Fifteen

Sean took Zeke’s reins from Val’s hand, and Ellen watched as Val stuffed his riding gloves in his pocket. He was all brisk efficiency this morning, while Ellen felt dazed and aching in every corner of her soul.

“Walk with me, Ellen.” He linked his fingers through hers and turned her toward the home wood. “You will listen to me, for the sooner I can get moving, the less heat Zeke will have to deal with between here and Town.”

She nodded, heart breaking, while Val—man-fashion—focused on practicalities.

“You are to move to the house,” he began, sounding very stern indeed, as stern as a duke. “If Freddy is waiting to strike, you will be safer at the house. The staff is instructed not to admit him and to keep you safe at all times. I understand you will want to continue to pass along your rents to that weasel, and I can’t stop you, but I’ve hired gardeners for this property, and I expect you to put them to work.”

“I can’t stay in your house,” Ellen protested weakly. “I’ll be a kept woman.”

“Stay in your cottage,” Val shot back, “and you could be a dead woman. I’m leaving, Ellen. Leaving. You own the life estate here and you have as much right to dwell in that house as I do. I will feel better knowing you are at the manor and not in the cottage where you might have already come to grief. I want your promise on this.”

She bit her lip but couldn’t deny his logic. “I’ll live at the house. I promise.”

“Good.” He nodded briskly and barreled onward. “You will also receive callers, including but not limited to Sir Dewey, and Axel and Abby Belmont. Abby will want a female friend on hand as her pregnancy progresses, and I think you owe her that much. I understand her sister-in-law will be up with Axel’s brother at the start of the Oxford term, and they will likely call on you.”

“I can receive them.” She didn’t know quite how, but for Valentine, she’d make the effort.

“And the vicar and his wife,” Val went on, “and Mrs. Bragdoll, if those louts of hers can ever be left unsupervised for a moment. And you will correspond with my sisters-in-law.” Ellen merely nodded, too overcome with the looming parting to do more than hear his words.

“Valentine?”

“Yes, love?” His green-eyed gaze held hers as he walked with her past a particular corner on the path through the woods.

“You’re really going?” Except it wasn’t a question.

“You’ve asked it of me,” Val reminded her gently, “and you are convinced Freddy will pester me literally to death if I don’t leave you to continue on with him as you did before, and you have forbidden me to call him out.”

She nodded and leaned into him, fell into him, because her knees threatened to buckle with the magnitude of the loss she was to endure.

Val embraced her, resting his cheek against her hair. “You’re a strong woman, Ellen Markham, and I have every faith in your ability to soldier on. I need to know as I trot out of your life that you will be fine and you will manage here without me. So”—he put a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze—“tell me some pretty lies, won’t you? You’ll be fine?”

Ellen blinked and obediently recited the requested untruth. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be fine, as well.” Val smiled at her sadly. “And I’ll manage quite nicely on my own, as I always have. You?”

“Splendidly,” Ellen whimpered, closing her eyes as tears coursed hot and fast down her cheeks. “Oh, Val…” She clutched him to her desperately, there being no words to express the pure, undiluted misery of the grief she’d willingly brought on herself.

“My dearest love.” Val kissed her wet cheeks. “You really must not take on so, for it tortures me to see it. This is what you want, or do I mistake you at this late hour?”

“You do not.” The sigh Ellen heaved as she stepped back should have moved the entire planet. She wanted Val safe from Freddy’s infernal and deadly machinations, and this was the only way to achieve that goal. She had the conviction Valentine Windham, a supremely determined and competent man—son of a duke in every regard—would not take Freddy’s scheming seriously until it was too late.

It was up to her to protect the man she loved, and that thought alone allowed her to remain true to the only prudent course. “You have not mistaken me, not now—not ever.”

“I did not think you’d change your mind.” Val led her back toward the house by the hand. “I have left my direction in the library, and in the bottom drawer of the desk you will find some household money. I know you’d prefer to cut all ties, Ellen, but if you need anything—anything at all—you must call upon me. Promise?”

“I promise,” she recited, unable to do otherwise.

