Текст книги "The Heir"

Автор книги: Grace Burrowes

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The Heir
Duke's Obsession – 1
by
Grace Burrowes

Dedicated to

The late Norman H. Lampman, the first person Who honestly helped me with my writing, And to loving families everywhere, of any description, Most especially to the family who loves me.

One

GAYLE WINDHAM, EARL OF WESTHAVEN, WAS ENJOYING a leisurely measure of those things that pleased him most: solitude, peace, and quiet.

The best plans were the simplest, he reflected as he poured himself a single finger of brandy, and his brother’s suggestion that Westhaven hide in plain sight had proven brilliant. The unmarried heir to a dukedom had a nigh impossible task if he wanted to elude the predatory mamas and determined debutantes of polite society. He was in demand everywhere, and for form’s sake, he had to be seen everywhere.

But not this summer. He smiled with relish. This summer, this stinking, infernally hot summer, he was going to remain right where he was, in the blessedly empty confines of London itself. Not for him the endless round of house parties and boating parties and social gatherings in the country.

His father had too free a hand in those environs, and Westhaven knew better than to give the duke any unnecessary advantage.

The Duke of Moreland was a devious, determined, unscrupulous old rogue. His goal in life was to see to it his heir married and produced sons, and Westhaven had made it a matter of pride to outwit the old man. There had already been one forced engagement, which the lady’s family had thwarted at the last minute. One was more than enough. Westhaven was a dutiful son, conscientious in his responsibilities, a brother who could be relied upon, an heir more than willing to tend to the properties and investments as his father’s power of attorney. He would not, however, be forced to marry some simpering little puppet to breed sons on her like a rutting hound.

And already, the pleasure of days and nights uncluttered by meaningless entertainments was bringing a certain cheer to Westhaven’s normally reserved demeanor. He found himself noticing things, like the way his townhouse bore the fragrance of roses and honeysuckle, or how an empty grate was graced with a bouquet of flowers just for the pleasure of his eye. His solitary meals tasted more appealing; he slept better on his lavender-scented sheets. He heard his neighbor playing the piano late at night, and he caught the sound of laughter drifting up from his kitchen early in the morning.

I would have made an exemplary monk, he thought as he regarded the bowl of roses on the cold andirons. But then, monks had little solitude, and no recreational access to the fairer sex.

A modest exponent thereof silently entered the library, bobbed her little curtsy, and went about refilling the water in the several vases of flowers gracing the room. He watched her as she moved around without a sound, and wondered when she’d joined his household. She was a pretty little thing, with graceful ways and a sense of competence about her.

The chambermaid paused to water the flowers in the hearth, reaching over the fireplace screen to carefully top up the wide bowl of roses sitting on the empty grate. Who would think to put flowers in a cold fireplace?Westhaven wondered idly, but then he realized the chambermaid was taking rather too long to complete her task.

“Is something amiss?” he asked, not meaning to sound irritated but concluding he must have, for the girl flinched and cowered. She didn’t, however, straighten up, make another curtsy, and leave him to his brandy.

“Is something amiss?” He spoke more slowly, knowing menials were not always of great understanding. The girl whimpered, an odd sound, not speech but an indication of distress. And she remained right where she was, bent over the hearth screen, her pitcher of water in her hand.

Westhaven set down his brandy and rose from his wing chair, the better to investigate the problem. The girl was making that odd sound continuously, which pleased him not at all. It wasn’t as if he’d evertrifled with the help, for God’s sake.

When he came near the hearth, the chambermaid positively cringed away from him, another irritant, but her movement allowed Westhaven to see the difficulty: The buttons on the front of her bodice were caught in the mesh of the hearth screen. She wasn’t tall enough to set down her pitcher, leaving her only one hand with which to free herself. That hand, however, she needed for balance.

“Hush,” Westhaven said more gently. He did have five sisters, after all, and a mother; he understood females were prone to dramatics. “I’ll have you free in no time, if you’ll just hold still and turn loose of this pitcher.”

He had to pry the girl’s fingers from the handle of the pitcher, so overset was she, but still she said nothing, just warbled her distress like a trapped animal.

“No need to take on so,” he soothed as he reached around her so he could slide his fingers along the screen. “We’ll have you free in a moment, and next time you’ll know to move the screen before you try to water the flowers.” It took an infernally long time, but he had one button forced back through the screen and was working on the other when the girl’s whimpering escalated to a moan.

