The Heir do-1

by Grace Burrowes

  “You have made a study of me,” the earl said, sounding as if he were relieved her conclusions were so flattering—if not quite accurate. “And where in my litany of virtues do you put my unwillingness to marry?”

  Anna shrugged. “Perhaps you are simply not yet ready to limit your attentions to one woman.”

  “You think fidelity a hallmark of titled marriages, Mrs. Seaton?” The earl snorted and took a sip of his drink.

  So I’m back to Mrs. Seaton, Anna thought, knowing the topic had gotten sensitive.

  “You want what your parents have, my lord,” Anna said, rising.

  “Children who refuse to marry—assuming they remain extant?” the earl shot back.

  “Your parents love each other,” Anna said, taking in the back gardens below as moonlight cast them in silvery beauty. “They love each other as friends and lovers and partners and parents.” She turned, finding him on his feet directly behind her. “That is why you will not settle for some little widgeon picked out by your well-meaning papa.”

  The earl took a step closer to her. “And what if I am in need, Anna Seaton, not of this great love you surmise between my parents but simply of some uncomplicated, lusty passion between two willing adults?”

  He took the last step between them, and Anna’s middle simply vanished. Where her vital organs used to reside, there was a great, gaping vacuum, a fluttery nothingness that grew larger and more dumbstruck as the earl’s hands settled with breathtaking gentleness on her shoulders. He slid his palms down her arms, grasping her hands, and easing her toward him.

  “Passion between two willing adults?” Anna repeated, her voice coming out whispery, not the incredulous retort she’d meant it to be.

  The earl responded by taking her hands and wrapping them around his waist then enfolding Anna against his body.

  She had been here before, she thought distractedly, held in his arms, the night breezes playing in the branches above them, the scent of flowers intoxicatingly sweet in the darkness. And as before, he caressed her back in slow, soothing circles that urged her more fully against him.

  “I cannot allow this.” Anna breathed in his scent and rested her cheek against the cool silk of his dressing gown. He shifted, easing the material aside, and her face touched his bare chest. She did not even try to resist the pleasure of his clean, male skin beneath her cheek.

  “You cannot,” he whispered, but it didn’t sound like he was agreeing with her. “You should not,” he clarified, “but perhaps, Anna Seaton, you can allow just a kiss, stolen on a soft summer evening.”

  Oh dear lord, she thought, wanting to hide her face against the warmth of his chest. He thought to kiss her. He was kissing her, delicate little nibbles that stole a march along her temple then her jaw. Oh, he knew what he was about, too, for his lips were soft and warm and coaxing, urging her to turn her head just so and tip her chin thus…

  He settled his mouth over hers with a sigh, the joining of their lips making Anna more aware of every aspect of the moment—the crickets singing, the distant clop of hooves one street over, the soughing of the scented breeze, and the thumping of her heart like a kettledrum against her chest.

  “Just a kiss, Anna…” he reminded her, her name on his lips a caress Anna felt to her soul. Her sturdy country-girl’s bones melted, leaving her weight resting against him in shameless wonder. When his tongue slipped along the seam of her lips, her knees turned weak, and a whimper of pleasure welled. Soft, sweet, lemony tart and seductive, he stole into her mouth, giving her time to absorb each lush caress of lips and breath and tongue.

  And then, as if his mouth weren’t enough of a sin, his hands slid down her back in a slow, warm press that ended with him cupping her derriere, pulling her into his greater height and into the hard ridge of male flesh that rose between them. She didn’t flinch back. She went up on her toes and pressed herself more fully against him, her hands finding their way inside his dressing gown to knead the muscles of his back.

  She wrapped herself around him, clinging in complete abandon as her tongue gradually learned from his, and her conscience gave up, along with her common sense. She tasted him, learned the contours of his mouth and lips then tentatively brushed a slow, curious hand over his chest.

  Ye gods…

  “Easy.” He eased his mouth away but held her against his body, his chin on her temple. Anna forced her hands to go still as well, but she could not make herself step back.

