The Duke’s Obsession Bundle

by Grace Burrowes

  “You certainly got here quickly.” Anna smiled at him.

  He handed off his horse to a groom and cautiously returned the smile. She looked thinner, true, but there were freckles on her nose, and her smile was only a little guarded.

  “It is a pleasant day for a ride to the country,” Westhaven responded, “and though the matter you cited isn’t urgent, delay seldom reduces the size of a difficulty.”

  “I appreciate your coming here. Can I offer you a drink? Lemonade? Cider?”

  “Lemonade,” the earl said, glancing around. “You have wasted no time making the place a home.”

  “I am fortunate,” Anna said, following his gaze. “As hot as it has been, we’ve finally gotten some rain, and I can be about putting in flowers. Heathgate has sent over a number of cuttings, as have Amery and Greymoor.”

  They would, the scoundrels.

  “I’ve brought along a few, as well,” the earl said. “They’re probably in the stables as we speak.”

  “You brought me plants?” Anna’s eyes lit up as if he’d brought her the world.

  “I had your grandmother send for them from Rosecroft. Just the things that would travel well—some Holland bulbs, irises, that sort of thing.”

  “You brought me my grandfather’s flowers?” Anna stopped and touched his sleeve. “Oh, Westhaven.” He glanced at the hand on his sleeve, wanting to say something witty and ducal and perfect.

  “I thought you’d feel more at home here with some of his flowers,” was all that came to mind.

  “Oh, you.” Anna hugged him, a simple, friendly hug, but in that hug, he had the first glimmering hope that things just might come right. She kept his arm, wrapping her hands around it and toddling along so close to his side he could drink in the lovely, flowery scent of her.

  “So what is this difficulty, Anna?” he asked as he escorted her to the front terrace.

  “We will get to that, but first let us address your thirst, and tell me how your family goes on.”

  He paused as they reached the front door then realized her grandmother and sister would likely join them inside the house. “Come with me.” He took her by the hand and tugged her along until they were beside the stream, the place where they’d first become intimate. She’d had a bench placed in the shade of the willows, so he drew her there and pulled her down beside him.

  “I told myself I’d graciously listen to whatever you felt merited my attention,” he began, “but, Anna, I have been worried about you, and now, after several weeks of silence, you send me two sentences mentioning some problem. I find I have not the reserves of patience manners require: What is wrong, and how can I help?”

  A brief paused ensued, both of them studying their joined hands.

  “I am expecting,” she said quietly. “Your child, that is. I am… I am going to have a baby.” She peeked over at him again, but he kept his eyes front, trying to absorb the reality behind her words.

  He was to be a father, a papa, and she was to be the mother of his child.

  His children, God willing.

  “I realize this creates awkwardness,” she was prosing on, “but I couldn’t not tell you, and I felt I owed it to you to leave the decision regarding the child’s legitimacy in your hands.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t gather you do,” Anna said. “Westhaven, I’d as soon not raise our child as a bastard, so I am asking you to marry me. We do suit, in some ways, but I will understand if you’d rather choose another for your duchess. In fact, I’ve advised you to do just that on more than one occasion. I will understand.”

  Another pause while Anna studied their joined hands and Westhaven called upon every ounce of ducal reserve to keep from bellowing his joy to the entire world.

  “I must decline,” he said slowly, “though I comprehend the great honor you do me, and I would not wish bastardy on our progeny either.”

  “You must decline?” Anna repeated. There was disappointment in her tone, in her eyes. Disappointment and hurt, and even in the midst of overwhelming joy, he was sorry for that. There was no surprise, though, and he was even more sorry for that.

  “I must decline,” the earl repeated, his words coming a little faster than he intended, “because I have it on great good authority one accepts a proposal of marriage only when one cannot imagine the rest of one’s life without that person in it, and when one is certain that person loves one and feels similarly in every respect.”

  Anna frowned at him.

  “I love you, Westhaven,” she reminded him, “I’ve told you this.”

  “You told me on one occasion.”

  Anna held up a hand. “I see the difficulty. You do not love me. Well, I suppose that’s honest.”

  “I have not been honest,” the earl corrected her swiftly, lest she rise and he give in to the need to tackle her bodily right there in the green grass.

  “At the risk of differing with a lady, I must stand firm on that one point, but I can correct the oversight now.” He slipped off the bench and took her right hand in both of his as he went down on one knee before her.

  “I love you,” he said, holding her gaze. “I love you, I cannot foresee the rest of my life without you, and I hope you feel similarly. For only if you do feel similarly will I accept your proposal of marriage or allow you to accept mine.”

  “You love me?”