“And Ellen?” Val paused before they got to the stable yard. “Two things. First, thank you. You gave me more this summer than I could have ever imagined or deserved, and I will keep the memories of the joy we shared with me always. Second, if there should be a child, you will marry me.”

“There will not be a child,” she murmured, looking back toward the wood. He was thanking her? She’d cost him a fortune and put his well-being in jeopardy, and he was thanking her? “I do not, and never will, deserve you.”

“Promise me you’ll tell me if there’s a child?” Val’s green eyes were not gentle or patient. They were positively ducal in their force of will.

“If there is a child I will tell you.”

“Well, then.” Val resumed their progress. “I think that’s all there is to say, except, once again, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Ellen replied, wishing she’d given him the words so much more often and under so many different circumstances.

“Good-bye, my dearest love.” Val bent and kissed Ellen’s cheek, not taking her in his arms. “Be safe and call upon me if there’s need.”

A final nod as Val slipped a hankie into Ellen’s hand, and then he mounted up and turned his horse, putting Zeke first to the trot then moving the horse up to a brisk canter. Ellen got a final sympathetic glance from Nick, and then he and Darius were off, disappearing down the drive in a clatter of hooves and dust.

And then silence.

She’d had a great deal of silence in the past five years, and for the most part, she’d come to treasure it. But this silence was different, as it wasn’t just the lack of sound, it was also the lack of Valentine Windham.

***

“A caller, Lord Val.” David Worthington’s butler, like every member of the staff at David’s townhouse, knew how to give the impression it was his pleasure to serve. Val glanced up from where he was bent over the desk in the music room and blinked.

“Who is it?” Val asked, glancing at the clock. Blazing hell, it was nearly teatime already.

“His Grace, the Duke of Moreland.” The butler didn’t make a face, but in his voice there were pinched lips and pruney expressions.

“No avoiding him,” Val muttered. “Best do the tea and crumpets drill, and he’s partial to crème cakes, if I recall aright. Let’s use the family parlor, since the formal parlor faces the street.”

“Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed politely and withdrew, leaving Val to roll down his cuffs and shrug into his coat.

With a longing glance over his shoulder, Val mentally strapped on the familiar armor of indifference and strolled—deliberately—off to the family parlor.

“Your Grace.” Val bowed politely. “You are looking well.” His father looked ever the same—tall, lean, blue-eyed, with a thick mane of white hair, his ensemble impeccable even in the middle of a wet and chilly fall day.

“I am looking old,” the duke shot back, “and tired. I trust you are well?”

“You may tell Her Grace that I thrive,” Val said with a small smile. “Shall we sit?”

“Of course.” His Grace plopped onto a pretty little chintz sofa, one likely reflective of Letty’s influence. “Too deuced miserable to stand around nattering. When will you come see your mother?”

“I did visit Morelands several weeks ago.”

“And you haven’t since,” the duke retorted. “And what kind of visit was that? You spent one night, and then off again to see Bellefonte, and then it’s back to London—and in this bloody raw weather, Valentine?”

“Bellefonte is a very good friend,” Val said, grateful for the interruption of the tea tray. “Now, there’s hot tea, and by purest coincidence, a few crème cakes. I’m not sure how many are on the tray, so I couldn’t possibly report to Her Grace how many you ate.”

The duke’s blue eyes warmed with humor. “Smart lad.”

“Tea or something stronger?”

“Tea with lots of sugar and a dash of whiskey, though the whiskey we’ll find here is probably too fine to deserve such a fate.”

“Fairly’s cellars are to be envied, but you didn’t brave London in this rain to discuss whiskey.”

“I most assuredly did not,” His Grace replied, arranging three cakes on a small plate—it would not hold more. “I got your letters.”

Val sipped his tea—his undoctored tea—and merely raised an eyebrow.

“Took a while.” His Grace demolished a cake in two bites. “Summer, you know, people are rusticating and off to fornicate their way through various house parties. You cannot know how relieved I am Her Grace did not indulge in that folly this year at Morelands.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t left for Yorkshire yet. A new granddaughter must have her in alt.”

