The Heir do-1

by Grace Burrowes

  “Sit,” Val said. “Or would you prefer to return to your room?”

  “I should go back upstairs,” the earl replied. “But, Val? I think he’s getting worse. More heedless, to come out here and invade Amery’s home… Gwen and Douglas would have been within their rights to have him barred from their property.”

  “He is Rose’s grandfather,” Val said as they gained Westhaven’s room. “But I agree. Since Victor died, and since his own illness, I think our papa has become almost obsessed with the need for heirs.”

  “I nominate you.”

  “And I nominate you,” Val responded. “Shall we sit?”

  “We shall. I find my energy greatly depleted; though rest is helpful, the effect is temporary. When I lie down, I go out like the proverbial candle.”

  “I’ll get your boots.” Val pushed him into a wing chair, hauled off his brother’s boots, and ordered them up some breakfast.

  “So you spent three nights with Mrs. Seaton,” Val said, apropos of nothing.

  “I did,” the earl admitted, closing his eyes. “I behaved, Valentine.” Barely, but he did. “She is a decent woman, and I would not force my attentions on any female.”

  “Your attentions?” Val’s eyebrows rose. “His Grace will be marching you both down the aisle posthaste if he learns of your folly.”

  “She won’t be marched, and neither will I. He did that to me once before, Val, and I won’t let it happen again.”

  “He did it to you, and he did it to Gwen, who had one hell of a lot more family at her back than Mrs. Seaton does. If he can outflank Heathgate, Amery, Greymoor, and Fairly, what chance would one little housekeeper stand against him?”

  “You raise a disturbing point, Valentine”—the earl frowned—“though His Grace manipulated Gwen into accepting my proposal largely by threatening her family. If Mrs. Seaton has no family, then she is less vulnerable to His Grace’s machinations.”

  “Talk to her, Westhaven.” Val rose and went to answer a tap on the door. “Make her understand what risks she’s dealing with, and just what a desperate duke will do to see his heir wed.” He opened the door, admitting a footman pushing a breakfast trolley.

  As the earl joined his brother for tea, toast, and a few slices of orange, he considered that Val was right: If Anna Seaton had weaknesses or vulnerabilities, it was best she disclose them to the earl, for sooner or later, if the duke learned of them, he would be exploiting them.

  And as much as Westhaven sensed they could make a good job of marriage to one another, the earl would not under any circumstances accept Anna Seaton served up as his wife, bound and gagged by the duke’s infernal mischief.

  Westhaven healed, albeit slowly, and had to agree with Douglas that what was needed was mostly sleep. On the third day, the rain stopped, on the fourth, the earl slept through the night. On the fifth, he began to grouse about returning home and was marshaling his arguments in the solitude of his room when Rose cajoled him into a visit to the stables. He managed to groom his horse and entertain Rose with a few stories of her father.

  But the outing, tame as it was, had been taxing and left him overdue for a stint in bed, much to his disgust. He parted company from Rose, sending her off to draw pictures of the stories he’d told her, and sank down on his bed.

  He had a feeling something was off, not right somehow in a nagging way. He peeled out of his clothes and stretched out on the mattress, but still, the sense of something missing wouldn’t leave him.

  Anna, he realized as he slipped between the freshly laundered sheets. He’d gone all of two or three hours without seeing her, and her absence was tolling in the back of his mind. All the more reason, he thought, closing his eyes, to get back to Town where his routine would prevent prolonged periods of proximity such as they’d had at Welbourne.

  Wanting to bed the woman—even offering to wed her—wasn’t the same as wanting to live in her pocket, after all. A man would have to be besotted to allow feelings like that.

  Nine

  A WEEK SPENT AT LORD AMERY’S HAD CREATED DEFINITE changes in the way Westhaven went on with the object of his unbesottedness. By necessity, while in Surrey he’d kept his hands to himself, and the enforced discipline had yielded some odd rewards.

  Anna, for example, had touched him, and in ways a housekeeper would never have touched her employer. She’d bathed him, shaved him, brushed his hair, dressed and undressed him, and even dozed beside him on the big bed. As soon as his fever had abated, she’d left his most personal care to others, but the damage had been done.