  “For God’s sake.” He was off his knee in an instant, dusting briskly at his breeches. “Why else would I have tried to keep my bloody paws off you when you were just eight and twenty feet down the hall? Why else would I have gone to my father—Meddling Moreland himself?—to ask for help and advice? Why else would I have let you go, for pity’s sake, if I didn’t love you until I’m blind and silly and… Jesus, yes, I love you.”

  “Westhaven.” Anna reached out and stroked a hand through his hair. “You are shouting, and you mean this.”

  “I am not in the habit of lying to the woman whom I hope to make my duchess.”

  That, he saw, got through to her. Since the day she’d bashed him with her poker, he’d been honest with her. Cranky, gruff, demanding, what have you, but he’d been honest. So he was honest again.

  “I love you, Anna.” His voice shook with the truth of it. “I love you. I want you for my wife, my duchess, and the mother of all of my children.”

  She cradled her hand along his jaw, and in her eyes, he saw his own joy mirrored, his incredulity that life could offer him a gift as stunningly perfect as the love they shared, and his bottomless determination to grab that gift with both hands and never let go.

  She leaned into him, as if the weight of his honesty were too much. “Oh, you are the most awful man. Of course I will marry you, of course I love you, of course I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But you have made me cry, and I have need of your handkerchief.”

  “You have need of my arms,” he said, laughing and scooping her up against his chest. He pressed his forehead to hers and jostled her a little in his embrace. “Say it, Anna. In the King’s English, or no handkerchief for you.”

  He was smiling at her, grinning like a truant schoolboy on a beautiful day.

  “I love you,” Anna said. Then more loudly and with a fierce smile, “I love you, I love you, I love you, Gayle Windham, and I would be honored to be your duchess.”

  “And my wife?” He spun them in a circle, the better to hold her tightly to his chest. “You’ll be my wife, and my duchess, and the mother of my children?”

  “With greatest joy, I’ll be your wife, your duchess, and the mother of all your children. Now please, please, put me down and kiss me silly. I have missed you so.”

  “My handkerchief.” He set her down on the bench, surrendered his handkerchief with a flourish, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “And my heart, not in that order.”

  And then he bent his head and kissed her silly.

  Epilogue

  Anna Windham, Countess of Westhaven, was enjoying a leisurely me
asure of those things which pleased her most: peace and quiet at the end of the evening and anticipation of her husband’s exclusive company in the great expanse of the marital bed.

  “I can wait, Anna.” Her husband’s voice shook a little with his mendacity, and behind those beautiful green of his eyes, there was both trepidation and heat. “It’s been only a few months, and you must be sure.” He stood beside the bed, peering down at her where she lay.

  “It has been eternities,” Anna said, “and for once, your heir appears to have made an early night of it. Come here.” She held out her arms, and in a single moment, he was out of his dressing gown and settling his warmth and length over her.

  “Husband, I have missed you.”

  “I’m right here. I will always be here, but we can’t rush this. You’ve had a baby, given me my heir, and you must prom—”

  She kissed him into silence then kissed him into kissing her back, but he was made of ducally stern stuff.

  “Anna, I’ll be careful. We’ll take it slowly, but you need to tell—”

  She got her legs wrapped around his flanks and began to undulate her damp sex along the glorious length of his rigid erection.

  Take it slowly. What foolishness her husband spouted.

  “We’ll be fine,” she whispered, lipping at his ear lobe. “Better than fine.”

  As they sank into the fathomless bliss of intimate reunion, they were fine indeed, and then much, much, much better than fine.

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village to transform a first-time author’s aspirations into the lovely book you’re reading now. At the risk of leaving out a few deserving villagers, I’d like to thank my editor, Deb Werksman, who has been patient and supportive over a long haul, and my agent, Kevan Lyon, who has been forbearing with an author who has more enthusiasm than industry expertise (for now!). The art department, marketing, and copy-editing folks all deserve an enthusiastic nod, along with editorial assistants and numerous other contributors.

  And first, last and always, I must thank my family, whose emphasis on education and the life of the mind resulted in my having enough imagination to create The Heir. Enjoy!

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Grace Burrowes

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover by Dawn Pope/Sourcebooks

  Cover illustration by Anne Cain

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Acknowledgments

  The Soldier is dedicated to my oldest brother, John, who is a soldier in the best sense of the word, and to all those soldiers in uniform and otherwise who find the road to peace an uphill battle. Your sacrifice is not in vain.

  One

  “Why is that sitting on my fountain?”

  Devlin St. Just, the Earl of Rosecroft, directed his question to the wilted specimen who passed for his land steward. “And why, in the blazing middle of July, is my fountain inoperable?”

  “I’m afraid, my lord, the fountain hasn’t worked in several years,” Holderman replied, answering the simpler question first. “And as for the other, well, I gather it conveyed with the estate.”

