The Virtuoso

“But you… When you sat down on that piano bench, I felt as if you were alone in a little rowboat, no oars, no rudder, just waves and weather all around you, and I had no way to swim out and keep you safe. I know nothing about music—not one damned thing beyond ‘God Save the King,’ to which, mind you, I mostly just move my lips. I often wondered though, if you didn’t choose music for that reason.”

“What reason?”

“You did not want to be like me,” His Grace said simply. “So you went where I could not follow. Not the least subtle, but appallingly effective. Fortunately, your mother could keep her eye on you, but it hasn’t been easy, Valentine. But then, few efforts worth undertaking are, or so your mother has told me on many occasions, generally when the topic is her enduring devotion to me.”

“Few efforts worth undertaking are easy,” Val agreed, understanding perfectly where he’d gotten his determination and his willingness to maneuver boldly with little thought to the consequences.

“And hasn’t this been the most interesting little chat?” The duke smiled at his son. “So how’s the hand? And I will not peach on you to your mother.”

“Better.” Val held up his left hand and flexed it. “Much, much better. I just have to pace myself with it now.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m working on a little project. Would you like to see it?”

“D’you think Worthington’s staff is up to putting us together an actual meal?” His Grace tried to look indifferent, but his eyes gleamed like those of a man who’d waited nigh thirty years for his baby boy to invite Papa to see his toys.

“Beef roast is on for this evening. We can take trays in the music room, if you like.”

“Well, why not? The rain might eventually let up, and I’ve always wondered whether Fairly has naked cupids plastered on every ceiling of his residence.”

“Just in the bathing room,” Val allowed, straight-faced.

“Don’t suppose…?” His Grace let the thought trail off.

“Of course,” Val replied, smiling openly now. “And then to the music room.”

Ellen was using the last of a pretty afternoon to separate a bed of irises along her springhouse—staying busy was supposed to help her forget a certain green-eyed, handsome man with talented hands, a beautiful voice, and a stubborn streak worthy of a duke. A man who dwelled in her heart, just as she lived under the roof he’d provided.

The extra iris roots were, of course, saleable, but she’d had good markets over the entire summer and had no real need of additional coin.

Val had seen to that.

“Lady Roxbury?”

The voice, so like Val’s, caused her heart to skip a beat, but as she raised her hand to shield her view from the sun, her caller’s face and form registered, as well. For an instant—a joyful, unbelievable instant—she thought it was Val, but then her senses took in the different muscling, the lighter hair, the more austere cast to the features.

“Lord Westhaven.” It had to be he, for he’d sent along a little warning note two days previous. Ellen was faced with having to rise so she could curtsey. Westhaven surprised her utterly by dropping to his knees beside her.

He nodded at the flowerbed. “Irises, I’m guessing. Can you spare a few? My wife and her grandmother adore them, and our house is not yet landscaped. A

“You have a new baby, don’t you? They can be very demanding, and of course I have more than enough here to send some along to your countess.”

He asked her to show him how to separate the roots and soon had Ellen chatting about bulbs and tubers and offering to send some of the daffodils she’d separated, as well. She invited him in to tea, surprised at how comfortably the time had passed.

He was a less vibrant version of Valentine but a man Ellen felt an inherent ability to trust. He had Val’s instinctive sense of timing, too, as he steered her deftly but unerringly back to i

“How do you like your tea, my lord?”

“Later,” Westhaven said quietly. “I like my tea later, though feel free to indulge if you’re inclined. I think you’d rather hear what I came to say, though.”

“I would.” Ellen agreed, setting the pot down. “Or I hope I would.”

“He loves you, you know.” The earl frowned at her, an expression of considerable displeasure. “Valentine does. He hasn’t said that to me, but I am to note your dress, your appearance, any evidence of ill health or poor spirits. I am to question the help while I’m here and wangle an invitation to spend the night—propriety and my countess’s sensibilities be hanged—so I might reassure my brother the doors are conscientiously locked every night and the halls patrolled by a footman until dawn, and on and on.”

He stopped, and Ellen realized her amiable companion from the iris patch had been just a well-crafted façade. This man was going to be a duke and was comfortable with both the authority and the power that entailed. He was a gentleman, but he was Val’s brother and prepared to preserve his brother from heartache or folly at any cost.

Any cost.

Ellen added cream and sugar to the single cup of tea. “Then you must tell me, is he well? Is he sleeping? Has his hand continued to heal, and please—if you tell me nothing else—is he happy?”

The teacup began to shake minutely in her hand, and she just managed to set it down before it would have shattered against the table when it slipped from her grip.

“He’s miserable,” Westhaven said slowly, his eyes narrowing on the teacup. “He’s busy as hell, his hand is fine, but he’s perishing miserable; so you, my lady, are going to accept my invitation.”

Having spent weeks growing increasingly lonely and her nights increasingly convinced she’d made the worst mistake of her life, Ellen listened as carefully as she could to the earl’s next words then nodded her assent. If it was what Valentine Windham asked of her, she would have accepted an invitation to garden in hell.

If she hadn’t already.

“Mustn’t gawk,” the Earl of Westhaven whispered in Ellen’s ear. “You look quite the thing, and you’re in the ducal box. The entertainment is that way.” He discreetly pointed to the stage and cordially seated her to his left.

“So is this Val’s widow?” A jovial male voice sang out from the back of the box, and because she was watching her escort’s every move, Ellen saw Gayle Windham almost roll his eyes.

“Percy!” A soft, female voice chided. “Really. Lady Roxbury is Valentine’s friend and was his neighbor in Oxfordshire. My lady, Esther, the Duchess of Moreland, pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Valentine’s mother, and this scandalous old reprobate is His Grace, Percival, the Duke of Moreland.”

Ellen would have fallen on her backside had Westhaven not had her hand tucked firmly on his arm. She curtsied, murmuring something polite, her mind whirling at the august personages before her and the casual ma

Maybe Val hadn’t known his parents were using their box tonight, she reasoned. This whole trip to Town had been so odd, with Westhaven explaining only that Val wanted her to attend the opening night of the symphony’s fall season. She’d been whisked to Town, spent the night in one of the most elegant townhouses she’d ever seen, presented with a peculiarly well-fitting bronze silk evening gown and all the trimmings, and now here she was.

“They’re growin’ ’em almost as pretty as my duchess out in Oxfordshire, I see,” the duke said, beaming at Ellen.

Did dukes beam? Something in the mischief of his smile tickled her memory.

“You and Val have the same smile,” she informed the duke. “And Your Grace”—she turned to the duchess, a stately, slender lady whose hair was antique gold—“Val has your eyes.”