The Heir do-1

by Grace Burrowes

  And he would most assuredly not have asked it of her, not in a million years.

  You shouldn’t have had to ask. He could hear Anna’s tart tones in his head, even as he knew the thought was also his own.

  Anna was different, he conceded. Just how different, he hadn’t accurately seen when he’d initially proposed. She held him at arm’s length, or tried to, then capitulated with sweet abandon, leaving him disoriented, so great had been his pleasure.

  “Love?” He raised up on his forearms and brushed her hair off her forehead. “How are you? You’re too quiet, and you leave a fellow to fret.”

  “I am… beyond words.” Anna smiled up at him. And he knew what thoughts were stirring in her busy brain: She should be vexed by this turn of events, troubled, dismayed, and she would be—soon. But not just yet, not with her body still languorous and pleased with itself, pleased with him.

  He kissed her forehead. “I hope you’re beyond words in a positive sense.”

  “I am.” She sighed and stretched, bringing her pelvis up against his.

  “None of that.” He smiled and nuzzled at her neck, then slipped lower, going up on his knees to take a nipple into his mouth. Anna merely cradled his head against her and sighed again.

  “Next time,” he murmured, resting against her sternum, “I will know where to start. You have sensitive breasts, my dear. Inspiringly so.”

  “None of that.”

  “None of what?” He raised his face to regard her in puzzlement.

  “None of that next-time talk,” Anna clarified. “This was a lapse.”

  Westhaven hung above her, considering, even as he ignored the considering being done by his cock. “We need to discuss this, and for that, you will have to be decently covered.”

  “I will?”

  His took his weight and warmth away from her and fortified himself with the disappointment in her voice.

  “You will.” He sat at her hip and began to straighten her clothing, but paused to brush his thumb over her pubic curls. “When this next time comes around, that we are not going talk about, I will put my mouth on you here.” He closed his fingers over her sex. “You will enjoy it, but not half so much as I.”

  She looked surprised then intrigued as he closed her buttons and bows, and the earl concluded she was a virgin to oral sex as well as orgasms. Mr. Seaton, God rest his lazy, inconsiderate, bumbling, unimaginative, selfish soul, had much to answer for.

  “Up you go.” He tugged Anna to a sitting position then settled down beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her head rested against his chest, and her hand stole onto his bare stomach.

  He yawned sleepily. “I should put on a shirt if we’re to have a meaningful discussion.”

  “You needn’t,” Anna assured him. “It won’t take long at all to tell you this sort of thing has to stop.”

  “Going back on your word, Anna?” Westhaven leaned over to kiss her temple and to again inhale the fragrance of her hair.

  “I agreed not to seek another position until the end of summer,” she reminded him. The glow in Westhaven’s body faded a tad with each clipped syllable. “I did not agree to become your light-skirt.”

  “Were you a virgin, you would still be considered chaste.”

  “But I wouldn’t be for much longer if this keeps up.”

  Westhaven knew some genuine puzzlement. “I will not force you, Anna.”

  “You won’t have to,” she bit back. “I will spread my legs for you just as eagerly as I did tonight.”

  “With results just as pleasurable, one hopes, but we’re talking past each other, Anna. Why won’t you let yourself enjoy my advances? That’s the real issue. If you have a reason of any substance—a husband somewhere, a mortal fear of intercourse, something besides your silly conviction earls don’t marry housekeepers—then I will consider desisting.” He punctuated his comment with a soft kiss to her neck.

  “Keep your lips off me, please.” Anna straightened away from him but didn’t move off the couch. “I cannot think. I do not even know right from wrong when you start with your kisses and your wandering hands. You don’t mean to do it, but you leave me helpless and lost and… You have no clue what I mean, do you?”

  “In truth,” the earl said, urging her head back down to his shoulder, “I do. You would be astonished, Anna, at how surprised I am at the way matters have progressed between us, and I am not often surprised.”

