Текст книги "The Heir"

Автор книги: Grace Burrowes

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She was toweringly, beautifully, stunningly angry. Enraged, and with him.

“What have I done to offend?”

“You…” Anna advanced on him, a piece of paper fisted in her hand. “You are having me investigated. And thanks to you, my lord, what might have been a well-planned move to a comparable position will now be a headlong and poorly thought out flight. I cannot believe you would do this to me, behind my back, without saying a word to me.”

“What does your letter say?” the earl asked, puzzled. Yes, he wanted to have her investigated but had yet to identify a sufficiently discreet means of doing so.

“It says there is a man asking questions about me back home.” Anna waved the letter, keeping her voice low. “And he was followed south when he returned to Town.”

“He was not employed by me,” the earl said simply, still frowning in thought. “Though I am fairly certain I know who did retain him.”

“You did not do this?” Anna asked, spine stiff.

“I am in the process of trying to identify means appropriate to assist you. I am aware, however, your circumstances involve confidences and have thus been unwilling to proceed until utmost discretion can be assured.”

He watched the emotions storm through her eyes: Rage that he would admit to wanting to investigate her, shock that he would be honest, and finally, relief, that his better sense had prevailed.

“His Grace,” Anna said, the fight going out of her suddenly. “Your thrice damned, interfering ass of a father, abetted by the toad.”

“I will dismiss Stenson before sunset,” Westhaven assured her. “I will confront my father, as well. Just one request, Anna.”

She met his gaze squarely, still upset but apparently willing to shift the focus of her rage.

“Be here when I return,” he said, holding her gaze. She huffed out a breath, nodded once, and dropped her eyes.

“Be here.” He walked up to her and put his arms around her. She went willingly, to his relief, and held on to him tightly. “Do not pack, do not warn Morgan, do not pawn the silver, do not panic. Be here and try, just try, to find some ability to trust me.”

When he was sure she’d calmed down, Westhaven whipped open the library door to find both his brothers lounging against the wall, munching cookies.

“You lot, look after Anna and Morgan. Don’t hold the meals for me.” He stalked off, bellowing for Pericles, leaving Anna standing shakily between Dev and Val.

“You are no fun,” Dev said, passing Anna a cookie. “We couldn’t hear a thing, and we were sure you were going to tear a strip off the earl. Nobody tears a strip off Westhaven, not Her Grace, not His Grace, not even Pericles.”

“Rose could,” Val speculated, handing his drink to Anna. “Come along.” He put an arm around Anna’s shoulders. “We’ll teach you how to cheat at cribbage, and you can tell us what we missed.”

“I already know how to cheat at cribbage,” Anna said dumbly, staring at the drink and cookie in her hands.

“Teach that in housekeeper school now, do they?” Dev closed the library door behind them. “Well, then we’ll teach you some naughty rugby songs instead. She’s going to cry, Val. Best get your hankie at the ready.”

“I am not going to cry,” Anna said, shoulders stiff. But then she took a funny gulpy breath and two monogrammed handkerchiefs were thrust in her direction. She turned her face into Val’s muscular shoulder and bawled while Dev rescued the drink and cookies.

“Mother.” Westhaven bowed over Her Grace’s hand. “I should have listened to you more closely.”

“A mother delights in hearing those sentiments from her children, regardless of the provocation,” Her Grace responded, “though I am at a loss to divine your reference.”

“You tried to tell me at breakfast the other week.” Westhaven ran a hand through his hair. “His Grace is off on another wild start, isn’t he?”

“Frequently,” the duchess said. “But I wasn’t warning you of anything in particular, just the need to exercise discretion with your staff and your personal activities.”

“My housekeeper, you mean.” Westhaven arched an eyebrow at her. “Somehow, the old bastard got wind of Anna Seaton and set his dogs on her.”

“Westhaven.” The duchess’s regard turned chilly. “You will not refer to your father in such terms.”

“Right.” Westhaven shuttered his expression. “That would insult my half brother, who is an honorable man.”

“Westhaven!” The duchess’s expression grew alarmed rather than insulted.

“Forgive me, Mother.” He bowed. “My argument is with my father.”

“Well,” the duke announced himself and paused for dramatic effect in the doorway of the private parlor. “No need to look further. You can have at me now.”

“You are having Anna Seaton investigated,” the earl said, “and it could well cost her her safety.”

“Then marry her,” the duke shot back. “A husband can protect a wife, particularly if he’s wealthy, titled, smart, and well connected. Your mother has assured me she does not object to the match.”

