The Duke’s Obsession Bundle

by Grace Burrowes

  “How so?” Val asked, making a sandwich, as well.

  “Has an indomitable quality about her,” Westhaven said between bites. “She bashed me with a poker when she thought I was a caller molesting a housemaid. Put out my lights, thank you very much.”

  “Heavens.” Val paused in his chewing. “You didn’t summon the watch?”

  “The appearances were deceiving, and she doesn’t know I’d never trifle with a housemaid.”

  “And if you were of a mind to before,” Val said, eyeing the marzipan, “you’d sure as hell think twice about it now.”

  “And what of you?” Westhaven paused to regard his brother. Val shared the Windham height and green eyes, but his eyes were a darker green, while Westhaven’s shade was closer to jade, and Val’s hair was sable, nearly black.

  “What of me?” Val buttered a fat muffin.

  “Are you bothering any housemaids, lately?”

  “Doing an errand for Viscount Fairly earlier in the season, I met an interesting woman out in Little Weldon,” Val said, “but no, I am more concerned with misleading His Grace than in having my ashes hauled.”

  “Don’t mislead him too well,” Westhaven cautioned. “There are those who are not tolerant of left-handed preferences.”

  “Well, of course there are,” Val said, “and they’re just the ones wondering what it would be like to be a little adventurous themselves. But fear not, Westhaven. I mince and lisp and titter and flirt, but my breeches stay buttoned.”

  “It appears,” Westhaven said, frowning as he reached for the marzipan, “mine will be staying buttoned, as well.”

  He bit into a plump, soft confection shaped like a ripe melon and stifled a snort of incredulity. His breeches would be staying buttoned, and the only thing he’d be twiddling would be his… thumbs.

  Two

  Three rules, Anna reminded herself when she reached the privacy of her own little sitting room. There were three rules to succeeding with any deception, and old Mr. Glickmann had drilled them into her:

  Dress the part.

  Believe your own lies.

  Have more than you show—including an alternative plan.

  Today, she was remiss on all three counts, God help her. A housekeeper wore caps, for pity’s sake. Great homely caps, and gloves out of doors, and there she went, sailing into the library, bareheaded, barehanded, for the earl and his brother to see.

  Believe your own lies—that meant living the deception as if it were real, never breaking role, and with the earl she’d broken role badly ever since she’d brained him with a poker. He had to have seen her, arms around Morgan, even as he lay bleeding on the floor. And then, curse her arrogant mouth, she’d as good as informed him she was raised as a bluestocking—fluent in three languages, Mother of God! Housekeepers read mostly their Bible, and that only slowly.

  Have more than you show, including second and even third plans. On that count, she was an unmitigated disaster. She had a small stash of funds, thanks to her wages here, and Mr. Glickmann’s final generosity, but funds were not a plan. Funds did not guarantee a new identity nor safe passage to foreign soil, if that’s what it took.

  “So what has you in such a dither?” Nanny Fran toddled into the kitchen, her button eyes alight with curiosity.

  “We’re to have company,” Anna replied, forcing herself to sit down and meet Nanny Fran’s eyes. “His lordship’s brother will be staying with us, and as it’s the first company since I’ve started here, I’m a little flustered.”

  “Right.” Nanny Fran smiled at her knowingly. “Lord Val’s a good sort, more easygoing than Westhaven. But these two”—she shook her head—“they weren’t the ones who gave me trouble. Lord Bart was a rascal and spoiled, for all he wasn’t mean; Lord Vic was just as bad, and didn’t he get up to mischief, and nobody but Westhaven the wiser?”

  “No carrying tales, Nanny.” Anna rose, unwilling to start Nanny gossiping. “I’m off to warn Cook we’ll have company, and their lordships will be dining informally at home for the foreseeable future. Have you seen Morgan?”

  “She’s in the stillroom,” Nanny supplied, coming to her feet in careful increments. “Smells like lemons today, and limes.”

  Anna did find Morgan in what had become the stillroom, a portion of the large laundry that took up part of the house’s understory. The girl was humming tunelessly and grinding something to powder with her mortar and pestle.