“We are pleased.” The duke’s eyes twinkled as he appropriated the royal first person plural. “But we are also getting appallingly old, and St. Just, canny fellow, has hinted he might bring Emmie, Winnie, and the baby south for the winter. Her Grace and I would rather see that—so the entire family can then enjoy St. Just’s visit—than we would like to make a progress of hundreds of miles.”

“I can’t blame you. I’d love to see St. Just again, as well as Win and Emmie, but I am not inclined to make that journey now.”

The duke shrugged, piling more cakes on his now-empty plate. “St. Just is an old campaigner. He’s used to haring about and will probably need to do a fair amount of it for the next few years. His countess comprehends this. Excellent cakes, by the way.”

“I’ll pass your compliments along to the cook.” As long as the sweets held up, it appeared he and his father were going to have a civil visit. “So what do we hear from Gayle and Anna?”

“Not much.” The duke smiled fondly. “My heir is running them ragged, of course. He’ll have his papa’s height, that one. Esther thinks he’ll have her green eyes. But back to your letters. Let’s have a spot more libation, first though, but easy on the tea.”

Val got up, crossed to the decanter, and poured his father two neat fingers.

“Jesus in the manger.” His Grace closed his eyes. “That is decent. That is damned decent. You should enjoy some before you’ve a wife about to begrudge you every pleasure a man holds dear.” His Grace smiled at his tumbler. “Almost every pleasure. My thanks. I always told Her Grace you were too smart to waste your life on a piano bench.”

Val winced—then wanted to wince again because he’d let his appearance of indifference visibly slip. Never well advised, that.

“Oh, for God’s sake, boy.” His Grace set the tumbler down hard. “I pay you a compliment, and you cringe as if I meant it as an insult.” His lips pursed, and he regarded his youngest son while Val stood, half-facing the window overlooking the gardens. “My lack of enthusiasm for your devotion to music was based on reasons, young man, though I don’t suppose much of that matters now. If we’re to have a tête-à-tête over your situation with Roxbury, can’t you at least ring for a little more sustenance?”

Val went to the door and spoke to the footmen. The cakes arrived, along with a selection of chocolates, some marzipan, and some candied violets, and all before His Grace could resurrect the familiar lament over Valentine’s devotion to musical endeavors.

“This is what your mother would call hospitality.” His Grace’s eyes lit up at the sight of the tray. “Now, where were we?”

Val resumed his seat. “Try the violets; they’re St. Just’s favorite.”

“Ah, yes!” His Grace paused in midreach. “That reminds me, as St. Just was most concerned for you in his recent letter. A girl—can you believe it?” His Grace was smiling beatifically. “But as to your letter, here’s what we’ve got.”

He popped some violets into his mouth before going on.

“Bad piece of work.” The duke shook his head. “This Markham fellow is a veritable bird-dropping on the family escutcheon, not at all like his cousin. I knew the previous baron, and he was young but sensible and could be trusted to vote his party’s position unless he had a damned good and well-stated reason to the contrary. Everybody respects that.”

“But the present baron?” Val pressed, forcing himself to attend this topic and not the question His Grace had left dangling in Val’s mind.

His Grace sat back, his expression no longer jovial or paternal in the least. “In the last session, the dirty little rodent sold his vote at least six times.”

“This is not good?”

“This is not good,” the duke said patiently. “The vote is a sacred trust, rather the petite version of the divine right of kings, something given to a man from a much greater power, call it God or the realm or what you will. You trade your vote, of course, judiciously, to gain something of value by giving away something of lesser value, but you do not accept money for your vote.”

“Bad ton?” Val hazarded, as the distinction seemed pretty fine to him.

“Criminally bad ton,” His Grace clarified, “if blatant enough. It implicates both the one selling his vote and the one buying it. Of course, there will be layers of intermediaries in most cases, but Roxbury got himself indebted with the very worst sorts of people, so he was sloppy, and thus left an easy trail to uncover. Corrupt and stupid, never a pretty combination.”

“You have signed statements?”

“Oh, of course.” The duke’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “And not just from the usual unsavory characters but from the bankers and other MPs Roxbury approached about selling their votes, as well.”

“Members of Parliament would testify against him?” Val sat back, relieved beyond telling. And Ellen thought the man was so damned powerful.