  Or, Westhaven thought as he tugged on his boot, the ground had been gained.

  He had also had a chance to observe her over longer periods of time and watch more carefully how she interacted with others. The more he saw, however, the more puzzled he became. The little clues added up… and not to the conclusion that she was a mere housekeeper.

  “What on earth has put that frown on your face?” Devlin St. Just came strolling into the earl’s townhouse bedchamber, dressed to ride and sporting a characteristic charming grin.

  “I am considering a lady,” the earl replied, scrounging under his bed for the second boot.

  “And frowning. What seek you under the bed, Westhaven? The lady?”

  “My damned boot,” Westhaven said, extracting the missing footwear. “I sent Stenson off to Brighton with Val, to assure myself some privacy, but the result is I must look after my own effects.” He pulled on the boot, sat back, and smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit?”

  “Val commissioned me to keep an eye on you,” Dev said, plopping down on the end of the bed. “Said he was decoying Stenson, so the state of your health would not become common knowledge in the ducal household.”

  “I am still very obviously recovering from the chicken pox,” the earl admitted. “At least, it’s very obvious when I am unclothed; hence, Stenson was sent elsewhere.”

  “His Grace came by to interrogate me.” Dev leaned back on his elbows. “Knowing nothing, I could, as usual, divulge nothing. He looked particularly choleric to me, Westhaven. Are you and he at outs?”

  “I don’t think he tolerates the heat well,” Westhaven said, glancing around the room for his cravat. He’d ring for his housekeeper, who seemed to know where his clothing got off to better than he did, but with Dev on the bed, that wasn’t an option.

  “He’d tolerate the heat better if he unbent a little in his attire,” Dev said. “He was in full regalia at two in the afternoon on a sweltering day. I’m surprised Her Grace lets him go about like that.”

  “She chooses her battles,” Westhaven said, spying a clean pair of cravats in his wardrobe. “Do me up, would you? Nothing fancy.” He held up the linen, and Dev rose from the bed.

  “So where are you off to? Chinny up.” He whipped the linen into a simple, elegant, and perfectly symmetric knot in moments.

  “The wharves, unfortunately,” Westhaven said, now seeking his waistcoat.

  “Why unfortunately?” Dev asked, watching his brother root around in the wardrobe.

  “The stench in this heat is nigh unbearable,” Westhaven replied, extracting a lightweight green and gold paisley waistcoat from the wardrobe.

  “Hadn’t thought of that. And here I thought being the heir was largely a matter of dancing with all the wallflowers and bellowing His Grace into submission every other Tuesday.”

  “Don’t suppose you’d like to join me?” Westhaven asked, his goal now to locate a suitable pin for his cravat.

  “I have lived these thirty and more years,” Dev said, plucking a gold pin from the vanity, “without experiencing the olfactory pleasure of the wharves on an unbearably hot day. We must remedy my ignorance. Hold still.”

  He deftly dealt with the cravat and stood back to survey the results.

  “You’ll do.” He nodded. “If you attempt to wear your coat before we arrive, I will disown you for lunacy.”

  “You can’t disown me. You’ve been formally recogn
ized.”

  “Then I’ll tattle to Her Grace,” Dev said, grabbing his own coat, “and tell her you’ve been ill.”

  “For God’s sake, Dev.” Westhaven stopped and glared. “Don’t even joke about such a thing. Fairly reports that a serious bout of chicken pox in an adult male has been blamed for a loss of reproductive function in rare cases. His Grace will have me stripped and studied within an inch of my most private life.”

  “No, he will not. You’ll not allow it, neither will I, neither will Val.”

  “I do not put the use of force past him,” Westhaven said as they traversed the house. “You think he appears choleric, Val, and I think he’s become less constrained by appearances.”

  “He’s afraid of dying,” Dev suggested, “and he wants his legacy assured. And, possibly, he wants to please Her Grace.”

  “Possibly,” Westhaven allowed as they reached the stables. “But enough of that depressing topic. How fares your dear Bridget?”

  “Alas.” Dev rolled his eyes. “She has taken me into disfavor or taken another into greater favor.”