“Hush,” he murmured again. “I won’t hurt you, and I almost have your buttons free. Just hold still—”

The first blow landed across his shoulders, a searing flash of pain that left his fine linen shirt and his skin torn. The second followed rapidly, as he tightened his arms protectively around the maid, and at the third, which landed smartly on the back of his head, everything went black.

Westhaven moaned, causing both women to startle then stare at him.

“St. Peter in a whorehouse,” Westhaven muttered, bracing himself on his forearms and shaking his head. Slowly, he levered up to all fours then sat back on his heels, giving his head another shake.

He raised a ferocious scowl to survey the room, caught sight of the chambermaid, and then the other woman. His mind stumbled around for the proper associations. She worked for him but was entirely too young for her post. Mrs.… Every housekeeper was a Mrs.…

Sidwell? He glared at her in concentration. Sommers… no. Seaton.

“Come here,” he rasped at her. She was a sturdy thing, on the tall side, and always moving through the house at forced march. Cautiously, she approached him.

“Mrs. Seaton.” He scowled at her thunderously. “I require your assistance.”

She nodded, for once not looking quite so much like a general on campaign, and knelt beside him. He slid an arm around her shoulders, paused to let the pain of that simple movement ricochet around in his body, and slowly rose.

“My chambers,” he growled, leaning on her heavily while his head cleared. She made no attempts at conversation, thank the gods, but paused to open the door to his room, and then again to carefully lower him to the settee flanking the hearth in his sitting room.

She turned to the chambermaid, who had followed them up the stairs. “Morgan, fetch the medical supplies, some hot water, and clean linens, and hurry.”

Morgan nodded and disappeared, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“Silly twit,” the earl muttered. “Does she think I’m in any condition to cause you mischief?”

“She does not, but there is no need to forego the proprieties.”

“My privacy necessitates it,” the earl bit out. “Moreover…” He paused, closed his eyes, and let out a slow breath. “As you tried to kill me, I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, madam.”

“I did not try to kill you,” his housekeeper corrected him. “I attempted to protect your employee from what I thought were improper advances on the part of a guest.”

He shot her a sardonic, incredulous look, but she was standing firm, arms crossed over her chest, eyes flashing with conviction.

“I sent word I would be returning from Morelands today,” he said. “And the knocker isn’t up. You misjudged.”

“The post has not arrived for the past two days, your lordship. The heat seems to have disrupted a number of normal functions, and as to that, your brother does not observe the niceties when he is of a mind to see you.”

“You thought my brotherwould bother a chambermaid?”

“He is friendly, my lord.” Mrs. Seaton’s bosom heaved with her point. “And Morgan is easily taken advantage of.” Morgan reappeared, bobbing another curtsy at the earl then depositing the requested medical supplies on the low table before the settee.

“Thank you, Morgan.” Mrs. Seaton looked right at the maid when she spoke, and her words were formed deliberately. “A tea tray, now, and maybe a muffin or some cookies to go with it.”

A muffin? Westhaven felt his lips wanting to quirk. She was going to treat a bashed skull with tea and crumpets?

“If you would sit on the table, my lord?” Mrs. Seaton wasn’t facing himas she spoke. “I can tend to your back and your… scalp.”

Damn it all to hell, he needed her help just to rise, shift his weight, and sit on the coffee table. Each movement sent white-hot pain lancing through his skull and across his shoulders. For all that, he barely felt it as Mrs. Seaton deftly unbuttoned his shirt, tugged it free of his waistband, and eased it away.

“This is ruined, I’m afraid.”

“Shirts can be replaced,” the earl said. “My father rather has plans for me, however, so let’s get me patched up.”

“You were coshed with a fireplace poker,” Mrs. Seaton said, bending over him to sift through the hair above his nape. “These wounds will require careful cleaning.”

She wadded up his shirt and folded it to hold against the scalp wound.

“Passive voice,” the earl said through clenched teeth, “will not protect you, Mrs. Seaton, since you did the coshing. Jesus and the apostles, that hurts.” Her hand came up to hold his forehead even as she continued to press the linen of his ruined shirt against the bleeding wound.

“The bleeding is slowing down,” she said, “and the wounds on your back are not as messy.”

“Happily for me,” her patient muttered. Her hand bracing his forehead had eased the pain considerably, and there was something else, too. A scent, flowery but also fresh, a hint of mint and rosemary that sent a cool remembrance of summer pleasures through his awareness.

