Grace Burrowes - The Virtuoso

“You are going to trifle with the widow,” Darius predicted as the horses ambled through the moonlight toward Little Weldon. The night was pleasant, the worst heat of the day fading to a soft, summery warmth made fragrant by mown hay and wild flowers.

“She is a widow,” Val said, “but I don’t think she’s that kind of widow.”

“What kind of widow would that be?”

Val ignored the question, more intent on a sweet recollection. “I was out here last spring on an errand for David Worthington, supposedly looking at rural properties that might be for sale. I accompanied Vicar Banks on a courtesy call to what I thought was an elderly widow who’d missed the previous week’s services. I saw a floppy straw hat, an untidy cinnamon-colored braid, and bare feet before I saw anything else of her. I concluded she was an old dear becoming vague, as they say.”

“Vague does not apply to Mrs. FitzEngle. Just the opposite.”

“Not vague,” Val agreed, He’d kissed the woman before taking his leave of her on that long-ago afternoon, an impulse—a sweet, stolen moment with a woman whose every feature left a man with a sense of warmth. She had warm brown eyes, a warm sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and hair a warm shade exactly midway between auburn and blond—cinnamon came to mind rather than chestnut. “She isn’t dreamy or given to flights but there is something…”

“Yes?”

“Unconventional,” Val said, though that term wasn’t quite right either. Her hands on his body would be warm too, though how he knew this, he could not say. “Ellen could be considered eccentric, but I prefer to think of her as… unique.”

Darius said nothing, finding it sufficiently unique that Valentine Windham, son of a duke, wealthy merchant, virtuoso pianist, and favorite of the ladies, would think of Mrs. FitzEngle as Ellen .

Val peered over the soffit as several slate tiles slid down from the roof on the newly constructed slide and bumped safely against the cloth padding the bottom of the chute.

“It works,” he said, grinning over at Darius, the only other occupant of the house’s roof.

“Of course it works.” Darius sat back on his heels, using his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I designed it. I don’t recall you ordering another entire wagonload of goods from town.”

Val followed Darius’s gaze down to the yard, where a farm wagon pulled by two exceptionally sturdy horses came to a halt before the house. A handsome black saddle horse was tethered behind, not one Val recognized. Val and Darius both availed themselves of the slide to get from roof to yard, causing the lead horses’ ears to flick and the occupants of the wagon to start whooping with glee.

“Settle down, you two,” barked the driver. “Lord Valentine will think he’s set upon by savages.” The man hopped down, along with the two lanky adolescents who’d been so enthusiastically cheering the sight of grown men sliding to the ground.

“Axel Belmont at your service.” The driver grinned, swiped back his blond hair with one hand, and stuck out the other. “Though you might not think so when I warn you my sons Dayton and Phillip have invaded your undefended borders with me.”

Val extended a hand, recognizing the tall blond fellow from his friend Nick’s wedding to Darius’s sister Leah just a few weeks past.

“Good to see you, Professor,” Val said, “and may I make known to you the Honorable Darius Lindsey, late of the roof, but whom you might have met at Leah and Nick’s wedding. How fares your dear wife?”

Belmont’s smile softened. “She’s much better, particularly now that I’ve taken the heathen off the property. Nick wrote that you were working on a project not an hour’s drive from Candlewick, and I have come to inspect progress.”

“We’re still very much in the planning stages,” Val said, though this further evidence of Nick Haddonfield’s friendly meddling was mentally noted. “We’re also glad for some company. Darius fears we’re going to be kidnapped by elves.”

“Boys!” Belmont’s offspring stopped in midpelt toward the house. “Get this wagon unloaded, and mind you put the contents in the carriage bay where they’ll stay dry. The first son of mine on that roof without Lord Valentine’s permission gets his backside walloped and has to learn how to tat lace.”

Loud groans, followed by reluctant grins, saw the boys reversing direction and heading for the wagon at a decorous pace.

“Spare them no sympathy,” Belmont warned. “Not by word, deed, or expression. Abby is teaching them how to charm, and between that and their natural guile, they are shamelessly manipulative.”

“They’re also at an age where they can eat entire horses, tack, and all,” Val mused. “But run all day, as well.”

“In the opposite direction of their parents, unless it’s meal time,” Belmont said, eyeing the house again.

“Come along, Professor. I’ll give you the tour. Dare, you want to come?”

Darius shuddered dramatically. “I’ve had the privilege. I can work on calculations while you lie to your guest about the potential of the place. Mr. Belmont, a pleasure to see you again.”

“Axel,” the blond corrected him. “Philip and Dayton are underfoot, and formalities are futile. A surrender of all but the barest civilities is the only reasonable course.”

“Your gutters don’t work,” Belmont said in patient, magisterial tones, “so the water backs up, sometimes under the eaves. If the squirrels or bats have been busy, that puts water in your walls or attics or both, and water will destroy your house more quickly than wind, snow, or most anything else save fire.”

“So I must replace all those gutters and spouts,” Val concluded, eyeing the seedlings growing in the gutters.

“You must subdue your jungle, as well,” Belmont pointed out gently as he ambled along beside Val in the yard. “I went through this same exercise when I married my first wife. Candlewick was in disrepair, and yet it was all we had. You prioritize and try to put each season to its best use. And you work your bloody arse off.”

“That much I am prepared to do, but other than the roof, what would you prioritize?”

They meandered the house, the property, and the outbuildings, exchanging ideas, arguing good-naturedly, and tossing suggestions back and forth. By the time they’d finished a complete circuit of house, outbuildings, and immediate grounds, the sun was directly overhead—as near as could be determined through the trees.

“Now comes the reason you’ll be glad we crashed your gate,” Belmont said. “Get Mr. Lindsey to set aside his figuring, or the locusts will not leave him any lunch.” Belmont retrieved a very large wicker hamper from the back of the wagon and bellowed for his offspring to wash their filthy paws if they wanted even a crust of bread. A picnic fit for a regiment was soon laid out on a blanket spread in the shade.

“Compliments of my wife,” Belmont said, “in exchange for getting her menfolk out from underfoot for a few hours.”

“Lunch!” Dayton and Phillip gamboled up, every bit as energetic as they’d been hours earlier.

“One of their nine favorite meals of the day. Sit down, you lot, and wait for your elders to snatch a few crumbs before you destroy all in your path.”

As food was passed around among the adults, Belmont continued speaking. “Day and Phil concocted a plan for Phillip to start school a year early so all five Belmont cousins could have one year at university together. Abby was enthusiastic about it, since it will give us a little time at Candlewick before the baby arrives and all hell breaks loose once again.”