  “Well, which is it? One wants the dirty details.”

  “Unbeknownst to me”—Devlin rolled his sleeve down then right back up—“my Bridget had a potential Mr. Bridget waiting for her in Windsor. One cannot in good conscience thwart the course of true love. She lacked only for a modest dowry.”

  “You dowered your doxy, thus proving you are a Windham,” Westhaven said. “Though you do not bear the name, you yet have His Grace’s inability to deal badly with a woman you care for.”

  “Perhaps his only redeeming feature,” Dev said. “Hullo, sweetheart.” Morgan was walking out of the stables, a kitten in her hand. She offered them a perfunctory curtsy but went on her way, keeping her customary silence.

  “Is she simple?”

  “Not in the least.” Westhaven mounted Pericles and waited while Dev used the mounting block in his turn. “She does not speak, or not clearly, and can hear only a little, or so Val says. But she works hard and is a favorite of the older staff. She arrived with my housekeeper several months ago.”

  “The one with you at Amery’s?” Dev asked with studied nonchalance.

  “The very one.” Westhaven shot him a look that said he wasn’t fooled by Dev’s tone. “What exactly do you want to know that you weren’t able to get out of Val?”

  “Where did you find her? I am in the market for same.”

  “I lured her to my employ with my endless buckets of charm,” Westhaven said dryly.

  “You are charming,” Dev said when they were trotting along. “You just can’t afford to be flirtatious, as well.”

  Westhaven aimed a smile at his brother, grateful for the simple understanding and support. His was grateful, as well, for his brother’s continued company throughout the rest of the afternoon, as Dev was well versed in the mechanics of bringing a cargo to or from Ireland, which was the particular focus of Westhaven’s errand.

  “I am beyond glad to have that particular situation resolved,” Westhaven said as they trotted into his mews. “I didn’t know you exported your stock to France.”

  “Now that the Corsican is properly half a world away, there is a raging demand for horses on the Continent. The French cavalry that galloped off to Moscow in ’12 boasted something like forty thousand horses. As best we can calculate, within a year, there were less than two thousand suitable mounts. If it has four hooves and will take a bridle, I can find a buyer on the Continent.”

  “Enterprising of you. What are you doing for dinner?” Westhaven asked as they swung down from their saddles. “In fact, as you are without a housekeeper, what are you doing for the next little while?”

  Devlin’s expression closed, but not before the earl saw the shadows clouding his eyes. Dev had been to war and come home, thankfully, but as a veteran of every major battle on the Peninsula, the Hundred Days, and Waterloo itself, Dev had also left pieces of his soul all over the Continent.

  “If you’re thinking of a sortie to the Pleasure House,” Devlin said, “I will decline.”

  “Not my cup of tea.” Westhaven shook his head. “From what Val tells me, the place has lost a little of its brilliance. I wasn’t suggesting we go carousing, in any case, but rather that you move in with me and Val.”

  “Generous of you,” Dev said, pursing his lips in thought. “I have at least three horses needing stabling and regular work if they’re to be sold next spring as finished mounts.”

  “We’ve room,” Westhaven said. “I’ll confess to curiosity. Are your beasts so sought after you can live on the proceeds of those sales?”

  “Not just those sales,” Dev replied, though it was as personal a question as they’d ever exchanged. “But I’d appreciate having you look over my whole operation sometime, if you’ve a mind to. I am sure, with your more extensive commercial connections, you’ll see efficiencies I’ve overlooked.”

  Westhaven glanced over, but Dev was accomplished at keeping his emotions to himself. There was nothing to suggest the idea was anything other than a casual fancy.

  “I’d be happy to do that.”

  “You might make the same offer to Val, you know,” Dev said as they dismounted. “He imports instruments from all over the Continent and has two different manufactories producing pianos, but he hasn’t wanted to impose on you regarding some of the business questions.”

  “Val hasn’t wanted to impose on me? And you, Dev? Have you also not wanted to impose on me?”

  Dev met his eye squarely and nodded.

  “We do not envy you your burdens. We would not add to them.”

