The Heir do-1

by Grace Burrowes

  “Why do you tell me this? It cannot be easy to part with such a confidence; not for you, and not to me.”

  “I am meddling,” Douglas confessed, his blue eyes warming with humor. “I have my wife’s permission, so it isn’t quite as difficult as if I were acting without her knowledge.”

  “Meddling?”

  “Encouraging your situation with Mrs. Seaton,” Douglas clarified. “I believe you would suit.”

  “As do I. She is not of like mind.”

  “Then you must change her mind. If that means a very slow recovery, then so be it. You are the Moreland heir, after all, and no chances must be taken with your health.”

  The earl smiled crookedly. “A slow recovery… by God. I never stood a chance against you, did I?”

  “One hoped not.” Douglas rose. “Though you assuredly scared the hell out of me and put rather a wrench in my plans with Guinevere. You were never my enemy, nor hers. Rather, the duke was the common nuisance.”

  Douglas left the bedroom to admit Anna bearing a tray. She stayed with the patient when the viscount departed, and the next hour was spent nagging Westhaven to eat, making him as comfortable as she could, and letting him drift off to sleep until he woke in the small hours of the morning.

  “Anna?” His voice was a croak.

  “Here.” She rose from the chair and sat on the bed at his hip.

  “Feel like hell.”

  “Your fever is high,” Anna said, the back of her hand on his forehead. “Now that you are awake, I can sponge you off, if you’d like. It will cool you down and probably soothe your skin, as well.”

  He nodded, and Anna brought bath sheets, a basin, and sponge to the bed. She got him arranged on top of the covers, his lower half covered by a blanket, the rest of him exposed and resting on layers of toweling.

  “Fairly had a groom deliver this. It’s witch hazel and some herbal infusions to help your skin heal.” The cool sponge touched his skin, and Westhaven sighed. She brought it again and again down the length of his back, his arms, his shoulders, and sides, then shifted the blanket to bathe his legs and feet. She started the whole process over again and again, until he was nearly resting comfortably, his fever abating. By morning, Westhaven could honestly say he was at least no worse.

  There was a discreet tap on the door, and then the viscount was with them, looking refreshed and ready for his day.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Seaton, or might I call you Anna?” he asked. “And good morning, Westhaven.” He laid his hand on the earl’s forehead and frowned. “Better than I thought you might be.”

  He shooed off Anna to Gwen’s company, leaving the men alone.

  “How is it,” Douglas asked his patient, “your fever responds only to her touch, hmm?”

  “Shut up,” the earl replied tiredly. “She put something in the water, if you must know. I think it helps.”

  By the time Douglas had clean sheets on the bed and Westhaven extracted from his morning bath, the patient was once again growing drowsy. Douglas forced more willow bark tea down the hapless earl’s gullet, tucked him in, and left him dozing peacefully beside his borrowed guardian bear.

  The next day was a mosaic of little activities and naps. Val sent out a note saying he’d visit shortly, Westhaven penned a note to His Grace, explaining that he was making a visit to Rose at Welbourne. Rose did visit her uncle, but Westhaven invariably found that fifteen minutes into any task or visit, he needed to either use the chamber pot or to nap or both.

  The evening passed just as slowly, with Anna first beating him at cribbage then reading to him from a translation of Caesar’s Gallic letters. He dozed in that twilight between sleeping and waking, aware of her voice but not the sense of her words. He did rise to wakefulness when she fell silent, but only to open his eyes and see Anna had paused, her own eyes closed, the book facedown on her lap. Sensing she was tired, he did not disturb her but let himself slip back into sleep.

  The night was difficult for them both, with the earl again dozing between bouts of higher fever and Anna tending him as best she could. Sponge baths helped, but not as much as either of them wished.

  “I think you would be more comfortable if we doused you in cool water from head to toe,” Anna said as the clock struck two.

  “That would involve moving, and right now, Anna, it hurts to breathe.”

  “But if we can get your fever down it won’t hurt as much.”