“Of course.” The duke cocked his head. “One always wants to appear to be on the side of crusading justice. Shall I explain the documents to you?”

“If you would.” Val nodded, for the first time feeling justified in his hopes.

What followed was something Val could think of only as an etude in parliamentary politics. His Grace patiently elucidated the particulars of six different bills, their strengths and weaknesses, the reasons various factions were in support of them and various other factions were not. The duke described convoluted committee structures and the channels through which Freddy had approached various MPs and committee chairs. While Val tried to concentrate on the ramifications of Freddy’s behavior, His Grace casually enumerated the consequences of each bill being passed or not passed into law, being amended in this or that detail, being sent back to committee for further drafting, or being otherwise modified to suit some particular interest or industry.

The information flowed from His Grace’s fertile brain in a tidy, well-orchestrated presentation, not a note out of place, not a phrase out of balance.

As the candied violets met the same fate as the crème cakes and chocolates, insight struck Valentine Windham with the force of a particularly well-aimed mule kick: His father was a parliamentary prodigy, a political virtuoso whose composition of choice was nothing less than a substantial influence on British affairs in the present age.

The attributes of virtuosity were all there: A towering commitment to the subject of choice; a fluency gained through long, dedicated years of study; and a generosity about sharing the wisdom gained in those years, that came across as nothing less than art.

“There is another favor I would ask of you, Your Grace,” Val heard himself say when the duke’s exposition was complete.

His Grace sat back and grinned at Val over the remains of the tray of sweets. “This is my lucky day. Say on, my boy.” Val explained, the duke laughed softly, nodded, and rose to take his leave.

“Your Grace.” Val paused with his hand on the parlor door. “Why did you object to my interest in music?”

“Beg pardon?”

“You said you had reasons for objecting to my obsession with the piano,” Val reminded him. “Might I know why?”

His Grace frowned mightily. “I could not help you.”

“Could not help me?” What was this? “You made sure I had the best instructors, the best instruments, plenty of opportunity to play with talented ensembles; you talked Her Grace into letting me go to Italy in very uncertain times; you suggested to Kirkland I’d make a decent substitute conductor. How didn’t you help me?”

Until that moment, Val hadn’t for himself admitted how much his father had supported him. He’d attributed those measures to his mother’s influence, but even a duchess had limited reach when it came to matters financial and political.

“Money is not help,” the duke said. “Of course you were going to have the best—you are my son. I would no more allow you to practice on an inferior instrument than I would have sent you to the hunt meet on a lame pony. What I mean is that I could not help you. St. Just and Bart were off to the cavalry, and I certainly had useful advice for them both and enough influence that they didn’t end up going directly to the worst of the fighting. Gayle is the family merchant, meaning no disrespect, and I’ve seen enough business transacted I can chime in knowledgeably from time to time if he asks for an opinion. Victor loved the social and political scene, and I’ve decades running tame through those halls. I had the perfect pocket borough picked out for him.

“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. Anna wants to do it herself, but there just hasn’t been time this summer.”

“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 innocuous topics until the tea tray was delivered and the door to the parlor closed by the departing maid.

“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 manner in which they’d introduced themselves.

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.”

The duchess leaned close to whisper, “But I think Valentine has your heart, hmm?” She straightened and took her husband’s arm. “Shall we be seated, Percy? One doesn’t want to disappoint the crowds.”

Westhaven stepped back, so it happened Ellen was seated between the duke and duchess, feeling nervous, excited, and thoroughly off balance. Where was Val? And why had he summoned her? Was this simply an outing for her? Was it a demonstration to Freddy that the Moreland consequence was being put in Ellen’s corner?

The first half of the program started off in a blur as Ellen’s mind continued to race and whirl from one thought to the next. She tried, in the dim lighting, to look around and see if Val might be watching her from a different box. Gradually, though, the music seeped into her fevered brain, and she began to calm. Maybe Val just wanted her to hear this music. The orchestra was in fine form, and Val’s family was treating her with great cordiality.

Westhaven took her arm at the interval and informed her they would be strolling in the corridor. They barely escaped the confines of the ducal box when Ellen heard a familiar baritone rumbling behind her.