A soft hand settled on his bare shoulder, but then she was tormenting him again, this time with disinfectant that brought the fires of hell raging across his back.

“Almost done,” she said quietly some moments later, but Westhaven barely heard her through the roaring in his ears. When his mind cleared, he realized he was leaning into her, his face pressed against the soft curve of her waist, his shoulders hunched against the length of her thigh.

“That’s the worst of it,” she said, her hand again resting on his shoulder. “I am sorry, you know.” She sounded genuinely contrite now—now that he was suffering mortal agonies and the loss of his dignity, as well.

“I’ll mend.”

“Would you like some laudanum?” Mrs. Seaton lowered herself to kneel before him, her expression concerned. “It’s not encouraged for head injuries.”

“I have been uncomfortable before. I’ll manage,” the earl said. “But you will have to get me into a dressing gown and fetch my correspondence from the library.”

“A dressing gown?” Her finely arched sable eyebrows flew up. “I’ll fetch a footman, perhaps, or Mr. Stenson.”

“Can’t.” Westhaven tried to maneuver himself back onto the settee. “Stenson stayed at Morelands, as His Grace’s man had some time off, and no footmen or butler either, as it’s the men’s half-day.” Faced with that logic, Mrs. Seaton wrapped her arm around the earl’s waist and assisted him to change his seat.

“A dressing gown it is, then.” She capitulated easily, leaving him staring at her retreating figure as she went to fetch his garment.

How hard could it be to drape a dressing gown over a set of bare, masculine shoulders? Except seeing the earl, Anna had to refine on her question: A set of unbelievably well-muscled, broad, bare shoulders, God help her.

Anna had, of course, noticed her employer on occasion in the weeks she’d been in his household. He was a handsome man, several inches over six feet, green-eyed, with dark chestnut hair and features that bore the patrician stamp of aristocratic breeding. She put his age at just past thirty but had formed no opinion of him as a person. He came and went at all hours, seldom invading the lowest floor, closeting himself for long periods in his library with his man of business or other gentlemen.

He liked order, privacy, and regular meals. He ate prodigious amounts of food but never drank to excess. He went to his club on Wednesdays and Fridays, his mistress on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. He had volumes of Byron and Blake in his library, and read them late at night. He had a sweet tooth and a fondness for his horse. He was tired more often than not, as his father had put the ducal finances in severe disarray before tossing his heir the reins, and righting that situation took much of the earl’s time.

Westhaven appeared to have an exasperated sort of affection for his lone surviving brother, Valentine, and grieved still for the two brothers who had died.

He had no friends but knew everybody.

And he was being pressured to take a wife, hence this stubborn unwillingness to leave Town in the worst heat wave in memory.

These thoughts flitted through Anna’s mind in the few moments it took her to rummage in the earl’s wardrobe and find a silk dressing gown of dark blue. She’d bandaged his back, but if the scalp wound should reopen and start bleeding, the color of the fabric would hide any stain.

“Will this do, my lord?” She held up the dressing gown when she returned to his sitting room, and frowned at him. “You are pale, methinks. Can you stand?”

“Boots off first, methinks,” he replied, hefting one large foot onto the coffee table. Anna’s lips pressed together in displeasure, but she deposited the dressing gown on the settee and pushed the coffee table over at an angle. She tugged at his boots, surprised to find they weren’t painted onto him, as most gentlemen’s riding boots were.

“Better.” He wiggled his bare toes when she’d peeled off his socks. “If you would assist me?” He held out an arm, indicating his desire to rise. Anna braced him and slowly levered him up. When he was on his feet, they stood linked like that for a long moment before Anna reached over and retrieved the dressing gown. She worked awkwardly, sliding it up one arm, then the other, before getting it draped across his shoulders.

“Can you stand unassisted?” she asked, still not liking his pallor.

“I can.” But she saw him swallow against the pain. “My breeches, Mrs. Seaton.”

She wasn’t inclined to quibble when he looked ready to keel over at any minute, but as she deftly unfastened the fall of his trousers, she realized he intended for her to undresshim. Did a man ask a woman he was going to charge with attempted murder to help him out of his clothes?

“Sometime before I reach my eternal reward, if it wouldn’t be too great an imposition.”

In his expression, Anna perceived he wasn’t bothered by their enforced proximity anywhere near as much as she was, and so she unceremoniously shoved his waistband down over his hips.

