The Heir do-1

by Grace Burrowes

  “You want to brush my hair,” Anna said, as if to herself. “That is an unusual request.”

  “But not too unusual. It requires no removal of clothing nor touching of the hands nor lascivious glances.”

  “All right,” Anna said, more perplexed than alarmed, but then, she was in the company of a man who scheduled his passions. She fished inside the hamper and withdrew her reticule, producing a small bone-handled brush.

  “Pretty little thing,” the earl remarked, thumbing the bristles. “Now”—he sat up—“sit you here.” He thumped the blanket beside him, and Anna scooted, only to find that the earl had shifted so she sat between his bent knees.

  “Is this decent?” she murmured.

  “Have another glass of wine,” the earl suggested. “It will feel frustratingly decent.”

  They fell silent, and Anna felt the earl’s fingers easing through her hair to find her hairpins. He slid them free carefully and began piling them to one side. When the bun at the nape of Anna’s neck was loosened, he let her thick plait tumble down her back.

  “I like this part,” he said. “When you free up a braid, and a single shiny rope becomes skeins and curls and riots of silky, soft hair. How do you keep it so fragrant?”

  She felt him lean in for a sniff, and her heart nearly skipped a beat.

  “I make a shampoo scented with roses.” And ye gods, it had been a struggle to utter that single coherent sentence. His hands were lacing through her unbound hair to massage her scalp and the back of her neck. His touch was perfect—deliberate, knowing, and competent without using too much strength. He trailed her hair down her back, leaving little trickles of pleasure to skitter along her spine, and then she felt him gathering the mass of it, to move it to one side.

  “It’s beautiful,” he murmured, his words breathed near her ear. “I’m going to forbid you to wear those hideous caps of yours when we return to Town.”

  His thumb brushed along her nape, and then something softer, followed by a puff of breath.

  God, yes, Anna thought, letting her chin drop forward. Westhaven scooted closer, the better to kiss her neck, and Anna tilted her head, the better to allow it.

  “Ah, Anna,” he whispered before pressing his lips to her cheek and letting them drift to her throat. His mouth was open on her skin, as if he’d consume her or sink his teeth into her flesh. Then he paused and scooped her against his chest, dropping one knee and angling her legs across his thigh.

  Anna blinked up at him, her back supported by his one upraised knee.

  “None of that,” he scolded. “I can see you preparing to think, Anna Seaton, and this is not a moment for thinking.”

  Before she could blink again, his mouth came down on hers in a voluptuously ravenous kiss. His tongue was in her mouth, plundering and demanding and promising. Oh, God, the things his kiss was promising.

  His hand slipped down her arm to close around her fingers where they lay limp in her lap. He brought up her hand and put it around his neck, giving her a place to hold on as he gathered her more closely against him. His scent was all around her, and Anna felt heat, not the sweltering summer’s heat but something clean and fiery and new singing through her veins. With it came desire—desire for him and desire for closeness with him. She clung and kissed him back, imitating the thrust and drag of his tongue with her own.

  And then his lips were gone, leaving his forehead pressed to hers, his breath fanning against her cheek.

  “God, Anna.” He took a slow inhale then breathed out. “Almighty, everlasting God.”

  “What?” She felt suddenly unsure, wondering if she’d done something wrong.

  “Lie back,” he said, easing her to her back and stretching out on his side beside her. He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed. “I just need to catch my breath.”

  But he didn’t catch his breath, instead he frowned down at her, as if trying to puzzle out some frustrating mystery.

  “Anna.” His frown deepened. “I want to make love with you.”

  “Isn’t that what that was, lovemaking?”

  “Let me be blunt: I want to fornicate with you. Urgently.”

  “Urgently,” Anna repeated, still perplexed.

  “Here.” He took her hand in his and rolled to his back, putting her palm over his very evident erection. “I want you.”

  She didn’t pull away as she should have but gently shaped him along his length.

