The Heir do-1

by Grace Burrowes

  The stables were closed up tight, but Anna didn’t even turn into the yard. She steered Pericles up to the manor house and pulled him to a halt.

  “Westhaven.” She jostled him stoutly. “We’re here. Sit up until I can get down and help you to alight.”

  He complied silently and nearly fell on Anna as she tried to assist him from the gig. Getting up the front steps saw them almost overbalancing twice, and Anna was panting with exertion by the time they gained the front porch.

  The front door opened before Anna could knock. “For the love of God, get him in here.”

  Anna’s burden was relieved as Westhaven’s free arm was looped across a pair of broad shoulders belonging to a blond man dressed only to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. The man was fortunately as tall as Westhaven and far more equal to the task than Anna.

  “You,” the fellow barked at a footman. “Have Pericles put up and see he’s offered a warm mash. You.” He fixed fierce blue eyes on Anna. “Sit down before you fall down.”

  Taken aback, Anna could only follow as Westhaven was half-carried to a parlor and there deposited on a settee.

  “He is coming down with chicken pox,” Anna said, finding her voice at last. “He thought to come here only to borrow a closed vehicle that he might return to Town.”

  “Douglas Allen.” The man offered her a bow. “Viscount Amery, at your service.” He jerked the bellpull and surveyed the man dripping on his couch. “Westhaven?”

  “Amery?”

  The earl’s voice was a croak, but one that conveyed a spark of pride.

  “If you insist on attempting to travel on in your condition,” Amery said, “I will send a note forthwith to His Grace, and tattle on you. I will also hold you up to Rose as a bad example, and worse, my viscountess will worry. As she is the sole sustenance of my heir, I am loathe to worry her, do I make myself clear?”

  “Ye gods…” Westhaven muttered, peering at his host. “You are serious.”

  Amery quirked an eyebrow. “As serious as the chicken pox, complicated by a lung fever, and further compounded by Windham pride and arrogance.”

  “Douglas?” A tall woman with dark auburn hair entered the parlor, her pretty features showing curiosity and then concern.

  “Guinevere.” The man slid a shameless arm around the lady’s waist. “Look you, on yonder couch, ’tis your former betrothed, come to give us all the chicken pox.”

  “Oh, Westhaven.” The woman stepped forward, but Anna had the presence of mind to rise from her seat and step between Lady Amery and the earl.

  “My lady.” Anna bobbed a curtsy. “His lordship informed me you have an infant in the house, so had best not be coming too close to the earl.”

  “She’s right.” Amery frowned. “I know I’ve had the chicken pox.”

  “As have I,” Guinevere said, but she returned to her husband’s side. “And so has Rose. Douglas, you can’t let him travel like this.”

  “Using the third person,” the earl rasped from the couch, “when a man is present and conscious, is rude and irritating.”

  “But fun,” Amery said, coming to peruse his visitor. He put the back of his hand to the earl’s forehead and knelt to consider him at closer range. Though both men were of an age, the viscount’s gestures were curiously paternal. “You are burning up, which I needn’t tell you. I know you hold physicians in no esteem whatsoever, but will you let me send for Fairly?”

  “You will not notify the duke?” Westhaven met his host’s eyes.

  “Not yet, if you stay here like a good boy and get better before my Christian charity is outstripped by my honesty,” Amery said, sending his wife a glance.

  “Send for Fairly,” the earl replied, “but only him, and not those damned quacks who think they attend His Grace.”

  “I would not so insult Fairly,” the viscount said, rising. “Not even to aggravate you.”

  While the viscount wrested permission to summon the doctor from the earl, Lady Amery conferred with the footman then turned to Anna.

  “I’m sorry,” Lady Amery said, smiling. “You have me at a loss, Miss…?”

  “Mrs. Seaton,” Anna replied, curtsying again. “Mrs. Anna Seaton. I keep house for his lordship in Town and accompanied him to Willow Bend, a property three miles east of here, which he thinks to purchase.”

  “Pretty place,” Amery murmured, “but first things first.”