“You don’t deny this? Do you have any idea the damage you do with your dirty tricks, sly maneuvers, and stupid manipulations? That woman is terrified, nigh paralyzed with fear for herself and her younger relation, and you go stomping about in her life as if you are God Almighty come to earth for the purpose of directing everybody else’s personal life.”

The duke paced into the room, color rising in his face.

“That is mighty brave talk for a man who can’t see fit to take a damned wife after almost ten years of looking. What in God’s name is wrong with you, Westhaven? I know you cater to women, and I know you are carrying on with this Seaton woman. She’s comely, convenient, and of child-bearing age. I should have thought to have her investigated, I tell you, so I might find some way to coerce her to the altar.”

“You already tried coercion,” Westhaven shot back, “and it’s only because Gwen Allen is a decent human being her relations haven’t ruined us completely in retaliation for your failed schemes. I am ashamed to be your son and worse than ashamed to be your heir. You embarrass me, and I wish to hell I could disinherit you, because if I don’t find you a damned broodmare, I’ve every expectation you will disinherit me.”

“Gayle!” His mother was on her feet, her expression horror-stricken. “Please, for the love of God, apologize. His Grace did not have Mrs. Seaton investigated.”

“Esther…” His Grace tried to get words out, but his wife had eyes only for her enraged son.

“He most certainly did,” Westhaven bit out. “Up to his old tricks, just as he was with Gwen and with Elise and with God knows how many hapless debutantes and scheming widows. I am sick to death of it, Mother, and this is the last straw.”

“Esther,” His Grace tried again.

“Hush, Percy,” the duchess said miserably, still staring at her son. “His Grace did not have your Mrs. Seaton investigated.” She paused and dropped Westhaven’s gaze. “I did.”

“Esther,” the duke gasped as he dropped like a stone onto a sofa. “For the love of God, help me.”

“He was working for some London toff,” Eustace Cheevers informed his employer. “His name was Benjamin Hazlit, and he does a lot of quiet work for the Quality down in Town. He never discloses his employers by name, but it’s somebody high up.”

“Titled?” the Earl of Helmsley asked, mouth tight.

“Most like.” Cheevers nodded. “Folk down south distinguish between themselves more. A fellow who works for the titles wouldn’t want work from the cits or the squires or the nabobs. Hazlit’s offices are top of the trees, his cattle prime, and his tailor only the best. I’d say a title, yes.”

“That pretty much narrows it to Mayfair, doesn’t it?” The earl’s tone was condescending, as if any damned fool might reach such a conclusion.

“Not necessarily,” Cheevers said. “There’s a regular infestation of money and titles in Mayfair itself, but the surrounds are not so shabby, and there are other decent neighborhoods with quieter money.”

An earl worthy of the title would have spent some time in Town, Cheevers thought, keeping his expression completely deferential. But this young sprig—well, this not quite middle-aged sprig—had obviously never acquired his Town bronze. Pockets to let, Cheevers thought with an inward sigh. The word around York was to get paid in advance if Helmsley offered you his custom.

It hadn’t been like that when the old earl was alive. The estate had been radiant with flowers, the women happy, and the bills always paid. Now, most of the gardeners had been let go, and the walls had bleached spots where valuable paintings had once hung. The drive was unkempt, the fences sagging, the fountains dry, and nobody had seen the dowager countess going about since she’d suffered an apoplexy more than two years ago. Where the granddaughters had got off to was anybody’s guess.

“So that’s the extent of what you’ve learned?” Helmsley rose, his tone disdainful. “You can tell me the man’s name and that he’s a professional investigator with wealthy clients? Nothing more.”

“It’s in the file.” Cheevers stood. “You will have his address, the names of those with whom he spoke, what they told him, and so forth. I don’t gather he learned much of significance, as people tend to be leery of Town fribbles up here.”

“That they do.” Helmsley nodded, his expression turning crafty. Cheevers considered the earl and wondered what the man was plotting, as it boded ill for someone. Helmsley had the look of man who could have been handsome. He had height, patrician features, and thick dark hair showing only the barest hint of gray. Cheevers, expert at summing people up, put Helmsley in his early thirties. The man looked older, however, as the signs of excessive fondness for both the grape and rich foods were beginning to show.

Helmsley’s nose was becoming bulbous and striated with spider veins. His middle was soft, his reactions slow. Most telling of all, Cheevers, thought, there was a mean, haunted look in the man’s gray eyes that labeled him as a cheat and a bully.