“If it isn’t my favorite little gardener,” Nick Haddonfield pronounced. “Give a lonely fellow a kiss, my lady, and I won’t complain when you pinch me.”

“Nick…” She smiled up at him, not realizing how much she’d missed him too, until that moment. When he wrapped his arms around her, there in the theatre corridor with half of polite society looking on, Ellen felt tears welling. “I’ve missed you.”

“As well you should.” Nick nodded approvingly. “Women of discernment always miss me, though I’ve missed you, as well, lovey. You did not answer my letters.”

“A lady does not correspond with a gentleman, your lordship,” Ellen chided him, though her smile was still radiant.

Westhaven cast an assessing glance at Nick. “He’s no gentleman. He writes a very charming letter, nonetheless. Next time, Bellefonte, you do as David and Letty do with Val. Val writes a two-sentence letter to David and then a four-page postscript to Letty.”

“Strategy is always so tedious.” Nick sighed. “Here comes one of my two favorite brothers-in-law.” Ellen was hugged again as Darius Lindsey greeted her, looking strikingly handsome in his evening finery.

“I believe Her Grace will want to see you two,” Westhaven decided. “Why don’t you escort Lady Roxbury back to the box while I check on something backstage?”

A look passed between the gentlemen, something of male significance that had Ellen concluding Westhaven needed the retiring room. She let Nick and Darius each take an arm and was more than pleased when Her Grace invited them to stay for the second half. Westhaven slipped into the back of the box just as the ushers were dousing the candles.

“So this is the good part?” Nick asked from beside her.

“The party piece is always saved for the second half,” Ellen explained, though it occurred to her belatedly, Nick had been to far more entertainments than she. “That way all the latecomers won’t miss it.”

“One wouldn’t want to miss this,” Nick murmured, only to be thumped on the arm by Darius.

She looked around one last time for Val, and then she spied him, his progress being marked by the growing hush of the audience as he strode across the stage.

Oh, he looked so handsome, so distinguished. He was too lean, maybe, though it was hard to tell when he was so far away, but how fortunate the lights caught his dark hair, his elegant, muscled form as he approached the conductor’s podium.

What on earth?

He tapped a baton on the music stand and signaled to the oboist, who offered the pitch. When the squeaks, toots, and honks of tuning up were silenced, Val turned to face the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice carried straight into the darkest corners of the hall and straight into Ellen’s heart. “There is a slight misprint on tonight’s program. We offer for our finale tonight my own debut effort, which is listed on the program as Little Summer Symphony. It should read, Little Weldon Summer Symphony, and the dedication was left out, as well, so I offer it to you now.

“Ellen, I know you are with me tonight, seated with my parents and our friends, though I cannot see you. I can feel you, though, here.” He tapped the tip of the baton over his heart. “I can always feel you there, and hope I always will. Like its creator, this work is not perfect, but it is full of joy, gratitude, and love, because of you. Ladies and gentlemen, I dedicate this work to the woman who showed me what it means to be loved and love in return: Ellen, Baroness Roxbury, whom I hope soon to convince to be my lady wife. These modest tunes and all I have of value, Ellen, are dedicated to you.”

He turned in the ensuing beats of silence, raised his baton, and let the music begin.

Ellen was in tears before the first movement concluded. The piece began modestly, like an old-fashioned sonata di chiesa, the long slow introduction standing alone as its own movement. Two flutes began it, playing about each other like two butterflies on a sunbeam, but then broadening, the melody shifting from sweet to tender to sorrowful. She heard in it grief and such unbearable, unresolved longing, she wanted to grab Val’s arm to make the notes stop bombarding her aching heart.

But the second movement marched up right behind that opening, full of lovely, laughing melodies, like flowers bobbing in a summer breeze. This movement was full of song and sunshine; it got the toes tapping and left all manner of pretty themes humming around in the memory.

My gardens, Ellen thought. My beautiful sunny gardens, and Marmalade and birds singing and the Belmont brothers laughing and racing around.

