“And is this all that plagues you, my lord? Your father has no doubt been a nuisance for as long as you’ve been his heir, if not longer.”
The earl glanced sharply at his housekeeper, then his lips quirked, turned back down, and then slowly curved back up.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked, his smiles being as rare as hen’s teeth.
“I found your little parlor maid in the hay loft,” the earl said, setting out his water glass and wine glass precisely one inch from the plate. “She discovered our mouser’s new litter, and she was enthralled with the cat’s purr. She could feel it, I think, and understood it meant the cat was happy.”
“She would,” Anna said, wondering how this topic was related to providing the duke his heirs. “She loves animals, but here in Town, she has little truck with them.”
“You know Morgan that well?” the earl asked, his tone casual.
“We are related,” she replied, telling herself it was a version of the truth. A prevaricating version.
“So you took pity on her,” the earl surmised, “and hired her into my household. Has she always been deaf?”
“I do not know the particulars of her malady, my lord,” she said, lifting the basket to her hip. “All I care for is her willingness to do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. Shall we serve you tea or lemonade with your luncheon?”
“Lemonade,” Westhaven said. “But for God’s sake don’t forget to sugar it.”
She bobbed a curtsy so low as to be mocking. “Any excuse to sweeten your disposition, my lord.”
He watched her go, finding another smile on his face, albeit a little one. His housekeeper liked having the last word, which was fine with him—usually. But as their conversation had turned to the question of her relation, she had dodged him and begun to dissemble. It was evident in her eyes and in the slight defensiveness of her posture.
A person, even one in service to an earl, was entitled to privacy. But a person with secrets could be exploited by, say, an unscrupulous duke. And for that reason—for that reason—the earl would be keeping a very close eye on Anna Seaton.
Three
“Beg pardon, mum.” John Footman bobbed a bow. “His lordship’s asking fer ya, and I’d step lively.”
“He’s in the library?” Anna asked with a sigh. She’d spent three of the last four mornings in the library with his lordship, but not, thank the gods, today.
“In his chambers, mum.” John was blushing now, even as he stared holes in the molding. Anna grimaced, knowing she’d sent a bath up to the earl’s chambers directly after luncheon, which was unusual enough.
“Best see what he wants.” Anna rose from the kitchen table, got a commiserating look from Cook, and made her way up two flights of stairs.
“My lord?” She knocked twice, heard some sort of lordly growl from the other side, and entered the earl’s sitting room.
The earl was dressed, she noted with relief, but barely. His shirt was unbuttoned, as were his cuffs, he was barefoot, and the garters were not yet closed on his knee breeches.
He did not glance up when she entered the room but was fishing around on a bureau among brushes and combs. “My hair touches my collar, at the back.” He waved two fingers impatiently behind his right ear. “As my valet continues to attend His Grace, you will please address the situation.”
“You want me to trim your hair?” Anna asked, torn between indignation and amusement.
“If you please,” he said, locating a pair of grooming scissors and handing them to her handles first. He obligingly turned his back, which left Anna circling him to address his face.
“It will be easier, my lord, if you will sit, as even your collar is above my eye level.”
“Very well.” He dragged a stool to the center of the room and sat his lordly arse upon it.
“And since you don’t want to have stray hairs on that lovely white linen,” Anna went on, “I would dispense with the shirt, were I you.”
“Always happy to dispense with clothing at the request of a woman.” The earl whipped his shirt over his head.
“Do you want your hair cut, my lord?” Anna tested the sharpness of the scissor blades against her thumb. “Or perhaps not?”
“Cut,” his lordship replied, giving her a slow perusal. “I gather from your vexed expression there is something for which I must apologize. I confess to a mood both distracted and resentful.”
“When somebody does you a decent turn,” she said as she began to comb out his damp hair, “you do not respond with sarcasm and innuendo, my lord.” She took particular care at the back of his head, where she knew he was yet healing from the drubbing she’d given him.