Good riddance, Cheevers concluded as he showed himself out. There were some accounts that even the thriftiest Yorkshireman’s son was happy to close.

Thirteen

“WELL?”

Wilberforce Hammond James, ninth Earl of Helmsley, carefully composed his features before turning to face the man who’d thrust open the interior door to the study. He did not face a pretty sight. Hedley Arbuthnot, Baron Stull, was nearly as round as he was tall, and he wasn’t exactly short.

Worse, he was untidy. His cravat showed evidence of the chicken he’d consumed at lunch, the wine with which he’d washed down the chicken, and the snuff with which he’d settled his understandably rebellious stomach. That stomach, Helmsley knew, was worked incessantly.

But Stull, who was at least ten years Helmsley’s senior, had two qualities that appealed, despite his appearance, lack of couth, and tendency to flatulence. First, he was free with his coin when in pursuit of his own ends, and second, he was as determined as a bulldog.

“Well, what?” Helmsley flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his sleeve.

“Where are the girls?”

“Mayfair,” Helmsley said, praying it was true.

“Best get packing then,” Stull said, sniffing like a canine catching the scent of prey. “To Mayfair it is.”

“He’s been gone for hours.”

Anna stopped pacing and pinned her gaze on Dev, whom she’d accurately assessed as the more softhearted brother. Val was sensitive and perceptive but had learned as his sisters’ favored escort to keep some perspective around emotional women.

“He said we weren’t to hold meals for him,” Dev reasoned. “Meals, Anna, plural. Not just luncheon. He might have gone to talk with His Grace’s investigator or taken Pericles for a romp.”

“He romped Pericles this morning, when it was cooler,” Anna pointed out. “I liked you better when you weren’t trying to turn me up sweet.”

“I’ll go to the mansion and find out what’s what,” Val said. “When His Grace and Westhaven go at it, they are usually loud, ugly, and to the point. Anna’s right—it shouldn’t be taking this long.”

He shot Dev a sympathetic glance but knew his brother would not have offered to investigate. Dev did not show up at the ducal mansion uninvited or unexpected, and Val wasn’t about to ask him to break that tradition now.

The library door opened, and Westhaven strode in, surprising all three occupants.

“What’s wrong?” Dev asked. “Don’t tell me His Grace got the better of you.”

“Well, he did,” Westhaven said, going straight for the whiskey decanter, pouring one drink, knocking it back, and pouring another.

“Westhaven?” Val asked cautiously. But it was to Anna the earl spoke.

“For once,” he said, “His Grace was blameless. You were investigated by a man named Benjamin Hazlit, who is legendarily thorough and legendarily discreet. He was on the Moreland payroll, but at my mother’s request, not the duke’s. I did not become aware of this until I had shouted dear Papa down with every obscene expression of my petty, selfish frustrations with him. I ranted, I raved, I shouted, and I told him…”

A pin could have dropped while Westhaven stared at his drink.

“I told him I was ashamed to be his son and heir.”

“Ye gods.” Val went to the brandy decanter. “About time somebody set him straight.” He handed drinks all around but saw Dev was staring at Westhaven with a frown.

“The old windbag got the last word somehow, though, didn’t he?” Dev guessed while Anna waited in silent dread.

“I sincerely hope,” Westhaven said, pinning Anna with a troubled look, “it isn’t quite his last word. Just as Her Grace was explaining that Hazlit was her agent, the duke suffered a heart seizure.” The silence became thoughtful as all three brothers considered their father’s mortality, and thus their own, while Anna considered the earl.

“He’s still alive?” she said, drawing three pairs of eyes.

“He was demanding his personal physicians at full bellow when I left,” Westhaven said. “I’ve sent Pugh and Hamilton to him and left very strict orders he is not to be bled, no matter how he rants and blusters.”

“Are you sure it was real?” Dev asked. “I would not put chicanery past him.”

“Neither would I,” Val said, eyes on Westhaven’s face.

“I am sure it was real though I am not sure how serious it was. I am sure hethought he was dying, and of course, he still might die.”

“He will die,” Val corrected. “We all will. What makes you think he wasn’t faking?”

“I’ve seen him morose, playful, raging, and—with Her Grace—even tender,” Westhaven said, “but in thirty years of memory, I cannot recall our father ever looking afraidbefore today. It was unnerving, I can tell you.