  “I’ll tender my resignation first thing tomorrow,” she said dully, her face pressed to his sternum.

  “I won’t accept it,” the earl replied, stroking her back in slow sweeps.

  “I’ll leave anyway.” She knew he could feel the blush on her face.

  “I’ll find you,” the earl assured her, pressing one last kiss to her hair.

  “This is intolerable.”

  “Anna,” he chided, “it is just a kiss and entirely my fault. I am not myself of late, as you’ve noted. You must forgive me and accept my assurances I would never force an unwilling female.”

  She stayed in his arms, trying to puzzle out what he was going on about. Ah, God, it felt too good to be held, to be touched with such consideration and deliberation. She was wicked, shameless, lost and getting more lost still.

  “Say you will forgive me,” the earl rumbled, his hands going quiet. “Men require frequent forgiveness, Anna. This is known to all.”

  “You don’t sound sorry,” she muttered, still against his chest.

  “A besetting sin of my gender,” and Anna could tell he was teasing—mostly.

  “You aren’t truly sorry.” She found the strength to shove away from him but turned out to regard the night rather than face him. “But you have regret over this.”

  “I regret,” he said directly above and behind her ear, “that I may have offended you. I regret just as much that we are not now tossing back my lavender-scented sheets in preparation for that passion between consenting adults I mentioned earlier.”

  “There will be no more of that,” Anna said, inhaling sharply. “No more mentioning, no more kissing, no more talk of sheets and whatnot.”

  “As you wish,” he said, still standing far too close behind her. He was careful not to touch her, but Anna could tell he was inhaling her scent, because she was doing the same with his.

  “What I wish is of no moment,” she said, “like the happiness of a future duke. No moment whatsoever.”

  He did step back at that, to her relief. Mostly, her relief.

  “You have accepted my apology?” he asked, his voice cooling.

  “I have.”

  “And you won’t be resigning or disappearing without notice?”

  “I will not.”

  “Your word, Anna?” he pressed, reverting to tones of authority.

  “My word, your lordship.”

  He flinched at that, which was a minor gratification.

  A silence, unhappy for her, God knew what for him, stretched between them.

  “Were you to disappear, I would worry about you, you know,” he said softly. He trailed his fingers down over her wrist to lace with hers and squeeze briefly.

  She nodded, as there was nothing to say to such folly. Not one thing.

  In the moonlight, he saw her face in profile, eyes closed, head back. His last comment seemed to strike her with the same brutal intensity as her use of his title had hit him, for she stiffened as if she’d taken an arrow in the back before dropping his hand and fleeing.

  When he was sure she’d left his rooms, the earl went inside and locked his bedroom door then returned to the darkness of the balcony. He shucked his trousers, unfolded the napkin from the dinner tray, and lay back on the chaise. As his eyes fell closed, his dressing gown fell open, and he let memories of Anna Seaton fill his imagination.

  In the soft, sweet darkness, he drew out his own pleasure, recalling each instant of that kiss, each pleasure. The clean, brisk scent of her, the softness of her lips, the way she start
led minutely when his hands had settled on her shoulders. When he finally did allow himself satisfaction, the sensations were more gratifying and intense than anything he’d experienced with Elise.

  It was enough, he assured himself. He was content for one night to have kissed her and pleasured himself resoundingly. If she truly insisted he keep his distance, he would respect that, but he would make damned sure her decision was based on as much persuasive information as he could put before her.

  As the night settled peacefully into his bones, he closed his eyes and started making a list.

  Anna was up early enough the next morning to see to her errand, one she executed faithfully on the first of each month—rain, shine, snow, or heat. She sat down with pen, plain paper, and ink, and printed, in the most nondescript hand she could muster, the same three words she had been writing each month for almost two years: All is well. She sanded that page and let it dry while she wrote the address of an obscure Yorkshire posting inn on an envelope. Just as she was tucking her missive into its envelope, booted footsteps warned her she would soon not have the kitchen to herself.

  “Up early, aren’t you, Mrs. Seaton?” the earl greeted her.