“You have a deft touch. Much more considerate than my valet.”
“Your valet is a self-important little toady,” Anna said, working around to the side of his head, “and that is not an apology.”
“Well, I am sorry,” the earl said, grabbing her hand by the wrist to still the comb. “I have an appointment at Carlton House this afternoon, and I most petulantly and assuredly do not want to go.”
“Carlton House?” Anna lowered her hand, but the earl did not release her. “What an important fellow you are, to have business with the Regent himself.”
He turned her hand over and studied the lines of her palm for a moment.
He smoothed his thumb over her palm. “Prinny will likely stick his head in the door briefly, tell us how much he appreciates our contributions to this great land, and then resume his afternoon’s entertainments.”
“But you cannot refuse to go,” Anna said, taking a guess, “for it is a great honor, and so on.”
“It is a tiresome damned pain in my arse,” the earl groused. “You have no wedding ring, Mrs. Seaton, nor does your finger look to have ever been graced by one.”
“Since I have no husband at present,” Anna said, retrieving her hand, “a ring is understandably absent also.”
“Who was this grandfather,” the earl asked, “the one who taught you how to do Tolliver’s job while smelling a great deal better than Tolliver?”
“My paternal grandfather raised me, more or less from childhood on,” Anna said, knowing the truth would serve up to a point. “He was a florist and a perfumer and a very good man.”
“Hence the flowers throughout my humble abode. Don’t take off too much,” he directed. “I prefer not to look newly shorn.”
“You have no time for this,” Anna said, hazarding another guess as she snipped carefully to trim up the curling hair at his nape. She’d snip, snip then brush the trimmings from his bare shoulders. It went like that, snip, snip, brush until she leaned up and blew gently on his nape instead, then resumed snipping.
When she leaned in again, she caught the scent of his woodsy, spicy cologne. The fragrance and putting her mouth just a few inches from his exposed nape left her insides with an odd, fluttery disconcerted feeling. She lingered behind him, hoping her blush was subsiding as she finished her task. “There.” This time she brushed her fingers over his neck several more times. “I believe you are presentable, or your hair is.”
“The rest of me is yet underdressed.” He held out his hand for the scissors. “Now where is my damned shirt?”
She handed him his damned shirt and would have turned to go, except his cravat had also sprouted wings and flown off to an obscure location on the door of his wardrobe, followed by his cuff links, and stickpin, and so forth. When he started muttering that neck-cloths were altogether inane in the blistering heat, she gently pushed his fingers aside and put both hands on his shoulders.
“Steady on.” She looked him right in the eye. “It’s only a silly committee, and you need only leave a bank draft then be about your day. How elegant do you want to look?”
“I want to look as plain as I can without being a Quaker,” the earl said. “My father loves this sort of thing, back-slapping, trading stories, and haggling politics.”
Anna finished a simple, ele
gant knot and took the stickpin from the earl’s hand. “Once again, you find yourself doing that which you do not enjoy, because it is your duty. Quizzing glass?”
“No. I do put a pair of spectacles on a fob.”
“How many fobs, and do you carry a watch?” Anna found a pair of spectacles on the escritoire and waited while the earl sorted through his collection of fobs. He presented her with one simple gold chain.
“I do not carry a time piece to Carlton House,” he explained, “for it serves only to reinforce how many hours I am wasting on the Regent’s business.” Anna bent to thread the chain through the buttonhole of his waistcoat and tucked the glasses into his watch pocket, giving the earl’s tummy a little pat when the chain was hanging just so across his middle.
“Will I do?” the earl asked, smiling at her proprietary gesture.
“Not without a coat, you won’t, though in this heat, no one would censor you for simply carrying it until you arrived at your destination.”
“Coat.” The earl scowled, looking perplexed.
“On the clothespress,” Anna said, shaking her head in amusement.