  “If you insist.” The earl made the monumental effort to push himself to the edge of the bed, but he needed Anna’s assistance to climb into the tub and lower himself to the water. In less than ten minutes, his teeth were chattering, though to the touch, the water was almost warm. Anna got him out of the tub and wrapped him in bath sheets to sit by the fire while she toweled his hair dry.

  “So tomorrow night should be easier?”

  “It should,” Anna said. “In adults, this sickness can be much more severe than in children.”

  “Do you have children?” the earl asked from the depths of the towel around his head.

  Her hands went still, but her voice was steady when she answered. “I do not. Do you?”

  “None. But marry me, Anna, and you can have all the children you can carry.” In fact, he would enjoy having children with her, he thought, feeling—in the midst of his other discomforts—his cock stir.

  “I will not marry you,” she said, going to stand behind him. He felt the first gentle tug of the brush through his hair. “But you should have children. You will be a very good father, and children will be good for you.”

  “How so?” He closed his eyes, the better to enjoy the feel of the brush stroking gently across his scalp. “My father has hardly given me an example I want to emulate.”

  “That’s just bluster.” Anna waved a hand. “You paint him as a pompous, self-important, old-fashioned aristocrat, but he apparently went to tremendous lengths to attempt to secure access to his granddaughter.”

  “Ridiculous lengths,” Westhaven said. “I would regale you with the details, but I hardly have the strength to keep my eyes open.” He rose under his own power when Anna put down the brush, but grabbed her hand when he sat on the bed and brought it to his forehead. “I must trust you and Amery when you tell me I am following the predictable course for this illness, but I don’t feel myself improving, particularly.”

  “Nor are you worsening, particularly.”

  “True.” He closed his eyes and inhaled the rosy fragrance of her skin. “If I should worsen, you must promise me not to let His Grace inflict his cronies on me.”

  Anna leaned in and kissed his forehead.

  “I will not let your father bother you. It has occurred to me that were you in need of someone to guard you from his mischief, Lord Amery and his wife are probably better equipped to do that than the Queen’s own.”

  “Come to think of it, you are right. I will sleep better for the realization.”

  She tucked in the covers around him, laid a hand on his forehead, then smoothed back his hair. When his breathing evened out into sleep, she blew out the candles, banked the fire, and drew the extra blanket around her shoulders. As she curled down to rest her cheek against the bed, she felt the earl’s hand stroking her hair in a slow, repetitive caress. The tenderness of the gesture soothed them both, and Anna soon followed him into slumber.

  Eight

  “YOUR GRACE WILL NOT DISTURB A GUEST UNDER my roof.”

  Douglas’s voice, raised but not quite shouting, came from the corridor as Anna blinked herself awake. Dear God, the duke was going to find her in here, sprawled beside…

  She hopped off the bed, shaking the earl’s shoulder firmly.

  “My lord,” she hissed, “wake up.” He groaned and rolled, the covers slipping down his naked, spotted torso. “My lord!” He curled to his side, frowning.

  “Gayle Tristan Montmorency Windham, wake up!”

  “I am awake,” he said, automatically shoving the blankets aside, “and feeling like he
ll. Make way, lest I embarrass myself.”

  “Your father is here,” Anna informed him, thrusting his dressing gown at him.

  “Stand aside, Amery.” The duke’s voice rang with authority and disdain. “You will not keep a man from his son’s sick bed, or the magistrate will know the reason why.”

  “Hurry.” The earl shoved his arms into his dressing gown, his father’s voice galvanizing him. “Find the book,” he ordered, and in a feat of desperate strength, shoved the tub across the room behind the privacy screen. Anna tossed the covers back over the bed, opened the drapes, and pulled two chairs up to the hearth.

  “Your son is not an infant,” Douglas said with equal disdain. “He does not need his papa checking up on him. You will please wait in the parlor like any civilized caller, even at this uncivilized hour.”

  “You insult your betters, Amery,” the duke stormed, “and you would not know a father’s affection if it landed on the back of your horse. I will see my son.” The door crashed open, causing Anna to look up from where she was tending the hearth. She rose slowly but kept hold of the poker.

  “Westhaven.” The duke marched up to his son, who was reading Caesar by the hearth. “What are you doing rusticating here, when you should be in the care of our personal physicians?”

