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 hell. 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 snatched 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.

“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.