The Heir

by Grace Burrowes

  “Seems to be the season for it,” the duke groused. “Your dear mother will hardly let me chew my meat without assistance. You’d best have a seat, man, lest she catch me craning my neck to see you.”

  “She means well,” the earl said, his father’s response bringing a slight smile to his lips.

  The duke rolled his eyes. “And how many times, Westhaven, has she attempted to placate your irritation with me, using that same phrase? Tea?”

  “More than a few,” the earl allowed. “She doesn’t want to lose you, though, and so you must be patient with her. And yes, a spot of tea wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “Patient!” the duke said with a snort. He poured his son a cup and added a helping of sugar. “That woman knows just how far she can push me, with her Percy this and dear heart that. But you didn’t come here to listen to me resent your mother’s best intentions. What sort of assistance do you need?”

  “I’m not sure,” Westhaven said, accepting the cup of tea, “but it involves a woman, or two women.”

  “Well, thank the lord for small favors.” The duke smiled. “Say on, lad. It’s never as bad as you think it is, and there are very few contretemps you could get into I haven’t been in myself.”

  At his father’s words, a constriction weighting Westhaven’s chest lifted, leaving him able to breathe and strangely willing to enlist his father’s support. He briefly outlined the situation with Anna and Morgan, and his desire to keep Morgan’s whereabouts unknown.

  “Of course she’s welcome.” The duke frowned. “Helmsley’s granddaughter? I think he was married to that… oh, Bellefonte’s sister or aunt or cousin. Your mother will know. Bring her over; the girls will flutter and carry on and have a grand time.”

  “She can’t leave the property,” Westhaven cautioned. “Unless it’s to go out to Morelands in a closed carriage.”

  “I am not to leave Town until your quacks allow it,” the duke reported. “There’s to be no removing to the country just yet for these old bones, thank you very much.”

  “How are you feeling?” the earl asked, the question somehow different from all the other times he’d asked it.

  “Mortality,” the duke said, “is a daunting business, at first. You think it will be awful to die, to miss all the future holds for your loved ones, for your little parliamentary schemes. I see now, however, that there will come a time when death will be a relief, and it must have been so for your brother Victor. At some point, it isn’t just death; it’s peace.”

  Shocked at both the honesty and the depth of his father’s response, Westhaven listened as he hadn’t listened to his father in years.

  “My strength is returning,” the duke said, “and I will live to pester you yet a while longer, I hope, but when I was so weak and certain my days were over, I realized there are worse things than dying. Worse things than not securing the bloody succession, worse things than not getting the Lords to pass every damned bill I want to see enacted.”

  “What manner of worse things?”

  “I could never have known your mother,” the duke said simply. “I could linger as an invalid for years, as Victor did. I could have sent us all to the poor house and left you an even bigger mess to clean up. I guess”—the duke smiled slightly—“I am realizing what I have to be grateful for. Don’t worry…” The smile became a grin. “This humble attitude won’t last, and you needn’t look like I’ve had a personal discussion with St. Peter. But when one is forbidden to do more than simply lie in bed, one gets to thinking.”

  “I suppose one does.” The earl sat back, almost wishing his father had suffered a heart seizure earlier in life.

  “Now, about your Mrs. Seaton,” the duke went on. “You are right; the betrothal contracts are critical but so are the terms of the guardianship provisions in the old man’s will. In the alternative, there could be a separate guardianship document, one that includes the trusteeship of the girl’s money, and you have to get your hands on that, as well.”

  “Not likely,” the earl pointed out. “It was probably drawn up in York and remains in Helmsley’s hands.”

  “But he will have to bring at least the guardianship papers with him if he’s to retrieve his sisters. You say they are both over the age of eighteen, but the trust document might give him control of their money until they marry, turn five and twenty, or even thirty.”

  “I can ask Anna about that, but I have to ask you about something else.”