“I recall his rows with Bart,” the earl went on, shoving back to sit on his desk. “I used to think Bart was half-mad to let the old man get to him so. Why didn’t he just let it roll off him, I’d wonder. I’ve realized though, that there is a kind of assurance to be had when you take on His Grace, and he doesn’t back down, doesn’t give quarter, doesn’t flinch or admit he’s wrong, no matter what.”

“He’s consistent,” Dev admitted. “Consistently exasperating.”

“But he’s always the duke,” Westhaven said. “You never catch him breaking role, or doubting himself or his God-given right to be as he is.”

Val took a thoughtful swallow of his whiskey. “If the duke falls, then what?”

“Long live the duke,” Anna said, holding Westhaven’s eyes for a moment. “I am going to have dinner brought in here on trays. I am sure you will all be going to check on your father afterward. You might want to take Nanny Fran with you, as she’s a skilled nurse and would be a comfort to Her Grace.”

Westhaven just nodded, seeming relieved she’d deal with the practicalities.

The evening unfolded as Anna predicted, with all three brothers off to the ducal mansion to see His Grace—to watch Westhaven argue with the duke over the choice of physicians—and to offer the duchess their support.

Val elected to stay at the mansion, agreeing to send word if there was any change in the duke’s condition, while Dev went off to inform their half-sister, Maggie, of the duke’s heart seizure. When Westhaven returned to his townhouse, it was late enough that Anna had dismissed the footman at the front door and waited there herself for Westhaven to return.

She was dressed in only her night rail, wrapper, and slippers when she met him, and heedless of any prying eyes or listening ears she wrapped her arms around him as soon as he was near enough to grab.

“He looks like hell, Anna,” Westhaven said, burying his face against her neck. “He finally looks old, and worse, Mother looks old, too. The girls are terrified.”

“And you are a little scared, too,” Anna guessed, drawing back. “Give me your hat and gloves, Westhaven, and I will fix you a tray. You did not eat worth mentioning at dinner, and Her Grace warned me you go off your feed when you have concerns.”

“What else did Her Grace warn you about?” the earl asked, letting Anna divest him of hat and gloves. She didn’t stop there but went on to remove his jacket and his cravat, and then undo his cuff links and roll back his shirtsleeves.

“It is too hot to go about in your finery,” Anna said, “and too late.”

He’d stood there in the foyer like a tired little boy, and let her fuss with his clothing. She piled his clothing over one arm, laced her fingers through his, and towed him unresisting into the peaceful confines of his home.

The warmth of Anna’s hand in his felt like the first good news Westhaven had heard all day.

“My grandfather died just a couple of years ago,” Anna said as she led him through the darkened house. “I was so lucky to have him that long, and he was the dearest man. But he suffered some wasting disease, and in the end, it was a relief to see him go, but he held on and held on for my grandmother.”

“I can see His Grace doing the same thing,” the earl said, squeezing Anna’s fingers slightly.

“I recall that sense of dread,” Anna continued, “dread that every time Grandpapa dozed off, he was actually dead. He looked dead, sometimes, or I thought he did until I actually saw him pass. Three weeks after he left us, my grandmother had an apoplexy and became quite invalided herself.”

“She suffered a serious blow,” the earl said as they gained the kitchen.

“We all had,” Anna said, sitting him down at the work table. “I recall the way the whole household seemed strained, waiting but still hoping. We were… lost.”

He watched her moving around the kitchen to fetch his lemonade, watched her pour a scandalous amount of sugar into it then assemble him a tray. Something in the practical competence of her movements reassured him, made him feel less lost. In the ducal household, his mother and sisters, the servants, the physicians, everybody, looked to him for guidance.

And he’d provided it, ordering the straw spread on the street, even though the mansion sat so far back from the square the noise was unlikely to disturb his father. The need was for the staff to do something—anything—to feel like they were contributing to the duke’s welfare and comfort.

So Westhaven had issued orders, commandeering a sick room in the ducal chambers, sending word down to Morelands, setting Nanny Fran to inventorying the medical supplies, directing his sisters to pen notes to the family’s closest acquaintances and extended family, and putting Her Grace to extracting a list from the duke of the cronies he wanted notified and the terms of the notice. He’d conferred with the doctors, asked them to correspond with Fairly on the case, made sure Dev was off to inform Maggie, and finally, when there were no more anxious faces looking to him for direction, let himself come home.

And it was home, he thought, not because he owned the building or paid the people who worked there, nor even because he dwelled here with his brothers.

It was home because Anna was here, waiting for him. Waiting to care for him, not expecting him—hell, not really even allowing him—to care for her, solve her problems, and tell her how to go on.