  “As are you, my lord,” she replied casually, sliding the letter into her reticule.

  “I am off to let Pericles stretch his legs, but I find myself in need of sustenance.”

  “Would you like a muffin, my lord? I can fix you something more substantial, or you can take the muffin with you.”

  “A muffin will do nicely, or perhaps two.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You aren’t going to be shy with me, are you, Mrs. Seaton?”

  “Shy?” And just like that, she blushed, damn him. “Why ever would I…? Oh, shy. Of course not. A small, insignificant, forgivable indiscretion on the part of one’s employer is hardly cause to become discomposed.”

  “Glad you aren’t the type to take on, but I would not accost you where someone might come upon us,” the earl said, pouring himself a measure of lemonade.

  “My lord,” she shot back, “you will not accost me anywhere.”

  “If you insist. Some lemonade before you go out?”

  “You are attempting to be charming,” Anna accused. “Part of your remorse over your misbehavior last evening.”

  “That must be it.” He nodded. “Have some lemonade anyway. You will go marching about in the heat and find yourself parched in no time.”

  “It isn’t that hot yet,” Anna countered, accepting a glass of lemonade, “And a lady doesn’t march.”

  “Here’s to ladies who don’t march.” The earl saluted with his drink. “Now, about those muffins? Pericles is waiting.”

  “Mustn’t inconvenience dear Pericles,” Anna muttered loudly enough for the earl to hear her, but his high-handedness did not inspire blushes, so it was an improvement of sorts. She opened the bread box—where anybody would have known to look for the muffins—and selected the two largest. The earl was sitting on the wooden table and let Anna walk up to him to hand over the goodies.

  “There’s my girl.” He smiled at her. “See? I don’t bite, though I’ve been known to nibble. So what is in this batch?”

  “Cinnamon and a little nutmeg, with a caramel sort of glaze throughout,” Anna said. “You must have slept fairly well.”

  Now that she was close enough to scrutinize him, Anna saw that the earl’s energy seemed to have been restored to him. He was in much better shape than he had been the previous evening, and—oh dear—the man was actually smiling, and at her.

  “I did sleep well.” The earl bit into a muffin. “And he is dear, you know. Pericles, that is. And this”—he looked her right in the eye—“is a superb muffin.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She couldn’t help but smile at him when he was making such a concerted effort not to annoy her.

  “Perhaps you’d like a bite?” He tore off a piece and held it out to her, and abruptly, he was being very annoying indeed.

  “I’ll just have one of my own.”

  “They are that good, aren’t they?” the earl said, popping the bite into his maw. “Where do you go this early in the morning, Mrs. Seaton?”

  “I have some errands,” she said, pulling a crocheted summer glove over her left hand.

  “Ah.” The earl nodded sagely. “I have a mother and five sisters, plus scads of female cousins. I have heard of these errands. They are the province of women and seem to involve getting a dizzying amount done in a short time or spending hours on one simple task.”

  “They can,” she allowed, watching two sizeable muffins meet their end in mere minutes. The earl rose and gave her another lordly smile.

  “I’ll leave you to your errands. I am fortified sufficiently for mine to last at least until breakfast. Good day to you, Mrs. Seaton.”

  “Good day, my lord.” Anna retrieved her reticule from the table and made for the hallway, relieved to have put her first encounter of the day with his lordship behind her.

  “Mrs. Seaton?” His lordship was frowning at the table, but when he looked up at her, his expression became perfectly blank—but for the mischief in his eyes.

  “My lord?” Anna cocked her head and wanted to stomp her foot. The earl in a playful mood was more bothersome than the earl in a grouchy mood, but at least he wasn’t kissing her.

  He held up her right glove, twirling it by a finger, and he wasn’t going to give it back, she knew, unless she marched up to him and retrieved it.

  “Thank you,” she said, teeth not quite clenched. She walked over to him, and held out her hand, but wasn’t at all prepared for him to take her hand in his, bring it to his lips, then slap the glove down lightly into her palm.