The third movement was tranquil, like the sunshine on the still surface of the pond, like the peace after lovemaking. The third movement was napping entwined in the hammock, and strolling home hand in hand in the moonlight. She loved the third movement the best so far, until it romped into a little drinking song, that soon got away from itself and became a fourth movement full of the ebullient joy of creation at its most abundant and beautiful.

The joy of falling in love, Ellen thought, clutching her handkerchief hard. The joy of being in love and being loved the way you need to be.

Ah, it was too much, and it was just perfect as the music came to a stunning, joyous conclusion. There was a beat of profound silence and then a spontaneous roar of approval, a deafening wall of applause, cheers, foot stomping, whistling, and calls for an encore. Val stood to the side, looking dazed and pleased, until the first violinist rose and gestured with his bow toward the podium. Even Ellen could hear the concertmaster happily yelling at Val to bow, for the love of God, and the applause did not diminish until Val turned, said something to his musicians, and held up his baton again.

The little drinking song served wonderfully as an encore, and the orchestra had to play through it yet again before the audience let the musicians and their conductor go.

In the ducal box, Ellen sat dazed and so pleased for Valentine she could not stop laughing and crying and being glad she had been there to see it. Her exile was now worthwhile. Through years and even decades of gardening in solitude, she would recall this night and those lovely sentiments tossed to her before all of London as if she were the prima donna on the stage.

And she would not—she would not—let herself worry that Freddy would get wind of this and pitch another tantrum.

“Come along.” Nick took her arm when they left the box, and with his superior height, navigated her deftly through the crowds.

“Where are we going?” Ellen asked, for she did not recognize the path they were traveling.

“To meet your fate, my lady,” Nick said, but his eyes were sparkling, and Ellen didn’t realize the significance of his comment until she was being tugged backstage toward a growing buzz of voices. “The green room is this way”—Nick steered her along—“but for you, we will refer to it as the throne room. Ladies and gentlemen…” Nick bellowed as he gently pushed Ellen into a crowded, well-lit room. “Make way for the artist’s muse and for a large fellow bent on reaching that punch bowl.”

Applause burst forth, and the crowd parted, leaving Ellen staring across the room at Valentine where he stood, a glass in his hand, still in his formal attire. He’d never looked so handsome to her, or so tired and happy and uncertain. He set the glass down and held out his left hand to her.

“My Ellen,” he said, as if introducing her. She tried to make her steps dignified before all these strangers, but then she was walking very quickly, then, hang it, she pelted the rest of the distance right into his arms, holding on to him with every ounce of her strength. She did not leave his side when the duke and duchess were announced or when his various siblings and friends came to congratulate him. She was still right by his side when the duke approached.

“Well.” Moreland smiled at his youngest son. “Suppose I was mistaken, then.”

“Your Grace?”

Ellen heard surprise in Val’s voice, and pleasure.

“I kept trying to haze you off in a different direction, afraid the peasants wouldn’t appreciate you for the virtuoso you are.” The duke sipped his drink, gaze roving the crowd until it lit on his wife standing beside Westhaven. “I was worrying for nothing all those years. Of course they’re going to love you—you are my son, after all.”

“I am that,” Val said softly, catching his father’s eye. “I always will be.”

“I think you’re going to be somebody’s husband too, eh, lad?” The duke winked very boldly at Ellen then sauntered off, having delivered a parting shot worthy of the ducal reputation.

“My papa is hell-bent on grandchildren. I hope you are not offended?”

Ellen shook her head. “Of course not, but Valentine, we do need to talk.”

“We do.” He signaled to Nick, where that worthy fellow stood guarding the punch bowl. Nick nodded imperceptibly in response and called some inane insult over the crowd to Westhaven, who quipped something equally pithy right back to the amusement of all onlookers, while Val and Ellen slipped out the door.

By the light of a single tallow candle, he led Ellen to a deserted practice room. He set the candle on the floor before tugging her down beside him on the piano bench.

“I can’t marry you,” Ellen said, wanting to make sure the words were said before she lost her resolve.

“Hear me out,” Val replied quietly. “I think you’ll change your mind. I hope and pray you’ll change your mind, or all my talent, all my music, all my art means nothing.”