I love you, he thought, watching her pull a daisy from the bouquet in the middle of the table and put it in a bud vase on his tray. When she brought the tray to the table and set it down, he put his arms around her waist and pressed his face to her abdomen.

“I used to look at your scalp wound this way,” Anna mused, trailing her finger through his hair to look for a scar. “I am lucky I did not kill you.”

“My head is too hard,” he said, sitting back. “I am supposed to eat this?”

“I will wallop you again if you don’t,” Anna said firmly, folding her arms. “And I’ll tattle to Pericles, who seems to have some sort of moral authority over you.”

“Sit with me,” he said, trying to muster a smile at her words.

She settled in beside him, and he felt more at peace.

“What do the physicians say?” Anna asked, laying her head on his shoulder.

“Odd,” the earl said, picking up a sandwich. “Nobody has asked me that, not even Her Grace.”

“She probably knows, even if she doesn’t admit it to herself, just how serious this is. My grandparents were like that, joined somehow at the level of instinct.”

“They loved each other,” the earl said, munching thoughtfully. Were he and Anna joined at the level of instinct? He thought so, or she wouldn’t be sitting here with him, feeding him, and offering him company when his own family did not.

“They surely did,” Anna said. “My grandfather grew his flowers for her. For me and Morgan, too, but mostly for his bride.”

“Morgan is your sister,” the earl concluded as his sandwich disappeared. Beside him, Anna went still.

“I know you are related,” he said, sipping his lemonade then offering it to Anna. “You care for her, and she is much more than a cousin to you.”

“You know this how?”

“I know you,” he said simply. “And we live under the same roof. It’s hard to hide such a closeness. You were willing to murder me for her safety.”

“She is my sister.”

“Val guessed it,” the earl said, biting into an apple slice. “He’s a little in love with her, I think.”

“With Morgan?” Anna frowned. “An infatuation, perhaps. I am guessing she symbolizes something for him, something to do with his music or his choices in life. I know she adores him for his kindness, but I trust them.”

“He plays Herr Beethoven like a man, not a boy.”

“You would be better able to decipher that than I.” Anna accepted the apple slice he passed her. “His playing to me has lately become passionate, and brilliant as a consequence.”

“That’s well said,” the earl responded, munching thoughtfully.

“You’ve dodged my question about the physicians,” Anna said, rubbing her hand across his lower back.

“They can’t tell us anything for sure. The duke’s symptoms—the sensation of a horse sitting on his chest, inability to breath freely, pain in the left side of his neck and down his left arm—are classic signs of a heart seizure. But the pains were very fleeting, and His Grace is a very active fellow. He has not felt particularly fatigued, is not in pain as we speak, and hasn’t had any previous episodes of chest pain. He may make a full recovery and live another twenty years. The next weeks will be critical in terms of ensuring he gets rest and only very moderate exercise.”

“But they also implied he may die tonight. Do you believe he’s had no similar incidents, or has he been keeping up appearances for your mother?”

“Dev asked the same thing, and we decided if there had been earlier warnings, Her Grace might be the only one to detect it.”

“And she would say nothing, except possibly to His Grace when they had privacy, which they will have little of.”

“I can see they have some.” The earl glanced over at her. “You learned this from your grandparents?”

“My grandmother. From time to time she shooed everybody away from the sick room and had Grandpapa to herself. It gave us all a break and gave them some time to be together.”

“And to say good-bye.” The earl sipped his drink again then handed the glass to Anna. “God, Anna, when I think of the things I said to my father today.”

“You can apologize,” Anna said simply. “It’s more than he’s ever been willing to do when it’s time to mend a fence. And he has bullied his way through many fences.”

The earl chuckled at her tart tone, despite his fears and guilt and fatigue. “You are a ruthlessly practical woman, Anna Seaton.”

“Eat your marzipan,” she ordered. “I’ve learned to be practical, and you’ve no one to talk sense to you tonight save me. A man of the duke’s age is lucky to be alive, much less alive and getting up to all the mischief he does. You did not cause his heart seizure, Westhaven. Do not even try to argue with me on this.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek then handed him a piece of candy. “Eat.”

He obeyed, realizing the food, drink, and conversation had restored him more than he would have thought possible.

“The next week,” he said around a mouthful of almond paste, “will be trying.”

“Your entire existence as the duke’s heir has been trying.”

“It has,” he agreed, fingering his glass. “But I’m getting things turned around, Anna. The cash flow will soon be reliable and healthy, the estate managers are getting better organized, the girls and Mama and even His Grace are learning to deal with budgets and allowances. By the end of summer, I won’t have to spend so much time with Tolliver. I wanted my father to see that.”