  “Do I look ill?” Westhaven stood and raised a lordly eyebrow at his father, who did not quite match his son in height. “Or any more ill than I usually appear, as fatigue is a constant companion when one has as much to see to as I do.”

  Douglas stifled a snort at that but quickly frowned as two rotund gentlemen pushed past him into the room, having obviously escaped the barrier of footmen at the foot of the stairs.

  “We can examine him immediately, Your Grace,” the shorter of the two said, opening a black satchel. “If the young lady would please leave us?”

  “Out, girl,” the duke barked at Anna.

  “I don’t answer to you, my lord,” Anna barked right back. “If your son were sick, his health would be best served by allowing him rest, Your Grace. I suggest you take your minions and wait in the parlor, lest Lord Amery be the one to summon the magistrate to eject trespassers.”

  The duke glared at his host. “Amery, your help is insufferable.”

  “No, Your Grace,” Westhaven bit out with the same disdain Anna had shown. “You are insufferable. I am here to visit my niece, and there is no call whatsoever for you to interfere. You have, as usual, caused a great deal of drama at the expense of others, for your own entertainment. Your absence would be appreciated.”

  “And how about mine?” Valentine Windham strolled into the room. “Westhaven, my apologies. I have no idea how His Grace has managed to track you here. Shall I engage in a physical display of disrespect toward our parent?”

  “This I must see,” said another masculine voice from the corridor.

  A tall, dark-haired man with icy blue eyes sauntered in behind Lord Valentine.

  “Greymoor.” Douglas nodded, his eyes glinting with humor.

  “Amery.” The latest player on the stage nodded in return.

  “What is he doing here?” the duke thundered, glaring at Greymoor. “And I suppose your rakehell brother is bringing up the rear?”

  Greymoor offered a slight bow. “The marquis may join us shortly, but was up most of the night with a colicky infant, which this fellow,” Greymoor cocked an eyebrow at the earl, “is most assuredly not.”

  “I insist that I be assured of his health, and immediately,” the duke snapped. “Woman, you will leave this room, or I will physically see to it myself.”

  “Lay a hand on her,” the earl interjected softly, “and you will see just how robust I can be, Papa.” Unbidden, Douglas, Valentine, and Greymoor shifted to flank Anna and the earl by the hearth.

  “I will not have this,” the duke shouted. “A man has the right to be assured of the health of his heir!”

  “Grandpapa! ” Rose trumpeted from the doorway. “Shame on you! There is a no-shouting-in-the-house rule, just as there is a no-running-in-the-barn rule.”

  And clearly, her tone said, a grandpapa was expected to know and obey the rules.

  “Rose,” the duke said, his volume substantially decreased, “if you will excuse us, poppet, your uncles and I were just having a small disagreement.”

  Rose crossed her arms over her skinny chest. “You were the one yelling, Grandpapa, and you didn’t apologize.”

  To the amazement of all, the duke nodded at his older son and at Lord Amery. “Gentlemen, my apologies for raising my voice to a level that disturbed my granddaughter.”

  “Apology accepted,” Westhaven ground out.

  “Now, poppet,” the duke said with exaggerated patience, “will you excuse us?”

  “Papa?” Rose turned to her step-father, who held out a hand to her.

  “No need to go just yet, Rose,” he said. She bounded over to him and was soon perched on his hip. The duke, looking frustrated beyond bearing, stomped out of the room, snapping his fingers to indicate his lackeys were to follow.

  Greymoor closed the door and locked it. Val went to assist his brother into a chair, and Douglas tossed Rose onto the bed.

  “Grandpapa was in a temper,” Rose said, bouncing on the mattress. “His neck was red, and I think his physicians ought to examine him.”

  “Apoplexy isn’t something I would wish on even him,” Douglas said. “Rose, don’t bounce so high, you’ll hit the canopy.” This inspired Rose to reach up and try to touch the canopy on every leap, while Val scowled at his brother.

  “You really do not look well, Westhaven,” he concluded. “How in the hell did His Grace get word you were ill in the first place?”

  “I know not,” the earl replied wearily.