  “This does not feel very comfortable,” she said, knowing exactly what was beneath her fingers. She should be repulsed, but with him, she was fascinated.

  “If you keep that up,” the earl cautioned, “the urgency will only become greater.”

  She did keep it up but rolled to her side to peer at his face.

  “And then what?” Anna asked, wanting badly to undo his breeches, knowing she could never manage it.

  “I am not a rapist,” the earl said, closing his eyes. “But I will want badly to spend. Very badly.” Anna passed a long, thoughtful moment, stroking at him lazily. His hips began to undulate minutely as she mentally rooted around and tried to find the reasons why she should get up and walk straight into the nice, cold stream.

  “What does that mean?” Anna said, using her nails to scratch along the rigid length of him through the fabric.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” He closed his eyes then pushed her hands away. She thought he was going plunge into the stream, or at least get up and stomp away, but instead, he undid the fall of his breeches and shoved them down over his hips then hiked up his shirt to his ribs.

  “Please, love.” He took her hand and wrapped it around his erection. “Just bring me off and have done with it.”

  To her shock, his hand was moving hers, stroking it along this very odd part of him, while Anna watched, shamelessly inspecting something she hadn’t seen by the light of day at this range ever before. His skin was soft, smooth, and slightly pink, particularly around the head of his penis. The actual length of him, though, was surprisingly thick, rigid, and hot.

  “Like that,” he rasped. “Jesus, yes, just like that.”

  His hips moved in counterpoint to the way she was stroking him, and his fingers closed more tightly around hers. This had to be hurting him, she thought distractedly, as his back was arched, his jaw clenched, and the muscles of his neck taut.

  “God, Anna, don’t stop,” he warned just when she would have said something. “That feels too good… Jesus Christ.” His breath soughed out on a long, groaning sigh as a milky liquid spurted rhythmically over their fingers and onto the bare flesh of his stomach.

  His hand went still over hers, but he kept their fingers laced.

  “Dear, sweet, merciful God.” He sighed, opening his eyes. “I did not plan for this to happen, Anna. Have we a napkin to hand?”

  Dumbly, she handed him one, her eyes fixed on his softening penis.

  “Can I let go now?”

  “You may,” he replied, frowning at her. He swiped at himself with the napkin and then tossed it aside.

  “Does it hurt?” Anna nodded at him, and he regarded her carefully.

  “You haven’t done this before.”

  “I didn’t know one could,” she said, not taking her eyes off his groin. “Or two could. It looked uncomfortable for you.”

  “Arousal has an element of discomfort to it, until satisfied, and then it is pleasurable beyond description.” He did not move to tuck himself up, and she did not stop looking.

  “One would not necessarily reach that conclusion, watching you,” Anna said. “But you are not… aroused now?”

  “No.” His smile was sweet, pleased. “If you keep looking at me like that, I will be again soon.”

  “May I touch you?”

  “Just be gentle, but indulge your curiosity however you please.”

  Anna didn’t want to ask any more questions, feeling she’d revealed quite enough ignorance to a man who was utterly blasé about something so odd she could barely comprehend it. />
  So she let her fingers ask the questions, traveling along the softening length of him, lifting him this way and that, manipulating his foreskin and exploring his testicles, all with a frown of deepest puzzlement on her face, while he obligingly kept his eyes closed and gave every appearance of a man dozing off.

  “You are…”—she waved a hand over his genitals—“becoming unrelaxed again.”

  He opened his eyes and smiled. “You are a treasure. Let me hold you.”

  When Anna hesitated, he tugged her down to his side, tucking her under his arm, her head on his shoulder. He lifted his hips to tug up his breeches but left the falls open and himself half exposed.

  “If I touched you again,” Anna asked, “would you do that a second time?”

  “With you? At least three times, eventually. A man does need some time to recover, though. Anna…?”

  “Hmm?” Her hand was resting over his cock, but just that, not moving him nor attempting any further exploration.