Dear God, the man wasn’t wearing any smalls. Blushing furiously, she wasn’t prepared for him to thrust an arm across her shoulders and balance on her as he carefully lifted first one foot then the other free of his clothing. Again, he lost momentum as pain caught up with him, and for the space of two slow, deep breaths, he leaned on her heavily, his dressing gown gaping open over his nudity, his labored breathing soughing against her cheek.

“Steady,” she murmured, reaching for the ends of the belt looping at his waist. She tucked his dressing gown closed and knotted it securely, but not before she’d seen…

She would never, everstop blushing. Not ever, if she lived to be as old as Granny Fran, who sat in the kitchen telling stories that went back to old German George.

“To bed, I think,” the earl said, his voice sounding strained.

She nodded, anchored her arm around his middle, and in small steps, walked him into the next room and up to the steps surrounding his great, canopied bed.

“Rest a minute,” he bit out, leaning on her mightily. She left him propped against the foot of the bed and folded down his covers.

“On your stomach will likely be less uncomfortable, my lord.” He nodded, his gaze fixed on the bed with grim determination. Anna took up her position at his side, and by careful steps, soon had him standing at the head of the bed. She turned so their backs were to the bed and sat with him on the mattress.

He paused again, his arm around her shoulders, catching his breath.

“My correspondence,” he reminded her.

She gave him a dubious scowl but nodded. “Don’t move, your lordship. You don’t want to fall and hit your head again.”

She took her leave at the stirring pace Westhaven associated with her, leaving him to admire the view again and consider her advice—were he to die, his brother Valentine would not forgive him. Carefully, he toed the chamber pot from under the bed, made use of it, replaced the lid as quietly as he could by hooking the handle with his toes, then pushed it back out of sight.

God, he thought as he gave his cock a little shake, his housekeeper had seen the ducal family jewels…

He should have been wroth with indignation, to be subjected to her perusal, but all he felt was amusement and a vague gratitude she would provide him the care he needed. She could have sent for a physician, of course, but Westhaven hated doctors, and his housekeeper must have known it.

Reaching across the bed carefully, he rearranged pillows so he could rest on his side. That movement so pained his back, that when his housekeeper returned, he was still sitting on the bed.

He arched an eyebrow. “Tea?”

“It can’t hurt,” she replied, “and I brought iced lemonade, as well, as the warehouse just stocked your icehouse this morning.”

“Lemonade, then.”

His rooms were at the back of the house, heavily shaded and high-ceilinged. They remained particularly comfortable, probably because the clerestory windows had been left open, the better to draw the heat up and out.

Mrs. Seaton handed him a tall, sweating glass, which he sipped cautiously. She’d sugared it generously, so he took a larger sip.

“You aren’t having any?” he asked, watching as she moved around the room.

“You are my employer.” She went to the night table and retrieved a pitcher, giving the little bouquet in the window a drink. “Your roses are thirsty.”

“So is it you who has turned my house into a flower shop?” Westhaven asked as he finished his drink.

“I have. You have a very pretty house, my lord. Flowers show it to advantage.”

“You will waken me if I fall asleep for more than an hour or so?” he asked, unable to reach the nightstand to place his glass on the tray. She took the glass from his hand and met his eyes.

“I will check on you each hour until daybreak, my lord, but as you had neither tea nor supper, I think you had best try a little food before you lie down.”

He eyed the tray whereupon Mrs. Seaton had set a plate sporting a big, sugary muffin that looked to be full of berries.

“Half of that.” He nodded warily. “And sit if you please.” He thumped the mattress. “I cannot abide a fluttering female.”

“You sound like your father sometimes, you know,” she said as she sliced the muffin in half and took her place beside him. “Imperious.”

“Ridiculous, you mean,” he said as he glanced skeptically again at the muffin then tried a bite.

“He is not ridiculous, but some of his machinations are.”

“My housekeeper is a diplomat”—the earl sent her a sardonic smile—“who makes passably edible muffins. Might as well eat the whole thing rather than waste half.”

“Would you like some butter on this half?”

“A touch. How is it you know of my father’s machinations?”

“There is always gossip below stairs.” She shrugged, but then must have realized she was perilously close to overstepping. She paused as she slathered butter on his muffin. “It is said he spies on you at your regular appointments.”