  The duke waited, stirring his tea while Westhaven considered how to put his question. “Hazlit has pointed out I could protect Anna by simply marrying her. Would you and Her Grace receive her?”

  In a display of tact that would have made the duchess proud and quite honestly impressed Westhaven, the duke leaned over and topped off both tea cups.

  “I put this question to your mother,” the duke admitted, “as my own judgment, according to my sons, is not necessarily to be trusted. I will tell you what Her Grace said, because I think it is the best answer: We trust you to choose wisely, and if Anna Seaton is your choice, we will be delighted to welcome her into the family. Your mother, after all, was not my father’s choice and no more highly born than your Anna.”

  “So you would accept her.”

  “We would, but Gayle?”

  His father had not referred to him by name since Bart’s death, and Westhaven found he had to look away.

  “You are a decent fellow,” the duke went on, “too decent, I sometimes think. I know, I know.” He waved a hand. “I am all too willing to cut corners, to take a dodgy course, to use my consequence at any turn, but you are the opposite. You would not shirk a responsibility if God Almighty gave you leave to do so. I am telling you, in the absence of the Almighty’s availability: Do not marry her out of pity or duty or a misguided sense you want a woman in debt to you before you marry her. Marry her because you can’t see the rest of your life without her and you know she feels the same way.”

  “You are telling me to marry for love,” Westhaven concluded, bemused and touched.

  “I am, and you will please tell your mother I said so, for I am much in need of her good graces these days, and this will qualify as perhaps the only good advice I’ve ever given you.”

  “The only good advice?” Westhaven countered. “Wasn’t it you who told me to let Dev pick out my horses for me? You who said Val shouldn’t be allowed to join up to keep an eye on Bart? You who suggested the canal project?”

  “Even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then,” the duke quipped. “Or so my brother Tony reminds me.”

  “I will get my hands on those contracts.” The earl rose. “And the guardianship and trust documents, as well, if you’ll keep Morgan safe.”

  “Consider it done.” The duke said, rising. “Look in on your mama before you go.”

  “I will,” Westhaven said, stepping closer and hugging his father briefly. To his surprise, the duke hugged him right back.

  “My regards to St. Just.” The duke smiled winsomely. “Tell him not to be a stranger.”

  “He’ll come over with Val this evening,” Westhaven said, “but I will pass along your felicitations.”

  The duke watched his heir disappear into the house, not surprised when a few minutes later the duchess came out to join him.

  “You should be napping,” his wife chided. “Westhaven was behaving peculiarly.”

  “Oh?” The duke slipped an arm around his wife’s waist. “How so?”

  “He walked in, kissed my cheek, and said, ‘His Grace has advised me to marry for love,’ then left. Not like him at all.” The duchess frowned. “Are you feeling well, Percy?”

  “Keeps his word, that boy.” The duke smiled. “I am feeling better, Esther, and we did a good job with Westhaven. Knows his duty, he does, and will make a fine duke.”

  Her Grace kissed his cheek. “More to the point, he makes a fine son, and he will make an even better papa.”

  “From this point on,” the earl said, “you are my gue
st, the granddaughter and sister of an earl, and every inch a lady.”

  “A lady would not be staying under your roof unchaperoned.”

  “Of course not, but your circumstances require allowances to be made. Morgan is safe at the mansion, and you will be safe with me.”

  Anna rose from the library sofa. “And what if you cannot keep me safe? What if the betrothal contract is genuine? What if when I break that contract, the damned baron has the right to marry Morgan?”

  “I can tell you straight out Morgan’s contract is not valid,” the earl replied. “She signed it herself, and as a minor, she cannot make binding contracts except for necessaries. Even if a spouse is considered a necessary, she can legally repudiate the contract upon her majority. The family solicitors are busily drafting just such a repudiation, though it would be helpful to see the contract she signed.”

  “You are absolutely sure of this?”