  “Thank you.” The earl’s eyes drifted shut. “There’s a great deal more to be said, of course, and soon, but for now, thank you.”

  Anna didn’t know what to say to that, for she felt like thanking him, too. She had shared something with him, something wicked and dear and dangerous, and yet it was as he’d said. Her clothes were on and her physical virtue uncompromised. He had given her knowledge, of his body and of him, but he had not demanded comparable knowledge of her.

  Maybe he would, Anna thought. Maybe that was the “great deal more” yet to be discussed. She hoped not, because as much as she might want to, she could not afford to allow him those liberties, not if she valued her freedom.

  Six

  “COME.” THE EARL HELD OUT A HAND AND GRABBED the hamper, putting the blankets on top. “We need to talk, and the library will be less gloomy than the kitchen.”

  They’d had to sprint for the kitchen when a summer squall had caught them napping on their blankets, and the rapid shift from pleasantly dozing to a dead run still had Anna disoriented. She put her hand in his but found she dreaded this talking he wanted. Words could land with the force of a blow, and she was going to hurt herself with what must be said, and very likely anger him, as well.

  When they arrived at the library, he pulled the cushions from the window seats and fashioned a nest on the floor with those and the blankets. Retrieving the champagne bottle from the hamper and cracking one window, he settled cross-legged on the blanket and watched her as Anna moved restlessly around the room.

  “Have some.” He held up the bottle. “We can swill from the bottle like heathens if it won’t offend you.” She joined him and took a pull from the bottle.

  “You are sworn to secrecy,” she warned him. “Mrs. Seaton does not tipple.”

  “Neither does Westhaven.” He followed her example. “Heir to a bloody duke, you know.”

  In that moment, she lost a piece of her heart to him. His hair was curling damply against his neck, his clothing was in disarray, and he was sitting cross-legged on the floor of an empty room, swilling champagne. In that posture, in his dishevelment, with grave humor dancing in his green eyes, the Earl of Westhaven was impossibly dear to her.

  “I like that look in your eye, Anna,” he said. “It bodes well for a man housebound with little to do.”

  “You are lusty,” she said, not a little surprised.

  “Not particularly,” the earl said, passing her the bottle. “Or not any more than others of my age and station. But I am lusty as hell with you, dear lady.”

  His expression softened, the humor shifting to a tenderness she hadn’t seen in him before.

  She put aside the bottle. “That look does not bode well for a mere housekeeper who wants to preserve her paltry little reputation.”

  He reached into the hamper to retrieve her hairbrush, untying a hair ribbon from its handle. “We traveled in an open carriage, Anna, and when this rain blows over, I’ll have you directly back to Town. You never even let me get a hand on your delicate ankles.”

  “That isn’t the magnitude of the problem, and you know it.”

  “I can see we are going to have a substantial discussion. At least let me put your hair to rights so you can’t glare at me while we do.”

  “I do not reproach you for what happened outside,” Anna said, scooting around to present him her back.

  “Good.” The earl kissed her neck. “I want to reproach myself, but at present, I just feel too damned pleased with life, you know? Perhaps in a day or two I will get around to being ashamed, but, Anna, I would not bet on it.”

  She could hear the uncharacteristic smile in his voice, and thought: I put that smile there, just by sharing with him a few minutes of self-indulgence.

  “I am not ashamed, either.” Anna tried on the lie. “Well, only a little, but this direction could easily become shameful, and I would not want that. For you or for me, as we are not shameful people.”

  “You will not be my mistress,” Westhaven said, sifting his hands through her hair in long, gentle sweeps. “And you did not sound too keen on being a wife.”

  Anna closed her eyes. “I said it depended on whose wife, but no, in the general case, taking a husband does not appeal.”

  “Why not?” He started with the brush in the same slow, steady movements. “Taking a husband has some advantages, you know.”

  “Name one.”

  “He brings you pleasure,” the earl said, his voice dropping. “Or he damned well should. He provides for your comfort, gives you babies. He grows old with you, providing companionship and friendship; he shares your burdens and lightens your sorrows. Good sort of fellow to have around, a husband.”