“You wanted him to offer some gesture of thanks, or perhaps you wanted to be able to brag on yourself a bit and see if he at least notices all your efforts.”

“I suppose.” He picked up the second piece of marzipan and studied it. “Is that such a sorry thing, for a grown man still to want his papa to approve of him?”

“The sorry thing is that there would be any doubt in your mind that he does.” She kissed his cheek again, a gesture that felt comforting and natural to him, then rose and began tidying up the kitchen.

“In all of today’s tumult, I’ll bet you forgot to fire Stenson and also forgot that our new butler started.”

“Sterling.” The earl nodded. “I did forget. Have we counted the silver to make sure my choice was worthy? And yes, I have yet to speak to Stenson.”

“Send him back to the mansion, then,” Anna suggested. “Lord Val is there, and Colonel St. Just’s smalls are all mended.”

“He’s probably told you to call him by name.” Anna and Dev might never be the best of friends, but in her tone there was none of the latent prickliness Dev had engendered earlier.

“He is much like your papa,” Anna said, pausing as she picked up the earl’s tray. “Gruff and sometimes unable to communicate his motivations, but tenderhearted and fierce.”

“A good description. He was a grown man, though, before he could even speak clearly among strangers.”

“Lord Val told me of the stutter,” Anna said, coming back to the table with a clean rag. She bent over to wipe down the table, and Westhaven seized her hand in a gentle, implacable grip.

“Anna?” She straightened slowly and met his gaze. “Spend the night with me.”

Anna detected an odd light in Westhaven’s eyes, combining daring and ferocity, but behind that, a stark vulnerability, as well. “Spend the night with me,” he’d said. Simple, straightforward words with a wealth of complicated meanings.

She closed her eyes, trying to brace herself against his request and against her own raging desire to grant it. Not now, she thought desperately. Not now, when they hadn’t even discussed that investigator and the urgent need for her to flee.

“I will behave,” the earl said, dropping her wrist. “I’m too damned tired to really… Well, maybe not too tired, but too…” He fell silent and frowned. “It is an unreasonable request and poorly timed. Forget I asked.”

Anna opened her eyes and saw he was no longer looking at her. He rose and stretched, then glanced over at her where she stood immobilized, the rag still in her hand.

“I’ve offended you,” he said. “I just want… Will you be here in the morning?”

He hadn’t wanted to put that question into words, Anna knew. Hadn’t wanted to ask her to be with him in the morning.

“I will be here,” Anna said, unable to listen to her common sense screaming to the contrary. “In your bed, if you want me there.”

He just nodded and took the rag from her, wiping up the table while Anna finished putting away the dishes she’d washed. To her, the moment was resoundingly domestic and somehow right for them. He wasn’t pretentious with her, wasn’t always the earl. Sometimes, like now, he was just Gayle Windham, a thoroughly, completely lovable and worthy man.

He waited until Anna had finished tidying up, took a candle from the table, and held out his arm to her. The gesture was courtly and oddly reminiscent of Anna’s grandparents. Oh, to grow old with him…Anna thought, wrapping her hand around his forearm.

When they gained his room, the sense of domestic peace came with them. Anna finished undressing him; he tucked her into his bed then set about using the wash water kept in ample supply by his hearth. The balcony doors were open, and a refreshing breeze wafted through the room. She watched his ablutions, finding him simply beautiful in the light of the single candle. It wasn’t even an erotic appreciation but something more possessive than that. He was beautifully built, of course, but the pensive expression on his face was beautiful to her, too.

He is the way he is because he cares, and maybe in this, he and his father can finally find some common ground.

When he wrung out the wet cloth and straightened, Anna flipped back the lavender-scented sheets. “Come to bed.”

“Your night rail, madam?” He held out a hand. “It is too hot for all that extra, Anna, and I promise I will not bother you.”

“So you’ve said,” she replied, pulling the nightgown over her head and handing it to him. “Did you lock the door?”

“Ye gods.” He padded through the dark and took care of the lock, blew out the candle, then climbed in beside her.

“I cannot remember the last time I spent the night with anyone other than a cat in my bed, save for our night at Willow Bend.” Anna settled on the mattress as she spoke.

“I could say the same thing.” The earl punched his pillow. “It would have different significance. Sorry.” He was apologizing for yanking inadvertently on her pillow, but Anna let the apology cover his teasing, as well.