The Heir

your brother?”

“Of course.” Val rose and extended a hand to Anna. “Mrs. Seaton, as my brother appears to be recovering, you have my thanks.” He drew her to her feet, smiling a particularly warm smile.

“Anna?” Westhaven caught her eye, and she turned a curious gaze on him. “My thanks, as well.” She nodded and silently took her leave.

“Come, Rose.” Greymoor snatched up his small cousin. “We have an assignation in the stable with two handsome knights.”

Val closed the door behind the entourage and met his brother’s eyes.

“I will raid Amery’s wardrobe,” Val said, “and then we will talk, brother.”

The instant his brother was gone, Westhaven stepped behind the privacy screen, making the best use of the rare moment of solitude. God, how had his brother Victor survived the years of being an invalid, with no privacy, no hope, no possibility of recovery?

Looking as healthy as he possibly could, flanked by his brother, his host, and Lord Greymoor, Westhaven spent the next hour balancing the need to control his father with the respect due one’s ducal sire. It was a long, largely unpleasant hour, made bearable only by Greymoor’s willingness to occasionally distract the duke with insolent humor, and then, before His Grace got truly bilious, with talk of horses.

When the others had drifted off, leaving the duke alone with his heir and his spare, His Grace speared his son with a hard look.

“You two.” The duke shook his head. “Don’t think I am not appreciative of the interest you take in our Rose, but I know you’re up to something, and I won’t rest until I know what it is.”

“Tell me,” Westhaven asked, his tone bored, “does Her Grace know you’ve gone haring off in this downpour to bother Amery with your odd starts?”

“Your mother should not be needlessly worried.”

“And wasn’t it just such weather that precipitated your near fatal bout of lung fever, Your Grace?”

“Hush, boy,” the duke hissed. “Don’t be making your mother to fret, I say. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Behave yourself, and we won’t have to tattle on you, Your Grace. Don’t behave yourself, and you will leave us no choice.”

“Behave myself.” The duke scowled. “Behave myself; this from a grown man who has no mistress, no wife, no fiancee… Behave myself. You behave yourself, Westhaven, and see to the succession.”

He swept out with perfect ducal hauteur, leaving Val and his brother to roll their eyes behind His Grace’s back. The silence, in the wake of the duke’s ranting and posturing, was profoundly comforting.

“Sit,” Val said. “Or would you prefer to return to your room?”

“I should go back upstairs,” the earl replied. “But, Val? I think he’s getting worse. More heedless, to come out here and invade Amery’s home… Gwen and Douglas would have been within their rights to have him barred from their property.”

“He is Rose’s grandfather,” Val said as they gained Westhaven’s room. “But I agree. Since Victor died, and since his own illness, I think our papa has become almost obsessed with the need for heirs.”

“I nominate you.”

“And I nominate you,” Val responded. “Shall we sit?”

“We shall. I find my energy greatly depleted; though rest is helpful, the effect is temporary. When I lie down, I go out like the proverbial candle.”

“I’ll get your boots.” Val pushed him into a wing chair, hauled off his brother’s boots, and ordered them up some breakfast.

“So you spent three nights with Mrs. Seaton,” Val said, apropos of nothing.

“I did,” the earl admitted, closing his eyes. “I behaved, Valentine.” Barely, but he did. “She is a decent woman, and I would not force my attentions on any female.”

“Your attentions?” Val’s eyebrows rose. “His Grace will be marching you both down the aisle posthaste if he learns of your folly.”

“She won’t be marched, and neither will I. He did that to me once before, Val, and I won’t let it happen again.”

“He did it to you, and he did it to Gwen, who had one hell of a lot more family at her back than Mrs. Seaton does. If he can outflank Heathgate, Amery, Greymoor, and Fairly, what chance would one little housekeeper stand against him?”

“You raise a disturbing point, Valentine”—the earl frowned—“though His Grace manipulated Gwen into accepting my proposal largely by threatening her family. If Mrs. Seaton has no family, then she is less vulnerable to His Grace’s machinations.”

“Talk to her, Westhaven.” Val rose and went to answer a tap on the door. “Make her understand what risks she’s dealing with, and just what a desperate duke will do to see his heir wed.” He opened the door, admitting a footman pushing a breakfast trolley.

As the earl joined his brother for tea, toast, and a few slices of orange, he considered that Val was right: If Anna Seaton had weaknesses or vulnerabilities, it was best she disclose them to the earl, for sooner or later, if the duke learned of them, he would be exploiting them.

And as much as Westhaven sensed they could make a good job of marriage to one another, the earl would not under any circumstances accept Anna Seaton served up as his wife, bound and gagged by the duke’s infernal mischief.

Westhaven healed, albeit slowly, and had to agree with Douglas that what was needed was mostly sleep. On the third day, the rain stopped, on the fourth, the earl slept through the night. On the fifth, he began to grouse about returning home and was marshaling his arguments in the solitude of his room when Rose cajoled him into a visit to the stables. He managed to groom his horse and entertain Rose with a few stories of her father.

But the outing, tame as it was, had been taxing and left him overdue for a stint in bed, much to his disgust. He parted company from Rose, sending her off to draw pictures of the stories he’d told her, and sank down on his bed.

He had a feeling something was off, not right somehow in a nagging way. He peeled out of his clothes and stretched out on the mattress, but still, the sense of something missing wouldn’t leave him.

Anna, he realized as he slipped between the freshly laundered sheets. He’d gone all of two or three hours without seeing her, and her absence was tolling in the back of his mind. All the more reason, he thought, closing his eyes, to get back to Town where his routine would prevent prolonged periods of proximity such as they’d had at Welbourne.

Wanting to bed the woman—even offering to wed her—wasn’t the same as wanting to live in her pocket, after all. A man would have to be besotted to allow feelings like that.

Nine

A WEEK SPENT AT LORD AMERY’S HAD CREATED DEFINITE changes in the way Westhaven went on with the object of his unbesottedness. By necessity, while in Surrey he’d kept his hands to himself, and the enforced discipline had yielded some odd rewards.

Anna, for example, had touched him, and in ways a housekeeper would never have touched her employer. She’d bathed him, shaved him, brushed his hair, dressed and undressed him, and even dozed beside him on the big bed. As soon as his fever had abated, she’d left his most personal care to others, but the damage had been done.

Or, Westhaven thought as he tugged on his boot, the ground had been gained.

He had also had a chance to observe her over longer periods of time and watch more carefully how she interacted with others. The more he saw, however, the more puzzled he became. The little clues added up… and not to the conclusion that she was a mere housekeeper.

“What on earth has put that frown on your face?” Devlin St. Just came strolling into the earl’s townhouse bedchamber, dressed to ride and sporting a characteristic charming grin.