  “The back bedroom will serve as a sick room and is being made up now,” Guinevere said. “You and the earl could both probably use hot baths and some sustenance, and I’m sure we can find you something dry to change into, as you and I appear to be of a height.”

  “Come, Westhaven.” The viscount tugged the earl to his feet. “We’ll ply you with foul potions and mutter incantations by your bedside until you are recovered for the sake of your sanity. You should probably see Rose now, or she will just sneak into your room when you are feeling even worse and read her stories to you.”

  It should have made him shudder, Westhaven thought as Amery tugged and carried and insulted him up to the bedroom. To be here with the man who had stopped his wedding to Gwen, and to be so ill and virtually helpless before him and Gwen. It should have been among his worst nightmares.

  But as Douglas got him out of his wet clothes and shoved him into a steaming, scented bath, then fussed him into swilling some god-awful tea, Westhaven realized that what he felt was safe.

  “He’ll want to notify his brother,” Anna said, sipping her hot tea with profound gratitude.

  “We’ll send him a message with the one going to Fairly,” Gwen replied, handing Anna a plate with a hot buttered scone on it.

  “Send it in code.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Gwen set down her cup and waited for an explanation.

  “It’s the duke,” Anna said. “His Grace has spies everywhere, and if you leave a note to the effect that Westhaven is seriously ill, where somebody can read it, the duke will be on your doorstep, wreaking havoc and giving orders in no time.”

  “He most assuredly will not.” Douglas spoke from the door of the parlor, and there was something like amusement in his expression. “This is one household where His Grace’s mischief gets him nowhere. May I have a spot of tea, my love?” He lowered his long frame beside his wife, draping an arm across the back of the couch.

  “How is Westhaven?” Gwen asked, fixing her husband a cup of tea.

  “Sleeping, but uncomfortable. I thought you must be mistaken, Mrs. Seaton, as he has no evidence of chicken pox on his face, but your diagnosis is borne out by inspection of the rest of him.”

  “I had a rather severe case as a child,” Anna said. “I’m available for nursing duty.”

  “I can assist,” the viscount said, “and I will do so gleefully. But you, my love, should likely avoid the sickroom.”

  “I will,” Gwen said, “for the sake of the baby, and because having you see him in distress is likely enough penance even for Westhaven. He doesn’t need me gloating, too.”

  Anna sipped her tea, watching the smiles and glances and casual touches passing between these two.

  “Westhaven said it was a miserable betrothal.”

  “For all three of us,” Gwen said. “But quickly ended. You did the right thing, bringing him here. He is family, and we don’t really hold the betrothal against him, any more than we delight in his illness.”

  “His sickness is serious,” Anna said, “in adults, anyway. And he is… fretful about illness generally. I honestly would not let the doctors near him if it’s avoidable.”

  “The man is too proud by half,” Douglas remarked, topping off his own tea cup. His wife watched, amused, but said nothing.

  “It isn’t pride, my lord,” Anna said. “He is afraid.”

  “Afraid.” Douglas pursed him lips thoughtfully. “Because of his brother Victor?”

  “Not precisely.” Anna tried to organize her thoughts—her feelings—into coherent order. “He is the spare, and dying would
be a dereliction of his duty. For all he does not enjoy his obligations, he would not visit them on Lord Valentine, nor the grief on his remaining family. Then, too, he has seen more incompetent doctoring than most, both with his brother, and early this spring, with His Grace.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Douglas said, flicking another glance at his wife. “Guinevere?”

  “Send for David,” Gwen said. “He’ll know how to handle the earl and how to treat the chicken pox, too.”

  “We speak of the Viscount Fairly,” Douglas explained. “A family connection of Gwen’s, and friend of mine. He is a skilled physician, and we trust him, as, apparently, does Westhaven.”

  “He does,” Anna said. “And in Fairly’s absence, he would tolerate the attendance of…”—she struggled to recall the names—“Pugh, Hamilton, and there was a third name, but it escapes me.”

  “Fairly will know,” Douglas assured her. “But how is it, Mrs. Seaton, you and the earl come to be on our doorstep at this hour? Surely Westhaven was not fool enough to venture from Town in this downpour?”