  “I see,” Westhaven muttered, scowling. “And is that all you have to offer me? Burdens? Were you not more knowledgeable than I regarding the harbor at Rosslare? The packet schedule to Calais?”

  “Westhaven, we think to spare you, not add to your load.”

  “My lord?” Anna Seaton stood to one side, her silly cap covering her glorious hair, her demeanor tentative, and it was a measure of the earl’s consternation with his brothers he hadn’t noticed her on the terrace.

  “Mrs. Seaton.” Westhaven smiled at her. “May I make known to you my dear brother, Devlin St. Just. St. Just, my housekeeper, florist, and occasional nurse, Mrs. Anna Seaton.”

  “My lord.” Anna bobbed a curtsy while St. Just bowed and offered a slight, not quite warm smile.

  “I am hardly a lord, Mrs. Seaton, being born on the wrong side of the ducal blanket, but I am acknowledged, thanks to Her Grace.”

  “And I have offered him a place in my household,” Westhaven said, meeting his brother’s eye, “if he will have it.”

  A beat of silence went by, rife with undercurrents. “He will have it,” Dev said on a grin, “until you toss me out.”

  “Val’s playing might take some getting used to,” Westhaven cautioned, “but Mrs. Seaton takes the best of care of us, even in this god-awful heat.”

  “Speaking of Lord Valentine?” Anna chimed in.

  “Yes?” Westhaven handed off Pericles to the groom and cocked an eyebrow. The cap was more atrocious than silly, he saw, and Anna seemed tense.

  “He writes he will be back from Brighton tomorrow,” Anna said, “and warns you might need to have some other task arranged for Mr. Stenson.”

  “I’ll take over Stenson,” Dev said. “My former housekeeper had no skill with a needle, so Mr. Stenson can be set to looking after my wardrobe for at least the next few days.”

  “That will help. Was there something further, Anna?”

  “I assume dinner will be for two, my lord, and on the terrace?”

  “That will do, and some lemonade while we wait for our victuals, I think. Which bedroom shall we put my brother in?”

  “There is only the one remaining at the back of the house, my lord. We have time to ready it before this evening.”

  He nodded, dismissing her but unable to take his eyes off her retreating figure until she was back through the garden gate. When he
turned back to his brother, Westhaven found Dev eying him curiously.

  “What?”

  “Marry her,” Dev said flatly. “She’s too pretty to be a housekeeper and too well spoken to be a doxy. She won’t be cowed by His Grace, and she’ll keep you in fresh linens and good food all your days.”

  “Dev?” Westhaven cocked his head. “Are you serious?”

  “I am. You have to marry, Westhaven. I would spare you that if I could, but there it is. This one will do admirably, and she’s better bred than the average housekeeper, I can tell you that.”

  “How can you tell me that?”

  “Her height for one thing,” Dev said as they made for the house. “The peasantry are rarely tall, and they never have such good teeth. Her diction is flawless, not simply adequate. Her skin is that of lady, as are her manners. And look at her hands, man. It remains true you can tell a lady by her hands, and those are the hands of a lady.”

  Westhaven frowned, saying nothing. Those were the very observations he had made of Anna while they rusticated at Amery’s. She was a lady, for all her wielding of dusters and wearing of caps.

  “And yet she says her grandfather was in trade,” Westhaven noted when they arrived to the kitchen. “He raised flowers commercially, and she bouquets the house with a vengeance. We’re also boasting a very well-stocked pantry and a supply of marzipan for me. The sweet of your choice will be stocked, as well, as I won’t take kindly to your pinching mine.”

  “Heaven forefend,” Dev muttered as Westhaven procured a fistful of cookies.

  “We are permitted to spoil our dinner, as well,” Westhaven said. “Grab the pitcher, the sugar bowl, and two glasses.”

  Dev did as bid and followed his brother back onto the shady back terrace. Westhaven poured them both a tall glass of lemonade, adding liberal amounts of sugar to his own.

  “I haven’t had lemonade since I was a lad,” Dev remarked when he’d chugged half of his. “It refreshes.”

  “Tastes better with extra sugar. Val adds cold tea to his. Try mine.”