“What is ridiculous,” the earl retorted, “is to think the old rascal is tricking the young ladies who waylay me at every social function, Mrs. Seaton. Those lambs go willingly to slaughter in hopes of becoming my duchess. I won’t have it.” And as for spies in his mistress’s house, Westhaven thought darkly… Ye gods. “Despite my father’s scheming, I will choose my own duchess, thank you very much. Did you bring up only one of these things?” He waved his last bite of muffin at her.

“On the off chance that they were passably edible, I brought up two. A touch more butter?” She withdrew the second muffin from the linen lining a little basket at the side of the tray.

He caught her eye, saw the humor in it, and found his own lips quirking.

“Just a touch. And perhaps a spot more lemonade.”

“You aren’t going to have me brought up on charges, are you?” She posed the question casually then frowned, as if it had come out of her mouth all unintended.

“Oh, that’s a splendid notion,” the earl said as he accepted the second muffin. “Tell the whole world the Moreland heir was subdued by his housekeeper who thought he was trying to molest a chambermaid in his own home.”

“Well, you were. And it wasn’t well done of you, my lord.”

“Mrs. Seaton.” He glared down his nose at her. “I do not accost women under my protection. Her buttons were caught in the mesh of the screen, and she could not free herself. Nothing more.”

“Her buttons…?” Her hand went to her mouth, and in her expression, Westhaven could see his explanation put a very different light on her conclusions. “My lord, I beg your pardon.”

“I’ll mend, Mrs. Seaton.” He almost smiled at her distress. “Next time, a simple ‘My lord, what are you about?’ might spare us both a great lot of indignity.” He handed her his glass. “I will have my revenge, though.”

“You will?”

“I will. I make a terrible patient.”

Anna was dozing off after dark when she heard the earl call her from the other room.

“My lord?”

“In here, and I will not shout in my own home for the attention of my own staff.”

Oh, he was going to make a perfectly insufferable duke, she fumed as she got to her feet and crossed to his bedroom. “What can I do for you?” she asked as pleasantly as she could.

“I am loathe to attempt the use of pen and ink while recumbent,” he said, peering at her over wire-rimmed spectacles. “If you’d please fetch the lap desk and attend me?”

“Of course.” Anna disappeared into the sitting room to retrieve the lap desk, but returned to the bed only to realize there was no chair for her to sit upon.

“The end of the bed will do.” The earl gestured impatiently. Anna permitted herself to toss him a peevish look—a very peevish look, given the impropriety—but scuffed out of her slippers and climbed on the bed to sit cross-legged, her back against a bedpost.

“You are literate?” the earl asked, inspecting her again over his glasses.

“In French, English, and Latin, with a smattering of German, Gaelic, Welsh, and Italian.”

His eyebrows rose momentarily at her tart reply, but he gave her a minute to get settled then began to slowly recite a memorandum to one of his land stewards, commending the man for progress made toward a sizeable crop of hay and suggesting irrigation ditches become a priority while the corn was maturing.

Another letter dealt with port sent to Morelands at the duke’s request.

Yet another went to the widow of a man who’d held the living at one of the estate villages, expressing sorrow for her loss. And so it went, until a sizeable stack of correspondence was completed and the hour approaching midnight.

“Are you tired, Mrs. Seaton?” the earl asked as Anna paused to trim the pen.

“Serving as amanuensis is not that taxing, my lord,” she said, and it hadn’t been. His voice was beautiful, a mellifluous baritone that lost its habitual hauteur when he was concentrating on communication, leaving crisp consonants and round, plummy vowels redolent of education and good, prosperous breeding.

“Would that my man of business were so gracious,” the earl said. “If you are not fatigued, then perhaps I can trouble you to fetch some libation from the kitchen. Speaking at such length tires the voice, or I wouldn’t ask it.”

“Is there anything else I could get you from the kitchen?” she asked, setting the desk on the night table.

“Perhaps one of those muffins,” he allowed. “My digestion is tentative, but the last one stayed down easily enough.”

“The last two,” she said over her shoulder.

He let her have the last word—or two—and also let himself enjoy the sight of her retreating backside again. He’d put her age well below thirty. The Corsican’s years of mischief had left a record crop of widows in many lands, perhaps including his housekeeper.