  “I am absolutely sure of this,” the earl rejoined. “I spend hours each day up to my elbows in the small print of all manner of contracts, Anna, and I read law at university, since that is one profession open to younger sons. Morgan cannot be forced to marry Stull.”

  “Thank you.” Anna sat back down, the fight going out of her. “Thank you so much for that.”

  “You are welcome.”

  At least, Anna thought, he wasn’t telling her he wanted to paddle her black and blue, and he wasn’t tossing her out on her ear—not yet. But he’d learned what manner of woman she was, one who would sign a contract she didn’t mean to fulfill; one who would flee familial duty; one who would lie, hide, and flee again to avoid security and respectability for both herself and her sister.

  The earl took up the rocker opposite the sofa. “There is yet more we need to discuss.”

  Their talk, Anna recalled. He’d warned her they would be having a lengthy discussion; there was no time like the present.

  “I am listening.”

  “This is going to come out wrong,” the earl sighed, “but I think it’s time you gave up and married me.”

  “Gave up and married you?” Anna repeated in a choked whisper. This was one outcome she had not foreseen, and in its way, it was worse than any of the others. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “If I marry you,” the earl went on in reasonable tones, “then the worst Stull can do is sue for breach of promise. As he was willing to pay for the privilege of marrying you, I am not sure there are even damages for him to claim. It is the only way, however, to prevent him or some successor in your brother’s schemes from marrying you in another trumped-up circumstance.”

  “And if he sues, it ensures you are embroiled in scandal.”

  “The Windham family is of sufficient consequence Stull’s paltry accusations won’t be but a nine days’ wonder. Marry me, Anna, and your troubles will be over.”

  Anna chewed her fingernail and regarded the man rocking so contentedly opposite her. Marry him, and her troubles would be over…

  Marry him, she thought bitterly, and her troubles would just be starting. He’d never said he loved her, never asked for her brother and his nasty friend to descend like this. She wasn’t raised to be a duchess, and polite society would never let him forget he’d married, quite, quite down.

  “I am flattered,” Anna said, staring at her hands in her lap, “but can we not wait to see how matters resolve themselves?”

  “You are turning me down,” Westhaven said. “Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn.” He rose and smiled down at her. “But then, if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d be married to Stull by now, and that isn’t an eventuality to be considered even in theory. I’ve put you in the largest guest room, and you are dead on your feet. Let me light you up to your bed, Anna.”

  She hadn’t realized he’d had her things moved, and so accepted his arm in a daze. She was tired—bone weary and emotionally wrung out. The day had been too eventful, bringing with it both joy, relief, and loss.

  “You are my guest,” the earl said when he’d lit the candles in her bedroom. “I will wish you sweet dreams and promise you again to see this entire matter sorted out. You will consider my proposal and perhaps have an answer for me in the morning.”

  He bowed—bowed!—and withdrew, leaving Anna to sit on the bed, staring unseeing at the hearth.

  Since he’d learned she was betrothed to another, the earl had not touched her, not as a lover. He’d offered his arm, his hospitality, and his name in marriage, but he had not been able to touch her as a lover.

  It spoke volumes, Anna thought as she drifted off. He was a dutiful man and he needed an heir and he was sexually attracted enough to her, despite her deceit, that he could get a child or two on her. She owed him more than that, though, and so her last thoughts as she found sleep were of how she could spare him the very thing he dreaded most: A wife chosen out of duty.

  Several doors down the hall, the earl lay naked on his bed, cursing his solitude, his houseguest, and his own lack of charm. Give up and marry me? What manner of proposal was that? He was tempted to get up, stomp down the hall, and drag her back to his bed, but desire on his part was not the same thing as capitulation on hers.

  “Well, Papa,” he muttered into the night, “I cannot see the rest of my life without her, but alas, I am certain the sentiment is not reciprocated.”

  A soft knock on his door had his heart leaping in hopes Anna was seeking him out. He tossed on his dressing gown and opened the door to find Dev standing there, smiling slightly.

