willingness to use his name, and lit a small steady flame of determination. This had to be perfect for her. He could not give her marriage or permanence or much of his future, but he could and would give her this day and as many others as she would permit.

“You are my feast,” Val whispered to her. “I hardly know where to start, you present me with so much to enjoy.”

“Kiss me more,” she suggested, pressing her lips to his cheek. “I want to kiss you everywhere.”

Blazes. Val seized her mouth with his own, angling his body up and over hers, the better to engulf her lips and teeth and tongue and mind. His hands found hers where they lay on either side of her head, and he laced his fingers through hers. She closed her fingers around his and arched up, offering more than kisses and asking for more than kisses.

By degrees, he let her have some of his weight, pressing his chest to hers. She seemed to need it, pushing herself up against him, asking him to anchor not just her hands to the pillow but her body with his.

Her mouth was open under his, her tongue seeking and exploring. Val gave her his tongue in a slow, sinuous rhythm, one she unknowingly began to mimic with her hips.

She was catching fire beneath him, and Val battled the temptation to merely slip himself inside her body. She would more than allow it. She would welcome him and let him worship her as intimately as a man could.

But not yet.

He was not going to leave her hanging, not like her sainted husband had time after misguided, inept time.

“Easy,” Val murmured, shifting up farther to rest his cheek against her temple. “We’ve all day and then some.”

She said nothing but turned her face and closed her lips over his nipple. Above her, Val went still, tensing momentarily then relaxing. He shifted just a little to the side, so Ellen could be more comfortable while she tasted and suckled and tongued him.

And bit him, with just the right hint of sting, before soothing him with her tongue and feathering a sigh over his wet flesh.

“I like that,” Val whispered, sliding a hand under the back of her head. “Don’t stop.”

She didn’t stop; she hiked her knees, though, and pushed her pelvis against his, shamelessly seeking his weight. He let her push and retreat against him, resisting mightily the urge to synchronize his own undulations with hers, while he enjoyed the draw and slide of her mouth.

“Both,” Ellen muttered, pushing at Val with her hands. He shifted to the other side, understanding she