  “Well, then,” Anna huffed, “all the more reason to give up this courting you seem so bent on.”

  “Can’t say I agree with you.” His lips grazed her temple again, completely without conscious thought on his part. “And you have yet to name me a single reason why you could not wed me. Have you taken holy orders?”

  “I have not.”

  “Have you a mortal fear of copulating with me?”

  She buried her nose against his shoulder and mumbled something.

  “I will take that for a no. Are you married?”

  “I am not.” And because he heard what he wanted to hear and insisted on hearing, the earl missed the slight hesitance in her answer.

  “So why, Anna?” He bit her earlobe gently. “Those were my teeth, not my lips, mind you. We’ve gone only so far as lovers, and already you must know we would bring each other pleasure upon pleasure. So why do you play this game?”

  “It isn’t a game. There are matters I hold in confidence, matters I will not discuss with you or anyone, that prevent me from committing to you as a wife should commit.”

  “Ah.” The earl was listening now and heard the resolution with which she spoke. “I will not pry a confidence from you, but I will make every effort to convince you to confide in me, Anna. When a man marries, his wife’s goods become his, but so too, should her burdens.”

  “I’ve given you my reason.” She lifted her head to regard him closely. “You will leave me in peace now? You will give up this notion of courting me?”

  “Knowing you are burdened with confidences only makes me that much more convinced we should be wed. I’d take on your troubles, you know.”

  “You are a good man,” Anna said, touching his cheek, her expression both solemn and sad, “but you cannot be my husband, and I cannot be your wife.”

  “I will content myself with being your suitor, as we agreed, though now, Anna Seaton, I will also be encouraging your trust, as well.” He kissed her palm to emphasize his words. “One last question, Anna.” The earl kept hold of her hand. “If you were free of these obligations that you hold in confidence, would you consider my suit then?”

  He was encouraged she couldn’t give him an immediate no, encouraged she’d offered him the smallest crumb of a confidence, encouraged they’d been more intimate with each other than ever before—encouraged, but also… concerned.

  “I’d consider it,” she allowed. “That is not the same as accepting it.”

  “I understand.” He smiled at her. “Even a duke mustn’t take his duchess for granted.”

  Anna fell asleep in the secure circle of his arms, her weight resting against him, his lips at her temple. As he carried her to her bedroom, the earl reflected that for a woman who insisted there be no next time, Anna had certainly been reluctant to bring an end to things this time.

  It boded well, he thought, kissing her forehead as he tucked her in. All he needed to do now was gain her confidence and meet these obligations she was so determined to carry alone. She was a housekeeper, for pity’s sake, how complicated could her obligations be?

  Anna awoke the next morning with a lingering sense of sweetness, of stolen pleasures not quite regretted, and—most incongruous of all—of hope. Hope that somehow, she might find a way to extricate herself from the situation with Westhaven that didn’t leave them enemies. Westhaven was doing exactly as he said he would: He was giving her pleasure, pleasure beyond her wildest imaginings, pleasure she could keep for herself in memory long after her dealings with him were over, and she would give a great d
eal to see that those memories were not tainted with a bitter parting.

  And under that hope there beat against the cage of reason and duty the wings of another hope, one she didn’t even acknowledge: The hope that somehow, she might not have to leave him, not at the end of the summer, not any time soon. She could not marry him, she accepted that, but to leave him might prove equally impossible, and what options did that give her?

  Anna was practical by nature, so she forced herself to leave those questions for another time, got out of bed, dressed, and went about her day. Memories of the night preoccupied her, though, and she forgot to don one of her homely lace caps.

  She also forgot to chide Morgan for the wisps of hay sticking to her skirts, and she almost forgot to put extra sugar in the earl’s first glass of lemonade. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing him again, and yet she yearned for the sight of him.

  The man and his ideas about courting were botheration personified.