  Gwen abruptly looked fascinated with her tea cup, while Anna felt like a butterfly, pinned to a specimen board by the viscount’s steady blue eyes.

  “We traveled out to Willow Bend yesterday,” Anna said, knowing this man would not tolerate untruths. “And then the rain caught us unawares. I convinced the earl to come here this morning only when he realized he had fallen ill.”

  “Nonsense,” Amery replied, crossing his legs at the knee. It should have been a fussy gesture on a man. On him it was… elegant. “Westhaven, being a man of sense and discretion, had you on our doorstep well before dark last evening, didn’t he, Guinevere?”

  “He did.” Gwen nodded, swirling her tea placidly. “He was particularly quiet at dinner, though Rose was in transports to see him.”

  The viscount sent Anna an indecipherable look. “The child has no sense with those she loves. None at all. Takes after her dear mama. More tea, Mrs. Seaton?”

  He poured for her, his wife smiling tolerantly as he did, and Anna felt the love between them almost as strongly as she felt her own gratitude toward them. Someday, she thought, I want to love a man so thoroughly that even when he pours tea for my guests, it is merely one more reason to be pleased with him and with my life because he is in it.

  “Fairly can’t attend you.” Douglas waved a missive at Westhaven. “He doesn’t know if he’s had the chicken pox or not.”

  “Christ. How can you not know if you’ve turned as spotted as a leopard and felt like something a leopard killed last week?”

  “He was raised by his mother in Scotland until he was six and cannot consult with that lady regarding his early health. He has no recollection of having had the illness, either, so he is being cautious.” Douglas sat on the end of the bed and surveyed the patient.

  “Why are you staring?” Westhaven asked irritably. “Is my face breaking out?”

  “No, though I might enjoy seeing that. Fairly writes in some detail we are to provide you comfort nursing and to particularly manage any tendency you have to fevers and discourage you strongly from being bled. And you are not to scratch.”

  “I don’t itch,” the earl said, “I ache.” And he wondered, when she wasn’t with him, how the viscount and his wife were treating Anna. Douglas was a stickler, at least with regard to manners and decorum, for all he’d been willing to break some rules to prevent Gwen’s marriage to the earl—a lot of rules, come to that.

  “Shall I beat you at cribbage?” Douglas offered. “Or perhaps you’d like me to send in Rose?”

  “She was here earlier. She lent him to me.” He held up a little brown stuffed bear.

  “Mr. Bear.” Douglas nodded. “He presided over my own sickroom when I ended up with the flu down in Sussex. Good fellow, Mr. Bear. Not much of one for handing out useful advice, however.”

  “We have Rose for that.” Westhaven almost smiled. “She told me to obey her mother, and I would get better.”

  “Disobeying Guinevere would be rather like trying to disobey a force of nature. One does so at one’s mortal peril. She is a formidable woman.”

  “She would have made a formidable duchess,” Westhaven said then realized what had come out of his mouth. “Sorry.”

  “She would”—Douglas merely nodded—“but her taste in husbands is impeccable, and it is my ring she wears.”

  “Does it bother you?” Westhaven held up the bear and stared into his button eyes. “My being here?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Westhaven.” Douglas rose and crossed the room to an escritoire, extracting a deck of cards and a cribbage board. “Gwen has explained to me you offered for her only because you assumed she was free to refuse you. She has since said you would have tried very hard to make the marriage happy, and I believe her. Cut for the deal.” Douglas slapped the board and the deck down on the bed.

  “That’s it, then?” Westhaven turned up a two, and Douglas pitched his draw down in disgust. “I would have made her happy, no harm done?”

  “If Guinevere sees no reason to dwell in the past, then why should I, as my future with Rose, little John, and Guinevere is an embarrassment of happiness?”

  “My crib,” Westhaven intoned, pondering Douglas’s words. What was it like to face a future that could be described with a straight face as an embarrassment of happiness?