  “Morgan?” Anna touched Morgan’s shoulder, pleased to find she hadn’t startled her. “What are you making? Nanny said it smelled like lemon and lime.”

  Morgan held out a large ceramic bowl with dried flowers crushed into a colorful mixture. Anna dipped her face to inhale the scent, closing her eyes and smiling.

  “That is lovely. What’s in it?”

  Morgan lined up a number of bottles, pointing to each in turn, then took a pencil and scrap of paper from her apron pocket, and wrote, “Needs something. Too bland.”

  Anna cocked her head and considered the pronouncement. Morgan’s nose was sophisticated but unconventional.

  “Whose room is it for?”

  Morgan made a supercilious face and arched a haughty eyebrow.

  “The earl’s,” Anna concluded. “It does need something, something subtly exotic and even decadent.” Morgan grinned and nodded. She reached for a small vial and held it up for Anna’s consideration.

  “Mouget du bois?” Anna raised her own eyebrow. “That’s feminine, Morgan.”

  Morgan shook her head, confident in her decision. She added a few drops, stirred the bowl’s contents gently with one finger, then covered them with a fitted ceramic lid.

  “I’m glad you’re done here for now,” Anna said. “His lordship’s brother will be staying with us for a time and will have need of the guest bedroom at the back of the house. Can you prepare it for him?”

  Morgan nodded and tapped the left side of her collarbone, where a lady’s watch pin might hang.

  “You have time, because the gentlemen will be dining here this evening. Give him plenty of scented wash water and a crock of ice to start with tonight. He’ll need flowers too, of course, and the sheets should be turned, as the ones on the bed have likely lost all their fragrance. Air the room, as well, and I’d leave the top windows open, the better to catch a zephyr.”

  Morgan smiled again and breezed past Anna, who followed her out but paused in the kitchen to talk to Cook.

  “You’ll be cooking for two gentlemen tonight,” Anna said with a smile.

  “His lordship’s having company?” Cook asked, looking up from the bread dough she was turning on a floured board.

  “Lord Valentine, his brother. He’s a year or two younger than Westhaven but looks to be every bit as fit and busy as the earl.”

  “Good appetites, then.” Cook nodded, pleased. “The earl’s interest in his tucker has picked up here in recent months, I can tell you. Shall we do it a bit fancy tonight?”

  “Not fancy, I don’t think.” Anna frowned in thought. “It’s too hot for anything heavy, and the dining room can be stuffy. Why not a meal for the back terrace, something a little closer to a picnic but substantial enough for men?”

  “Cold fare, maybe.” Cook frowned as she put the dough in a bowl and covered it with a clean towel. “Chicken, with that basil you planted, and we’ve early tomatoes coming in. I can slice up some fruit and put it on ice…” Cook trailed off, her imagination putting together what was needed with what was on hand.

  Anna’s next stop was the head footman, whose job it would be to set up the terrace for dining. Anna set out scented torches, candles, linen, and cutlery suited to an al fresco meal, then quickly put together a little bouquet for a low centerpiece.

  “Mrs. Seaton?” A male voice in the small confines of the butler’s pantry gave her a start.

  “Lord Valentine?” She turned to find him standing immediately behind her.

  “My apologies.” He smiled down at her, a perfectly charming expres
sion. “I called, but the din in the kitchen probably drowned me out. Would it be possible at some point this evening to request a bath?”

  “Of course. Your brother bathes before retiring most nights, unless he’s going to be from home until late. There is time before dinner, but your room is only now being readied. We can send a bath up to the front guest room, if you’d like.”

  “That would be marvelous.” He remained in the oversized closet with her, his smile fading. “You take good care of him, Mrs. Seaton, and it shows, though it must have been quite some blow to his hard head if it slowed him down even marginally.”

  Anna frowned at his retreating back and realized Westhaven had discussed the week’s earlier mishap with Lord Val. Well, damn the man anyway.