  “Post for ye, Missus.” John Footman handed her a slim, worn missive posted from a remote inn on the Yorkshire dales, and Anna felt all the joy and potential in the day collapse into a single, hard lump of dread.

  “Thank you, John.” Anna nodded, her expression calm as she made her way to her private sitting room. She rarely closed the door, feeling the space was one of few places the servants could congregate with privacy, particularly as Mr. Stenson would never set a sanctimonious toe on her carpet.

  But she closed the door before reading her missive. Closed it and locked it then sat down on the sofa and stared into the cold grate, trying to collect her courage.

  Finding the exercise pointless, she carefully slit the seal on the envelope and read the brief contents:

  Beware, as your location may be known.

  Just that one cautionary sentence, thank God. Anna read it several times then tore both letter and envelope into tiny pieces, wrapped them into a sheet of foolscap, and put them onto the hearth grate to burn later that evening.

  Beware as your location may be known.

  A warning, but understandably vague. Her location may be known; it may not be. Her location—Southern England? London? Mayfair? Westhaven’s household?—may be known. She pondered the possibilities and decided to assume that her location meant she’d been traced to London, at least, which meant her adoption of the profession of housekeeper might also be known and that Morgan was in service with her, as well.

  All in all, it amounted to looming disaster and ended, utterly, any foolish fantasies about dallying with the earl for the rest of the summer. Unlocking the door, Anna assembled her writing supplies and penned three inquiries to the employment agencies she’d noted when she and Morgan had passed through Manchester. Bath was worth a try, she decided, and maybe Bristol, as well. A port town had possibilities inland locations did not.

  Without volition, her mind had shifted into the calculating, rational, unsentimental habits of a woman covering her tracks. If it hurt her to leave Nanny Fran, to uproot Morgan again, to part from the earl, well, she told herself, the fate trying to find her would hurt more and for a much longer time.

  She assessed the room, mentally inventorying the things she’d brought with her, the few things she’d acquired while in London. Nothing could be left behind that might give her away, but little could be taken with them when they left.

  She’d done this twice before—prepared, packed, and executed an escape, for that’s how she had to think of it. Morgan would have to be warned, and she wasn’t going to like this turn of events one bit. Anna didn’t blame her, for here, in the earl’s house, Morgan wasn’t treated like a mute beast. The other servants were protective of her, and Anna had a sneaking suspicion Lord Valentine felt the same way.

  It was no way to live, but Anna had cudgeled her brain, and there seemed to be no alternative. When they ran out of hiding places in England, then the Americas were a possibility, but Anna hated to think of going so far from home.

  “Beg pardon, Missus?” John Footman was at her door, smiling, which told her it wasn’t a summons from the earl, thank God. “Lunch be served, unless you’d like a tray?”

  “I’ll be along, John.” Anna smiled up at him. “Just give me a minute.”

  She completed her correspondence and tucked it into her reticule. It wouldn’t do for the rest of the household to know she was corresponding with employment agencies, much less in what cities. It wouldn’t do for them to know she was upset, wouldn’t do for them to know she’d soon be leaving, with or without the character Westhaven had promised her.

  She got through lunch, feeling frozen inside and frantic at the same time. In the few months she’d held her position, she’d come to treasure the house itself, taking pride in its care and appearance. She treasured the staff, as well—with the exception of Stenson, but even he was dedicated to faithful execution of his duties. They were good people, their lives lived without substantial duplicity or deception. Such a one as she wasn’t destined to fit in with them for long.

  “Morgan?” Anna murmured as they rose from lunch, “will you join me for a moment?”

  Morgan nodded. Anna slipped her arm through Morgan’s and led her out to the back gardens, the only place where privacy might be assured. When they were out on the shaded terrace, Anna turned to face Morgan directly.

  “I’ve had a letter from Grandmama,” Anna said slowly but distinctly. “She warns us we may have been traced to London. We need to move on, Morgan, and soon.”