  “Saw the light under your door and thought you might want to know Stull is again at liberty.”

  “I thought we had at least a few days to catch our breath.”

  “The magistrate had to leave Town and moved up his hearings,” Dev reported. “Somebody came along and made bail for the dear baron.”

  “Come in.” The earl stepped back and busied himself lighting a few more candles. “Do we know who might have bailed him out?”

  “One Riley Whitford,” Dev said. “Better known as old Whit, late of Seven Dials and any other stew or slum where vice runs tame.”

  “You know the man?” the earl asked, settling on the sofa in his sitting room.

  “He was involved in a race-fixing scheme just about the time I left for the Peninsula.” Dev ambled into the room as he spoke. “Clever man, always knows how to put somebody between him and the consequences of his actions.”

  “He was the one managing the surveillance of my house.” The earl scowled. “Stop pacing, if you please, and sit quietly like the gentleman Her Grace believes you to be.”

  “How she can be so deluded?” Dev rolled his eyes, looking very much like a dark version of His Grace. But he sat in a wing chair and angled it to face his brother. “What will you do with Anna?”

  “I’ve proposed and proposed and proposed.” The earl sighed, surprising himself and apparently his brother with his candor. “She’ll have none of that, though the last time, she put me off rather than turn me down flat.”

  “Things are a little unsettled,” Dev pointed out dryly.

  “And marriage would settle them,” the earl shot back. “Married to me, there wouldn’t be any more nonsense from her brother, not for her or Morgan. Her grandmother would be safe, and Stull would be nothing but a bad, greasy memory.”

  “He is enough to give any female the shudders, though maybe Anna has the right of it.”

  “What can you possibly mean?” The earl stood up and paced to the French doors.

  “You and she are in unusual circumstances,” Dev began. “You are protective of her and probably not thinking very clearly about her. She is not a duke’s daughter, as you might be expected to marry, not even a marquis’s sister. She’s beneath you socially and likely undowered and not even as young as a proper mate to you should be.”

  “Young?” the earl expostulated. “You mean I can get her to drop only five foals instead of ten?”

  “You have a duty to the succession,” Dev said, his words having more impa
ct for being quietly spoken. “Anna understands this.”

  “Rot the fucking succession,” Westhaven retorted. “I have His Grace’s permission to marry for love, indeed, his exhortation to marry only for love.”

  “Are you saying you love her?” Dev asked, his voice still quiet.

  “Of course I love her,” the earl all but roared. “Why else would I be taking such pains for her safety? Why else would I be offering her marriage more times than I can count? Why else would I have gone to His Grace for help? Why else would I be arguing with you at an hour when most people are either asleep or enjoying other bedtime activities?”

  Dev rose and offered his brother a look of sympathy. “If you love her, then your course is very easy to establish.”

  “Oh it is, is it?” The earl glared at his brother.

  “If you love her,” Dev said, “you give her what she wants of you, no matter how difficult or irrational it may seem to you. You do not behave as His Grace has, thinking that love entitles him to know better than his grown children what will make them happy or what will be in their best interests.”

  Westhaven sat down abruptly, the wind gone from his sails between one heartbeat and the next.

  “You are implying I could bully her.”

  “You know you could, Gayle. She is grateful to you, lonely, not a little enamored of you, and without support.”

  “You are a mean man, Devlin St. Just.” The earl sighed. “Cruel, in fact.”

  “I would not see you make a match you or Anna regret. And you deserve the truth.”

  “That’s what Anna has said. You give me much to think about, and none of it very cheering.”

  “Well, think of it this way.” Dev smiled as he turned for the door. “If you marry her now, you can regret it at great leisure. If you don’t marry her now, then you can regret that as long as you can stand it then marry her later.”

  “Point taken. Good night, St. Just. You will ride in the morning?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Dev smiled and withdrew, leaving his brother frowning at the door.