  And that reminded her, his lordship had sneaked out that morning without letting her tend him. He would scar at this rate and prolong his convalescence. Grabbing her medical supplies, Anna went in search of her quarry, hoping to find him where he usually was at this pleasant hour of the early evening, out on his balcony.

  He lounged on his wicker chaise in lordly splendor, his waistcoat slung over the back of the chair, cravat folded tidily over that, his shirt open at the throat, and his cuffs rolled back.

  “Your lordship?” Anna waited for his permission to step from his bedroom, feeling absurd for doing it and abruptly self-conscious.

  “Mrs. Seaton,” he drawled, glancing up at her. “You’ve come to poke at my injured self. Does nothing deter you from the conscientious prosecution of your duties?”

  “Craven evasion,” she replied, stepping out onto the balcony. “As when my patient disappears at first light, not to be seen until tea time, and then only in the company of his protective little brother.”

  “Val is protective of me?” Westhaven scowled as he eased forward to the end of the chaise, then dragged his shirt over his head and turned his back to her. “I suppose he is at that, though he knows I’d bite his head off were he to imply I need protection. Jesus Christ, that still stings.”

  “We all need protection from time to time,” she said, dabbing gently at his back with arnica. “Your bruises are truly magnificent, my lord. They will heal more quickly if you don’t duck out of a morning—and skip your breakfast.”

  “It’s too hot to ride later in the day, at least at the pace I prefer.” He winced again as she went at the second large laceration.

  “You shouldn’t be out riding hell-bent, your lordship. Your injuries do not need the abuse, and I can see where you’ve pulled this cut open along this edge.” She drew a chiding finger along the bottom seam of a laceration. “What if you were unseated, and no one else about in the dawn’s early light?”

  “So you would come along to protect me?” he challenged lazily. She began to redress his back.

  “Somebody should,” she muttered, focused on the purple, green, and mottled brown skin surrounding the two mean gashes on his back.

  The earl frowned in thought. “In truth, I am in need of somebody to protect. I fired my mistress today.”

  “My lord!” She was abruptly scowling at him nineteen to the dozen, as much disapproval as she dared show, short of jeopardizing her position outright.

  “There is always gossip,” he quoted her sardonically, “below stairs.”

  She pursed her lips. “Gossip and blatant disclosure are not the same thing. Though in this heat, why anyone would…”

  She broke off, mortified at what had been about to come out of her mouth.

  “Oh, none of that, Mrs. Seaton.” The earl’s smile became devilish. “In this heat?”

  “Never mind, my lord.” She wetted her cloth with arnica again and gently tucked his head against her waist. “This one is looking surprisingly tidy. Hold still.”

  “I have a thick skull,” he said from her waist. And now that she was done with his back, came the part he always tolerated almost docilely. She sifted her fingers carefully through his hair and braced him this way, his crown snug against her body, the better to tend his scalp.

  And if his hair was the silkiest thing she’d ever had the pleasure to drift her fingers over, well, that was hardly the earl’s fault, was it?

  He should have brought himself off when he didn’t complete matters at Elise’s. Why else would he be baiting his housekeeper, a virtuous and supremely competent woman? She was done with her arnica and back to exploring the area around the scalp wound with careful fingers.

  “I don’t understand why you haven’t more swelling here.” She feathered his hair away from the scalp wound. “Head wounds are notoriously difficult, but you seem to be coming along wonderfully.”

  “So we can dispense with this nonsense?” He reluctantly sat back and waved his hand at her linen and tincture.

  “Another two days, I think.” She put the cap back on the bottle. “Why is it so difficult for you to submit to basic care, my lord? Do you relish being stiff and scarred?”

  “I do not particularly care what the appearance of my back is, Mrs. Seaton. Ever since my brother took several years to die of consumption, I have had an abiding disgust of all things medical.”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked instantly appalled. “I had no idea, my lord.”