  Morgan’s expression, at first joyous to think they’d heard from their grandmother, then wary, knowing it could be bad news, finally became thunderous. She scowled mightily and shook her head.

  “I don’t want to leave either,” Anna said, holding the younger woman’s eyes. “I truly would not if there were any choice, but there is no choice, and you know it.”

  Morgan glared at her and shook a fist.

  “Fight,” she mouthed. “Tell the truth.”

  “Fight with what?” Anna shot back. “Tell the truth to whom? The courts? The courts are run by old men, Morgan, and the law gives us no protection. And stuck out on the dales, we wouldn’t be able to get to the courts, and well you know it.”

  “Not yet,” Morgan mouthed, still glaring daggers. “Not so soon again.”

  “It’s been months,” Anna said on a sigh, “and of course we can’t go immediately. I need a character from his lordship, and I have to find positions for us elsewhere.”

  “Go without me.”

  “I will not go without you,” Anna said, shaking her head. “That would be foolish in the extreme.”

  “Split up,” Morgan persisted. “They need only one of us.”

  Anna stared at Morgan in shock. The last sentence had been not just lipped but almost whispered, so close was it to audible speech.

  “I won’t let that one be you,” Anna said, hugging her and deciding against making a fuss over Morgan’s use of words. “And we’ll fight if we have to.”

  “Tell Lord Val,” Morgan suggested, less audibly. “Tell the earl.”

  “Lord Val and the earl cannot be trusted. They are men, too”—Anna shook her head—“in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I noticed.” Morgan’s glare was temporarily leavened by a slight smile. “Handsome men.”

  “Morgan Elizabeth James”—Anna smiled back—“shame on you. They might be handsome men, but they can’t change the laws, nor can we ask them to break the law.”

  “Hate this,” Morgan said, laying her head on Anna’s shoulder. She raised her face long enough for her sister to see the next words. “I miss Grandmother.”

  “I do, too.” Anna hugged her close. “We will see her again, I promise.”

  Morgan just shook her head and stepped back, her expression resigned. This whole mad scheme had been undertaken more than two years ago, “just until we can think of something else.” Well, it was two years, three positions, and many miles later, and nothing else was being thought of. In those years when a gen
tly bred young girl—even one who appeared unable to hear or speak—should be thinking of beaus and ball gowns, Morgan was sweeping grates, lugging buckets of coal, and changing bed linens.

  Anna watched her go, her heart heavy with Morgan’s disappointment but also with her own. Two years was a long time never to see home or hearth, always to look over your shoulder for those meaning you harm. It was never supposed to go on this long, but as Anna contemplated her remaining years on earth, all she could see was more running and hiding and leaving behind the things—and people—that really mattered.

  Ten

  “YOUR HOUSEKEEPER IS KEEPING SECRETS.”

  Dev threw himself down on the library’s sofa, yanked off his boots, and stretched out to his considerable length with a sigh. “And she’s a damned pretty housekeeper to have served as your nurse.”

  “Nurses must be ugly?” Westhaven tossed down his pen. Dev was a different sort of housemate than Val. Dev didn’t disappear into the music room for hours at a time, letting the entire household know where he was without being bothersome about it. Dev wandered at will, as apt to be in the library with a book or in the kitchen flirting with Cook and Nanny Fran. He’d seen to moving his riding horses into the mews but still had plenty of time for poking his nose into his brother’s business.

  “Nurses must be ugly.” Dev closed his eyes. “Mistresses must be pretty. Housekeepers are not supposed to be pretty, but then we have your Mrs. Seaton.”

  “Hands off.”

  “My hands off?” Dev raised his head and eyed Westhaven. “My hands off your housekeeper?”

  “Yes, Dev. Hands off, and this is not a request.”

  “Getting into the ducal spirit, are you?” Dev closed his eyes again and folded his hands on his chest. “Well, no need to issue a decree. I’ll behave, as she is a female employed by a Windham household.”