  “That”—the earl jerked his chin—“cannot convey. It is not a fixture nor livestock.”

  “In the legal sense, perhaps not,” Holderman prevaricated, clearing his throat delicately. He’d given the word a little emphasis: lee-gal, and his employer shot him a scowl.

  “What?” the earl pressed, and Holderman began to wish he’d heeded his sister’s advice and stayed pleasantly bored summering on their uncle’s estate closer to York. The earl was not an easy person to work for—well over six feet of former cavalry officer, firstborn of a powerful duke, and possessed of both arrogance and temper in abundance.

  The man was a Black Irish terror, no matter he paid well and worked harder than any title Holderman had run across. Devlin St. Just, newly created first Earl of Rosecroft, was a flat, screaming terror. Gossip, even in York, was that the French had run for the hills when St. Just had led the charge.

  “Well, you see, my lord…” Holderman swallowed and stole a glance at the fountain. He was the land steward for pity’s sake, and explaining the situation should not be left to him.

  “Holderman,” the earl began in those low tones that presaged a volcanic display, “slavery and trade therein were outlawed almost a decade ago here in merry old England. Moreover, I have no less than nine younger siblings, and I can tell you that is a child, not chattel per se, and thus cannot convey. Make it go away.”

  “I am afraid I cannot quite manage just precisely what you ask.” Holderman cleared his throat again.

  “Holderman,” the earl replied with terrifying pleasantness, “the thing cannot weigh but three stone. You pick it up and tell it to run along. Tell it to go ’round the kitchen and filch a meat pie, but make it go away.”

  “Well, my lord, as to that…”

  “Holderman.” The earl crossed his arms over his muscled chest and speared the land steward with a look that had no doubt quelled insurrection in junior officers, younger siblings, miscreant horses, and drunken peers, regardless of rank. “Make. It. Go. Away.”

  Holderman, in a complete abdication of courage, merely shook his head and stared at the ground.

  “Fine.” The earl sighed. “I shall do it myself, as it appears I have to do every other benighted task worth mentioning on this miserable excuse for a parody of an estate. You, off!” He stabbed a finger in the general direction of the distant hills and bellowed at the child as he advanced on the fountain.

  The child stood up on the rim of the dry fountain—which still left the earl a towering advantage of height—pointed a much smaller finger in the same direction and bellowed right back, “You, off!”

  ***

  The earl stopped, his scowl shifting to a thoughtful frown.

  “Holderman.” He spoke without turning. “The child is too thin, dirty, and ill-mannered. Whose brat is this?”

  “Well, my lord, in a manner of speaking, the child is, well… Yours.”

  “The child is not in any manner of speaking mine.”

  “The responsibility for the child, I should say.”

  “And how do you reach such a conclusion?” the earl asked, rubbing his chin and eyeing the child.

  “That is the former earl’s progeny, as best anyone can figure,” Holderman said. “Because the Crown has seen fit to give you Rosecroft, then its dependents must fall to your care, as well.”

  “Sound reasoning,” the earl allowed, considering the child.

  But, dear God, St. Just thought on a spike of exasperation, it needed only this. The former title holder was dead and had left no legitimate issue. As the Rosecroft estate was neglecte
d and in debt, the Crown had not looked favorably on taking possession of it through escheat proceedings. An earldom had been produced from thin air, as a minor title would not do for the firstborn of a duke, and the estate had been foisted off on a man who wanted nothing to do with titles, responsibilities, or indebtedness of any kind, much less—merciful God!—dependents.

  “Listen, child.” The earl sat on the rim of the fountain and prepared to treat with the natives. “You are a problem, though I’ve no doubt you regard me in the same light. I propose we call a truce and see about the immediate necessities.”

  “I won’t go,” the child replied. “You can’t make me.”

  Stubborn, the earl thought, keeping his approval to himself. “I won’t go, either, but may I suggest, if you’re preparing to lay siege, you might want to store up some tucker first.”

  The child scowled and blinked up at him.

  “Eat,” the earl clarified. It had been quite a while since he’d had to converse with someone this small. “Armies, as the saying goes, march on their bellies not on their feet. You need to eat.”

  His opponent appeared to consider the point. “I’m hungry.”

  “When was the last time you ate?” The child might be as old as seven, but it would be a thin, puny seven if that. Six seemed more likely, and five was a definite possibility.

  “I forget,” the child replied. “Not today.” As the sun was lowering against the green Yorkshire hills, the situation required an immediate remedy.

  “Well, come along then.” St. Just held out a hand. “We will feed you and then see what’s to be done with you.”

  The child stared at his hand, frowned, and looked up at his face, then back down at his hand. The earl merely kept his hand outstretched, his expression calm.