  “Most people don’t,” Westhaven said. “If you’ve never seen anyone go that way, you don’t fully comprehend the horror of it. And all the while, there were medical vultures circling, bleeding, poking at him, prescribing useless nostrums. He tolerated it, because it created a fiction of hope that comforted my parents even as it tortured him.”

  He fell silent then stood and went to the railing to stare out at the lush evening sunlight falling over his back gardens.

  “And then late this winter, my stubborn father had to go riding to hounds in a weeklong downpour, only to come home with a raging lung fever. The leeches went at him, his personal physicians doing nothing more than drinking his brandy and letting his blood. When he was too weak to argue with me, those idiots were thrown out, but they came damned close to costing me my father.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, turning to stand beside him, laying a hand on his back. He heard her sharp intake of breath as she realized her error—his shirt was still off. He didn’t move off, though, but waited to see how she’d manage. Her hand was comforting, and without him willing it, his own slid along her waist and drew her against his side.

  She remained facing the gardens, her expression impassive, her breath moving in a measured rhythm, her hand resting on his back as if it had arrived there despite her complete indifference to him as a person. Slowly, he relaxed, sensing her innate decency had, for just a few moments, trumped her notions of propriety, class distinction, and personal rectitude.

  She offered comfort, he decided. Just comfort, for him, upon his recounting some very dark moments and his frustration and helplessness in those moments.

  But what about for her?

  He turned her to face him, brought her slowly against his body, and rested his cheek against her temple.

  Just that, but it changed the tenor of the moment from gestures of comfort to the embrace of a man and a woman. His arms draped over her shoulders while hers looped at his naked waist, even as he told himself to end this folly immediately, or she’d have grounds for believing he trifled with the help after all.

  She didn’t end it. She stood in the loose circle of his arms, letting him positively wallow in the clean summery scent of her, the soft curves fitting him in all the right places. He urged her with patient strokes of his hands on her back to rest more fully against him, to give him her weight. He wasn’t even aroused, he realized, he was just… consoled.

  When he finally did step back, he placed a single finger softly against her lips to stop her from the admonitory and apologetic stammers no doubt damming up behind her conscience.

  “None of that.” He shook his head, his expression solemn. “This wasn’t on my list either, Anna Seaton.”

  She didn’t tarry to find out if he wou
ld say more, but shook her head in dismay, no curtsy, no resounding whack to his cheek, no offer of resignation. She left him, heir to the dukedom, standing half dressed, bruised, and alone on his private balcony.

  “His lordship begs the favor of yer comp’ny, mum,” John Footman informed the housekeeper. Except, Anna knew, the man’s name really was John, and his father and grandfather before him had also both, for a time, been footmen in the ducal household.

  “He’s in the library?” Anna asked, putting her mending aside with a sigh.

  “He is,” John replied, “and in a proper taking over summat.”

  “Best I step lively.” Anna smiled at the young man, who looked worried for her. She squared her mental shoulders and adopted a businesslike—but certainly not anxious—gait. It had been a week since she’d clobbered the earl with a poker, a few days since that awkward scene on his balcony. She’d tended his bruises for the last time this morning, and he’d been nothing more than his usual acerbic, imperious self.

  She knocked with a sense of trepidation nonetheless.

  “Come.” The word was barked.

  “Mrs. Seaton.” He waved her over to his desk. “Take a chair; I need your skills.”

  She took a seat and reluctantly agreed with the footman. His lordship was in a taking, or a snit, or an upset over something. The faint frown that often marked his features was a scowl, and his manner peremptory to the point of rudeness.

  “My man of business is unable to attend me, and the correspondence will not wait. There’s paper, pen, and ink.” He nodded at the edge of the desk. “Here, take my seat, and I’ll dictate. The first letter goes to Messrs. Meechum and Holly, as follows…”

  Good morning to you, too, Anna thought, dipping her pen. An hour and a half and six lengthy letters later, Anna’s hand was cramping.

  “The next letter, which can be a memorandum, is to go to Morelands. A messenger will be up from Morelands either later today or tomorrow, but the matter is not urgent.” The earl let out a breath, and Anna took the opportunity to stand.