“So it is.” The earl nodded, but his eyes were on Anna. “It appears you’ve put me to rights, Anna Seaton, my thanks.”
He bent and kissed her cheek, a gesture so startling in its spontaneity and simple affection, she could only stand speechless as the earl whisked his coat across his arm and strode from his room. The door slammed shut behind him as he yelled for Lord Valentine to meet him in the mews immediately or suffer a walk in the afternoon’s heat.
Dumbstruck, Anna sat on the stool the earl had used for his trimming. He had a backward sort of charm to him, Anna thought, her fingers drifting over her cheek. After four days of barking orders, hurling thunderbolts, and scribbling lists at her in Tolliver’s absence, he thanked her with a lovely little kiss.
She should have chided him—might have, if he’d held still long enough—but he’d caught her unawares, just as when he’d frowned at her hand and seen she had no wedding ring.
Her pleasure at the earl’s kiss evaporating, Anna looked at her left hand. Why hadn’t she thought of this detail, for pity’s sake? Dress the part, she reminded herself.
She hung up some discarded ensembles of court-worthy attire, straightened up both the escritoire and the earl’s bureau, which looked as if a strong wind had blown all into disarray. When she opened his wardrobe, she unashamedly leaned in and took a big whiff of the expensive, masculine scent of him while running her hand along the sleeve of a finely tailored dark green riding jacket.
He was a handsome man, but he was also a very astute man, one who would continue to spot details and put together facts, until he began to see through her to the lies and deceptions. Before then, of course, she would be gone.
When he finally returned to his townhouse that evening, the earl handed his hat, gloves, and cane to a footman then made his way through the dark house to the kitchens, wanting nothing so much as a tall, cold glass of sweetened lemonade. He could summon a servant to fetch it but was too restless and keyed up to wait.
“My lord?” Mrs. Seaton sat at the long wooden table in the kitchen, shelling peas into a wooden bowl, but stood as he entered the room.
“Don’t get up. I’m only here to filch myself some cold lemonade.”
“Lord Valentine sent word you’d both be missing dinner.” She went to the dry sink and retrieved the pitcher. The earl rummaged in the cupboards and found two glasses, which he set down on the table. Anna glanced at him curiously but filled both, then brought the sugar bowl to the table.
Westhaven watched her as she stirred sugar into his glass, his eyebrows rising in consternation.
“I take that much sugar?”
Anna put the lid back on the sugar bowl. “Either that, or you curse and make odd faces and scowl thunderously at all and sundry.” She pushed his glass over to him, and took a sip out of hers.
“You don’t put any in yours?” he asked, taking a satisfying swallow of his own. God above, he’d been craving this exact cold, sweet, bracing libation.
“I’ve learned not to use much,” Anna said, sipping again. “Sugar is dear.”
“Here.” He held up his glass. “If you enjoy it, then you should have it.”
Anna leaned back against the sink and eyed him. “And where is that sentiment in application to yourself?”
He blinked and cocked his head. “It’s too late in the day for philosophical digressions.”
“Have you even eaten, my lord?”
“It appears I have not.”
“Well, that much of the world’s injustices I can remedy,” she said as she rinsed their glasses. “If you’d like to go change out of those clothes, I can bring you up a tray in a few minutes.”
“If you would just get me out of this damned cravat?” He went to stand near her at the sink, waiting while she dried her hands on a towel then nudged his chin up.
“The cravat is still spotless,” she informed him, wiggling at the clasp on the stickpin, “though your beautiful shirt is a trifle dusty and wilted. Hold still.” She wiggled a little more but still couldn’t undo the tiny mechanism. “Let’s sit you back down at the table, my lord.”
He obligingly sat on the long bench at the table, chin up.
“That’s it,” she said, freeing the stickpin and peering at it. “You should have a jeweler look at this.” She set it on the table as her fingers went to the knot of his neckcloth. “There.” She loosened the knot until the ends were trailing around his neck, and a load of weariness abruptly intensified low down, in his gut, where sheer exhaustion could weight a man into immobility. He leaned in, his temple against her waist in a gesture reminiscent of when she tended his scalp wound.