  “You are welcome.” He snagged a third muffin from the bread box and went out the back door, whistling some complicated theme by Herr Mozart that Lord Valentine had been practicing for hours earlier in the week.

  Leaving Anna staring at the glove—the gauntlet?—the earl had just tossed down into her hand.

  “Good morning, Brother!”

  Westhaven turned in the saddle to see Valentine drawing his horse alongside Pericles.

  “Dare I hope that you, like I, are coming home after a night on the town?” Val asked.

  “Hardly.” The earl smiled at his brother as they turned up the alley toward the mews. “I’ve been exercising this fine lad and taking the morning air. I also ran into Dev, who seems to be thriving.”

  “He is becoming a much healthier creature, our brother,” Val said, grinning. “He has this great, strapping ‘cook/housekeeper’ living with him. Keeps his appetites appeased, or so he says. But before we reach the confines of your domicile, you should be warned old Quimbey was at the Pleasure House last night, and he said His Grace is going to be calling on you to discuss the fact that your equipage was seen in the vicinity of Fairly’s brother yesterday.”

  “So you might ply his piano the whole night through,” Westhaven said, frowning mightily at his brother. Val grinned back at him and shook his head, and Westhaven felt some of his pleasure in the day evaporating in the hot morning air. “Then what is our story?”

  “You have parted from Elise, as is known to all, so we hardly need concoct a story, do we?”

  “Valentine.” Westhaven frowned. “You know what His Grace will conclude.”

  “Yes, he will,” Val said as he dismounted. “And the louder I protest to the contrary, the more firmly he’d believe it.”

  Westhaven swung down and patted Pericles’s neck. “Next time, you’re walking to any assignation you have with any piece of furniture housed in a brothel.”

  They remained silent until they were in the kitchen, having used the back terrace to enter the house. Val went immediately to the bread box and fished out a muffin. “You want one?”

  “I’ve already had three. Some lemonade, or tea?”

  “Mix them,” Val said, getting butter from the larder. “Half of each. There’s cold tea in the dry sink.”

  “My litt
le brother, ever the eccentric. Will you join me for breakfast?” Westhaven prepared his brother’s drink as directed then poured a measure of lemonade for himself.

  “Too tired.” Val shook his head. “I kept an eye on things at the Pleasure House until the wee hours then found myself fascinated with a theme that closely resembles the opening to Mozart’s symphony in G minor. When His Grace comes to call, I will be abed, sleeping off my night of sin with Herr Mozart. You will please inform Papa of this, and with a straight face.”

  His Grace presented himself in due course, with appropriate pomp and circumstance, while Val slept on in ignorant bliss above stairs. The footman minding the door, cousin to John, knew enough to announce such an important personage, and did so, interrupting the earl and Mr. Tolliver as they were wrapping up a productive morning.

  “Show His Grace in,” the earl said, excusing Tolliver and deciding not to deal with his father in a parlor, when the library was likely cooler and had no windows facing the street. Volume seemed to work as well as brilliance when negotiating with his father, but sheer ruthlessness worked best of all.

  “Your Grace.” The earl rose and bowed deferentially. “A pleasure as always, though unexpected. I hope you fare well?”

  “Unexpected.” His Grace snorted, but he was in a good mood, his blue eyes gleeful. “I’ll tell you what’s unexpected is finding you at a bordello. Bit beneath you, don’t you think? And at two of the clock on a broiling afternoon! Ah, youth.”

  “And how is Her Grace?” the earl asked, going to the sideboard. “Brandy, whiskey?”

  “Don’t mind if I have a tot,” the duke said. “Damned hot out, and that’s a fact. Your mother thrives as always in my excellent and devoted care. Your dear sisters are off to Morelands with her, and I was hoping to find your brother here so I might dispatch him there, as well.”

  The earl handed the duke his drink, declining to drink spirits himself at such an early hour.

  The duke sipped regally at his liquor. “I suppose if Valentine were about, I’d be hearing his infernal racket. Not bad.” He lifted his glass. “Not half bad, after all.”