And more than just young, he was seeing for the first time that she was pretty. Oh, she didn’t emphasize it, no sane woman in service would. But to the earl’s discerning eye, her drab gowns hid a marvelous figure, one enforced proximity had made all too apparent to him. Her hair was a lustrous shade of dark brown, shot with red and gold highlights, and her eyes a soft, luminous gray. The cast of her features was slightly exotic—Eastern, Mediterranean, or even Gypsy. She was the antithesis of his mistress, a petite, blond, blue-eyed woman who circulated easily on the fringes of polite society.

He wondered on a frown why he’d chosen a diminutive woman for his intimate attentions, as tall women fit him better. But then, finding a mistress of any description was no easy feat. Given his station, the earl was unwilling to frequent brothels. He was equally loathe to take his chances on the willing widows, knowing they would trap him in marriage just as quickly as their younger counterparts would.

So that left him with Elise, at least when she was in Town.

Still frowning, he picked up an epistle from his brother, who was standing guard at Morelands while the duke and duchess enjoyed a two-week holiday there. Valentine was happiest in the country, playing his piano at all hours and riding the countryside.

The man was no fribble, though, and he’d appended a little postscript to his report: “The land you rent on Tambray is being ploughed, if not planted, by Renfrew in your absence. One wonders to whom the harvest will fall.”

Elise’s rented house was on Tambray Street, and Baron Renfrew was one of those fun-loving, randy young lords the ladies doted on. Well, let Elise have her fun, the earl mused, as his arrangement with her was practical. When they were both in Town, he expected her to be available to him by appointment; otherwise, she was free to disport where she pleased, as was he.

If he had the time—and the inclination—which, lately anyway, he did not.

“Your drink, my lord.” Mrs. Seaton placed a tray on the foot of the bed and held a glass out for him.

He glanced at the tray then regarded her thoughtfully. “I believe it might be more comfortable on the balcony, Mrs. Seaton.”

“As you wish, my lord.” She set the glass back on the tray, opened the French doors, and shifted to stand beside his bed. Carefully, he levered himself over to the side of the bed and waited for her to sit beside him and slip an arm around his waist.

“What is that scent?” he asked, pausing when she would have risen.

“I make my own,” she said, glancing over at him. “Mostly lavender, with a few other notes. It turned out particularly well this year, I think.”

He leaned in and sniffed at her, assessing.

“Lavender and something sweet,” he decided, ignoring the presumptuousness of his gesture. “Lilies?”

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Seaton was blushing, her gaze on her lap. “The details will shift, depending on one’s sense of smell, and also with the ambient scents.”

“You mean with what I’m wearing? Hadn’t thought of that. Hmm.”

He gave her another little sniff then squared his shoulders to rise. To his unending disgust, he had to steady himself momentarily on his housekeeper’s shoulder. “Proceed,” he said when his head had stopped swimming. They were soon out in the silky summer darkness of his balcony.

“Honeysuckle,” he said, apropos of nothing but the night air.

“There is some of that,” Mrs. Seaton said as they closed in on a padded wicker chaise. His balcony overlooked the back gardens, and a soft breeze was stirring the scents from the flowers below.

“Sit with me,” the earl said as he settled onto the chaise. Mrs. Seaton paused in her retreat, and something in her posture alerted him to his overuse of the imperative. “Please,” he added, unable to keep a hint of amusement from his tone.

“You were not born to service,” the earl surmised as his housekeeper took a seat on a wicker rocking chair.

“Minor gentry,” she concurred. “Very minor.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“A younger sister and an older brother. Your lemonade, my lord?”

“Please,” he replied, recalling he’d sent her down two flights in the dark of night to fetch it.

But it was a moonless night and dark as pitch on the balcony, so when Mrs. Seaton retrieved the drink, she reached for his fingers with her free hand and wrapped his grip around the glass.

“You are warm,” she said, a frown in her voice. She reached out again, no doubt expecting to put the back of her hand against his forehead but instead connecting with his cheek. “I beg your pardon.” She snatched back her hand. “Do you think you are becoming fevered?”

“I am not,” he replied tersely, setting down his drink. He reached for her hand and brought it to his forehead. “No warmer than the circumstances dictate.”

He felt—or thought he felt—her fingers smooth back his hair before she resumed her seat. The gesture was no doubt intended as maternal, and it was likely Elise’s protracted absence that had him experiencing it as something much less innocent.

“How is your head, my lord?”

“Hurts like blue blazes. My back is on fire, and I won’t be wrestling my chestnut geldings any time soon, either. You pack quite a wallop, considering the worst I could have done in broad daylight was perhaps grope the girl.”