The Virtuoso by Grace Burrowes

miserable as the summer’s heat. Creditors would hound a gentleman to death. He scowled, eyeing a pile of duns on his desk. Perhaps it was time for a respite at Roxbury Hall, and perhaps it was time Frederick reminded dear Ellen of her priorities too.
    It was Saturday, the skies were clear, and the roads would be deserted outside of Town. He bellowed for his curricle, bellowed for his valet to toss a few things into an overnight bag, then bellowed for his medicinal flask. If he was tooling out to Oxfordshire in this heat, he’d have to settle his stomach first.
    ***
    â€œI’ve come to kidnap your hand again.” Ellen waved her little tin under Val’s nose. She’d knocked on his door very boldly about an hour after the household had risen from another very fine evening meal. It was full dark, the crickets were chirping, and Val had been resisting the pull of Axel’s music room with every fiber of his being.
    â€œYou may have my hand,” he said, stepping into the hallway. “Shall you drag me terrified into the night, or will you turn Axel’s library into a temporary prison?”
    â€œLet’s go out. It’s a lovely night, and I am not used to such rich fare. Then too, I miss my gardens.”
    Val offered his right hand, she laced her fingers through his, and within minutes, they were back at the gazebo, watching a three-quarter moon drift up over the flowers.
    â€œYou must tell me if I hurt you,” Ellen cautioned him. “I literally cannot see what I’m doing in this darkness.”
    Val smiled at the thought. “I doubt you could hurt me, but do your worst.”
    She bent to her task, her touch now familiar, the smell of the salve oddly reassuring.
    â€œWhat can I do to repay your kindness?” Val asked as the soothing pleasure of her touch worked its magic. “You’ve given me surplus food that makes the difference between starving and maintaining one’s spirits, you look after my hand, and you’ve broken Belmont’s savages to the bridle. You really must let me do something for you, Ellen FitzEngle. I am as afflicted with pride as the next man.”
    â€œProbably more so,” she observed, turning his hand over and starting on his knuckles. “But you must allow it does me good to be of use to someone else. For five years, I’ve puttered in my gardens, being not more than cordial with my neighbors and not quite included in with the local community. I like my privacy, but I realize it comes at a cost.”
    â€œWhat cost would that be?” Val asked, wishing he could see her expression.
    â€œI am expendable.” She said the words easily—too easily, maybe. “Widows occupy a niche in most villages. They look after children when others can’t. They attend confinements; they nurse the sick; they are involved in charitable endeavors if they have the means. Relax your arm, sir, or I will take stern measures.”
    Val complied, trying to focus on her words without losing awareness of her touch.
    â€œYou don’t think you contribute as a widow should?”
    â€œI know I don’t.” She shifted to stroke Val’s wrist and forearm. “I might be more involved, had I children, but I don’t. I am purely a widow, not a mother, a sister, a sister-in-law, a close neighbor, a shopkeeper.”
    Val closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Do you think you are more inclined or less than other widows to take a lover?” He sat forward abruptly and opened his eyes. “Forget I asked that and forgive me.”
    What on earth was plaguing him, that such a thing would come out of his mouth?
    â€œThat isn’t a question one easily forgets,” Ellen replied, and Val was relieved to hear humor in her voice. “If it’s an oblique way of asking if I’m lonely, then you needn’t mince around the issue: I am lonely, and I miss my husband’s attentions. Perhaps