“Lord Westhaven?” Her hand came down to rest on his nape, then withdrew, then settled on him again. He knew he should move but didn’t until she stroked a hand over the back of his head. God in heaven, what was he about? And with his housekeeper, no less. He pushed to his feet and met her eyes.
“Apologies, Mrs. Seaton. A tray would be appreciated.”
Anna watched him go, thinking she’d never seen him looking quite so worn and drawn. His day had been trying, it seemed, but it struck her that more than the challenge of a single meeting at Carlton House, what likely bothered him was the prospect of years of such meetings.
When she knocked on his door, there was no immediate response, so she knocked again and heard a muffled command of some sort. She balanced the tray and pushed open the door, only to find the earl was not in his sitting room.
“In here,” the earl called from the bedroom. He was in a silk dressing gown and some kind of loose pajama pants, standing at the French doors to his balcony.
“Shall I put it outside?”
“Please.” He opened the door and took half a step back, allowing Anna just enough room to pass before him. “Will you join me?” He followed her out and closed the door behind him.
“I can sit for a few minutes,” Anna replied, eyeing the closed door meaningfully.
If he picked up on her displeasure, he ignored it. Anna suspected he was too preoccupied with the thought of sustenance to understand her concern, though, so she tried to dismiss it, as well.
He was just in want of company at the end of a trying day.
He took the tray and set it on a low table then dragged the chaise next to it. “How is it you always know exactly what to put on a tray and how to arrange it, so a man finds his appetite perfectly satisfied?”
“When you are raised by a man who loves flowers,” Anna said, “you develop an eye for what is pleasing and for how to please him.”
“Was he an old martinet, your grandfather?” the earl asked, fashioning himself a sandwich.
“Absolutely not,” Anna said, taking the other wicker seat. “He was the most gracious, loving, happy man it will ever be my pleasure to know.”
“Somehow, I cannot see anyone describing me as gracious, lov
ing, and happy.” He frowned at his sandwich as if in puzzlement.
“You are loving,” Anna replied staunchly, though she hadn’t exactly planned for those words to leave her mouth.
“Now that is beyond surprising.” The earl eyed her in the deepening shadows. “How do you conclude such a thing, Mrs. Seaton?”
“You have endless patience with your family, my lord,” she began. “You escort your sisters everywhere; you dance attendance on them and their hordes of friends at every proper function; you harry and hound the duke so his wild starts are not the ruination of his duchy. You force yourself to tend to mountains of business which you do not enjoy, so your family may be safe and secure all their days.”
“That is business,” the earl said, looking nonplussed that his first sandwich had disappeared, until Anna handed him a second. “The head of the family tends to business.”
“Did your sainted brother Bart ever tend to business?” Anna asked, stirring the sugar up from the bottom of the earl’s drink.
“My sainted brother Bart, as you call him, did not live to be more than nine-and-twenty,” the earl pointed out, “and at that age, the heir to a duke is expected to carouse, gamble, race his bloodstock, and enjoy life.”
“And what age are you, your lordship?”
He sat back and took a sip of his drink. “Were you a man, I could tell you to go to hell, you know.”
“Were I a man,” Anna said, “I would have already told you the same thing.”
“Oh?” He smiled, not exactly sweetly. “At which particular moment?”
“When you fail to offer a civil greeting upon seeing a person first thing in the day. When you can’t be bothered to look a person in the eye when you offer your rare word of thanks or encouragement. When you take out your moods and frustrations on others around you, like a child with no sense of how to go on.”
“Ye gods.” The earl held up a staying hand. “Pax! You make me sound like the incarnation of my father.”
“If the dainty little glass slipper fits, my lord…” Anna shot back, glad for the gathering shadows.
The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3) Page 6
