“I’ll tell you,” she said slowly, “but…”

“But?” Val waited patiently, because to him, to Ellen, to anyone, this should be important.

“It’s hard for me to conceive. If I do, I won’t do anything to harm the child. You promise you won’t ask it of me. Nothing to harm the child, no matter what.”

“I promise I will not ask you to do anything to harm our child.” The words were unhesitating and firm, the easiest promise he’d ever given. “I promise I will take such good care of you, no possible harm could come to our child.”

Ellen shook her head and pressed two fingers to his lips. “Don’t say such things.”

“I mean them,” Val rejoined, drawing her fingers from his lips. “I am not in this bed for a casual romp, Ellen. You matter to me, and any child of ours would matter to me very much.”

“That’s… good.” Ellen nodded, heaving a deep breath. “To me, as well.”

Val regarded her at some length, sitting beside him with the sheet tucked primly under her arms, her cinnamon hair down her back in a tidy braid. This discussion of children had to touch sensitive nerves for her, for she’d quite plainly considered the lack of a Markham heir her failing. He’d love to give her a child, to prove to her the shortcoming had not been hers.

But children deserved legitimacy, and that meant asking Ellen to tie herself not just to a man with a disability but to a man who came with a parent who thought nothing of bribing mistresses to conceive or footmen to spy on their masters. The Duke of Moreland considered such measures excused by his need to protect and control his children—not in that order. And His Grace considered grandchildren more than reason enough to force marriages where they ought not to be forced, no matter how much Val might wish to have Ellen for his own.

So, there would be no children. Another shadow, but one that haunted every coupling outside a marriage bed and probably many within one, as well.

“Any more rules?” Ellen asked, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Val shot her a bemused smile. “One.”

“And that would be?”

“You tell me what you do like. I can read your body to some extent, and will delight in doing so, but I cannot read your mind.”

“What I like?” Ellen’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think I understand this rule.”

“Do you want to be on the bottom, or would you rather ride me? Do you want my mouth or my hand, and would you ever want to use your mouth on me? Are your nipples more sensitive, or your lovely derriere? And what of toys, bindings, spanking?”

The look she gave him was such a combination of confusion, fascination, and bewilderment, Val realized if she didn’t have the vocabulary, she likely lacked the experience, as well.

“I see.”

“What do you see?” Ellen asked, uncertainty in her voice.

“How did you and Francis typically join?” Val asked, sliding down and crossing his arms behind his head.

“In the dark.” She glanced over at him, her gaze going to the soft down at his armpits. “In bed, at night. Without removing our nightclothes. We certainly did not discuss it, and I am not comfortable discussing this with you.”

“What did you like most about being with your husband?” Val asked, reaching out a hand to stroke her arm. “What do you miss most?”

She shot an unreadable glance at him over her shoulder, though Val could see longing in her eyes and… loneliness?

“He’d hold me,” she said very quietly, “afterward. At first, he’d just kiss my cheek and go back to his bedroom, but I asked him to stay, and it became… comforting. I had to make up excuses—I was cold, I had something to discuss, but eventually, he’d stay for a few moments of his own accord.”

Val kept his expression bland but surmised that dear Francis had left his wife hanging, and holding her was the only comfort she could ask for. Of course she’d want cuddling and comforting if her every experience was one of vague frustration.

“Let’s start there. Let me hold you. But, Ellen?”

“What?” She was regarding him warily, as if his rules had provided not the sense of control and safety he’d intended for her, but just the opposite.

“You can recall your husband with all the love you ever bore him,” Val said, holding her gaze. “You can be grateful for the years you shared, the affection and the memories, but in this bed today, you are with me.”

“I am with you.” Her reply was gratifyingly swift and certain. “Only with you, and you are with me.”

“Just so. Now come cuddle up with me on this beautiful rainy day, and be my love.”

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.