  “Hah.” Anna wanted to peer over her shoulder at him, but his hold on her hair prevented it.

  “He owns you and the produce of your body,” she retorted. “He has the right to demand intimate access to you at any time or place of his choosing, and strike you and injure you should you refuse him, or simply because he considers you in need of a beating. He can virtually sell your children, and you have nothing to say to it. He need not be loyal or faithful, and still you must admit him to your body, regardless of his bodily or moral appeal, or lack thereof. A very dangerous and unpleasant thing, a husband.”

  The earl was silent behind her, winding her hair into a long braid.

  “Were your parents happy?” he asked at length.

  “I believe they were, and my grandparents were.”

  “As are mine, as were mine,” the earl said, fishing her hair ribbon out of his pocket and tying off her braid. “Can you not trust yourself, Anna, to choose the kind of husband I describe rather than that nightmare you recount?”

  “The choice of a woman’s husband is often not hers, and the way a man presents himself when courting is not how he will necessarily behave when his wife is fat with his third child a few years later.”

  “A housekeeper sees things from a curious and unpleasant perspective.” He hunched forward to wrap his arms around her shoulders. “But, Anna, what about the example of our parents? The duke and duchess when they open an evening with the waltz still command every eye. They dance well, so well they move as one, and they function that way in life, too. My father adores my mother, and she sees only the best in him.”

  “They are happy,” Anna said, “but what is your point? They are also very lucky, as you and I both know.”

  “You will not be my mistress,” the earl said again, “and you are very leery of becoming a wife, but what, Anna, would you think of becoming a duchess?”

  He said the words close to her ear, the heat and scent of him surrounding her, and she couldn’t stop the shudder that passed through her at his question.

  “Most women,” she said as evenly as she could, “would not object to becoming a duchess, but look at your parents’ example. Had I to become your father’s duchess, I would likely do the man an injury.”

  “And what if you were to become my duchess?” the earl whis
pered, settling his lips on the juncture of her shoulder and neck. “Would that be such a dangerous and unpleasant thing?”

  She absorbed the question and understood that he was asking a hypothetical question, not offering a proposal. In that moment, her heart broke. It flew into a thousand hurting pieces, right there in her chest. Her breath wouldn’t come, her lungs felt heavy with pain, and an ache radiated out from her middle as if old age were overcoming her in the space of an instant.

  And even if it had been a proposal, she was in no position to accept.

  “Anna, love?” He nuzzled at her. “Do you think I would be such a loathsome, overbearing lout?”

  “You would not,” she said, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “Whomever you took to wife would be very, very blessed.”

  “So you will have me?” He drew her back against him, resting an arm across her collarbones.

  “Have you?”Anna sat up and slewed around. “You are proposing to me?”

  “I am proposing to you,” he said. “If you’ll have me as your husband, I would like you to be my duchess.”

  “Oh, God help us,” Anna said under her breath, rising abruptly, and going to a long window.

  He rose slowly. “That is not an expression of acceptance.”

  “You do me great honor,” Anna said mechanically, “but I cannot accept your generous offer, my lord.”

  “No my lording,” he chided. “Not after the way we’ve been behaving, Anna.”

  “It will have to be my lording, and Mrs. Seatoning, as well, until I can find another post.”

  “I never took you for a coward, Anna,” he said, but there was more disappointment than anger in his voice.

  “Were I free to accept you,” she said, turning to face him, “I would still be hesitant.” She left the my lord off, not wishing to anger him needlessly, but it was there in her tone, and he no doubt heard it.

  “What would cause your hesitation?”

  “I’m not duchess material, and we hardly know each other.”

  “You are as much duchess material as I am duke material,” he countered, “and few titled couples know each other as well as we already do, Anna Seaton. You know I like marzipan and music and my horse. I know you like flowers, beauty, cleanliness, and pretty scents.”