  Douglas trounced him, going about the game with the same seriousness of purpose that he brought to every endeavor. By the time the board was put away, Westhaven’s eyes were growing heavy, and Douglas was angling in the direction of a strategic retreat. A knock on the door heralded Anna’s turn at the earl’s bedside and allowed Douglas to leave in search of his wife.

  “I see you have a friend.” Anna nodded at the bear.

  “A guardian bear, Rose claims.” The earl again brought the bear up to face him and frowned thoughtfully. “He seems a solid sort, if a bit reserved.”

  “Rather like the viscount.”

  “Douglas?” The earl smiled at her characterization. “Don’t underestimate him, as my father and I did. He appears to be a proper little Puritan, tending his acres and adoring his wife, but Heathgate, Greymoor, and Fairly all listen when Douglas deigns to address a topic.”

  “He does seem to adore his viscountess, but I believe he is just a protective sort of man in general.”

  “Protective?” The earl considered the word, but his brain was becoming as creaky as the rest of him. “Perhaps. He certainly dotes on Rose and would cheerfully strangle any who sought to do her harm.”

  “He has a problem with his memory, though,” Anna said, opening a bottle of lotion and sniffing at it. “His wife is similarly afflicted.”

  “They are? That’s news to me, as both of them exhibit frightening mental acuity.”

  Anna put the lid back on the bottle. “If anybody asks them, they will recall we joined them for an early dinner last night, and you were somewhat subdued, but Rose was quite glad to see you.”

  Westhaven’s eyebrows shot up then crashed down.

  “Gwen told you this?” he asked, surprise warring with gratitude.

  “No,” Anna said, her voice echoing with disbelief. “It was Amery’s idea.”

  “Perhaps she married the better man after all.”

  Seven

  “MY, MY, MY.” DOUGLAS FROWNED AS HE CLOSED THE door to the sick room. “Is this the state Mrs. Seaton left you in, susceptible to any draft and breeze?”

  “It is not.” The earl sighed, trying to recall where he’d last put the chamber pot. “I was hot, and that nightshirt of yours itches like the very devil.”

  “Behind the screen,” the viscount suggested. “A close stool and a chamber pot. I’ll leave if you like, or assist.”

  “Neither.” Westhaven made his way across the room, Douglas watching impassively.

  “I thought you’d gained some flesh,” Douglas remarked. “A closer inspection suggests I was right. You were getting too t
hin.”

  “I was.” The earl yawned behind the privacy screen. “But, Anna… Mrs. Seaton has taken me in hand and seen to my meals. Part of the problem was an uninspired cook.”

  “And your housekeeper inspired her?”

  “Anna… Mrs. Seaton interviewed the duchess’s cook, who takes pride in knowing the preferences of each member of the family. The menus became interesting.” The earl emerged from behind the screen, eyed the bed, and gathered his energy. “And she fussed at me did I not eat, told me I was offending my kitchen staff.”

  “Up you go.” Douglas took him unceremoniously by one spotted arm and boosted him up the step to the bed. “Hold still.” He dropped the nightshirt over the earl and peered at him. “You are ill,” Douglas concluded on a sigh. “Best get back in bed, and behave yourself. Tonight will likely be the worst, and tomorrow night, but after that, you should be on the mend.”

  “Douglas?” Westhaven sat on the edge of the bed, and to his surprise, Amery sat beside him.

  “Hmm?”

  “When you were courting Gwen,” Westhaven said, finding the bear among his pillows, “did you…?”

  “Did I what?” Douglas prompted. “Mrs. Seaton will be returning with your next infusion, and hopefully some food, so you’d best spit it out, as she’s guarding you rather carefully.”

  “She is?”

  “She left your side to eat, but otherwise, unless I’m here, she is,” Douglas replied. “You had a question?”

  “When you were courting Gwen,” the earl tried again. “Was there an almost constant…? I mean, did you find your thoughts turning always to…?”

  “I swived her every chance I got,” Douglas interjected. “And if I couldn’t be inside her, I held her or held her hand or just looked at her like a starving man looks at a banquet he can’t eat. The situation was particularly disturbing, because I had come to a point in my life where any kind of passion was beyond me, including the carnal.”