  “Spies,” Greymoor said. “Might I have an introduction to the other lovely lady in the room before we get to that?”

  “My apologies,” Douglas said. “Mrs. Anna Seaton, may I make known to you Andrew Alexander, Lord Greymoor. Mrs. Seaton is visiting with us while Westhaven recuperates.”

  “What about me?” Rose flopped down on the bed. “You didn’t bow to me, Cousin Andrew.”

  “You get off that bed and make a proper curtsy,” Lord Andrew said, “and I will make you a proper bow.” He scooped up Rose as she made an elaborate curtsy. “Magic misses you,” Lord Andrew whispered. “He’s telling George just how much right now.”

  “Oh, can I go visit Sir Magic before you leave?” Rose squealed, perfectly content to remain cuddled against her mother’s cousin.

  “Of course, but I think there are weighty matters to discuss first.” He sat on the bed with Rose and tossed an expectant look at the earl. “Westhaven, what’s wrong with you?”

  “He has the chicken pox,” Rose volunteered. “You know, where you get all spotty and itchy and cranky?”

  “I noticed the cranky part.” Greymoor nodded. “You must have a serious case, Westhaven, the symptoms have been in evidence for some time. I don’t see the spots, though.”

  In reply, the earl hiked the sleeve of his dressing gown, exposing a spotty, hairy, muscular forearm.

  “Poor blighter,” Lord Andrew murmured. “Had ’em myself when I was seven.”

  “Seems we’ve all had them,” Lord Valentine commented, “except for Fairly.”

  Westhaven sat down wearily. “I am told I’m recuperating despite the absence of a quack, but it seems we should send somebody downstairs to keep His Grace from further mischief.”

  “I’ll go with you, Douglas,” Greymoor said, “and referee your entertainment of the duke. Val, can you valet your brother?”

  “Of course.” Val rose and extended a hand to Anna. “Mrs. Seaton, as my brother appears to be recovering, you have my thanks.” He drew her to her feet, smiling a particularly warm smile.

  “Anna?” Westhaven caught her eye, and she turned a curious gaze on him. “My thanks, as well.” She nodded and silently took her leave.

  “Come, Rose.” Greymoor s
natched up his small cousin. “We have an assignation in the stable with two handsome knights.”

  Val closed the door behind the entourage and met his brother’s eyes.

  “I will raid Amery’s wardrobe,” Val said, “and then we will talk, brother.”

  The instant his brother was gone, Westhaven stepped behind the privacy screen, making the best use of the rare moment of solitude. God, how had his brother Victor survived the years of being an invalid, with no privacy, no hope, no possibility of recovery?

  Looking as healthy as he possibly could, flanked by his brother, his host, and Lord Greymoor, Westhaven spent the next hour balancing the need to control his father with the respect due one’s ducal sire. It was a long, largely unpleasant hour, made bearable only by Greymoor’s willingness to occasionally distract the duke with insolent humor, and then, before His Grace got truly bilious, with talk of horses.

  When the others had drifted off, leaving the duke alone with his heir and his spare, His Grace speared his son with a hard look.

  “You two.” The duke shook his head. “Don’t think I am not appreciative of the interest you take in our Rose, but I know you’re up to something, and I won’t rest until I know what it is.”

  “Tell me,” Westhaven asked, his tone bored, “does Her Grace know you’ve gone haring off in this downpour to bother Amery with your odd starts?”

  “Your mother should not be needlessly worried.”

  “And wasn’t it just such weather that precipitated your near fatal bout of lung fever, Your Grace?”

  “Hush, boy,” the duke hissed. “Don’t be making your mother to fret, I say. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Behave yourself, and we won’t have to tattle on you, Your Grace. Don’t behave yourself, and you will leave us no choice.”

  “Behave myself.” The duke scowled. “Behave myself; this from a grown man who has no mistress, no wife, no fiancée… Behave myself. You behave yourself, Westhaven, and see to the succession.”

  He swept out with perfect ducal hauteur, leaving Val and his brother to roll their eyes behind His Grace’s back. The silence, in the wake of the duke’s ranting and posturing, was profoundly comforting.